Tag Archives: sahm

Grown Up Writer Fail

One of the reasons I haven’t been posting so often on this blog as I would like is because I got myself a paid job as a columnist for a really-truly magazine. It still thrills me to get an email from My Editor, describing the requirements and deadline for the next column; it gives me such a buzz to have an Important Reason to go off to the cafe to write and edit; and it sends me through the roof to send off the finished copy to be published.

Because everything is done via email and from home, it almost doesn’t seem real. If my life were a movie, there could easily be a twist halfway through in which the audience discovers that the important Editor Kate has been corresponding with and writing so feverishly for is, in fact, a mere psychological construct, a delusion, built to fulfil Kate’s desperate desire to have her writing taken seriously. What we have been witnessing has in fact been a young mother’s school-lunch-and-laundry-fuelled descent into madness. Gripping viewing.

pop art crying girl

But there is one day in all the year that reassures me that it’s not all made up and I am, in fact, a writer. An after-work Christmas Drinks at the offices of Jesuit Publications. A place to meet other writers and have proper adult conversations. I couldn’t wait.

You might remember me talking about this epic event last year, when I brought the twins with me. This year, I would be child-free. A proper, grown-up writer. And even though Wednesday was a crazy day with everything on, I was going to make it work if it killed me. I even put together a timeline to make sense of it all. It looked like this:

1. (9:00am) Mum takes Annie to kinder, morning jobs and schoolwork done

2. (11:00am) Early lunch

3. (12:00pm) Drop Harry at his atrium session.

4. (12:10pm) Go to the shops to buy ingredients for the salad the children would be bringing to the scout barbecue that evening. Also get birthday present for Matilda’s friend.

5. (1:30pm) Pick up Harry.

6. (1:40pm) Get dressed up. Make salad. Prep swimming gear.

7. (3:00pm) Pick Annie up.

8. (4:00pm) Swimming lessons

9. (5:00pm) Drive to husband’s work

10. (5:15pm) Swap cars with husband. Husband drives to scout BBQ. I drive to city.

11. (6:00pm) Arrive at party. Acquire glass of champagne and fashionably bored facial expression.

It all went pretty smoothly until Step 6 (get dressed up / make salad / prep swim gear). I had put Matilda in charge of the salad preparation. I needed to put a lot of work into getting ready. I was going for ‘Sophisticated Writer to be Taken Seriously’, not ‘Dowdy Matron’. I even went to the trouble of putting shimmery bronzing cream on my arms and (shaved!) legs. The stuff was hard to open as I haven’t used it in over a year. I was as I was wrestling myself into a pair of magic underpants, designed to stop people from congratulating me and asking when the baby is due, that Matilda called up the stairs.

“Mum . . . I think you might need to take a look at this”

The salad stuff we bought was pretty straightforward – cherry tomatoes, olives, avocado and a large bag of pre-washed ready-to-go lettuce mix. It would only take a few minutes to assemble. But we had hit a roadblock. The un-opened bag of pre-washed lettuce contained a very large, live insect.

bug in salad bag

bug in salad bag!

Can you see it? Down, down, standards are down!

I sighed, tossed the salad bag into the car and proceeded to step 7 (pick Annie up). The kinder assistant was curious to know why I wasn’t in my usual uniform of jeans, sneakers and banana-spattered science-fiction t-shirt. I swelled up and told her about my grown-up writer event. The assistant looked genuinely impressed. This woman has seen me bring four of my children through the kinder and has been privy to all of my organisational fails – turning up late, forgetting forms and money, failing to provide family photos, failing at book week. I don’t often feel like a grown up when I come to kinder. But today was different.

It was with a jaunty swagger that I hurtled towards step 7.1 (return defective salad). I got myself a salad upgrade and a refund. I ignored the uneasy feeling that I was merely replacing the salad with more from the same poorly washed batch – I had no time!

I applied my make up at the red lights on the way to swimming lessons and managed to achieve a convincing ‘smoky eye’ over the course of three backed-up intersections. Whilst the children were in the pool, I put together one page of ideas on how I could revolutionise the magazine, just in case the conversation tended in that direction.

