Hi Dad,
Hope all is well wherever you are - I don't think you are very far away because I feel your presence everyday.
The past three years have both flown and dragged by. When I look at the kids, it seems as if time is getting away from me. You would be so proud of them - even though they would probably annoy you with their loud voices and sticky fingers. You always did like your peace and quiet - and hands off the audio-visual equipment!
Gromit is now a big 7 1/2 year old. He has your eyes - although green, not light blue - and your build. In fact, I think he will probably end up even taller than you were. He towers over his friends, of which he has many, and I'm always afraid he is going to hurt then with his exhuberant play. But, despite sometimes being too rough for his own good, he's basically a gentle giant who is not aware of his own strength. When he does hurt someone - usually me - he is mortified.
His size helps when it comes to his passion for sport - cricket mainly (can you believe I bred someone who likes cricket???? No, me neither). When he's not playing, or practicing, he's watching sport on telly. And he will watch anything (his current passion is the English darts competition!). He also loves the statistics involved, and how fixtures and ladders work. Maybe we have a future sports journalist in our midst?
It's summer break now and when school returns he will start Year 3. Can you believe it? It seems like yesterday that I was waiting (impatiently) for him to make his entrance! He's a smart kid (and, let me tell you, there is a fine line between smart and smart alec), and skipped straight from reception to Year 2. I hope we won't regret agreeing to that as he gets older, but his teachers have all assured me he will shine. In fact, his Year 2 teacher was amazed that however high she set the bar, he reached it. I just hope we can channel all those brains and that strength into making him one of the good guys as an adult. You were one of the good guys, and the world needs as many as it can handle.
Missy is....Missy. She really is unique. As one of the daycare workers mentioned - she really does know her own mind. She loves Dora, and the Wiggles and all things girly. And just adores her big brother. It makes for an interesting mix of tomboy, when she's playing with Gromit, and ballerina, when she's playing by herself. She has a very active imagination and does a lot of role playing - I must have sat through 1000 tea parties by now. She also enjoys being read to and listening to music - she has dance moves to die for, especially when she wiggles her hips. And, unlike Gromit, who used to stare at pre-school TV shows, completely absorbed, she follows the presenters' instructions to clap, or jump, or spin 'round.
She turned three not long before Christmas and you would have got a huge kick out of watching her grow up. You might even think I had been given my come-uppance for all the grief I caused you and mum. She certainly keeps us on our toes (the other day, we found her in the bathroom with a sink full of water and suds everywhere - she had emptied the liquid soap and was "washing" her toothbrush). And she has a temper of which I have never seen. She already screams at us, then goes to her bedroom and slams the door. What will she be like when she's 13?
Mum has had a few health scares lately but she is on the mend. Honestly, I think she's a little cross at you for leaving her when she needed you most. She has to pay someone else to vacuum these days istead of getting your assistance for free! I try to make sure she sees the kids weekly because they help keep her young (unlike me, they seem to be making me older by the day). She has some good friends in the retirement village and I am so pleased that the both of you made plans for her to move in there. Of course, at the time, we thought you would both move, but we didn't know how quickly the bitch called cancer would claim you (I know, I know, you hate swearing, but, seriously? I think I get a pass on this one).
The winemaker and I are pottering along, some days are good, some bad. This parenting of young children is a tough job - I can't imaging what people are thinking when they have a baby to save a marriage. But things are fundamentally strong, and we both look forward to the day when we can sleep again. Both my parents-in-law are now dead too, which makes mum the last living grandparent. Serves us all right for having kids are such as advanced age!
Anyway, this letter is longer than I had expected when I started it, so I had better sign off now (need to get some work done - procrastinating as usual),
Miss you all the time and love you as much now as I always did.
All my love and kisses
Nicole
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Monday, November 21, 2011
A window to the future
So, it's been a while since I blogged - life took over. Kids, work, family, friends, you know.
This post is very rushed and I apologise for that, but I know some people want to know what's going on with mum.
So, I had a bit of a fright today. Mum was with some friends on an outing to a historical house and she collapsed and was taken to hospital. So I get this phone call on mum's phone from a friend saying she was in emergency at the Royal Adelaide Hospital (about an hour's drive away - not the one near us) after being taking in by paramedics, vomiting and semi-conscious. Friend was in hospital waiting room and knew nothing else but wanted to know how quickly I could get there.
Of course, me being my mother's daughter, I went to the worst possible scenario. Rob came home from work to watch Missy and pick Gromit up from school and I cabbed to the hospital (too shaky to drive - longest cab ride of my life, with a lovely driver. Set me back $76 - but no option really). On the way, I rang my aunt who lives nearer the hospital and asked her to meet me there. If it was bad news, I wanted a familiar, friendly face.
Anyway, I got there and my aunt came out to meet me and tell me mum was OK. We went in to see her and she was sitting up attached to heart monitors etc. Turns out a new blood pressure medication for her atrial fibrilliation had drastically dropped her blood pressure (Dr said it was about 70/40 when she got to hospital). She's home with an appointment this week to see heart specialist and GP. I am at home with wine.
My mum is 80 next year, so I had a bit of a window into the probably not-too-distant future and I'm still a bit shaky. Especially after her stroke a few months ago. As much as mum and I clash (and we REALLY clash), I'm not quite ready to be an orphan.
Rob, however, thinks she will live to 120 just to spite him. Let's hope he's right.
This post is very rushed and I apologise for that, but I know some people want to know what's going on with mum.
So, I had a bit of a fright today. Mum was with some friends on an outing to a historical house and she collapsed and was taken to hospital. So I get this phone call on mum's phone from a friend saying she was in emergency at the Royal Adelaide Hospital (about an hour's drive away - not the one near us) after being taking in by paramedics, vomiting and semi-conscious. Friend was in hospital waiting room and knew nothing else but wanted to know how quickly I could get there.
Of course, me being my mother's daughter, I went to the worst possible scenario. Rob came home from work to watch Missy and pick Gromit up from school and I cabbed to the hospital (too shaky to drive - longest cab ride of my life, with a lovely driver. Set me back $76 - but no option really). On the way, I rang my aunt who lives nearer the hospital and asked her to meet me there. If it was bad news, I wanted a familiar, friendly face.
Anyway, I got there and my aunt came out to meet me and tell me mum was OK. We went in to see her and she was sitting up attached to heart monitors etc. Turns out a new blood pressure medication for her atrial fibrilliation had drastically dropped her blood pressure (Dr said it was about 70/40 when she got to hospital). She's home with an appointment this week to see heart specialist and GP. I am at home with wine.
My mum is 80 next year, so I had a bit of a window into the probably not-too-distant future and I'm still a bit shaky. Especially after her stroke a few months ago. As much as mum and I clash (and we REALLY clash), I'm not quite ready to be an orphan.
Rob, however, thinks she will live to 120 just to spite him. Let's hope he's right.
Monday, September 12, 2011
A catalyst for change
The 10th anniversary of the September 11 attacks on the World Trade Centre and Pentagon has got me thinking about how life can change in a second.
And I'm sure I'm not alone.
Ten years ago, we watched wall-to-wall coverage of the astonishing events. Yesterday, our televisions were filled with both tearful and hopeful interviews with survivors, and those who lost loved ones.
It was the children who were babies - or still in-utero - when they lost a parent that hit the hardest. The lives they were meant to live, and the world they were meant to live in, no longer existed.
In the 10 years since 9/11, I have got married, had two children, six houses (in three states), four jobs.
And lost my father.
I was one of the lucky ones, I had my father with me for 40 years. But his death hit very hard and was a catalyst for things to come.
