Live the questions, now.

Guest starring Oscar, & pavlova.

2012-01-27T03:45:00.001-06:00

Australia Day in Brissie.

On the eve of turning 30.

2012-01-17T03:35:00.004-06:00

I'm turning 30 tomorrow.

I was telling Jon today, 'What if some strange gypsy fortune teller told me, on my 20th birthday, that 1 year from then I would stop being a crazy evangelical, meet the man I would marry, and 10 years from then I would have lived in London, traveled across the world, and then had a child and lived in Sydney? I would've told that crazy gypsy fortune teller she was a crackpot.'

Yeah, it's been a pretty good decade, but holy Jesus Joseph Mary did that sneak up on me.

When I suddenly realised I was crossing this bridge whether I wanted to or not, I spent one day being sad and miserable on the couch, watching Toddlers & Tiarras. Then I got up, went for a run, and figured out, you know what, it's okay.

I've lived a lot of different lives, already, and I'm only 30. I've seen incredible places in the world. I've got amazing, inspiring friends, and a wonderful family. I've learned a few lessons about faith and humanity. I got married. I grew a tiny little person who - SUCCESS! - started making fart jokes this afternoon.

What I'm saying, here, people, is I'm winning. I'm content to enter my 30s having seen and learned a lot - from my successes and failures - and to see how all this old people wisdom will enlighten me.

For example, don't throw wooly sweaters in the dryer. Or, wax on, wax off. Or, always pack sunscreen. Wait, wasn't that a song?

In any case, how I'm feeling right now is best expressed in this extract from Frankie Magazine:

Spring Chicken No More
Rowena Grant-Frost, 01/12

I do not think I am especially old. I am not one of those people who turned 25 and freaked out because OH MY WORD, I'M ONE QUARTER OF THE WAY TO 100. I am not even 25. I am 29. I am one quarter of the way to 116.

So, even though I do not think I am especially old, I have noticed some things I like about being older. There are lots of them, in fact. Here are my favourites:

I LIKE COMPLAINING ABOUT YOUNG PEOPLE. Because they are silly and don't realise it. Because their taste in music is terrible and why is Maroon 5 a thing? Because they are arrogant and selfish and think they've all got it figured out. But mostly because they are too young to realise they are young. They remind me of myself.

I LIKE GOING TO BED EARLY. Because I was only pretending when I was all, 'YEAHHHH! LET'S STAY OUT TILL 5AM!!!!' Seriously. Why would anyone want to stay out until 5am? It is not fun at all. I like sleep. I do not like the smell of vomit or kebabs or taxi-driver sweat. I like clean sheets and warm drinks and musicals. I would rather pursue all of those things.

I LIKE STAYING UP LATE. Because it's a treat: when you're older most of the time you're too tired from being responsible to stay up really, really late. On the very rare occasion that you do, you remember how you used to take moments like these for granted and how lovely the sunrise really is.

I LIKE BEING TAKEN SERIOUSLY. Because kids exist for one reason: to be patronised. To be told that they don't know something because they are too young to know anything. But once you get to be a tiny bit older - when your skin clears up and you stop wearing sneakers all the time - people start listening and considering what you have to say. It's really quite excellent.

I LIKE DRINKING CAMPARI AND GIN (BUT NOT TOGETHER, BECAUSE ... YUCK). Because once upon a time I was too silly (see point one) to realise how wonderful these two things are. Sometimes when you are young you let others decide your tastes for you - you drink and eat what others tell you. But when you grow up, you become more confident and assertive and don't care if gin is for old ladies.

I LIKE THAT I SORT OF KNOW MYSELF. Because even though you ever really know yourself completely, I like that when you get older you get a better sense of who you are, what you like, and what you value as a stand-alone person. You develop tastes and habits and routines that are particular to yourself, rather than your family, school, or group. You become yourself. And this is fun and exciting and wonderful to experience.