After handing the car, children and salad over to my husband, I drove off to battle the traffic. The Google Maps lady kept cheerfully directing me through bewildering shortcuts. One time she asked me to turn right from a side street onto a busy road with no traffic lights. Then she made me cross three lanes of thick traffic in 500 metres. I got the sense she was enjoying herself.

As I waited in a stagnant river of cars and painted my nails, I realised in dismay that I’d forgotten to do my homework. I’d planned to bone up on back issues of the magazine and its sister publications.   I’d wanted the work of the writers I’d be meeting to be fresh in my mind so I could pay them the compliment of being familiar with their work. Alas! I would have to wing it.

When I finally pulled into the carpark at Jesuit Publications, I took a few moments to recover. I pulled my hair out of its ponytail-knot. I had washed my hair in the morning and tied it up when it was still damp. If my plan worked, it would be all tumbling waves when I took it out. But it wouldn’t last long, which is why I waited until just now. I looked at myself in the rearview mirror. My hair looked AMAZING. I can’t remember the last time my hair looked that good. I wanted to take a selfie. I finally understood why people TOOK selfies. But no time! Must go be a grown up writer and impress people. I tucked my one page of revolutionary ideas into my bag.  Just in case.

I must have been one of the first people to arrive, despite my fears of being late. There weren’t many cars about and the balcony seemed rather quiet. I slowed my step. I didn’t want to be too keen. I tried to open the door. It was locked. Strange. Slowly, very slowly, I pulled out my phone to check the date on the invitation.

Oh. What is WRONG with me?

You see, I had been telling everyone it was on Wednesday, I had made preparations for Wednesday, I had even emailed my editor and signed off with ‘see you Wednesday!’, I just hadn’t properly checked the date on the invitation. My “Wednesday” claim was not backed by solid evidence.

The drinks were scheduled for Thursday.

Tomorrow, my hair would be lank, my nail polish chipped and my dress would smell of day-old car sweat. I was never going to look as grown up and fabulous as I did in that moment, and there was nobody there to see it. I dragged my feet back to the car. If my life were a film, this would be the climax when the protagonist realises that there is no ‘Jesuit Publications’. She would rub her eyes and realise the office she was trying to access, was, in fact, an accountancy firm and the magazine had been a mere figment of her tortured mind.

I sat in the car, feeling rather bereft. I needed to find a bright side. In the end, I found four:

  1. I hadn’t missed the event. At least it wasn’t scheduled for yesterday.
  2. I had just experienced an outing without children.
  3.  It actually wasn’t my fault. I said ‘see you Wednesday’ to the editor and he didn’t contradict me. He’s an editor. It’s his job to pick up on writer’s mistakes.
  4. I would have time to read up on the other writer’s work, after all.

I felt a bit better as I drove back through all the traffic. When I got to the scout hall, I discovered another bright side:

5. I was totally the best-dressed mum at the scout BBQ!

Things weren’t so bad.  I was still a grown-up writer.  And if the kinder assistant asked me how things went, I could always lie through my teeth.  She doesn’t need to know.

I smiled smugly and fixed myself a plate of insect salad.

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Clean Washing

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There are two baskets of clean washing on my living room floor.

In my bedroom, there are two full baskets and three more are sitting outside my bedroom door (“tripping hazard!” says Mr Knightley). One of these baskets is full of unmatched children shoes, the rest have more clean washing.

I also discovered a basket of clean washing under the desk in the schoolroom/nursery/study and another in the boys’ room. There is a basket with dirty washing in the girls’ room, but I suspect it began life as a basket of clean washing, which got buried.

I figure I really should do something about this.  So I tipped one of the bedroom baskets into the other one.  Now I only have one basket of clean washing on my bedroom floor.

It feels good.

Oh, blog!  How I’ve missed you!  I’m sorry it’s been so long since I wrote to you.  I’ve been very busy not putting washing away.

Red Hairring

So I figure I should probably write the sequel to my previous post. The only problem is, it’s not very interesting. So I’m going to just give it to you in point form. That way you can have a story which is not to interesting to begin with, plus the added bonus of lazy writing. Enjoy.