Whether it's the death of a loved one, the birth of a child, permanent injury or disability, a move overseas or interstate, divorce, marriage, you name it, there are many things that will happen to all of us that make us question our lives and motivations.
When dad died, I suddenly became the only child of an elderly parent, with the responsibilities that come with that. It also meant that my husband and I had little childcare support for two youngsters (mum helps when she can, but it's not easy for her). It became difficult for us both to work long hours in stressful jobs, as well as be successful parents. Yes, we could have continued as we were - but at what cost?
Something had to give, and for a while, it was my health and sanity.
Then one day, I woke up and decided this was "it". I wasn't going to slave away for someone else any more, and Black Coffee Communication was born.
What makes me sad is that it often takes tragedy and grief for people to have a good look at the lives they are living and prioritise what is important. And trust me, taking that business call at 6pm, when there are kids to be fed and bathed, and books to be read, is not important.
While we can't live in fear of the "what-ifs", I wonder what the traders at Cantor Fitzgerald, the emergency service workers, janitors, airline passengers and others might have done differently had they known that they would draw their last breath on September 11, 2001?
RIP - the world has not forgotten you.
And I'm sure I'm not alone.
Ten years ago, we watched wall-to-wall coverage of the astonishing events. Yesterday, our televisions were filled with both tearful and hopeful interviews with survivors, and those who lost loved ones.
It was the children who were babies - or still in-utero - when they lost a parent that hit the hardest. The lives they were meant to live, and the world they were meant to live in, no longer existed.
In the 10 years since 9/11, I have got married, had two children, six houses (in three states), four jobs.
And lost my father.
I was one of the lucky ones, I had my father with me for 40 years. But his death hit very hard and was a catalyst for things to come.
Whether it's the death of a loved one, the birth of a child, permanent injury or disability, a move overseas or interstate, divorce, marriage, you name it, there are many things that will happen to all of us that make us question our lives and motivations.
When dad died, I suddenly became the only child of an elderly parent, with the responsibilities that come with that. It also meant that my husband and I had little childcare support for two youngsters (mum helps when she can, but it's not easy for her). It became difficult for us both to work long hours in stressful jobs, as well as be successful parents. Yes, we could have continued as we were - but at what cost?
Something had to give, and for a while, it was my health and sanity.
Then one day, I woke up and decided this was "it". I wasn't going to slave away for someone else any more, and Black Coffee Communication was born.
What makes me sad is that it often takes tragedy and grief for people to have a good look at the lives they are living and prioritise what is important. And trust me, taking that business call at 6pm, when there are kids to be fed and bathed, and books to be read, is not important.
While we can't live in fear of the "what-ifs", I wonder what the traders at Cantor Fitzgerald, the emergency service workers, janitors, airline passengers and others might have done differently had they known that they would draw their last breath on September 11, 2001?
RIP - the world has not forgotten you.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
A little bit "woo"
Those of you who know me will know that I am about as "crunchy" as yogurt .
I don't place much store in crystals or Feng Shui or homeopathy; I only did the parts of attachment parenting that suited me (baby wearing frees the hands and breast feeding is, well, heaps more convenient and cheaper); and my wardrobe is bereft of anything made of jute, hemp or kapok.
Something happened this week, though that made me question me steadfasted cynicism about all things "woo".
I went to my regular chiroprator, who is very good at manipulating the bones in my lower back and neck in order for me to carry around 20 kg of toddler (hence the need for a chiropractor).
He cracked a couple of bones then turned me on to my back, and asked me to put one foot on the other knee and resist him pulling them away. Easy.
Then he lightly pressed two fingers in the diaphragm area and pulled again. Resistance was useless and my leg was like jelly. Huh?
The chiropractor pronounce my adrenaline glands "rooted" (well, he didn't use those exact words, but that was the gist) and said I had been under so much stress lately that I had been pretty much running on adrenaline and my stores were empty.
Anyway. He got out two bottles on herbs and asked me to do the leg thing again. He placed one bottle on my diaphragm and my leg didn't budge. He then took it away and placed the other bottle in the same place. I couldn't resist. Hence, that was the herbal remedy I needed.
I was gobsmacked and walked away $35 poorer but with a bottle of miracle herbs.
Please, someone, give me a rational explanation for this. My pragmatic brain needs it before it implodes. Tks.
(He also suggested I reduce my caffeine intake. I'm still thking about that. If it wasn't for caffeine, I would barely be upright.)
I don't place much store in crystals or Feng Shui or homeopathy; I only did the parts of attachment parenting that suited me (baby wearing frees the hands and breast feeding is, well, heaps more convenient and cheaper); and my wardrobe is bereft of anything made of jute, hemp or kapok.
Something happened this week, though that made me question me steadfasted cynicism about all things "woo".
I went to my regular chiroprator, who is very good at manipulating the bones in my lower back and neck in order for me to carry around 20 kg of toddler (hence the need for a chiropractor).
He cracked a couple of bones then turned me on to my back, and asked me to put one foot on the other knee and resist him pulling them away. Easy.
Then he lightly pressed two fingers in the diaphragm area and pulled again. Resistance was useless and my leg was like jelly. Huh?
The chiropractor pronounce my adrenaline glands "rooted" (well, he didn't use those exact words, but that was the gist) and said I had been under so much stress lately that I had been pretty much running on adrenaline and my stores were empty.
Anyway. He got out two bottles on herbs and asked me to do the leg thing again. He placed one bottle on my diaphragm and my leg didn't budge. He then took it away and placed the other bottle in the same place. I couldn't resist. Hence, that was the herbal remedy I needed.
I was gobsmacked and walked away $35 poorer but with a bottle of miracle herbs.
Please, someone, give me a rational explanation for this. My pragmatic brain needs it before it implodes. Tks.
(He also suggested I reduce my caffeine intake. I'm still thking about that. If it wasn't for caffeine, I would barely be upright.)
Sunday, July 31, 2011
My so-called (freelance) life
So, it's been a little over a week since I jumped of the treadmill to launch Black Coffee Communication (http://www.blackcoffeecommunications.com.au/ - shamless plug) and here are the things I have accomplished:
1. Rearranged the furniture in the house so that I now have an "office". Problem is, the office still contains six amplifiers, three bookshelves, an extra (unconnected) computer and about a bajillion bottles of wine (I'm sure some of you will help with that). What the office does NOT contain is a desk.
2. Offered three new freelance gigs - Facebook marketing for a previous client, a regular blog about industrial cleaning machines (seriously!), and a brand new Fleurieu Peninsula website, launching tomorrow.
3. Cooked some real meals, from scratch, with vegetables.
4. Went to see a grown up movie with the winemaker during school hours...there wasn't an animation in sight!
5. Had my hair cut.
And this is what I have learned.
1. No matter how much you plan to put your feet up between jobs, the universe has other plans. First mum's mini-stroke and then a child at home with the cold put paid to most of my "me" week. C'est la vie.
2. You can write a blog post for a client while cooking dinner.
3. People want writing services for all sorts of subjects (see above re industrial cleaners!).
4. There's a massively supportive work-at-home parent network out there willing to help a newbie, even if it means taking a risk.
5. This move might turn out to be the best thing I have ever done (bar marrying the winemaker and birthing the kids, naturally).
You can find me blogging about professional stuff these days over at Black Coffee Communication - but I will still be dropping in here at A Small Drop of Ink to vent about personal issues. Hope you don't mind :)
1. Rearranged the furniture in the house so that I now have an "office". Problem is, the office still contains six amplifiers, three bookshelves, an extra (unconnected) computer and about a bajillion bottles of wine (I'm sure some of you will help with that). What the office does NOT contain is a desk.
