Not Quite A Supermum!

The other day I picked up my daughter from school and took her straight to a doctor’s appointment. Just as we arrived I noticed that she had her shoes on the wrong feet. It’s something she does all the time and just as I was just about to tell her that it was high time she knew her left shoe from her right, I realised that this time it was not her fault. It was me who had put her shoes that morning. And they’d been on the wrong feet all day!

We sat down in the waiting room and immediately changed the shoes. Which piqued the interest of a woman sitting next to me. Maybe my age. Perhaps a bit younger. She might have been a mum but she was on her own at that moment.

‘Oh she had them on the wrong feet did she?’ she said with a laugh.

‘It was actually me that put them on this morning would you believe,’ I admitted (stupidly) also with a bit of a laugh.

To which my new friend replied, “Wow, Mother of the Year!”

No longer my friend and obviously not a mum. We laughed a bit more; initially her comment seemed funny. Then I stopped laughing and thought to myself, hang on, you don’t get to say that to me. I’m allowed to make a joke at my own expense. I get to make fun of my dubious parenting skills. Not you.

What about all the good things I did that morning? How I successfully encouraged everyone to have breakfast, get dressed and get out the door in time for school. What about the fact that I made the lunches, got a load of washing on, made the beds, prepared a casserole for dinner, cleaned up the kitchen and hung the clothes on the line – what about all that? Everything done so that when the toddler went down for her sleep, I could write furiously to meet all my deadlines.

Not as interesting as putting my daughter’s shoes on the wrong feet.

And to make matters worse we were at the doctor’s because both girls had a bad case of worms. Even though we had treated them both (and us) the week before.

So not only did I dress my daughter incorrectly possibly causing future feet problems, I allowed her to become infected with worms. Mother of the Year!

I know the woman in the waiting room wasn’t a mother because most mothers know better than to criticise each other. Before children, I was always ready with an opinion on parenting. What you should and shouldn’t do. But now I’m actually a parent, anything goes.

Being a mum is hard enough. Trying to do everything right is near impossible. You just do what you can to get by and naturally every now and again you drop one of the many balls you’re juggling so precariously.

Unfortunately for me it’s usually when someone is watching.

So Happy Mothers' Day to mothers everywhere. Congratulations for all the thousands of things you get right that no-one ever sees. And for knowing that when things occasionally go wrong, it simply doesn't matter.

Thank Goodness for my Gynaecologist (in more ways than one).

Most people feel pressure from their mother to find their perfect match. For me it was my gynaeocologist. I’ve been going to the same one for years now and she’s fantastic at her job. Just a bit pushy. And I don’t mean ‘down there’.

Every check-up she would fire the same question: ‘So are you having regular sex at the moment?’ And every time I would sheepishly mutter something about not being in a relationship and still getting over my ex. In other words lurching from one inappropriate fling to the next in a sort of ‘sleeping around’ irregular kind of way. Not something you want to admit to your gynaecologist.

‘Oh you girls,’ she would always say. ‘That relationship ended years ago, move on!’

Then I would explain how there were no nice men left and I preferred to be single anyway. Which would be met with silence, an eye roll and a pap test.

Whenever my mother tried to discuss my lack of relationship, I would scream that ‘there were worse things in life than being single!’ and she would change the subject and pop on the kettle.

But my gynaeocologist was different. Tough, honest, unrelenting. Great qualities for a doctor specialising in women’s health but unnerving when you’re on the receiving end and haven’t done your homework.

I didn’t want her to think I was a complete loser so I avoided the whole issue altogether. Check-up reminders arrived but went straight in the bin until I realised I’d better get some regular sex and fast. Finally I started seeing a guy for longer than two weeks so I promptly booked an appointment. And when the question came I could hardly contain my excitement. ‘Yes, yes, YES,’ I said a little too loudly. ‘I met a guy and we’re having REGULAR SEX!’

She stopped and looked up. It’s not often you can surprise a gynaeoclogist but it’s satisfying when you do. Suddenly we had something of interest to discuss. Something different. Something new. Like birth control. Which lasted for a while but then she wanted more. She started showing me hideous charts displaying the gradual dissipation of a woman’s fertility as she approaches 40. And older than that, well apparently it’s a bit like ‘a 60 year-old man with a triple bypass trying to climb a mountain’! Too bad if you didn’t manage to meet the right person in your 20s and you wanted to travel, study, pursue a career or just hang out. Nature doesn’t care.

Fortunately I stopped seeing that guy. Not so much because he was completely wrong for me but because I didn’t want to hear any more frightening facts and figures about how I should have started breeding at 22 despite the fact I was blissfully living in Paris studying acting and acquiring fabulous life experience.

Eventually I did find someone who has stuck around. My gynaeocologist was delighted with my choice. In fact I think she likes him more than she likes me.

I never thought I would get married. Neither did my mother. But here I am. A husband and two beautiful daughters. I would like to think I arrived at the inevitable conclusion that bad boys are so-called for a reason and don’t make great boyfriends. But the credit has to go to my bossy gynaeocologist whose ‘take no prisoners’ attitude was doing little for my self-esteem. If it meant finding a lovely and potentially lifelong relationship just to get her off my back (and continue with necessary check-ups), it was a small and actually quite a pleasant price to pay.

