Last weekend my husband and I celebrated our sixth wedding anniversary. The day conjured up lots of memories because for the first time our anniversary was on the same day as our wedding (a Saturday). I decided to relive part of the day with a surprise trip to the church we got married in. After all after six years, I thought it was about time we went back.So, after dropping off our 3.5 year old with his Nanna and Aunty Nat, we headed into town about the same time we did so, six years earlier - except this time there were a few differences and I am not talking about the extra weight or the grey hairs! I was in a Mazda, not a vintage Bentley; my husband was driving, not a chauffer; I was not dressed in a willowy ivory number, clutching white roses; my Dad wasn’t nervously fidgeting beside me; and 100 or so people weren’t awaiting my arrival at the other end. In fact there was no one at the other end. No one at all. And you see, that kind of derailed my plans for a trip down memory lane.

The church was closed. Doors bolted. Windows barred. The green steeple seemed to be laughing down at us saying: you think after six years, you can just turn up again, and we’ll welcome you with open arms? No way, we know what you’ve been up to!

Earlier in the week I’d expressly phoned to make sure the church would be open for our little sojourn. The church secretary and the “verger” (whoever that is - sounds like someone from Star Trek, or maybe the Thunderbirds) assured me that if we arrived before 5pm there’d be no problem as a Palm Sunday rehearsal would be taking place.

But as I’ve already told you - that wasn’t the case. I even phoned the “verger” on a mobile phone number displayed outside the church, just in case he got an attack of the guilts and decided to fly down and open the church for us. I mean what else do these church types have to do on Saturday nights anyway?
Well no such luck. And I still haven’t heard from him.

So what to do? We took a few photos of ourselves outside the church for old time’s sake and briefly considered joining the homeless people outside the building next door. (Hey, perhaps they were there for us, in the absence of the “verger”?)

Instead we decided we’d better make the most of being in town on a Saturday afternoon, without a kid, and with a few hours up our sleeves now we didn’t have the option of enjoying a bit of solace at the stained glass windows.

So, where to? It’s 4pm - too early to start drinking; too early to have dinner; best to have a coffee and consider the situation. Perhaps we could go to a movie? Yes, let’s get a paper. Soon discovered 4pm is never land in cinema world. No movie ever starts at 4pm - they’re all halfway through.

And actually we’re parked in a two-hour zone so if we go to a 5pm movie we’ll get pinged in the middle of it. So we could just park somewhere else and forfeit all the gold coins we’ve just fed into the hungry parking meter, but, oops, do we have any coins left for the next one? And where is that cinema anyway - it used to be so simple - with those big blockbuster-type places in George St. Are they even there anymore? I think the last time I went was 1986. Oh there’s that Reading place, and that Dendy place, and that Verona place.

Oh god it’s all too hard. Let’s just head back to the ‘burbs where we know we can park. And catch whatever movie happens to be on (Emilio Estevez’s Bobby - not bad).

I tried to do something a bit different - I really did.

But next time I think I’ll get my Mum to come to our place and we’ll just go to Hornsby.

Social commentators used to spend columns of space writing about the dangers of television. It was supposed to tear at the fabric of families, and ultimately society.

How can families possibly be relating properly if they are sitting in front of the gogglebox all night? Well at least we all sat around the gogglebox together and occasionally even laughed at the same time.

In contrast, using computers is a fairly solitary task. I’ve never heard of the family logging onto You Tube, for example, and having a laugh at the latest Chad Vader episode (check them out - they are so funny. Chad, as opposed to Darth, actually works in a grocery store, but I digress).

Music used to be something to be shared as well. Now with the i-pod generation, music is a case of plugging in and tuning out.

For our little kids, perhaps the same will become of television. Everyone will have their own personal monitor and it will be so interactive there’ll be no such thing as the 8.30pm Sunday movie. It’ll be the anytime-you-want-it movie, from any camera angle you want.

It’s not all negative though. I find that with my blogs and the uploading of my photos onto share sites, such as Flickr.com, at least those members of the family who don’t live near you, can get a sense of what you’re up to. How else would my son’s Aunty is Canada know, for example, that he just saw King Kong on the weekend?

So we all get to know things about people we never needed to know. And as for the stuff, we need to know? I’ve just got to write one more post, answer three emails, contribute to an online forum, and edit the Christmas pics (in particular reducing the size of my nose and chin), and then we can talk, ok?

It’s a very personal experience for both the parents and child and I’d recommend it to anyone with very young children.

This year, in our second-last year before school, we have started at a childcare centre to give our child a bit more stimulation and to prepare him for school. He does that two days a week and still checks in with his lovely day care lady one day a week.

He’s really enjoyed the new experience for the two months or so he’s been attending - until last week. Apparently our experience is not unusual. There’s a novelty value with new things that soon wears off. Then the child can go backwards for a while when they realise the set-up is an ongoing thing and that they have to go, even when they don’t feel like it.

So what did I do? Initially I said I’d stay for a little while in the vain hope that I could leave a happy child and then I wouldn’t feel guilty. But I don’t think that helped at all. In fact I think it made it worse. When I then did have to go (the train was coming!!) he was really upset as though he’d been deceived into thinking I was going to hang around.

He settled down of course but it took him a while, they told me. And of course he was fine when I saw him that evening but it was still a crappy way to start the day and I’m sure that bad taste was in his mouth a lot longer than mine.

I only hope that when it’s my turn to drop him off again in a few days, we don’t have a repeat performance. I will be sure to wax lyrcial about all his friends there and all the great activities he can do and I might even throw in a new Spiderman action figure (or his favourite “Kindy” (Kinder) chocolate) as a bribe for a happy drop off.

Pathetic, I know. But then it’s my separation anxiety as much as his!!

You see the thing I have discovered is that Marvel’s Spiderman comics are actually very funny. Peter Parker, Spiderman’s secret identity, is actually a pretty amusing guy. He likes to take the piss out of himself. And I like a man who can do that.

Spiderman comics started in 1963 I think and it must have been ahead of its time or perhaps it’s just more reflective of its time than I ever expected a comic to be. Tonight I was reading one of the comics to my son in bed and we discovered that Harry, Peter’s best friend, was on LSD! Thankfully three-year-olds are satisfied with the explanation that LSD means lovely soft donuts!!

