children

The ‘Christmassy’ side to Christmas

When I was little, my parents and I didn’t really celebrate Christmas. Sure, we had a short plastic Christmas tree (with very sparse-looking branches) that we would erect in one corner of the house, but I don’t recall there actually being Christmas presents under it. In fact, I’m sure that as I got older, that rather sad-looking tree with its sparse-looking branches got replaced by an even smaller tree that sat on top of our piano.

Without other relatives here in Australia to get together with, Christmas day would often pass just like any other day – except that dad would have new underwear and socks to wear because somehow mum always managed to convince me that they were the best presents to buy him. (Plus, Rio always did a fabulous six pack that Big W would stock year after year.)

Mind you, it’s not that we thought Christmas was a silly season. We simply weren’t a family that was religiously or culturally inclined to make a big deal out of Christmas – after all, we had to save our energy (and money) for Chinese New Year which was always just inconspicuously lurking around the corner.

One year, however, I took part in a Christmas carol service in Darling Harbour with other kids from school, and I went home with a compilation of sheet music for all the well-loved Christmas carols. That particular Christmas Eve, I sat down at our piano and played all my favourites like ‘Silent Night’ and ‘Away in a Manager’ and, of course, the token Santa ones like ‘Jingle Bells’ and ‘You Better Watch Out’ whilst singing out loud (not in tune, I’m sure) with much fervour and gusto in full view of the tiny Christmas tree that stood no taller than a 1L Coke bottle.

In hindsight, I think that was my first real ‘Christmassy’ moment: singing and playing Christmas carols on the piano all by myself whilst my parents continued to watch their Chinese soap on the television. (Though it could have been Die Hard. Or Die Hard again. Dad was a Willis fan.)

Rick and I have now been married for six and a half years and, to our shame, we still haven’t come close to buying a Christmas tree. We’ve kept telling ourselves (and each other) that once we’re in a house, and once we have kids, we’ll get one. A good one too (ie. one that can sing, dance, bake, cook, clean and mind the kids for us – wait, that’s just my subconscious talking about the nanny that I wish I had).

Well, my friends, that time has come. We’re in a lovely house that can definitely accommodate a taller-than-a-Coke-bottle tree, and we now have two gorgeous little boys at home, with another due to pop out in the new year. There is simply no excuse this year for not making our home a bit more festive and a bit more ‘Christmassy.’ I mean, I want the boys to have fond childhood memories of Christmas after all – or at the very least, I’ll have photos that I can show them when they’re older as proof that we were one of those families who tried to make Christmas ‘Christmassy.’

So I think we’ll start with getting a Christmas tree. Then the ornaments. And the fairy lights. I might even go a bit crazy and buy (not sew) a Christmas stocking or two. Maybe.

There’ll be no baking mince pies though, mind you. I mean, let’s not be unrealistic. If I’m not even driven enough to bake my child’s first birthday cake, then I’m hardly going to be attempting a baking recipe that involves pastry and mincing fruit.

Anyway, who needs to bake when you can easily buy all sorts of baked goodies these days. Bakers Delight actually sent us some fruit mince tarts and lemon tarts to try for free last week, and they were a hit with us all. Rick, who admittedly has a weakness for anything involving sugar and pastry around Christmas time, went so far as to use his extensive linguistic talents to describe the lemon tarts as “lemony” and the fruit tarts as “fruity.” And while common sense dictates that you’re probably not meant to give your two year old fruit mince pies to eat, I (devilishly) managed to bribe Angus to eat more of his pasta dinner on Saturday night than on any other occasion by offering him a mouthful of the fresh pie pastry between every mouthful of pasta. Evil (but ingenious) mum am I.

The point is that whatever ‘Christmassy’ memories the boys will have when they’re older, watching their mother bake Christmas puddings and mince pies in the kitchen just ain’t going to be one of them. And I’m okay with that. And I’m sure they will be too (once I’ve managed to teach them all about the benefits of outsourcing).

Anyway, may the ‘Christmassy’ fun begin. First up: tree.

p.s. Bakers Delight also sent me some free vouchers to give away so if you would like to try a 6 pack of their fruit mince or lemon tarts for free, just leave a comment below and ‘like’ this post on Facebook.