2. Offered three new freelance gigs - Facebook marketing for a previous client, a regular blog about industrial cleaning machines (seriously!), and a brand new Fleurieu Peninsula website, launching tomorrow.
3. Cooked some real meals, from scratch, with vegetables.
4. Went to see a grown up movie with the winemaker during school hours...there wasn't an animation in sight!
5. Had my hair cut.
And this is what I have learned.
1. No matter how much you plan to put your feet up between jobs, the universe has other plans. First mum's mini-stroke and then a child at home with the cold put paid to most of my "me" week. C'est la vie.
2. You can write a blog post for a client while cooking dinner.
3. People want writing services for all sorts of subjects (see above re industrial cleaners!).
4. There's a massively supportive work-at-home parent network out there willing to help a newbie, even if it means taking a risk.
5. This move might turn out to be the best thing I have ever done (bar marrying the winemaker and birthing the kids, naturally).
You can find me blogging about professional stuff these days over at Black Coffee Communication - but I will still be dropping in here at A Small Drop of Ink to vent about personal issues. Hope you don't mind :)
Friday, July 22, 2011
Meat in the sandwich
They call us the sandwich generation. Those of us who had children later in life and are thus caring for preschool-aged kids and at least one elderly parent.
My youngest is 2.5, my mum is 79. Hello sandwich!
This was brought into sharp contrast yesterday.
Missy had to get more grommets so I left Gromit in the care of my mum and headed to the hospital. The surgery all went well (I didn't even cry) and we were heading home about 3 hours later.
On the way, I called mum to see how everything was just to be told that her doctor wants her to go to emergency because he thinks she had a mini-stroke. Great.
So the winemaker knocks off work a little early, picks up Gromit. I get home, dump Missy and turn around to take mum to emergency at a different hospital.
Two hospitals in one day. Is that some kind of record?
Naturally, mum and I sat in the waiting room for about three hours (actually, I tell a lie because I nicked off for a bit to go to the Target toy sale and pick up something for us to eat).
One thing about emergency rooms waiting areas - they are great placed for people watches like mum and me. We saw a man being escorted in by the cops, a young girl with a broken arm and a entourage of family and an elderly bloke who, apparently, knew what needed to be done to save the world from the idiots.
Anyway, once we got in, it was pretty quick. The doctor (who looked about 12 but spoke of a wife, so I guess not) got mum's history - and she's a walking dispensary - did some neurological testing, whacked on a heart monitor and proclaimed, yes, looks like a mini-stroke but we won't know for sure until she can get a CT scan next week. He wasn't too concerned about immediate risks because the episode was minor, so that's the good news.
Four-and-a-half hours later, we were heading home - 10 hours after I first trekked into town to my first hospital of the day.
Oh - should I mentioned this all happened on my first day of wage-slave freedom?
My youngest is 2.5, my mum is 79. Hello sandwich!
This was brought into sharp contrast yesterday.
Missy had to get more grommets so I left Gromit in the care of my mum and headed to the hospital. The surgery all went well (I didn't even cry) and we were heading home about 3 hours later.
On the way, I called mum to see how everything was just to be told that her doctor wants her to go to emergency because he thinks she had a mini-stroke. Great.
So the winemaker knocks off work a little early, picks up Gromit. I get home, dump Missy and turn around to take mum to emergency at a different hospital.
Two hospitals in one day. Is that some kind of record?
Naturally, mum and I sat in the waiting room for about three hours (actually, I tell a lie because I nicked off for a bit to go to the Target toy sale and pick up something for us to eat).
One thing about emergency rooms waiting areas - they are great placed for people watches like mum and me. We saw a man being escorted in by the cops, a young girl with a broken arm and a entourage of family and an elderly bloke who, apparently, knew what needed to be done to save the world from the idiots.
Anyway, once we got in, it was pretty quick. The doctor (who looked about 12 but spoke of a wife, so I guess not) got mum's history - and she's a walking dispensary - did some neurological testing, whacked on a heart monitor and proclaimed, yes, looks like a mini-stroke but we won't know for sure until she can get a CT scan next week. He wasn't too concerned about immediate risks because the episode was minor, so that's the good news.
Four-and-a-half hours later, we were heading home - 10 hours after I first trekked into town to my first hospital of the day.
Oh - should I mentioned this all happened on my first day of wage-slave freedom?
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Older and wiser
One of the positive things about growing older (and let's face it, there are many negatives) is the ability to roll with the punches when life throws its little curve balls at you.
I'm not talking about those life-changing curve balls like death or divorce, but rather those little disappointments which once made us feel inadequate, unloved or friendless.
For example, nowadays, if I'm at a party and not having a good time, I just go home. Once upon a time I would have stuck it out to the bitter end, in case something good happened and I missed it. It usually didn't (in my experience, if a party starts off kind of sucky, it's probably going to stay that way).
If I miss out on a job, I just shrug and try and improve the next time. If someone at work doesn't like me, tough, we still have to work together. The 20-year old me would have been shattered by these experiences as it would have been some kind of proof that I wasn't worthy of the new job, or the friendship.
I was reminded of this last night when we were out to celebrate a friend's birthday.
The night did not start well, as we arrived to learn the only option was a seafood buffet for $45. Several of our party didn't eat seafood. Others baulked at the cost - they were saving their pennies for the drinking, after all :)
The younger me would definitely be in the latter category. The 43-year old me just hooked into the prawns!
We managed to convince the restaurant manager to reduce the cost for the people who didn't want seafood (there were pasta and salad options), a pretty reasonable outcome, I think.
Anyway, the night settled into a comfortable mood, and I ate my $45 worth of shellfish, salmon and dessert. Unfortunately for one of our friends, the wine and the smell of the seafood turned her an ugly shade of greeny/grey with a bit of blue thrown in for good measure and she need to be taken home - about 45 minutes drive away. Some fantastic ladies (you know who you are) willingly left dinner to accompany her home.
After the bill came and was tallied (a whole other nightmare), some of the younger ones decided to brave the nearby nightclub. Me? I know when I'm beat, so I headed home.
I haven't yet heard the postmortem from those who went out afterwards. I sincerely hope they had a fantastic time to make up for teh earlier parts of the night.
Me? Once I would have felt I had missed out on something by going home early. Today I am just grateful I got a decent night's sleep.
I'm not talking about those life-changing curve balls like death or divorce, but rather those little disappointments which once made us feel inadequate, unloved or friendless.
For example, nowadays, if I'm at a party and not having a good time, I just go home. Once upon a time I would have stuck it out to the bitter end, in case something good happened and I missed it. It usually didn't (in my experience, if a party starts off kind of sucky, it's probably going to stay that way).
If I miss out on a job, I just shrug and try and improve the next time. If someone at work doesn't like me, tough, we still have to work together. The 20-year old me would have been shattered by these experiences as it would have been some kind of proof that I wasn't worthy of the new job, or the friendship.
I was reminded of this last night when we were out to celebrate a friend's birthday.
The night did not start well, as we arrived to learn the only option was a seafood buffet for $45. Several of our party didn't eat seafood. Others baulked at the cost - they were saving their pennies for the drinking, after all :)
The younger me would definitely be in the latter category. The 43-year old me just hooked into the prawns!
We managed to convince the restaurant manager to reduce the cost for the people who didn't want seafood (there were pasta and salad options), a pretty reasonable outcome, I think.
Anyway, the night settled into a comfortable mood, and I ate my $45 worth of shellfish, salmon and dessert. Unfortunately for one of our friends, the wine and the smell of the seafood turned her an ugly shade of greeny/grey with a bit of blue thrown in for good measure and she need to be taken home - about 45 minutes drive away. Some fantastic ladies (you know who you are) willingly left dinner to accompany her home.
