What do you sleep with?

While making my son’s bed this morning I took a moment to marvel at all the stuff he sleeps with. Holy Moly! At the risk of being cliché, I’m surprised he can actually fit in there. There are the standard pillows, of course (he insists on three). There is the giant dinosaur pillow. A small square blanket. The toys – both the cuddly and non-cuddly variety. A bottle. A sipper cup. Two books. And a tennis ball. 

Now, as far as I know, it is standard for toddlers to fill their beds with things. But it got me thinking, what about adults?

I, for one, have a list of items I take to bed with me that is not particularly short. It starts with the husband, obviously, unless he’s in the dog house. Then there are the standard pillows. The cushions. A wheat pack. A book. A glass of water. Some Gaviscon. And I am on the hunt for a maternity pillow to shoulder the weight of my growing abdomen.

But my list is not stagnant. It grows and changes with the stages of my life (and the size of my belly). When I was younger and my parents went away for the weekend, I used to sleep with a bottle of Windex beside the bed, intended for spraying any potential intruders in the face. (Digression: I reasoned that a cricket bat or knife could be used against me, but what intruder would think of using windex as a weapon? Genius, right?). In the early part of my first pregnancy, I used to take dry crackers and ginger ale to bed ready to eat in the morning to stave off morning sickness (Spoiler alert: it didn’t work). When my son was a newborn, I used to sleep with (don’t judge) a can of diet coke on the bedside table that I would swig upon waking in the wee hours of the night before running to my crying child. During the same period I used to take a small hand- towel for (warning: almost certainly TMI) drying my leaky breast-milk during the night.

But, without giving away too many peoples secrets, I know I am not alone in my strange bedfellows. A good friend of mine takes a hot water bottle to bed every night no matter the weather, a habit that (when intoxicated) has subjected her to two, very painful leg burns with permanent scarring.

An ex-boyfriend of mine used to wear a mouth-guard to bed to stop him grinding his teeth.

My husband takes earplugs, an i-pod, and a pad of paper, for writing things down that he remembers during the night.

My Mum takes an eerie ability to wake up immediately at the slightest noise, or answer the phone on the first ring (yet, strangely she will often miss her ringing phone during the daylight hours).

My Dad takes the responsibility of being the grumpy person in the household, a task he takes very seriously.

And lets not even get started on some of the things new couples or singles take to bed with them…

So, as it turns out, perhaps my toddler isn’t as unusual as I thought?  Perhaps he is just preparing himself for all the strange habits he is sure to develop as he grows? Perhaps, sleeping with a giant, plastic dinosaur head (with actual, sharp teeth), isn’t crazy when you compare it to sleeping with windex and a hand-towel?

What do you think? Do you take odd things to bed? 

What do you sleep with?

While making my son’s bed this morning I took a moment to marvel at all the stuff he sleeps with. Holy Moly! At the risk of being cliché, I’m surprised he can actually fit in there. There are the standard pillows, of course (he insists on three). There is the giant dinosaur pillow. A small square blanket. The toys – both the cuddly and non-cuddly variety. A bottle. A sipper cup. Two books. And a tennis ball. 

Now, as far as I know, it is standard for toddlers to fill their beds with things. But it got me thinking, what about adults?

I, for one, have a list of items I take to bed with me that is not particularly short. It starts with the husband, obviously, unless he’s in the dog house. Then there are the standard pillows. The cushions. A wheat pack. A book. A glass of water. Some Gaviscon. And I am on the hunt for a maternity pillow to shoulder the weight of my growing abdomen.

But my list is not stagnant. It grows and changes with the stages of my life (and the size of my belly). When I was younger and my parents went away for the weekend, I used to sleep with a bottle of Windex beside the bed, intended for spraying any potential intruders in the face. (Digression: I reasoned that a cricket bat or knife could be used against me, but what intruder would think of using windex as a weapon? Genius, right?). In the early part of my first pregnancy, I used to take dry crackers and ginger ale to bed ready to eat in the morning to stave off morning sickness (Spoiler alert: it didn’t work). When my son was a newborn, I used to sleep with (don’t judge) a can of diet coke on the bedside table that I would swig upon waking in the week hours of the night before running to my crying child. During the same period I used to take a small hand- towel for (warning: almost certainly TMI) drying my leaky breast-milk during the night.

