Toys, toys, toys, I’m looking for a good time
I knooowwww. How LAME is that title? but I couldn’t help it. Laugh? I almost split my sides. Still snorting as I write. As an aside, residing as I am in Spain, the famous Sabrina song – which you can revisit here has come to my attention more than a B grade song from the 80s should recently. This is because it has a particularly special place in the heart of many a man in Spain. Hers were the first breasts to be shown on Spanish television, which took place in Janet Jackson style “accidental” wardrobe malfunction. And you thought Janet was a ground breaker. I challenge you to show me anyone who generated more publicity with less talent than Sabrina. Well, in the pre-internet and reality TV age at least. Anyway, information on the planned malfunction was leaked in advance and teenage boys and men, and I assume not a few woman, tuned in all over the country to capture the moment. We see so much booty every Saturday morning in music clips it’s hard to remember how controversial Sabrina was, even for the rest of us. In an ultra conservative, post-fascism Spain, still catching up from years of isolation, it was a really big deal. So there you are. Sabrina, a cultural icon.
Bone Idle
CC photo credit: flickrfavorites
I am lazy. There’s no getting away from it. I’m pretty sure it’s an inherent rather than a learned characteristic because I remember my Dad singing “Lazy Bones” to me, in his best Louis Armstrong voice, when I was as young as 6 or 7, to which I usually responded with “Am not”, “You are” and other stinging retorts, from the comfort of the couch.
My laziness is manifesting itself on this particular occasion, as an aversion to cleaning the house. I’m not working right now so we can’t really justify a cleaner. I am after all at home, not working. I should really clean. I should. But I hate cleaning. As soon as I was able I justified outsourcing this particular thorn in my side through a faithful interpretation of the economics of comparative advantage (if you can earn more per hour doing one thing – sitting sedentary at a desk for instance – for another – slugging it out scrubbing down the shower say – you definitely should. It’s more efficient. It’s the way things should be, it’s the optimal outcome, the model says so), and I had banked on always being able to do so. But now I earn nothing, per hour or otherwise, so the model is not working in my favour.
Buggy Running: As If Just Running Wasn’t Hard Enough
Brooke Shields with stroller. See now she can afford a gym and a personal trainer. So if she 'Chooses To Run' with a Buggy, it's got to be good.
I was not born to run. I am not motivated to run by a need to get my daily endorphin fix. If only. I’m not sure I’ve experienced this mystical endorphin rush, unless that funny chilly feeling and nausea I sometimes get from attempting to run beyond my capacity to do so counts. Running for me is HARD, requiring the mental as well as the physical energy to keep me going throughout the entire battling duration. Forty-five minutes of teeth gritting and negotiations in my head that make deals with myself to keep going to the next post, the next 5 minutes, permission to slow down as long as I keep going and many more creative attempts to convince myself not to stop.
Cots – a life behind bars?
So here’s a question for all of you far more experienced people than me – what’s with the ‘big boy bed’ business? Two and a half year old son is still in a cot. I know – HORRIFYING. Many people can’t get over the fact and I am sure they are whispering about poor downtrodden son behind my back.
I have stayed in various different locations over the past few months and the question is always the same – is he in a bed yet? The answer is no, he is not.
So tell me, am I running the risk of a child used to gazing upwards at people forever? Will the bars scar him for life and ensure he is well primed for a life of incarceration? Thus far, he seems perfectly content in his cot, and no signs of him whipping off with the family silver just yet. Then again, if you ask English Captain Sensible, most Aussies return to their convict form at some stage anyway.
And the award for best yum cha/dim sum restaurants in a family friendly environment goes to…
I spend a lot of my time thinking about food. I’d like to pretend otherwise – but I’d be fooling no-one. And when it comes to food, my number one interest, nay, OBSESSION, is yum cha. A.K.A dim sum to those outside of Australia. Ah yum cha. The yum of dim. The ‘cha. I dream about you. How I love your flakey pastry puffiness. How I savour the sweetness of your porcine pieces. How I worship at the altar of your gelatinous dumpling marvelousness. You get the picture.
