My Beloved and I went on a date the other day. So did our kids.
Seeing how we don’t live close enough to family, and no friends are game enough to take our two for any extended period, it was a family affair to celebrate our recent wedding anniversary.
And we were reminded once again why people usually wait until after marriage to start their family…they get to enjoy the first couple of anniversaries at least!
Yes despite being engaged for 7 years, we just never got around to doing the “I do”s before we had the ‘you know who’s.
And so it was a table for four at the local Chinese restaurant to celebrate the marital milestone.
In hindsight, perhaps it would’ve been easier to order takeout and eat at home. It certainly wouldn’t have been as exhausting.
Since we don’t have the kind of disposable income that caters to more than the occasional splurge on someone else’s cooking, it’s a special kind of excitement for the kids to eat out. Which translates into a whole new world of enjoyment for us, and I do use the term loosely.
From the minute the kids sat down at the table it was apparent we were in for a real treat. I am yet to see an equivalent display of such joy over paper serviettes folded into fans. And if they didn’t know before, everyone around us was now aware that the round bit at the centre of the table spun around … depositing salt, pepper, and soy sauce at various intervals. (The Australian Cricket team has got nothing on the catches my Beloved was taking that night.)
There was almost bloodshed when the prawn crackers arrived with an odd number in the presentation. Since my Beloved is allergic to prawns, it was up to me to referee the distribution of said crackers, and I made the selfless sacrifice of eating the offending extra. At least I got one.
It was touch and go at the serving of the supper, with the kids taking so long to decide which fork and spoon belonged to which person, that I had to resist the urge to tell them to simply grab their fork‘n spoons and start eating!
Apparently, the novelty of dining out only increased their appetites and instead of the usual 30+ minutes it takes for our children to finish their meal at home, they consumed their portions at a speed (and volume) that threatened to break the sound barrier, and were looking for dessert almost before their parents had begun. Not wanting to rev them up any further considering the pure adrenalin rush that they were currently and so obviously experiencing, we tried to slow them down and fill them up on iced water instead. And here I must apologise (in the event that they’re reading this) to the couple sitting at the table next to us, who experienced an impromptu hailstorm as the kids tried to fine-tune the tines they were using to scoop up the ice (their spoons had hit the floor a little earlier in the piece).
It was about then that my Beloved and I shared one of those unspoken moments that longtime lovers have, and by silent mutual agreement we speedily finished up our meals and asked for the bill.
In spite of it all (or perhaps because of it), the owner of the restaurant was very happy as we settled the evening’s account, and even gave the kids two chocolates each on our way out the door.
I’d like to think it was a generous gesture to say thanks for the patronage.
But I’m thinking there was an ulterior motive, and she was sending us off with one last shot of sugar for the kids to enjoy on our way home, given the dinner-show they had provided.
After such an exciting night, we had to spend a little longer getting the kids ready for bed, before my Beloved and I were able to head that way ourselves. Oh but don’t be thinking we got all romantic once the offspring were asleep. Trust me, there’s no better birth control than taking your kids to dinner. And no better sleeping pill than the utter exhaustion of parenting.
Thank heavens anniversaries only roll around once a year; next time we might just have to hire a babysitter.
Jx
©2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
A Toast...
So I’m standing in the kitchen waiting for the toast to pop when I realise that I haven’t even put a slice of bread in yet.
It’s going to be another one of those days.
Personally, I blame Vegemite.
They went and changed it.
And instead of the famous black spread in the glass jar, it’s more of a muddy brown mixture looking at me from the kitchen bench. It doesn’t have the same yellow lid. It doesn’t even have a name yet.
Seriously, why would you mess with a recipe that has had generations hum that little ditty as they tear into their toast?
It’s the best thing since sliced bread for my money. Or to be more precise, it’s the best thing since before sliced bread (Vegemite: 1922, sliced bread: 1928, if you believe Wikipedia). But now it’s become some sort of cream cheese mixture that is supposedly easier to spread. Doesn’t look right, doesn’t taste right, sure doesn’t feel right!
I’m a Vegemite kid from way back, my kids are Vegemite kids (although my Beloved is not- the traitor), and it’s a rare day we do not have it on our toast or sandwiches.
I even took a small case of it to the States when I went to a JIA conference a couple of years back- we were going for less than 2 weeks but my son and I couldn’t last that long without it. And didn’t it raise some eyebrows and some issues?!
Take Customs and airport security for example. Oh yes my old nemesis just had to come sniffing around when I offered up my little bag containing 30 single use packets of the beautiful black stuff. But would they try it? Oh no. They weren’t allowed to, they said. (I think they were afraid of it, myself.)
Then when I happily tried to share our stash with our American friends, the reactions were mixed, and priceless for some. Turns out I couldn’t give the stuff away, which was ok by us- it meant we had more to spread on those funny little breakfast buns called bagels and make us feel like we were doing our patriotic best for Aussie breakfasts abroad.
Now, despite there being a very good piece of advice which states one shouldn’t reinvent the wheel, some bright spark at Kraft has thought up this way to ‘improve’ an old fashioned favourite. And I have to admit, curiosity got the better of me.
But, I am not a happy little Vegemite.
Things are not as bright as bright can be.
And since they changed the recipe, we will not enjoy that Vegemite for breakfast, lunch, or tea.
Plus, I’ve half a mind to send in my suggestion of what they could name their so-called new improved version. Except I don’t think they’d let me print that on a jar.
Jx
©2009
It’s going to be another one of those days.