Anyway. Welcome in, 30s.

A little naked summer dinner, outside.

2012-01-13T16:25:00.001-06:00

Just watch where you're sticking the fork, boys.

Thanks: Henry's modern art "cooking".

2012-01-12T18:35:00.002-06:00

I've been very inspired by a few blogs and articles, lately, in which people of all different persuasions (mums, students, cancer patients, executives), gave thanks every day for something.

A few words, a picture, a link - just something small to say, hey universe: you're pretty great.

Part of my new year's resolution is to show more gratitude for my life, and so I hope to continue those bloggers' good work, and offer some small bit of thanks on this blog.

I'm thankful for what joy a little bit of uncooked rice, a bowl, and a patio full of leaves can bring my son. "COOKING, MUMMY! LOOK! COOKING!"

It's Christmas time, in the Sydney.

2012-01-01T05:43:00.007-06:00

WAKE UP WAKE UP IT'S CHRISTMAS.

The most attractive family portrait we've ever taken: Jon in his bright pink new cricket tee; me in my jammies, and Henry without pants.

He was keen on the antlers, at some point.

We could not pry this - a recorded book from Boppa - from his hands.

Lovely Christmas dinner with the Lords and Samuels. Picture by SteveO.

Thanks to Gaga Sally for this very expensive bottle of wine, which went down well with a cheeseboard and endless game of Hearts.

Randomly nice family pictures courtesy of Kate Lord (via SteveO's camera).

A little half-naked afternoon television.

Boxing day ice cream, swimming and sand at the Barran household. He was up for days after this...

Tiger, tiger burning bright. Also: note he is still hanging on to that Christmas book from Boppa.

Despite the questionable photography skills, Jon still managed to get Kelly and I looking cute and the bridge, prepped for NYE.

The smokey bridge aftermath. Because I had the champagne shakes too badly to actually capture the fireworks. Happy New Year!

Swinger.

2011-11-23T02:35:00.003-06:00

Pictures courtesy of Boppa.

A little Minnesota, in a foreign land.

2011-10-04T03:38:00.005-05:00

Lindsay found this buried at the back of some cupboard at school. She's heard me gawk for years about wanting an old school pull-down map to hang on my walls, and suddenly, there it was.

Jon and I keep stopping at random, to stand in the middle of our living room and stare up at it.

"There's Lake Winnie. I didn't realise the county line cut it in half."

"Look how tiny Itasca is."

"There aren't even any lakes shown in Lakeville."

"Lake of the Woods is so big."

"I didn't even know Minnesota had counties called Swift, or Meeker, or Yellow Medicine."

I kept thinking about summer tornado warnings calling out counties. Or reading news stories about far-flung country towns like Floodwood, Baudette, Pipestone. I keep flashing back to the few times I visited Mahnomen, where my Grandma grew up.

It's lovely to have a tiny Minnesota, here in this foreign land.

A few quickies from Melbourne, all late like.

2011-10-01T05:24:00.004-05:00

And I had to add this one: the cutest outfit that ever lived. Vintage overalls, stripey shirt. I love this kid.

Summer Transfer Syndrome.

2011-10-01T02:36:00.005-05:00

While all my NHFs (Northern Hemisphere Friends) are breaking out their cosy woolens, chomping on perfectly ripe apples, and glorying in that amazing - and irreplaceable - smell that is Autumn, we antipodeans are creeping toward summer.

Henry and I were lucky enough to catch the first real beach-bankable day a few weeks ago, and although it was followed by mother nature's spring storm smackdown, we enjoyed a few hours of morning sunshine at Balmoral. With lots of sand, which crept all up into our nethers by the end.

But I always seem to find this time of year strange.

Although I'm totally stoked for the longer days, charring meat on the barbeque, and taking my skin-tone up from Casper to Light Vanilla, I am also a sucker for fall. And knowing all my NHFs (zing!) are going to football games, all cuddled up in scarves (or, in Minnow's case, a large Snuggie), I feel a tad remorseful I live in Sydney.