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Big changes are at hand

Or – ‘At hand are big changes’?

I couldn’t work out which title would be more dramatic, so went with the one that came into my head first. I think Yoda would’ve preferred the second one.

Changes are indeed at hand here at Pink Ronnie headquarters. Picture a big glassy building with cool funky workstations, multiple cafes, ten thousand games rooms, a swimming pool, a gym, a rooftop meeting room and a colourful logo out the front. Oh wait, that’s the Google headquarters. Okay, well picture me in my 3m x 4m workspace with my trusty MacBook Pro, my IKEA swivel chair and lots of instant coffee.

Yes, changes are underway – hence the appalling lack of posting this past week (What’s that? You’re used to it? Ouuuuuuch!) – as I embark on my annual online makeover. Don’t worry, it’s nothing too radical. No tummy tucks going around here. Maybe just a bit of Botox and one of those IPL laser treatments that seem to be all the rage at the moment but sadly cost an arm and a leg (it’s been recommended to me at least twice now by beauty professionals – I mean, what does that say about my skin?).

I’m hoping to have it all finalised in the next couple of days and to reveal the new site – or sites plural (oooooh…. how’s that for creating suspense and intrigue) – next week so that I can get back to just writing posts about the joy of being a blogger who procrastinates.

In other news:

1) Rick is loving the second “big” car.

2) I am also surprisingly loving the second “big” car. In fact, I’ve even been driving it on my own this last week without my ever-attentive husband by my side. (By ‘ever-attentive’ I mean instructional, and by “instructional’ I mean side-seat driving. Yes Rick, I’m looking at you.)

3) Angus can now string three words together for the first time ever. And (surprise, surprise) those three words are: “daddy big car.”

4) Pete has two extra teeth, remains as cute as a hamburger and continues to get heavier everyday.

5) James now does karate moves in utero.

6) And I am no longer attempting art.

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United by stillbirth

As you may or may not have caught on Channel Nine News on the weekend, the Stillbirth Foundation Australia held its 5th Little Feet Lunch at Dockside, Cockle Bay Wharf, on Sunday.

Since Cameron died three years ago, I’d always wanted to go along and this year, I’m proud to say that I finally got my act together and attended this wonderful event with my dear friend Sarah.

The guest speaker this year was the Honourable Kristina Keneally, our NSW Premier, who is now Patron of the Stillbirth Foundation Australia. She spoke about her daughter Caroline, who died 10 years ago without breathing a day on her own. She spoke about how hard it was to get out of bed each morning and the lasting impact that Caroline has had on her life. I deeply appreciated the warmth and honesty with which Kristina spoke. I found her talk inspiring too, and it encouraged me to reflect on how Cameron’s death has not just been an end but also the beginning of a new chapter in my life. I would not be the woman I am today if not for Cameron.

I was excited to hear from Emma McLeod* – founder and director of the Stillbirth Foundation Australia – that the charity was close to raising its first million dollars. This is money that will fund essential research into stillbirth to help ensure that the high stillbirth rate in our country begins to decline. Currently, 1 in 140 babies in Australia are still stillborn.

Another highlight was finally getting to meet my beautiful friend Sally in person – we’d first ‘met’ almost two years ago through Cameron’s blog. Sally is an amazing woman who has written beautifully and eloquently about her precious daughter Hope. I feel very lucky to know her.

I was also very encouraged by all the men who attended the lunch. For some inexplicable reason, I had not expected so many to turn up. But seeing them all has reminded me that stillbirth doesn’t just touch the lives of women. The dads, the grandfathers, the brothers – they, too, are all changed by the death of a baby before birth.

Sarah and I really did have a wonderful afternoon together at the Little Feet Lunch: from the amazing food, to our handshake with the Premier, to bumping into our friendly obstetrician, to our candid chat with the lady on my right who turned out to be Kristina’s security guard.

But the whole time, it was not lost on either of us that we were there because we belonged to a club that no one would ever wish to be a part of. As my friend Sally said on Facebook on the morning of the lunch: “Stillbirth Foundation lunch today. Wish I had no reason to know about this great organisation. But sadly I do and I’m so glad they exist.”

