Why do I only screw up dinner when we have guests?

This post is sponsored by McCormick

I never used to like cooking. The whole dishes thing that tends to happen afterwards put me off massively as did the buying of dozens of ingredients that the recipe would claim are “pantry staples”. Can someone tell me since when have Quinoa and Jaggery been pantry staples? I thought Jaggery was a way to describe someone dancing like Mick Jagger. No, I'm serious.

Then I had a kid. It was as though shooting a child out of my nether regions somehow switched on the gene that controls the desire to cook. Sadly, the desire to do the dishes gene remains completely switched off as does the "exercise-to-work-off-all-the-food-you're-eating" gene. But I digress.

I don’t really have the time to make everything from scratch, what with faffing about on Twitter, so I rely on recipe bases from all natural ingredients quite a bit. At least that way I can still feel kinda crunchy. I gave the McCormick Recipe Creations Beef Brew with Herb Dumplings a whirl the other week in an attempt to impress some friends because really, who couldn’t resist something with dumpling in the title?

I *ahem* had a few slight issues.

Firstly, I forgot to put the beer in. I slid my cast iron pot in to the oven with a bit of a smug “pfft that was so easy” grin only to turn around and see the bottle of ale sitting on the counter. Considering the recipe is called Beef BREW it was pretty appalling slip up on my part which could only be surpassed by forgetting the actual beef. It had only been cooking for about five minutes so I yanked it out the oven and added it in. Crisis over.

Secondly, as I started dishing it up I realized I’d been so busy putting Tricky to bed, talking to my dinner guests and trying to get the timing of the dumplings correct that I’d forgotten to put on the vegetables to serve with it. So my poor guests had the casserole on their plate, two dumplings and nothing else. My title of Hostess with the Mostess went down the drain immediately.

There was some slight redemption when I pulled the kick-arse white chocolate lava cakes out of the oven for dessert. Lava cakes make up for all manner of dinner party disasters.

Despite my failings, the results were awesome. I loved how the exact amount of herbs and spices needed were in the package ready to go - I may or may not have pretended to be a celebrity chef as I poured them in... interestingly the clock on the wall is in the exact position a camera would be in.

It was a little strong for my liking, but the others really enjoyed it. I put it down to the fact that I’m not a beer fan to start with and the others were, so I made it again leaving out the ale and put in the equivalent of stock and it was much more me. On a side note, if you buy just one bottle of ale because that’s all the recipe requires, your husband may look at you in disgust.

In an effort to redeem myself I made the Herb and Parmesan Crumbed Chicken a week later when more friends were coming for dinner. Unfortunately they had to cancel at the last minute, which of course guaranteed that the chicken came out perfectly because there was no one there to witness it. OF COURSE.

I’m gonna be putting this on my ‘serve to visitors because it looks and tastes fancy but actually takes two seconds to make’ list because all it requires is you to shake some chicken in a bag and bung it in the oven. If you make a double batch like I did, ZOMG the next day it tastes amazing in a salad. I know, I just said amazing and salad in the same sentence. There must be something wrong with me.

What’s for dinner tonight at your place? Ima have me some chicken.

Not just a Mummy Blogger

This morning my MummyAlarm went off, I stretched and got out of my MummyBed while cursing the single digit temperature and wondering if I could somehow will the heater to turn on.

I made some MummyToast, sat on my MummyCouch and turned on my MummyTV.

After watching some MummyPrograms, I brushed my MummyTeeth and styled my MummyHair before getting in my MummyCar to go out to and do MummyThings.

You see, since reproducing, it would appear that all my stuff is now MummyStuff, all my thoughts are now MummyThoughts and all my work is now MummyWork, particularly since I went and got myself a MummyBlog.

But I've never actually had a problem with the term MummyBlogger and readily identify myself as one despite loathing the word mummy. This blog started when I was up the duff and I wrote almost soley about this new direction my life was about to take. I wrote about birth choices, delayed cord clamping, preparing the nursery - you know, all the boring shit that no one gives a fuck about.

As I moved on from the intense first months of parenthood where I spent most of my time figuring out how this tiny human worked to a stage where my boobs got to spend at least some of the day inside my top, I started talking about other things. Random things that had little to do with whether I had a mini-Map Guy running around or not.

Even though every single post wasn't about nappies and breastfeeding, I still identified as a MummyBlogger because I was a mum who blogged. I blog about life and a large part of my life right now is my kid. Though I draw the line at discussing his bowel motions. This blog is a poo free zone. Lots of boobs though.

Whether it's because I've grown a thicker skin with a few years of blogging under my belt or the fact that I've embraced the word from the get go, calling me a MummyBlogger is as much of an insult as calling me white, chubby or asthmatic. You can't offend me with a fact. 

Some really cool things have happened because of this little MummyBlog. I've watched this Glowing community grow and some amazing opportunities opened up to me because of it. I became a writer for The Daily Buzz, was the expo coordinator for DPCON12, spoke at the Media140 conference about the power of blogs, contributed to the Things They Didn't Tell You ebook to raise money for Foundation 18, will soon be speaking to PR students about working with blogs and just recently I've been taken on as a writer for another site (more on that soon).

