confessions

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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Honk if you’re game to try this

My Honkie cup of tea

Usually I don’t like to classify myself as a Honkie*, but when it comes to drinking tea, I am Honkie through and through. Here’s how to do it the Honkie way:

1) So first up, we need some darn strong tea bags. Dilmah Extra Strength is a good choice. So good in fact that when my mum goes back to Hong Kong to visit relatives, she will take with her at least 6 boxes of Dilmah Extra Strength (200 pack) as gifts to bestow upon my numerous aunties. That’s 1,200 tea bags. That’s how much we like it.

2) Steep the tea for as long as possible. Before kids, I never liked waiting around for this part. Post kids, the tea usually sits steeping for at least 45 minutes as we battle out the daily morning routine. Actually, nowadays, we’re lucky if we even make it to the next step….

3) Now add your sugar if you like it sweet. Again, if you need a product recommendation, CSR Raw Sugar is good. And does my mum lug kilos of CSR sugar back to Hong Kong as well, you ask? Well, actually, yes she does. True story.

4) Now for the milk. But not just any milk. We like to use evaporated milk. It’s creamier than full cream and it comes in a can. No, it’s not good for you, but being healthy is not generally at the top of a true Honkie’s list of priorities. I try and always choose the ‘Light and Creamy’ can which is 25% less fat than ordinary evaporated milk but probably still 500% more fat than your average skim milk. That’s not too bad, is it? Just remember that it tastes really, really good.

5) And then comes the truly weird part which freaks out most of my non-Asian friends. We add coffee to the mixture. That’s right, a few grains of my beloved Nestle Instant Gold completes the deal. Mmmmm………

Now honk if you’re game to try it the Honkie way!

*Honkie = someone born and bred in Hong Kong and who retains such characteristics even after having migrated to a western country. Okay, so I made that up myself, but it’s close enough. Let me know if you can do better.

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It had to happen. Again.

Yup, it had to happen again. Another terrible mother moment. This time the victim was poor little Pete.

Yesterday we’d been to Rhodes Shopping Centre to find some toys for Angus and Pete, since Angus’ second birthday is fast approaching and we’ve hardly bought any toys for Pete. And no, we did not go into IKEA (even though there were definitely a couple of items I could’ve picked up) because Rick’s first words as we stepped out of the carpark and into the elevator were: “Thank goodness we’re not going to IKEA. We are not going to IKEA.”

Anyway, as I was lining up to pay for a handful of toys at Kids Central, I turned around and noticed this bright and funky cash register which I instinctively knew would be perfect for Pete. I mean, yes, I did fantasise about being a checkout girl when I was young, but no, I was certain I wasn’t projecting any of my childhood ambitions onto my innocent, little 7 month old boy. Surely not! Who would do such a thing?

So I bought it.

Today, I sat Pete in his white IKEA high chair and then sat the cash register on his white IKEA high chair tray.

It was all going just fine until I started worrying about him pushing the cash register off his tray and onto the floor – you know, as you do when your childhood dream was to become a checkout girl.

And so I thought to myself: “Ah ha! Why don’t I fashion some way of making the register stick to the tray!”

And then a moment later: “Ah ha! Why don’t I use Blu Tac to make the register stick to the tray!?”

And out loud I said to Rick, Angus and Pete: “Ah ha! Mummy’s a genius!”

And so the groundwork was laid for my terrible mother moment. The tragic plot was sadly set into motion.

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Our Four Seasons adventure

When I was a little girl, I used to read Jackie Collins novels. I still remember the day I innocently picked up my first copy for fifty cents from a book stall at our annual high school charity day. So really, when you think about it, it’s the school’s fault that I caught the naughty Collins bug.

That first book was Lady Boss, and Lucky Santangelo became my hero. She was dark-haired, beautiful and smart, and she had guts and wit. But more importantly, she built hotels. Tall, glitzy five-star hotels.

So from the tender age of eleven or twelve, it became my dream and goal in life to build a hotel. As I told my friends back then, I wanted to walk into my hotel every morning, wave curtly at the people behind reception and have everyone bow and call me “Ms Chan” as I headed to my private elevator which would take me up to my penthouse office. Lucky wouldn’t have had it any other way.

All this to say that we checked into Four Seasons Sydney last Friday evening, checked out on Sunday at midday, and in between enjoyed one and a half days of pure relaxation, pampering and fun.