*If you have a free moment, listen to Emma McLeod in her Conversation with Richard Fidler.

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While we weren’t sleeping

This morning as Rick and I lay in bed at 6.45 am in the morning with both Angus and Pete lying awake (noisily) between us, we fantasised about an invention that had the capability of beaming our children to their choice of grandparent for sixty or so minutes which would thus allow us to sleep in for an extra hour.

For example, Angus could be teleported to Grandpa and Nan’s bed where he could have an early morning chat with Grandpa about cars and planes while Pete could be beamed to Por Por and Gung Gung‘s where he could have his bottle and Weet Bix. Grandparent-grandchild relationship would become stronger than ever and when the kiddies were beamed back, mummy and daddy would be bright-eyed and ready to party.

So everyone wins.

It seems now that Angus has turned two, he is old enough to be a pawn in our morning ritual.

After fantasising about the teleporting machine that would save our sleep, Rick decides it is time for us “all” to get out of bed. Lazy Mummy of course does not want to get out of bed. So I just keep lying there, hoping Responsible Daddy won’t notice.

While Rick is busy putting Pete into his high chair for his breakfast, Angus manages to open the cupboard door in the corridor connecting our bedroom to the kitchen. One of Rick’s camouflage black military utility bag falls out. Not wanting to get up, I continue lying in bed as I shout instructions to my two year old to “push it back inside.” Obedient boy that he is, Angus tries to do just that but with no success.

By this time, my sweet husband has re-appeared in the corridor and assesses the situation at once.

Instead of helping our son put his camouflage black military utility bag back inside, he suggests to Angus that he should “bring the bag to mummy” and “put it on the bed.” He says this knowing full well that I won’t be able to stand such mess and so will therefore have to get up and put the bag away.

Daddy – 1. Mummy – 0.

To retaliate, I whisper to Angus in the bedroom to “go to daddy” and to “put his (cold) hands on daddy’s tummy.” And so he goes and does just that. I could tell from Rick’s squeal.

Mummy – 1. Daddy – 1.

The games could probably have gone on, except that Pete was getting quite impatient for his Weet Bix. In fact, he’d started reaching for his bib and looked like he was going to eat it in liew of being given actual food. So I put on my Responsible Mummy hat and sat down to feed my little man.

Good times.

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Guess which cake is mine?

Many women like to bake. I am not one of them.

Instead, I like to outsource. I outsource the cleaning, the mowing, the weeding and nowadays even the car washing. If it was possible to outsource the outsourcing, I would probably do that too.

Last year, while we were living on campus at Moore College in Newtown, three other college mums and I decided to organise a combined 1st birthday party for our little kiddies who were all turning one around the same time.

In the weeks leading up to the party, we worked out food, drinks and party decorations. We also agreed that we would each do our birthday cake.

And so on the day of the event – and what a beautiful day it was – these three friends of mine all brought along their unique creations.

Lisa had a Barbie cake for Ava, Kristy had a monkey cake for Elissa and my gorgeous friend Cathie had an amazing owl cake for her Finn. I mean, just look at it! Even if you’re not an Oreo or Smartie fan (which would be weird), you’ve got to admit it’s mighty impressive.

And moi?

I was responsible for the generic coffee cake from Michel’s Patisserie of course.

And I didn’t even order it in person myself. Instead, I’d sent Rick out to Marrickville shopping centre and instructed him to send me photos of the different options by SMS. I guess you could possibly call that outsourcing the outsourcing.

It was no surprise that by the end of the party, most of the other cakes were gobbled up by all the children, yet only two pieces of Angus’ cake had been eaten. And one of them was by me.

Still, don’t feel too bad for Angus. We did hold a special birthday and baptism celebration just for him the very next day. And he did get a second cake.

Not a Michel’s coffee cake either, thank you very much.

It was the delicious tiramisu one instead.

Anyway, tomorrow is Angus’ second birthday and – guess what?

Rick is baking him a cake this year.

Thank goodness for Angus his Outsourcing Mummy is married to a Superdad.