But, without giving away too many peoples secrets, I know I am not alone in my strange bedfellows. A good friend of mine takes a hot water bottle to bed every night no matter the weather, a habit that (when intoxicated) has subjected her to two, very painful leg burns with permanent scarring.

An ex-boyfriend of mine used to wear a mouth-guard to bed to stop him grinding his teeth.

My husband takes earplugs, an i-pod, and a pad of paper, for writing things down that he remembers during the night.

My Mum takes an eerie ability to wake up immediately at the slightest noise, or answer the phone on the first ring (yet, strangely she will often miss her ringing phone during the daylight hours).

My Dad takes the responsibility of being the grumpy person in the household, a task he takes very seriously.

And lets not even get started on some of the things new couples or singles take to bed with them…

So, as it turns out, perhaps my toddler isn’t as unusual as I thought?  Perhaps he is just preparing himself for all the strange habits he is sure to develop as he grows? Perhaps, sleeping with a giant, plastic dinosaur head (with actual, sharp teeth), isn’t crazy when you compare it to sleeping with windex and a hand-towel?

What do you think? Do you take odd things to bed? 

Would you rather be a toddler or a parent?

Me and the Ox-man

Almost every day as I lead my 2yo son through his pampered little life - smoothing every bump along his path before he reaches it, feeding him before he feels a pang of hunger, setting up an activity before he can get bored (ok, in theory, I could be doing all these things) - I wonder what it must be like to be him. Pretty good, I'd say. Never having to worry about where his next meal is coming from (strike that, knowing the kind of cook his mother is, he probably does worry about that), never being cold or wet or uncomfortable, never having to worry about bills or house prices and never having to plan for the future. Sounds like paradise, doesn't it? But is being a toddler better than being a parent? 


The obvious answer, of course, is a huge, flaming "YES."


A toddler's full time job is playing, for crying out loud. Toddlers are wheeled about in weatherproof buggies, carried when their feet are sore and they can go to sleep whenever they're tired.  They don't (really) have to clean up after themselves. And after a long day they are fed (in some houses) bathed and put into fresh clothes before being tucked into bed. Toddlers get 12 hours sleep every night (if they want it) plus another two hours  nap every day. And let's not forget my personal favourite, toddlers don't have to get up during the night to urinate. Pretty compelling arguments for being a toddler wouldn't you say (particularly the last one, since I am 6 months pregnant)?


But let's explore the other side before we make up our minds. Because, let's face it, parents have some darn good perks too. For starters, we can eat as many sweets as we like. We don't have to worry about someone watering down our juice when we're not looking (although, my Mum does try and switch drinks with me if she thinks I'm tipsy). Parents can buy all the "toys" they want, without having to wait for birthdays and Christmas. Parents can choose their own friends, they don't have to eat their greens and they can fight with their siblings to their heart's content (hang on, strike that. Mum still cracks it when I fight with my brothers on Christmas Day). Parents don't have to worry (at least in my social circles) about their friends punching them in the face or pulling their hair for no apparent reason (but if there's good reason, look out!), parents don't have to share their stuff, and parents can choose to cut friends out of our lives, regardless of whether our mother's are best friends. Last, but not least, parents don't have to go to daycare / kindergarten / school.


The verdict? I don't know. Actually, after having written this, both roles seem pretty crappy. I'm going to go with ... grandparent. And that's kinda sad.


So ... what do you think? Toddler or parent? And what perks haven't I thought of?

Giving up the dream

I am a HUGE fan of 80s music. Jessie’s girl, Funky town, You Spin me right round baby right round … they all make me crank up the volume and do some pretty serious chair dancing. But chair dancing is about as serious as it gets for me. Because my next admission is the real reason for today’s blog...

I’m not a good dancer.

Let me quantify this statement. I’m not a terrible dancer or anything. Nothing like Elaine from Seinfeld in the “Stella” incident. If I was that bad, people would point and smile and laugh at least. It would be something.  But I’m not like Elaine. What I am is much, much worse.

I am a shuffler. 

That's right. I stand around on the edge of dancing groups, moving from foot to foot, awkwardly singing along to the lyrics. I smile a lot and hope no one looks at my feet. I look at what the person next to me is doing and try to copy it without making it too obvious. You might be a shuffler too. I know I'm not alone. Us shufflers notice each other. We nod at each other from the periphery of our circles, a nod that says, “Hang in there, friend. You may never be the one in the centre, but you’re part of society. At least you’re not like drunken uncle over there doing the sprinkler, or the guys at the bar who refuse to move anything but their beer-swilling hand.”  