My son’s favourite pastime is role-playing with all his action figures and Mum and Dad have to play their part. No matter that you’ve had a long day at the office and you’re trying to eat your dinner before collapsing in a heap. Oh no, you have to pick up that Green Goblin and do his evil laugh.

My son is so into the genre that we have action figures as portrayed in the more recent Spiderman movies, as well as the original comic ones. There’s the aforementioned GG but he’s not alone in the goblin stakes. There’s also the Hob Goblin and Demo Goblin. Other villains we have restrained in our huge plastic storage toy box include Dr Octopus, the Sandman, Mysterio, Rhino and Lizard, with the Incredible Hulk, Superman, Batman, Wolverine (X-men) and both Angel and Black Panther - from the Avengers - thrown in for good measure. That’s not to mention just about every Spiderman ever produced: big, small, in between, with aqua attachment, made of stretchable material etc etc and etc.
You can’t imagine how excited we were to see the release of a whole new line of Spiderman merchandise, called Spiderman Origins, in Target at Christmas (well, maybe you can…).

Of course there is no limit to how many ways a young boy can wear Spiderman. We have a Spiderman jacket, boxer shorts, undies, T-shirt, shorts and pyjamas, not to mention the watch and the specially made painting the boy’s Aunty had done for him in New York.
Yesterday’s Sydney Morning Herald had an interesting story about children who dress up as super heroes have a higher risk of injury. I quote from the Herald report:

The report, published in the journal Archives of Disease in Childhood, said children playing dress-ups tended to overestimate their abilities and were more susceptible to fractures and cuts from falls.

It said adventurous play and risk-taking were an essential part of growing up, but called on parents to keep a closer eye on their children’s dress-up activities.

The British researchers studied injuries in five boys aged three to eight, who were wearing Superman or Spiderman costumes when they were hurt.

One boy broke two bones in his foot and sustained deep bruising on the right side of his body after he fell out of a window while pretending to be Spiderman. Other cases included three boys who had fractured bones “after initiating flight without having planned for landing strategies”, the report said.

The lead author, Lisa Munro-Davies from the emergency department of the Bristol Royal Hospital for Children, said children had always taken risks, but superhero role models gave them unrealistic expectations.

“The children that we saw have all had to contemplate on their way to hospital that they do not in fact possess superpowers,” she said.

Neither the Children’s Hospital at Westmead nor the Sydney Children’s Hospital at Randwick had data on children taken to hospital after a superhero-related injury, but estimated the number would be small.

The head of psychology at the Sydney Children’s Hospital, James Donnelly, said role-play and dress-ups were a natural part of boys’ and girls’ development and often a way of coping with anxiety.

“If they are a superhero they don’t have to worry about things they don’t understand - and it’s also really fun.”

However, anecdotal reports to the Herald show that some Sydney child-care centres have moved to ban or limit superhero play to outdoors.

Fiona Pendergast hosts themed parties for children aged three to 12 and has overseen more than 100 superhero parties. “When they are in full character they really do become the superhero with arms and legs going everywhere,” she said.

While no one had been injured, her centre had laid cushioning beneath carpets to soften the impact of falls, and the male adult superhero hosts were told to wear padding as some of the boys could become rough, she said.

Most experts the Herald spoke to agreed parents should encourage their children to play dress-ups, but also to explain the dangers of superhero behaviour.

Guess we’d better install rubber floors!!!

PS. My son knows a little of the Spiderman theme song (from the 1967 TV series, would you believe). So I have taken the liberty of posting the words in full here. Must teach him the rest. Enjoy!!

Spiderman, Spiderman,
Does whatever a spider can,
Spins a web, any size,
Catches thieves just like flies.
Look out! Here comes the Spiderman.

Is he strong? Listen bud -
He’s got radioactive blood.
Can he swing from a thread?
Take a look overhead.
Hey there! There goes the Spiderman.

In the chill of the night,
At the scene of the crime,
Like a streak of light,
He arrives just in time!

Spiderman, Spiderman,
Friendly neighborhood Spiderman.
Wealth and fame, he’s ignored -
Action is his reward.

To him,
Life is a great big bang-up -
Wherever there’s a hang-up,
You’ll find the Spiderman!

Don’t get me wrong - I’ve hardly been grounded since having a child. In his 3.5 years he’s been overseas twice and to most states of Australia. But I have to admit that the family holiday to Fiji, while no less enjoyable, was rather different to that weekend in Amsterdam with Janice in 1989.

Travel is a wonderful, mind-opening thing but I have found I’m much more cautious these days. Who wants to be stuck in a dive in India with a sick kid or even in a five-star hotel in Indonesia, for that matter.

I travelled to and from Canada on my own with a well and happy six-month-old and that was challenging enough. (Where exactly does one put the baby, when one needs to use those minute aeroplane toilets?)
I find the come-what-may attitude that makes travel so exciting doesn’t work quite the same way with little ones in tow. (The amount of stuff I had in my baby carry-on just about broke my arm off.)
My niece Alison and her friend Hayley were on their way to Byron Bay for a week of sun, sea and sand. Both up-and-coming accountants are smart enough to know they probably won’t actually learn to surf but that the fun will be in trying to. It’s not the destination, it’s the journey…and all those other tired but true cliches.
Although I’m cautious about travelling with little kids, you can’t do better than to instill that wanderlust in your kids. I’m not really sure how my parents did that for me, but it was certainly there from a young age.

These days Asia is the flavour but back in the ’80s, London - as a place to work and as the jumping off point for the rest of Europe - was the place to be. For years after I returned home I’d watch The Bill for a dose of that London magic, and I still miss it.

This week, however, I’ll spent approximately 10 hours just travelling to and fro work, and that’s enough for me. Sigh.

By pure chance (or as it turns out, good luck) I’ve had a few weeks in between finishing up working part-time and starting working full-time, where some of my days off have coincided with my son’s daycare days.

Now once upon a time I would have kept my child at home with me, but these days I justify sending him, mumbling something about the high cost of care, which we’d have to fork out anyway, and that he enjoys seeing “all of his friends”.

But am I really wanting kid-free time? I think I have to admit, yes.

I really have come a long way from being a mother who couldn’t be without my baby at all.

A few days after I gave birth I was having a blood transfusion (don’t ask, or see my post under ‘birth stories’ for gruesome account) and my baby was on the other side of the room crying his lungs out. I couldn’t reach him, on account of being tied up to the transfusion. I kept buzzing the midwives and they kept ignoring me. And I was getting really upset.