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Bring it on!

Oh wow, almost two months since I last updated. Funny how I say that like I’m surprised.

So much has happened.

For one thing, I got the big coffee book thingy done. It turned out to be 120 pages. That’s bigger than Ben Hur by my standards. Lucky I had the amazing Mina to help me out. As well as caffeine. And a Superhusband. Did it stress me out? Yes. Did I sleep much. No. Was it worth it? Kind of. At least all our credit card debts are now paid off. Kind of.

Then Spring arrived. And with it, Cameron’s third anniversary.

Then I got struck down by some evil tummy bug for a week and a half. Very, very nasty. For a few days, I could hardly get out of bed. Luckily, my Superhusband took care of the boys and me as only a superhusband can. The doctor thought it was food poisoning from badly cooked chicken, and I was all ready to boycott the culprit of a cafe when the test came back negative. Which meant we never actually found out what was wrong, but at least I can still look chicken in the face and eat it.

Then Pete got sick, Angus got sick and Pete got sick again. Rick had ‘symptoms’ but but he didn’t get ‘sick.’ Apparently Rick doesn’t get ‘sick.’ He only ever gets ‘symptoms.’ This I have learnt after six years of marriage.

And amidst all this delightful mayhem, my mum sneaks up on me one day and says:

“Ho yee (Ho Yee being my delightful Chinese name) ah, I just had a nightmare last night. I dreamt that you told me you were pregnant again! Ai ya….”

And then sure enough, the next day, I did a pregnancy test (as you do when you’re a woman and you’re, you know… late) and the faintest of blue line appeared next to the first.

[click to continue reading…]

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Chinese mind games for little kids

Can someone Chinese please explain to me why I shouldn’t describe Angus as cute (even though he is), label him as chubby (even though he is – I mean, come on, you only have to take one look at his big fat cheeks), say that he’s smart (even when he makes developmental leaps like grabbing his very first rattle) or – the worst offence of all – call him ‘a good boy’?

Okay, so I know you’re not meant to spoil your child, but surely positive encouragement and praise where relevant and appropriate is acceptable? Plus, why shouldn’t I be allowed to call my own baby cute and chubby if I so feel like it, especially when they are in fact true and accurate descriptions?

I honestly don’t understand this business of not praising your baby/child/infant for fear of them turning out to be the opposite of what you say.

Don’t know what I’m going on about? Let me explain with a very simple example:

Even though Angus is ridiculously cute (I know I am unequivocally biased as his mother but he is at the very least – cute), Chinese belief/tradition stipulates I’m not allowed to call him cute (much less ridiculously cute) because he might hear and understand me and deliberately turn out to be ridiculously ugly.

Allow me to point out a few fundamental holes in this line of thinking:

1) It is not logical.

2) It makes no sense whatsoever (oh wait, is this the same point as above?).

3) Little babies like Angus usually don’t have the capacity to understand words or language yet. I think? Maybe they actually do but they wait till we all go to sleep and then they wake up and phone each other on their baby iPhones and proceed to talk for hours?

4) Even if Angus was a super-smart and super-brainy Asian baby (see what I’m doing? I’m calling Angus super-smart and super-brainy in a roundabout, hypothetical way) and understood every single word that I utter, he doesn’t actually have much control over how his nose is going to end up, or how big his eyes are going to be, or whether he’s going to have nice hair or bad hair (without radical surgery anyway).

5) Even if Angus was some freak of nature and was able to control the abovementioned, why on earth would he deliberately make himself ugly just to spite me? Just so he could say, “Ah hah! You were wrong mum”?

6) Repeat 1 and 2 above. Ten times. No, a hundred times.

The amazing thing is that no matter how many times I explain this to my mum, she refuses to agree with me and in fact I’m sure she thinks that I’m the weird one for not following this historic Chinese tradition (more commonly known as plain old superstition).

So basically, if your child is cute, call him plain. If she’s beautiful, call her ugly. If he’s smart, he’s dumb. If she’s obedient, tell her she’s naughty. If he’s nice and chubby, you better call him a stick.

Welcome to Chinese mind games for little kids. You’ve just had your first lesson.

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