  • After I wrote my last post, many of you took the trouble to let me know you have a lovely friend/neighbour/sister-in-law who cuts hair in her garage/shed/living room and who is totally nice and easy to talk to.  No.  Just, no.  This would add a whole other layer of awkwardness to the situation.  What if they do a bad job and you want to break up with them but you can’t because they’re friends with your friend?  Ugh.  No.
    But thank you for thinking of me.
  • Still more people told me about some other super lady who comes to your house to cut your hair.  Noooooooooo!  No!  I would have to clean the house thoroughly or risk the hairdresser silently judging me.  Then if it all goes pear-shaped the hairdresser knows where I live.  No thank you.
  • Then, Lovely M suggested I get Pippi to cut my hair.  Apparently Pippi is quite handy with a pair of scissors, even though she isn’t a professional hairdresser.  But I had to say no.  It’s not that I didn’t trust Pippi’s ability, it’s just that I have an irrational fear that if I turn my friend into my hairdresser, all friendship will cease and I will henceforth only be able to have stilted conversations with her about a reality tv show I do not watch.  Plus I wanted to get it dyed too, and even though M was suggesting all manner of solutions to this problem involving a bottle of peroxide and a toothbrush, I ultimately decided to go with a professional.
  • So, as it turns out, my visit to the hairdresser was fairly uneventful.  I brought with me a small stack of Mollie Makes magazines which I borrowed from the library to save money (except that one of the magazines went missing, so now I have to pay a big library fine instead).  The hairdresser was older than me and happy to keep conversation to a companionable minimum.  It was kind of nice.
  • Here is the photo I showed her at the start of our session:

 

  • Cameron Diaz with nice hair

 

  • It was such a long time since I’d been to a salon that I was a little out of practice.  I was so grateful that somebody was finally doing my hair that I didn’t boss the hairdresser too much about what I wanted.  As a result, the dye job was a little odd and streaky and the colour was much more ashy than what I asked for.  And the layering didn’t frame my face well.  
  • After this, the hairdresser gave me a blow wave, which made me look like a late-night televangelist’s wife named Robyn.  Or Hope.  Or maybe Candice.
  • The next morning I scrutinised the colour in the full light of day.  Had she given me grey streaks?
  • So here is my ‘before’ photo.  Incidentally, I thought this was my ‘sexy’ face.  All these years, when I thought I was giving my husband a smouldering look, my face actually looked like this.   Ugh.   I think I need to practice raising my eyebrow suggestively at the mirror repeatedly until I get it right.

Kate with long hair looking dopey

  • I think I sprained my eyebrow.
  • And this is me now:
  • The mom from 'Seventh Heaven'
  • Just kidding, here I am:

 

  • Michael Landon (from 'Highway to Heaven')
  • I could do this all day:

Macgyver

  • So here I am, really:

My laptop selfie with new hair

It’s several weeks since I got my hair done and it’s settled in a lot better now.  I even had a go fixing the layers myself with a pair of nail scissors.  The next time I go to the hairdressers, I’ll be more specific about what I want.

The very thought is making me sweat icicles.

Multiple Choice

I wrote this piece for my local multiple-birth magazine, Duplication:

Pretty notepad with pen, tea and chocolate

This is some kind of miracle.  I sit at the Bunnings Warehouse Cafe table with my notebook out.  Steaming cappuccino to my left, two sleeping babies to my right.  My other children are happily entangling themselves on the playground next door.  This is really happening.  I am going to get some writing done.

Let me just savour this moment.

Wait.  Oh no.  Oh dear Lord, no.

I sensed her hovering before I saw her.  My twins have an admirer.  Don’t make eye-contact.  Don’t make –

“Hello!”

“Erm, hello.”  dammit!

“What lovely babies!  Are they twins?”

Really?  What kind of question is that?  Singleton babies aren’t issued in pairs, as a general rule.  I consider the following responses:

  1. “No.  They were having a ‘Buy one, get one free’ sale at Babies R Us.”
  2. “Nope.  That one’s a decoy.”
  3. “No.  This is what the new Baby Bonus looks like.  You get a bonus baby now.”
  4. “No!  Triplets!  Good Lord!  Where’d the other one go?”
  5. “I think you might need glasses.  That’s one baby.

But then I bite my tongue.  She is a kindly looking lady after all.  I remember when my eldest was born.  None of my friends had children and I was new to the area.  It would get pretty lonely during the day.  I would go out walking with the pram wearing my brightest smile and hope that somebody, anybody might offer me a small morsel of adult conversation.  Nobody ever did.  I think they could smell my desperation.  