Personally, I blame Vegemite.
They went and changed it.
And instead of the famous black spread in the glass jar, it’s more of a muddy brown mixture looking at me from the kitchen bench. It doesn’t have the same yellow lid. It doesn’t even have a name yet.
Seriously, why would you mess with a recipe that has had generations hum that little ditty as they tear into their toast?
It’s the best thing since sliced bread for my money. Or to be more precise, it’s the best thing since before sliced bread (Vegemite: 1922, sliced bread: 1928, if you believe Wikipedia). But now it’s become some sort of cream cheese mixture that is supposedly easier to spread. Doesn’t look right, doesn’t taste right, sure doesn’t feel right!
I’m a Vegemite kid from way back, my kids are Vegemite kids (although my Beloved is not- the traitor), and it’s a rare day we do not have it on our toast or sandwiches.
I even took a small case of it to the States when I went to a JIA conference a couple of years back- we were going for less than 2 weeks but my son and I couldn’t last that long without it. And didn’t it raise some eyebrows and some issues?!
Take Customs and airport security for example. Oh yes my old nemesis just had to come sniffing around when I offered up my little bag containing 30 single use packets of the beautiful black stuff. But would they try it? Oh no. They weren’t allowed to, they said. (I think they were afraid of it, myself.)
Then when I happily tried to share our stash with our American friends, the reactions were mixed, and priceless for some. Turns out I couldn’t give the stuff away, which was ok by us- it meant we had more to spread on those funny little breakfast buns called bagels and make us feel like we were doing our patriotic best for Aussie breakfasts abroad.
Now, despite there being a very good piece of advice which states one shouldn’t reinvent the wheel, some bright spark at Kraft has thought up this way to ‘improve’ an old fashioned favourite. And I have to admit, curiosity got the better of me.
But, I am not a happy little Vegemite.
Things are not as bright as bright can be.
And since they changed the recipe, we will not enjoy that Vegemite for breakfast, lunch, or tea.
Plus, I’ve half a mind to send in my suggestion of what they could name their so-called new improved version. Except I don’t think they’d let me print that on a jar.
Jx
©2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Keeping Abreast of Things
Usually it’s a man’s mind that is preoccupied with the female form. But today it’s my turn.
See, my mum’s beaten breast cancer twice. For various reasons I’m also in a high risk group and it’s almost time to see the Oncologist again. Yay me.
And now I hear that the lady doctor who diagnosed and treated herself while stationed at the South Pole 10 years ago, has finally succumbed to the dreaded disease.
For those not familiar with the story, Dr Jerri Nielsen was the medic stationed at Antarctica in 1999 when she discovered a suspicious lump. That was in June, but the serious weather down there meant she couldn’t be flown out for treatment for at least 4 months. So she taught staff on site how to do a fine needle biopsy (using raw chicken meat for practice!) and then gave herself chemotherapy after the drugs were dropped in by parachute.
But she died recently after the cancer came back and spread. She was only 57.
Such a shame. The world needs more women like this- not less!
It got me thinking about my mum and her doubly brave battle against this insidious illness as the date looms for me to have my annual screening. Yeah, due to a family history of the disease, and my own scare a few years back, we attempt to flatten my breasts into pancakes once every 12 months.
Now, anyone who has ever enjoyed the experience will be feeling my pain right about now. And for those who haven’t, let me educate you a little. It kinda resembles some medieval torture device, and it has to have been thought up by a man (can you imagine a similar contraption being used to check for testicular cancer?! I rest my case).
You go into a room with a complete stranger, strip to the waist, and have said stranger (often with cold hands) put one of your breasts onto a cold metal plate, lower a cold plastic plate onto it, tighten the vice, then send radiation through your precious private possession. Then repeat the process with the other boob.
For added enjoyment, they squash ‘em sideways too.
Oh and for safety reasons, the radiologist gets to retreat into a little booth while they take the images. Bit hard for you to do when you’re attached to the region receiving the rays.
Oddly enough, I always find it easy to comply with the “hold your breath” request- I’m simply too darn scared to move lest the machine rips my bits right off! I’m already standing on my tippy toes to reach the plate (shortass that I am), and leaning back so my girls can have all the limelight, so what’s a little lack of oxygen in the name of science?
Usually the entire process takes just a couple of minutes, and thankfully your bosoms are squeezed in this man-made machine for about 30 seconds. Oh it all works well in theory. In practice it can be quite different.
There has been much debate about who hurts most- the flat or full chested ladies. I’m in the latter category and I can tell you, it certainly doesn’t tickle! Because I am so generously endowed up top, instead of the few seconds it usually takes to scan the mamms, the poor old machine whirs for anything up to a minute trying to get a decent image of what’s inside. Even the radiologist apologises every time we have to do this, explaining that I’m so dense (in the boobie sense) that the x-rays are having trouble getting through! Again, yay me.
To add insult to injury (and believe me, there can be injury!) I then get to go into another room with another stranger who squirts freezing cold gel all over my girls, and proceeds to map out the mammaries much like a clock, checking for anything the mammogram might miss.
If I’m lucky, the sonographer will take pity on me and give me a heads-up whether there’s anything to worry about this time round. Or else I wait another week or so before I see the oncologist (who thankfully warms his hands before he begins the examination) who will brief me about my bosoms.
So far so good, and I’ve only had to have a needle stuck in the one time (trust me, that’s a whole different ball game of fun!) and I can go back to keeping my dignity for another year.