Oh, yes. Only a wee tad.

But this summer, in comparison to my other 4 (!) here in Sydney, we've finally got a reason to hit the beach hard. And that reason is about ye-high, and obsessed with sand. He also includes cheeks that double as flotation devices.

Beyond the surf, though, I'm excited to embrace summer without being pregnant, or having a teensie infant that requires full-time shade and regular exposure to my breasts. Selfish, I know. But, guys: the harbour? The beaches? The oddly warm hue of the blue sky? This place was made for summer.

And here is what I'll be seeking and channeling for this one:

- Starlight Cinema. Last year we hit up their Brazilian Festival, complete with fejoida, and we hope to do it again.
- Bridesmaids. Hate to jump on the pop-cul bandwagon, but I am totally feeling Kristen Wiig's easy-breezy summer fashion, bed-hair, and awesome enamel stud earrings. Have started amping up my collection courtesy of Pigeon Hole.
- Taronga Zoo. Arguably the best zoo in the world, with views to match. Baby pygmy hippos, too!
- North Sydney Farmers Markets. The best way to spend a lazy Saturday morning. One of our favourite stalls is a cheesemaker that brines a hard, parmesan-type cheese in fermented grapes.
- Melbourne mum Nicole Avery's Planning with Kids - especially her 10 Things series. I only wish she was a Sydneysider, as she regularly posts Melbourne-based, kid-friendly events.
- Central Coast. Boppa and Grandma are headed down here in a few weeks, and we're all taking a weekend away to enjoy the (hopefully) warm weather in North Arm Cove. I can't wait to spend a lazy weekend at this little house on the water.
- Esme and the Laneway. Gah. I am always stunned by this gorgeous girl, and her incredible taste in vintage fashion. And in my head, she's definitely with The Style Tyrant. I'm on the hunt for a classic summer dress, and a cute summery midi-skirt. Red lippy if the mood takes me.
- The Art of Fielding. I just finished this rather incredible read, by Chad Harbach. I can't do the back cover blurb justice, so read it, here. Mostly I loved the firmly midwestern flavour of the book. And now I've got baseball on the mind, I can't wait until this comes out.
- Swimming Lessons! Taking it back up after last year's Great Sickness Debacle, we're booked in at Little Badger Swim School for another round of Saturday Morning splashing.
- ABC Radio National. Morning and evening, my little Honda's tuned in as I whiz home. I can truly say I've learned more about this country in my 20-minute commutes, than when I worked in media. Great political coverage, lovely little featurettes about Australian culture and artists, and, given my widely known soft-spot for This American Life, I was filled with joy when I learned it replays on ABC every Sunday.
- Palm. Pearl. Manly. Coogee. Turramurra. Freshwater. Curl Curl. We've got a lengthy lists of beaches to revisit this summer, and I can't wait to start.

Now, for the weather to cooperate...

30, bridges, beaming

2011-09-29T19:02:00.008-05:00

Jon turned 30 a few weeks ago, and had the double luck of enjoying an excellently scheduled weekend of exciting events, and Sydney's first gasp of summer.

On the Saturday (his actual birthday), we enjoyed pottering around the house in the sunshine with Henry, followed by a Bunnings sausage sizzle and a lovely visit from the Barrans.

Jon even got a pair of Havianas, to replace the dark green ones he's been wearing since roughly April of 2008.

Then we took the rest of the day to indulge in one of Sydney's greatest tourist attractions, the Bridge Climb. Jon's been wanting to do this since we arrived, and we watched groups amble up and down from our old flat.

I have to say, it was worth both the exorbitant fee, and the associated exorbitant babysitter fees.