But that pales in comparison to the successes of my fellow MummyBloggers. Some have turned their blogs in to businesses, some have gone on to write for major publications, become published authors, others have become professional speakers. The list goes on and on and on because they're a pretty amazing bunch. Where they find the time I have no freaking clue, but I'd hazard a guess they spend less time faffing about on Twitter than I do.

So my point, because after all the waffling I do actually have one, is that my issue is not when you call me (or the friends I've made from this gig) a MummyBlogger. My issue, is when you put the word 'just' in front of it.

Do you love or loathe the term?

EDIT: Turns out I used some similar phrases in this post as the amazing Bianca from Big Words did in her post about why she isn't a Mummy Blogger! Great mind think alike... and came to opposite conclusions on the term Mummy Blogger! And yes, I totally freaked out when this was pointed out to me and went "She'll think I copied her! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

Parking Rage: Why I Don't Use My ACROD Permit

There was an article on The Punch this week entitled 'What bastard would park in a disabled space?' that featured two stories from people with permits. The article made me sad, but it didn't surprise me, because I have experienced almost identical incidents.

But the comments? Well, let's just say the level of ignorance never ceases to amaze me. Ill-informed yet ready to sprout their 'wisdom' for all to see:

"People who have a gammy leg and go to their doctor and get a letter that the RTA then issues a Disabled parking permit on the basis of that letter. Because I ask all ypou (sic) punchers this. How many people do you see with a disabled pass get out of a car and use and aid for mobility. Ie wheelechair etc etc. The how many actually look like they have a limp or such when they walk.  I would reckon the answer would be close to one in every 15 vehicles."

I've spoken before about my chronic pain disorder and the fact that I have an ACROD permit (point #6) that lets me park in disabled bays.

I very rarely use it. And not because I'm not in pain.

I don't look disabled. My illness is invisible and because of this, "well meaning people" have blocked my car in, accused me of theft (of the permit), called security, abused me and threatened me. All for using a parking bay I am legally entitled to use, just because I don't fit in to their idea of what disability is.

My favourite, the one that is seared in my mind, was the woman who did almost all of them at once. She positioned her car behind mine, ranted on that I'd stolen the pass from my grandmother, called over security and said, in front of her two small children, "My husband works with retards, I know what it looks like to be disabled and you're not." Charming.

So let's clear up a few things here;

1. Not all disabilities that qualify a person for a permit are visible; some muscle disorders, lung problems, and heart disease can all qualify and none of those are normally associated with a "limp or such"
2. An intellectual disability doesn't qualify
3. Permits can be issued if you need extra room to get out of a vehicle; if you can walk relatively fine but struggle to get in and out of a car in a tight bay then you may qualify
4. It is not easy to get a permit; a letter from your doctor does not cut it. There is a form and a medical history which your doctor must sign before it is then reviewed by a panel
5. They're not free; they're not expensive but you do have to pay for your permit

I have good days and bad days. A few years ago there would be one good day for every month of bad. Now it's a little bit more even, and thanks to mindfulness training and therapy I'm able to cope better with the pain (I was unable to stay on pain meds any longer - if I could've stayed on those suckers I would have!).

It still stops me from doing every day things, but I try not to let it stop me having fun. So I will go out, in high heels, and dance for hours, knowing that I will be in bed for days and have to use my permit for a week after... just so that I can feel normal for that one night.

I stopped using my permit unless I was in extreme agony, years ago. The stares, the comments, the abuse, it all got too much for me and I found that I would fake a limp just to escape the prejudice.


So when others, no matter how delightful they are, complain about non-parents parking in parent bays, I, in all honesty, can not join them in their fury. You can just park in a different bay, some days, without an ACROD bay, I have to go home.

Image by Jörn Guy Süß

Parents with Pram bays are a there as a convenience and run on a courtesy system - and obviously there are a lot of discourteous people. They might be assholes but they're not breaking any laws.

Yes it's a pain to lug our kids a bit further in a car park, but that's what prams and trolleys are for, and hey, at least you have a car, some people don't and have to do all that lugging on public transport. We don't deserve special treatment just because we've popped out a kid. And I'm expecting a few 'unfollows' for saying that.

So before you go shaking your head and tutting at the person who doesn't look disabled, check their dashboard or rear view mirror. If they've got a permit, reserve your judgement. If they don't, then feel free to tell them they're a schmuck.

EDIT: This post upset some people. This was written as is, before the post that it previously linked to was published and was therefore not an attack on said person. It was not accusing said person of parking in disabled bays, nor accusing them of abusing people who do or don't or whatever, as was suggested. It is not a rant at her, it is a rant, there is a difference. The point of this article that I wanted people to take away was that sometimes we have it so good and we can't see it - we complain about trivial things when really, we are so privileged. Sometimes, people will park in parents bays because the ACROD bays are full, and maybe we shouldn't be so quick to judge that "those people" who are parking there without children are not in need of a closer bay. I simply cannot not get angry at the misuse of a courtesy bay when I would gladly take that inconvenience over the abuse.

In the (mother) hood

I am a worrier. A worry worm, if you will. I refuse to call myself a worry wort because that sounds a little bit too much like it could be sexually transmitted for my liking. Sadly it is not hard-hitting existential dilemmas keeping me awake at night, rather the more mundane questions in life like what should I cook for tea tomorrow, how much more stuff is there to do on the 'Stuff To Do' list and did I turn the stove off? But being a mum brings in a whole new set of worries. Whilst I haven't gone down the same path as my Mum who would lick her thumb and stick it under my nose when I was a baby to see if I was breathing, I do find myself constantly checking the dreaded 'Milestone Chart'.