So eventually I stretched so far that the IV nearly popped out of my arm and I somehow managed to grab his little crib with the other arm. I swept him up in a smother of cuddles and he was perfectly calm again. By the time the midwives arrived my baby was fine. But I, of course, was a mess.

Well that incident kind of became a bit of a metaphor for my parenting, for at least the first two years. The IV took different forms - work and other commitments - but the result was always the same - being away from my baby too long was very upsetting.

Now, 3.5 years later, I guess the IV has largely been removed from my vein and those four units of B positive blood (Be positive….I am! Get it?) have finally done their job. But I still feel a little jab every now and then, such as when my increasingly articulate child said to me the other day: “I’ve got a brilliant idea! How about I won’t go to preschool and you don’t go to work?!” And there was this one (where do they get these things from?): “Mummy, I want you to spend time with me!”

Yet, I find as my child grows, the gulf between kid and non-kid days, gets larger.

Let’s compare yesterday (kid) and today (non-kid) for example.

Yesterday: Got up; gave son milk; coaxed son into eating breakfast; washed soiled sheets; watched Ghostbusters; played with pipe cleaners; went to shops: bought Ghostbusters soundtrack, more pipe cleaners, foam balls and eyes to use for heads for pipe-cleaner men; bought milkshake that landed on floor; bought pretzel; looked in toy shop, picked up some discounted kids’ clothes for next season; came home; more pipe cleaners; went for walk - ended up piggybacking; cleaned up ‘accident’; mopped up bathroom after water incident; coaxed son into eating dinner; read four stories; he slept; great - time to myself - too tired; slept.

Today (the plan): Dad pops child off to preschool; have leisurely coffee while blogging; have bubble bath; pop down to hair salon and get cut, colour and blow dry (takes several hours - well it would want to at that price); have a spot of lunch with friends; pop back home; see another friend this afternoon; read novel; pick up son from preschool around five; for the rest of the day re-run yesterday from ‘more pipe cleaners….’ except the part where I am too tired to have time for myself. I’ll be so rejuvenated after my day off will probably go out for a jog (LOL).
So this, that is so remarkable to me, is actually the way some women live! Imagine that! Those ‘ladies who lunch’. But it would hardly be a delicious pleasure, or another Universe, if it were to happen everyday now, would it?

I’d better go now, I’ve got to get on with doing nothing.

There was no party this year. But I have already warned friends and family: next year there is to be a party like no other, so be prepared. And guess what? No kids allowed!!

I am planning on booking out a swanky resort in the Hunter Valley, NSW. All my friends will arrive from near and far. Hell they’ll cross the world - there’ll be Martha, from Chicago; Sue, from Lancashire; Jac and Di, from Melbourne; and Lesley, from Hornsby Heights (hey, it’s about as hard when you’ve got too little’uns).

It’s going to be huge - but that’s next year. What of this year?

The actual day was spent registering the car, browsing around the shops from 9am Monday morning (add sound of elevator music and pins dropping) and a kind of awkward wait for my son to finish at daycare and my husband to finish work (in the computer room upstairs).

Cards received: Aunty Marea; Dad and Janina; Mum and brother; sister and boyfriend (hers not mine); husband and child; and lovely Sue from Lancashire.

Happy Birthday emails: Cara

Happy Birthday texts: Mark

Presents: Lesley, Sean, Tom, Mary and Bella; Mother and brother; sister and boyfriend (hers not mine); husband and child, Dad and Janina.

Catalogue of gifts: David Jones voucher (hence Monday morning shopping trip to buy book - The Devil Wears Prada - black pants and Marvel Comics sticker book…not for me!); lovely green top; lovely brown top; lovely brown shirt (just as well bought black pants); book: the God Delusion (Mum mortified, when realised what about); Thumb Thing (can now read book with one hand); massage pillow; actual massage (voucher); black thongs; bronze thongs (love thongs despite horrid feet); Jindabyne DVD (seen it - good! but why didn’t they just call the police?) and two pink pashmenas (apparently am taking one back, but one can never have too many pashmenas, can one???)

Yeah I am pretty spoiled. And all this only six weeks after Ex-marse.

But you know, when you’re as old as me, with all the wrinkles and the loose bits, you gotta have something to celebrate.

Bring on 40!

Before getting pregnant, swimming was a big part of my life. When I turned 30 I decided I had to get active so I took up the sport of my schooldays. I had been good at it once, I thought, so at least I wouldn’t drown!

But never to do anything by halves, I soon became obsessed with swimming. Within two years I was competing with Masters at a national level and within three years, internationally. I swam at least three times during the week and every other weekend involved a carnival or an ocean swim. At one stage I was swimming from 5am in the middle of winter at an outdoor pool. (Sick!)

After being out of the pool I found it hard to get back in because I knew I was so much slower. For a competitive person like me, that provides a convenient cop-out: if you can’t be the best, why bother?

The baby I mentioned earlier is now aged three years and four months. And that’s about how long it’s taken me to don the goggles again. I have now accepted that going swimming at all is better than not going at all. I do not have to be a world beater. I do not have to overtake the guy in front of me (unless he thinks he’s faster than me, then I’ll show him..)

I am enjoying the refreshment of swimming on warm summer days and also that virtuous feeling a few kilometres of exercise gives you. (If you eat a Tim Tam, for example, you can tell yourself you deserve it.)

But old habits do die hard. A flyer came through the post the other day for an ocean swim and I haven’t thrown it away. When people ask me how far I’ve just swum I invariably exaggerate . And I like to swim in the ‘Fast Lane. No Breastroke!’ at least occasionally. Under ‘interests’ on surveys and things I like to write ’swimming’. It makes me sound svelter.

And there’s another thing. I have plans for my son to be the next Ian Thorpe, so I have to show him a good example.

Swimming is great exercise for Mums as putting one’s head in water inevitably gives you some ‘me’ time. It’s hard to chastise a toddler, while doing 50m butterfly, for example. Not quite the same with, say tennis, with the kids running all over the court.

So look out for me at North Sydney Pool, following the black line up and down, in the shadow of the Harbour Bridge. I’ll be the serious one with the Masters logo on my cap. Just don’t try and overtake me …

I’ve been thinking about some New Year’s resolutions because that’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? See the new year as turning over a new leaf. A new opportunity for growth and development.