After the hour it took me to get out of that horrible jumpsuit, we sipped cocktails at the Shangri-La's fabulous cocktail bar, followed by a last-minute dinner date with the Samuels at our favourite Finger Wharf eatery, Firefly. Full, half-drunk and exhausted from all this free, babyless time, we ambled home to sell the family jewels to pay for 9 hours worth of babysitting.

Sunday, since we hadn't seen quite enough of the bridge, we took part in a lovely little 10k, and aptly named, the Bridge Run. We brought Henry in the pushchair, and Jon's old age started to show as he suffered from a very acute case of race rage ("WHY ARE PEOPLE WALKING?!? WHY ARE THEY GOING SO SLOW?!"), and started careened around old people walking to raise money for cancer.

Meanwhile, Henry was passed out in the pushchair, and I puffed to keep up with this record pace, yelling behind him: "JON! IT'S A FUN RUN! CHILL OUT!"

To be fair, it was one of my best 10k times, and a stunner of a day to be running it. We met up with Matt, then cruised back on the ferry to enjoy the rest of the sunny weekend, and welcome in Jon's new decade.

New. Improved?

2011-09-29T05:36:00.004-05:00

Hi friends.

It's been awhile since I've paid any odd attention to this here blog of ages, but after pottering around Blogger this evening, I decided I'd give my wee old forgotten slice of cyberweb a mini-makeover.

What do you think?

Some of my photos appear to have gotten jarbled in the flash, but for the most part I think it looks tres chic. Do you?

What also totally blew my mind, is if you scroll to the bottom, it keeps going and going and going until you reach the sonic boom of the internet being born, exploding in a big bang.

And me harping on about really deep and profoundly annoying collegiate gibberish.

In any case, let me know what you think.

World gone round: MN

2011-08-14T21:16:00.005-05:00

We were lucky enough to combine a visit with my family with a visit from the Wheelers, who travelled down from Toronto to hit up good ol' Lakeville, MN. Boppa and Grandma had plenty of time for Pony Boy and walks in the pushchair, while Jon and I got some time to enjoy a Twins game and some time with friends.

First stop: Theresa's Mexican Restaurant, for plenty of 'Pony Boy'.

At this point, Boppa was explaining to Henry the importance of leverage in hitting the balls with the hammer.

Oh, the things Henry talked Grandma into doing...

Fixing the car with Boppa and daddy.

My lovely goddaughter, Mollie, turned 1, and no birthday is really complete without a horse-topped DQ ice cream cake.

Cramming 3 kids into the back of a Nissan was no easy feat.

After off-roading in the 4-seater bicycle at Minnehaha, we cooled off with a bit of ice cream.

Me and my lovely goddaughter.

Look at those curls!

We and the Wheeeeelers.

And finally, a lucky ladies' night, at Erica's. How I miss my girls.

World gone round: UK

2011-08-14T20:52:00.006-05:00

To Rutland we went, for a whirlwind visit with heaps of friends and family. Henry especially liked running around the park with Granny, playing piano with Uncle Jim, and blowing bubbles with friends and the pub. We especially liked drinking Hendrick's with cucumber at Rich's incredible warehouse conversion, dancing the night away at Will + Jo's fabulous wedding, and a scrumulous roast dinner courtesy The Admiral Hornblower. How I miss proper yorkshire puds.

Henry launched himself into Granny's waiting arms at the airport terminal, and from then on they were inseperable.

Jon admires the joys of toddlers tearing about one's house.

Grandad.

Rutland water cuddling.

Market day, Oakham High Street.

Auntie Pip.

We had the pleasure of checking out Rich's amazing warehouse conversion in Newark. He and Caisa have spent around 3 years taking this derelict office building and magically making it into something straight out of Grand Designs. Above is his library, with custom-build shelving and a huge collection of antiques.

Henry was in run-around bliss. At the point this picture was taken, he was blissfully rolling around the carpet like a happy dog.

Henry somehow developed a penchant for beautiful Swedish women on this visit. Hmm.

And we all got dressed up for Jo + Will's wedding. Yay!