Now if you're battling with anxiety of any kind the first thing a therapist will tell you is to do away with "shoulds" and here we have an entire bloody chart of them! When should Tricky make eye contact? When should he grab at toys? When should he roll over? When should he babble? If you look at the charts long enough, you'll spend half the time thinking your child will be developmentally delayed and the other half thinking they're going to be a genius and wondering if it's too early to call Mensa.

One place I find solace from my case of milestone stress is my mothers' group. I was a bit uncertain about joining a mothers' group - I had no idea what they really entailed. I had visions of being surrounded by a group of Suzi Q perfect mothers that would not only bore me to tears, but make me feel like a leper for my non-1950's housewife ways (although I think I'd look cute in an apron and heels). Either that or, considering it was based it my dodgy suburb, a bunch of bogans who would have their Winnie Blues tucked securely in to the sleeve of their best flannel shirt and do their best to smoke with their left hand and hold baby in their right, you know, to keep them safe from second hand smoke. But instead I found a bunch of women just like me... and by that I mean completely clueless first time mothers who just wanna hear that they're not the only one not getting any sleep and share pointers on the best way to burp/settle/not shake your baby.

I've come to the conclusion that mothers' groups are not actually designed to help new mothers at all. Well they are, but they have a higher purpose - they are actually there to protect the friends of new mothers from having to hear about each and every milestone as it's reached... well that and to save the world from endless poo stories. Because it gives us a chance to talk incessantly about our babies to people who don't mind at all - in fact when you finish saying how annoying adorable your child is and how you're ready to tear your hair out really enjoying being a mum, there is someone there who will pick up where you left off and tell you all about their brat gorgeous little munchkin.  If these groups didn't exist, not only would we find that our childless friends rather quickly made themselves unavailable in the interests of their own mental health, but the birth rate would plummet when they heard all the gory, spewey, smelly truths of motherhood.

Did you join a mothers' group? Did you find it helpful?


This post is part of Lori at Random Ramblings of a SAHM's Flog Yo Blog Friday! Below you'll find a bunch of links to some great blogs, so grab a cuppa and have a good read. On with the flogging!

Zzzzzzz

Let's for a minute discuss the phrase “sleeping like a baby”. It's used to describe a peaceful, deep sleep that you wake from feeling refreshed and ready to go. How on earth this came about is beyond me because now that I have a baby I know they don't sleep like that at all. A newborn wakes every two to four hours for a feed and when this is over there is always a bit of time to crap their pants and spit up a bit of milk. Screaming your lungs out because you've soiled yourself doesn't normally make it's way in to the “sleeping like a baby” image. These are what my nights (and days) are like right now.

Hubby is amazing. In the middle of the night after Tricky has been fed it is Super Dad who changes him and settles him back to sleep – or at least tries to – Tricky has his “witching hour” normally at 4:00am. No amount of nappy changes, singing, patting, rocking or cooing seems to settle him. Then just as suddenly as it all started... silence. Whatever was ailing him passes and he drifts back off to sleep making cute little snorty noises. The cuteness doesn't get rid of the bags under my eyes though, which are now too big for a standard cabin size and must be checked through to the cargo hold.

We are taking comfort in the fact that this stage doesn't last forever. His stomach is currently the size of a walnut and he can only have a little bit to drink before he is full to the brim. Add to this that breastmilk is so easily digestible that it can pass completely through his tiny little system in just over half an hour and you have a recipe for really frequent feeds! Soon though it will expand and the time between feeds will gradually lengthen. Which means I will be able to sleep for more than 45minutes at a time. Pure bliss!

As tired as I am, I cannot get angry at my little Tricky. He doesn't know what is happening – doesn't know what the pain in his tiny little tummy means, doesn't know that the hand pulling out his dummy is his own (yes, I'm a terrible mother who gave her child a dummy – we call it his plug). At this age the only way he can communicate that there is some sort of discomfort is by crying. I try to remember that no matter how frustrating it is for me to not be able to comfort him and get no sleep, how frustrating must it be for him? The poor little tacker is still getting used to this big world.

In the not too distant past, at time like this a dummy was dipped in whiskey to help junior off to the land of nod... turns out though that some people still do this – a woman in the United States has just been sentenced to eight years in prison for giving a nine month old she was babysitting a sippy cup full of wine to help the little boy go to sleep. Whilst it is not something I would choose to do, I can actually understand why some people would dip a dummy in alcohol, but how this chick thought an entire cup full of wine would be anything other than extremely dangerous is beyond me. The little boy had a blood alcohol reading of .33 – that is SIX TIMES the legal driving limit in Australia!!! According to Wikipedia, readings of .35 and above are associated with coma and death and 50% of cases reaching 0.40 will prove fatal. In my mind what makes this worse is that the woman was only in charge of the child and his siblings for five hours – she had not endured days or weeks of a screaming child. How could you be so impatient with such a tiny, innocent creature?