Well here are my resolutions, so far:

• Drink less alcohol: whoops, managed to stuff that one up at the New Year’s party, even before the clock struck 12. Blame those free Singapore Slings.
• Exercise more: eating in itself, uses calories doesn’t it? I have been swimming once, and I have walked a lot .. between wherever I was sitting and the fridge!
• Be a better wife: I think I have made husband two meals this year, which is about equivalent for whole of 2006 - so going well on this one!
• Get career back on track: will be working fulltime from mid-Feb. Plans to conquer publishing world follow soon after.
• Undertake more education-related activities with son: Hell Spiderman came from a literary background, didn’t he? (ie. comic). If so, acing this one. Have spent a lot of time acting various sequences from Spiderman versus whatever villain from Rogues Gallery, as featured on Spiderman DVD ’special features’ option ie. crap they put on there so they can charge a lot more for DVDs than they ever did videos!
• Eat less carbohydrates: ah yes, the carb…the first refuge for the unimaginative vegetarian, as I am. No more resorting to a sambo or instant pasta when I’ve got the munchies after 9pm. Going reasonably well on this one despite recent ‘potato attack’ in the wee hours.
• Drink more Diet Coke: now, I tell ya, I swore off carbonated drinks for years - something to do with ‘death by Nutrasweet’ or windy babies. But now, when it’s flavoured with vanilla and/or lime (not easy to get, mind you) it artificially fills the tummy for the whole afternoon. In the past I have sympathised with anti-globalisation pushes but now, for my own self-serving, weight-control reasons, have decided that’s piffle. Doing well on this one - am consuming an 800ml bottle about four times a week!
• Set attainable goals that actually benefit the greater good: only Jan 4. Failed already!

Happy New Year!

Apart from only two Christmases when I’ve been away - both times in London - I’ve spent every Christmas in the family home where I grew up. We all turn up on Christmas Eve, watch the televised Christmas carols from the Myer Music Bowl in Melbourne, and drink lots of wine.

In the past few years we’ve added a trip to local Christmas lights spectacular (a street of people in the neighbouring suburb who clearly derive their self-worth from flashing as many lights in as many different shapes in as many different places as possible - but lovely to look at for us voyeurs, nonetheless).

On Christmas morning we exchange enough presents to fill the recycling bin with paper, and then some. Then we have a huge fry up and coffee, scatter for a several hours of stomach recovery, and reassemble in the latter part of the day for a meal of turkey, ham and all the extras (being a vegetarian, Mum also makes me my own special dish). There is wine, champagne, desserts and the obligatory bon-bons.

Christmas night is decidely lacking in energy. This year we all lounged about watching Superman Returns, one by one popping off to bed during the drawn-out show as our stamina deserted us.

In the past three years my son has been added to the mix but it’s really only been this year that he’s ‘got’ the whole present thing. He’s still playing with his Fantastic Four and Spiderman action figures that Santa bought, most of every day.

But the thing is - I can’t expect my Mum to do all thing forever, can I? The cleaning, the cooking, the buying - everything that makes our Christmas what it is.

But on the other hand, the thought if even attempting such an extravaganza sends me into a cold sweat. I mean I don’t even really know how to use my oven! Perhaps the whole tradition will leap frog me and pass straight over to my younger sister. There’s nothing wrong with my son forever associating Christmas with his Nanna or Aunty’s house, is there?

It seems that my mother’s wonderful Christmas rituals are going to have as much chance of being passed onto me as her talents of piano playing, sewing, and gardening.

But so long as I keep the toys coming (or so long as Santa does!), I’m sure my son won’t mind. I just asked him what his favourite part of Christmas was. He replied: “When Santa brought me the Green Goblin!”

I thought parents of other similar aged children might enjoy it.

MY PHILOSOPHY ON LIFE BY JAY, 3

• I think you should be able to have whatever you want. If you want milk or chocolate when it’s dinner time that’s okay.
• You should be able to go swimming, even when it’s winter.
• Why can’t you get a toy everytime you go the toy shop?
• Why can’t Mum and Dad just do what I say? Then everyone would be happy.
• I don’t think you should have to go to the toilet if you don’t want to.
• If you want to stay up and watch TV then why can’t you?
• Why do you have to take the videos back to the video shop when you still like them and want to play them?
• When you are tired, you should be able to stay in the car when your Mum or Dad goes into the shops.
• The Wiggles are boring.
• Spiderman and the Rogues Gallery are cool!
• My big brothers are cool!
• Sometimes Mum and Dad are cool!
• Nanna is cool! She always gives me a present.
• Poppy is cool! He has a big boat!
• I think saying “What the hell is going on?” is cool not rude!

It’s a chance to see a family member not just in the role of how they relate to you, as a sibling, but in how they relate to your child. My sister is a most devoted aunty and although my son is still too young to really appreciate her, I have no doubt that she will always be such a giving and fun presence throughout his life.

The day my sister was born was quite possibly the best of my life. I mean I’ve had quite a few highlights since then but back then, at the age of 8, it was about as good as it gets.

Most eight-year-old girls are pretty maternal and my Mum tells me I loved my dolls. So the delivery of a girl baby was an absolute gift.

I already had a brother 21 months younger than me who I absolutely adored and was protective of. But of course he was a boy and although I knew no different, we would have interacted differently to other siblings because of his disability.

I remember the day of my sister’s birth quite clearly. I was in third grade and my teacher was Mrs Paynter. I caught the bus home that day, looking out the window, thinking “I have sister!!!!!!”

She was named Natalie and it wasn’t a coincidence that my best friend at the time had the same name. I was allowed to choose her second name (or at least my parents let me believe that in so far as I chose something appropriate) and I chose Shane, after Shane Gould. As a swimmer myself, she was my sporting idol.

So I guess I thought I was going to have a little live doll of my own to play with, but of course Natalie had other ideas.

One strong memory from my childhood is pursuing her around the house trying to do her hair, while she would have none of it.

In her early years she was extremely shy, hanging off my mother, and not speaking to anyone much.

But she redressed this doing her high-school years when she became somewhat of a vagabond running around with questionable youths, merely tolerating her school lessons and worrying my mother.

In her twenties she became vivacious but could be excessive – she always had the best car and a cool flat.

She turned 30 this year and along with the natural maturity and stability of age I think having a nephew has contributed to her growth.