Having lost one school friend already to breast cancer, and others who’ve come close, I am truly grateful that I only have to do this once a year. I’m one of the lucky ones.
So before I go make a boob of myself yet again, I’m going to prepare for the procedure using the techniques proposed by an unknown author some years back:
Exercise 1
Open your refrigerator door and insert one breast in the door. Have one of your strongest friends slam the door shut and lean on it for good measure. Hold that position for 5 seconds. Repeat with other breast.
Exercise 2
Visit your garage at 3am when the temperature of the cement floor is just perfect. Remove your clothes and lie comfortably on the floor with one breast wedged under the rear tire of the car. Ask a friend to slowly back up the car until your breast is sufficiently flattened and chilled. Turn over and repeat for the other breast.
Exercise 3
Freeze two metal bookends overnight. Strip to the waist. Invite a stranger into the room. Press the bookends against one of your breasts. Ask the stranger to smash the bookends together as hard as they can. Set an appointment with the stranger to meet next year and do it again.
You are now properly prepared!
Jx
©2009
See, my mum’s beaten breast cancer twice. For various reasons I’m also in a high risk group and it’s almost time to see the Oncologist again. Yay me.
And now I hear that the lady doctor who diagnosed and treated herself while stationed at the South Pole 10 years ago, has finally succumbed to the dreaded disease.
For those not familiar with the story, Dr Jerri Nielsen was the medic stationed at Antarctica in 1999 when she discovered a suspicious lump. That was in June, but the serious weather down there meant she couldn’t be flown out for treatment for at least 4 months. So she taught staff on site how to do a fine needle biopsy (using raw chicken meat for practice!) and then gave herself chemotherapy after the drugs were dropped in by parachute.
But she died recently after the cancer came back and spread. She was only 57.
Such a shame. The world needs more women like this- not less!
It got me thinking about my mum and her doubly brave battle against this insidious illness as the date looms for me to have my annual screening. Yeah, due to a family history of the disease, and my own scare a few years back, we attempt to flatten my breasts into pancakes once every 12 months.
Now, anyone who has ever enjoyed the experience will be feeling my pain right about now. And for those who haven’t, let me educate you a little. It kinda resembles some medieval torture device, and it has to have been thought up by a man (can you imagine a similar contraption being used to check for testicular cancer?! I rest my case).
You go into a room with a complete stranger, strip to the waist, and have said stranger (often with cold hands) put one of your breasts onto a cold metal plate, lower a cold plastic plate onto it, tighten the vice, then send radiation through your precious private possession. Then repeat the process with the other boob.
For added enjoyment, they squash ‘em sideways too.
Oh and for safety reasons, the radiologist gets to retreat into a little booth while they take the images. Bit hard for you to do when you’re attached to the region receiving the rays.
Oddly enough, I always find it easy to comply with the “hold your breath” request- I’m simply too darn scared to move lest the machine rips my bits right off! I’m already standing on my tippy toes to reach the plate (shortass that I am), and leaning back so my girls can have all the limelight, so what’s a little lack of oxygen in the name of science?
Usually the entire process takes just a couple of minutes, and thankfully your bosoms are squeezed in this man-made machine for about 30 seconds. Oh it all works well in theory. In practice it can be quite different.
There has been much debate about who hurts most- the flat or full chested ladies. I’m in the latter category and I can tell you, it certainly doesn’t tickle! Because I am so generously endowed up top, instead of the few seconds it usually takes to scan the mamms, the poor old machine whirs for anything up to a minute trying to get a decent image of what’s inside. Even the radiologist apologises every time we have to do this, explaining that I’m so dense (in the boobie sense) that the x-rays are having trouble getting through! Again, yay me.
To add insult to injury (and believe me, there can be injury!) I then get to go into another room with another stranger who squirts freezing cold gel all over my girls, and proceeds to map out the mammaries much like a clock, checking for anything the mammogram might miss.
If I’m lucky, the sonographer will take pity on me and give me a heads-up whether there’s anything to worry about this time round. Or else I wait another week or so before I see the oncologist (who thankfully warms his hands before he begins the examination) who will brief me about my bosoms.
So far so good, and I’ve only had to have a needle stuck in the one time (trust me, that’s a whole different ball game of fun!) and I can go back to keeping my dignity for another year.
Having lost one school friend already to breast cancer, and others who’ve come close, I am truly grateful that I only have to do this once a year. I’m one of the lucky ones.
So before I go make a boob of myself yet again, I’m going to prepare for the procedure using the techniques proposed by an unknown author some years back:
Exercise 1
Open your refrigerator door and insert one breast in the door. Have one of your strongest friends slam the door shut and lean on it for good measure. Hold that position for 5 seconds. Repeat with other breast.
Exercise 2
Visit your garage at 3am when the temperature of the cement floor is just perfect. Remove your clothes and lie comfortably on the floor with one breast wedged under the rear tire of the car. Ask a friend to slowly back up the car until your breast is sufficiently flattened and chilled. Turn over and repeat for the other breast.
Exercise 3
Freeze two metal bookends overnight. Strip to the waist. Invite a stranger into the room. Press the bookends against one of your breasts. Ask the stranger to smash the bookends together as hard as they can. Set an appointment with the stranger to meet next year and do it again.
You are now properly prepared!
Jx
©2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Of Mice and Women
Who was that cartoon cat that said “I hate meeces to pieces”?
I’d like to shake his, er, paw. Because I couldn’t have said it better myself.
