…I enjoyed time alone at our local car wash cafe.
…I watched the boys watching cars drive by.
…I had my toenails painted a new shade of red.
…I made Angus’ first morning tea ‘bento box’ for preschool.
…I found time to take a photo with Jamie.
I’ve had an abundance of words swirling around inside my head for a long time now, but I’ve had neither the time nor the discipline to sit down and spin them into coherent sentences and paragraphs.
To be honest, this last month and a half has been rather hard-going, and my perfectionist tendencies and inability to go to bed before midnight have not helped. I’m constantly stressed, tired, tense and anxious and I’m certain I’m becoming increasingly unfit and unhealthy every day. Having no time to myself has almost meant that I’ve had no time to blog, thus stifling the primary outlet for my creativity these days. All this needs to change, otherwise I just know I’m going to drown.
So today I sat down and prayed. I started eating healthily again. I made time to take some photos. I wrote this blog post. And I’m hoping I might be able to sneak away for a massage in the afternoon.
Baby steps, I guess.
Our Eames rocker arrived this week and oh my gosh, it is as comfortable as it is gorgeous. Rick, Angus and I all approve (Pete and James have yet to cast their vote). Now I just wish I had one in every single room of the house. A girl can dream, no?
Don’t be fooled.
This photo has nothing to do with my culinary skills. These were in fact some mussels I enjoyed during our holidays. Not cooked by me.
Yesterday I tried to chop an onion.
I wanted to get those beautiful onion rings to add to my, ahem, pre-made supermarket salad.
Sadly, for me, cutting up an onion has not yet made it to my list of skills. Even though I am thirty-one years old.
This became obvious yesterday when I massacred an entire onion without producing any said onion rings. For something like five to ten minutes, tears streamed down my face as I wrestled with the frigging stubborn onion.
My high-pitched cries of distress and frustration must’ve echoed all the way to the studio, where Rick was quietly working from home.
Thankfully, my husband is a compassionate and non-judgmental kind of guy.
Graciously, he came out to inspect my onion and said matter-of-factly, “Yes, you have massacred the onion.” With no hint of who-is-this-person-whom-I-have-married whatsoever.
(I am a blessed woman.)
Gently, he told me to save the massacred onion for dinner, brought out a second onion and proceeded to show the idiot me how you actually chop an onion. Properly.
My mother-in-law should be so proud.
Happy weekend everyone!
// Relishing the morning light…
// Embracing and being embraced…
// Driving by an interesting apartment…
// Having a go at colouring in…
Even though I’ve lived in Sydney for some twenty-five years now, I still manage to somehow get lost. In trying to navigate my way from our home to Northbridge today, I had to pull over at least four times to find out where I was on my iPhone Maps app and on at least two of those occasions I had to make a U-turn. How ridiculous is that?
Part of the problem is that I second-guess myself at traffic lights and freeway exits. I see a turning bay or an exit approaching and for some unknown reason, a (very frustrating) voice in my head always convinces me that it’s not the correct turn or exit. But it always is. And before you know it, I’m being shunted down the freeway towards some unknown destination as I frantically try to get Rick on the phone before panic and hysteria set in (true story).
But I shouldn’t complain too much. At least I now know how to put petrol in the car.
1) I have been watching Oprah again since coming home from the hospital. Even worse, I’ve actually caught one or two episodes of The Hills. I blame the midday feed…
2) Believe it or not, I do not gaze at my baby with undulating adoration all the time.
3) I always fall asleep whilst doing the late night and early morning feeds. I’ve even tried propping the bottle between James’ tiny unsuspecting hands on the off chance that he’s already worked out how to hold it for himself. No such luck.
4) I let Angus and Pete watch Play School. A LOT.
5) I don’t always change James’ nappy every time he does a poo.
6) I often expect my kids to do exactly as I say. Even if they’re only two and a half (“Eat your dinner Angus!”), thirteen months (“Stop crying Pete!”) and three weeks old (“Go to sleep James!”).
7) Sometimes I keep napping even when I can hear the boys crying.
8) I let Angus drink milkshakes.
9) I feed Pete endless jars of baby food.
10) I give James more formula than breast milk.
Hi, my name is Ronnie and I’m just a mum who’s trying to make it work.
Not many people know this, but about five years ago, I developed a rather fantastical ambition.
I was going to become an internationally renowned handbag designer. Think Chloe. Think Anya Hindmarch.
I am not quite sure how this idea initially began to take hold of my small brain, but I have a sneaking suspicion that Vogue was the culprit.
All those articles about budding fashion designers somehow managed to convince me that I, too, could create a successful fashion label. Despite no fashion training or background whatsoever.
What. So. Ever.
Not one to shoot down my ideas – no matter how crazy or far-fetched – my dear husband was surprisingly supportive (he really is the most wonderful man).
And so I began my amateurish foray into the fashion world: I read and gathered endless articles, both online and in magazines and newspapers. I attended a two day fashion design course in Melbourne. I attended seminars about setting up a fashion business. I bought books on fashion illustration. I did a course on import/export. I set up a little ‘workshop’ area in our home. I even rescued the old sewing machine from my parents’ attic under the impression that I would put it to good use with sewing samples.