After the bill came and was tallied (a whole other nightmare), some of the younger ones decided to brave the nearby nightclub. Me? I know when I'm beat, so I headed home.
I haven't yet heard the postmortem from those who went out afterwards. I sincerely hope they had a fantastic time to make up for teh earlier parts of the night.
Me? Once I would have felt I had missed out on something by going home early. Today I am just grateful I got a decent night's sleep.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Liberation
Today I did the most frightening, exhilarating, exciting thing I think I have ever done.
I handed in my resignation from my steady, well-paying tenured public sector job to concentrate on establishing my own business.
Those of you who read this blog regularly probably knew this was coming. And honestly, I probably knew for the past six months or so - but finally started listening to my heart instead of my head.
I have wanted to be a freelance writer/editor for more than 20 years.
As a naive uni student, I thought I would work a few years, then strike out on my own. Travelling the world and filing stories from all sorts of exotic locations and getting paid buckletloads of cash for the privilege.
Then reality hit. Journalism is hard slog, and crap money. And about 0.0000001 per cent of journalism students actually become international household names. I'm not one of them.
So, after 10 years in journalism, I moved sideways into public relations and corporate communications. Still intending to do it for a couple of years before returning to my passion - writing.
And here I am, 12 years later FINALLY doing it. And the good thing about my years of experience outside journalism is that I now also have experience at business writing. This means I can actually earn a crust - there's more money in writing annual reports, corporate profiles, policies and other business documents than there is in pure freelance journalism.
I have had some great support from my friend and family. Even the Winemaker - the most risk-averse person I know - is cheering me on.
It's a great feeling - I recommend it.
Life is too short to be swallowed up by bureaucracy.
I handed in my resignation from my steady, well-paying tenured public sector job to concentrate on establishing my own business.
Those of you who read this blog regularly probably knew this was coming. And honestly, I probably knew for the past six months or so - but finally started listening to my heart instead of my head.
I have wanted to be a freelance writer/editor for more than 20 years.
As a naive uni student, I thought I would work a few years, then strike out on my own. Travelling the world and filing stories from all sorts of exotic locations and getting paid buckletloads of cash for the privilege.
Then reality hit. Journalism is hard slog, and crap money. And about 0.0000001 per cent of journalism students actually become international household names. I'm not one of them.
So, after 10 years in journalism, I moved sideways into public relations and corporate communications. Still intending to do it for a couple of years before returning to my passion - writing.
And here I am, 12 years later FINALLY doing it. And the good thing about my years of experience outside journalism is that I now also have experience at business writing. This means I can actually earn a crust - there's more money in writing annual reports, corporate profiles, policies and other business documents than there is in pure freelance journalism.
I have had some great support from my friend and family. Even the Winemaker - the most risk-averse person I know - is cheering me on.
It's a great feeling - I recommend it.
Life is too short to be swallowed up by bureaucracy.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
My Craptastic week
Ever had one of those weeks where you can't possibly imagine things will get worse?
Then, they do?
Well, that gives you a bit of an idea of where I'm coming from this grey Thursday.
As if the winter gloom wasn't enough, the universe has decided to throw a few curve balls my way and see if I can handle it.
The week started off great, with a girls' night at the movies. Bridesmaids - see it. I laughed so hard I nearly peed. (Champagne+Maltezers+good friends+chick flick = Made of Win!).
Then, the little annoyances started piling up - traffic, lost shoes, a kid with a cold. Hyperbole-and-a-half's Sneaky Hate Spiral explains this much better than I ever could.
So, I arrive at work on Tuesday to pretty much learn that the Executive has completely devalued the work our project team has done over the past six months or so., Apparently, when you are trying to market/promote entirely new legislation to a state, you can just grab marketing collaterol from other states and rebadge it.
Tuesday night was spent caring for a kid who couldn't sleep due to coughing/stuffed nose etc and Wednesday morning required an early call to my mum to care for said kid for the day (thanks mum - and thanks mum's friend who also had her plans changed!)
On Wednesday, I sat on a interview panel where one of the applicants was the person who has been doing said job for nearly 18 months (New slogan for the public sector "We're accountable, not efficient").
Then, a meeting with the boss in which I receive confirmation on what I already suspected - strategic communications to deliver new legislation is a skill that the agency doesn't think it needs, and I have two months to go back to my substantive, frustrating, annoying, stress-inducing management role (with all the responsibility and no authority - again welcome to the public sector) or leave. The first is not an option.
Then, just to make my week even more craptastic (literally), this morning, the cat poos on the couch and Gromit sits on it.
Really Pepper? You had to pick this week?
Then, they do?
Well, that gives you a bit of an idea of where I'm coming from this grey Thursday.
As if the winter gloom wasn't enough, the universe has decided to throw a few curve balls my way and see if I can handle it.
The week started off great, with a girls' night at the movies. Bridesmaids - see it. I laughed so hard I nearly peed. (Champagne+Maltezers+good friends+chick flick = Made of Win!).
Then, the little annoyances started piling up - traffic, lost shoes, a kid with a cold. Hyperbole-and-a-half's Sneaky Hate Spiral explains this much better than I ever could.
So, I arrive at work on Tuesday to pretty much learn that the Executive has completely devalued the work our project team has done over the past six months or so., Apparently, when you are trying to market/promote entirely new legislation to a state, you can just grab marketing collaterol from other states and rebadge it.
Tuesday night was spent caring for a kid who couldn't sleep due to coughing/stuffed nose etc and Wednesday morning required an early call to my mum to care for said kid for the day (thanks mum - and thanks mum's friend who also had her plans changed!)
On Wednesday, I sat on a interview panel where one of the applicants was the person who has been doing said job for nearly 18 months (New slogan for the public sector "We're accountable, not efficient").
Then, a meeting with the boss in which I receive confirmation on what I already suspected - strategic communications to deliver new legislation is a skill that the agency doesn't think it needs, and I have two months to go back to my substantive, frustrating, annoying, stress-inducing management role (with all the responsibility and no authority - again welcome to the public sector) or leave. The first is not an option.
Then, just to make my week even more craptastic (literally), this morning, the cat poos on the couch and Gromit sits on it.
Really Pepper? You had to pick this week?
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Winter blues
The weather has turned chilly and the gloom that has descended on me matches the grey skies outside.
I hate winter, always have. But as I've grown older it's become worse.
My preferred place in cold weather is bed, wearing thick socks and flannel jammies and reading some chick lit. But I think my family might complain if I hibernated for three months every year. Not to mention what the boss might say.
When I was younger, I had field hockey to keep me going in winter. It was something to look forward to each weekend and, even though I felt like curling up with a good book, I had the team to think of. Oh, and the after-game session at the club, which, if I'm truly honest, is probably what kept me on the field long after my used-by date.
I haven't played in about four years and, with my creaking bones and dodgy wrist, I think I can finally say goodbye to the Hockeyroos dream.
It also hasn't helped that I have moved from a town with very cold - but sunny - winters to a town that is milder but grey, grey, grey.
I've heard that Seasonal Affected Disorder (SAD - how perfect) may be related to low vitamin D, so I'm pumping in the supplements, but to no avail so far.
I try to get out for a walk as often as I can, and take the kids to the park. And I have some great friends and workmates that often make me laugh out loud. But the fog inside my head remains.
Throw in some pre-menopausal mood swings and hot flushes, and I must be so much fun to live with right now.
