Gabrielle Gassin

A mother’s musings on life

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  • “Bad Mum Forces Toddler to Pee Himself”

    Today I shouted so loudly and angrily that my two year old boy hid in the kitchen pantry and wet his pants.

    Being the normally incredible mother that I am, in the midst of putting together a nutritionally sound, delightfully tasty piece of dessert for my family was my situation when disaster struck. This time, my beautiful, intelligent little boy who has an imagination that defies his limited years on earth, wanted my undivided attention.

    It seems that toddlers have a special skill, one which involves asking the same question many, many times despite said question being repeatedly answered specifically, with clarity and consideration. Unselfishly and in a manner absolutely comprehensible by all involved… or so any reasonable person would think. In today’s scenario, even ninja turtle voices were employed to explain why all kitchen things would not be dropped so that playtime could commence.

    When I speak with my son, I am honest and rational. I believe strongly in truthfulness when conversing with a child; telling him exactly what is going on and being real about not simply relinquishing all responsibilities to be at the mercy of his wishes. After all, that is not what happens in grown up life. I had to finish the avocado cake; there was one more step to go before my all my time and imaginary play efforts belonged to him entirely. It wasn’t going to take long, and he responded with accord. I knew this because the dialogue between us was partly him explaining to me what I had explained to him.

    So, when I took the quiche-dish-containing-cake in one hand and picked up my phone to snap an Instagram-worthy photo, I was jolted from a dream state (my son is an angel, I am the perfect wife, look what I have achieved etc) as, quick as a flash, a small person magically moved two metres toward me, and a small hand upturned the entire platter – all over me, on, in and around my white Birkenstocks, on the bench, the cupboard and the floor.

    I yelled. Like I never have before.

    Aforementioned toddler bolted to the pantry and slammed the door as I stood, motionless, my heart pounding and on the verge of tears. The intense anger I felt dissipated quickly, though, once my husband came out to make sure I didn’t kill help me clean up, and my son opened the pantry door to reveal his wet shorts – he had weed himself. Was it in fear,  or was it just bad timing? Either way, I immediately felt horrible for reacting so strongly and all improved quickly once the contents of the avocado cake were salvaged. Unfortunately, I didn’t take a photo of the initial catastrophe…I was too ruffled to consider it! Photos below show the scene after quarter done-clean-up.

    It’s funny how children metamorphose – one moment, divine gift. Next, disguised gremlin. And I suppose, the way we parents conduct ourselves in the most heated moments helps to shape which character our kids more strongly grow into. And what might be handy to realise is that parenthood will always be punctuated with picking up the pieces – that is just part of the deal. How very dull it would be, if everything was always perfect (and clean). More important is not the mess all through the kitchen, but that when that little boy asks me, “mummy, are you a little bit cranky?” that I can provide him with an explanation that is going to help both of us grow.

    Looks like I’m going to have to work on my response mechanism, if I don’t want a miniature savage running my household.

    —-

     

  • Thoughts on Australia after 8 months living abroad.

    Thoughts on Australia after 8 months living abroad.

    When the plane is coming in to land in most cities, there isn’t a whole lot of beauty immediately visible to the eyes in the head of a craning neck, trying to see past the passenger hogging the window view. In my experience, one usually sees a mixture of brown and green – trees, dirt and such, as well as a lot of industrial-area type buildings. I have found that it’s only when the plane has touched down and the few moments of very intense braking have passed, when you can breathe a subtle sigh of relief that you survived this miraculous feat of engineering, that you can acknowledge the airport and consider again the place at which you have just arrived.

    On a Saturday afternoon, my family and I landed in Perth, Western Australia. And, I knew immediately that my life had changed. Now, the clickedy-click of those three proper nouns onto this page inspire feelings of endearment and warmth, and even ownership. I’d like to be able to make a “before” comparison, but I think the only fitting word would be “apathetic.”  Of course, this is a newfound realisation. Before leaving for our extended trip, that feeling was cloaked in the routine of daily life. And that’s not to say I lived a terribly boring and monotonous life before travelling; this would be wholly untrue. It’s just that this travel helped me locate a special key that I didn’t even realise I had misplaced.

    There’s a feeling of safety that comes with living in western society that I now have a restored appreciation for. The smell of stability is intoxicating, the drive toward home from the airport on the smooth, well connected roads encouraging a sense of security that was missing during my time away. The knowledge that I could, if I so desired, stop any person anywhere and speak a language we would both understand, flooded my being with this sense of freedom that was absent in most of Europe. I have become familiar with a sense of certainty that settles when a person feels safe in a particular location. I didn’t endure unrest, either. I wasn’t living in a third world country, I did not encounter any war zones. My life was never under threat. Even so, I know that now I understand this feeling.