So why do I care enough to even write this blog? I’ll tell you.

I’ve always wanted to be a great dancer. I grew up watching Flashdance, Girls Just want to have Fun, Footloose. I dreamed of being like Janey and Jeff, doing the “routine” across the stage in front of millions of people while my family watched from side stage cheering me on. And for a long time, deep in my soul, I truly believed that one day I would have my moment. For example, in preparation for my wedding, my husband and I took 29 dance lessons. Twenty-nine. That’s a lot of time. A lot of money. I pictured a lift (Dirty Dancing style) several spins, maybe a little “No one puts Sally in a corner”.  What I got was a frustrated dance teacher, a very basic liturgical dance and a huge bill from Arthur Murray. And on the day, no one got out of their seats. No one cheered. People clapped and smiled kindly at us, the way they do when the bride and groom (who, while they have other qualities, are not great dancers) do their thing.  

My point? I think the dream is over. I am a 31 year old pregnant mother-of-one. And maybe – despite what Oprah says – some dreams are not meant to be realized. Sometimes, no matter how bad you want it, your dreams - and perhaps you - will be relegated to being a wallflower at the prom.

What do you think? Is anything possible if you just keep trying? Or are some dreams best kept in front of a mirror with a hairbrush? And what have you always wanted to do that you have absolutely no talent for?

Is it the thought that counts? Or the effort?

It’s no secret that I’m no Martha Stewart. If I was lying on a therapist’s couch right now, I’d probably attribute this to my mother working when I was little. But like most therapist's couch revelations, that would be a cop out because even while working Mum still managed to put a meal (albeit, a dodgy one) on the table each night. More than I can say.  Anyway, I digress.

Where was I? Ah, yes. Martha Stewart.  I'm going to tell you a story. Bear with me, the Martha Stewart transition will become apparent soon. And if not, I got to use the therapist’s couch analogy. I've been wanting to use that one for ages.

About a year ago, a very good friend of mine was hospitalized (spoiler alert: she’s fine now). Upon her release, another good friend of mine organized a roster for “the girls” (FYI: by “the girls”  I mean my group of girlfriends, not my boobs), to send meals to my recovering friend’s house every night for a couple of weeks. My friends are good like that. When times are tough, we know how to rally around, to bandy together, to do what needs to be done. I digress again.

Anyway, on this particular occasion, I am a little ashamed to admit (now), that I didn't, not even for a millisecond, consider cooking.  Instead, when it was my scheduled night to provide a meal, I nipped into the gourmet deli down the street and picked up a delicious meal (home-made by someone, I presume) and dropped it on my friend's doorstep. I got a text message later that night that my friend (and her husband) loved the green curry. Job done.

I didn't give it a second thought until a few weeks later, when I mentioned (with a little pride) to a third friend what I had done, and her jaw dropped.

Horrified friend: “You didn't cook?”

Me: Laughed, then realized the question was genuine. “Um, have we met? Of course I didn’t cook.”

Horrified friend: “Oh.”

Me (confused): “What?”

Horrified friend: “It’s just… it might have been nice to put in a little effort.”

My horrified friend wasn't trying to be hurtful or preachy. She was simply coming from an angle that I hadn't considered. Our mutual friend was ill, and for horrified friend, showing her support meant time in the kitchen, fixing that perfect homely meal with a dash of love here, a pinch of care there. I, on the other hand, thought support meant providing a meal on my scheduled night. I mean, my friend needed food, right? And I provided a meal (more to the point, I provided an edible meal, something I couldn't have guaranteed if I had cooked myself).  Still, I wondered if perhaps I'd missed the point. After all, my recently-out of-hospital friend could have ordered take-away all on her own.

A year later, I'm still flummoxed. Was this a test of my friendship, of the lengths I was willing to go to so my friend could eat something made by the loving hands of her friends? Or was it simply about providing her with some grub?

What do you think? Should I have provided a (possibly inedible) home cooked meal with an extra dollop of love? Or is the ends more important than the means?

Why are you here?