It was about this time last year that I had the near breakdown in my boss's office which led, eventually, to my stepping aside from my substantive staff management role to work part-time on a self-contained project.
I have felt pretty good since I made that decision, and the working part-time is doing my mental state the world of good - plus I actually get to spend some time with the family.
But then winter returned and with it, the gloom.
Anyone else out there suffer the same way? Maybe we can start a support group - "SAD not sad".
I hate winter, always have. But as I've grown older it's become worse.
My preferred place in cold weather is bed, wearing thick socks and flannel jammies and reading some chick lit. But I think my family might complain if I hibernated for three months every year. Not to mention what the boss might say.
When I was younger, I had field hockey to keep me going in winter. It was something to look forward to each weekend and, even though I felt like curling up with a good book, I had the team to think of. Oh, and the after-game session at the club, which, if I'm truly honest, is probably what kept me on the field long after my used-by date.
I haven't played in about four years and, with my creaking bones and dodgy wrist, I think I can finally say goodbye to the Hockeyroos dream.
It also hasn't helped that I have moved from a town with very cold - but sunny - winters to a town that is milder but grey, grey, grey.
I've heard that Seasonal Affected Disorder (SAD - how perfect) may be related to low vitamin D, so I'm pumping in the supplements, but to no avail so far.
I try to get out for a walk as often as I can, and take the kids to the park. And I have some great friends and workmates that often make me laugh out loud. But the fog inside my head remains.
Throw in some pre-menopausal mood swings and hot flushes, and I must be so much fun to live with right now.
It was about this time last year that I had the near breakdown in my boss's office which led, eventually, to my stepping aside from my substantive staff management role to work part-time on a self-contained project.
I have felt pretty good since I made that decision, and the working part-time is doing my mental state the world of good - plus I actually get to spend some time with the family.
But then winter returned and with it, the gloom.
Anyone else out there suffer the same way? Maybe we can start a support group - "SAD not sad".
Friday, June 3, 2011
Sugar and spice and ...oh look, something shiny
I am so not ready to be the parent of a girl child.
Yes, yes, I realise that I should have thought of this several years ago, and it's a bit late now, but it still scares me.
Taking aside all that pinkness and hair product, and forgetting about the mean bitch and teen witch thing for the time being, it's the vagueness and dreaminess and on-another-planetness that will drive me insane.
OK, so I'm generalising a bit here, but after spending a day volunteering at an all-school excursion (what was I thinking?) I can confidently say that girls are more likely to to ... oh look there's a shiny thing.
What I meant to say is that the girls I saw tended to be more easily distracted by things other than what they was supposed ... hey there's that shiny thing again.
So, girls seem to concentrate less on the project at hand and more on the birds, flowers, people, buildings and shiny things off the beaten track.
I had six kids in my group - three boys and three girls. You've heard the phrase herding cats? Herding seven-year olds is like that times infinity. And with the knowledge that if you lose one of them, there will likely be a parent out there who's a bit pissed off.
And the girls were the worst. The boys tended to stay on the path and follow the crowd, while the girls? Well, they danced to the sound of their own drums, so to speak. And the drummers were way off in the other direction from where we were heading.
And the complaining? My Lord, you would think I was chaperoning an outing of the old folks home with the "my bag's too heavy", "My shoulder hurts", "There's a rock in my shoe", "My hat is scratchy". And yes, all from the girls.
My girl is currently lying on the couch next to me, having her night-time bottle. I adore her stubborness and her bossiness. She's cuddly, and imaginative, and challenging, and frustrating, and hilarious, and seems to have just two moods - happy and furious.
As much as I'm not ready for it, I'm nuts about my girl child and I guess I won't trade her in. Yet.
Yes, yes, I realise that I should have thought of this several years ago, and it's a bit late now, but it still scares me.
Taking aside all that pinkness and hair product, and forgetting about the mean bitch and teen witch thing for the time being, it's the vagueness and dreaminess and on-another-planetness that will drive me insane.
OK, so I'm generalising a bit here, but after spending a day volunteering at an all-school excursion (what was I thinking?) I can confidently say that girls are more likely to to ... oh look there's a shiny thing.
What I meant to say is that the girls I saw tended to be more easily distracted by things other than what they was supposed ... hey there's that shiny thing again.
So, girls seem to concentrate less on the project at hand and more on the birds, flowers, people, buildings and shiny things off the beaten track.
I had six kids in my group - three boys and three girls. You've heard the phrase herding cats? Herding seven-year olds is like that times infinity. And with the knowledge that if you lose one of them, there will likely be a parent out there who's a bit pissed off.
And the girls were the worst. The boys tended to stay on the path and follow the crowd, while the girls? Well, they danced to the sound of their own drums, so to speak. And the drummers were way off in the other direction from where we were heading.
And the complaining? My Lord, you would think I was chaperoning an outing of the old folks home with the "my bag's too heavy", "My shoulder hurts", "There's a rock in my shoe", "My hat is scratchy". And yes, all from the girls.
My girl is currently lying on the couch next to me, having her night-time bottle. I adore her stubborness and her bossiness. She's cuddly, and imaginative, and challenging, and frustrating, and hilarious, and seems to have just two moods - happy and furious.
As much as I'm not ready for it, I'm nuts about my girl child and I guess I won't trade her in. Yet.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Plastic fantastic?
I am becoming increasingly sure that somewhere in my house there is another dimension where plastic shit breeds.
Otherwise, how can you explain the proliferation around the house of those dinky toys you get in fast food outlets?
I'm sure my kids haven't been to [insert name of whatever chain takes your fancy when it comes to plastic toys - and food] a kabillion times, so how come we seem to have a kabillion useless little toys?
They get under your feet, get sucked up the vacuum cleaner. You find them behind the couch and deep in the linen of the gown-ups' bed. They're inside the house and out, and the more you throw the more take their place.
We have Ben 10 figurines, characters from Rio and Night at the Museum. We have Stawberry Shortcakes, Australian Idol "iPods" and strange, unidentifyable objects that not even the seven year old can explain.
It's like an episode of Twilight zone.
And don't even get me started on Kinder (f-ing) Surprise.
Otherwise, how can you explain the proliferation around the house of those dinky toys you get in fast food outlets?
I'm sure my kids haven't been to [insert name of whatever chain takes your fancy when it comes to plastic toys - and food] a kabillion times, so how come we seem to have a kabillion useless little toys?
They get under your feet, get sucked up the vacuum cleaner. You find them behind the couch and deep in the linen of the gown-ups' bed. They're inside the house and out, and the more you throw the more take their place.
We have Ben 10 figurines, characters from Rio and Night at the Museum. We have Stawberry Shortcakes, Australian Idol "iPods" and strange, unidentifyable objects that not even the seven year old can explain.
It's like an episode of Twilight zone.
And don't even get me started on Kinder (f-ing) Surprise.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Hell on earth
I don't believe in heaven and hell (so it's a good thing the Rapture was a furphy), but if I did, I'd like to think there's a special place reserved deep in the pits of fire for certain characters.
I mean it goes without saying that all your peadophile, murderers, wife beaters etc will take up a far bit of the spcae but if there is a little left over, I have some suggestions (in no particular order).
1/Manufacturers./importers/designers/retailers/wholesalers of flat pack furniture
Remember when furniture used to come all assembled, and delivered to your door? OK the flat pack stuff is cheaper, but is it really worth the the years you lose off your life with the stress of working out those ineligible instructions with the stick figures? And don't even get me started on allen keys.
2/ People who knowingly send their nit-infested kids to school/daycare
Keep them home. I'm sick of that horrible lotion stuff and that ouchy litle comb. I realise anyone can get nits, but reasonable, decent parents keep their kids home. Learn from them.