World gone round: Hong Kong

2011-08-14T20:41:00.005-05:00

To break up our round-the-world journey, we stopped off for a few days in Hong Kong. Both of us had always wanted to see the city, which we had heard was like a grittier, busier Singapore. Flying in, we saw huge city skyscrapers dwarfed by steep, narrow peaks. Jon, the irrepressible view geek - loved it immediately.

Henry behaves wonderfully on the plane. Shock and awe!

Good morning, Hongkers. View from our hotel room at about 5:30am, when Henry woke up.

The infamous peak.

Henry's first taste of ice cream. Clearly his father's Ben and Jerry's gene has been passed along.

World gone round: SLO

2011-08-14T20:27:00.005-05:00

Before heading back to Sydney, we stopped off for a very quick visit with Aaron and Bettina, at their incredible new digs in San Luis Obispo, California. Bordered by stunning estuaries, huge swathes of beach and wild parkland, we could immediately see why Oprah voted this America's happiest city.

Wowdelaide.

2011-07-15T00:51:00.009-05:00

Hello, blog I never, ever pay attention to, anymore.

May I entice you with the largest cow I have ever seen?

Also seen at the petting farm in Adelaide Hills, during our brisk weekend away:

Deers!

And donkey things!

And Henry and me in a barn!

Also of note: Henry got his first head wound at the Adelaide airport, while running around behind the Hertz counter, approximately 6 minutes after we got off the plane. But, as usual, he took it like a man, while Jon and I freaked the hell out and yelled at eachother. We had to head to the ER to get it glued, but dude was serene as a fat Buddhist monk.

Henry turns 1.

2011-05-25T21:04:00.007-05:00

Investigating his birthday spoils (thanks Wheelers!)

The setup.

The monkey cake.

Apparently he doesn't like getting his hands all chocolatey.

Beautiful Miles.

Lovely Sarah + Ruby.

Birthday walksies.

Plum tuckered.

Every day balloonery

2011-05-25T21:02:00.001-05:00

Jon walks home with a balloon from Blake's birthday party.

A very belated Noosa.

2011-05-14T06:51:00.007-05:00

We took our Easter north this year, to spend beachside with SteveO, Kate and Oscar, at the lovely Queensland resort town, Noosa.

A lovely morning run at Noosaville.

Toasting another holiday with the Lords.

A very classy Good Friday dinner of champagne and fish and chips.

Henry's favourite holiday attire.

Spot of fishing.

A beautiful Oscar and his lovely beachwear.

Dusk.

Five years.

2011-04-14T15:39:00.000-05:00

It went quiet, and then...

2011-03-21T20:56:00.002-05:00

What happened? A ten month old and a box of Kleenex happened.

It appears we're raising a terrier with a penchant for paper.

Solicitous.

2011-03-18T22:25:00.004-05:00

It's a trick of the eyes, really: beyond those weighty saucers, you don't really notice the continuous line of snot dripping out of his nose. And the picture doesn't show the piece of food I'm holding above my head to keep away from little sticky fingers.

These days, master Henry is pulling rank, and learning just how to work those baby blues. Whether it's cuddles, crackers or a close inspection of your lower incisors, he's somehow learned how to get exactly what he wants.

I'm pretty sure he learned it at daycare.

The quick cycle.

2011-02-18T02:56:00.007-06:00

His first skill was separating lights and darks.

Today, Henry spent much of his time rifling through piles of our dirty laundry.

Correction: he spent most of the time rolling through piles of our dirty laundry, wrapping himself in soiled clothing as if he were a delicious burrito filler.

As it was a more stationary activity than repeatedly climbing up our stairs (second favourite on his list), pulling dangerous objects off tables, ripping apart our magazines, or head-butting sharpened corners of things, I left him to it. And after that I suggested he help clean out our gutters.

Got to earn your keep, kid.

Sky colored waters.