I didn’t always know I wanted to be a writer. But somewhere, down in the depths of my soul, I actually did. Right now, for example, as I sit here writing this blog, I feel happy. At school, whenever my English teacher asked the class to do a creative writing assignment, I felt excited. And when my work – formerly as a nanny, as an event planner and now, as an HR consultant – requires me to write something,  I feel at the top of my game. Still, it took me a long time to figure it out and get where I am (which by the way, is still a long way from where I want to be: a published author.)


Why am I getting all philosophical? Ok, I’ve been watching Steve Jobs Stanford commencement address and I admit, I’m feeling a little sniffy. The way I felt when I watched Oprah’s last episode. The way I feel when I see anyone living their dream. Not ‘the’ dream. Their dream.


So, what I am wondering is ... does everyone have something they were ‘meant’ to do? I don't know for sure, of course, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say yes. Maybe it is to be a writer. Maybe it is to be Oprah. Or Steve Jobs. Maybe it is to be someone’s Mum or Dad or someone's best friend. 


It's the thing you can't stop doing, even when it gets hard. The thing that makes you feel really good, and really bad. The thing that lights you up from the inside and makes you a better person. The thing that you want to leave behind when you're gone. Still don't know what it is? Don't worry - you will. And when you figure it out, it won’t be a matter of whether or not you want to do it, you’ll have no choice. Because that was what you were ‘meant’ to do.


I didn’t always know I wanted to be a writer. But somewhere, down in the depths of my soul, I actually did.


What about you? What were you meant to do? Do you even believe that everyone is meant to do something?

Is it ok to slap a 3 year old ? On the face? When it's not your kid?

Everyone knows the answer to this is a huge flaming NO. Yet, after watching the first episode of The Slap last night, I find myself less convinced than I thought I’d be.

For you non-Australians, The Slap is a hugely popular Australian novel which has recently been made into a TV series. The story is about a back yard suburban bbq, where a guest (a 30-something male) slaps a three year old child in the face. Hard. The child is not his own.

I know. Horrendous right? And to be honest, it was hard to watch. Yet somehow, my feelings on the matter aren’t black and white. Maybe they should be, but they aren’t.

Here’s the background. The first episode of The Slap is told from the perspective of Hector, a philandering (yet, somehow likeable) man celebrating his 40^th birthday. The youngest attendee at the bbq is three year old Hugo, a spoiled little turd who, incidentally (or, some say, not so incidentally) is still breastfed. I will admit it was a little confronting to see a pre-schooler demanding “Boobie,” but if the National Health Organisation doesn’t have a problem with it, neither do I. BUT, during the course of the bbq, this precocious little brat Hugo terrorizes the other kids at the party (who are told they can’t reciprocate, because they are older), breaks a Nintendo wii, smashes up a pile of CDs and pulls out plants from the garden by the root. Hugo’s parents respond to this behavior by cuddling him, ask the older children to be more understanding, and ahem, giving him Boobie time.

Eventually Hector (the host) organizes a cricket game for the kids, which seems to keep Hugo happy and out of trouble for a while. UNTIL birthday boy Hector and his cousin (can’t remember his name) hear some commotion from the kids and find Hugo, who has been bowled out, swinging the bat at the other children, trying to hit them. Hector’s cousin grabs the bat from Hugo and Hugo retaliates with a painful kick in the shins.  That’s when it happens. A slap. Across the face. Really hard.

The episode concludes with the news that the parents of the child are pressing charges.

I’m surprised to say, I felt bad for the cousin a.k.a. The Slapper. After all, didn’t that little brat get what he deserved? Yes, according to one of my twitter friends, Nick Seemore, who said:


"Even knowing the whole time the kid was gonna be slapped, the only shocking thing about it was that he wasn't decked much earlier"


Nick has a point. Then again, I suspect it was the producers intention that people feel bad for the slapper.  We probably shouldn't. He was the grown up, after all. Not to mention the fact that I have a toddler, who on occasion, has been known to be a brat. And what would I do if a strange man laid a hand on my child? I’d yell. I'd scream. And yes, I'd probably press charges.

The bottom line is, the producers did a good job. Australia’s divided. Everyone has an opinion. And I – the mother of an occasionally badly behaved toddler – took the side of The Slapper (at least temporarily). Now I don’t know what I think. And for someone who likes to have an opinion, that really freaks me out.

What do you think? Have you read the book? Watched the show? And even if you haven’t, can you imagine any circumstances that would cause you to side with a grown man who hit a child? 

Opinions on "full-term" breastfeeding or smacking in general are also welcome.