sing as though no-one can hear you

Can I just say I'm terribly sorry for attending to this blog in such a haphazard fashion. I would blame the whole crazy Christmas thing, but since my last entry was mid-November, that might be a stretch. Anyway, I do finally have something to report, having completed my eight-week introduction to singing course last night with a concert during which I sang not once but five times (four with my fellow students). I am so glad I did it, the course and the concert, and now when I am singing in the car or the shower or out in the backyard, Sound of Music style, I will know in my heart that I CAN really sing. And that will make all the difference.

do the ocean motion

A red letter day! My first swim of the season, in the crystal blue waters of Little Beach. It was even worth the two hours driving there and back and having to drag myself away from Elsa and Freya in full beach mode so I could come to work. Let's hope there will be many more days and swims just like it before another crazy year is out.
Dreaming of storybook cottages www.storybookcottages.com.au and weighing up the prospect of renovating (ie huge mortgage, stress, chaos) versus moving (ie not-quite-so-huge mortgage, stress, chaos). All weighty issues really, not to be taken lightly. But exciting, nonetheless.

in alignment

You know how some days the stars just seem to align and a spooky sort of symmetry prevails? Doesn't happen very often at all any more, but today it kind of did.
I decided to get take-away for dinner (while I'm at work) from the Hare Krishna cafe, which always makes me feel very calm and at-one-with-the-universe, especially if the lovely little monk-like man behind the counter smiles serenely at me when he asks "Pappadum?". Anyway, I digress. So there I was in the peace cafe, ordering my meal, when I saw a pamphlet about yoga classes being run in Newcastle. I am in the market for a good yoga class, having found one that was very convenient and run by a lovely 70-something-year-old lady named Shirley but then having to schedule swimming lessons for Freya on the same day, at the same time. The physiotherapist I've been seeing has recommended I return to yoga "as soon as possible". When she told me this, she gave me a concerned look that seemed to imply I might a) be completely incapacitated by back pain and general inflexibility; or b) have a nervous breakdown if I didn't heed her advice.
The very exciting thing about these new yoga classes, run by another monk-like man, is that they are on several different days and at different times (excellent for my no-routine type of life). I have not yet run this idea by my dear husband, but there seems a definite possibility I will be able to attend at least one yoga class a week! How very decadent of me.
This seems particularly decadent because I have just started an eight-week singing course, because it is something I have always wanted to know how to do properly. Apparently anyone can sing, or so the course outline says. We shall see. In the meantime, it is nice to see it as an emotional outlet, a way to be joyful, a social activity and even a two-hour reprieve from the daily grind. Of course all this is tempered with the mother guilt, the curse of selfishness, the washing that still needs folding when I get home.

hooray for me

My God, it has been a while, hasn't it? But I have been on holidays, and the bitter irony of this is that I have had exactly no time to do any blogging, reading or otherwise relaxing. In order to do these things, I have had to return to work.
The holiday was lovely, as is the nature of holidays, being all together and not having or wanting to be anywhere else. But it was nice to come home, because home is lovely too.
And tomorrow is my 34th birthday, fancy that. I cannot believe I am thirty-four years of age as of tomorrow. I cannot believe I am not still 19. I cannot believe I was only 23 when I met RJ and my single life was abruptly, spectacularly, wonderfully terminated. I cannot believe there are adults around who were born in the late 1980s. Part of me cannot believe I am not a famous actress, or singer, or fashion designer, because when I was 19 and my mind stopped processing birthdays, all of those things were a definite possibility.
All I do know is that it is my birthday tomorrow, and the mother and wife in me, the one who rarely has time for personal appearances or even hair washing these days, would like that to be celebrated. Hooray for me, she wants to shout. And maybe I will, tomorrow morning while I take a long shower and thank the universe for sending me my beloved family, who will all be at home with me and who mean more to me than anything or anyone ever did when I was 19.

mother's milk

More than a week has passed, which is not at all surprising when you know me and my propensity to put things off, or just to be generally too disorganised to find the time. Such is my life, to paraphrase Ned Kelly. I swear I will be more vigilant when I'm paying to call myself a blogger.

Loving the 24-hour husband thing, with RJ on holidays and all. I think he might be pleased to go back to work for a rest. But it is lovely having him around. We even went to the beach twice in as many days last week.

Meanwhile, I've been reading in last month's Women's Weekly (better late than never) about a plan to create a breast milk bank in a Queensland hospital. It will be the only one in Australia, and will help pre-term babies and those whose mothers for various reasons cannot provide their own milk. I remember thinking, during one of my many sleep-deprived hazes while I was still breastfeeding F, that it would be wonderful if you could go into a supermarket and buy a carton of breast milk alongside the low-fat, no-fat, high-calcium, lactose-free, soy varieties. Wouldn't that be grand? My vision may never be realised, but the vision of at least one Australian breast milk bank for wee bairns is still a worthy one. Go to www.mothersmilkbank.com.au for more info, and details of a CD you can buy to help fund the project. It features The Waifs, Deborah Conway and Women In Docs, among many others. Almost makes me sad I may never call myself a breastfeeding mother again. How quickly we forget the soggy bra straps, baby-vomit shoulders, sudden and indiscriminate 'leaking' in public and boobs like granite. Even as I am writing these things, I realise how much I really do miss it.

skipping a season

Another day at the office, literally. In fact I'm still at the office, but not for much longer. Home time awaits.

Had a few beautiful days, weather-wise, so much like spring you would swear it's already here. But then I suppose it almost is. Where did those eight months go? Soon we'll be jetting off to the Whitsundays, where we can pretend it's summer for eight glorious days. How very decadent, skipping a whole season.

There are many things I've been loving about the warmer weather - letting F run around bare-bummed outside (so she can quite unexpectedly do a wee and look up at me in amazement as it puddles on the ground), feeling the sunshine warm my hair, opening the windows in the back room and not feeling too cold, listening to Linda Ronstadt (and singing, very loud, pretending to live out my fantasy of being in a Linda Ronstadt tribute band) and picking (and smelling) the beautiful nasturtiums, my absolute favourite, from the back yard and putting them in a vase on the kitchen window sill, where I can still smell them from the other side of the room and be reminded of childhood summers at Lennox Head.

Roll on summer, roll on.

destination normal

It's all a bit of a blur really. Today was one of those days where having two shiftworkers in the house really takes its toll. I finished work at 10.30 last night and got to sleep about midnight, which was when RJ had to start work. F woke me just after 7 and I blearily prepared breakfast, knowing there was no chance of returning to bed until at least 11 o'clock tonight. RJ came home about 9am and fell into bed, rising again at 2pm when I woke him in time for me to have a shower and come back to work. When I go home I will have roughly 30 minutes in which to catch up with my dear husband (but only if he's awake) before he has to go to work.

Thankfully all this only happens once every couple of months, and after today my working week is over. And the big plus is that from next week RJ is on five weeks holiday! Hooray! We can pretend we're a normal family. Whatever that means.