2011-02-04T23:07:00.003-06:00

I've been thinking a lot about our life abroad, lately.

Perhaps it's cooking in the summer heat while the whole midwest gets buried under a historical snowstorm. Maybe it's the bittersweet feeling of saying goodbye to a few friends who are traveling on, or feeling like we're slightly out of step with the people around us. Or it could just be the guilt I feel as we put Henry into daycare.

In any case, I recently started getting these sharp pangs of emotion. Little twinges of hope for Henry and for us as a family, mixed in with grief about not being back in Minnesota. At home.

They usually sneak up when I'm reminded of a childhood memory, or when I come across a cultural difference, and they're often strong enough to make me stop and wonder about the future, and our lives, here.

More than anything, I've been thinking about my family's cabin, in northern Minnesota, where my brother and I spent our summers when we were kids.

You see, I long for Henry to spend his summers, there, too. Getting dirty and eaten alive by mosquitos, running around in the woods all day, from sunup to sundown. I want him to dig up worms and identify leeches. Learn to swim in icy cold lake waters, tickled by weeds.

I want him to write stories in the cabin log, teach his siblings how to catch sunfish with kernels of corn, and help the neighbour kids roast marshmallows by the bonfire.

I want him to complain about getting only one television channel which we only use for the evening news, and having no computer or mobile phone reception. I want him to stomp outside and lay in the hammock, reading beneath Birch trees for hours. I want him to sneak bubblegum ice cream cones onto our tab at the resort nearby, eyeing up the girls at the pool. I want him to walk down the road and not see a car driving past for hours.

Only since I've been a parent has it been so obvious that these modest, simple summers have played such a huge part of how my parents raised me - in who I am. That sense of exploration, of do-goodery, of empathy and midwestern nicety is deeply hardwired into my system, and I'm slowly realizing that passing that same sense on to my children is the greatest success I could have as a parent.

See, here's the thing: in this age of smartphones and digitized everything, it's harder to be simple. It's a struggle to be modest.

Most of the time - especially when out shopping for toys or considering schooling options - it's not something that comes naturally. It's something we have to seek out, and strive for. It's easier to get the more expensive stroller, the posh clothes or the expensive car, and feel good about all we're doing for our kid. What's harder will be teaching them they don't always get what they want, but there's a lot to be thankful for, anyway.

The point is this: when my parents decided to treat us to a takeaway pizza, they'd get one large Supreme. No changes, no exceptions (even though I desperately wanted Pepperoni). We could eat it, enjoy it, and be grateful, or we could go hungry.

And as a grown up, I'm grateful.

Happy Australia Day.

2011-01-26T03:27:00.003-06:00

From we who need no excuse to bathe outside in buckets.

Sort-of five years on.

2011-01-26T02:59:00.006-06:00

This week was our sort-of fifth anniversary.

Five years ago on the 20th, we signed some papers at a small office in Peckham, London, together with Jon's mum, dad, and beloved nan (who was too frail to travel to our ceremony in St. Lucia).

I wore a white wrap-around shirt, a tea-length white skirt, and I carried a small bouquet of tulips. Here is the one picture we took that day.

Isn't my hair long? Aren't we so young?

It was a quiet, modest way to begin our marriage, and although we consider our anniversary to be the date of our ceremony in St. Lucia, it was a fitting way to honour Jon's nan. She lived her life in the same quiet, modest and cheery spirit of that day.

So every year we tend to do something small but special to honour our almost-anniversary. No gifts, just something we can do to enjoy each other.

This year, we went for a meal at Cafe Sydney.

I'm proud that after five years of growing up, jobs, spending all our savings on a trip, moving across the world, and having a baby, we're still able to enjoy one another's company.

And remain total, utter dorks.

But total, utter dorks together, you know?

A birthday, some portraits, & an avocado tree.

2011-01-18T03:27:00.002-06:00

Henry also enjoyed my birthday gift.