Seriously, what a tasteful hotel: luxurious, classic decor and not at all gaudy or pretentious. And the brilliant attention to detail – from the shower tap that allowed me to control the temperature (I mean, what is that?), to the dark mahogany box filled with not cigars but crisp, white stationery, to the awesome shoe drawers that I’d never seen anywhere else, to the classy green bag our Saturday morning paper was delivered in, to the soft, hushed tones with which all their spa ‘treatment specialists’ spoke. In fact, so hynoptised and relaxed was I during my facial, that I kept falling asleep, only to be woken up each time by my own abrupt snoring. It is a testament to the staff’s professionalism that my ‘specialist’ kept a completely straight face, even as she asked me afterwards, “So how did that feel?”

And just look at this amazing table setting – even though all we ordered were a small bowl of soup, a pudding and a large bowl of white rice (come on, we had to cut costs somewhere).

I like to think that if I had built my fake, fantasy hotel, the Lucky Santangelo in me would’ve thought of all these little touches.

My low point of the weekend came when I shoved my perfectly manicured hands under the warm, fluffy towel during the facial, only to discover afterwards that my nails hadn’t actually dried properly and so my nails ended up with a patterned finish. You should’ve seen the tears I shed over my own stupidity.

And to @FSSydney who saw my comment about the late room service breakfast on Twitter, we weren’t at all bothered by it. The 30th floor view of the Sydney Opera House more than made up for it.

(Yes, we fell for the room upgrade at reception. It’s like when they ask you if you want fries and a coke with your Big Mac. How on earth are you meant to say ‘no’?).

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How Apple ruined my iPad day

I was going to let this one go, but clearly I’m not over it, so thus goes my rant:

I placed my iPad pre-order on the morning that pre-ordering became available here in Australia, or precisely 11.27am Eastern Standard Time on Monday the 10th of May to be exact.

And so began the longest eighteen days in the history of mankind, as my brain counted down to Friday the 28th of May, the day Apple promised to deliver my iPad by, according to that infamous Apple Store Order Acknowledgment.

Checked my Visa card intermittently for the first two weeks, slightly bemused that nothing had yet been deducted.

Not so amused by the time the third week came around. Still no credit card debit. Still nothing from that Apple Online Order Status which simply continued to reassure me that I would have my iPad by May 28th.

Still, I did not lose faith. I had confidence in Apple. Yes I did.

Tuesday 25th of May. Innocent question from Rick: “So is your iPad going to arrive this Friday?” Uneasiness in my throat begins its evil descent into the pit of my tummy.

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It had to happen

It had to happen.

My very first ‘terrible mother’ moment, that is.

It was a month or so ago and I was getting ready to take Angus out for a walk.

I needed to put some make-up on because I looked rather scary from lack of sleep. So I propped Angus up in the middle of my pillow with my make-up case to keep him entertained.

As I stood at the bedroom mirror trying to hide the very unattractive bags under my eyes, I glanced over at Angus and saw him begin to sway like a little tree on the verge of falling down.

And let me say now that he was not swaying towards the inside of the bed. No, as bad mummy’s luck would have it, he swayed towards the SIDE of the bed. Yup, the side being the edge of the mattress, the other side of which was a drop down to the floor: a small drop for mummy, but a giant drop for a seven month old baby.

Looking back, I don’t know what on earth possessed me. Angus had only just started sitting up – how on earth did I think he would actually be okay propped up so precariously close to the edge of the bed?

But the worst part?

Even as I started to sprint to his rescue, I knew that I wasn’t going to make it. I knew he was going to hit the floor.

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Giving up my desk and my office

Now that we are on a mission not to wake Angus from his naps, I have hardly had access to my desk and studio upstairs anymore. Since the other half of the studio is the nursery.

This is an unprecedented situation for me.

I have never in my life been without a desk before. I have always had a desk. Even since I was five and read about a little kid who set up his own office with a little table, a little chair and a fake telephone. That’s right, while other little girls liked to ‘play house’, I liked to ‘play office’.

I have also never been without unlimited access to a desktop computer. Ever since I was ten and my dad gave me my first DOS machine and taught me how to run the ‘dir’ command (which incidentally occupied me for hours on end).

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Out of alignment

Despite my teasing of Rick regarding his use of a head torch around the home, I have to admit it does come in handy. Mostly when it is late at night and I need to find some all important document in the studio/nursery but I don’t want to risk waking Angus up. In I go with head torch strapped onto my forehead like some highly trained ass-kicking SWAT chick. It usually goes very well until I fall prey to my maternal instincts and decide to shine the torch onto my little boy to get a glimpse of his chubby little face. Without fail, this causes him to stir and sometimes even occasionally open an eye. On reflex, I rush to cover the torch with both my hands, thus dropping whatever I was holding thus leading to the very racket I was hoping to avoid in the first place. Thus may as well not have bothered with the head torch. Yes, thus.