Yes every year, ‘round about now, the local mice population decides to relocate en masse into our ceiling. And so every night at this time of year, I am serenaded by the sound of scratch scratch scratch within the walls.
Now I don’t begrudge them wanting to come in from the cold. I wouldn’t like to be raising my family out there in the backyard either. But unlike the mice, we work hard to earn money to put a roof over our head. We don’t just try to freeload off somebody else’s shelter.
And unlike the mice, I don’t feel the need to disturb all the occupants of the abode while making my bed.
The first inkling that our annual visitors were en route came about 2 weeks ago, and I haven’t managed a decent night’s sleep since.
There I was, deeply dreaming about … well, um, we don’t really need to go there do we… suffice to say I was deep in sleep when suddenly and inexplicably, the man of my dreams started to scratch himself. In a most undignified manner too, I might add. Even in full flight of fancy I found the behaviour a little odd and was none too impressed to be dragged out of fantasy into reality where the man was gone, but the scratching continued.
I stared blankly at the blackness trying to establish what the sound was and from whence it came. I then tried the element of surprise by flicking on the light with hopes of scaring anything away that was in the room. Sadly no, the tactic was not a success and that damn scratching continued. I realised it was going to be full-blown warfare as the enemy had obviously bunkered down above my head.
Cursing that the rotten rodents had the upper hand this time, I made a mental note to bring out the big guns the following night. (I also tried to make as much noise as possible in the daytime to disturb their sleep, but it doesn’t seem to have the same effect on them.)
Daylight saw me digging out the traditional set-and-forget mousetrap; the wooden base thing with deadly steel spring that would snap shut on any hapless creature trying to score a free meal. After many attempts to fix the thing without doing damage to my fingers in the meantime, the trap was set. All we had to do was wait for nightfall to come.
6 hours later I silently cheered as I heard the distinctive snap of the trap.
4 hours after that I was muttering about sneaky little so & so’s and their lucky escape.
Mice: 1, Jo: zero.
Next I bought some of those heave-and-leave poison packs, and we scattered them in the crawl space above.
Seems our resident mice have more selective taste than that, and not a single rat sack was even sniffed at, 2 days later.
Mice: 2, Jo: zip.
So it was back to the hardware store discussing my options with the helpful 12 year old who was on deck that day (well he seemed about 12 anyway), I purchased a couple of the newer mouse-friendly plastic traps. This, I don’t get, as isn’t the whole idea to mercilessly eradicate the little blighters?! Nonetheless, feeling sure that my actions would not be frowned upon if by chance anyone from PETA stopped by unannounced, it was home again to prepare the traps, this time using peanut butter as the bait- a supposed "guaranteed" way to catch any pests that dared pilfer the proffered foodstuff (try saying that quickly three times)!
After another scratching session through the wee small hours, I went to check the traps to see how they fared.
The sound of plastic being dragged across the floor should’ve prepared me.
There, looking like the most sorrowful little caricature one could imagine, was a teeny weeny little mouse entrapped by one teeny tiny toe it seemed, trying to make good its escape from the kitchen with trap in tow.
After trying to shield the pitiful little critter from the prying eyes of two small children and a dog, I called for my Beloved to take the pathetic little thing outside to release it. After calling me every kind of wuss under the sun, he did.
I’ll give you one guess who came back that night for a joyful family reunion that seemed to progress from one end of the house to the other, from dusk ‘til dawn.
Mice: 3, Jo: zilch.
It was at this point that I discovered a much better way to invest my money in this perpetual rodent rebellion, and I’m happy to say that last night at least, I didn’t hear a thing.
And so Mr Jinks, I totally concur with your summation of the situation whenever Pixie and Dixie were around: I too, hate meeces to pieces. But I’m lovin’ my new earplugs!
Jx
©2009
I’d like to shake his, er, paw. Because I couldn’t have said it better myself.
Yes every year, ‘round about now, the local mice population decides to relocate en masse into our ceiling. And so every night at this time of year, I am serenaded by the sound of scratch scratch scratch within the walls.
Now I don’t begrudge them wanting to come in from the cold. I wouldn’t like to be raising my family out there in the backyard either. But unlike the mice, we work hard to earn money to put a roof over our head. We don’t just try to freeload off somebody else’s shelter.
And unlike the mice, I don’t feel the need to disturb all the occupants of the abode while making my bed.
The first inkling that our annual visitors were en route came about 2 weeks ago, and I haven’t managed a decent night’s sleep since.
There I was, deeply dreaming about … well, um, we don’t really need to go there do we… suffice to say I was deep in sleep when suddenly and inexplicably, the man of my dreams started to scratch himself. In a most undignified manner too, I might add. Even in full flight of fancy I found the behaviour a little odd and was none too impressed to be dragged out of fantasy into reality where the man was gone, but the scratching continued.
I stared blankly at the blackness trying to establish what the sound was and from whence it came. I then tried the element of surprise by flicking on the light with hopes of scaring anything away that was in the room. Sadly no, the tactic was not a success and that damn scratching continued. I realised it was going to be full-blown warfare as the enemy had obviously bunkered down above my head.
Cursing that the rotten rodents had the upper hand this time, I made a mental note to bring out the big guns the following night. (I also tried to make as much noise as possible in the daytime to disturb their sleep, but it doesn’t seem to have the same effect on them.)
Daylight saw me digging out the traditional set-and-forget mousetrap; the wooden base thing with deadly steel spring that would snap shut on any hapless creature trying to score a free meal. After many attempts to fix the thing without doing damage to my fingers in the meantime, the trap was set. All we had to do was wait for nightfall to come.