Afternoon Delight

I have to make a huge confession.

Today I watched television. In the middle of the day. Not just any day but a weekday, while the baby was asleep - a time that is strictly reserved for writing.

But before you judge I’m not to blame. My husband made me do it.

Currently we’re up to the Season Two of Mad Men, our latest obsession and one that we initially missed thanks to the madness of newborn chaos.

Finally we’re catching up with the world as Santa generously delivered Season One, which we quickly devoured and now a friend has lent us Season Two and Three.

DVDs of episodic television are fantastic for the tired, sleep-deprived parent. You can watch it when you want and it’s quicker than a movie so perfect if you tend to fall asleep on the sofa by 9.30pm.

Until last Friday night when I was working to a tight deadline and my husband went on without me, watching not just one but two episodes! I didn’t mind too much. Why should he miss out just because I took too much of a break over Easter and was behind with work?

However it has now posed quite a problem because I have little chance to catch up and he is desperate to move on and finish the season.

You’d think he would want me to be writing my fingers to the bone what with the credit card to pay and our possible up-coming renovations. Plus I didn’t get that television commercial a few weeks ago. But no. Everyday this week he has asked the same question. Have you watched those episodes yet? Can you please do it today?

What could I do? Certainly not let a couple of episodes of a TV show (albeit a good one) come between us. So today with no pressing deadlines I finally succumbed. I wrote half of a pitch to ease my guilt. I made a cup of tea and turned on the telly.

And I have to say I loved every minute of it.

Except I’m feeling even more guilt ridden because the baby woke up, and when I finally got her up, only because I could no longer ignore her cries, she joined me on the sofa to watch the inappropriate lifestyles of those Madison Avenue advertising men. Quite wrong really. But it felt so good. I guess that’s how Don Draper manages to lurch from one indiscretion to the other. It’s a slippery slope but one that’s easy to find, let me tell you.

Then eight minutes before my other daughter’s school bell, we were no-where near the front door.

I had to force myself to turn off the TV and step away. I simply would not have been able to explain my tardiness to the kindergarten teacher and I probably would have found myself telling some sort of lie. That old slippery slope. I know my baby wouldn’t have given me away but what if she absorbed it by some sort of osmosis and grew up thinking that’s how you get around things. Don Draper style.

Meanwhile my five year-old would have been be waiting in an increasingly empty playground as all the other responsible parents who don’t watch TV during the day had picked up there kids and were at home preparing them a nutritious dinner.

Luckily I managed to turn off the telly and get there just on the bell. All is well with the world once more. Discipline and normality has been restored.

I would like to say that was the beginning and end of my daytime viewing but I didn’t quite finish the episode and I have one more to watch. I don’t want to let my husband down so it looks like I’ll have to do the same tomorrow. And I can’t wait. As I say it’s not my fault…

In Search of Harmony

As you may or may not know from previous blogs, when I’m not writing or renovating, I’m an actress. I do theatre, TV, film whatever – which currently translates as ‘I go to a lot of auditions for television commercials’.

In fact last week I was ‘on hold’ for a commercial that was shooting today. However for some extraordinary reason, they decided to go a different way and I didn’t get the job. (Sigh) Which translates as ‘the credit card won’t get paid off this month’.

Also I finally heard back from a couple of builders, which was exciting. Until the first quote came in and we realised we can’t afford it. Not unless we want to be paying off a loan well into our 90s. (Sigh again) The combination of an actress/writer and an actor/lawyer trying to pay the mortgage and renovate a house doesn’t seem to add up in Sydney. Still we’re currently scaling back our plans so I still might get my kitchen. Unfortunately there will probably be a hole in the cabinetry until we can afford the dishwasher. (Sigh once more with a heavy heart).

So because I wasn’t shooting a milk commercial today, I had to make a cake and go to Harmony Day/ Grandparents Day at my daughter’s school. Which was lovely. It won’t pay off the credit card but it was worth it. Four of the five grandparents were there and my daughter was thrilled.

Everyone had to wear ‘a touch of orange’, the colour of harmony so my daughter put on a fluorescent orange hoody and I found a bit of orange ribbon for her hair. The theme was ‘Many Stories – One Australia’ and to celebrate there was a concert with singing, dancing, stories and a parade of national costumes from the 40 different countries represented at the school.

Then we watched my daughter in class. Where I had to physically prevent my mother from demanding why my daughter didn’t get asked to complete an activity, when she had her hand up. Forget about pushy mothers, it’s the grandmothers you have to look out for. Then we all stood behind my daughter and watched while she carefully cut out the letters of Harmony Day and stuck them in her writing book. And we all agreed the standard of her cutting and colouring was extremely high. This was followed by an amazing morning tea, which was demolished with great enthusiasm. Including the cake I contributed, which was positively inhaled. We may have had some harmony at school today but there was certainly no world hunger.

It was a very enjoyable morning. And it felt good to celebrate harmony and the cultural diversity of our country.

And it was probably the first of many Harmony Day/Grandparents Days to come.

I just wish I could say the same for the television commercials.