It turns out that my mother was right about my hip, even though I’m still convinced it was pure guesswork on her part. A trip to a physiotherapist two weeks ago revealed that my hip and pelvis are indeed out of alignment by about half a centimetre following two pregnancies and a severe case of pubic symphysis pain in the last trimester of my latter pregnancy. So now in addition to the half an hour of walking prescribed by my endocrinologist, I also have stretching exercises to do three times day if I want the joints and muscles attached to my pelvis to start working properly again (kind of a no-brainer really). I have never felt more athletic in my life.

Our little man has finally decided to take up one and a half naps again in the daytime. The ‘No-cry nap solution’ book from Amazon has proven quite helpful. Same goes for the combined blindfold and strait-jacket style wrapping solution that I concocted with the help of a friend. As for the remaining one and a half naps, I am still hopeful. After all, I have four Amazon books still to unwrap.

Napping issues aside though, Angus is such a source of joy and delight in our lives. He has the cheekiest grin and the most beguiling look of curiosity about him. I especially love it when we sit him up to give him a burp and he raises his eyebrows – and then keeps them there – like he’s just been given the most interesting piece of news. His latest tricks include going into a zen-like meditating hands-on-knees position whenever we take his nappy off, turning the last page of his Baby Touch book (I was like – “Did you just do that?!”), shoving his fingers into his mouth before we can reach it with the bottle and going from chuckling to crying and then back to chuckling again in the same breath. Love him to bits.

We are also loving Season 8 of Scrubs. I have never been one to download TV shows onto my iPhone/iPod but these latest episodes are too good to resist. As I said, loving it.

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Scrapbooking woes

Oh the mental torture of scrapbooking!

Given that Angus is almost four months old, I decided last week that it was high time to get into this baby scrapbooking business.

Sadly, with my physiological need to have a system for everything, I had to first devise my scrapbooking system slash plan:

Do I get that baby book or this one? Does the baby book actually cover everything i want to record? What if I think of something extra to include? What do I do then? Maybe I should use the baby journal binder I already have instead? Or maybe I should use both? Do I print photos and put them in an album or do I get a photo book printed? If the former, should I get a slip-in album or a dry mount album? What colour should I choose? If photo book, then what size should it be and what theme would look best? Soft cover or hard cover? Do I stick cards into a book or stick them in a memory box? Do I get a brag book? How many should I get? How many pages should each have? Which photos do I put in the brag book? Plus, what sort of things am I meant to keep of Angus’? Lock of hair? Hand prints and foot prints? Nail clippings (gross!)? First tooth (ditto!)? Wait, am I scrapbooking or concocting some weird potion to turn a frog into a prince?

Clearly I am nuts but this is simply how my brain is wired. And no, it is not the sleep deprivation talking.

The upside of all this scrapbooking debacle is that I have had an excuse to visit kikki K and actually purchase more than just the usual pencil. Yes, their stationery is (slightly) overpriced, but I’ve somehow managed to justify the expenditure by telling the voice in my head that I haven’t bought anything since the new year – except for a couple of iPhone apps (which don’t really count) and my disastrous haircut (which I’d written off as a sunk cost anyway).

Whoever said it’s not fun to be a mum?

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Soup or sauce?

As Rick and I sat waiting in the Don Jon café on Sunday night for our char-grilled beef scotch fillet to arrive, the friendly waitress who’d greeted us at the door suddenly turned up at our table with two miniature-sized cupfuls of what looked like soup… or sauce.

Rick and I looked at the dwarf-like cups, then at each other and then back at the cups again. Without even speaking, we knew already what the other was thinking: Was this soup (but we hadn’t ordered any entrees) or sauce (but why would they serve it before the beef in a little cup on a saucer)?

Without wanting to embarrass ourselves, we tentatively poked at the mixture with our forks and tasted it in an attempt to work out what it was. Rick was quite adamant that it was sauce but I insisted that it was some sort of chowder.

In the end, we decided to risk the embarrassment of appearing like a couple of ignorant Sydneysiders (which admittedly we were) and took the plunge by quietly asking the waitress what exactly we were supposed to do with the contents of the cups. Unfortunately, the waitress didn’t appear to understand our question (and rightly so, one might say) but even worse (to our shame), the couple on the table next to us overheard us (what were they doing eavesdropping anyway) and informed us quite heartily that it was potato bisque – a complimentary appetiser.

As we thanked the waitress for her ‘help’, she quietly told us that she’d accidentally brought up two extra cups of the bisque for us and meekly asked us whether or not we would want them as well. Why not, we said, as we silently grinned at each other, secretly pleased with ourselves that we’d managed to score a rather delicious entrée completely free of charge (clearly, Rick ain’t a slower learner when it comes to picking up Asian habits).

It almost made us feel better about the whopping $31 which we were paying for each of our steak…

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