3/ Not-my-jobbers and What's-in-it-for-me-ers
We are all working towards a common goal, aren't we? I know it's hard not to refer to your position description everytime you are asked for a favour. But please, for the love of God, try. The most annoying type of workmate, closely followed by...
4/Tea room gossipers
I don't care what your best mate got up to on the weekend, nor do I give a rat's arse if yoiur sister-in-law is a crazy-arsed bitch. Do these people not realise that noise travels in open plan offices? When people are trying to work, listening to you bang on about your favourite curry recipe is incredibly annoying.
5/The management guru who decided that open-plan offices led to more team building.
See above.
So that's my whinge for the day ... does anyone want any other added to the list?
I mean it goes without saying that all your peadophile, murderers, wife beaters etc will take up a far bit of the spcae but if there is a little left over, I have some suggestions (in no particular order).
1/Manufacturers./importers/designers/retailers/wholesalers of flat pack furniture
Remember when furniture used to come all assembled, and delivered to your door? OK the flat pack stuff is cheaper, but is it really worth the the years you lose off your life with the stress of working out those ineligible instructions with the stick figures? And don't even get me started on allen keys.
2/ People who knowingly send their nit-infested kids to school/daycare
Keep them home. I'm sick of that horrible lotion stuff and that ouchy litle comb. I realise anyone can get nits, but reasonable, decent parents keep their kids home. Learn from them.
3/ Not-my-jobbers and What's-in-it-for-me-ers
We are all working towards a common goal, aren't we? I know it's hard not to refer to your position description everytime you are asked for a favour. But please, for the love of God, try. The most annoying type of workmate, closely followed by...
4/Tea room gossipers
I don't care what your best mate got up to on the weekend, nor do I give a rat's arse if yoiur sister-in-law is a crazy-arsed bitch. Do these people not realise that noise travels in open plan offices? When people are trying to work, listening to you bang on about your favourite curry recipe is incredibly annoying.
5/The management guru who decided that open-plan offices led to more team building.
See above.
So that's my whinge for the day ... does anyone want any other added to the list?
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Google, it has been 17 days since nmy last blog post.
In that time, I have coveted my neighbours shoes, spoken ill of many people., I have been impatient, angry, envious, proud, jealous, vengeful, gluttonous and slothful. I have not been chaste in mind or body. And I have almost certainly taken my mother's name in vein.
I was brought up Catholic, you see, and I quite like the idea that you can do pretty much anything you want, as long as you confess, say a few Hail Marys and are truly sorry for your sins.
I stopped going to confession some 30 years ago - and became agnostic around the same time - but I still think we could all do with a confession now and then. At least to purge our conscience.
But who needs religion when you have the Internets to hear your confessions.
In the past month or so I've read about
Or maybe they do? Maybe this is the 21st century version of "bad press is better than no press at all". Maybe they are looking for there 15 minutes of fame?
Whatever their reasons, this sticky beak is very grateful for other's lack of inhibitions. But if you expect the same from A Small Drop of Ink, you might want to stop reading right now.
In that time, I have coveted my neighbours shoes, spoken ill of many people., I have been impatient, angry, envious, proud, jealous, vengeful, gluttonous and slothful. I have not been chaste in mind or body. And I have almost certainly taken my mother's name in vein.
I was brought up Catholic, you see, and I quite like the idea that you can do pretty much anything you want, as long as you confess, say a few Hail Marys and are truly sorry for your sins.
I stopped going to confession some 30 years ago - and became agnostic around the same time - but I still think we could all do with a confession now and then. At least to purge our conscience.
But who needs religion when you have the Internets to hear your confessions.
In the past month or so I've read about
- the "hooker teacher"
- A nasty divorce and custody dispute (clearly written by someone who should be seeing a psychologist, rather than writing diatribes)
- A bloke surprised that he is now pretty much alone after being an arsehole to both his wife and his mistress.; and
- A writer who took umbrage to an online critique
Or maybe they do? Maybe this is the 21st century version of "bad press is better than no press at all". Maybe they are looking for there 15 minutes of fame?
Whatever their reasons, this sticky beak is very grateful for other's lack of inhibitions. But if you expect the same from A Small Drop of Ink, you might want to stop reading right now.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Secrets, lies, the law and the internets.
Way back in the dark ages, while I was at Uni, I did a year-long course about the law and media.
One of the hot topics for discussion was how the law continually fails to keep up with technology - and this was WAY before the internets.
It seems the law is still struggling, as envisaged by events in State politics this week.
A State parliamentarian was arrested and charged with possessing kiddie porn. He can't be named here due to a 1976 amendment to the the Evidence Act (1929).
Basically, the media may not publish any evidence tendered, or submission made, in the Magistrates Court relating to an alleged sex offence. This includes naming any person charged with an offence until they have entered a plea.
The crazy thing is that this law only applies in this state, so media elsewhere has taken a risk and named the MP in editions not sold here, and anyone with access to a computer can read all about it on various blogs (not to mention that Derryn Hinch himself has outed the alleged culprit.)
Now, as an former journo - and one that has spent more than a few hours reporting from criminal courts - I have a big problem with blanket suppression orders, but I do understand the notion of innocent until proven guilty and realise that being accused of kiddy porn can destroy a person's life- even if they are later found not guilty.
But the point of this blog is not to argue the rights and wrongs of suppression orders, but to point out that the internet makes this particular law a farce.
The man's identity is the worst kept secret of the State, and it's time that the law recognised that in the age of Web 2.0 and the rise of social media that suppresion orders are not worth the paper they are written on. And if any over-eager sub-judice lawyers are reading this, please note I did not break any ridiculous law.
(Now we will return you to your regular programming of mummy-juggle whinging!)
One of the hot topics for discussion was how the law continually fails to keep up with technology - and this was WAY before the internets.
It seems the law is still struggling, as envisaged by events in State politics this week.
A State parliamentarian was arrested and charged with possessing kiddie porn. He can't be named here due to a 1976 amendment to the the Evidence Act (1929).
Basically, the media may not publish any evidence tendered, or submission made, in the Magistrates Court relating to an alleged sex offence. This includes naming any person charged with an offence until they have entered a plea.
The crazy thing is that this law only applies in this state, so media elsewhere has taken a risk and named the MP in editions not sold here, and anyone with access to a computer can read all about it on various blogs (not to mention that Derryn Hinch himself has outed the alleged culprit.)
Now, as an former journo - and one that has spent more than a few hours reporting from criminal courts - I have a big problem with blanket suppression orders, but I do understand the notion of innocent until proven guilty and realise that being accused of kiddy porn can destroy a person's life- even if they are later found not guilty.
But the point of this blog is not to argue the rights and wrongs of suppression orders, but to point out that the internet makes this particular law a farce.
The man's identity is the worst kept secret of the State, and it's time that the law recognised that in the age of Web 2.0 and the rise of social media that suppresion orders are not worth the paper they are written on. And if any over-eager sub-judice lawyers are reading this, please note I did not break any ridiculous law.
(Now we will return you to your regular programming of mummy-juggle whinging!)
Friday, April 22, 2011
Where did my baby boy go?
My little boy is growing up.
Yes, yes, I know, this shouldn't come as a surprise. But it kind of has.
Sure we recognise all the regular milestones - first word, first step, first tooth, yada yada. But then they get a bit older and these reminders don't come along quite so frequently. And then, suddenly, they do.
