Gabriel's having his afternoon nap, so I thought I'd do some searching on Doomsday psychology. It turns out there's an awful lot of stuff on various Doomsday scenarios, but not much (apart from, y'know books) on why end-of-the-worlders are so damned set on ending life-as-we-know-it.
So, in a brief and irreverent run-down, the nominees for Best Planet Destruction Event are:
(1) The Mayans. Their long-count calender (not their short one, or teensy one, or super-dooper long one) runs out tomorrow. Despite this, they didn't prophesy the end of the world. I guess that's because calenders don't signify anything other than ending of a period of time.
(2) Planet X/Nibiru. I love this one. HUGE planet hurtling towards us (by tomorrow) is apparently also an invisible planet...has been for ages too. Right now, we should be seeing something in the sky the size of the moon..at least. A while ago, a random astronomer or two probably should have seen something in their super-dooper observatory set-ups.
(3) Magnetic Pole shift (I sooo blame the 2012 movie for that one..I mean who wouldn't believe Dennis Quaid??)...for that matter, who wouldn't want to snuggle up with Jake Gyllenhaal in a library in front of a fire?
(4) Mega Sun Flares. Crispy us. Pesky scientists are assuring us that this is about as likely as me winning a Nobel prize, but what would they know? It's a conspiracy!
(5) The black hole in the middle of the universe is going to suck us all in...well, something has sucked a lot of people in, but it ain't a black hole (unless we're talking the intellectual variety...)
(6) The Rapture! Lots of Christians floating up into the sky (I assume Jesus has some kind of 'off-switch' on atmospheric conditions? I mean 8000m is currently touted the "death zone" on Everest, and I'm assuming Heaven is a bit higher than that?)...
I'm sure there are others, but I'm a bit over reading the bunkum and pifflery to be honest. What really interests me is why people really really want the world to end.
At first I assumed that said 'people' mustn't be very bright. It turns out though that various important surveys have been done and that Doomsdayers are often 'above average intelligence'. As measured by what?
So here's my theory (such as it is).
I think people are bloody overwhelmed.
It's a very big and very scary world out there. In 2012 we know far more about the various goings-on globally than we can reasonably manage to process.
I get overwhelmed. Like my recent ancestors, I have to live, provide for my family, pay taxes, work, laugh, dream, play, foster my mind/ambitions, act for my community and try to help others less fortunate. Unlike my recent ancestors, I am in constant contact with the whole world, it's massacres, it's wars, it's tsunami's and hurricanes, it's starving millions, it's disabled and elderly, it's struggling animal populations, it's human rights violations, it's religious manias, it's climate and environmental destruction.
It is definitely overwhelming. Where to help? What are my responsibilities? What can I reasonably expect to achieve here? I can 'Think Globally, Act Locally', but to be honest, between caring for a 6 month old and getting the dishes done, I don't do a whole lot of 'acting locally either.
On this point alone, if the WAWKI ends, I have far less to worry about.
In fact, I get to return to the basics really. Surviving.
Of course, doing that probably won't be quite as romantic and heroic as some might like to think. No water or electricity supply would put quite a dint in things...even if you were snuggling Jake Gyllenhaal in a library.
I think people really really fear death. Atheists and Theists alike. Perhaps there's something quite comforting in the idea of not 'getting old' ?. Perhaps it's even more comforting to imagine everyone going out together in one fell swoop? Perhaps only the belief that you can predict death (of yourself and the planet) makes you feel a bit better about it?. I mean, there's a Doomsday for everyone, but the trick is that you can't predict it.
I get that 'the Rapture' is quite comforting for Christians, -you actually get to avoid the 'death' bit entirely and just go straight to heaven where everything is just-lovely-thankyou, but it does seem a bit smug doesn't it? "Ooh, sorry everyone else! We did tell you...thanks for that delicious choccie cake last thursday, but I'm off to heaven. Enjoy your catastrophic destruction".
In fact, I think pretty much all Doomsday philosophies have quite a bit in common with religious belief (even if they're 'secular' in nature).
So, in my-very-own-doomsday scenario here's what happens;
The Magnetic poles shift and that effects the Atlantic Current thingy (toldya I like that movie). This means that I now live in a cold place, which is a jolly good thing.
The Government collapses and I no longer have to worry about tax/superannuation, buying a house, paying bills etc. This has no consequence other than freeing me from annoying obligations.
All my family members (well, OK some of my family members) survive, as well as the most excellent friends and we all manage to get together somehow.
No no, I have it figured. I've got a really good mix of scientists, medicos, artists, gardeners, tradies etc, so I get to have a cool micro-community full of people I like.
We grow vegetables, write new books and plays, save important bits of previous human culture, sing songs by firelight and go to bed early every night. Someone also figures out how to make great wine, and we storm some great property with heaps of arable land, lots of grape vines, an underground aquifer and a picturesque location. Maybe a lake nearby for fishing.
Eventually we may accept other tribes (for the sake of genetic diversity you understand), but it will all be peaceful and lovely and stuff.
Oh, and there'll be horses and goats and chickens and a huge stock of soy-bean seeds so I don't have to revert to caveman-style eating of dead creatures.
Yay apocolypse!
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Monday, December 17, 2012
It's a very different world Mr Madison...
I was just one of many mothers around the world on Saturday 15th
December 2012 that happened to switch on the news. I was one of thousands, if
not millions, that listened with increasing horror and disbelief as reporters
told us of 20 children and 6 adults shot by a suicidal gunman in Newtown , Connecticut
I'm certain I wasn't alone in holding my little boy and telling
him how much I loved him almost obsessively through the days that followed.
I am absolutely not alone in being one of many many people that
have, and continue to search for a way to deal with it. It may be a need for
'answers', a need to feel 'safe', a need to be someone who helps in some small
way, or just a Mother's need to 'arm' myself against this eventuality ever EVER
applying to my family.
Some part of me knew that
this would be an impossible task. I didn't even really know 'why' I was doing
all this obsessive research, -and it's fair to assume that one is unlikely to
find 'the answer' when one can't even formulate 'the question'.
The closest I could get was 'why?'.
Why what Cath?
Why did that particular man choose to vent his frustrations on
tiny children and teachers?
Why does the second amendment still exist?
Why do the NRA and [Republican] Americans hold to their 'right to
bear arms' as obsessively as they hold to the Bible?
Why do people still insist that arming everyone (including
teachers) is a BETTER option than doing away with guns entirely?
Why are a huge amount of people still petitioning God to come and
save America
I assure, this is only a very very small selection of the
questions that have been on my mind.
I pored over the second amendment (and its various commentaries)
forever. . . And knew that once again,
the same twisted voices would
say, Oh, this had nothing to do with gun laws or the misuse of the Second
Amendment or anything except some singular madman, of whom America for
some reason seems to have a particularly dense sample.
I
considered the definition of 'militia' both now and in the late 1700's. I
pondered the psychology of a nation founded against the invading forces of
British and French colonialists in conjunction with violent and bloody
aboriginal conflict.
I
considered the social ramifications of a country still at war with various
world nations, at the glorification of the 'Military', the reverence with which
Americans and Australians treat their fallen Soldiers, the poetry of war, the
clarity and 'peace' that many soldiers find through
killing.... I wondered again about the prevalence of violence on our movie
and game-screens and how much and what is filtering through the minds of our
young ones.
I fielded
voices as diverse as Morgan Freeman and Julie Bishop. I realised that I did in fact have some
respect for John Howard and the Australian Governments swift and furious action
following Port Arthur .
And yet,
each night as I fed, bathed and sang my son to sleep, all I could think about
were the mothers and fathers of the world that have lost children. I can see
and feel the unstoppable keening wail of a mother holding an empty blanket that
still retains the scent of her dead child...and the blank empty silence that
follows as she tries to remember to eat and live on. The pure hopelessness of a
couple who aren't and never could have been equipped to deal with such a thing,
and the way they will claw and rend at each other without wanting to. The
useless but well-meant condolences that make you want to scream. The fury. The
rage.
How I
longed for a proper brain. A book-writing, world-changing brain that could
neatly compartmentalize and analyse violence and mental illness. I would even
have settled for a brain that was capable of writing a thorough and incisive
article. An article that helped.
As it
turns out, I am not that person.
I am
simply one of millions on this planet that is continuously confused and
horrified. I don't have answers. I have plenty of questions, but I suspect none
of them are what I really wanted to ask.
As a singer/musician I, again, have to fall back on music to help me.
"My Precious One"
My precious one, my tiny one, lay down your pretty head.
My dearest one my sleepy one, its time to go to bed
My precious one, my darling one; don't let your lashes weep.
My cherished one, my weary one; it's time to go to sleep.
Just bow your head and give your cares to me.
Just close your eyes and fall into the sweetest dream, cause in my loving arms.
You're safe as you will ever be so hush my dear and sleep.
And in your dreams you'll ride on angels' wings.
Dance with the stars and touch the face of god
And if you should awake...
I'll kiss your little cheek
And underneath the smiling moon
I'll send you back to sleep.
My dearest one my sleepy one, its time to go to bed
My precious one, my darling one; don't let your lashes weep.
My cherished one, my weary one; it's time to go to sleep.
Just bow your head and give your cares to me.
Just close your eyes and fall into the sweetest dream, cause in my loving arms.
You're safe as you will ever be so hush my dear and sleep.
And in your dreams you'll ride on angels' wings.
Dance with the stars and touch the face of god
And if you should awake...
I'll kiss your little cheek
And underneath the smiling moon
I'll send you back to sleep.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Today's harvest = Tonight's Dinner
When you're on a [cough] 'budget' (read: no money to speak of), the humble legume becomes your very best friend, like, in the universe.
They're cheaper than chips, they're full of marvellous (but boring) vitamins and minerals, they're nutty and tasty, and thank jeebus, everyone in my family likes them.
So, today I whacked together a pot of my 'Posh Beans'.
See, what I actually served for dinner was beans-on-toast, but Posh beans on toasted sourdough with parmesan, spring onions, fresh peas and bitter greens sounds more appetising :-)
First, it was a quick trip to the garden to source the greens (Cos and Mizuna), peas, and spring onions..
Gabriel watched on in delight, squealing and wriggling on Daddy's lap while mummy picked green things.
Next step, washing. This is a 2 step process in my house as after you've washed all the leaves, you have to save and transport the dozen or so ladybugs floating in the sink water:-)
Washed and ready to go. It's probably just me being super romantic, but greens from my garden are much greener than other greens...:)
Then it was a simple toasting of sourdough slices under the griller, pile with chopped mixed greens, slap on a couple of ladlefulls of Posh beans, and top with parmesan, spring onions and fresh peas.
Posh Beans
3 tins cannelini beans, rinsed
1 brown onion, finely diced
2 celery stalks, finely diced
1 red capsicum, finely diced
1 small Aldi tin tomato paste
1 jar passata
1 tbsp massel chicken stock
1 passata jar of water
You can add as much or as little of the following as takes your fancy;
Cajun Spice
Chilli Flakes
Salt
Garlic granules
BBQ sauce
Worcestershire sauce
Savoury yeast flakes
basil
thyme
sage
If you like it a bit 'creamy' add 2 mashed potatoes to the sauce...I do.
In other news, my delightful little munchkin has just mastered the art of sitting up by himself. This means that we've put him down 3 times now for bed. Every time we check on him, he's sitting up in the middle of his cot grinning from ear to ear at how damned clever he is :)
Oh, and all my careful, considered baby-food smushing and mouli-ing...not as important as I thought.
The little fells sits next to Daddy while he eats, and was opening and closing his wee gob like a birdy with great intent this evening.
Focus on food, make birdy mouth, look pleadingly at Daddy.
Rock a bit.
repeat.
I finally relented and allowed Brett to feed him a teensy bit of the Posh beans...
I truly expected him to screw up his face and wail as the chilli burned his little tongue. But nope. It was 'thankyou-very-much-and-where's-the-next-helping?'.
I guess I may have ignored the 'one food at a time' and '4 days between new foods' thing just a bit....{BAD mumma, BAD BAD BAD!}.
They're cheaper than chips, they're full of marvellous (but boring) vitamins and minerals, they're nutty and tasty, and thank jeebus, everyone in my family likes them.
So, today I whacked together a pot of my 'Posh Beans'.
See, what I actually served for dinner was beans-on-toast, but Posh beans on toasted sourdough with parmesan, spring onions, fresh peas and bitter greens sounds more appetising :-)
First, it was a quick trip to the garden to source the greens (Cos and Mizuna), peas, and spring onions..
Next step, washing. This is a 2 step process in my house as after you've washed all the leaves, you have to save and transport the dozen or so ladybugs floating in the sink water:-)
Then it was a simple toasting of sourdough slices under the griller, pile with chopped mixed greens, slap on a couple of ladlefulls of Posh beans, and top with parmesan, spring onions and fresh peas.
3 tins cannelini beans, rinsed
1 brown onion, finely diced
2 celery stalks, finely diced
1 red capsicum, finely diced
1 small Aldi tin tomato paste
1 jar passata
1 tbsp massel chicken stock
1 passata jar of water
You can add as much or as little of the following as takes your fancy;
Cajun Spice
Chilli Flakes
Salt
Garlic granules
BBQ sauce
Worcestershire sauce
Savoury yeast flakes
basil
thyme
sage
If you like it a bit 'creamy' add 2 mashed potatoes to the sauce...I do.
In other news, my delightful little munchkin has just mastered the art of sitting up by himself. This means that we've put him down 3 times now for bed. Every time we check on him, he's sitting up in the middle of his cot grinning from ear to ear at how damned clever he is :)
Oh, and all my careful, considered baby-food smushing and mouli-ing...not as important as I thought.
The little fells sits next to Daddy while he eats, and was opening and closing his wee gob like a birdy with great intent this evening.
Focus on food, make birdy mouth, look pleadingly at Daddy.
Rock a bit.
repeat.
I finally relented and allowed Brett to feed him a teensy bit of the Posh beans...
I truly expected him to screw up his face and wail as the chilli burned his little tongue. But nope. It was 'thankyou-very-much-and-where's-the-next-helping?'.
I guess I may have ignored the 'one food at a time' and '4 days between new foods' thing just a bit....{BAD mumma, BAD BAD BAD!}.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
The Accidental Lip-Smacker
Ohhhh, it's been a rough couple of days...well week really. On Friday last Brett came home from school and announced he 'wasn't very hungry'....[cue: alarm bells]...On Saturday he had developed the mother of all lergies. Sunday. Monday. Tuesday the curse-of-the-red-moon hits me hard...and Gabriel starts sniffling and sneezing. We take him to get his 6 month shots anyway. Wednesday,-Gabriel rubs at his gums frantically, sniffles, sneezes, coughs, frets, will not settle, will not sleep and has the attention span of a forgetful gnat (I chew Nurofen and curse being a woman for the gazillionth time).
I also have a house-inspection, so between screaming fits (baby), cramping fits (me) and schiz-fits (cat) I attempt to clean the house from top to bottom. Yes yes, I 'know' Real Estate agents don't really care about the relative squalor of your life (as long as there's no damage to the property), but I get weird about these things. By the time Frau Inspektor arrives the house is luverly and smells welcoming, fresh flowers are in every room and I am in the garden casually picking peas in a basket.
'Look at my perfect life! Tra-le-la, -just picking some home-grown organic produce for my gastronomic spectacular this evening, just go on through and let me know if you need me!'
Cold sweat of panic well-hidden by charming floppy straw hat.
I should mention that screaming baby had been relocated to Mum and Dad's for an hour at this point (where he cooed, giggled and then promptly fell asleep like an angel...GRRRAAAAGGGHHHHH).
I am also developing quite a lovely sore throat and the most delightfully tap-drippy nose. Aching all over and can't get warm...so naturally, I decide that I've lied quite enough for one day thankyou-very-much and actually embark on a gastronomic spectacular.
1. Shell all the peas. This was only accomplished because my Dad came over and sat Gabe on his knee for some Grandpa singing-time.
2. Read recipe again. Realise that although you have 7 different varieties of salt on your shelf, you're out of sea-salt. Beg Grandpa to stay 10 more minutes while you run down to the shops.
3. Smashy smashy bang bang on the mint and salt, and turn into a paste with a splooshy sploosh of Olive Oil
4. Husband comes home with emergency ingredients but has bought snow-peas instead of sugar-snaps. Resist temptation to cry because now it won't be exactly like Donna Hay's version. Co-opt husband into adding stock and stirring risotto while I pop back out to the garden for tender pea tendrils...tender pea tendrils fer chrissake!
The pattie recipe can be found at Chickpea and Zucchini Patties
Dodgy But Yummy Relish
1 large brown onion (half-rings)
1 red capsicum (strips)
allspice
chilli flakes
sweet chilli sauce
BBQ sauce
vegeta seasoning
dash balsamic vinegar
Fry veges in oil til soft. Add other stuff, simmer for a bit until gluggy-ish and the sauce is doing the nice coaty thing instead of the swimming pool thing.
9.05pm. I have glass of wine.
I also have a house-inspection, so between screaming fits (baby), cramping fits (me) and schiz-fits (cat) I attempt to clean the house from top to bottom. Yes yes, I 'know' Real Estate agents don't really care about the relative squalor of your life (as long as there's no damage to the property), but I get weird about these things. By the time Frau Inspektor arrives the house is luverly and smells welcoming, fresh flowers are in every room and I am in the garden casually picking peas in a basket.
'Look at my perfect life! Tra-le-la, -just picking some home-grown organic produce for my gastronomic spectacular this evening, just go on through and let me know if you need me!'
Cold sweat of panic well-hidden by charming floppy straw hat.
I should mention that screaming baby had been relocated to Mum and Dad's for an hour at this point (where he cooed, giggled and then promptly fell asleep like an angel...GRRRAAAAGGGHHHHH).
I am also developing quite a lovely sore throat and the most delightfully tap-drippy nose. Aching all over and can't get warm...so naturally, I decide that I've lied quite enough for one day thankyou-very-much and actually embark on a gastronomic spectacular.
1. Shell all the peas. This was only accomplished because my Dad came over and sat Gabe on his knee for some Grandpa singing-time.
Donna Hay's Pea and Mint Risotto with Creme Fraiche
Gabriel FINALLY goes to sleep...sort of, and we settle down to watch 'Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter' with our dinner. Am so congested I can't taste anything but exhaustion. Snap at bewildered husband/get upset/play dumb Fspazbook games/Go to bed.
Today. Wake up completely at 5am. Husband and son still sleeping.
Exhaustion/heinous cramps/family crisis/...leftover creme fraiche...
I hate leftover ingredients like creme fraiche. It's not exactly a common ingredient in my usual culinary parlance. It would annoy me no end to have it just go off in the fridge.
Dear friend Karen has sent me a link to a picture of a chickpea and zucchini burger that looked amazing....
Grab baby and sit him in Bumbo on the kitchen floor. Hand him old pot and wooden spoon.
So I buzzed around the kitchen for an hour making patties, chopping onions, reducing relish and explaining every step to my delighted audience of one. In point of fact, his delight was so damned infectious that I started singing to him. Chop the onions..'Un bel di vedremo!...', mash the chickpeas...'Le Fille de Cadiz'...(ok, I stopped cooking for a bit and used one of his muslin squares to do a frightful matador thing)...still feeling like a truck had hit me and then the driver had gotten out and pulled out my uterus with a coat-hanger but quite a bit jollier mentally:-)
7pm. I serve chickpea and zucchini patties on sourdough with chargrilled kumera, onion and capsicum relish, bitter greens and creme fraiche. On the side, potato roasties with a great combination of chicken seasoning, cajun spice, garlic powder and salt.
Husband says 'dlshus!!', which is what 'delicious' sounds like if you say it mid-mouthful.
For an off-the-cuff 'what-am-I-going-to-do-with-leftover-creme-fraiche-burger' it was jolly good...JOLLY good :-)
Dodgy But Yummy Relish
1 large brown onion (half-rings)
1 red capsicum (strips)
allspice
chilli flakes
sweet chilli sauce
BBQ sauce
vegeta seasoning
dash balsamic vinegar
Fry veges in oil til soft. Add other stuff, simmer for a bit until gluggy-ish and the sauce is doing the nice coaty thing instead of the swimming pool thing.
9.05pm. I have glass of wine.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
The best quiche recipe EVER
Ooooh, -what a claim! Really? The best?...Oh yes, it is most definitely THE UTMOSTEST BRILLIANTEST quiche recipe on the planet. I am sooooo very qualified to make this claim because my husband only has two great food loves in this world, -Pizza and Quiche. Naturally, in order to remain married, I have had to become reasonably adept at creating both, y'know, properly and from-scratch and all that.
Now, this is a real and proper quiche. No low-fat diet-friendly monster this. It uses full cream, a fair whack of tasty cheese and whole eggs (not to mention, 'twould be bloomin' marvellous with crispy dead pig and chorizo...if you're into that sort of thing). I get around the calorie count by having a modest slice and a LOT of salad on the side :-)
And let's face it, Quiche and salad is precisely the right meal for these sultry summer nights. I assure you, real men do eat quiche, and head off to work with large slices of leftovers looking quite smug.
Ingredients
* 2 tsp olive oil
* 1 onion, finely chopped
* 100g vegetarian bacon
* 100g baby spinach leaves
* 1/2 a tin of corn kernels
* 4-5 medium button mushrooms
* 4 eggs
* 3/4 cup cream
* 1/2 cup soy milk
* 1/3 cup shredded parmesan
* 1/2 cup grated tasty cheese
* smoked paprika
* salt and pepper
Pastry
* 2 cups plain flour
* 150g butter, chilled, cubed
* Pinch salt
* 1 egg
* 4-5 tbsps iced water
Method
1. For pastry. whack butter and flour in a food-processor until mixture forms crumbs. Add egg and water until dough is formed, knead until smooth, cling-wrap and pop in fridge for 10 mins.
2. Blind-bake pastry at 190 degrees for 10 mins
3. Saute onions, bacon and mushrooms until soft and drain off any excess moisture.
4. Spread veges on cooked pastry base, adding spinach leaves and corn kernels and pour your eggy mixture on top.
5. Sprinkle with cheeses and some smoked paprika and bake 30 minutes at 190.
Of course, you could cheat and use store-bought pastry, but then you'd be a big fat faker and your marriage will probably fall apart as a result...your choice though :-)
If you want to get all cheffy about it, sprinkle the finished product with microgreens and torn up chive flowers before serving, and/or arrange some impressive thinly sliced heirloom tomato slices on the top...whatevs rocks your boat.
You could also serve it with a kick-ass homemade spicy tomato relish...
Now, excuse me while I go and eat a whole packet of Nurofen. My bloody teeth!!!!
Now, this is a real and proper quiche. No low-fat diet-friendly monster this. It uses full cream, a fair whack of tasty cheese and whole eggs (not to mention, 'twould be bloomin' marvellous with crispy dead pig and chorizo...if you're into that sort of thing). I get around the calorie count by having a modest slice and a LOT of salad on the side :-)
And let's face it, Quiche and salad is precisely the right meal for these sultry summer nights. I assure you, real men do eat quiche, and head off to work with large slices of leftovers looking quite smug.
Ingredients
* 2 tsp olive oil
* 1 onion, finely chopped
* 100g vegetarian bacon
* 100g baby spinach leaves
* 1/2 a tin of corn kernels
* 4-5 medium button mushrooms
* 4 eggs
* 3/4 cup cream
* 1/2 cup soy milk
* 1/3 cup shredded parmesan
* 1/2 cup grated tasty cheese
* smoked paprika
* salt and pepper
Pastry
* 2 cups plain flour
* 150g butter, chilled, cubed
* Pinch salt
* 1 egg
* 4-5 tbsps iced water
Method
1. For pastry. whack butter and flour in a food-processor until mixture forms crumbs. Add egg and water until dough is formed, knead until smooth, cling-wrap and pop in fridge for 10 mins.
2. Blind-bake pastry at 190 degrees for 10 mins
3. Saute onions, bacon and mushrooms until soft and drain off any excess moisture.
4. Spread veges on cooked pastry base, adding spinach leaves and corn kernels and pour your eggy mixture on top.
5. Sprinkle with cheeses and some smoked paprika and bake 30 minutes at 190.
Of course, you could cheat and use store-bought pastry, but then you'd be a big fat faker and your marriage will probably fall apart as a result...your choice though :-)
If you want to get all cheffy about it, sprinkle the finished product with microgreens and torn up chive flowers before serving, and/or arrange some impressive thinly sliced heirloom tomato slices on the top...whatevs rocks your boat.
You could also serve it with a kick-ass homemade spicy tomato relish...
Now, excuse me while I go and eat a whole packet of Nurofen. My bloody teeth!!!!
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Mayfield Follies
As any mother of a 5 month old baby will tell you, the excitement of going out for a day (with others there to help you with baby-wrangling) is NOT to be sneered at.
Some weeks ago, Brett had casually asked me if I'd like to see the famed 'Mayfield Gardens' in Oberon. Now imagine your dogs face when you're holding his favourite stick, -just about to throw it...Dog=Cath! Whoohoo! Not just any old outing, certainly not the bog-standard "I get to go and buy groceries on saturdays which is peachy and lovely because it means I get out of the goddammned house", but a genuine NEW thing. A real, proper adventure to a stately garden complete with picnic and visit to Farmer's markets.
As is quite usual with amassed Lockley-adventures, I offer to put together the picnic side of things. This is because (a) my mother is famous for stating that she has 'tonnes of food', when in fact, she has a jar of pickles and a mandarin and (b) If this was going to be a proper outing, it required a proper picnic, i.e. one that I would look forward to eating. So Friday saw me at Woolies buying enough ingredients to feed your average army regiment and Saturday morning saw me whistling in my kitchen assembling sammiches, coleslaw, seasoned vine tomatoes, fruit salad etc. Rule of thumb being; if you're feeding four, cater for 89 people at least.
The only thing that worried me was that it was suddenly BLOODY cold, and that the skies loomed threateningly...
Worry #1: Would it actually dare to rain? On my outing day? Really???????
Worry #2: I was packing a summery-picnic. A wintery-picnic is quite a different animal and requires thermoses of steaming hot soup/crusty bread etc...
But of course, now that I am a MUM, I am awfully philosphical about such things, and take all obstacles in my firm but nurturing stride, all the while ensuring that my family is happy and content....I certainly don't have mini-meltdowns or anything like that........
Anyway anyway, 8.30am saw us in the car with a summery picnic heading down the picturesque Diamond Swamp Road to Oberon in convoy. Mum and Dad took the lead, which meant I had a grumbly husband (for whom 60km/hr is rarely an acceptable rate of progress) and ensured a few wrong turns with us chasing them, beeping the horn, flashing the lights and making frantic phone-calls...
"Mum, you're going down the wrong road.."
"Nonsense catherine, I've been to Oberon this way TONNES of times!"
erm, no you haven't..
"The left turn through Tarana is a bit quicker though Mum.."
"Oh well,...I suppose we'll turn around then...."
Miraculously, we arrived in Oberon at about 9.30am and trotted into the grounds of St.Barnabas for the monthly Farmer's market...at which we managed to purchase eggs and asparagus. Not quite the haul I was hoping for, but I comforted myself with the fact that at least none of the stallholders were pretending they had any fresh produce this early in the season...unlike Bathurst FM...with Bananas and Tomatoes "picked this morning"...(in a pig's eye!).
It was bloomin' FREEZING too. Dad started making grumpy noises about it not being a pleasant enough kind of day to visit the gardens, -maybe he'd just stay in the car etc...WHAT?? NO! My perfect outing will NOT unravel!!!...No, you will NOT be heading home, yes you WILL get your bony bum out of the car and into Mayfield...and NO, I will NOT be brooking any arguments in this regard....here, hold the baby...
20 minutes later we were on the way to the gardens. I didn't actually hear the rest of the grumping (being in a seperate car) but I know it happened, not least because the entry price at Mayfield is $25 per adult, and no-one wants to pay that to be cold, wet and miserable, especially not pensioners on a pretty tight financial leash...
After driving quite a long way out of Oberon (at one point I sincerely questioned the property address...surely 'outskirts-of-Goulburn' would have been more accurate?), we ARRIVE. Oddly, in this field in the middle of nowhere there are literally hundreds of cars and people! and although I would have sworn there were no other cars on that back road, here they come behind us in a festive convoy! I start to get that bubbly-excited-tummy thing...this must be some kinda special garden!
In we trot through stone walls and mass plantings of rhododendrons. We are 10 metres into our 100 acre romp and already my mind is reeling with just how ridonkulously wealthy these people must be. the entrance passage alone must have cost about the equal of 10 normal residential properties...at a conservative estimate.
First stop, -coffee shop. Anyone who knows my Mum will appreciate that this was inevitable. It is still cold and overcast though, so a big Earl Grey and a plate of scones was quite appropriate. It also gave us a chance to feed the monkey. Vittles complete, we follow follow follow follow the yellow-brick road (which was neither yellow nor brick, but I was getting the distinct feeling that we were most definitely NOT in kansas anymore) to the first installment of "Oooohs and Aaaahs!"...The Obelisk.
This alone should reinforce my previous observation of just how damned rich these people are. Who, I ask you, has their own bloody Obelisk? complete with a gold filigree spire? WHO?
Around another immaculately designed corner and you come to the WATER GARDEN.
This little 'folly' is about the size of the Japanese gardens at Darling Harbour. And it's just the entree.
Gardener: "Excuse me Lord and Master, how many Lilies would you like in the water garden?"
Owner: (loftily and with a slightly distracted air) "Oh, I don't know...every kind? how many would that be, do you think?"
Gardener: "About 2 million m'lud"
Owner: "Golly. How much will that cost?"
Gardener: " The GDP of a small nation?"
Owner: "Proceed underling".
I can only imagine the conversation that must have happened around the hundreds of azaleas, rhododendrons, blueberries, silver birches, stone bridges and bloody waterfalls...the SOIL...the MULCH...as you can probably surmise, my poor little low-income brain was already starting to seize.
At intervals, there are expensive signs informing one of the inspirations behind each 'folly'. No, not signs. Zoo's have signs...these were more than signs...Apparently the Lady-Of-the-House has been rather inspired by the Royal gardens of Europe. Y'know little ol' Versailles and Sandringham and such. So she's pretty much set about recreating the bang lot. I know I keep harping on about the money but when someone has enough to merrily recreate gardens that Kings and Queens would be OK with...we're talking mind-blowing wealth.
Further we trot, mouths agape, much like the kiddies in Willy Wonka's factory. Incredibly the water-garden section turns out to be a bit 'tame' compared to the next bit. Gently sloping forests of Birch, japanese maple and chestnut, underplanted with rare azaleas, solomon's seal, water-lilies nestled in artistic rivulets, lawns of emerald, columbines, rare iris varietals...it's the kind of garden you kind of thought might be possible when you were 7. The kind of garden that I sincerely doubt any spider or creepy-thing would even DARE to think about residing in.
Then, winking through the trees, you get your first glimpse of the house...residence...palace....whatever. And yes, I felt rather like Elizabeth Bennett seeing Pemberly...exceptin' that I don't even know, let alone yearn for it's son and heir, but I digress.
And because looking over bazillion dollar water-gardens and birch-forests would, let's face it, get a trifle dull dahling, you would need to build a cascading water-temple and 30-tier graded fountain out-back, just for balance, you understand...
And while we're at it, how's about a wee Japanese pagoda on a massive lake?
Orchards? Check. A maze? Check. A formal topiary garden? Check. A croquet court with bronze lions and trailing white wisteria? Check.
And dahlink, I've always wanted to live in the country and have some chooks like the simple folk, -shall we have a little choook house 'round the side?....check.
4 chooks per house...I can confidently say that I have never before seen a chicken look smug. Mind you, we did catch an enormously impressive rooster doing the spring-fling with a rather teensy penny-hen...so it wasn't all unrestrained elegance...
At this point, after 2 and a half hours of walking, or tummies were starting to scream 'picnic', so we headed back past the 'aviary' (iron and gilt palace for birds), private family chapel (think Sacre Couer) and the amphitheatre...yes, amphitheatre.
By this stage, I had stopped obsessively photographing every nook, on account of the fact that I was feeling a little faint from the fairly constant cost-calculations that my brain had been indulging in..but a little bit pleased that my brother's "Symphony of Australia" is to be performed in this amphitheatre next year. This will be a good thing as I can rock up on the day and be 'the sister of the composer' which will make me feel a little less of a plebian impostor in the land of the so-wealthy-it-makes-your-eyes-bleed.
Oops, I almost neglected to note the (ahem) 'Greenhouse' the size of a 6 bedroom dwelling, with only 12 varieties of lemon tree, limes, tomatoes, ponds etc and the quaint walled pottager and vegetable garden complete with espaliered apples and pears.
By this stage, I was so impressed I was nearly dead. Truly. And I looked at the gradient of the path leading up to the family chapel and decided to see that another day. Final stop at the toilets and we're off to our picnic! It's 2.20pm...but as luck would have it, just near the dunnies there is a courtesy-bus to take lazy sods up to the chapel, so Brett and I wait in the carpark-field while Mum and Dad whiz off to the chapel...where Mum (shockingly) decides to delight fellow visitors with an impromptu performance of Gavin's 'Pie Jesu'...I guess 2013 won't technically be a Lockley premiere at Mayfield after all....Does anyone else (I mean like, in the universe) have a mother that randomly sings in public places? Or am I just lucky?....:-)
So, we pick-a-nicked in a far humbler Oberon park, and headed home...and oh how HUMBLE appeared my paltry gardening efforts that day.
My gorgeous 5 month old son slept through the whole thing :-)
So, here's what I got from 3 hours trekking through Mayfield Gardens, Oberon NSW;
(1) You can't take in a picnic.
(2) Allow 3hrs + to walk about...this isn't a 'garden' (despite the tricksy name) it's an estate grande.
(3) I am not very wealthy at all.
(4) I know where I'm headed if there's a Zombie apocolypse ('cos they're rich people, it's probably just a country-house, therefore they probably won't be home, and quite frankly, even if I couldn't find the keys, I could live in a chook-house very comfortably)
(5) Despite their reasonably ostentatious display of mind-boggling wealth, there's something very admirable in a person who pours their fortune into a garden.
Some weeks ago, Brett had casually asked me if I'd like to see the famed 'Mayfield Gardens' in Oberon. Now imagine your dogs face when you're holding his favourite stick, -just about to throw it...Dog=Cath! Whoohoo! Not just any old outing, certainly not the bog-standard "I get to go and buy groceries on saturdays which is peachy and lovely because it means I get out of the goddammned house", but a genuine NEW thing. A real, proper adventure to a stately garden complete with picnic and visit to Farmer's markets.
As is quite usual with amassed Lockley-adventures, I offer to put together the picnic side of things. This is because (a) my mother is famous for stating that she has 'tonnes of food', when in fact, she has a jar of pickles and a mandarin and (b) If this was going to be a proper outing, it required a proper picnic, i.e. one that I would look forward to eating. So Friday saw me at Woolies buying enough ingredients to feed your average army regiment and Saturday morning saw me whistling in my kitchen assembling sammiches, coleslaw, seasoned vine tomatoes, fruit salad etc. Rule of thumb being; if you're feeding four, cater for 89 people at least.
The only thing that worried me was that it was suddenly BLOODY cold, and that the skies loomed threateningly...
Worry #1: Would it actually dare to rain? On my outing day? Really???????
Worry #2: I was packing a summery-picnic. A wintery-picnic is quite a different animal and requires thermoses of steaming hot soup/crusty bread etc...
But of course, now that I am a MUM, I am awfully philosphical about such things, and take all obstacles in my firm but nurturing stride, all the while ensuring that my family is happy and content....I certainly don't have mini-meltdowns or anything like that........
Anyway anyway, 8.30am saw us in the car with a summery picnic heading down the picturesque Diamond Swamp Road to Oberon in convoy. Mum and Dad took the lead, which meant I had a grumbly husband (for whom 60km/hr is rarely an acceptable rate of progress) and ensured a few wrong turns with us chasing them, beeping the horn, flashing the lights and making frantic phone-calls...
"Mum, you're going down the wrong road.."
"Nonsense catherine, I've been to Oberon this way TONNES of times!"
erm, no you haven't..
"The left turn through Tarana is a bit quicker though Mum.."
"Oh well,...I suppose we'll turn around then...."
Miraculously, we arrived in Oberon at about 9.30am and trotted into the grounds of St.Barnabas for the monthly Farmer's market...at which we managed to purchase eggs and asparagus. Not quite the haul I was hoping for, but I comforted myself with the fact that at least none of the stallholders were pretending they had any fresh produce this early in the season...unlike Bathurst FM...with Bananas and Tomatoes "picked this morning"...(in a pig's eye!).
It was bloomin' FREEZING too. Dad started making grumpy noises about it not being a pleasant enough kind of day to visit the gardens, -maybe he'd just stay in the car etc...WHAT?? NO! My perfect outing will NOT unravel!!!...No, you will NOT be heading home, yes you WILL get your bony bum out of the car and into Mayfield...and NO, I will NOT be brooking any arguments in this regard....here, hold the baby...
20 minutes later we were on the way to the gardens. I didn't actually hear the rest of the grumping (being in a seperate car) but I know it happened, not least because the entry price at Mayfield is $25 per adult, and no-one wants to pay that to be cold, wet and miserable, especially not pensioners on a pretty tight financial leash...
After driving quite a long way out of Oberon (at one point I sincerely questioned the property address...surely 'outskirts-of-Goulburn' would have been more accurate?), we ARRIVE. Oddly, in this field in the middle of nowhere there are literally hundreds of cars and people! and although I would have sworn there were no other cars on that back road, here they come behind us in a festive convoy! I start to get that bubbly-excited-tummy thing...this must be some kinda special garden!
In we trot through stone walls and mass plantings of rhododendrons. We are 10 metres into our 100 acre romp and already my mind is reeling with just how ridonkulously wealthy these people must be. the entrance passage alone must have cost about the equal of 10 normal residential properties...at a conservative estimate.
First stop, -coffee shop. Anyone who knows my Mum will appreciate that this was inevitable. It is still cold and overcast though, so a big Earl Grey and a plate of scones was quite appropriate. It also gave us a chance to feed the monkey. Vittles complete, we follow follow follow follow the yellow-brick road (which was neither yellow nor brick, but I was getting the distinct feeling that we were most definitely NOT in kansas anymore) to the first installment of "Oooohs and Aaaahs!"...The Obelisk.
Around another immaculately designed corner and you come to the WATER GARDEN.
This little 'folly' is about the size of the Japanese gardens at Darling Harbour. And it's just the entree.
Gardener: "Excuse me Lord and Master, how many Lilies would you like in the water garden?"
Owner: (loftily and with a slightly distracted air) "Oh, I don't know...every kind? how many would that be, do you think?"
Gardener: "About 2 million m'lud"
Owner: "Golly. How much will that cost?"
Gardener: " The GDP of a small nation?"
Owner: "Proceed underling".
I can only imagine the conversation that must have happened around the hundreds of azaleas, rhododendrons, blueberries, silver birches, stone bridges and bloody waterfalls...the SOIL...the MULCH...as you can probably surmise, my poor little low-income brain was already starting to seize.
At intervals, there are expensive signs informing one of the inspirations behind each 'folly'. No, not signs. Zoo's have signs...these were more than signs...Apparently the Lady-Of-the-House has been rather inspired by the Royal gardens of Europe. Y'know little ol' Versailles and Sandringham and such. So she's pretty much set about recreating the bang lot. I know I keep harping on about the money but when someone has enough to merrily recreate gardens that Kings and Queens would be OK with...we're talking mind-blowing wealth.
Further we trot, mouths agape, much like the kiddies in Willy Wonka's factory. Incredibly the water-garden section turns out to be a bit 'tame' compared to the next bit. Gently sloping forests of Birch, japanese maple and chestnut, underplanted with rare azaleas, solomon's seal, water-lilies nestled in artistic rivulets, lawns of emerald, columbines, rare iris varietals...it's the kind of garden you kind of thought might be possible when you were 7. The kind of garden that I sincerely doubt any spider or creepy-thing would even DARE to think about residing in.
Then, winking through the trees, you get your first glimpse of the house...residence...palace....whatever. And yes, I felt rather like Elizabeth Bennett seeing Pemberly...exceptin' that I don't even know, let alone yearn for it's son and heir, but I digress.
At this point, after 2 and a half hours of walking, or tummies were starting to scream 'picnic', so we headed back past the 'aviary' (iron and gilt palace for birds), private family chapel (think Sacre Couer) and the amphitheatre...yes, amphitheatre.
Oops, I almost neglected to note the (ahem) 'Greenhouse' the size of a 6 bedroom dwelling, with only 12 varieties of lemon tree, limes, tomatoes, ponds etc and the quaint walled pottager and vegetable garden complete with espaliered apples and pears.
By this stage, I was so impressed I was nearly dead. Truly. And I looked at the gradient of the path leading up to the family chapel and decided to see that another day. Final stop at the toilets and we're off to our picnic! It's 2.20pm...but as luck would have it, just near the dunnies there is a courtesy-bus to take lazy sods up to the chapel, so Brett and I wait in the carpark-field while Mum and Dad whiz off to the chapel...where Mum (shockingly) decides to delight fellow visitors with an impromptu performance of Gavin's 'Pie Jesu'...I guess 2013 won't technically be a Lockley premiere at Mayfield after all....Does anyone else (I mean like, in the universe) have a mother that randomly sings in public places? Or am I just lucky?....:-)
So, we pick-a-nicked in a far humbler Oberon park, and headed home...and oh how HUMBLE appeared my paltry gardening efforts that day.
My gorgeous 5 month old son slept through the whole thing :-)
(1) You can't take in a picnic.
(2) Allow 3hrs + to walk about...this isn't a 'garden' (despite the tricksy name) it's an estate grande.
(3) I am not very wealthy at all.
(4) I know where I'm headed if there's a Zombie apocolypse ('cos they're rich people, it's probably just a country-house, therefore they probably won't be home, and quite frankly, even if I couldn't find the keys, I could live in a chook-house very comfortably)
(5) Despite their reasonably ostentatious display of mind-boggling wealth, there's something very admirable in a person who pours their fortune into a garden.
Monday, July 30, 2012
Needles in tiny people
My little monkey is 2 months old, and with that milestone (along with cooing and focusing) comes the necessity of the first round of vaccinations. I am aware that vaccination is a controversial topic these days, but having thoroughly sized up the risks vs. benefits situation, off we trooped to the Portland clinic at 11.30am this morning to see the community nurse. Babies used to die of pertussis, polio etc, -so in the interests of public and monkey-health, I wheeled my little one up the hill to have him stuck full of needles for his own benefit...We were 20 minutes early for the appointment. This will not surprise anyone who knows me. 20 minutes early is 'on time', 10 minutes early is 'running late', on-time is 'late' and 'late' is unthinkable. We sat in the comfy little waiting room until he decided that the pram had stopped moving and that was a BAD thing. He was removed forthwith and we played 'wheeee!' (new game in which he pushes off my thighs with his little legs and gets swooped into the air...always results in BIG smiles and giggles), sang songs ('Where is Love?' and 'Who will Buy?'...an 'Oliver' mood had struck. apparently), and finally, when all else had failed, settled in for a nice session of mummy-juice. Typically, just when he'd settled into his familiar 'sighing with pleasure' moment...SHE arrived to usher us into the clinic rooms...(insert JAWS theme).
We had to undress the monkey for his routine weighing/measuring...this was approached with some trepidation on my part as the monkey had started making 'poo-face' 5 minutes earlier...and LO! We were quite messy in the nether-regions..which was fine, except that I had made the rookie mistake of leaving the nappy-bag at home (.."it's only 5 minutes up the road...he won't need a poo in the next hour...surely?"). So, Gabe endured the indignity of being cleaned and re-nappied in a (shock-horror!) girls nappy. His head was held, his legs were stretched, his little testicles were palpated and he submitted to all this by blowing dignified bubbles and beaming at the nurse. Indeed, so perturbed was the little mite, he promptly fell asleep in my arms as we fulfilled the 'questionnaire' bit.
The next bit (well, OK, the entire entry) is recorded purely as therapy...for me!. The nurse warned me as she was prepping that 2 of the three vaccinations would hurt him. A lot. She gave him the oral dose first, which he sucked down gleefully, while my stomach unknotted and reknotted itself in anticipation of what was to come. The problem is that mothers are a lot like grizzly-bears, -prone to violence when their baby is threatened. It took every ounce of willpower I had not to grab the needles and stick the nurse in retaliation when his little face screwed up and he screamed with his first dose of pain. Until now, he has known only comfort and cuddles and warmth. Until now, everyone that smiled at him and talked to him only meant good things. The first dose done, he relaxed quite quickly and started a -sucking on his little fist. This is usually Gabe-speak for either 'mumma, -my tummy hurts' or 'mumma, -I'm hungry' (he has yet to distinguish between the two!). The nurse then explained to me that the last shot would really hurt. In fact, she mentioned that she often had to go home after a days vaccinations and self-medicate with wine...it's no fun causing babies pain all day, even if it is "the best thing for them".
Quick flip over of the monkey (who, bless him, was already smiling at me again) and the second shot into his unblemished, fat and perfect little thigh. His face went beetroot red and he SCREAMED and wouldn't stop screaming. I lost it. My precious boy was bundled up to my breast as I shed helpless tears at my little one's pain. Like a near-death experience, everything was flashing before my eyes. His implicit trust that had been betrayed, his dear little legs and perfect skin, now bleeding and sore. His trusting smile and happy cooing for the first 15 minutes of the appointment...unaware of what was to come.I suspect this is the first of many 'firsts' for me. I can't help romantically wishing for a world in which the person smiling at you engagingly isn't about to stab you in the back (or leg, as the case may be). Hard lessons to learn, but as I have discovered, infinitely harder for mumma watching on helplessly. All of this trauma lasted approximately 5 minutes. It was a lifetime.
Within 1 minute, he had settled down and was back in his pram. I've never walked home so fast. He was whisked into the lounge room and onto the breast with near Olympic speed and again began his happy sighing. I turned on some soothing Bach, and within minutes he was blissfully asleep. I retreated to the study for another weep, and at the solid advice of friends, a rather large slice of double chocolate mud-cake.
1 hr later, he is talking happily to his owl ( a much beloved lamaze toy from grandma), and fighting his droopy little eyelids. I have given him a dose of baby-panadol as a prophylactic to ward off fever and am now heartily glad I have 2 glasses of wine for this evening.
Bitch #1: The nurse said (post).."He did VERY well!"...I know you were being 'nice' and all, but seriously, what do you say to clients who have babies that scream and won't stop?..."he did VERY badly! what a BAD baby!"...
Bitch #2: The nurse (pre) suggested I put him on the breast for the injections. I asked if it were possible that this might create a negative association for him re: breastfeeding (and as a mumma who's had trouble with it...I thought it a reasonable question). Her response: "Oh, that's always the first question from women who over-think things". Did I come back with a pithy retort? Nup. I hung my head and admitted that yes, I did have a habit of 'over-thinking things'...Luckily (I think), he didn't want to suckle, so it was decided that I would wait until afterwards to feed...GRRRAAARRGGGGHHH!!! Why do I always back down with this woman????
Monday, July 16, 2012
Winter Wamers
It should possibly be mentioned that my version of Colcannon is as 'hearty' as they come, but possibly a little higher in calories than the original peasant version, and as such should be treated as a 'sometimes' food..(unless you regularly indulge in peasanty activities like the plowin' o' the fields, the boilin' and thrashin' of the linens or the walkin' of the 5 miles into town..).
You can use a normal cabbage, a savoy, or a mixture of oddness (including broccoli greens) from your garden. It's also great with kale, but be careful of cooking times etc as kale needs a bit more blanching and carrying on than normal cabbage and you don't want to be ruining my chefness with horrible stringy kale-bits.
Ingredients
60g butter
4 tbsps plain flour
1/2L Soy Milk
4 tbsps onion flakes
1 tsp garlic powder
7-8 medium potatoes
1/2 a cabbage head
1 cup random extra greens (young broccoli leaves/kale/brussels sprouts)
1 1/2 cups grated tasty cheese
1/2 cup grated parmesan/romano
salt and pepper to taste
1. Make yourself up a good white sauce with the first set of ingredients. You know the deal, roux and gradually add milk blah blah, when you've got the desired consistency (a bit thicker than usual because cabbage is quite the watery old vegetable), add the onion flakes and the garlic powder.
2. Boil 'dem spuds in salted water until they're smushable, then add the cabbage and greens for 5 minutes until just tender. You could do this seperately, but I just remove the greens with tongs before draining the spuds and smushing them.
3. Smush spuds with a spud-smusher (no need to be all Masterchef about it, -just smush' em good), then mix through the greens. Pour the white/onion sauce over and mix like a peasant until everything's good and slushy.
4. Spoon most of it into a pyrex or ceramic baking dish and top with grated cheese and a drizzle of olive oil (especially if the 60g of butter just didn't seem like quite enough fat...)
5. Bake at 180 degrees for 30 minutes until cheese is all golden and bubble and a bit browny and crunchy on the sides.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
What it's like (being a mumma)
As I write, I'm sitting up waiting for the little monkey to wake for his next feed. It's as usual here. Sleep-deprived mumma desperately wanting to go to bed. Sleep-deprived daddy already in bed and promising to do the 'early' shift...but it seems that Wombat has decided to screw up the schedule..again!
So, what's it like? Being a new mother?
Well kiddies, it's a bloody hard slog most of the time. I used to be a person that "had" to have 8 hrs sleep a night or i turned into a raving lunatic. The trick is, I am still that person.
When the little wombat wakes and starts his coughing-crying combo, needs must be met! This incredibly exhausted woman drags her sorry carcass up and feeds.
Luckily, it's school holidays right now. This means that Brett and I can "share" the load...although there doesn't seem to be a magical solution in which at least one of us gets a full nights sleep...
BUT...(and it has to be said), This little person is never too much trouble. Oh yes, I get cranky and frustrated (particularly at about 3-4am), I get annoyed at him, I get to the point of tears almost every night. This is my precious son. This is a $35K baby. This little one was the ONLY surviving embryo from our last IVF cycle, This little man has made my heart swell like it never has before. He didn't ask me to be born. He just is.
Yes. He snuffles for the breast (hence 'wombat'), he yells in his sleep (every night), he rarely cries and when he does a deep switch gets turned on in my soul. I cannot bear the sound of him in distress, -even for a minute.
I love watching Brett's amazing tenderness and protectiveness towards his son. I kid you not when I say that he does EVERYTHING! I just adore that Brett has endless patience and love for his baby boy. At least once a day he spouts forth with "I love my son!". No particular impetus, just emotion that bubbles up and spills over!
Like every new parent, we've had our 'issues'. I have had to come to terms with the fact that I can't produce enough breast milk to satisfy him. Our baby is on a "mixed feed" deal. he always has the breast first, but then a bottle of lactose-free formula. This killed me for weeks. I cried and cried at my inability to feed him.
His little tongue-tie didn't help in those first few weeks. He couldn't latch well and I ended up with seeping blood-blisters on my nipples. This (and the fact that my breasts just didn't develop enough lactation tissue) made recovering from a horrible birth doubly difficult.
I "failed" as a woman (to give birth naturally) and then I "failed" to feed my son. Add that to sleep-deprivation and body-image issues and you get the general idea.
I still hate the 'pouch' of fat and skin on my tummy. I was happy to be "abdominally abundant" when he was in there, -now it's just revolting. However, I'm all set to exercise it away once I get the 6 week doctor's clearance!
I have a renewed and healthy respect for all mothers. I still feel that I'm the worst one in the world. I cannot get over my son's beauty and gorgeous nature. I only hope that someday soon things will "balance out" and I'll be able to enjoy being a mum more. Don't get me wrong, -I adore him every second I'm awake and asleep, but I have no idea who "Cath" is or when (and if!) she'll ever return.
So, what's it like? Being a new mother?
Well kiddies, it's a bloody hard slog most of the time. I used to be a person that "had" to have 8 hrs sleep a night or i turned into a raving lunatic. The trick is, I am still that person.
When the little wombat wakes and starts his coughing-crying combo, needs must be met! This incredibly exhausted woman drags her sorry carcass up and feeds.
Luckily, it's school holidays right now. This means that Brett and I can "share" the load...although there doesn't seem to be a magical solution in which at least one of us gets a full nights sleep...
BUT...(and it has to be said), This little person is never too much trouble. Oh yes, I get cranky and frustrated (particularly at about 3-4am), I get annoyed at him, I get to the point of tears almost every night. This is my precious son. This is a $35K baby. This little one was the ONLY surviving embryo from our last IVF cycle, This little man has made my heart swell like it never has before. He didn't ask me to be born. He just is.
Yes. He snuffles for the breast (hence 'wombat'), he yells in his sleep (every night), he rarely cries and when he does a deep switch gets turned on in my soul. I cannot bear the sound of him in distress, -even for a minute.
I love watching Brett's amazing tenderness and protectiveness towards his son. I kid you not when I say that he does EVERYTHING! I just adore that Brett has endless patience and love for his baby boy. At least once a day he spouts forth with "I love my son!". No particular impetus, just emotion that bubbles up and spills over!
Like every new parent, we've had our 'issues'. I have had to come to terms with the fact that I can't produce enough breast milk to satisfy him. Our baby is on a "mixed feed" deal. he always has the breast first, but then a bottle of lactose-free formula. This killed me for weeks. I cried and cried at my inability to feed him.
His little tongue-tie didn't help in those first few weeks. He couldn't latch well and I ended up with seeping blood-blisters on my nipples. This (and the fact that my breasts just didn't develop enough lactation tissue) made recovering from a horrible birth doubly difficult.
I "failed" as a woman (to give birth naturally) and then I "failed" to feed my son. Add that to sleep-deprivation and body-image issues and you get the general idea.
I still hate the 'pouch' of fat and skin on my tummy. I was happy to be "abdominally abundant" when he was in there, -now it's just revolting. However, I'm all set to exercise it away once I get the 6 week doctor's clearance!
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Gabriel's Birth
WARNING. The following post contains graphic images and words. It may upset some people and is not recommended reading for children.
I recently gave birth to our little miracle. At 3.18pm on the 3rd of June 2012, the long-awaited Gabriel Arthur Jeffers came into this world. Being of a somewhat scientific nature, I wrote the following diary entry at 5.30am in bed 11 at the Orange base Hospital maternity ward. I knew that 'nature' would help me 'forget' recent events and that my memories would soon be subsumed by an overwhelming love and gratefulness for the perfect little person that had entered our lives. However, as a mum that had been through a birth experience that was quite literally, the opposite of what she had wanted, I felt compelled to record the event as impartially as possible.
For the record, I was inseminated via IVF protocol (with ICSI), and enjoyed an unremarkable pregnancy in which my Blood Pressure, weight and Blood Sugar readings all remained steadily within the "low risk" category. All ultrasounds measured Gabriel at a few days ahead of expected outcomes and utterly normal. I was classified as "low risk" and remained that way throughout the pregnancy.
My Husband I researched birthing extensively, and as a low risk mother, decided to opt for a midwife run Birthing Centre (Murunduu Dhara in Orange) instead of a hospital birth. Although the centre was an hour and a half from our home, we were confident in the midwives there and very happy with our prenatal care and support with these dedicated women. Like every other woman, I attended fortnightly appointments and finally, weekly ones right up to term. Gabriel always came through with flying colours and was 4/5 engaged at our last appointment and positioned beautifully (LOA). Everything indicated that my planned unmedicated waterbirth would go smoothly and to plan.
DIARY 4/6/2012 5.30am
Well, I'm sitting in Bed 11 Maternity at Orange Base Hospital waiting until visiting hours officially open. Yesterday at 3.18pm Gabriel Arthur was born via an emergency C-section after me being in labour for 27 hours with no pain relief except gas and air. I am completely in love with my son but his birth was the most horrendous day of my life.
After the morning's acupuncture I had a wee nap between 2 and 4pm and then some minor contractions began. Just like menstrual cramps, -nothing with a real 'pattern'. I cried on the way home from the acupuncture appointment, convinced it hadn't worked and that at 41 weeks I would be pressured into induction protocols. The birthing centre was inextricably linked to Orange Base Hospital you see, and regardless of my determination to avoid medical/pharmaceutical intervention, once I reached that 41 +3 mark, I would HAVE to submit to hospital tests and the 'recommendations' that would inevitable accompany them. Of course, I would still have a choice as to what I wanted to do, but would have the extra stresses of fighting against the 'system'.
By about 5pm they were every 10 minutes (the contractions), and by 9pm they were every 5 minutes. Brett and I sat on the balcony with multiple cups of tea and chatted while we timed them. At 9pm we called our midwife and she recommended we start the journey. We hopped into the car with me lying on the back seat with a mountain of pillows and drove to the birthing centre. I was very calm and breathing through contractions as I had been taught during our Calmbirth classes. I found that there was no such thing as a comfortable position to be in though! The contractions were all front and centre like massive menstrual cramps.
Mum and Dad arrived at the Centre about half an hour after we arrived and set about making tea, playing me soothing music (Vaughan Williams, Enya) and holding my hand. My own quilt and pillows were transferred to the big double bed so that Brett, Gabriel and I could cuddle and bond after birth. I used the birthing ball and floor mat constantly and was able to breathe through the ever-worsening contractions until about 3am. At that point, my midwives had me hop into the big birthing tub (bliss!) and I asked for the gas and air. By 4am I was in a a lot of pain and vocalising through contractions. I knew somewhere in the back of my mind that I was being 'noisy' but making the noises seemed to help so much! An examination was done and it was discovered that I was only 4cm dilated, ie. i was only just in what was considered 'active' labour. I cried with hopelessness on that news and by 6am I wasn't 'vocalising', -I was yelling like a tortured person and was in the most ungodly pain I had ever known. Brett had gone off for a nap, and my Dad (who had been asleep on the couch since 3am) awoke with the thought "That's not Catherine, -she was making far more circumspect noises...". I begged to be transferred to the hospital for an epidural. They ignored me for another 4 hrs of misery.
The woman in the bed next to me has a screaming baby. She started at 1am and hasn't stopped. Apparently mum's milk hasn't come in and the little one is angry at being hungry. The midwives on duty are having a wee tiff about whether or not to give her a 15ml "top up" of formula so mum can get some rest...Breast nazi's vs mum advocates here! Little Gabriel is sleeping like a top, -shame I can't say the same right now!
Anyway anyway, -where was I? Oh yes, about 11am my waters broke and showed definite signs of meconium in the liquor. Finally, the midwives relented and called the ambulance. I yelled and screamed all the way to the hospital. By the time we arrived I was in so much agony I would honestly have shot myself if someone had given me a gun. The junior midwife/nurse assigned to me was an apallingly unsympathetic and supercilious bitch and was asked to continue on just gas and air. Intermittently she asked my mum to remove the gas and asked me to stop vocalising ("Now Catherine, just stop making the noise and concentrate on pushing"). I did try. I knew something was wrong. I didn't have the "pressure" feeling in my bottom. I didn't feel like I needed to do a big poo. I started to get extremely panicked. No one was helping me. I was in a hospital, -seconds away from pain relief and they weren't giving it to me.
A doctor arrived and asked for permission to do an examination. I yelled. Forming words was not an option. Brett consented and he shoved his big hands up my screaming vagina. I had to yell at him, begging "please stop!". Brett yelled at him again on my behalf. It was discovered that I was still only 8cm.
Finally, I heard the words I was dying for. I could have an epidural. It was another 2 hrs before I got one. My mum and Brett watched while I screamed in agony, helpless to do anything. The supercilious nurse asked me to "move up the bed please" and to "sit up". I couldn't. I started crying again and the crying/screaming/trying to breathe became a battle. Brett hoisted me up and the anaesthetist administered the epidural quickly and painlessly. It kicked in almost immediately and after all that agony, i could have married that man on the spot!
Finally a senior obstetrician arrived and i was able to answer his questions without screaming and yelling. Gabriel's heart rate was dropping dramatically with contractions. Apparently the awful doctor had fitted a head monitor to Gabe's scalp during the vaginal invasion and I was being monitored..who knew? Dr Scott (the lovely and amazingly youthful obstetrican) decided that it was time for theatre. I was wheeled in fairly promptly for an attempted instrumental intervention (forceps/venthouse), and if that didn't work, a c-section. It turned out, that on a much gentler and more skilled examination, Gabriel's head was facing my right hip and was flexed backwards, so the c-section was decided upon. Quite frankly, I had been screaming C-section at them for hours (ANYTHING to stop the pain). I didn't feel a thing except that I couldn't stop shaking or my teeth chattering madly (a side-effect of the anaesthetic). Probably the ONLY bad thing about the c-section was that I only got to see Gabe very briefly over the curtained barricade and then lay weeping watching Brett touching our son and cutting the cord on a Tv screen.
Brett sang 'per la Gloria' very gently to him as the nurses cleaned/weighed etc. I lay chattering and shaking while the anaesthetists commented on Brett's lovely singing voice. I had 1/2 an hour in recovery that I spent aching to hold my son, and then here, to bed 11 maternity ward to wait another hour while they kept Gabe in the Nursery under observation for rapid breathing. Finally, he was wheeled in in his plastic crib and put onto my breast. From zero to MUM in one fell swoop!
As I write, the little one is sleeping soundly, wrapped by an expert midwife (I still haven't figured out the mechanics) and I'm busting to get the hell out of claustrophobic hospital and home with my unbelievably precious little bundle of gorgeousness.
I recently gave birth to our little miracle. At 3.18pm on the 3rd of June 2012, the long-awaited Gabriel Arthur Jeffers came into this world. Being of a somewhat scientific nature, I wrote the following diary entry at 5.30am in bed 11 at the Orange base Hospital maternity ward. I knew that 'nature' would help me 'forget' recent events and that my memories would soon be subsumed by an overwhelming love and gratefulness for the perfect little person that had entered our lives. However, as a mum that had been through a birth experience that was quite literally, the opposite of what she had wanted, I felt compelled to record the event as impartially as possible.
For the record, I was inseminated via IVF protocol (with ICSI), and enjoyed an unremarkable pregnancy in which my Blood Pressure, weight and Blood Sugar readings all remained steadily within the "low risk" category. All ultrasounds measured Gabriel at a few days ahead of expected outcomes and utterly normal. I was classified as "low risk" and remained that way throughout the pregnancy.
My Husband I researched birthing extensively, and as a low risk mother, decided to opt for a midwife run Birthing Centre (Murunduu Dhara in Orange) instead of a hospital birth. Although the centre was an hour and a half from our home, we were confident in the midwives there and very happy with our prenatal care and support with these dedicated women. Like every other woman, I attended fortnightly appointments and finally, weekly ones right up to term. Gabriel always came through with flying colours and was 4/5 engaged at our last appointment and positioned beautifully (LOA). Everything indicated that my planned unmedicated waterbirth would go smoothly and to plan.
DIARY 4/6/2012 5.30am
Well, I'm sitting in Bed 11 Maternity at Orange Base Hospital waiting until visiting hours officially open. Yesterday at 3.18pm Gabriel Arthur was born via an emergency C-section after me being in labour for 27 hours with no pain relief except gas and air. I am completely in love with my son but his birth was the most horrendous day of my life.
After the morning's acupuncture I had a wee nap between 2 and 4pm and then some minor contractions began. Just like menstrual cramps, -nothing with a real 'pattern'. I cried on the way home from the acupuncture appointment, convinced it hadn't worked and that at 41 weeks I would be pressured into induction protocols. The birthing centre was inextricably linked to Orange Base Hospital you see, and regardless of my determination to avoid medical/pharmaceutical intervention, once I reached that 41 +3 mark, I would HAVE to submit to hospital tests and the 'recommendations' that would inevitable accompany them. Of course, I would still have a choice as to what I wanted to do, but would have the extra stresses of fighting against the 'system'.
By about 5pm they were every 10 minutes (the contractions), and by 9pm they were every 5 minutes. Brett and I sat on the balcony with multiple cups of tea and chatted while we timed them. At 9pm we called our midwife and she recommended we start the journey. We hopped into the car with me lying on the back seat with a mountain of pillows and drove to the birthing centre. I was very calm and breathing through contractions as I had been taught during our Calmbirth classes. I found that there was no such thing as a comfortable position to be in though! The contractions were all front and centre like massive menstrual cramps.
Mum and Dad arrived at the Centre about half an hour after we arrived and set about making tea, playing me soothing music (Vaughan Williams, Enya) and holding my hand. My own quilt and pillows were transferred to the big double bed so that Brett, Gabriel and I could cuddle and bond after birth. I used the birthing ball and floor mat constantly and was able to breathe through the ever-worsening contractions until about 3am. At that point, my midwives had me hop into the big birthing tub (bliss!) and I asked for the gas and air. By 4am I was in a a lot of pain and vocalising through contractions. I knew somewhere in the back of my mind that I was being 'noisy' but making the noises seemed to help so much! An examination was done and it was discovered that I was only 4cm dilated, ie. i was only just in what was considered 'active' labour. I cried with hopelessness on that news and by 6am I wasn't 'vocalising', -I was yelling like a tortured person and was in the most ungodly pain I had ever known. Brett had gone off for a nap, and my Dad (who had been asleep on the couch since 3am) awoke with the thought "That's not Catherine, -she was making far more circumspect noises...". I begged to be transferred to the hospital for an epidural. They ignored me for another 4 hrs of misery.The woman in the bed next to me has a screaming baby. She started at 1am and hasn't stopped. Apparently mum's milk hasn't come in and the little one is angry at being hungry. The midwives on duty are having a wee tiff about whether or not to give her a 15ml "top up" of formula so mum can get some rest...Breast nazi's vs mum advocates here! Little Gabriel is sleeping like a top, -shame I can't say the same right now!
Anyway anyway, -where was I? Oh yes, about 11am my waters broke and showed definite signs of meconium in the liquor. Finally, the midwives relented and called the ambulance. I yelled and screamed all the way to the hospital. By the time we arrived I was in so much agony I would honestly have shot myself if someone had given me a gun. The junior midwife/nurse assigned to me was an apallingly unsympathetic and supercilious bitch and was asked to continue on just gas and air. Intermittently she asked my mum to remove the gas and asked me to stop vocalising ("Now Catherine, just stop making the noise and concentrate on pushing"). I did try. I knew something was wrong. I didn't have the "pressure" feeling in my bottom. I didn't feel like I needed to do a big poo. I started to get extremely panicked. No one was helping me. I was in a hospital, -seconds away from pain relief and they weren't giving it to me.
A doctor arrived and asked for permission to do an examination. I yelled. Forming words was not an option. Brett consented and he shoved his big hands up my screaming vagina. I had to yell at him, begging "please stop!". Brett yelled at him again on my behalf. It was discovered that I was still only 8cm.
Finally, I heard the words I was dying for. I could have an epidural. It was another 2 hrs before I got one. My mum and Brett watched while I screamed in agony, helpless to do anything. The supercilious nurse asked me to "move up the bed please" and to "sit up". I couldn't. I started crying again and the crying/screaming/trying to breathe became a battle. Brett hoisted me up and the anaesthetist administered the epidural quickly and painlessly. It kicked in almost immediately and after all that agony, i could have married that man on the spot!
Finally a senior obstetrician arrived and i was able to answer his questions without screaming and yelling. Gabriel's heart rate was dropping dramatically with contractions. Apparently the awful doctor had fitted a head monitor to Gabe's scalp during the vaginal invasion and I was being monitored..who knew? Dr Scott (the lovely and amazingly youthful obstetrican) decided that it was time for theatre. I was wheeled in fairly promptly for an attempted instrumental intervention (forceps/venthouse), and if that didn't work, a c-section. It turned out, that on a much gentler and more skilled examination, Gabriel's head was facing my right hip and was flexed backwards, so the c-section was decided upon. Quite frankly, I had been screaming C-section at them for hours (ANYTHING to stop the pain). I didn't feel a thing except that I couldn't stop shaking or my teeth chattering madly (a side-effect of the anaesthetic). Probably the ONLY bad thing about the c-section was that I only got to see Gabe very briefly over the curtained barricade and then lay weeping watching Brett touching our son and cutting the cord on a Tv screen.
Brett sang 'per la Gloria' very gently to him as the nurses cleaned/weighed etc. I lay chattering and shaking while the anaesthetists commented on Brett's lovely singing voice. I had 1/2 an hour in recovery that I spent aching to hold my son, and then here, to bed 11 maternity ward to wait another hour while they kept Gabe in the Nursery under observation for rapid breathing. Finally, he was wheeled in in his plastic crib and put onto my breast. From zero to MUM in one fell swoop!
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