    I also think I understand why people immigrate to Australia. If you live here as a natural consequence – i.e having being born here, how lucky you are. How lucky we are. Of all the places on this incredible planet, you landed here in “The Lucky Country.” And I know that not everybody feels this way upon returning to their country of origin. But me? I have a beautiful life. Many before me have felt the same, with oft-used phrases such as the one above embedded in our vernacular, and countless poets and writers having expressed what I too, am trying to describe.

    Spending time away, seeing and experiencing how human behaviour and habits have shaped the rest of the world, living in opposition to how you would in your “normal” environment, morphs your psyche in ways that staying put never ever could. Travel is vital for growth of mind, yes, but actually relocating to a foreign place will change a person beyond expectation. Apart from the cultural challenges one is exposed to abroad, it’s trying to establish yourself that proves the hardest thing. Find somewhere to live and secure it for an extended period of time. Try to enrol your child at crèche, or school when you don’t already exist in any sort of system.  Find yourself a source of income that will sustain you once you’re past your savings. Buy a car, officially own it. Create a network around yourself and your family, so that you have some support. Don’t be discouraged by the unnecessary and at times ridiculous red tape thrown at you by the government of the country you’re in. Do all of this using a foreign language that you are very familiar with, but not fluent in…not like a native.

    Now, being back, I don’t want to go anywhere. I love my home. Stepping through the entrance foyer upon arrival and into the wide open living space lit by sunshine was pretty special. And it still is, four weeks later. Appreciating the high ceilings and saluting my army of orchids and ivies, it seemed that I was passing everything like I never had before. Like I was seeing all of it for the first time, with a renewed sense of vision. Proust echoed in my head – “The real voyage of discovery consists, not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” And it’s the littlest things, perhaps even the unremarkable things that piece together these feelings…my own set of clean linen on a bed that my body recognises. A washing machine and a clothes line and the ability to wash whenever I choose. A cooktop and an oven in the kitchen, and gas at the press of a button. All sorts of useful utensils and cooking apparatus. More clothing than I need, a supply of shoes on rotation. Fresh, clean water directly from the tap, filtered water directly from the fridge. The magpies chortling at 6am; the willie wagtails dancing on the lawn. The temperature, the breeze, the summer sun. And, to add to the loveliness, we actually see kangaroos morning and evening grazing on the green across from our house. None of these things even highlight the incredible physical beauty of Australia…we’d be here all day if I really got going.

    I could go on and on naming the things that are there at the end of my fingertips as I bask in the luxury of a first world life. I am so, so lucky to have been born in a country such as Australia. And for now, I have absolutely no desire to change up my living situation and experience divergence for quite a long time. I am comfortable at home, and something that being away taught me is that I am okay with admitting to that. I do believe that this sort of experience (or perhaps one with more exposure to disorder, if you’re not travelling with a two year old) is necessary for anybody living a life of opulence. Even if it is minimal scale comfort that you live in, throwing yourself in the deep end does a lot to help you realise the value of a good and easy life.

    Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
    And sorry I could not travel both
    And be one traveler, long I stood
    And looked down one as far as I could
    To where it bent in the undergrowth;
    Then took the other, as just as fair,
    And having perhaps the better claim,
    Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
    Though as for that the passing there
    Had worn them really about the same,
    And both that morning equally lay
    In leaves no step had trodden black.
    Oh, I kept the first for another day!
    Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
    I doubted if I should ever come back.
    I shall be telling this with a sigh
    Somewhere ages and ages hence:
    Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
    I took the one less traveled by,
    And that has made all the difference.
    Robert Frost – The Road Not Taken
  • GO TO SLEEP, CHILD!

    GO TO SLEEP, CHILD!

    Being a parent is an all-consuming and relentless task. Relentless, of course, because no “good” parent ever really clocks off. Not even a sleeping child means you’re in the safe zone. As I typed up that sentence, I literally heard my son crying and had to go and tend to him; he was standing in the hallway. Asleep, presumably, but still needing my care. And all-consuming because being a “good” parent means that almost every exposed thought and action is in consideration of how it will affect my child.

    Something that continually amazes me is the intensely comparative feelings I have when my child sleeps, as opposed to when he will not. When in the midst of one of those “phases” of a two year old refusing to sleep – I mean, literally telling me “I am NOT sleeping,” I turn from a mother with inexhaustible patience and an interest in alternative parenting, to one who almost wants to smack her child on the bottom, throw him in his room, lock the door and make herself an espresso martini.

    If you’re a parent who is lucky enough to have a partner around, at least the load of annoying crap kids do can be shared among the two of you. If not, may some sort of higher power give you strength to carry on. Typically, I don’t see myself as someone who gets super easily annoyed by things; I try to be an empathic person with a compassionate heart. But boy does the “refusal to sleep at bedtime” rubbish get to me. I can feel this sense of fury rising inside me – fed by questions through gritted teeth such as, WHY WON’T HE JUST  SLEEP, (and, what have I done to deserve this.)

    When my child refutes sleep at any time, my day is ruined. This sounds melodramatic. But when you spend two or more hours encouraging a person to do something for themselves that is good for their health, and you think you’ve nearly succeeded, only to close the door quietly, breathe a sigh of relief, walk into the kitchen and then HEAR THE DOOR OPEN AGAIN, a frustration I have never before known takes over who I am as a person. I pause whatever it is that I haven’t had time to start doing. A small boy creeps out…and he: a. is hungry, b. is thirsty, c. needs to poo. Or, the door stays closed. I consider being in the safe zone – I have maybe two hours to reset, make dinner or do some work on the computer. Do some yoga. Do something for me. And then I snort to myself…don’t be a fool! I press an ear up against the door and the silence is punctured. What is going on? a. the light is on and a small person is reading books, b. Buzz and Woody are whizzing around the room, c. toys are being unloaded from the wardrobe, or d. he is hiding.

    Read ten books, read two books. Stay for a cuddle or shut the door and go. Feed him before bed or let him go hungry. Try at 10am, try at 2pm. Wear him out on an expedition or stay home. Every parent knows about “stages” and “phases” children go through. And every time one occurs that effs up our flow, we hope that is just what it is. A state of being that is temporary, that will pass, and that at some point, our once perfect lives will resurface. Then, we can be the parent who chuckles quietly when a friend is enduring a similar scenario, and share our esteemed advice on handling said situation. After all, we’ve “been there, done that.” Once we’re back into routine, once the “phase” has passed, the world is a wondrous and magical place once more, and having children was the best decision we ever made.

  • A life is a life, is a life. Right?

    A life is a life, is a life. Right?

    I would like to acknowledge that I personally recognise that there exist perhaps three different “types” of people, each of them with a different opinion on what one should do when faced with a scenario comprised of turmoil. In context, the turmoil adheres when the life of an animal is compromised. And by animal I mean pet.

    I’d like to highlight three archetypes. One is the person that will remortgage their home to pay their veterinary bills; the big scary word that starts in “Euth” and ends in “Anasia” is not an option, no matter what. Two is the person that will also do whatever it takes to save the life of their pet, and only in the most unpromising of circumstances – like a very, very humble prognosis, would this person consider The Big E. Things would have to look meagre; the animal’s quality of life was going to plummet and the likelihood of further illness elevated, for this pathway to be an option. And the third person represents one who will euthanise almost as soon as the problem arises. No surgeries, no chemotherapy treatments, no ongoing medication. All three of these casts have reasons behind their choices. I’m sure that each person, when faced with the conundrum of a life in jeopardy, would methodically consider her options, and align those options with her personal circumstances. She would then make a choice based on suitability. Her underlying life-values would be the foundation for her decision. I’d like not to tap a wand of judgement upon any of these people; that is not my role. It’s actually not anybody’s. But I had to practise this skill, and I’m only just learning how to empathically perceive values as being the basis for such decisions, and to recognise that when values aren’t accepted, contempt can arise.

    On Friday November 15th, four days before we were due to fly home to Perth, my ten year old Bichon Frisé, Coco (Chanel, of course) was diagnosed with kidney stones, bladder stones, and a stone blocking the little tube between the aforementioned organs. She was a mess, and we later found out she was also carrying a staphylococcus infection – that which had knocked her down and led to these discoveries. The left kidney was loaded with stones, and the right with just one. The renal pelvis was engorged due to the blockage. The prognosis was substandard. Options offered to us didn’t seem feasible; one was surgery that may not work and pretty serious on-going care would be necessary. The alternative was “medical management” which involved “fluid therapy” and antibiotics, and essentially waiting to see if she would recover. With the diagnosis looking the way it did, this option was, in the most blatant of terms, a death sentence.

    We had limited choices available to us, and about 12 hours to consider them. By the time Friday morning dawned and I had spent the time before midday on and off the phone, I was becoming Person Archetype #2. I was unequivocally distraught as we packed ourselves into the car and headed towards the hospital in Homebush. My girl was ten years old, and we’d been together since day dot. She’d lived with me in Wollongong, and moved across the country with me to Perth. She had been the reticent older sibling to little Bangers and she had patiently waited for the arrival of our human baby. She’d had not a single health issue in her life until now, and I was heading to hospital to put her out of her misery. And boy was she miserable! It hurt me to see her in such a state of agony, and my tear bank was drained by the time we hit Heathcote Road.

    On the journey, we had a call from our specialist, Narelle Brown. She had tossed and turned the night before, trying to figure out a better way forward for Coco. Her suggestion was to place a stent in the ureter, the small tube connecting the bladder to the kidney. Of course we took this as our way out of a burial ceremony, and authorised the go ahead, continuing the drive to Sydney to see the little fluff before her surgery.

    The operation went ahead after we met Sarah Goldsmid, the surgeon in charge of opening up Coco’s little body. We paid another deposit after having already done one the previous day, and we organised Vetpay so that we could fund the procedure. We waited anxiously for the post-operative phone call with positive news, and we rested easy when it came. The next week was up and down, because little Coco refused to eat a single bite of food. She couldn’t be discharged until she had, so each day she was observed until came the point that my sister visited – this obviously reminded Coco that she hadn’t been deserted and she could quit the food-boycott. She was released the next evening, with a bill amounting to $9,698.50. We could cover some of the costs, and the rest was being taken care of by Vetpay. We would have a few weeks to repay the $6000 they loaned us, and then hopefully our insurance would also pick up some of the slack.

    We did not hesitate to do what we could to save Coco’s life no matter the cost, because for us, that is what it boils down to. A Life. A little animal is a living thing, just like you and I. An animal may not have conscious thought in the manner that we humans do; we don’t really know if she is self-aware enough to realise that her life-forecast is currently highlighted in red. But is this the only real difference between humans and other animals? Is it language and self-awareness, action-consequence that separates us?  Throughout history, our care and treatment of other animals has fluctuated in its moral code. Heck, there have been periods where fellow humans have had worse treatment than our actual four legged friends. What is it in us, that makes this distinction? Why are some humans okay to end the life of another living animal? If a dog could speak directly to his carer, share his thoughts and worries… would his carer still go ahead and euthanise him?

    Three days after Coco was discharged from hospital, (again on a Friday!) our miniature dachshund Bangers Williams ruptured a disc in his long little back for the third time in three years. It seemed like a joke…Coco just out of hospital and now this? With Bangers having had two previous spinal surgeries, I was well aware of the costs, (both monetary and other) we were about to undergo with another one. But alas, the prognosis this time was much worse than in the past. The little sausage had hurt his back on Tuesday, and by Friday morning his hind legs were paralysed. He would have been in so much pain; anyone who has ever had this sort of injury would be all too familiar with the trauma before pain relief!

    It was back to Homebush with a referral from the local vet to see Sarah Goldsmid again, but this time the verdict was much more grave. With his neurological deficits being so bad – loss of deep pain sensation in his hind legs, no deliberate movement, loss of bladder control, it was a grade five diagnosis with at the absolute most, a 40% chance that he would walk again. That would mean a wheelchair for this active little boy, and a colostomy bag for his toiletting. With a toddler and a baby due in February, I just didn’t know if it was manageable. And that’s if the surgery went well. We had already flown home to Perth by this stage, so here I was, trying to be as present as possible on the phone listening to Sarah talking about slim prospects for Bangers and crying my eyes out for this poor little dog who has been through so much.

    By now, I was once again considering euthanasia. I couldn’t say it out loud though, and I  definitely could not imagine it happening. In my heart I didn’t feel like this was the end for Bangers, but I was struggling to see a positive way forward. Also, the operation and related action plan was going to cost $12,000 minimum – more money which we didn’t have simply sitting on standby. My sister set us up a Go Fund Me page to try and get some support with the associated costs of going ahead. I was too much of a mess to make any decisions at this point, so our amazing, caring friends Leeona and Rob (who were with Bangers) gave the go ahead to perform some scans so that we could see how bad the rupture really was. After the scans, Surgeon Sarah was happy to proceed, so together we paid $5250 in deposits, hoping that Bangers wouldn’t lose his legs or his life.

    We had good news 12 hours post-op, with our little guts eating his breakfast and trying to shuffle around in his enclosure. This actually continued each day, with little bits of progress making for a very positive outlook on Bangers’ future. By day five, we were waiting for Bangers to go to the toilet on his own, as his catheter had been removed. This sacred wee took 48 hours, and finally came the Thursday after surgery. Bangers was then released from hospital, after six nights and seven days. Certainly, an experience we don’t want to revisit. His odds of walking properly again are quite good – this is pretty incredible if we consider the grade of rupture and his progress thus far. He was lucky.

    There were two episodes among the situations I have outlined, where I had to carefully consider my options. Twice, the option of euthanasia presented its potent availability, and twice I was brought to my knees trying to evaluate whether we should use it. Of course I wasn’t alone in all of this; I had the good ol’ “opinions of others” to listen to. I was advised to be pragmatic, to think about the money. True, we had just returned from eight months in Europe and had very little funding to support us. We are expecting our second child. We have several large debts which involve property. We need to buy  a car. Outright, I was called a fool for being willing to spend so much to save my dogs. Some voices carried an unmistakable tone of contempt, evident both on the phone, via text and face to face. I felt judged, the wrath of being an adult and the task of decision making weighing heavily on my already broken heart. At this point, some words felt like burning bits of coal, blown by the hot summer wind and coming to rest on what remained of a tarnished landscape.

    Among this experience, I learned a little bit more about “values.” There will always come a time when the underlying values that reinforce your life-story are challenged. And there will always come a time when those same values collide head on with somebody close to you. What I have learnt is that acceptance of seemingly incompatible values, particularly when a meaningful topic surfaces, is actually the first step to tightening a bond between people. What must be remembered is that first, if one (or both) people feel strongly (evidenced by simply ruminating on a topic) about certain subject matter, someone has to establish dialogue on it. Going into it, each person has to remember that they need to bring something to the pool of meaning – nobody should be going in to simply prove their point. Because when its a persons values that foot the dispute, all we can do is try to understand one another. Those pillars are the foundations of every decision we make, and mis-alignment of those pillars can lead to destruction. I saw a clash of values in the flesh, and I had to first move away before I could come to grips with it. In the future I am hoping to be able to used this experience positively, so that in dealing with comparable situations, I will be better.

    Finally, it would be remiss of me to mention how extremely lucky we are to have had the help we did, in dealing with all of this. As you can probably imagine, being on one side of  Australia whilst all of this was happening on the other side was not easy. We have been fortunate enough to have people who adore our dogs as much as we do, to help make decisions when things were looking really bad and to provide financial assistance at the exact time that it was truly required. These caring and compassionate people have taken time out of their normal lives to drive our little bunnies to and from veterinary appointments, and I think the biggest task of all, for being the carers for each of their recoveries. With a patient that has undergone a spinal surgery, can’t walk and needs 24 hour crate rest, this is particularly burdensome. “Thank you” doesn’t quite cut it for all of this, but I know that somehow we will show our gratitude when the time is right.

    With the help of our community network, we raised about $3500 to support the cost of Bangers’ procedures. I cannot express how grateful we are to everybody that donated – either their time, in checking up on either myself or Shane with consoling words, or through the action of giving. If I had been alone in all of this, things may have been very different. So for everything… THANK YOU.

     

     

     

     

  • A journey of “Bumps”

    When we left for Paris on April first, our son Arlo was one year and 11 months old. The style of parenting Shane and I had been attempting to adopt up until that point was based on a fair chunk of reading we’d done, with foundations of Magda Gerber’s RIE parenting strategies, and Jennifer Percy’s “Parentspeak.” Personally, I am interested in parenting “differently” than what is generally expected in and accepted by the modern world, with the hope that we will raise a child that “…you not only love, but you love being around,” as Gerber famously said. Well. Were we in for a shock. Spoiler alert for anyone planning an extended European adventure with a person who is little more than an infant, and who is developing at the fastest rate that he ever will in his life. Obstacle ahead!

    We both had to start using “STOP!” and “NO!” much more frequently than we had been, as the boundaries and environment shifted around us. Every time we travelled, we both knew it was going to be fractured with little hurdles which involved keeping our child appeased; with boundaries that guarded him safely, but allowed him to grow. Some of you reading this might say that this is parenting a two year old… and you’re probably right. But as a first time parent, it’s very difficult to know if your child is “being a toddler,” or if you’re doing something wrong. When Arlo was under two, I would get compliments on my unending patience in the most frustrating situations. These days, that is far less likely to occur, and instead I have to count to ten with deep breaths or take a moment to myself to regain clarity and control. Man, is two years old a test of character. Mine, of course.

    We’ve left France now, and have been on the road (literally, in a campervan) for three weeks. For sure, space is everything. A one bedroom apartment in Paris didn’t suit us, but a two bedroom apartment with a huge garden in Biarritz changed everything. Now, we’re travelling in our home and bedrooms are bunk beds. We both have to remind ourselves of some of the literature we’ve read, with the main takeaway being that “needs drive behaviour” and “environment is everything,” when trying to allow a child to flourish. Something I’ve discovered, low and behold, is that trekking through Italy in a campervan is actually not terribly simple when you have a toddler who needs big sleeps to refuel his seemingly boundless energy. And I mean boundless.

    And now is the part that I talk about all the good stuff. We are, undoubtedly, very lucky to have been able to partake in this adventure. We created it ourselves; we made a big dream something achievable and we had the support of friends and family to prop us up. We knew that this sort of journey could only benefit both us as adults and even more so, our little boy. It’s been challenging, yes. But would I change anything? No! Would I recommend it for others with young children? Yes…but before having kids is advisable and favourable!

    Being a parent in itself is a devine gift, no matter which deity you worship. Sometimes it seems like there are overextended moments of frustration, but these always pass and are flushed away with the sound of his sweet little voice, an unexpected embrace or just the memory that he is a tiny person, learning the ways of the world. And indeed, the world! At two years old, Arlo has seen more of the world than I had at 18. He’s been exposed to the acquisition of two languages at the same time. He has had the strength of perpetual love and full time presence from not one, but both of his parents for nearly seven straight months. He has a sense of adaptability that is beyond his two and a half years, and that will only increase in time. He’s been able to experience the culture and lifestyle surrounding not only one country, but a whole handful. He’s seen the beauty of snow capped mountains and had the joy of throwing snowballs with ice cold hands. His hair has been bleached with two, coming on three consecutive summers, and his love of the ocean is unmistakable.

    Hopefully reading this, you sense the honesty I’m trying to convey. We have come across countless young parents, out doing the same things we’re doing (tourist-wise) but without their young kids. And I know this because it’s always them who approach us, making comments like “good for you, doing this with the little one!” and “we left ours at home!” and we all share a jovial little moment bonding as parents. A few hours later however, there’s a tired toddler who needs an explicit routine, yelling, roaring, hitting and spitting (I can’t believe I’m writing that) at people who want to pat his head and tell him how lovely he is. It’s these moments that we look at each other glaringly, both thinking the same thing – what do we do?

    But alas, we leave Italy on Thursday and head to Switzerland, and by now we (sort of) know what we’re doing. And that’s a really good thing. I say sort of, because there are still lots of question marks; it doesn’t ever seem like we have anything solid established before things change again (#parentlyf.) And things are going to change again, because…we are now expecting our second child. I am twenty weeks pregnant, and seeing as I look like I’m nearly full term, we figured it’s probably time we shared the news. After Switzerland we fly to Hungary, then to Germany and Austria, and on to Scotland before we land in Sydney on October 27. We’ll spend two weeks seeing family and friends before heading home to Perth for Christmas, and to organise our home for baby number two.

    I am excited to see what the future holds for us. Or should I say what my belly holds! When our first born is well slept, he is a gorgeous young human. Sensitive, affectionate and clever, he’s more switched on than your average toddler. He knows the difference between French and English and can name a vast number of things in both languages. He is funny and caring and rough with his toys and with Shane and I, and he’s inquisitive, confident and independent. At certain times too much so for the environment, if you ask me! I couldn’t love him more if I tried, and I am thrilled to be able to give him a brother or sister to grow up alongside. Arlo will turn three years old just after the baby arrives in early March, 2020.

    Good for you, if you read to the end of this post! This is in fact our Pregnancy Announcement, and if you would like to leave a comment, I would love for you to post here on my blog instead of on the Facebook page link if that’s how you got here. That way the secret is reserved for those who read the whole piece of writing.

    I appreciate the time every person takes to read what I write, so thank YOU for doing so.

    Here’s a snap of my tummy 🙂 it feels bigger than it looks, I tell ya! Yes, I am wearing pyjama shorts, and don’t mind Shane’s undies off to the left 😂

  • Summer in the City

    Summer in the City

    Paris in late August has indeed a very different feel to it this time around. The afternoon skies, having breached the morning a deep blue, have a summer haze – wisps of cloud giving some respite from that blazing ball of fire in the sky. Parisians are more relaxed; (or are they tourists?) the holidays, perhaps being the missing link to lost sleep. It seems that the mundane stressors of daily life aren’t so bad; people are smiling and eye contact is a connecting factor among strangers. It’s more tranquille, there are certainly less people around, not quite as many cars on the streets and absolutely more exposed body parts. I do truly believe that it’s harder to be angry on a sunny day; so perhaps it’s that notion that infiltrates these city dwellers for a few months of the year. There seems to be more green, the lanes don’t seem so narrow… it has a more clean and honest feel to it.

    On this trip to Paris, we hired a neat, brand new little car. We had it for 48 hours, and it gave me an alternate perspective to what I’ve had before. You know, I actually felt a little bit glamorous, if I’m to be completely honest. On those two days I experienced Paris from a pedestal…grand, leafy trees reflected in the car windows as we passed underneath. Glorious old buildings with their curly window and terrace iron, some even embellished with a deep golden frame. Miraculously, we parked in a barricaded lane right outside our door… for free. Both mornings saw us exit the building with fingers crossed, hoping the car hadn’t been fined or worse, towed. Someone was looking after us there, that’s for sure.

    Our logement, was this time different too. Through huge timber double doors we had to pass to proceed into a quiet square, an island of more enormous, friendly trees separating the wide, cobble stoned drive. Leaving the street you enter what seems a sanctuary of peace and calm, the apartment buildings casting a cool, relieving shadow all throughout. Your nostrils are enticed toward pasta carbonara and garlic bread with the incredible smells of an Italian restaurant; their kitchen backing onto the courtyard and difficult to resist.

    One thing that definitely has not changed is the familiar burn in the calves upon climbing the six flights of stairs to the apartment. Each time I carried up either A. a 2.5 year old or B. groceries, I both resented and relished reaching level two and (puffing) acknowledging I hadn’t really come far.

    The apartment itself was adorable. Spacious with two bedrooms and a lounge room plus the necessities. Every surface clean, the delightful smell of fresh linen in each bedroom when we arrived. Lots of framed things and trinkets up on the walls and on the shelves, tastefully yet oddly decorated by somebody who obviously loves to travel. It was quite pleasant, passing Arlo’s siesta time within this little château; the French windows open wide to the mid afternoon sunshine.

    We stayed north of le seine on this trip, preferentially a little closer to Le Marais than last time. With luck, our apartment was just around the corner from a gorgeous little fruit and veg mini market shop type thing, with the most vast array of fresh produce I had seen in a long time. The kiwi fruits, from New Zealand, were perfectly fresh and ready to eat, and the apples, pink lady of course, were the best (and actually the only!) I’ve had in a long time. They even had broccoli; absolutely standard in Australia, but a rare commodity and hard to find fresh here. The pineapple, my god. Juicy and sweet. After some time chilling in the fridge, it was the perfect summer gouté.

    This was the Paris I had longed to experience, the Paris portrayed in films that was shaded with a hazy, romantic summer daze. Once we returned the car we had hired, about 30% of this mist lifted upon re-exposure to the streets, the metro and the swarms of people using both. But this is the other side of life, right? Rubbish, the homeless, and humans that are in downright poverty and just trying to get by. Crunching steps on the pavement we were approached eight out of 10 times, by people begging for money. Not panhandlers; these were people actually asking for cash, and walking alongside us until we heard them out. One time a decently dressed 12 year old on a scooter asked very politely for one euro, and this was one of the only times I refused. It was clear he was just out of pocket money…I think.

    Again we got to see my beautiful cousins Emilie and Ben and their darling little girl, and we were treated to a delightful lunch with the kindest French man you’ll ever meet, Arnaud, at one of his and Dominique’s impressive restaurants – Georgette. I  had the salade de coeurs d’artichauts, champignons, amandes et roquette au sésame, le riz japonais, tartare d’avocat et gambas en tempura, but of course my favourite dish comes very highly recommended – the mi-cuit au chocolat noir, crème fouettée avec glace vanille. For those interested in the menu, and can understand French or use a translator, peruse it here. 

    To end, some other thoughts:

    I’ve had Regina Spektor’s ‘Summer in the City’ in my head for days, so I thought it a perfect name for this post. That’s the audio at the top of this page, if you didn’t realise.

    One day I found 20 euros in the Franprix around the corner.

    We are going to Disneyland tomorrow to spend one night and two days. I’m not sure if it’s Arlo or his parents who are more excited.

    One day we got the train in the wrong direction and after ending up lost in the burbs, had to cancel our expedition and go home due to the time. Boo.

    The washing machine broke with most of our clothes in it, saturated and with the door locked. I had to wash everything by hand when I eventually got the door open, which made me very grateful for washing machines.

    In the city, there is no wet-based relief from the heat. Just shade, and fans. And climatisation, if you’re lucky.

    And, that’s it. Au revoir for now!

     

     

     

     

     

  • Nudes and No-Nos

    It’s quite common practice, in Australia, that when one female is enjoying the summer sunshine by the ocean, she will conservatively be wearing a two piece swim suit, covering both boobies and below. More exotic and daring it is, to have sacrificed the top piece in order to encourage that highly esteemed all-over tan. Customary practice, however, is it for this to take place further along the lapping waters where innocent families won’t be exposed to such promiscuity (yes, you know what I’m referencing close friends and family!).

    Among us Australians, it’s common knowledge that European beaches do not support the same ethos. Along the mix of pebble and sandy shores in the south west of France, women of all ages, shapes and sizes surrender their bikini top to support that special  areola tan. Perfectly fine if you ask me. In fact, I encourage and promote it, for the de-sensationalising effect it has on BOOBS. Boys and girls of all ages are exposed to breasts of all dimensions, perhaps thus helping growing minds become accustomed to difference and normality. Anyway. I say go ahead! Brown your nipples! Stripping down is what we do at the beach and generally also when the warm weather enforces it. At home in Australia, I have very little washing to do in the summertime because we trot around at home in our cozzies, trying to keep cool. This is not a rule just for women, either. Don your speedos and euro trunks, men! Nobody likes a board shorts tan, and being bronzed is the sun’s gift to everybody.

    With this practice occurring everywhere at any moment, nobody on the coastline bats an eyelid – except for me, when I see breasts the colour of mahogany, which just looks not quite right, in my opinion. What does elicit a bizarre look from the locals, however, is when it comes time to depart the seaside. Yes! You are basically naked on the beach,

    BUT DO NOT THINK TWICE ABOUT LEAVING THE BEACH WITHOUT YOUR CLOTHES BACK ON.

    Second glances and scowls await you, conveying a judging eye if you so much as take on the sidewalk with naught but a towel covering up such immorality. Ten metres away, people are all but naked! But apparently, it is not common practice to leave the beach with only a swimsuit on. Mostly, one is still wet from swimming, one is quite sandy AND one has a lot of things to carry. Clothes back on is the last thing I personally want to do. I usually don’t bother with “shoes” either; I can’t think of anybody ever enjoying that wet, sandy-feet-on-rubber feeling. But apparently, European beach goers have time for that. One time I saw a woman put JEANS back on before packing her things away, and you rarely see people straying from the sand without having replaced their footwear.

    Alas, we butt heads again with French customs. But we must agree to disagree on this unspoken subject. I shall not re-dress to leave the beach if it doesn’t suit me!

    NB: Photo courtesy of some very daring young women on a secluded beach in Australia, somewhere.

  • Touching Children in France.

    Touching Children in France.

    Did that title grab your attention? It doesn’t mean what you first thought. This post discusses what could be seen as a French Tradition, and starts with the cultural aspect of French people kissing each other. You kiss someone when you meet for the first time, and then you kiss again before leaving. I don’t mind this at all as in my family, that has always been the way. TWO KISSES! What I don’t approve of or promote, however, is my son having to do the same. Something that irks me a little bit is that,

    PEOPLE WANT TO TOUCH AND KISS CHILDREN. ALL. THE. TIME.

    It’s mainly women, and it often happens on the street. A LOT. Okay, okay. I have a gorgeous looking child. But he’s a person, and he doesn’t know you, nor does he want you touching him let alone kissing him.

    At the start of our trip we literally had one lady beg us to kiss Arlo, “just on the hand” and before I had time to realise what she had said and step towards Shane, (who had been baffled by the French she used) it was too late. She sailed in quickly and planted a wet mouth kiss on his delightful little hand, his unprepared brain registering severe distaste before he began shaking his hand and wiping it scornfully. Now, several months later, if Arlo is in the right mood and an elderly lady comes close, watch out biatch. He will use force. I don’t condone violence or my child hitting anybody or anything, but if someone is up in your personal space and you’re uncomfortable but unable to vocalise that, action is apparently the next best thing. Of course I do intervene when I am quick enough, usually by stepping away if he is in my arms and explaining to him that I won’t let him hit.

    Once, Arlo and I were watching a man turn on his motorbike (he’s obsessed) when the man crouched down and stroked Arlo’s cheek with a warm-hearted sort of look on his face. He then followed up by suggesting he take Arlo for a ride on this motorbike…ummmm, no thank you monsieur. Au revoir.

    These examples are no exaggeration, and sometimes they’re acceptable, but it depends. Sometimes these advances come from beautifully dressed and delightful smelling, grandmotherly figures. Sometimes they stop to chat, sometimes they want to touch, a lot of the time they have advice. They certainly won’t hesitate to let you (the mother of the child) know, that this child is tired. Oh! Is he? Well I never. I wonder who tried for two hours to get him to sleep earlier today!?

    I have been a fan of Jennifer Lehr’s book Parent Speak since before Arlo was born. Lehr advocates for letting children know that in fact, they don’t need to endure Uncle Peter’s sloppy kiss and tense arm grab at every family gathering. They need not suffer through someone they don’t know (or do know, for that matter) physically touching them. That, if something like this makes them feel uncomfortable (I know I absolutely faced these situations growing up!) that there are alternatives that can be suitable for both parties. I am teaching Arlo that he need not kiss somebody he doesn’t want to, that instead he could offer a high 5 or a handshake, or a hug if he feels like it. This way the imposing person doesn’t get embarrassed, and the child is not shamed into doing something he doesn’t want to do. At two years old though, we mostly just get a straight “no” for all options. Lol. And as a child who is very affectionate with those close to him, there is obviously some meaning behind his response. At least he knows exactly what he wants!