So I've had my rant and thanks, I feel a bit better. I will continue to have sleepless nights for a while but it could be much worse. I have a healthy baby, a supportive family more than willing to cuddle Tricky for a few hours so I can have a nap, and a wonderful husband who does not “babysit” - he cares for his child. I'm luckier than a lot of people out there, and that thought gets me through... well that and a bit of chocolate.

What got you through the sleepless nights?

Chop chop!

One thing I didn't expect when we brought Tricky home was to be questioned by nearly every visitor over the age of 50, it seemed, as to whether or not we were going to get him circumcised. None of the midwives asked me. The paediatrician didn't ask either. It seems to go in and out of fashion (unless you're Jewish in which case it's always in) and people my parents' age are all for it. Did our younger visitors not ask because they don't care, they felt uncomfortable, or did they think it none of their business? Ooh let's hope they chose door number three, Susie, let's see what they've won!

It was mentioned at antenatal classes, but only to say that it is not routinely done unless there is a medical or religious reason. One thing that I know for sure though, is that it is a touchy subject with people falling very clearly in to the cut or don't cut categories – there are no fence sitters in this debate.

I hadn't even looked in to it, Hubby and I had a two second chat sometime during the pregnancy that went “You don't want to circumcise him do ya?” “Nah, don't like the idea.” End of conversation. If he wants it done when he is older then it is up to him – just like when he decides to get a piercing or tattoo or whatever the cool thing is 17 years from now. Turns out though that if we had wanted to, there may have been some hurdles... cosmetic circumcision (when there is no medical or religious reason behind the procedure) has been banned in all Australian public hospitals since 2007. And a research paper from the Queensland Law Reform Commission concluded that "On a strict interpretation of the assault provisions of the Queensland Criminal Code, routine circumcision of a male infant could be regarded as a criminal act", and that doctors who perform the procedure may in fact be able to be sued by the child at a later date. There is a legal precedent for botched circumcisions in Australia thanks to a Perth man who successfully sued the doctor who operated on him as an infant, but this interpretation of the law allows for men to sue the doctor even if the circumcision is deemed 'successful'. I had no idea about any of this – and wish I had when everyone had been asking me last week if we were going to do it or not!

My opinion (and yes I'm opening the door for abuse here) is completely opposite to that of my parents. I believe we have evolved over millions of years to have that little piece of skin there, and who am I to say that nature got it wrong and have it lopped off? There are websites galore for both sides each claiming that their stance is the correct one. They tout statistics on infections, sexually transmitted diseases, loss of sensation and more. I'm not ready to think about my little Tricky all grown up and having sex so I'm quite happy to stop at the “It's an operation and operations hurt” argument. Some people will say I'm wrong and they're more than welcome to feel that way – we'll just have to agree to disagree, hopefully while cooing over how cute each others' son is (for the record, Tricky is pretty cute so your kid is gonna have to try to be super special when I meet him).

Do you feel strongly on this subject? Were you criticised for your decision - no matter which decision it was? Leave your story in the comments section below.

Words of wisdom

The past few weeks I've been given lots of advice from friends who are mothers. Advice on birth, pain relief, breastfeeding, you name it. And whilst it has been mostly unsolicited (because I think if I ask too many questions they'll realise I have NO IDEA and call the authorities), it has all been welcome and genuinely helpful. Like one mother who told me if Tricky doesn't latch on properly, even though you're insanely tired and just want the feed over and done with, take him off and try again because your body will thank you for it the next day – awesome advice (thanks, Melissa).

So far the only unwanted advice has been from my own dad, who thinks he knows all there is to know about babies today because he had a hand in raising my sisters and I NEARLY THIRTY YEARS AGO, and because he watches a lot of TV. That's right, its my old nemesis Today Tonight coming to get me again! To start with I was very nice when he offered suggestions I would inform him that a lot has changed since he did this last - for instance, putting a baby to sleep on their tummy was still in vogue until the early 1990s (and even championed by the renowned Dr Benjamin Spock) because it was thought if the baby vomited it would get caught and they'd choke, whereas now there is a wealth of evidence to suggest a baby sleeping on their abdomen is at an increased risk of sudden infant death syndrome (SIDS). But shooting out statistics at him is like talking to a brick wall because “the people on Today Tonight said...”

So last week I changed tactics - it was time to play hard ball. Instead of bombarding him with facts and information from the latest antenatal class I sat there and listened intently until he finished... then laughed so hard I nearly cried! He was more than a little taken aback and asked was I OK? I put it to him simply that the people he had watched had been paid for their opinion and that I'm sure I could find another, equally qualified person willing to spout their opposite opinion to camera for some dollars too. I think it did the job - so far, no new advice has been forthcoming.

At the moment I'm still all ears when it comes to advice, which is good because I'm told it going to be coming in thick and fast as soon as Tricky arrives on the scene. Even the midwives at the hospital have differing opinions to each other so how am I meant to work out what to do? And what will I do on that day when a complete stranger comes up and starts telling me I'm doing it all wrong? I've been reading a new blog called “That baby looks cold” and even though it makes me laugh, I'm frightened! If the moodiness of pregnancy lingers I'm likely to assault someone. "Tricky do you know what happened during your first Christmas?", "Yes, Mummy went to jail!"

Did you get any strangers offering unwanted advice? Or maybe you have a concerned (read: meddling) family member that watches your every move, telling you you're doing it wrong? Leave a comment below (go on, its like therapy but cheaper).