She is not only devoted to my child but is very caring to me and my husband too – the addition of a new family member has regenerated the idea of family.

I am an Aunty too but it is different for me as my four nieces live in Canada. Also, they are older and they are the children of my husband’s siblings, rather than mine.

My son has two Auntys that also live in Canada – both wonderful, strong, intelligent, caring women but of course they are a long way away.

When my sister has children I aspire to be the same kind of Aunty that she is – loving, giving but most of all, fun.

I just hope that doesn’t happen to quickly. I don’t know if we’re ready to share her with other kids just yet.

For the first three years of my son’s life that terrible red, white and yellow clown did not exist for my child. Okay I admit I often sheepishly drove in under those Golden Arches, mainly when my son was asleep in the back of the car, to pick up milk and bread so I didn’t have to get out of the car and wake him up (okay so there was occasional coffee and plastic cheese and alleged tomato sandwiches too). But the actual word McDonald’s never entered my son’s vocabulary. And I was proud of this.

Even in recent times when we’d dropped in for the occasional Happy Meal (well apparently there is actually some chicken in those chicken nuggets now okay - not that i’m defensive!!!???) I had said: “Let’s go to that place with the playground.” But now my husband has polluted my son’s little mind and has cottoned onto the fact that the Happy Meal toys are a cheap day’s bribery (and you can buy them for $2 without the food, which is good for my son because he’s such a poor eater!) I suppose this whole diatribe becomes possibly laughable when I admit I have bought whole ranges of McDonald’s toys on e-bay for more than they ever cost in the store (hey - it was the Lion King - they were collector’s items…)

So what have I actually got against McDonald’s? Everything that makes them successful. I’m no Morgan Spurlock but I hate the way parents with young children happily pop along to this “family restaurant” thereby embedding some crazy diabetic, sodium-laden gene that explodes in children when they’re 13, making them obese and forever fast food addicts. Or something like that. When I was little, there was no McDonald’s. We had good wholesome fried takeaway from the local milkbar. We didn’t get any toys with it and nobody ever asked if we wanted to “supersize” (actually that is a crap American word, which I have never heard used in Australia, but you get my drift).

I hate the fact that in my area McDonald’s is about the nicest and cheapest and most kid-friendly place for me to go have a coffee. Hell it’s about the only place for me to go have a coffee. I read that during the screening of Spurlock’s Super Size Me movie the other night on free-to-air TV, McDonald’s deliberately advertised, showing their aggressive new marketing face. No longer do they slink away, wallowing in self-pity and vats of French Fries oil, later used to top up the thick shakes. No - they are out and proud. We have learnt our lesson. We now have lettuce on the premises!

For me, I’ll continue to wage my little campaign of resistance, only slinking in under those dreadful neon signs that you can see for miles, occasionally. But whether or not my son really believes that benign clown who sits in the playground, just so children can happily climb all over him, is really evil, remains to be seen. I think I’ll just take my boy to Starbucks where we can pay $5 for a milkshake!!!!!!!

I mean why don’t they just call it the ‘Ugly Girl Prettifier: kid yourself that someone doesn’t think you’re gross’. I discovered the Digi Makeover in the Target catalogue that landed in my letterbox today.

But make no mistake - this is no little sad secret simply harboured by that department store. A search on the internet reveals it’s available just about everywhere. Change your hairstyle, makeup, face…for only $99! What a boon to the self-esteem of every 14-year-old. I hope they have a blur function to air brush out all the acne. And a teeth whitener to remove the braces! Perhaps they could include a companion program that allows you to directly load up your ‘new’ picture onto dating sites so that 45-year-old fat, balding men can break the law by asking you out!

I mean, come on. I’ve heard of Yummy Mummies but what’s this? The cult of the Yummy Teenager. Perhaps I should start a new website www.yuckyteenager.com (I just did a search - it’s available for anyone who wants it). At least, as the mother of a three-year-old boy, I am safe in the realm of violent superheroes.

The presents waiting in my cupboard have nothing to do with appearances at all. They are all about being a macho male. A couple of Spiderman ‘battle packs’ (the Green Goblin and Doctor Octopus, no less), the Thing from the Fantastic Four (with his credo: “It’s clobberin’ time”) and some phallic water pistols. Ah, boys and their toys. Much easier. Oh and if anyone wants to know what I want for Christmas forget the Digi Makeover. I need a real one!

You can serve up the freshest vegetables, beautifully cooked, designed on his plate complete with a scene from an African safari, in which the broccoli is the trees. But if he thinks broccoli is disgusting you’re unfortunately wasting your time. The emphasis is on the word thinks because he may not even try it.

I don’t know where little kids get the ideas that wholesome vegetables such as brussel sprouts, broccoli and beans are revolting when they’ve never even passed their lips. Perhaps there is some underground society of 7 and 8 year olds that hangs around outside daycare centres and playgroups handing out leaflets saying ‘foods to avoid: anything beginning with ‘b’ that is also green. Guaranteed to drive your parents spare’.

There is this lovely Yummy Mummy idea that you should offer your child a food up to 10 times and he will eventually eat it. I don’t find that idea terribly practical or convenient. It generally means you will end up with a bin full of broccoli or you’ll spoil your own dinner by eating it yourself. And the chances of him magically deciding that broccoli is yummy on that tenth serving are remote.

There is another lovely Yummy Mummy idea that by the age of 2, all children should be eating exactly what their parents eat. Ha! That’s a laugh. Unless of course you’re eating fish fingers and baked beans yourself. When it comes to mealtimes most toddlers have the concentration of a gnat, coupled with ants in their pants. I end up following my child around the room begging him to eat whatever I can. Of course this is ridiculous because it reinforces the behaviour and plus it leaves little food stains all over the carpet mat. But in the short term it’s that or a kid with low blood sugar and the whinge switch turned permanently on.

The food advice doled out to parents for their toddlers is mostly unachievable. From my point of view, some of it verges on the laughable. Toddlers should have three servings of fruit a day and five servings of vegetables. What the…….? Okay let’s start with the fruit. Does juice count? That’s one. How about three sultanas slipped in during the car ride to childcare. That’s two. What about a strawberry Petit Miam that is probably just flavoured with a bit of strawberry essence. Three. That’s the fruit. Now for the vegetables. Highly unlikely at breakfast unless you make him fresh carrot juice with a bit of celery and a touch of ginger (yeah right).

