Living a Charmed Life

A few weeks back, my mother's group decided that we should all get out of the house and do a lunch at the new Tapas & Wine Bar in the Town Centre. At this long awaited lunch, one of the mums mentioned that she had been sharing her lunch plans with her husband that morning when he had laughed and made a joke about her 'living a charmed life'. As I sat absorbing this, I felt grateful that my husband had never tried to be quite so hilarious. Perhaps I'm not the right audience for these "oh so funny" comments. Any digs about my easy day would result in a swapsies situation where I would quite happily head off to work and allow my husband a go at living the good life.

I looked around at the seven tired faces before me and doubted very much that any of them felt that they were living a charmed life. Half of the women are still getting up to their babies multiple times during the night. A few have babies that will not sleep at all during the day. All of us have sore backs and shoulders from endless carrying, changing and breastfeeding. Most of us have frightening amounts of hair loss and no opportunity to vacuum it up. Charmed life? Please. These aren't bored, rich women, filling their days with expensive boozy lunches and shopping, these are new mums who spend what little free time they have, googling baby issues and doing their pelvic floor exercises so that they don't wee themselves every time they sneeze.

My morning leading up to the lunch was something out of a Stephen King novel. No one told me that at six months my son would completely change personalities and decide that he cannot play, sleep or fill his nappy without being held while he does it. It had taken me almost 1.5 hours of patting, rocking, shushing, cuddling and finally feeding before I could get him to sleep for his nap. By the time he fell asleep it was time for me to leave so I considered not going as there was no way in hell I was going to wake him. Luckily for me (note the sarcasm) he only slept for 25 minutes, so I decided to show up very late instead.

At the mention of lunch, I'm sure our husbands imagine seven fresh faced women, dressed in their best, clucking over their babies and sharing recipes (I admit, their was one discussion about lamb shanks), but the reality of a lunch involving seven new mothers and seven young babies is that there was at least one unsettled baby the entire time. Just when one was finally asleep in their pram, another would start with the I'm hungry/tired/simply bored routine. No one wants to be the table annoying the rest of the patrons with noisy children and prams blocking every possible exit, but that was us. We tried hard to read the elegant paper menus without the babies tearing them up, and we all mentally frowned at the prices and tried not to let it show on our faces. A lunch with the girls is not without guilty spending, after all, we are the ones that are no longer contributing financially to the household. Losing an entire income sure makes this charmed life difficult.

This was not a lunch for women living a charmed life. It was a lunch for a group mothers trying to do something normal and understanding that they will pay for it later with an overtired child. It was a lunch to break up the long, lonely week at home where housework is a luxury, not a given. The lunch was to remind ourselves that their are other food options besides toast and long life soup. It was a chance to put on nice (pre-baby) clothes even if they immediately get dirtied up by dribble and sticky hands. To be clear, husbands, a charmed life would be a fancy restaurant with no thought of the cost. A charmed life would be babies at home with the nanny and a guilt free glass of wine without timing breastfeeds. My idea of a charmed life has a housekeeper to take care of the constant washing and endless dishes and perhaps a husband who is capable of putting a dirty spoon in the dishwasher.

Maybe next time boys, thoughts to yourselves.

The Big Easy?

'There is one thing nobody warned me about when I became a mother: what a breeze it would be'. This quote is from Jacinta's Tynon's article which appeared in an August edition of Sunday Life. The article was smugly entitled, The Big Easy. For the lucky few that missed it, I'm going to take you to the darkside for just a few moments. I have mixed feelings about this article and they range from a reluctant understanding of some points, to wanting to ram her repeatedly with my shopping trolley if I should ever have the pleasure of running into her at the supermarket. The article was always going to create some controversy (perhaps that was its purpose) but I really believe it was irresponsible and potentially did a lot of damage to new Mums who aren't finding it a 'cinch'. I could forgive Jacinta if the article had been a point of view piece, but it wasn't. It was an attack on new mothers who are already riddled with self doubt and guilt about the job they are doing. Even if that wasn't the intention.

Tynon's comparison of today's Mums to our Mothers/Grandmothers is ridiculous. 'I do think we could learn a thing or two from our mothers and grandmothers. You never heard a peep out of them about mucking in to double the kids and double the workload, with no online groceries or disposable nappies'. I believe similar challenges would have existed for our Grandmothers. They may not have had the same opportunities to discuss them opening and honestly, but does this make them better mothers? Do we really want to step back to a time of fake smiles and feelings swept under the carpet? Should we also start sending women with postnatal depression to psychiatric hospitals for shock treatment, like in the good old days? Even our Grandmothers would agree that the expectations of mothers nowadays are different. These high (sometimes unrealistic) expectations mashed together with the increasing isolation and lack of support, mean that you cannot compare being a mother now to 50 years ago.

With regard to the big topic of sleep deprivation, Jacinta states that, 'there is nothing difficult about being up all night with the love of your life'. She describes it as a privilege. To some extent this is true however I have spoken to women who have babies that literally do not sleep at night. A friend of mine was getting up to her crying child every 20 minutes to 1 hour for the first six weeks, and I can promise you she wasn't gushing about what a privilege it was. It was hard, she didn't pretend that it wasn't, and she shouldn't have to. 'Our generation acts as if we deserve a medal', Tynon says. If I thought a medal would have helped my sleep deprived friend, I would have given her one, however I have never met a mother who wants a medal. Some sleep? A shower? An uninterrupted meal? Absolutely.

Some other classic quotes from the article include, 'It’s not like we didn’t know what we were signing up for', 'I can't see what all the fuss is about' and 'Babies don't cry to annoy us. They cry because they are hungry or tired and we are here to solve that.' Who has ever said that babies cry to annoy us? I think every mother understands that a baby cries because of needs. It doesn't make it any easier to listen to hours of heartbreaking tears whilst your trying to figure out what that need is. I agree that most women understand what they are signing up for, but it doesn't make the lack of sleep and bleeding nipples any easier when you are living it. The fuss my dear, is about the overwhelming love you feel for this helpless person. It's about the constant worry for their well being. It's about temporarily losing all the things in your life that make you, you, including the job you have spent your whole life working towards and some of your friends. The fuss is about your perfect child in this sometimes crappy world. What's all the fuss about? Really?

I hope that the article didn't do the damage I'm imagining. I hope that no new Mums read it and began to doubt themselves because they don't feel the same. I also hope that Jacinta's toddler years bring her back to the real world where motherhood has its rewards, and challenges. Perhaps baby number two will put a stop to her reckless mummy brags. Feeling overwhelmed doesn't mean that we love our children any less, so lets not feel guilty for recognising the hard parts.

Sweet Potato

The other day I was making a casserole to welcome a new family to the neighborhood (complete lie, it was for us, I don't like most of our neighbours) and during the preparation I discovered I had forgotten to buy sweet potato which happened to be the key ingredient for this particular recipe. BB (before baby) I would have swooped up my car keys and wallet, and headed to the supermarket without a second thought. BB I would have used fresh herbs that ended up costing more than the meat. BB I may have even made my own stock (gasp!). BB I wanted maximum success from each recipe to ensure appropriate levels of praise from my husband. However, the other day when faced with my sweet potato dilemma, I did a quick outing versus outcome analysis and decided that I would use carrot instead.

I'm curious as to whether other mother's do this analysis when weighing up daily excursions. For the instance above, the 10 minute eating experience and 5 second grumble of gratitude from my husband, was not worth the 10 minutes of planning and 25 minute excursion to get the ingredient (pram in, pram out, pram in , pram out...). The scales might have been tipped if it had been an anniversary dinner, or friends were joining us or if I needed an excuse to buy donuts, but it was just a weekday dinner, the two of us and I had some posh ice cream to distract me from the donuts.

Going to the shops for a last minute purchase isn't what it used to be. It's only a two minute drive, but it can literally end in tears if my son falls asleep on the way and I have to wake him to put him into the pram. So I plan short trips for when he has just woken, had a feed and still has a few minutes of good mood in him. If he is tired, I sing and make silly noises to keep him awake. Yes, I'm that weird person. I also don't want him to fall asleep in the pram for the five minutes I'm in the supermarket, because then I have to wake him to put him back in the car. A five minute pram catnap often results in him not going down for his next nap which means an over tired child and no opportunity to actually cook dinner anyway.

The preparation involved tires me just thinking about it. Do I have nappies, wipes and a spare change of clothes in case he does one of his infamous poos in the small time we are there? Is the pram in the car? Do I have spew rag for the inevitable vom as I'm getting him out of the car? I dress him in a billion layers of clothing to protect him from Melbourne's winter and find a hat for his bald little head. I then force myself to change out of my dirty house trackies into some clean trackies (because I've got class) and put on a billion layers of clothing myself. It's a lot of effort for donuts...I mean sweet potato.

The bigger car trips require even more planning. I tend to leave at nap times to ensure he sleeps because I can't listen to 45 minutes of heartbreaking tears. There is only so much entertainment value I can offer from the drivers seat and like me, my son is easily bored. Sadly, he is too young for car games, and I've recently been advised by my husband that the games I play (most of which I make up as I go) are not fun anyway. I disagree and believe that when my son is a little older he will hop into the car and feel like he is boarding the party bus. I can hear crickets chirping as I type.

In the old days, women used to run next door to borrow a cup of sugar. I understand this now. A trip to the supermarket must have been a nightmare with their large herds of children and lack of modern conveniences. Perhaps it's time I stopped judging my neighbours by their front yards and started sharing pantry essentials. So next time you need a sweet potato, feel free to knock on my door. I probably won't have one to give but I should be able to offer a carrot substitute and a few tips on maintaining your lawn.

The Lioness

A few months back, I bundled my son into the pram and went to Target to get a few essentials (yes, Cherry Ripes count as essentials when they are on special). This particular day was very busy due to some last minute Easter Egg shopping, so I joined the long cue and waited semi-patiently for my turn. Slowly the cue of people moved forward until finally I was next to be served. There were many registers open to cope with the busy rush so I watched closely so that I would be ready to go as soon as a checkout became available. It was only a matter of seconds before a staff member called out, 'Next please', but before I had a chance to move, the man behind me placed his hand on my pram, gave it a push forward, and said, 'Go'.

I consider myself a tolerant person, an understanding person, a sane person, even a nice person, but the moment that man's hand touched my pram, a foreign (demonic sounding) noise which was meant to be my voice, roared at him, 'Don't touch the pram'. He stepped back, I stepped back, I think most of the surrounding customers stepped back and I believe my son would have stepped back if he could have. Anyone would have thought that the man reached out and slapped my child or pushed the pram into oncoming traffic. I actually had to take a moment to regain my composure before sheepishly wheeling my pram to the register and placing my embarrassing stash of Cherry Ripes onto the counter. I was suddenly the protective mother. I was a lioness.

When my husband came home from work that evening, I told him there was no need for him to ever worry about our son. I knew that I was going to protect him until the day I died. If he got stuck under a bus, I was going to be the super Mum that single-handedly lifted the bus off him. My husband didn't look convinced. He said that I couldn't be there his entire life to protect him. He said there would be school yard fights and sports injuries that I could nothing about. Panic immediately rose within me as I imagined my son getting punched by another teenager. My next thought was of me saving him, appearing on top of a hill like in the movies, a tough walk towards them as the watching crowd separates in fear. Or maybe he will get knocked on the footy field by one of those freakishly large teenagers that shouldn't be allowed to play with the children. I'll jump the barrier, leap across 50 metres of playing field in two bounds and take out his opponent in a single tackle.

When I shared these thoughts with my husband, he looked liked I had just shared plans of a massacre at our sons school. Apparently teenage boys don't like to be saved by their mothers in front of their peers, who knew? As a lioness, am I meant to send my cubs out into open African plains unprotected? Come on husband, we've all seen The Lion King and know where Simba would be if his Mum had just sat back and let boys be boys.

I'm not sure whether my Disney references help my argument so perhaps there is a compromise between our lines of thinking. Until this compromise is made, I remain a lioness, so back away from the baby people.

It's On

In my former life, I used to walk in to a room full of people and begin to check out other women. It was never a conscious thing (or a sexual thing, much to my husbands disappointment) but my eyes would immediately find the women with the great hair, cute handbags, hot shoes, the perfect dress or that statement belt. I would elbow my husband and say, 'She has the exact boots that I want' or 'Would I look like a wrestler wearing that belt?' or 'Do you think that dress would emphasize the fact that I have the body of a twelve year old boy?'. My husband would respond with, 'Ask her where she got the boots' (not likely), or 'Yes you would look like a wrestler' (fair enough), and 'You may have the body of a young boy but you live life like a Nana, so that levels things out' (...thanks...). I didn't realise it at the time, but this behaviour was driven by an inbuilt competitive streak that every woman has. This streak varies according to a persons nature, their interests, their priorities, stage of life and the people they surround themselves with, but its always there.

When I fell pregnant, things began to change and I started only taking notice of other pregnant women. I became really good at gaging how far along they were, whether they were suffering from morning sickness, whether they were tired and whether they were uncomfortable with their size. I would compare my kankles with their kankles. I would compare my practical shoes with their practical shoes. I would look at their over sized clothes and then at my over sized clothes. Suddenly I didn't care about handbags.

Now, when strolling the streets of Babyboomsville (where I live), my eyes immediately go to other mothers passing with their prams. With a flick of the eyes I manage a quick analysis which can be broken down as follows. My first thought is always to the child in the pram. How old is the infant? What is its gender? Does the child have a freakishly large head or a suspicious amount of hair? (I'm awful). My next thought is a sum up the pram. What brand is it? Is it lighter than mine? How much shopping can you strap on the back before it tips? Did they sell a kidney to afford it? And finally my eyes meet the mothers, where I have a brief moment to establish whether she is getting more or less sleep than. After all, sleep is the biggest win a mother can have over another mother. This process is reciprocated, and whilst the passer by might not have the same fear of large headed babies, she's making her own notes.

Lately, I'm discovering that any gathering of Mothers can be a breeding ground for competitiveness. Forget about prams, nappy bags and all materialistic items, it's all about whose baby is 'sleeping through', using a dummy (and cue the debate disguised as a discussion), gaining weight (the baby's thank god), breastfed, starting solids (cue second debate) and the all important (apparently) reaching of developmental milestones. I personally don't care whether my son rolls at 4 months or 10 months. I assume it doesn't affect what school he gets into or his ability to make friends later in life. I do care that he doesn't become a drug addict or get his highschool girlfriend pregnant. Perhaps later in life I can start the disappointed lecture with, 'first you take ten months to roll, and now this'.

One of the most competitive activities amongst Mothers is 'tummy time'. I've literally seen babies lined up, on their tummies, with their Mums secretly cheering them on. No one wants their baby to be the first to cry, complain or rest their head on the rug. This activity also provides an opportunity for rolling which would be a double win.

I don't imagine this ever stops. In 30 years we'll be sitting around comparing Grandchildren and retirement plans. In 50 years I'll walk into a room full of people and start checking out their walking frames. I'll elbow my husband and say, 'that's the exact seat walker I want. The Voyager 2817'. He'll respond with, 'why don't you go ask her where she got it?'. Not likely.

A Safe Place

Safety is a big topic these days and the fear of harm coming to your child begins at pregnancy and continues on...well to the end I imagine. When I was pregnant, I remember the constant disappointment of discovering new things that I couldn't eat. I was enjoying a chocolate mousse one day and was told (with huge alarm) that there was raw egg in it which I shouldn't eat. I'll never forget looking down and seeing the decorative cream still intact. Luckily, someone was willing to swap for a fruity, strudely thing which I quickly ate before any lectures on the dangers of pastry could arise. My poor food choices mixed with my occasional (completely guilt ridden) half a glass of wine, meant great relief was felt when our baby finally arrived a picture of health.

After the birth, our next safety concern (besides me accidentally dropping/drowning the baby) was SIDS. The amount of handouts and information I received on this topic had me utterly convinced that each time I went to check on my baby, I would find him dead. Even after four months, I still go into his room during naps and sleeps to check that he is breathing. Unexpected long sleep periods at night should be a chance to catch up on some rest, instead, I wake in a panic (and with engorged breasts) and rush down to the hall, ready to begin resuscitation. I have no doubt that safe sleep education has been key to the 85% decrease in deaths over the last 20 years and whilst I'm grateful for the knowledge and the small amount of control I feel over this one threat to my child, the constant reminders make for many worries.

Of course, there is always something new to worry about. A few weeks ago my Mother's Group had a session on safety which I walked away from in a state of shock. That evening when my husband came home from work I announced that we would need to move house. When he didn't react, I went on to explain that there were far too many dangers to our son in our current home and a simple home of 4 padded white walls was the only way I was ever going to be able to sleep again. My ever patient (and annoyingly rational) husband waited for me to explain, so I gave him the safety talk. I told him horror stories of kids falling into dishwashers and impaling themselves on knives. I told him about the drownings in nappy buckets. I told him that babies were hanging themselves from change table safety straps. Yes, safety straps, designed for their safety! I also told him that the power balls in dishwashing tablets fall out all the time and are eaten by innocent children who think they are lollies. These balls burn through their esophagus and the few that survive are fed via tubes. When I didn't get the desired response, I told him we currently use those exact Power Ball tablets (he'd know this if he ever put the dishwasher on - but I must not digress). This actually got me wondering why we are washing our dishes with this product at all? I've been blinded by the dazzling sparkle of my wine glasses for too long.

At the end of the Safety session the Health Nurse showed us an entire plastic tub of safety bits and pieces. She told us to go home and crawl around on the floor (sober, oh how I've grown) to see what changes were needed. This is when I realised it might be easier to sell and start fresh. The only items missing from our dangerous, war zone of a house, were loaded firearms scattered on the floor and a few grenades in the cupboards. We seriously have some safety work ahead of us. In the meantime, I have instructed our son not to reach any new developmental milestones that might endanger him. Rolling, crawling and walking are strictly prohibited until our house is disarmed or Daddy agrees to move us to the padded white room.

The reality is that we have years of safety worries ahead us. Safety when riding bikes and scooters, safe crossing of roads, safe driving of cars and lets not forget safe sex (from the age of 30, to an approved partner). It's too stressful to think that far ahead, so for now I'll mourn the loss of my chocolate mousse and try to remember to close the dishwasher door properly.

The List

If you wanted to, you could quite easily spend all of your earnings on your baby. Between clothing, furniture, equipment, accessories, toys, parenting books, masses of nappies and the random 'that's cute' purchases, separating the needs from the wants can be a very difficult task for new Mums. There is a lot of money to be made in baby world if you have a good idea and someone to market it. If you haven't walked into a Baby Bunting lately or ventured online to shop, then hide your credit card and take a look around.

Shopping for a new baby can be pretty exciting. There are many parenting sites that now provide you with a list of must haves and nice to haves. When I was pregnant I was given one these lists and began chipping away at it over the weeks so that it wouldn't be one big financial shock. I was fortunate to get a lot of furniture second hand from family but still had to go out and get some big ticket items, such as a pram. The problem is that when you go to buy a pram, you can potentially walk out with a pram, compatible car capsule, pram liner, sun shade, rain cover, foot muff, transport bag, cup holder, stroller tidy, snack pod, double kit (for number two), cushy straps, piddlepad (yep), head support, a fan (!), pram wrap/blanket and some attachable toys. Its terrifying to think of what you could spend if all of the above is just one item off your 7 page list. I often wonder how I survived as a child without a stroller fan? There doesn't seem to be any long term damage from my mother using a standard blanket as opposed to a pram blanket, though some issues may surface later in life. Watch this space.

Sleep products are surely the biggest cash cows. Gone are the days of bunny rugs and blankets. Now its all about wraps, swaddles and sleeping bags. Each product claiming to keep your child at the optimum temperature or in the safest sleeping position or to closely resemble the womb. Anything that gives parents hope of more sleep is going to sell. These are the sort of products that you buy when you are sleep deprived without looking at the price tags. I have the Wrap Me Up swaddle bags where their arms are positioned up. My little guy won't settle if he can't suck his hands. I very sensibly bought two however the other day one was pooed one and one spewed on, so I tried putting my son down for a nap without it. It was a teary disaster. His little arms were frantically flapping in the air and he had no idea how to fall asleep with those things waving in front of his face.

You may have guessed that I didn't end up buying everything on the list. I probably only bought around half of the items. I was never going to buy a bath thermometer when I have a perfectly good, free elbow. That money went towards a cabbage, which was strangely never mentioned on any of the lists, yet was my number one must have. Oh the relief. I did however end up buying a play gym, which I first scoffed at and deemed unnecessary. My son loves it and I do wonder how I filled my days as a baby without one. The many attachable toys with all their unique sounds, the mirror that my son smiles at (he thinks he has a friend that Mummy keeps in the cupboard), the colourful play mat with different fabrics for him to feel and throw up on, the musical foot pad that I have never put batteries in but look forward to discovering one day. Yes, arm me with a cabbage and play gym and I'm sorted for child number two.

These days, every aspect of parenting is supported by a mass of 'things'. There are so many toys, activity tables, gyms, walkers, jumpers, swings and various sleep aids, that all you need is a wet nurse to take care of the feeding and someone to invent a nappy changer, and you can sit back with a good book and let the gadgets raise your children. Of course I'm a massive hypocrite. I'm sitting here looking at my sons rocker which has both vibrate and music options because heaven forbid I just buy the rocker that rocks.

Living the suburban dream?

A friend said to me a few months back that there was no way she was going to end up a suburban cliché. The furthest she would live from the city was Camberwell. She's not one for housing estates and blossoming new suburbs. So whilst throwing imaginary darts at her head, I started thinking about my journey to becoming a suburban cliché.

I grew up in a small country town where property is measured in acres and pets have udders. When I finished high school and headed to Uni to begin a course I would later change four times, I was heading to the bright lights and fast pace of the city, not the safety of its suburbs. Over the years however, I moved house many times, each time I moved a little further out. It didn't matter that I started to earn more money because everything got more expensive (especially shoes). When it was eventually time to buy, we moved West where the land was plentiful and the houses were realistically priced. It was such a slow transition from struggling student to home owner that I barely noticed it.

We built the standard three bedroom home on an averaged sized block. We gradually began to replace our crappy furniture with adult pieces. We landscaped the front yard and planted drought resistant, low maintenance plants that can be found at every single house within the estate. It wasn't long before we got a dog to torture our cat. Then came the baby to torture the dog. Finally we bought a station wagon to carry the dog/baby/pram/my gigantic nappy bag. And here we are.

Our move to the West was not without sacrifice. The main challenge of living in any outer suburb is travel. Peak hour is a nightmare. Whether you are braving the Westgate Freeway or the train, you can expect problems. When I was five months pregnant, I was travelling into work by train and a man threw up on me. He actually vomited three times and then got off the train without saying a word. I had managed to survive morning sickness without throwing up on anyone (there was one out of the door incident which I'm trying to forget), I couldn't believe my bad luck. We also have a fair amount of travel to visit family and friends. Most have remained in the East or far North, so visiting requires planning and a small bank loan to cover the insane petrol costs.

What it comes down to though, is that I have chosen this suburban life and I prefer it to anything the city could offer. I like living in a new estate and watching young families moving into their first homes. I like the shiny new roads and facilities that continue to pop up around us. I like going to the local shops and knowing I can always get a free car park (and a pram park no less!). I like that our supermarket is new and clean and staff are friendly because they are not yet tainted by years of service. I love that prams are like handbags and no one leaves homes without one. Of course there is Target instead of David Jones, Jeans West instead of Calvin Klein and childcare centres instead of pubs, the town is catering to families. The suburb was built for families, what's wrong with that?

Am I a suburban cliché? Absolutely, and I have the Ugg boots to prove it.

The Thrifty Mum

There was once a time that I considered getting a 'No Junk Mail' sticker for our letter box. Everyday I would come home from work to an overstuffed letterbox of (usually soggy) catalogues and amateur flyers. I would grab the pile of paper mache and place it directly into the recycling bin before heading inside. I'm not sure when this changed, but the other day I spent an entire nap period (my son's that is) reading the local paper and various catalogues cover to cover. Yes, cover to cover. What was I looking for? A bargain. I have discovered that stay at home Mums don't like to pay full price.

My last pay before maternity leave was quite emotional. I had been in paid employment since I was fifteen years old. Suddenly I was completely dependent on my husband for money. Suddenly there was less money. I began to have dreams about my husband abandoning me. I began to feel guilty when withdrawing money at the ATM. I started actually reading our bills when they came in instead of leaving them unopened in the study where they would magically disappear.

After a few weeks in my new role, I began a spreadsheet to track our spending. I told my husband we had to record every single dollar we spent each day so that we could see exactly where money was going and how we could cut back. This is how I discovered my husband's Bounty Bar a day habit, but I won't digress. It didn't take long for me to realise that our spending wasn't overly irresponsible, life is just very expensive (we may have had a conversation about the $435 being spent on Bounty Bars each year). With my new found perspective, I began my mission (or possibly obsession) of reducing our overall cost of living to help ease the guilt I felt whenever I spent money.

There are some really easy ways to do this, but it takes discipline. For example, by simply switching to a generic brand of Milk, we save $41.60 per year. I figure that this milk does not come from inferior cows. I can't imagine a cow getting a little old or lame and subsequently being shipped off to the Coles Smartsaver dairy farm to live out its final days. I also figure that my husband will eventually stop feeling embarrassed by the label on our milk when making visitors a coffee. Once we started to switch to generic for a number of everyday items, the savings began to add up.

I also wasn't afraid to bulk buy items on special. Ask my husband how much toilet paper we have stashed away. The problem is that there is weekly specials on toilet paper and now each time we go past the big displays at the end of the aisle, my husband says "NO", before I even get a chance to ask the question. You also have to know what items are acceptable as 'bulk buys'. Tinned tomatoes, pasta and nappies are all great items to buy up big. Cadbury blocks, Neapolitan ice cream and Kettle chips just make for a week of binge eating rather than actually any savings. Snack food is actually our biggest demon. Its all good to pat yourselves on the back for saving $20 on groceries, but if you are going to then grab a couple of scrolls and a coffee as you head home, it was all for nothing. Do that weekly and that is $624 you are inhaling on the way to the car each year.

Being a thrifty mum is 50% common sense and 50% discipline. It's now part of the job description regardless of your household income. Mums interpret thrifty in many different ways, and I have to give a bigs hats off to the eBay Mums who are trotting off to the post office and sacrificing their small amount of free time listing various baby bits for often very minimal profit. Go team.

The Bad Days

Bad Days always start just like any other day. There is nothing significant about their beginning. You feed, you burp, you change, you play, you wrap, you put them into bed. Then for no obvious reason, things begin to change. Perhaps they refuse to nap or the nap is unusually short. Maybe they refuse the breast or the bottle. They don't want to be put down. They don't want to be picked up. They don't want to be upright/horizontal/rocked/spoken to/standing still/burped/changed/looked at. Grizzles turn to hysterical tears and so begins your bad day.

These are no longer tears of a tired baby or a hungry baby or a windy baby. These are real tears of despair. You mull over words such as colic and reflux because that's what mother's do. You have to give it a label so that you can fix it. Maybe it's something more serious or maybe they just heard Coldplay on the radio. What did you eat yesterday? Is there a temperature? Why are there so many germy kids roaming the streets threatening to infect your perfect infant?

You try to remember whether this is one of the developmental milestone weeks where they go a little crazy. It isn't. With your baby in your arms, you do what any worried mother would do in this situation, you reach for your 2nd fun size Mars Bar for the day and start Googling. Once you have ruled out serious illness and looked at more pictures of oozing rashes than you can bear, you do a quick search to find out how many fun size Mars Bars equals a normal size bar. Three. You down your third and then decide to have another go at settling/feeding/exorcism.

This time when hysteria sets in, you decide to never attempt that again and resign yourself to pacing the house until baby eventually falls asleep in your arms. The second they are asleep you realise that your left arm has pins and needles, your back is sore and you have somehow missed lunch. How many hours until husband is home? How many times can you have pizza for dinner before your start to look like one? Why do bananas go brown over night and Barbecue Shapes last for months in the cupboards?

Baby ends up sleeping for a whopping 25 minutes in your arms despite your best efforts at keeping them asleep. If being over-tired wasn't the issue before, it sure is now. And so begins your afternoon.

You hear mothers talk about the bad days, but until you actually survive one, you can't comprehend it. When other mothers mention 'feral' days they speak with a roll of the eyes and a shake of the head to which most people respond with a knowing look and coy smile. Well I didn't know, but I know now. In the future when mothers start talking about the bad days, I will respond with a giant hug and a king size Mars Bar.

Dressing Down

I own some lovely shoes. Flat, stiletto, kitten heel, peep toe and even some hot little ankle boots which are probably out of fashion now. I stopped wearing most of them when I was six months pregnant because they were either impractical due to my diminishing coordination, or, just didn't fit my puffy little feet. With the joy of pregnancy now behind me, I have the opportunity to become one of those women who gets all dolled up to do the grocery shopping. I could whip out my super skinny jeans, a handbag that matches my shoes and apply layer upon layer of make-up. But I can't be bothered. I really can't be bothered.

In the later stages of pregnancy, after I had finished work and didn't have to recycle the same three outfits any more, I bought myself multiple pairs of some very comfy trackies. I lived in these trackies right up until the moment my Obstetrician broke my waters. Scarily, as soon as I was showered after the birth, I slipped into a clean pair, and here I am almost 13 weeks later, still enjoying their comfort. They are actually officially referred to as yoga pants. They have a loose elastic waist which means I don't have to deal with drawstrings of any kind.

There have been a few occasions over the last few weeks where I have been required to put on jeans, a pretty top and of course a pair of shoes that aren't runners or slippers. These outings were hard work. I had to blow-dry and straighten my hair. I had to put on make-up. I had to find my wedding rings which have been buried in a drawer since my fingers got fat many months back. It felt like it took me about six hours to get ready. I walked out of the bathroom, looked at my son, and began to wonder what important milestones I may have missed in the time I was in there. I worried my husband wouldn't recognise me with my hair down and the baby vomit washed away.

I tried to remember how it used to be, going through that every morning. I started adding up the time in my head and figuring out how much extra sleep that could have been. I'll take the sleep over the make up any day. Sleep, food and a shower, in that order. My how things have changed. I guess the next step for me is buying sensible shoes from the chemist. The ugly ones that are not too dissimilar to some hiking shoes my husband owns. I'm sure they are very comfortable.

So the point of this post (yes, there is a point), is next time you see a tired mother trawling the isles of a supermarket in her tracksuit and well worn runners, try to see past her unwashed hair to the sassy shoe collection that may be waiting for her at home.

Me Time

My husband and I have had many discussions since our son was born regarding the changes in our lives. It really wasn't that long ago that we were free to come and go as we pleased without timing naps and feeds. We would stay up late on Friday nights watching movies and spend Saturdays wandering the shops. We would meet up with friends for a BBQ and a few beers. On Sunday we would do grocery shopping and have a lazy lunch and then I would spend Sunday night dreading the working week. That was our simple life.

In my current life I often have no idea what day it is. This isn't something I say to people to make a point about how busy or tired I am. It's just that the routine of a new baby doesn't change depending on the day. The only difference between working days and weekends is that my husband is home or not home. Ok, so I have some outings during the week and we do catch up with friends on the weekend (sometimes), but as any new Mum knows - outings are not what they used to be.

When I complain to my husband that I no longer have any time to myself he does something that makes me a little crazy - he agrees. He gives me a knowing look as if this statement applies to him also. He makes helpless gestures in that 'what can we do?' sort of way. He actually believes we are experiencing this together. He even has the audacity to look tired.

I'm sure my face twitches when he does this. I'm fairly sure little puffs of steam come from my nose and ears. I'm definitely sure that there is a storm brewing with this topic. Don't get me wrong, I acknowledge that there are changes in his life, but allow me to elaborate on what I mean about time to myself.

In the morning my husband rises and goes to the gym, alone with just himself to worry about, just like the good old days. When he gets home he has breakfast when he chooses and then has a shower for whatever amount of time he needs. He casually gets dressed, jumps on the computer for a quick news fix and then finally gets in the car (alone) to go to work. He can turn the music up. He can swear at other drivers. He can get peacefully get stuck in traffic without thinking about how long he has before the little guy starts screaming for a feed. At work he mingles with other adults (he may disagree with this point) and has a lunch break at a time when he is hungry. A whole hour! He then gets another car trip home. Once home, he spends a maximum of 45 minutes with our son before he is due to go down for the evening. After doing whatever he likes for the rest ofevening, he goes to bed at a time he chooses and sleeps for the entire night.

I don't really need to expand on this. I think my subtle point has been made. Before you start thinking that I have an awful husband, I don't. He's a beautiful man who is just a little naive right now. He doesn't understand why when he talks about baby number two, I flinch. I know this will change and I will be begging for another child in 12 months time, but right now I need to get over the shock of number one.

Time to yourself doesn't have to be a trip to the movies, shopping or even the hairdressers. A long shower or a wee with the door closed could be good enough.

Looking to the Future

'Who is your Obstetrician?'. This question came to me from my pilates instructor when I was six weeks pregnant. I had barely conceived at this time. I was recovering from the shock of an unplanned pregnancy. I was still hungover from my trip overseas where 'the incident' occurred. When I responded that I hadn't thought that far ahead, she looked at me as though I had just said 'Doctors are for wimps'. Apparently all the good Obstetricians get snatched up and and some are unable to take new patients.

So the next day I plucked a name from the list of recommendations she had given me and rang in a panic hoping someone would take me on. I was in luck, this OB was taking new patients. 'What hospital would you like to give birth at?' asked the midwife. Did I have to decide that now? Maybe she hadn't heard me when I said I was only six weeks along. I was given two choices and I picked the one with hospital in the title to be safe. Tick, done. I had an OB and a hospital. Now I could sit back and enjoy my morning sickness in peace.

'Have you put your name down for childcare?'. This question came to me from a client when I was 17 weeks pregnant. What a strange question I thought. I was still figuring out how I was going to care for the child. I was planning to take a year off work, I had months and months before childcare needed to be considered. So, I put it off and put it off, determined to survive the birth first. Once my son was born the question became more frequent. Perfect strangers with raw concern in their voices began to ask me. So once again I panicked, and feeling like a terrible mother, I walked into my local ABC with my 4 week old son and asked about services for the following year. I was told about the waiting list. I was told it would be months before I would know whether I had a spot. She asked me how many days a week, which days, what date I was starting back. I was still healing from an episiotomy and trying to remember my pelvic floor exercises so I didn't wee myself. I couldn't think about work.

'What school will he be going to?'. Dear God, does this never end? Surprise, there are waiting lists for all the good private schools. Apparently public schools are no longer an option. Better start saving even though I have no idea where we will be living then or how much money we will be making. If we have three children do we just send our favourite to private so that we can afford to feed the other two?

I better go and start looking at some retirement options so that when this question comes next week, I'll have all the answers.

The Forum

New mums love other new mums. When I found out I was pregnant I ventured online to explore the masses of parenting websites. I quickly became a member of a birth club where I could chat with other pregnant women due the same month as me. It was exciting to watch the stream of women join the site as their pregnancies were confirmed, chat about morning sickness whilst hiding it from work colleagues and complain about regular clothes no longer fitting whilst secretly loving it. These were women that you could share disappointments with. Women that you had never met but would happily discuss your breasts, bowel movements and much worse. Women that would soon hear all the intimate details of your birth and recovery. Women who then go on to support you while you are sleep deprived and ready to give up on breast feeding for the 12th time that day.

There is however a dark side to these forums. This dark side is well hidden behind words of comfort, typed sympathetic noises and smiley faces. This dark side goes unnoticed by a lot of over tired mothers, so it is important to shed some light.

Mothers are fierce creatures. Protective of their children, defensive of their parenting techniques and competitive in ways that will surprise the average childless person. To give you an example of this, let me tell you about a thread that was started on self settling. A wonderful technique which can be tackled a few different ways and should not to be confused with the controlled crying method. A mother writes an update on her struggle to get her 9 week old child to settle. She is keen to get this child to self settle in order to have some alone time with her arms (I'd like some alone time with my breasts - but lets save that for a different post). A helpful mother reads her call for help and tilts her head sympathetically whilst preparing her response. Let's read this response.

"(Hugs), oh hon, that must be really tough on you, especially if you are not getting much sleep at night. I personally don't believe in letting babies cry themselves to sleep but it does work for some mothers. My Gracie has been sleeping through since 7 weeks and also goes down for her day naps without any fuss. We have a routine where she is fed, changed, wrapped, and then taken to her bassinet where I tell her she is loved, cuddle her for a few minutes and then put her down where she will lie quietly awake before eventually nodding off. At night my husband does the same to ensure the routine stays the same."

Well that sounds innocent enough, but lets have a closer look.

"(Hugs) (dear god, don't touch me, we've never met), oh hon, that must be really tough on you, especially if you are not getting much sleep at night. I personally don't believe in letting babies cry themselves to sleep but it does work for some mothers (she meant to say 'bad mothers' and has just made the 60% of women who do let their babies cry feel like Hitler). My Gracie has been sleeping through since 7 weeks (relevance?) and also goes down for her day naps without any fuss (now you are just showing off). We have a routine where she is fed, changed, wrapped, and then taken to her bassinet where I tell her she is loved, cuddle her for a few minutes and then put her down where she will lie quietly awake before eventually nodding off (we get it, you're a wonderful Mum). At night my husband does the same to ensure the routine stays the same (how surprising, she has a wonderful, supportive husband)."

On further investigation, I noticed that most of her responses throughout many threads, began with 'My Gracie' and often launched into a Gracie's World update without actually answering the question. Turns out that she is the perfect child raised by a mother with all the answers. I have a sneaking suspicion that in a few years we'll be hearing about how Gracie is ahead of everyone in her class and doesn't eat any food that isn't organic. Gracie will excel in sports, the arts and have traveled overseas more times than most of the mothers put together. I may be completely out of line - time will tell.

Yes, new mums love other new mums and forums were created for this purpose. But, be warned, when you are looking to your new friends for answers read their advice carefully, as you may be missing their point.

Re-awakening the brain

Eleven weeks ago my entire world changed in ways I could never have foreseen. These changes were permanent, life altering, incredible and terrifying. Our little boy arrived very late and quite forcibly into the world. Its clear to me now that neither of us were ready. He was holding onto that cord as tightly as I was unconsciously crossing my legs. Yes, I whined in the traditional way heavily pregnant women do about 'just wanting it out', but that's because I had very naive ideas of what was coming next.

Women spend far too much time scaring first time mothers about the birth (yes its awful - but at least its over in a few hours) and not enough time warning them about what life will be like once their little bundle arrives. You don't even have to have had a baby to pass on a scary birth story. Tales of 3rd degree tears, 2 day labours and shattered pelvis' are standard lead ins from perfect strangers as soon as you say the words 'I'm pregnant'. No detail is spared. As for after the birth? You can expect short and unhelpful generalisations such as 'Your life will never be the same again' and 'Get as much sleep as you can now'. In hindsight, my responses would have been 'Please be more specific' and 'You do realise you can't bank sleep (insert profanity here)?'. I can guarantee you that I was not feeding my son after the birth thinking thank god I had that afternoon nap two weeks ago.

Yes, it has been a challenge so far but it is true that motherhood does come with its rewards. A beaming smile, a daggy giggle or a sleepy cuddle is all it takes to forget the sleepness night prior filled with endless feeds. I repeat, endless feeds.

On a more positive note, I seem to slowly be returning to the real world which as it turns out, did not go on hold because I had a baby. As the title suggests, its time to re-awaken the brain and start using it for more than clock watching. This blog will hopefully keep me sane and able to cope better with the isolation that comes with being a new Mum. Today when my husband comes home from work I will have something to report other than the list of chores I didn't get around to doing. I have started a vent, a vent he doesn't have to hear, but will be obligated to read.