Bad blood

I have learned a few things from the antenatal classes Hubby and I have been attending these last few weeks and right up the top of the list is that if you have an opinion that differs ever so slightly from the midwife who runs our group, you are looked down upon like an unfit parent.

This week in class we were learning about cord blood banking – where the blood in the umbilical cord is harvested after birth and the stem cells within it are kept in a cryogenic bank for your own use later down the track (should your child or their siblings have a disease needing stem cell therapy) or donated to the public cord bank for whomever needs it (although WA doesn't have a public cord blood bank yet). So I put up my hand to ask if you could get enough cord blood if you were planning on delaying cord clamping after the birth (not clamping until the cord had stopped pulsating). Well, I was not Miss-Popular, I can tell you! I was met with a self important chuckle and the response “In short, yes you can still do it. But do you really want to make your baby so sick? Have him put under lights? And you can't breastfeed him you know!?”

Woah! What just happened there? Did the midwife who earlier had told us her job was to help and encourage you to make informed decisions just tell me off for being informed? I could feel my face flush with embarrassment and guilt. A young bloke in the class asked at this point what delayed cord clamping was and rather than explain to him the possible benefits and risks (see I'm not delusional, I know there are risks to everything), her answer to him was “Delayed cord clamping is when you delay clamping the cord”. Thanks, Captain Obvious, pretty sure he could have worked that out by himself. With a smirk she added “It causes jaundice which is very dangerous” and apparently that was the end of the discussion.

I'll point out here that delayed cord clamping has been associated with jaundice due to the extra red blood cells the baby's immature liver has to try to break down. According to the World Health Organisation the benefits of delayed cord clamping (increase in blood volume, lower mortality rates in cases of infant haemorrhage, increase in iron stores protecting from childhood anaemia) far outweigh the risks, especially in developed countries where jaundice (which most babies get to some extent anyway) is easily treatable. One of the main reasons immediate cord clamping was introduced in the first place was because of the injection of drugs given to speed up the delivery of the placenta, which can't be allowed to get to the baby – that's right, speed it all up so the doctors and nurses can go home early and not have to wait around for Mother Nature to do her stuff – she is such a bore you know.

So back to the class where I'd just been told off: The couple sitting next to Hubby and I leant over and said excitedly “We'll speak to you after OK?” So I spent the rest of the night half listening to the midwife telling me horror stories of how my body just won't cope and half wondering what the other couple were going to say.

At the end of the evening, we turned to the couple and found our birth soulmates! These people were not falling for the scaremongering and had conducted their own research too! We sat there chatting about what interventions we did and didn't want and why, which journal articles we had referenced and so on. These were two well educated, reasonable people and together we were being frowned upon as 'the hippies' bucking the medical system and endangering our children's lives. At the point where we were discussing birth plans the midwife walked over and interrupted us saying that it was stupid to have a plan, that you can't plan for these things because “it goes wrong all the time” Yep, her exact words. Gee thanks for the pep talk. What's so wrong about having a birth plan? I know that writing it down doesn't mean its going to happen, but it will help me and Hubby concentrate on our goal and lets the midwifery team assisting the obstetrician (who had told me to write one and has already signed off on mine saying he supports our wishes) know how they can best help us on the big day.

As they say, there is strength in numbers, and together the four of us managed to tell her we would still be having birth plans and yes we knew that birth was unpredictable. More remarkably was that the four of us also managed to restrain ourselves enough not to punch her in the jaw. We excused ourselves from the after class supper and carried on a clandestine conversation in the carpark where we learned that while we agreed on almost everything there were still a few points where we had very different opinions – but that was OK too, and it was nice hearing a different, strong opinion voiced by someone who knew what they were talking about, as opposed to those in the group who get all their information from cranky midwives and Today Tonight and are therefore understandably shit-scared.

When we parted to go home (after promising to swap phone numbers next week) I couldn't stop smiling – we weren't alone! Meeting them gave me new resolve to stick to my guns and assert my rights when I needed it most, because if you're around such negative 'you can't do it' attitudes you begin to believe them. I plan on trusting my body to do what it was made to do - what women have done since time began. I know things can and do go wrong, thats why I'm under the care of an obstetrician and will be giving birth in a hospital setting - not quite ready to go full-hippy home birth just yet.

Godparent vs Oddparent

This post may prove to be my undoing, because I'm going to talk about one of those subjects that tends to get people very hot under the collar (and not because there is fresh baby spew there)... religion.

My beautiful friend, Emily, is becoming a Godmother in a few weeks time and allowed me to pick her brain about what exactly being a Godparent entails these days and how she thinks she'll respond to the challenge. The invitation to be little Evan's Godmother came as a bit of a shock to her since she was never christened and not religious in any way. So with her self professed heathen-ness, Emily sees her role as being a support person not only to the baby but the parents – something she would have done anyway even if not asked to be a yummy (God)mummy. Currently that support is shown in way of copious amounts of cuddles and baby talk. An excellent start I think. She won't be the sort dishing out unwanted advise and telling the parents that they're doing everything wrong, because as she points out, that's not a Godparent's job – that's the In-Law's job.