In the past couple of weeks, Gromit has matured in front of my eyes. First, it was his rejection of Big Dog, the soft toy that has been his constant companion since the winemaker bought it at the hospital gift shop the day Gromit was born. Sure, Big Dog still sits on his bed during the day, but the poor thing is tossed unceremoniously on the floor at bedtime, when he used to be cuddled all night.
Then, he decided he wanted to read to himself before bed. The night-time ritual of me snuggling up to my boy and reading to him - one of the more peaceful moments of my day - was over. Kaput.
Until last week, Gromit needed the light on to go to sleep. Now he turns it off himself - after he's read a couple of chapters of his latest Boys Rule or Aussie Bites adventure.
Finally, yesterday we cleaned out his bedroom and he happily threw away broken, rubbishy toys and other things he no longer had a use for (3 1/2 garbage bags full! Plus a box of toys and books to be put aside for his sister).
He turns seven next month. My baby is no more.
Yes, yes, I know, this shouldn't come as a surprise. But it kind of has.
Sure we recognise all the regular milestones - first word, first step, first tooth, yada yada. But then they get a bit older and these reminders don't come along quite so frequently. And then, suddenly, they do.
In the past couple of weeks, Gromit has matured in front of my eyes. First, it was his rejection of Big Dog, the soft toy that has been his constant companion since the winemaker bought it at the hospital gift shop the day Gromit was born. Sure, Big Dog still sits on his bed during the day, but the poor thing is tossed unceremoniously on the floor at bedtime, when he used to be cuddled all night.
Then, he decided he wanted to read to himself before bed. The night-time ritual of me snuggling up to my boy and reading to him - one of the more peaceful moments of my day - was over. Kaput.
Until last week, Gromit needed the light on to go to sleep. Now he turns it off himself - after he's read a couple of chapters of his latest Boys Rule or Aussie Bites adventure.
Finally, yesterday we cleaned out his bedroom and he happily threw away broken, rubbishy toys and other things he no longer had a use for (3 1/2 garbage bags full! Plus a box of toys and books to be put aside for his sister).
He turns seven next month. My baby is no more.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
To sleep, perchance to dream
There's this new Oil of Olay ad where they use the same model they had 10 years ago to illustrate how the skin cream has kept her young.
The ad goes along the lines of "Ten years, two children, 348 pre-dawn starts", first showing the model as she originally appeared in press ads, then revealing her "now" look. Voila. No new wrinkles!
I am insanely jealous of this woman. Not because she hasn't aged in 10 years, but because, with two children she's managed only 348 pre-dawn starts.
Gromit is seven in 40 days. So that's 365x7-40= 2515 (give or take for leap years). I probably average one sleep-in a month in that time. So 12x7= 84. That gives me 2431 pre-dawn starts in seven years. And, honestly, most of the sleep-ins are because I've been up half the night with a child. They don't really count.
So you see my point.
I know not everyone is "blessed" with early-rising children. I've heard tell that some kids sleep in on weekends. I've also been told that some kids wake early, but then snuggle in the parents' bed and they all fall back asleep. Ha...when my kids are up, they are UP.
On the plus side, they do go to bed reasonably early, which is a good thing, since the winemaker and I hit a wall by about 8pm. (And, no, putting them to bed later does not make them get up later. Exactly the opposite in fact).
When you are pregnant, you expect a few sleepless nights and early mornings while the child is an infant. But no one warns you that the early starts may last a lot longer than that.
Of course, I wouldn't trade it for the world, yada yada yada. But I would pay good money for just one decent night's sleep with the opportunity to wake up when I was fully rested.
Or at least with no child screaming in my ear.
The ad goes along the lines of "Ten years, two children, 348 pre-dawn starts", first showing the model as she originally appeared in press ads, then revealing her "now" look. Voila. No new wrinkles!
I am insanely jealous of this woman. Not because she hasn't aged in 10 years, but because, with two children she's managed only 348 pre-dawn starts.
Gromit is seven in 40 days. So that's 365x7-40= 2515 (give or take for leap years). I probably average one sleep-in a month in that time. So 12x7= 84. That gives me 2431 pre-dawn starts in seven years. And, honestly, most of the sleep-ins are because I've been up half the night with a child. They don't really count.
So you see my point.
I know not everyone is "blessed" with early-rising children. I've heard tell that some kids sleep in on weekends. I've also been told that some kids wake early, but then snuggle in the parents' bed and they all fall back asleep. Ha...when my kids are up, they are UP.
On the plus side, they do go to bed reasonably early, which is a good thing, since the winemaker and I hit a wall by about 8pm. (And, no, putting them to bed later does not make them get up later. Exactly the opposite in fact).
When you are pregnant, you expect a few sleepless nights and early mornings while the child is an infant. But no one warns you that the early starts may last a lot longer than that.
Of course, I wouldn't trade it for the world, yada yada yada. But I would pay good money for just one decent night's sleep with the opportunity to wake up when I was fully rested.
Or at least with no child screaming in my ear.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
The mother of all guilt trips
I am a working mother, therefore I have a finely-tuned guilt gene. It comes with the territory.
Right now, the guilt gene is in overdrive. You see, I only go into the office two days a week - Tuesdays and Wednesdays - and this week, Missy has decided that those are the days she will get sick
So instead of attending meetings, developing marketing content, finalising artwork and collateral, writing a 2000 word article for an industry rag, and generally being an effective employee, I am at home, on the couch, watching over a sick little girl, while trying to do a bit of work.
The watching the kid bit is easy. She's running a fever and is generally lethargic, which means she is lying on the couch and is easily placated by liberal doses of Dora and the Wiggles as she drifts in and out of sleep.
Work? That's the hard bit.
So much of what I do involves interaction with others. In order to write said 2000 word article, I need to catch up with a colleague who knows the subject matter backwards. And it's hard to give valuable input into proposed graphic design changes via email or phone without the body language and robust discussion that goes with face-to-face meetings.
It's times like this when I am really conflicted about the whole career woman thing. In my case, my family is ALWAYS going to come first. And, at the moment, with the winemaker in the midst of vintage, I am, for all intents and purposes, single parenting.
And then the pragmatic business woman in me understands this makes me a risky prospect when it comes to employment.
At the moment, I'm lucky, I can do some of my work from home, and I work in the public sector, which means my employer is obliged to give me the flexibility I need.
But I can hear the frustration in my boss's voice when I call to let him know I can't actually make it into the office for one reason or another.
And I know, when I was the boss of part-time workers, how my eyes rolled back when they rang in sick, or because they had to look after sick kids. (Kids seem to have this uncanny ability to get sick on their parents' working days. It's a fact - someone should get a research grant to examine why).
So what's the solution? Do we go back 30 years to the days of single-income families (I know that I would totally have been one of those housewives dosed up on valium and having it off with the postman if I was at home with kids day in and day out).
Do we offer parents more opportunity to work from home? The problem there is that there are many jobs which just CAN'T be done from home (retail, factory work, staff management etc).
So, any ideas?
(Meanwhile, I guess I should stop the blogging about my dilemma and get some work done.)
Right now, the guilt gene is in overdrive. You see, I only go into the office two days a week - Tuesdays and Wednesdays - and this week, Missy has decided that those are the days she will get sick
So instead of attending meetings, developing marketing content, finalising artwork and collateral, writing a 2000 word article for an industry rag, and generally being an effective employee, I am at home, on the couch, watching over a sick little girl, while trying to do a bit of work.
The watching the kid bit is easy. She's running a fever and is generally lethargic, which means she is lying on the couch and is easily placated by liberal doses of Dora and the Wiggles as she drifts in and out of sleep.
Work? That's the hard bit.