So that leaves morning tea…any ideas? An apple or pear if you’re lucky but that’s fruit not vegetables. Lunch…..he wants two-minute noodles. Aren’t they made from wheat? Wheat is a plant isn’t it? At childcare he prefers jam sandwiches. Wacko! Jam is made out of fruit (we’ll just gloss over the vat of added sugar). Afternoon tea. How about some freshly peeled carrots and tomato slices. Nice idea except he will not actually swallow the carrots – he happily chews them up then spits them out and he won’t touch tomato unless it’s a sauce. Biscuits it is. Aren’t they made from plants too? Now it’s dinner. Much easier to serve vegetables at dinner. But five serves? Try that yourself!

I read somewhere that you can’t count potatoes in your list of vegetables because they don’t have enough vitamins and minerals. Well blow me. Tell that to the Irish. I’m counting the potatoes – even if they’re fried. Even if they Pommes Noisettes, made up of previously fried and now frozen and ready to be reheated, with a use-by date of five years hence! Got a few peas in on the fork behind the fish fingers until he noticed. Also a few bits of corn. We have done well!

We’ve all heard the horror stories about chicken nuggets so I don’t give them to my boy. But I was happily giving him fish fingers regularly. A friend of a friend who works in the catering industry told me there wasn’t much fish in fish fingers either and that they use this horrid-sounding stuff called ‘seafood extender’ to make the filling. I could have knocked her block off. There I was thinking my child was getting his dose of Omega 3 etc etc and he was probably getting some kind of mutated protein that glows in the dark.

I’ve tried plain chicken and plain fish and even plain steak and chops. But unfortunately the only plains my kid is into are the ones that fly. It’s not such a surprise that toddlers prefer processed food is it? It’s easier to digest and they don’t have that many teeth. I guess if you never give it to them then they wouldn’t prefer it but then those women probably don’t let their children climb on the lounge in their shoes or use textas…..as if!!!!

Have you seen that ad where the young boys have got their magnifying glass out on the bread, searching for signs of any ‘nasty’ grains within? That sure hits the mark. We all know it’s better to have wholemeal bread than white but the problem is, kids generally hate it.

The ‘they’ll eat it if they’re hungry enough’ mantra simply isn’t true. Well it’s true that if you locked your toddler in a room with only Bornhoffen soy and linseed loaf for three days. But in the real world, fancy breads tend to come back in the lunchbox, half-eaten at best. A straight multigrain doesn’t stretch the friendship too much but don’t slash your wrists if your child wants a white-bread vegemite sandwich.

It’s the very plainness of this type of meal that kids like. They’ve got zillions more tastebuds than adults so it doesn’t seem so plain to them. Also those grains can be much harder to digest in little mouths, which is kind of the point I know but you can’t expect a toddler to be up on colon care. Children’s tastes do change just as our tastes have changed as we’ve progressed from children to adults. What your child likes to eat as a 12-month-old may not apply at 2 or 3.

My boy happily ate peas just about everyday from 12 months to 30 months then he started to dislike them. I persisted to a point but I couldn’t wind the clock back. I was disappointed that his favourite summer snack – frozen peas – would now be a thing of the past. Everyday is a clean slate and we all start out with the best intentions.

I often leave home with various healthy snacks organised into colourful air-tight containers giving the illusion that my child is on a health-food diet only to return home from the mall with the lot of them after my child has consumed a milkshake and an icecream. (Never mind the sugar, think of all that calcium! Plus an icecream can keep your child occupied in a shopping trolley for several aisles.)

I breastfed my boy until he was nearly 2. It wasn’t something I planned – it just happened that way. Doctors and baby health nurses continually told me that he wouldn’t be getting much from me as I was only feeding him at night and first thing in the morning. The breastmilk apparently wasn’t contributing much so I shouldn’t really count it in his diet. It wasn’t until he was in hospital with gastroenteritis that I realised what bollocks that was.

 I hadn’t fed him for a day or so as he’d been so ill but I relented one night in an attempt to settle him. I think the cleaner who was summoned to soap the carpet after he hurled up the whole feed would agree with me when I say there was a quite a lot of fluid that was being consumed! When I gave up breastfeeding I rapidly put on several kilos which would also tend to suggest that I was sharing a significant amount of fluid, fat and nutrition with my little one (I guess zealously taking up wine-drinking at the same time after a two-year lay-off could also have contributed to the weight gain!!)

I would recommend to anyone that you breastfeed for as long as you like – don’t listen to what anyone else says. Of course not even Yucky Mummies want to breastfeed indefinitely but these things have a way of running their own course and mothers shouldn’t feel pressured to give up breastfeeding because it doesn’t ‘look right’. Although children don’t ‘need’ to breastfeed beyond six months for nutrition there are many other benefits for mother and baby including convenience and bonding. What is right for someone else may not be right for you.

Once you give up breastfeeding you will never breastfeed that child again so make sure the time is right. Apparently babies are only supposed to feed during the night for the first couple of months of life and many people are horrified by stories of babies who continue to wake up several times a night and feed when they are 12 months old and beyond. I don’t know a better way to get a baby or toddler to sleep during the night than to breastfeed, meaning the disruption to the mother is minimal. If this works for you and you’re not unhappy with it then bollocks to anyone else.

The fact is that ‘controlled crying’ is anything but – if we could control it then we would stop it, wouldn’t we? The continual sound of babies or little kids crying is enough to drive anyone mad. Controlled crying – wrapped up neatly in a box and tied with a bow – goes like this. On the first night you put your child to bed and it will probably cry for an extended period of time because it has been fed and rocked to sleep every night of its life previously. You check the child occasionally – maybe even picking it up if the child is very young (under six months) – otherwise just say some soothing words and give it a pat or two. You gradually decrease the frequency of checking and contact.

While all of this is going on you shouldn’t actually look the child in the eye! Of course while your child is crying its lungs out you will be completely relaxed and unperturbed in the next room, probably swigging back a sauvignon blanc or two (if you’re not breastfeeding that is!) Eventually – it may take two hours on the first night – your child will drift off into a peaceful slumber, not waking until 12-or-so hours later.