Sometime ago I promised to write a post about the best yum cha to go to with children. The answer is most of them. Seriously. I can’t think of a better place to take children out to eat. Tiny, young, older – is there another place you can think of (bar the hideosity of children-themed restaurants) that they don’t care when food is spread all over the table? Where the noises of screams are drowned out by angry Chinese voices? Where the food is brought by your table in small portions so if it is spat out you can just start again? Where the whole meal can be ordered, delivered and eaten in 45 minutes if necessary? My children had both been to dim sum before they were two weeks old. Yum cha. In the words of the almighty Nike, just DO IT.
Pocoyo; Great TV For Even the Tiniest Tots
If you, like me, find it hard to think of things to do with a very young baby, you should take a look at the Pocoyo series. My baby is 7 months old and I’m pretty much constantly changing whatever basic object it is in his hand every 5 minutes because that’s how long it takes for him to get bored. He can’t crawl yet, build blocks, draw or doing anything particularly engaging and I had thought that it was far too early for television. But he actually seems to love Pocoyo.
The white background, bright colours and lively music of Pocoyo have just enough sound and movement to capture the interest of the youngest infants. It’s a welcome addition to the arsenal of entertainment tools with which I am constantly attempting to kill the boredom.
The best part is that I think it’s really cute and funny and enjoy watching it with him. The narrators are delightful in both Spanish and English. Stephen Fry does the English version. Parents generally seem to find the shows pretty entertaining – evident from comments on websites and forums, which is a quite an accomplishment when it’s a programme that’s made for the very youngest infants.
And the role of mother will be played by ME.
Does anyone else ever feel like they are just pretending to be a mother? Like how did you get here and what are these words coming out of your mouth? Sometimes I really feel like I am playing the part in some mothering sitcom (with the requisite somewhat irritating child with a lisp and the small baby played by twins. Only not played by twins in our house – played by just the one baby thank god. Not that I don’t like twins. It’s one of those concepts that is so nice in theory and the matching outfits divine, but the reality seems like some bad horror movie – IMAGINE two year old tantrums in tandem, I think I would retire to the Galapagos, Or someplace equally far away with a beach and no twins. Sorry to those who have twins. I love twins. Twins rock. Twin rant over).
I woke up on my 30-something birthday this year and lay there marvelling about the fact that I have a husband and two children. A full on family. I know I have already expressed my shock, but I am still wondering – WHEN did that happen?
Tales from the Poo Front
Yesterday we had no less than three baths and six changes of clothing. That’s if you don’t count mine. I had to completely change my own clothing at least three times. I would have showered if I had time but I was too busy with the wailing vomiter. So instead I swept hair up to a crusty ponytail. I pretty much couldn’t put him down, unless I wanted to hear some VERY loud crying (he has quite a voice on him, baritone, Kate says) which was awkward at times, especially when, feeling confident after two hours of isotonic drink without vomiting we tried some milk. Slowly, slowly catchie monkey he drank the milk. Calm and satisfaction followed. Then the flood was released. I tried to catch as much volume in my lap as I could to save the couch. It was relatively successful as I managed to shuffle crab like, sideways away from the crouch, with Monkey still in my arms, keeping the vomit in my lap and eventually dispersing it across the living room floor. The floor is not carpet so I think it was a good result.
Private Cord Blood Banking
When we fell pregnant with N all our friends told us to get on to cord blood banking. Debate ensued as to which of the private cord banks were the best. Private cord banks are big here. There are seven operating in Spain, and their marketing is evidently effective. At no time did anyone address whether banking your cord blood with a private bank was the right thing to do. So confident were they of the need for private cord blood banking that one can see how expecting parents come to assume that cord blood banking is a given obligation. It almost feels un-parent like to be questioning the benefits of committing to anything that might benefit your child in future. ‘How could we not invest in something that may one day save our child’s life?’ you ask yourselves. This line of thinking is encouraged directly (or indirectly via your peers) by the well executed and powerful marketing messages of private banks. Private cord blood banking is a very expensive programme with questionable benefits. You need to go beyond the marketing material to make your decision.
Family friendly chic resorts – an urban myth?
these are my feet. Really.
OK, I know holiday reviews of places that you are unlikely to go are fairly annoying. (Ooh ooh, look at me and my awesome holiday – whatEVER). But last year we went on a family holiday which had some serious advantages, so I thought I would highlight some of them as I think they are worth looking out for in any family venue.
