Moving House: Good In Theory

So, whilst I am here blogging my brains out, my little mountain shack remains partially packed. On Sunday we are waving goodbye and heading to the big smoke. While I can hardly wait to inhale exhaust fumes and be lulled to sleep by the whirling and dinging of the trams, there is the unenviable task of packing our lifes into boxes. It is remarkable how much crap one accumulates in such a short amount of time. I have two boxes of magazines dating back to 2003, and I have been brutal and tossed out a lot.

Since getting married I have found that we as a couple argue more. I can't say why, but it is apparently so. Packing provides new and endless depths to plumb for argument material. Aforementioned magazines! 'Why does anyone need an issue of Vogue Australia from 2006?' cries he. 'Sienna Miller's hair on this cover is epic. It is a style inspiration to me! Of course I need it!' is the logical response. Why does he need to hoard every loose screw, nut and bolt he finds? And why does he wash all of his jam jars for 'storage' when all they ever 'store' is air? 

The usual packing regime really starts to commence one week before the move (the months before are filled with endless trips to St Vincent de Paul, so much so that I am afraid to actually visit the store lest I feel I am in my own living room). The woman (usually), who typically keeps the household running, wants to feel like she is organised and starts to put a few things in boxes. The man inspects this task, criticising  both what is being packed and how it is being packed. An argument ensues, resulting in the man retiring to whatever he activity was doing beforehand (ie, nothing) and the woman spends several good minutes cursing the man; and gives up, thinking that that's it, they'll never, ever leave at this rate.

It all comes together of course, eventually, and on time. The truck leaves the old house, arrives at it's destination, is unloaded and the new house is full of boxes to be emptied, more fodder for a whole new set of arguments. 'Why did you pack that?', 'that's broken, I told you not to pack like that', and my favourite 'My back hurts, stop hassling me you asshole!'

I completely understand people who live in the same house their whole life. A whole set of pointless arguments are avoided, resulting in a much more harmonious existence. Except of course, when you die, and your children are cursing you for hoarding 40+ years worth of crap. Imagine how many magazines I would have if I never moved!!

A girlfriend is also currently moving house, and though only suburb to suburb, the arguments are still just as potent. I received a text message from her just yesterday:

"Help me feel better, please tell me your husband has not helped pack up the house either? I have done the whole house, except garage, on my own. He is watching fishing shows."

"Once again", I replied, "more reason why I intend to come back as a man in my next life". I will let her have the last word:

"Hopefully [my husband] becomes a woman and we get married so I can take my revenge on him."

Indeed.

Token Mummyblog Post: "Classy" Breastfeeding

I don't want to be another voice in a crowded room throwing in my two cents regarding this Kochie breastfeeding debacle. I don't think more voices are what's needed. I would just like to talk about my experiences and how it's affected me, and my son.

I actually saw the original segment on Sunrise and I really felt for co-anchor Samantha Armytage; she didn't really know what to say when David Koch suggested women be a bit "classy" about breastfeeding in public. All I remember thinking was 'what a dickhead' and why I prefer to watch Today to enjoy Karl Stefanovic taking the piss out of his job, treating breakfast television what it actually is.

In case you have no idea what I'm referring to, in a nutshell, a news item appeared about a woman in Queensland who was asked by public pool staff to move to a more discreet area whilst breastfeeding her child on the side of the pool. Koch weighed in by agreeing with the staff, thinking while breastfeeding in public is fine, women should just be a bit more "classy" about it and consider others around them.

My two issues with this are personal to me. Firstly, I always avoided breastfeeding in public because I already have serious issues with drawing any attention to myself in public and I wouldn't breastfeed just as I wouldn't wear any outrageous clothing, or talk loudly, et cetera et cetera. The truth is, women certainly don't need anyone drawing judgement on them and suggesting that they lack discretion or class because they are feeding their child. There is enough pressure on women to lose weight, go back to work and the like without fearing that breastfeeding in public is going to draw more scrutiny (indeed, the alternative, staying indoors for a year is quite impossible - I last about a day).

Aside from the many hours spent breastfeeding in my car, I feel like this whole debate is playing into the hands of the formula companies. All they have to do is wait for a vulnerable, pressured, exhausted and sleep deprived woman to give up on breastfeeding because it becomes all too hard. The times I have breastfed in public I've felt like I'm trying to breastfeed an ocelot who is scratching and writhing and pulling at clothes and blankets or any shield I am trying to use. The whole process ended up being a major headache and I gave up and went home. Yeah, breastfeeding really isn't fun. It's not easy and it is rather impossible to think about being classy when you're battling.

That said, I am extremely proud of the fact that my son has never, ever been subjected to formula - an inferior product, let's face it, and I hope he is set up for life with all the immunity a human being can enjoy - that and all the dead bugs he's eaten along the way.

The real point that needs to be made, (formula mums ready to bash me), that breastmilk vs formula sholuld never be treated as a choice. Formula is a last resort. The whole system is a shambles, from the breastfeeding support given in hospital when your baby is born to the education about the fact that breastfeeding is difficult, and inconvenient, but hey Gen-Y, guess what, it's actually not all about you. In effect, we've let formula companies fool us for years that formula is an ideal and convenient way to nourish your baby.

It's not the 1960s any more. We are an open minded, and educated (well, that's debatable) culture that severely needs to address and embrace the most marginalised of our society - new mothers included.

As my husband says, why do I care what other people do to their children? I know in my mind that I have given my son the best start in life, and that's all I can really do. I really just wanted to get that off my chest.

Oh, a cringeworthy pun. Publish, publish and go and do something useful, like drink wine!

Welcome to The Second Act.

ACT II: ADULTHOOD.

I am sitting here on the couch while my husband is watching a tacky old James Bond movie (Yes we got married! Wonders never cease). I have had a couple (OK, maybe a few) glasses of sparkling and we have just finished a discussion on when the next Inspector Montalbano episode is on.

It has dawned on me lately that I have become a grown up. It has taken me to the near age of 30 to  come reach this point, and I must admit, I am pretty damn happy about it.

To be honest, life isn't all red wine and debates on politics. There are the bad parts. The money, always the recurring topic. The raising of children which, while it delights us everyday, is also a struggle. It's not exactly the romantic image of adulthood I had in mind when I was still in my formative years. I am also glad it has arrived because I simply do not have the stamina to keep up with the lifestyle I once lived; when I turned up to work having barely slept, I was too busy having a good time to worry about saving, or building a future, or setting in roots.

Now, my pursuits are planning dinner parties, and trying to re-learn card games to play over a bottle of cognac. Enjoying being "in". Enjoying "quiet times". The things that I once abhorred.

There is no prescription for entering Act II, there is no timeframe, or certain age. I know people older than me who are still in their first act. Act II also doesn't guarantee that I have learnt all of life's lessons and now it is time to reap what I have sown. On the contrary. It is time to take MORE risks, make MORE mistakes and learn MORE lessons. The difference is, they will be calculated.

I don't feel the need to keep up with brand names, or be seen, or please anyone like I used to, as the be all and end all. With the one life I am gifted, I am ready to move ahead knowing that I will not please everyone, nor can I be everything to everyone, but confident in the knowledge that I am being true to myself. And that is more exciting than any adventure I had in my first act.

** I borrowed the theme of living life in three acts from Jane Fonda, which, incidentally, I highly recommend as a biography to read. **

*** I am still working on my posts about my wardrobe, vlog in progress... I am just limited by my internet capabilities up here in the bush at the present time ***