On subsequent nights the time taken from Step A (putting the child down) to Step Z (the child falling asleep) will gradually decrease until in about a week or so the child will pop straight off to sleep the minute you put it into bed. YEAH RIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My boy is nearly three and I only just got him out of my bed and into his. I suppose many would think that’s pathetic but I don’t regret. Okay…I could do without the backache but apart from that….< Sleep is such a vexed issue. It’s all anyone talks about when they have a newborn. “How is your baby?” “Great, she’s been sleeping through since six weeks”. (Arghhh…don’t you want to kill those women? I think many of them lie just to add to the myth of domestic bliss.) I could never hear my boy cry – I still can’t really – so the (un)controlled crying thing never worked for me. I pretty much fed or rocked him to sleep or he just dropped exhausted (okay that sounds awful but then I am a yucky Mummy!!)

Breastfeeding to sleep is a lovely thing but it does tend to prolong night waking. My boy never woke for long, however, so I found I could adjust to the broken sleep quite easily and fall straight back to sleep myself. While we gave up breastfeeding at two I’m afraid the plastic substitute – the dummy – is yet to be pried from my child’s mouth (gasps of horror!)

I have set a deadline of the third birthday but with that approaching in a few weeks – well let’s just say there’s a lot of dummies that have to find their way to the bin. Either you’re a dummy person or you’re not (and yes, you could say, dummy people are dummies) but like anything, it’s what works at the time.

 I’ve been advised to go cold turkey (that pretty much worked for the breast) but then it’s not like my boy could find an old nipple under the lounge and start sucking on it (that sounds terrible but I hope you get the point). Back to the sleep issue.

Getting into a routine of a morning and afternoon sleep as soon as possible is the way to go. However if you’re like I was and still want to go out you may find this often doesn’t work. At 18 months to two years most kids drop the morning sleep and then it’s just a matter of time before they drop the afternoon sleep.

My boy still sometimes sleeps during the day when he’s at daycare and at home if he’s had a bad night or been sick. But I really prefer pushing through until evening, all being well. It’s a wonderful thing to have your child fall asleep in your arms as you read them their third book of the night. You can imagine them drifting off into a dream world of fantasy where everything is as bright as a Disney story. Good night!

That day came and went. It was clear he was very comfortable where he was and had no intention of vacating of his own volition. However, his heartbeat was normal, as regular ultrasounds showed, so we simply waited.

After a week or so my gynaecologist booked me in for an induction on the Saturday (August 16). I had hoped that I would go into labour naturally before then but that didn’t happen. So full of expectation my husband and I headed off to the hospital on the Saturday afternoon – only to be sent back home that night due to an influx of ‘urgent cases’! We had to phone everyone, not with our big news, but with the fact that we were back home again.

They hoped to be able to admit me the following day but they weren’t sure. To say that we were in limbo was an understatement. With nothing else to do but wait by the phone for a call to go in, my husband decided to wash the windows! Eventually we got a call at about 3pm the following day (Sunday) to say we could come back to the hospital. Hooray! Finally there was room at the inn.

First they applied gel to my cervix, which is the gentlest way to edge labour along. But my son wasn’t going to fall for that old trick. It did little. A second application of gel didn’t do much either than make me feel a bit bloated.

The following morning (Monday), after a very uncomfortable night for my husband on the lounge of the birthing suite, the midwives inserted a drip in my arm, containing labour-inducing hormones. This finally had some effect and I was a whole 1cm dilated!!!! At some stage – perhaps before the drip, or perhaps after, I can’t recall – my gyno popped in and broke my waters with a very sinister looking hook (I still have it for use in case of home invasion etc).

I had been told that having my waters broken manually was very painful but I didn’t feel anything. Mind you it was more difficult to do that I thought. Everything (amniotic sac and baby included) seemed to be around towards my back rather than my pelvis at the front so the doctor seemed to have to use some interesting arm manoeuvre to reach it (enough said…).

With the drip it was just a matter of time before I went into full-blown labour. The funny (not funny ha ha) thing about labour – and I have discussed this with many first-time Mums since – is that you don’t really know you’re in it. There’s this strange pain, that can seem quite minor at first, somewhat akin to period pain. It can often take a midwife to tell you you’re actually in labour. The pain began to get worse and I had this idea that you should try to get through without drugs. Why is that? It’s not like I refuse the needle at the dentists or reject Panadol if I have a headache. I knew I definitely didn’t want Pethidine but I was more open to an epidural.

The fact that you are basically bed-ridden after you have the epidural was putting me off. I suppose I thought that leaping around the room might help! So I soldiered on for a few more hours using my own form of hydrotherapy as relief. Every time I got a contraction I used a water jet in the bath on my stomach as a kind of distraction from the pain. Eventually I came to the question: why am I enduring this in pain, when I don’t have to? So the midwife was dispatched to get the anaesthetist to administer the epidural through my spine (eeeww…)

The rest of that day was passed in relative comfort. There are photos of me propped up in bed, laughing at the jokes made by my husband and my Mum, who by this time had turned up to lend her support. Finally (there are a lot of finallys and eventuallys in this tale) in the early evening the midwives declared I was fully dilated and ready to push. How long will it take, I asked. No more than an hour, they promised (fibbers!!) At this point they reduced the amount of drugs going in via the epidural so that some feeling would return to my lower body and I would be able to feel the contractions, which would help me know when to push.

If ever a midwife tells you this is what he/she is going to do, say no!!!!!!!!!! Several other mothers with epidurals have told me that at this point they could barely feel contractions and had only a little pain (though a lot of exhaustion) in pushing the baby out. What followed for me was a very different story.

As soon as they ‘fiddled’ with the epidural I began to experience the most horrendous pain and every push (they made me do three in between every contraction) was like trying to pick up the back end of a car. I had horrible nausea as well, constantly feeling like I was about to throw up but never actually doing it (it probably would have been better if I had).

I think I started pushing at about 8.40pm and I was totally fixated on the clock that was directly in front of me on the wall. 9.40pm came and went. By this stage my husband was flagging too and I have more vivid memories of my mother who was sponging my face (I had already ripped off all my clothes due to feeling like I was in the middle of the Sahara – try doing that when you’ve got a drip in your spine and one in your arm – the image is funny in retrospect – everything gets tangled around everything) and holding a bowl for me in case of puking.

My son finally entered the world at approximately 10.30pm, assisted by forceps and an episiotomy. (When I asked the doctor later how many stitches later he said he didn’t really count them!) They plopped him on my chest and the first thing I remember thinking was “he looks like a rugby player”, whatever that means.