Somewhere along the way, however, I fell pregnant with our precious Cam. And then of course he died. Naturally, priorities shifted. Grieving came first. As did getting through each day. Each hour. One by one.
Five years on, I have folders full of research and reference articles – all archived and neatly stored away in a trusty IKEA Kassett – as well as a box of leather handbags from Hong Kong which I imported in 2006 as part of my attempt to fund my fashion label start-up. These handbags have since moved four times with us and I think it’s high time that I finally let them go.
So in the spirit of purging, I’ve put most of these bags on eBay but I’ve saved one special bag for you guys!
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What does one do while one recovers from the shock of one’s spouse being in a shocking car accident?
One does scrapbooking of course.
Here are the 427 miniature photos that I finished cutting today for Pete’s ‘first year’ journal.
It was a brainless task which my brain was very happy for me to be doing. It’s great when my brain and I agree. It happens once in a while.
Though my fingers are a little sore, there’s no time to rest.
All 427 photos need to be stuck down and I need to come up with somewhat meaningful and funny comments to go with each photo. Hopefully my brain will co-operate, having had a break for most of the day.
And for those who are wondering: The big car has been officially written off.
But my husband is alive. Thank God my husband is alive.
Before Angus was born, I wanted to create my own nursery artwork. I read The Acrylic Artist’s Bible by Marylin Scott and convinced myself that I would be able to conjure up a masterpiece for my little boy.
So I walked up King Street, bought a blank canvas from a cosy little store called Art on King and lugged it all the way home by myself whilst seven months pregnant.
My goal was to paint a rubber ducky. So I started sketching a rubber ducky.
Two minutes later, I looked at what I had drawn and remembered why I wasn’t an artist.
I flipped through Marylin Scott’s book again and settled on something else that was significantly less impressive but a whole lot more achievable: stripes.
A few days later, we had this hanging on the wall:
Whilst I’m not proud that my rubber ducky got reduced to stripes, one has to be realistic in life and realise when one is incapable of painting a rubber ducky.
Not convinced? Reckon I could’ve tried harder?
Here is my so-called ‘sketch’ of a rubber ducky (I say that with air quotes because it almost doesn’t really qualify as a ‘sketch’).
Friends, I rest my case.
Dropping Angus off at daycare today has brought back all my insecurities about my driving and parking skills – or lack of, as is the case for me. If there is such a thing as road smarts (as opposed to street smarts), then I can confidently say that I have none. Zilch. Zip. Zero. Comprendo?
Maybe I’m over-reacting. Maybe it was no big deal.
But I did somehow manage to forget I was taking Angus to daycare. Which meant we ended up at the local community centre instead. Angus was clearly privy to my mistake as well because I heard a very distinct “Ah haaaa!!!” from the back seat. I could only be thankful that he was two and probably wouldn’t retain much memory of his mother’s failings.
When we finally arrived at daycare, there were heaps of parking spots available. For some reason, I ended up pulling into the one spot that had a pillar on the right blocking the back door. Which meant I couldn’t get Angus out. Which kind of defeated the purpose of going to daycare.
So then I spent about five minutes trying to re-manoeuvre the car into the spot on the left. Five long minutes as another family that had pulled into the carpark looked on with increasing impatience. Or at least that’s what I surmised from the look the mum gave me when she stepped out of their car.
It was only afterwards, having dropped Angus off upstairs, that I realised what I had done: I had parked in a disabled spot. And not just in any disabled spot. It was the only disabled spot in the whole carpark. I can only imagine what that woman was really thinking about me.
So, you guys, what’s your verdict? Am I over-reacting? Or do you agree that I’m still as bad as when I first started to drive)? Be honest now peeps – no need to hold back. This is the internet after all.
I am utterly spent. I feel like I’ve just spent three hours at the gym. Instead, I’ve spent forty-five minutes at Gymbaroo with Pete and I am simply wasted.
They should make it clear on their website that parents are required to be fit. And strong. And fit again.
I will never forget our first lesson three weeks ago. Ten minutes into the baby exercises, our lovely leader Di had instructed us to lift our babies upside down by clasping our hands around their thighs. Naturally, I was the only mum who couldn’t do it. Poor Pete was crying hysterically with his face planted on the gym mat as his chronically unfit mum struggled to get him even one centimetre off the floor. Of course, it didn’t help that Pete is a 11-12 kg nugget baby or that I was laughing hysterically the whole time at my own incompetence.
Strangely enough, we weren’t just hanging them upside down for the fun of it: Apparently, it is good for babies to have lots of upside down time. And to have bare feet. Both help to promote mobile development, balance and co-ordination.
I was at once embarassed, mortified and enlightened when Di told us this. Embarassed because I was the only one (yet again) taking Pete’s pants off there on the mat so that I could in turn take off his Bonds bodysuit in order to achieve ‘bare feet’ status. Mortified because both Pete and Angus were almost never allowed to go bare feet by their Asian mummy. And enlightened because I finally understood why I myself was so uncoordinated: I’d spent my entire life in slippers while my typically Asian childhood had been filled with Kumon exercises and maths timetables instead of hanging upside down off trees, monkey bars and the like.
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