6 hours later I silently cheered as I heard the distinctive snap of the trap.
4 hours after that I was muttering about sneaky little so & so’s and their lucky escape.
Mice: 1, Jo: zero.
Next I bought some of those heave-and-leave poison packs, and we scattered them in the crawl space above.
Seems our resident mice have more selective taste than that, and not a single rat sack was even sniffed at, 2 days later.
Mice: 2, Jo: zip.
So it was back to the hardware store discussing my options with the helpful 12 year old who was on deck that day (well he seemed about 12 anyway), I purchased a couple of the newer mouse-friendly plastic traps. This, I don’t get, as isn’t the whole idea to mercilessly eradicate the little blighters?! Nonetheless, feeling sure that my actions would not be frowned upon if by chance anyone from PETA stopped by unannounced, it was home again to prepare the traps, this time using peanut butter as the bait- a supposed "guaranteed" way to catch any pests that dared pilfer the proffered foodstuff (try saying that quickly three times)!
After another scratching session through the wee small hours, I went to check the traps to see how they fared.
The sound of plastic being dragged across the floor should’ve prepared me.
There, looking like the most sorrowful little caricature one could imagine, was a teeny weeny little mouse entrapped by one teeny tiny toe it seemed, trying to make good its escape from the kitchen with trap in tow.
After trying to shield the pitiful little critter from the prying eyes of two small children and a dog, I called for my Beloved to take the pathetic little thing outside to release it. After calling me every kind of wuss under the sun, he did.
I’ll give you one guess who came back that night for a joyful family reunion that seemed to progress from one end of the house to the other, from dusk ‘til dawn.
Mice: 3, Jo: zilch.
It was at this point that I discovered a much better way to invest my money in this perpetual rodent rebellion, and I’m happy to say that last night at least, I didn’t hear a thing.
And so Mr Jinks, I totally concur with your summation of the situation whenever Pixie and Dixie were around: I too, hate meeces to pieces. But I’m lovin’ my new earplugs!
Jx
©2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
We Have Liftoff
40 years ago, man first set foot upon the moon.
9 months later, I made a spectacular landing here on earth.
Coincidence? I think not.
It seems one small step for man led to one giant leap for mum...3 kids under 3!
At the risk of embarrassing my mother, who is of the generation which believes that the topic of family planning should stay within the family home, let me explain this mission.
I’m not about to regale you with any sexploits, so rest assured this blog will retain its 'PG Rating'. Let me just say this: when it comes to breeding, some people are super stars.
I mean that in the nicest possible way, because let’s face it, it’s people that keep this world turning, and a population boom can bring some mighty big things to fruition (paid maternity leave notwithstanding).
I can also speak for those on the other side of life, the ones who have struggled to make their full contribution to society (going by the old adage of 'one for her, one for him, and one for the country').
But before we go any further on my own story, let’s rewind to when man made the momentous leap onto the moon surface, and my parents celebrated the feat in their own special way.
My mum and dad were both raised as good Catholics and apparently applied at least one aspect of that theological theory to their own marriage; one year and one day after they wed, they presented their parents with grandchild number 1, my eldest sister.
15 months to the day later, they welcomed grandchild number 2, my middle sis.
6 months after that, while the crew of Apollo 11 were making history at a lunar level, my folks were again on their way to helping populate this particular planet, and I am living proof that the earth moved for at least one of them around that time.
Oh I don’t know (and of course mum won’t tell) if that’s really what happened, but I’ve always been amused by the timing: July 1969- Neil, Buzz, and Michael were landing that Eagle, and April 1970- mum was spread……ah, I mean, giving birth to little ol’ me (Watch that Rating there, Jo)!
Yep, seems that dad had only to hang his pants over the foot of the bed, and next thing you know mum was doing what women are supposed to do best.
Whereas in my case, we almost needed a cast of thousands to produce our two.
Way back, while all my friends at school were busy dreaming of who they’d marry and planning what to name all their babies, I was a little reserved in my enthusiasm.
Perhaps I had an inkling of what lay ahead.
I won’t go into all the gory details (see mum, I do know where to draw the line), suffice to say it took 10 years, numerous operations, fertility treatment, and a turkey baster or two, before I was able to successfully complete a pregnancy (and even then it wasn’t to term- impatient little offspring that I have).
And then, much to my surprise and delight, after years of infertility and despite that old wives' tale about breastfeeding being a great contraceptive, I suddenly found myself 'in the family way’ once again.
We’d only just moved into our home, and I was still getting my head around the whole mummy thing, so you can imagine the baby bombshell dropped upon us. Lucky for us, the house we'd just bought had an extra bedroom on the one we'd moved out of.
However, much like Halley's Comet, it seems it was a once-in-a-lifetime event for me and I stopped at the statistical 2.5 kids (if you count my stepson).
My mother, on the other hand, was medically advised to cease her own private space race soon after I was born, otherwise who knows how many siblings I'd have now.
Anyway, while I continue to entertain myself with the notion that I can owe my very presence to Neil Armstrong et al planting that flag on the moon…I live in hope that my little girl will be equally amused to hear that she was her parents' housewarming present.
Jx
©2009
9 months later, I made a spectacular landing here on earth.
Coincidence? I think not.
It seems one small step for man led to one giant leap for mum...3 kids under 3!
At the risk of embarrassing my mother, who is of the generation which believes that the topic of family planning should stay within the family home, let me explain this mission.