So much of what I do involves interaction with others. In order to write said 2000 word article, I need to catch up with a colleague who knows the subject matter backwards. And it's hard to give valuable input into proposed graphic design changes via email or phone without the body language and robust discussion that goes with face-to-face meetings.
It's times like this when I am really conflicted about the whole career woman thing. In my case, my family is ALWAYS going to come first. And, at the moment, with the winemaker in the midst of vintage, I am, for all intents and purposes, single parenting.
And then the pragmatic business woman in me understands this makes me a risky prospect when it comes to employment.
At the moment, I'm lucky, I can do some of my work from home, and I work in the public sector, which means my employer is obliged to give me the flexibility I need.
But I can hear the frustration in my boss's voice when I call to let him know I can't actually make it into the office for one reason or another.
And I know, when I was the boss of part-time workers, how my eyes rolled back when they rang in sick, or because they had to look after sick kids. (Kids seem to have this uncanny ability to get sick on their parents' working days. It's a fact - someone should get a research grant to examine why).
So what's the solution? Do we go back 30 years to the days of single-income families (I know that I would totally have been one of those housewives dosed up on valium and having it off with the postman if I was at home with kids day in and day out).
Do we offer parents more opportunity to work from home? The problem there is that there are many jobs which just CAN'T be done from home (retail, factory work, staff management etc).
So, any ideas?
(Meanwhile, I guess I should stop the blogging about my dilemma and get some work done.)
Friday, March 18, 2011
A lasting reminder of India
I have many lasting memories of my three years in India, some hilarious (the naked sun worshipper on the bonnet of our car), others heart wrenching (the mass of humanity I saw every day outside my front gate), but mostly good.
There's the cultural influences, the poverty, the heat, the welcoming locals, the food (Bukhara Room rules!) and, of course, the many International friends I made (many of whom I am still in touch with, thanks to the Internets.),
But it seems I have one lasting effect, which means I may not have saved three lives back in January,
Turns out the blood bank was only able to use my plasma (so, I did save at least one life) because, get this, I have malaria antibodies in my blood, that must have been making themselves at home for the past 25 or so years.
Before you give blood, you need to answer some short questions (you know the kind : "Have you ever had unproteted sex with a intravenous drug user?"). I usually go along the rows of these and answer "No" to all these (which, quite frankly makes my life sound a little boring).
Until I got to the one "Have you ever lived or travelled more more than three months in a malaria-affected area?"
Bingo!
Something interesting about me.
It threw the Red Cross nurse into a bit of a lather, as she wasn't sure whether I needed to be tested, since I was in India so long ago (back when Michael Jackon was black and a web was something spiders wove).
Anyway she looked through all her material and learned that yes, anyone who had spent any length of time, no matter how long ago, in India, needed testing for malaria antibodies.
I thought nothing more of it until a week or so ago when I received a letter with, in bold letters, about 72 point, it read "Malaria Information Sheet."
Huh?
It turns out to not be such a big deal, it just shows that my antibodies did what antibodies are meant to do, that is fight infection. And it doesn't mean that I have (or ever had) malaria. Unfortuately, it also doesn't mean that I can't catch malaria.
As for donating blood, I will need to be tested each time I front up to the blood bank.
In the absence of symptoms, I can still give plasma. Whch is better than nothing, and more than a lot of people do.
And I still have all those other great memories.
There's the cultural influences, the poverty, the heat, the welcoming locals, the food (Bukhara Room rules!) and, of course, the many International friends I made (many of whom I am still in touch with, thanks to the Internets.),
But it seems I have one lasting effect, which means I may not have saved three lives back in January,
Turns out the blood bank was only able to use my plasma (so, I did save at least one life) because, get this, I have malaria antibodies in my blood, that must have been making themselves at home for the past 25 or so years.
Before you give blood, you need to answer some short questions (you know the kind : "Have you ever had unproteted sex with a intravenous drug user?"). I usually go along the rows of these and answer "No" to all these (which, quite frankly makes my life sound a little boring).
Until I got to the one "Have you ever lived or travelled more more than three months in a malaria-affected area?"
Bingo!
Something interesting about me.
It threw the Red Cross nurse into a bit of a lather, as she wasn't sure whether I needed to be tested, since I was in India so long ago (back when Michael Jackon was black and a web was something spiders wove).
Anyway she looked through all her material and learned that yes, anyone who had spent any length of time, no matter how long ago, in India, needed testing for malaria antibodies.
I thought nothing more of it until a week or so ago when I received a letter with, in bold letters, about 72 point, it read "Malaria Information Sheet."
Huh?
It turns out to not be such a big deal, it just shows that my antibodies did what antibodies are meant to do, that is fight infection. And it doesn't mean that I have (or ever had) malaria. Unfortuately, it also doesn't mean that I can't catch malaria.
As for donating blood, I will need to be tested each time I front up to the blood bank.
In the absence of symptoms, I can still give plasma. Whch is better than nothing, and more than a lot of people do.
And I still have all those other great memories.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Middle-age blues
I can't deny it anymore.
As of tomorrow, I will be past middle aged.
That's right, if you take the average life span for females in Australia (84) and divide it by 2, you get 42. Tomorrow, I will be 43. The downhill run.
I don't feel middle aged. Middle aged people wear cardigans, and talk about insurance, or real estate, or how things were so much better/cheaper/safer/simpler when they were young.
(Come to think of it, I really do need income protection insurance, and we could do with buying a house with more backyard. Gees life was so much simpler when I was young. I might even have the odd cardigan in the closet.)
It's also been many years since I knew (or cared) about the top ten charts (is there such a thing in the era of iTunes?) and I would rather an early night with a good red and a good book than hitting the latest nightclub.
Fuck, maybe I am middle aged?
But that means I am running out of time to live the dream. The 20-year old me would have been appalled at what's become of her. A house in the 'burbs, a husband, two kids, a job in the public sector.
Where's the rich Spanish lover? The homes around the world (in a quest to never experience Winter. I hate Winter)? The fame of being Australia's most trusted and respected foreign correspondent? The Jimmy Choos????
Still, life's not too bad. I have a husband who loves me and is a great dad, two kids who keep me amused and tear my heart out (often both at the same time), my health, a steady job with good pay and benefits, caring, thoughful friends who are always there for me.
And it could be worse. I could live in Swaziland. With an average female life expectancy of 39, I would be positively ancient.
As of tomorrow, I will be past middle aged.
That's right, if you take the average life span for females in Australia (84) and divide it by 2, you get 42. Tomorrow, I will be 43. The downhill run.
I don't feel middle aged. Middle aged people wear cardigans, and talk about insurance, or real estate, or how things were so much better/cheaper/safer/simpler when they were young.
(Come to think of it, I really do need income protection insurance, and we could do with buying a house with more backyard. Gees life was so much simpler when I was young. I might even have the odd cardigan in the closet.)
It's also been many years since I knew (or cared) about the top ten charts (is there such a thing in the era of iTunes?) and I would rather an early night with a good red and a good book than hitting the latest nightclub.
Fuck, maybe I am middle aged?
But that means I am running out of time to live the dream. The 20-year old me would have been appalled at what's become of her. A house in the 'burbs, a husband, two kids, a job in the public sector.
Where's the rich Spanish lover? The homes around the world (in a quest to never experience Winter. I hate Winter)? The fame of being Australia's most trusted and respected foreign correspondent? The Jimmy Choos????
Still, life's not too bad. I have a husband who loves me and is a great dad, two kids who keep me amused and tear my heart out (often both at the same time), my health, a steady job with good pay and benefits, caring, thoughful friends who are always there for me.
And it could be worse. I could live in Swaziland. With an average female life expectancy of 39, I would be positively ancient.
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