He and Jon got me a little Canon point-and-shoot that is a bit less likely to dent his head when he pulls on it. I am very pleased, and as per below, somewhat surprised.

Jon is clearly thrilled at the series of portraits I kept taking.

And lastly, we recently discovered that the huge feral beast attacking our front door is an avocado tree. I can spot three or four of the shiny, emerald bulbs growing, already. I can't wait to try one.

It's been a very happy birthday, indeed. I'm grateful.

O, Henry.

2011-01-12T23:41:00.006-06:00

A few more pictures. Finally.

Serious.

Kids get stumped by old technology

2011-01-09T15:32:00.001-06:00

This French Canadian video is so very cute.

Some things that are interesting, that I found.

2010-12-22T23:55:00.004-06:00

Enjoy all your holiday making. And if you're bored, peruse the following:

Cheapest toy roundup, via The Onion.

Missed Connections, illustrated.

Mark doesn't understand animals.

A lovely story about human nature and the holiday spirit.

An unauthorized dramatization of Mary Kate's life. Total hilar'.

A secret family recipe.

2010-12-20T15:24:00.005-06:00

My mom makes this ham every Christmas. Together with riced potatoes and drunken karaoke, it pretty much sums up my kooky, crazy family. How I miss them, this time of year.

This recipe is from my mom, verbatim.

Blackberry brandy ham
(Ed note: serves however many people you can cram in Sally's dining room)

- Buy the biggest whole ham with a bone that you can find
- Get up very early Christmas morning and drink 3 cups of coffee
- Score the ham through the fat in about 1 inch squares
- Place a whole clove in each square
- Take pineapple slices and cover the top of the ham ( hangs good on the cloves)
- Open a bottle of merlot, pour 1/2 glass and fill the rest with water
- Drink about half of this
- Place the ham in a roaster oven
- Open a bottle of blackberry brandy and taste to make sure it's ok
- Taste again
- Pour about 1/2 of the bottle over the ham
- Put some brown sugar over
- Cook at about 325 for as long as you dam well feel like
- Yell at the kids for messing up the house
- Drink the rest of the merlot, and go take a shower
- Continue to check on the ham and baste
- Each time you do this drink another glass of the merlot/water mixture
- When the family shows up give them lots of drinks quickly (to catch up with you)
- By the time you serve the f------- ham nobody cares what it tastes like

MERRY CHRISTMAS

Christmas tree, oh Christmas Tree

2010-12-02T23:08:00.001-06:00

Six months on.

2010-11-21T22:41:00.001-06:00

Beloved.

2010-11-15T02:06:00.001-06:00

Jon's nan. How we miss her.

The good old ones.

2010-11-15T02:05:00.002-06:00

I've been sifting through old photo files. Flashback time.

C'mon Summer.

2010-10-29T01:37:00.001-05:00

A little Tequilla helps everything.

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Blue eyes.

2010-10-21T17:26:00.001-05:00

Sunday morning pancakes.

2010-10-16T17:07:00.002-05:00

Lunch break.

2010-10-07T22:18:00.002-05:00

I paused from all the unpacking & assembling, to enjoy our new goods (plates, cutlery, kitchen table) & peruse the NYT Dining section while eating lunch. It made me hungrier.

Worth all the fuss.

2010-10-07T00:33:00.001-05:00

As someone who generally loves a good Ikea trip (meatballs! Hot dogs! Throw pillows!), I was highly overwhelmed by today's epic trip: after several hours I found myself at the checkout with a full cart of random necessities (dishes, cutlery, etc), plus a full pallet of furniture, plus a screaming, hysterical bub.

I hope tonight's dinner in his fancy new chair will cheer us both up.

The Jasmine is in.

2010-10-06T04:02:00.001-05:00

The air smells something wonderful.

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Location:Waiwera St,Lavender Bay,Australia

Spring change

2010-10-06T00:33:00.001-05:00

The clouds parted for a brief moment while unpacking the trunk.