I’m not about to regale you with any sexploits, so rest assured this blog will retain its 'PG Rating'. Let me just say this: when it comes to breeding, some people are super stars.
I mean that in the nicest possible way, because let’s face it, it’s people that keep this world turning, and a population boom can bring some mighty big things to fruition (paid maternity leave notwithstanding).
I can also speak for those on the other side of life, the ones who have struggled to make their full contribution to society (going by the old adage of 'one for her, one for him, and one for the country').
But before we go any further on my own story, let’s rewind to when man made the momentous leap onto the moon surface, and my parents celebrated the feat in their own special way.
My mum and dad were both raised as good Catholics and apparently applied at least one aspect of that theological theory to their own marriage; one year and one day after they wed, they presented their parents with grandchild number 1, my eldest sister.
15 months to the day later, they welcomed grandchild number 2, my middle sis.
6 months after that, while the crew of Apollo 11 were making history at a lunar level, my folks were again on their way to helping populate this particular planet, and I am living proof that the earth moved for at least one of them around that time.
Oh I don’t know (and of course mum won’t tell) if that’s really what happened, but I’ve always been amused by the timing: July 1969- Neil, Buzz, and Michael were landing that Eagle, and April 1970- mum was spread……ah, I mean, giving birth to little ol’ me (Watch that Rating there, Jo)!
Yep, seems that dad had only to hang his pants over the foot of the bed, and next thing you know mum was doing what women are supposed to do best.
Whereas in my case, we almost needed a cast of thousands to produce our two.
Way back, while all my friends at school were busy dreaming of who they’d marry and planning what to name all their babies, I was a little reserved in my enthusiasm.
Perhaps I had an inkling of what lay ahead.
I won’t go into all the gory details (see mum, I do know where to draw the line), suffice to say it took 10 years, numerous operations, fertility treatment, and a turkey baster or two, before I was able to successfully complete a pregnancy (and even then it wasn’t to term- impatient little offspring that I have).
And then, much to my surprise and delight, after years of infertility and despite that old wives' tale about breastfeeding being a great contraceptive, I suddenly found myself 'in the family way’ once again.
We’d only just moved into our home, and I was still getting my head around the whole mummy thing, so you can imagine the baby bombshell dropped upon us. Lucky for us, the house we'd just bought had an extra bedroom on the one we'd moved out of.
However, much like Halley's Comet, it seems it was a once-in-a-lifetime event for me and I stopped at the statistical 2.5 kids (if you count my stepson).
My mother, on the other hand, was medically advised to cease her own private space race soon after I was born, otherwise who knows how many siblings I'd have now.
Anyway, while I continue to entertain myself with the notion that I can owe my very presence to Neil Armstrong et al planting that flag on the moon…I live in hope that my little girl will be equally amused to hear that she was her parents' housewarming present.
Jx
©2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Wax on, Wax off
I love winter.
Not necessarily the red noses, or dry cracked skin, or family tag-team with the various viruses doing the rounds. No, what I love about winter is, you can hide your legs and armpits.
Because one of the most pressing questions ever to perplex a woman surrounds the issue of hair removal.
What is the most effective method?
A lot of time and effort has gone into finding the ideal answer to this question, and there are a lot of options to choose from: shaving, waxing, epilation, depilatory creams, laser, bleach…just to name a few.
To my knowledge, not one single solution has been discovered that is permanent and painless. And let’s not forget cheap!
As soon as it is, I’ll be blogging about it!
Now, I’m fairly fortunate in that I am not among the ranks of those who are constantly aware of their hair, nor have to daily indulge in addressing it (and by that I don’t mean giving it some cute nickname like 'Yowie' or 'Yeti', although that could be appropriate at times).
But I have been blessed with the pale Irish skin and dark Irish hair to make me have to take care of things from time to time. Oh and having had a gorilla for a father doesn’t help.
Yes, anyone who doubts the close relationship between humans and apes has not yet met the male members of my family. At some stage in these men’s lives, their hair decides it’s just too darn far to travel to the top of their head, so sprouts from their shoulders instead!
And so, since we have a bit of time before the subject (and certain body parts) has to see the light of day, let's look at some of the more accessible methods.
Bleach is a bugger, especially if you get it places it really shouldn’t go (and I’m not just talking ‘bout your favourite bath towel here, if you know what I mean). And all it really does it highlight the fact that you have hair there- especially when caught in full summer sunlight (Hello, hairy halo)!
Depilatory creams have such a strong smell that you may as well wear a sign afterwards saying “I just dehaired myself!” Plus it’s an annoying waste of time sitting around trying not to smudge the stuff for fear of leaving telltale patches of fur.
Epilation hurts quite like nothing else I’ve ever known. Luckily it’s one of the ways to keep hair at bay for a few weeks so the torture can be spread out. (I only have to text my friend the words “Holy Mother of God” and she knows that I have the epilator out again.) But if you get too close to denser areas of hair, you can jam the thing and no amount of pleading is going to get it out of there without tears or potential blood loss.
And I have to confess that after an incident with a razor as a teenager I will only consider that particular method as the very last resort (take it from me: it is never a good idea to scratch your face while shaving your legs!) Plus, the time spent shaving is way out of proportion to the time spent being hairless, but once you start you just can’t stop (kinda like Pringles, without the tasty interlude).
As for laser (or intense light) hair removal, unfortunately in my current financial circumstances, that’s not an option and I’ve heard once you head towards that light you really gotta keep going ‘til there’s no hair there; and there's no guarantee that'll happen anyway.