The role of Godparents seems to have changed to be more hands on in recent years. Or perhaps that is just my view since although I had plenty to do with my Godparents, it was more in their original roles as my great uncle and second cousin. Their status as 'the chosen ones' wasn't really mentioned. My childhood understanding of the reason for having them was if your parents passed away, you automatically got given to them. I remember thinking “Which one would I go and live with?” the bachelor uncle or the married with two kids cousin? I always felt a little bit bad after wondering, as if somehow thinking about it would make it happen (if you're wondering I chose the cousin, just because her kids had a Playstation – I'm that shallow).

These days when my friends have their children Christened the decision of who the Godparents will be has been known to cause massive rifts. Aunty Mary is upset that she wasn't chosen and your brother thinks that he'd make a much better stand in parent than Uncle Bob, despite his numerous convictions and drug habit. In terms of playing happy families, these decisions can have massive consequences. Perhaps that is why, in my own experience, its becoming more the norm to choose friends rather than family for this role. If you can't keep everyone in the family happy, don't choose any of them!

Friends who are Godparents themselves seem to take the role very seriously, and swell with pride when introducing the little munchkin - its not just their mate's kid but their Godchild. Because what better proof is there that someone thinks you're awesome? They've entrusted you to help raise their child or look after them if something terrible should happen.

The other option these days for the non-religious folk is to have a “Name Day” where you have a civil ceremony pretty similar to a Christening, just minus the man in the robes at the front with the holy water. You pick 'guardians' to take on the Godparent role and hey presto, you have a Name Day, complete with cake. But I don't see myself going down that road either – to me it screams “I want you to give me presents”. Because the people you would invite to one of these celebrations would normally be your closest friends and family, the same ones who a few weeks earlier probably gave you a little something for the baby's birth. How many rattles does one child need after all?

After all that though, I'm not bestowing that honour on anyone. Like the delightful Emily, I too am a heathen (doomed to spend eternity in purgatory according to my Catholic upbringing) and don't want to have Tricky baptised in to a system that I don't support. I'm attracted to the concept of adults making their own decisions about faith, so when Tricky is old enough to understand the complexities of religion, he can decide for himself what path to follow.

Having a pretty un-religious family this isn't going to cause any problems. I'm not too sure what I'd do if I had very traditional In-Laws that demanded their grandchild follow the way of the church. Would I fight it or just go with the flow for the sake of peace and unity? I'd like to think I'm feisty enough to stand up for what I believe in... but I'm so open to suggestion that if I was presented with a super cute Christening outfit for Tricky I'd probably at the church steps in no time. Again, yes, I'm that shallow.

The only problem I can foresee with the 'choose your own adventure' path is that Tricky will join some bizarre religious cult where you can only wear fuchsia and have to shave the left side of your head. That would make such a lovely addition to family holiday events, I'm sure. "Could you pass the salt please Lord Tricky of the Holy Fuchsia Order?"

Hippy Bottomus

I was going to wait until I got a chance to use these, but I'm overwhelmed with the gorgeousness and couldn't resist any longer!

Hubby and I have decided to go down the cloth nappy road for a number of reasons;

• better for the environment (even when taking in to consideration the extra washing and detergent used) - because disposable take up to 500 years to decompose
• cheaper in the long run – a set of 24 nappies has cost us $240 whereas disposables for two and a half years cost approximately $4000
• Hubby and his siblings developed very bad skin allergies to disposables when they were babies
• just as easy as disposables if you buy modern cloth nappies (no folding or pinning)

After much research on the types of materials used and the differing styles of modern cloth nappies available I chose to support a small business run by Sharon Moreno from the northern beaches of Sydney. The fact that her company had the coolest name also helped the decision... Hippy Bottomus! Not to mention a super cute logo.

Not only do her nappies come in a range of fibres ranging from organic cotton, hemp and bamboo through to super absorbent and quick drying microfleece, they are also adjustable to fit 3kg-13kg babies! So you buy one lot and that's it! These little gems are waterproof so you don't need those HUGE UGLY plastic pants over the top, they go on and off just as easily as a disposable but most importantly come in a range of super funky colours and patterns! I'll add a few more exclamation marks now because the paragraph just doesn't have enough!!!

The set that awaits Tricky

Even if pretty soon they are not going to be looking so funky (or should that be looking funkier on the inside?), for now they are lined up taking pride of place in Tricky's room, patiently awaiting his arrival.

Please note the above is my opinion and I was not paid or
influenced by the company in any way for writing this.

“And then he ran in to my knife...”

There is a fantastic scene from the fourth series of British comedy, Coupling, where a very pregnant Susan is having a fight with her partner, Steve. Steve mentions that its unfair how now she is pregnant she has an excuse for everything: all she has to do is say “HORMONES” and suddenly she's off the hook. He laments further, claiming if she can say that when he too is full of hormones (like everybody else) then why can't he, during an argument say “Sorry dear, testicles”.

Which brings me to my point (yep, I've got one). I've always thought that the excuse of “hormones” was a bit pathetic. I've never really been a big PMS sufferer so have never had to grasp the concept that strange chemicals being released by your ovaries could change your behaviour so much. So pregnancy and its trillions of hormones have created a very steep learning curve for me. To put it bluntly, I've turned in to a bitch.