I should start by saying that a ‘family resort’ is my idea of hell. Visions of snotty nosed screaming children running amok, primary coloured laminex surfaces and heinous buffet meals. But last year we were seriously in need of some time off and wanted the lowest fuss holiday ever. We got it in the form of the Sani Resort in Greece. If you aren’t able to kick it sans kids in St Barts (our next holiday. Probably. Well, depends if you ask me or the Captain), then this kind of place is a good way to do it in style with the little tackers.
- Can I recommend TripAdvisoras a seriously awesome place to research accommodation? It’s based on reviews from actual guests – sometimes hundreds or even thousands of them and I have used it a dozen times now, and have been satisfied each time.
43 New Year’s Resolutions. Well, 8. But they are going well.
NAILing it - get it?? I know, my pictures are getting more obscure.
So it’s February. Almost the end of February really. So when am I going to start my new year’s resolutions?
Actually, I’m being slightly disingenuous here as I have a confession to make. I am NAILING my resolutions. Nailing them I tell you. Usually February finds me glass of wine in one hand, chocolate bar in the other with the same five kilos hovering somewhere around my middle discussing the 10km run I almost signed up for and the career change that is juuuuuust around the corner.
San Miguel Food Market Madrid
The San Miguel Market (Mercado de san Miguel) in Madrid is an exciting culinary and entertainment addition to the centre of Madrid, long overdue. Very overdue in fact. The building sat empty for over 10 years. It has been beautifully renovated and the food displays are a pleasure to look at as well as feast on. You can sip on champagne while sliding back freshly shucked oysters or grab a tray of tapas and a beer to enjoy under the high ceilings of the light and airy interior.
If you go on the weekend, try to arrive outside of 2:30 to 3:30 when it gets a little bit crazy – but if you arrive at peak hour, the insiders trick is to enter through the “back door”, the entrance farthest from plaza mayor where there is more space than the hordes realize. We found a space even with pram in tow.
San Miguel Market and Surrounding Buildings
Friendly Medical Advice from your Local Butcher
In continuation to my last post, the hospital and sick child at home experience has given me even more pause for thought – this time in relation to the Spanish approach to medicinal care. On the one hand I discovered a whole other area where people like to give advice (to my delight, as you can imagine). On the other hand there was also a slightly laissez faire approach from the nurses in the hospital actually qualified to give it.
Look! FUN with medication!
Spaniards are particularly prone to handing out unqualified medical advice – the government had to run a multi million euro ad campaign which featured a woman in the market handing over her antibiotics to her good friend the neighbourhood butcher telling him to take them to address his cold like symptoms. The tag line to the ad was “You´re not a doctor, don’t share prescription drugs and see your doctor for medical advice”. Or some such.
Hospital visit and house bound caring. The job fits in where?
This week we returned to the hospital where N was born just seven months ago, this time to deal with a bronchial infection. He had to be put on an oxygen machine and given Ventolin intermittently. Don’t worry. Everything’s fine. In fact the worst part (for me – me, me, me, me, me) was the having to stay in hospital to help care for him. I discovered a whole new level of boredom, with no internet (I know, I know, yes, I’m ok, still kind of recovering, there’s a twitch in my eye but I think it will go away within a few days) and really bad Spanish daytime TV.
I was also sleep deprived. The Ventolin turned N into a CRAZY CHILD and he barely slept. For the first 48 hours the Ventolin was given every 4 hours (each time followed by at least 2 hours of extreme wakefulness), after that (and still now, as I write) we only have to give it to him every 6 hours. This still means a 12am and 6am session with very little sleep in between. It’s like having a newborn again which is particular unfair as he had JUST started sleeping through – we had three blissful nights of it before he fell ill.
Make your own personalised word cloud canvas
I stumbled across website wordle.net a few months ago. Wordle lets you create your own word cloud image. I have been pondering ever since what a great gift it would be to use it to create a unique canvas for your baby’s room, or as a gift for, well, anyone. Or maybe you just want one for your own living room.
You can create your own word cloud image on wordle by entering a list of words and then changing the font, colours and the way the words are arranged. The image is yours to use as you wish, so you can save the file you’ve created and have it printed on canvas. (Google “print on canvas” and you’ll find any number of sites that will print your image on canvas and send it to you. Assuming you don’t live in Tristan da Cunha*).
Why I am still very trendy and am not getting old. This year.
This is not actually me. In case you were wondering.