I’ve even tried those funny little glove things you put over your hand and kinda file the hair off, like an emery board for the body. Sure it does a nice job of exfoliating as you go, and also gives the old bingo wings a workout, but honestly, by the time you reach your toes, the hair has grown back on your thighs!
So that leaves waxing, my preferred torture in the name of hairlessness.
Now, it’s often been commented that you've gotta be somewhat masochistic to let someone heat up wax and spread it on your legs (and other regions), wait for it to set, then rip it off, extracting the hapless hair- roots and all.
Here I also must warn you of the danger of DIY waxing. Aside from the obvious discomfort, you need to be well up on your yoga in order to put yourself in the positions required to remove the wax without taking your skin off with it. And for those venturing near the bikini line I cannot stress enough the importance of wearing underwear as you go! Happily, this time I was not the one who inadvertently stuck her legs together at a most unfortunate area (seriously, would YOU be brave enough to move if it happened to you?)!
But if you get the right therapist there can be the minimum amount of teeth clenching and fingernail imprints left in their beauty bench.
I even nodded off once during the procedure.
Mind you I was almost 8 months pregnant at the time and was doing the deforestation routine before our trip to the maternity ward.
There I was, barely able to get up on the treatment table (thank heavens for those motorised numbers), and actually could not even see the therapist working below the belt, thanks to The Bump between us… and I was soooo tired from growing my bub, that I actually dozed off. Even the therapist couldn’t believe it. It’s hardly a relaxing process, after all.
Unfortunately, unless you plan on being permanently pregnant (and that could be a tad tricky for any males who like to get their ‘manscaping’ done), there’s really nothing else for it except perhaps pop a paracetamol before you go or just grin and bare it.
Yes I for one am ecstatic that summer is still a good 4 months off yet…I have a great excuse to keep myself covered until absolutely necessary. You never know, someone might even have a brainstorm about abolishing body hair between now and then, so watch this space (just don’t pay too much attention to the legs or you could see a yeti yet)!
Jx
©2009
Not necessarily the red noses, or dry cracked skin, or family tag-team with the various viruses doing the rounds. No, what I love about winter is, you can hide your legs and armpits.
Because one of the most pressing questions ever to perplex a woman surrounds the issue of hair removal.
What is the most effective method?
A lot of time and effort has gone into finding the ideal answer to this question, and there are a lot of options to choose from: shaving, waxing, epilation, depilatory creams, laser, bleach…just to name a few.
To my knowledge, not one single solution has been discovered that is permanent and painless. And let’s not forget cheap!
As soon as it is, I’ll be blogging about it!
Now, I’m fairly fortunate in that I am not among the ranks of those who are constantly aware of their hair, nor have to daily indulge in addressing it (and by that I don’t mean giving it some cute nickname like 'Yowie' or 'Yeti', although that could be appropriate at times).
But I have been blessed with the pale Irish skin and dark Irish hair to make me have to take care of things from time to time. Oh and having had a gorilla for a father doesn’t help.
Yes, anyone who doubts the close relationship between humans and apes has not yet met the male members of my family. At some stage in these men’s lives, their hair decides it’s just too darn far to travel to the top of their head, so sprouts from their shoulders instead!
And so, since we have a bit of time before the subject (and certain body parts) has to see the light of day, let's look at some of the more accessible methods.
Bleach is a bugger, especially if you get it places it really shouldn’t go (and I’m not just talking ‘bout your favourite bath towel here, if you know what I mean). And all it really does it highlight the fact that you have hair there- especially when caught in full summer sunlight (Hello, hairy halo)!
Depilatory creams have such a strong smell that you may as well wear a sign afterwards saying “I just dehaired myself!” Plus it’s an annoying waste of time sitting around trying not to smudge the stuff for fear of leaving telltale patches of fur.
Epilation hurts quite like nothing else I’ve ever known. Luckily it’s one of the ways to keep hair at bay for a few weeks so the torture can be spread out. (I only have to text my friend the words “Holy Mother of God” and she knows that I have the epilator out again.) But if you get too close to denser areas of hair, you can jam the thing and no amount of pleading is going to get it out of there without tears or potential blood loss.
And I have to confess that after an incident with a razor as a teenager I will only consider that particular method as the very last resort (take it from me: it is never a good idea to scratch your face while shaving your legs!) Plus, the time spent shaving is way out of proportion to the time spent being hairless, but once you start you just can’t stop (kinda like Pringles, without the tasty interlude).
As for laser (or intense light) hair removal, unfortunately in my current financial circumstances, that’s not an option and I’ve heard once you head towards that light you really gotta keep going ‘til there’s no hair there; and there's no guarantee that'll happen anyway.
I’ve even tried those funny little glove things you put over your hand and kinda file the hair off, like an emery board for the body. Sure it does a nice job of exfoliating as you go, and also gives the old bingo wings a workout, but honestly, by the time you reach your toes, the hair has grown back on your thighs!
So that leaves waxing, my preferred torture in the name of hairlessness.
Now, it’s often been commented that you've gotta be somewhat masochistic to let someone heat up wax and spread it on your legs (and other regions), wait for it to set, then rip it off, extracting the hapless hair- roots and all.