We've all had those days when everything goes wrong; you're running late, the car in front stalls, the woman putting through our groceries seems more interested in telling you her life story than actually scanning your Weetbix box and you're ready to snap. At these times we (meaning I) smile politely and nod, while in our heads we are saying nasty things we wouldn't dream of ever saying out loud. It's a handy mute button feature that saves us from being punched in the face. These days, even after twelve years of Catholic schooling teaching me to turn the other cheek and 'do unto others' etc, my mute button has started to fail.

So far I've been able to restrain myself and this faulty volume control has not been unleashed on an unsuspecting public. No, much worse than that – it is directed at those people who least deserve it (not that the check out chick deserves it, I'm sure she's lovely). Hubby has so far had to deal with the majority of it, albeit with what I believe are truly courteous warnings before hand such as “Watch out I'm cranky and you're within striking distance”.

The other person to be on the receiving end is my sister, although I'm not actually being mean to her, I just use her to vent to. Its quite cathartic for me, and she gets a kick out of getting the latest gossip about whomever has pushed my buttons that day.

But are these victims people actually pushing my buttons? Has everyone suddenly gotten stupider and more annoying? Plain and simple answer is no, I've just turned in to a super sensitive hormone filled sack without an ounce of tact.

It reminds me of my favourite song from the musical Chicago which I was lucky enough to see on stage this week for the fifth time (slightly obsessed). It's called 'Cell Block Tango' and its women singing about the men they have killed – they say that it was a murder but not a crime - would 'hormones' hold up in court as grounds for justifiable homicide? For Hubby's sake, maybe don't tell me the answer. “...He ran in to my knife TEN TIMES!”

Antenatal or Anti-natal?

On Wednesday, Hubby and I went to our first antenatal class at the hospital that Tricky will be born in (assuming that is that he doesn't shoot out in the back seat of the car on the way there). There were 14 couples in total and we all looked extremely nervous and the women all held their hands protectively over their bellies. We ranged from 27 to 33 weeks pregnant with one set of twins in the group! It was very interesting to see the difference in sizes of everyone – some of the people who I thought were so tiny were the furthest along.

All but one of the men seemed keen to be there, and it was their job to introduce the women and say how far along we were and who the obstetrician was. Every man who tried got it right or was only a week off, which impressed me no end. I asked Hubby how he remembered how many weeks I was and his response was “I just counted back from the due date”... so he only got half points for the weeks, but at least he remembered the all important LIFE AS YOU KNOW IT ENDS NOW date. Who could forget?

The class was run by a lovely midwife, Gay, who told us about the three P's: Pelvis (those boney bits), Passenger (Tricky) and Powers (contractions). It might just be me but I thought it strange that a gimmick be needed to remember only three things – and those things are unlikely to be forgotten in a hurry. “So I've got a kid in me and I'm having contractions... any minute now he'll pop out my belly button” No sorry, even stupid people realise the impossible bending of the laws of physics that is about to take place.

Gay had a baby doll with an umbilical cord (dressing gown rope) attached to a placenta (knitted woollen ball) that she was pushing through a toy pelvis. She was squishing the doll around and shoving him in all sorts of positions, explaining the difference between posterior and breech and so forth. It I wasn't pregnant I wouldn't have thought twice, but I found myself thinking “ooh be careful of the baby!”. At that point Gay put the doll in a plastic bag to simulate the amniotic sac and I had to restrain myself from getting up and showing her that the bag had written on “NOT A TOY. KEEP AWAY FROM CHILDREN”. She could have at least started the demonstration with a “Do not try this at home” warning. I will, of course, blame hormones on my need to protect an inanimate object that didn't look at all like a real baby. Hormones are my fall guy.

What was slightly disappointing about the class, seeing that it was run by a midwife, was that it was very much directed towards having a caesarian. Every few moments we were reminded of all the things that can go wrong – at no point did she mention that women all over the world since the beginning of time have managed to push out their babies with a minimal of fuss, when surrounded by people who are encouraging them. Its still medically safer to have a baby “naturally” yet everywhere I turn I'm encouraged to have Tricky cut out as if he is a tumour. I at least want to try. I trust that my body instinctively knows what to do – evolution may have screwed up with the 10cm diameter in which to get him out through, but hey, the kid has a mouldable head! Phew – go you fontanelles!

Next week we will learn all about pain relief... so I'm preparing myself now for all the lame jokes about sharing the gas with Hubby.

Did you have a planned c-section or an emergency one? Or were you encouraged to trust your body?

Indecent Exposure

In my ideal world, after having a painless yet drug free birth, I will breastfeed Tricky immediately with no hassles, no 'attachment' issues and definitely no cracked nipples, for about twelve months... So it may be a rather unrealistic vision but I did say it was in my ideal world, and I definitely don't expect it to happen this way.

Breastfeeding for as long as a I can is really important to me for a number of reasons:

• it's been shown to protect babies from all sorts of nasties because of the huge amounts of antibodies breastmilk contains

• breastfed babies on average, have higher IQ's and if Tricky is to survive in a commercially driven world then brains matter (let's face it, he won't have the ability to wear a low cut top to get what he wants like his mother does)

• it protects against allergies and asthma

• it's a complete nutrition package that can change daily if required, to meet bub's varying needs

• it's definitely a lot cheaper than bottle feeding, no special equipment to buy, no sterilising of bottles

• and since my breasts are of the non-detachable variety, it's completely portable

Due to my sister's ill health when I was born, I wasn't breastfed - I was a soy baby. Whether its because of this or a thousand other variables, I have had asthma since I was two and multiple allergies so bad that I had six months worth of weekly injections to reduce their severity. Add in to the mix that I sometimes wear glasses and I'm your stereotypical geek type from American television with my allergy meds in one hand and my azzzzma inhaler in the other. I'm not resentful towards my mum for bottle feeding me, she had the proverbial bigger fish to fry at the time and did what was necessary, but it has made me more determined to try my hardest to breastfeed Tricky as long as I can.