It’s different with twins.  Whenever strangers set eyes on my baby girls, I can actually see them drop their guards.  Their features relax and they become all chatty.  It’s a beautiful thing.  I really should be more grateful that this well-meaning woman is interrupting the one pocket of me-time I’m likely to get this week.  I summon up a grin and prepare to say something encouraging.  But now the multiple-birth fangirl is reaching out to tickle my sleeping twins.  Twins who are only asleep because of the four long laps we walked of this bewildering hardware superstore.  I can feel the warm smile slide right off my face.

“You touch that foot and you die, lady!”

Yummy Mummy

Excited dog meme

Oh my giddy aunt!  I’ve just discovered the article I wrote for Australian Catholics when the twins were first born has been published!  And you can read it online for free this time!  And they call me OUR NEW COLUMNIST.

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

This is never going to get old.

You can read the article here, by the way (please do!).

Oh!  This has made my WEEK.

Greetings from Babyland!

Often these days, when friends (or, indeed, tradesmen) come to visit me, they might find I’m in my pyjamas feeding a baby. My conversation will not be witty or sparkling, and they may have to make their own tea, but I will be happy to see them.

As you, my reader friend, come to visit me at my blog today, imagine I’m wearing pink flannelette pyjamas with a piece of toast stuck in my hair.  My writing may seem a little stilted and bland, but, gosh, I’m glad to see you!

My beautiful twins are now almost eight weeks old.  For the most part, I’m enjoying my vacation in Baby Land.  We’ve developed a simple routine of feeding and nappies, and lessons and feeding, and feeding and washing, and feeding and feeding.     And cuddles.  There are always plenty of baby cuddles to go around (though they sometimes come with a side order of baby spew).  It’s really rather blissful.

We don’t often leave the house, but when we do, it seems we achieve instant celebrity status.  Everybody wants to talk to us and ask us (the same five) questions and tell us about the twins in their life.  Most of the time, my extroverted nature revels in the attention, but it can be a real challenge if we’re trying to do something in a hurry.

I’ve decided to christen the girls “Daisy and Poppy” after the mischievous twins in Ben and Holly’s Little Kingdom.  Not exactly literary, I know, but it seems to fit.  Those of you who don’t have preschoolers in the home may not have heard of Ben and Holly.  Those of you who do will have heard far, far too much.

Daisy and Poppy

And, now, if you’ll excuse me, Daisy is letting me know my services as a milk maid are urgently required.

Thank you for coming to visit!

Welcome Twins!

On August 3 (yes, that long ago!) we welcomed a pair of healthy twin girls into the world. They are truly delightful. Twins are pretty relentless, because, well, there are two of them.  I’m trying to get better at accepting all offers of help and even asking people to help me.  This goes against the grain a bit.  I like to be Capable Woman.

The good news is, I spoke to my husband, and he agreed to relax the no-photos-of-the-children rule just this once, because, let’s face it, newborns are pretty anonymous.  And I’ve taken Mr Knightley saying I can share a photo of the twins to mean pretty much the same as saying I can share several photos.  How can I choose between these pics?

 

 

twins

twins

twins and me

In real life, the twins have the loveliest names, honouring both my wonderful grandmothers.  In blog life, I still can’t think of what to call them.  I was convinced I was having at least one boy, so I had thought about what to call them if I had one of each (Luke and Leia) or two boys (Fred and George), but I never thought of what to call two girls.  Can you think of any girl twins in literature or popular culture?  Or even pairs of girls?  I can’t come up with anything that suits.  Sweet Valley High and The Twins at St Clare’s have girl twins but it’s not really a fit, plus I was more of a Babysitters Club/Malory Towers sort of girl.  The gumnut babies are actually boys (I know, right?) and using the names Snugglepot and Cuddlepie would get real old real fast.  Anne of Green Gables had girl twins when she grew up (called Nan and Di) – but who would know that?  And calling them Thing 1 and Thing 2 would just be mean.   I’ll just have to think on it some more – if you can think of anything, please, please leave a comment!

Actually, leave a comment even if you can’t think of anything – I really need something to keep me amused at three in the morning!