Here I also must warn you of the danger of DIY waxing. Aside from the obvious discomfort, you need to be well up on your yoga in order to put yourself in the positions required to remove the wax without taking your skin off with it. And for those venturing near the bikini line I cannot stress enough the importance of wearing underwear as you go! Happily, this time I was not the one who inadvertently stuck her legs together at a most unfortunate area (seriously, would YOU be brave enough to move if it happened to you?)!
But if you get the right therapist there can be the minimum amount of teeth clenching and fingernail imprints left in their beauty bench.
I even nodded off once during the procedure.
Mind you I was almost 8 months pregnant at the time and was doing the deforestation routine before our trip to the maternity ward.
There I was, barely able to get up on the treatment table (thank heavens for those motorised numbers), and actually could not even see the therapist working below the belt, thanks to The Bump between us… and I was soooo tired from growing my bub, that I actually dozed off. Even the therapist couldn’t believe it. It’s hardly a relaxing process, after all.
Unfortunately, unless you plan on being permanently pregnant (and that could be a tad tricky for any males who like to get their ‘manscaping’ done), there’s really nothing else for it except perhaps pop a paracetamol before you go or just grin and bare it.
Yes I for one am ecstatic that summer is still a good 4 months off yet…I have a great excuse to keep myself covered until absolutely necessary. You never know, someone might even have a brainstorm about abolishing body hair between now and then, so watch this space (just don’t pay too much attention to the legs or you could see a yeti yet)!
Jx
©2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Shop 'til You Drop
It’s not often I get to hit the shops without an entourage.
Oh my Beloved avoids the shopping centres like the dog avoids a bath- so it’s a rare event to have him along on the excursion- it’s usually just me and the kids.
So when I do get to escape, even for a quick trip to the supermarket for some essentials, it’s a blessing. And usually quite enlightening.
I’m an observer of people, you see, and there is plenty of fodder at the food stores!
Take the other day, for example.
I was standing in line at the checkout with my ‘handful of groceries’ (an old joke of my mother’s, because in fact anything more than one item is actually over the aforementioned handful) when I can’t help but overhear what’s happening with the people in front of me. So did the rest of the queue. Sadly for us, we couldn’t quite see what was going on, but anyone with a long-haired child could guess...
It’s obviously a mother and daughter tag team, and it’s also obvious that the mother has just about had enough ‘quality time’ with the daughter for one outing.
The one-sided conversation goes something like this, the following all coming from the mum (and I bet you’ve experienced a similar scenario). I have to say, the mother in question did a stand-up job of positive parenting- up to a point:
“Oh Darling, don’t do that with your hair, please.”
“No, please Darling, don’t do that with your hair.”
“Honey, I said don’t do that.”
“I mean it, please don’t do that, it’s annoying.”
“Leave your hair alone Darling.”
“I said, leave your hair alone!”
“Leave it alone now or I’m going to get cranky.”
“Alright, I’m really getting cranky now- stop doing that to your hair!’
“I mean it, don’t do that to your hair!’
“Alright, that’s it! As soon as we get home, I’m cutting all your hair off !!”
Now, for the rest of us in line, it was all too familiar despite it being a tad dramatic, and especially for those of us who had managed to make it to the shops without our own little darlings in hand, it was more than a little amusing and a whole lot refreshing to not be the one delivering the diatribe in front of a captive audience for a change.
So who knows whether the “darling” in question did indeed get the impromptu haircut as threatened. What I do know is that I came home with my handful of groceries, gathered up my two kids in a bear hug and ruffled the living daylights out of their mop tops.
And revelled in the fact that I got to go out without them.
Jx
©2009
Oh my Beloved avoids the shopping centres like the dog avoids a bath- so it’s a rare event to have him along on the excursion- it’s usually just me and the kids.
So when I do get to escape, even for a quick trip to the supermarket for some essentials, it’s a blessing. And usually quite enlightening.
I’m an observer of people, you see, and there is plenty of fodder at the food stores!
Take the other day, for example.
I was standing in line at the checkout with my ‘handful of groceries’ (an old joke of my mother’s, because in fact anything more than one item is actually over the aforementioned handful) when I can’t help but overhear what’s happening with the people in front of me. So did the rest of the queue. Sadly for us, we couldn’t quite see what was going on, but anyone with a long-haired child could guess...
It’s obviously a mother and daughter tag team, and it’s also obvious that the mother has just about had enough ‘quality time’ with the daughter for one outing.
The one-sided conversation goes something like this, the following all coming from the mum (and I bet you’ve experienced a similar scenario). I have to say, the mother in question did a stand-up job of positive parenting- up to a point:
“Oh Darling, don’t do that with your hair, please.”
“No, please Darling, don’t do that with your hair.”
“Honey, I said don’t do that.”
“I mean it, please don’t do that, it’s annoying.”
“Leave your hair alone Darling.”
“I said, leave your hair alone!”
“Leave it alone now or I’m going to get cranky.”
“Alright, I’m really getting cranky now- stop doing that to your hair!’
“I mean it, don’t do that to your hair!’
“Alright, that’s it! As soon as we get home, I’m cutting all your hair off !!”
Now, for the rest of us in line, it was all too familiar despite it being a tad dramatic, and especially for those of us who had managed to make it to the shops without our own little darlings in hand, it was more than a little amusing and a whole lot refreshing to not be the one delivering the diatribe in front of a captive audience for a change.
So who knows whether the “darling” in question did indeed get the impromptu haircut as threatened. What I do know is that I came home with my handful of groceries, gathered up my two kids in a bear hug and ruffled the living daylights out of their mop tops.
And revelled in the fact that I got to go out without them.
Jx
©2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)