He was bright red and blotchy and he looked like he’d had a really hard day but he also looked healthy and feisty. Almost immediately they put him onto the breast, there beginning weeks of another kind of pain but that is another story. I thought all the difficult stuff was over but unfortunately it was just beginning.

We found out that my placenta had ‘abnormally adhered’ to my uterus, which meant that instead of coming out in a nice big liver-like piece it had to be physically removed piecemeal (sorry to gross you out) resulting in the loss of horrendous amounts of blood. (My husband still likes to tell people that the plush, apricot-coloured birth suite looked like Slaughterhouse-Five).

After what I had been through I desperately wanted anyone and anything away from that whole area of my anatomy (for about a year) but the prodding continued for some time. It was a surreal experience. In the background I remember hearing them weigh my son on the scales outside. He was 4.44 kg or 9 pounds, 14 ounces in the old scale. “Thank God for that,” I thought. “If he had been a small one I might have had to kill myself.”

After some time the doctor gave up on his placenta fishing expedition and said I would have to be monitored in case placenta remained (it took day-surgery six weeks later to get rid of the last little sucker. As an aside, they believe this problem was due to an earlier miscarriage followed by a curette followed by pregnancy possibly too soon after).

The midwives came in to clean me up – poor women. It must be akin to being ‘the cleaner’ when the cops have finished with a crime scene. They should have just got several buckets of soapy water and thrown them at me. Sometime around midnight I was taken up to the labour ward and my husband saw my son off into the nursery.

So there I was in the middle of the night, after this traumatic and amazing experience, totally alone in this pitch black room, and I was supposed to sleep. My mind was racing and then I proceeded to faint. I buzzed the midwife and she came in and gave me oxygen, which seemed to stabilise me. (Ultimately the only thing that would fix me up was a four-unit blood transfusion a few days later as my haemoglobin level continued to drop.)

So that is my birth story. Recounted exactly three years later, off the top of my head. While some details are fuzzy you can see I remember so much. For the first 12-18 months I had a wonderfully placid baby who did most things by the book. Now I have a three-year-old who argues about every single thing with me – even the fact that he is turning 3 today (he claims he is 4 or 6, depending on his mood). And although my husband and I could do without the arguments, the tantrums and the throwing every time he doesn’t get his way, we wouldn’t change any of it. >Happy birthday my boy.

• Bassinette or cot: personally I felt more comfortable having a bassinette as I initially wanted the child sleeping in the same room as me (for initially read two years, ha)
• Pram: second hand prams are fine. Make sure the baby can lay down and sleep in it comfortably if need be
• Nappies, nappies and nappies but mind the size: my husband and I bought boxes of newborn nappies but our big son grew out of that size before we ran out of them. Thankfully the shop allowed us to exchange for the next size up. Forget cloth nappies (other than to use them as a change map or for wiping mouths and fingers etc) and forget anything but Huggies. You may think you are saving money by buying cheaper nappies but in the long run you won’t as they will require changing more often
• Zinc-based nappy rash cream: some baby are prone while others never seem to get it but I always found this cleared up any redness is used liberally
• Baby wipes: how did parents survive before these were invented? Get a big Huggies ‘lunchbox’ container for the home and a small Huggies portable container for when you’re out and about. Again, anything cheaper is a false economy.
• Bonds all-in-one soft Terry towelling suits: whether it’s winter or summer these are terrific. They are cozy for sleeping and make for easy nappy changing. Yellows and greens are good neutral colours if you don’t know the sex of your baby
• Soap-free bath wash Brush and comb Bibs, bibs and more bibs: a must if your baby’s a chucker. If not then save them for when he/she’s on solids. The ones that slip over the head and don’t have to be tied or velcroed are best
• A bath: no need for anything expensive, such as a bath that comes as part of a change mat and has to be wheeled into the bathroom (painful!) Just a cheap plastic container that can go anywhere is fine. Make sure you can put it on a relatively high bench or you’ll damage your back
• Dummies? Some parents hate them others love them. There’s no doubt many kids find them soothing, especially when coming up to a feed or when sleepy. If you do buy one the cheap (approx $2) Happy Baby brand is fine. Make sure you check the size and get ‘newborn’ or small.
• Bonds socks: they fit well and don’t slip off little ankles. And you can wash them a zillion times and they won’t unravel.
• Bonds singlets: ditto Hats: sunhats for summer and little cotton caps for winter (some wools can be irritating for new skin)
• Blankets, blankets, blankets: for the pram, car, loungeroom etc etc. If it’s summer, muslin wraps are great Change table: this isn’t a necessity but it saves your back. Underneath is a lot of useful space for nappies, creams etc
• Towels and washers: some lovely soft, smaller towels and washers that only the baby uses, is a good idea
• Nappy San: useful for soaking!!
• Gentle moisturiser: many babies experience dry skin while adapting to life outside the womb
• Bottles: You’ll need at least six (regardless of whether or not you are breastfeeding) and Avent seems to be the most popular. Get the smallest bottles available for newborns (200ml I think). You don’t need to buys a steam steriliser but they are useful. Simply boiling bottles, teats etc for five minutes does the trick
• Formula: Good idea to have a few tins in the cupboard (the midwife should advise which kind) but don’t buy too much as it is expensive and doesn’t keep for long
• Odour-free plastic bags for nappies: this is a bit of a Bourgeoisie concept but they do work! I was given a Tommy Tippee Nappy Wrapper, which was great, but I wouldn’t recommend them as every refill costs approx. $20!
• Car seat: forget baby capsules. They have been outmoded. Go for a car seat that will cater for your child until it reaches a weight of 18 kg (when it’s about 3). Make sure it’s reversible (can be strapped in backwards) for newborns Baby bag: it doesn’t have to actually be a baby bag. Just a washable bag with lots of components. The ones that found out into a change mat are unnecessary

Things you don’t need :

• Wol blankets (I found acrylic much softer)
• Carry bed
• Baby powder Sleeping bag Baby Mozart CDs
• Books for the first few months (ok, you try reading to a six-week old, sorry Mem Fox)
• Perfumed lotions
• Baby massage oil (what’s wrong with plain Baby oil?)
• Impractical clothes such as jeans Shoes of any kind
• Mobiles (either kind!)
• Loads of stuffed toys
• Plush pram liners
• Drugs of any kind (except, of course, for you, he ha)