My son’s favourite game at the moment is to tell us all how old we are. He is two, the baby is three months (give or take a few months, it’s hard to keep up with her to be fair), Mummy is OLD and Daddy is ANCIENT.
I obviously derive tremendous amusement at the ‘ancient’ (and it’s not far from the truth for the poor old Captain) – but am not overly enamoured with the ‘old’ reference. Because I am quite youthful. In my head. And in photos. That have been photoshopped.
I do not feel that having children is keeping me young. In fact, I think they are causing me more wrinkles than any all night bender in my 20s. (And frankly – some mornings I think I got more joy out of the benders than the kids. Don’t tell people that. It’s a sure fire way to get chucked out of the Mother’s Club to admit something like that. Well, you try having a shower with three people in there with you.) No, the children are definitely making me older. But not OLD.
Women in piggy tails – why it can be so right.
Last week I watched a grown woman in a blond piggy tail wig and pinafore dancing around and running away from a grown man in a bearskin. No, much to my disappointment I was not at a new avant garde club night. What I do after hours is on my other blog, www.fetishtastic.com.au (shame on you for clicking).
No, I was at an under 4s performance of Goldilocks. I did spend the entire 45 minutes wondering what led these two people to be performing in this show — I am presuming they were wannabe Eastenders stars or perhaps more serious Shakespearean types. Or maybe I am doing them a gross disservice, maybe there is a whole children’s acting career path – starts with a being a giant sandwich in a mall, next stop the dizzying heights of Disneyland? I am NOT dissing the acting which was nothing short of superb. Let’s face it, anyone who can keep a group of about thirty under 4s mostly spellbound for the better part of 45 minutes is a shoo-in to win the X-Factor.
Child attacked by face eating bear
This is my son. Not, as it may appear to an alarmed parent in the middle of the night, being suffocated by a wild brown animal, but voluntarily, softly rubbing his face up against his FLATOUTbear.
Apparently FLATOUTbears are already pretty well known to many parents, but there may be a few of you still unfamiliar with these teddy bears, or, like me before, were aware but not especially enamored with them — at least not with any more affection than for your average cuddly bear. Now, however, I totally get why flat is good.
You can’t rub a normal bear on your face like that. Nor, most likely, would you want to — the snout and belly and all those other curves would make it not quite as pleasant. There’s nothing wrong with curvy bears, I’m sure they’re good for lots of things, but being plastered against baby’s head, well, that’s where FLATOUTbears really come into their own.
The case of the disappearing career.
I cannot find a picture of a hen with its mouth open. Please use your imagination to imagine a hen. With mouth open. But no teeth.
A good friend asked me today what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. She was talking about my career, rather than whether I was planning on keeping the children. At least, I think she was — my daughter was being particularly irritating today so it would have been a valid question.
So the career. Ah yes. It was a good one. I loved the intellectual stimulation, the office banter, clever people around me (except the dim ones of course) and I loved so many of the teams that I worked with. Until I realised I didn’t really enjoy what I did. And that I was working myself to the bone with ridiculous hours and ungrateful sods demanding clients. And I was basically miserable in my industry. All of which wasn’t really conducive to being a happy mother and wife, let alone a happy worker. So now I find myself in the maternity leave tunnel with no light at the end.
Flying with the devil. Or – how to fly on a plane with your children and not arrive with vomit on your top.
OK, as opposed to the recent post for selfish Alex, here is a selfless one dedicated entirely to myself. I am not long away from embarking upon a 24 hour plane ride with two children. Two. On a plane. One child finds it hard to focus on one thing for more than about three minutes and if doesn’t get his own way has a charming habit of throwing himself upon the nearest flat surface and keening as if at a grave. The other enjoys random Tourette’s like yelps – when she is not screaming until purple in the face about being tired. Or hungry. Or itchy. Or has smelt something funny. Oh, I can already see the faces of the people in the departure lounge, just crossing their fingers and PRAYING they are sitting beside our happy little family.
Anyway – I am planning this trip like a military invasion. Only with less death. I am not focusing on what happens when we get there – just the 24 hours on the way. Don’t even talk to me about the way back when I will be doing it ON MY OWN. Seriously, don’t talk to me, especially if you are my husband. I need every trick in the book, so have been madly researching to come up with The Plan. Here’s what I have thus far:
