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.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Monday, June 21, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, June 4, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
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.
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.
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