Which brings me (finally) to my point. Western Australia is the only state without legislation recognising the right for women to breastfeed their baby in public without discrimination. So if I'm down the shops and face the choice between a screaming Tricky or discreetly breastfeeding I know which one I'm going to choose. But I may be asked to 'move along' or to go somewhere 'more appropriate' like a germ filled public toilet that hasn't seen a bottle of White King since Christmas. Legally, I would have no right to politely tell them to go away (I would also not have the right to tell them to go shove it, which is the more likely response).

As it stands you cannot be discriminated against based on your family responsibilities, but there is no specific clause that covers breastfeeding as one of those responsibilities - Instead it covers things like being penalised for taking a day off to care for a sick child.

In April last year when questioned about the possibility of new legislation the premier, the Honourable Colin Barnett said that “common sense and common courtesy” were the answer and therefore would not be introducing laws on breast feeding, yet in the same interview he was quoted as saying “the operators of establishments need to recognise and respect the right of a mother to feed her baby". Maybe its just me but is that a blatant contradiction? People need to respect a right that is not actually legally enforceable? Riiight, I can see that happening. If speed limits were a courtesy and not enforceable – would you speed?

In response to Barnett's comments the Equal Opportunity Commissioner, Yvonne Henderson, released a statement in November 2009 urging the Legislative Council to pass the legislation (the Legislative Assembly had already passed it) citing the social and health benefits to both mother and baby. But nothing was done and the upper house has still not budged.

Its a pretty sad state of affairs that legislation is even needed so that women can do what is completely natural and feed their children. Especially when you consider that you can easily see more flesh at the beach and far more on a Saturday night in Northbridge.

Honestly I really don't know what I'd do if someone were to approach me whilst breastfeeding and ask me to 'move along'. I'd like to think I could come up with some witty response whilst holding a screaming, starving Tricky right up to their ear, where hopefully he would also puke a little bit. Mmm warm baby sick right in the ear and down the collar. I wonder if babies can be trained to puke on command?

If this issue makes you hot under the collar (due to the presence of baby sick or not), you can put your name on the petition currently being hosted at Go Petition.

If you have been discriminated against for breastfeeding in public or for any reason at all, you can contact the Equal Opportunity Commission or the Australian Human Rights Commission.

Everyone is entitled to my opinion

Today Hubby and I went on a car cruise to Yanchep as part of the car club he belongs to. No matter what the event, they put on a great social day and it's always pretty family oriented. Today was no different, with a picnic in the picturesque bushland setting. We avoided the kangaroo poo, settled down to eat our picnic with the approximately 50 other people under the shade of the massive trees, enjoying the cool breeze. Sounds good right? Well it was... except for the woman who made me feel like I would be an incompetent mother after 'knowing' me for three seconds.

I don't know this woman's name, she never introduced herself to me, but I know she was eight weeks away from giving birth to her second child and therefore knew everything there was to know about raising children. For ease of reading I'll call her Jane. I know she was only trying to be nice and give advice, but she made me feel like an idiot.

Jane started talking about the costs of a new bub and asked if we had all the bits and pieces ready for the baby's room, so I started telling her about the $1000 challenge and how we've done incredibly well so far (we've scored a cot, bassinette, pram and change table for a grand total of $530). Immediately she chastised me for not looking after Tricky's safety by buying second hand gear, like I'd just gone to the tip and picked up any old rotting and splintered piece of wood and gone “This'll make a great cot!”. She continued earnestly saying she had thought more about the safety of her children and the longevity of the product than money... and spent $800 on a cot. My heart lurched and I started doubting myself – had I done the right thing? What if the cot/pram/basinette falls apart one day when Tricky is in it? World's all time worst mother candidate, right here.

So mid barbecue lunch I'm sitting there, engulfed in my own thoughts and I came up with a conclusion; I'm not so cheap that I would put Tricky at risk to save a buck. The items we have bought so far have all looked pretty good (is there a baby furniture structural engineer I can consult on these things?) and the pram was only 6 months old when the woman I bought it from had to upgrade to a twin stroller because her toddler didn't want to walk if the baby wasn't walking. We have researched all the Australian standards and the new regulations that came in on the 1^st of January to make sure we were buying products that would do their job. Plus just because something is brand new doesn't mean it is safe – one of the Maclaren series of prams was recalled recently because toddlers were getting their fingers amputated when they learnt how to fold the pram themselves. I haven't so much bought second hand, second rate furniture, I've purchased items that have already been “safety tested”. My doubts continued to ease when she revealed her sources on baby safety to be none other than that bastion of journalistic integrity, Today Tonight. If I'm going to take advice from someone it sure isn't going to be Monika “my hair, eyeshadow and lipstick are all the same colour” Kos.