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Hoodie.

2010-09-07T05:11:00.001-05:00

In between reading books at the library, we played on the big orange bench.

Funimals.

2010-08-31T17:42:00.004-05:00

For the most part, I find baby toys to be blindingly busy and annoyingly colourful. I once almost went cross-eyed and threw up while investigating a jungle themed bouncer which had lights and played music and basically groomed your child for X-Factor.

True story.

So I found it quite interesting that I've fallen quite in love with the Lamaze range of animals.

We got the dog as a present from Kate, Robin, Pip & Jim. Henry loved it from the get-go. It's bright green and barks and jingles, so that has perhaps something to do with it. I didn't think much more of it, until I happened upon the full range at this fabulous toy store in Mosman.

It was there bought Percy the Pink Dragon (who's technical name is Dee Dee, but Jon and I renamed him to introduce Henry to diversity and encourage the acceptance of all persuasions of people and animals). And also a calamari pirate, middle-aged alien, French peacock, dowdy moose, an inchworm, and a horse called "Sir Prance-A-Lot".

Now, any toy range that can incorporate both a boring, ocean-dwelling invertebrate and an inchworm is a winner in my book.

And call it good luck, then, when I found Henry the Hippo hiding in the back of a rack a few days ago (he must be from an old range). We snapped him right up, and he went straight into my Henry's drooly gob. Which is obviously the best sort of review.

Into the snow

2010-08-06T17:47:00.004-05:00

Jon, Henry and I went to the snow this weekend, for a few days of skiing and rugging up next to the fire, with friends. We stayed in an amazing chalet, enjoyed a beautiful roast dinner for Christmas In July (albeit a day or two late), and awoke one morning to freshly fallen snow.

Upon this discovery, we shoved Henry in his bear suit, headed out for a crunchy walk in the snow, and soon realized having Sydney winters has made us absolute and complete pansies, when it comes to freezing weather.

So much for all those Minnesota winters. And here I thought being hardcore about cold weather was hardwired into my psyche.

The Microcosm

2010-07-22T00:30:00.004-05:00

A few people told me my world would get smaller, once I had a baby.

In all honesty, I filed that comment alongside the many "helpful meaning but useless tips for parenthood", which I seemed to unintentionally invite while walking around with a pregnant belly.

I mean, what on earth does that mean, anyway?

I thought maybe it meant I'd feel a little isolated. Considering the amount of play dates, lunches, coffees and mothers groups I've been on - not to mention just getting outside everyday for a brisk walk with the pram - it's a lot less isolating than I thought it would be (though it does have it's rainy day moments).

I figured I'd have trouble coping emotionally with an infant, but let's be real: Henry's a pretty good dude. He eats well, he sleeps, he poops, and he even smiles on queue. My bitching is usually the result of sleep deprivation and the guilt-inducing cross I'm forced to bear as a mother (which I'm hoping to exploit when he's an unruly teenager). He's not a bad looker, either.

But beyond the broad and sweeping, the "your world gets smaller" comment is true, except my world has shrunken literally, not figuratively: tiny hands and fingers and knuckles. Itty bitty toes on fat little legs. Bite sized earlobes.

When I go from cuddling Henry to cuddling Jon, my eyes cannot even handle the adjustment. Jon is ha-UGE. And his face? GIGANTIC.

I spend so much time admiring Henry's little face and body that I've started to view life from the microcosm that Henry sees, every day. How the couch and lamp and tables loom high above him. How the wiggly things attached to him are becoming useful; how they're slowly learning to do what he tells them to.

I see how he looks at new things, and how he understands the recurring: my face, Jon's deep voice - they're all old news to him, now. He wants the bright colours and lights. He's all party. Alllllll party. Well, until he cracks it from overstimulation and needs to be put to bed.

Beyond that, I wonder as I lay next to him reading horribly mundane (yet colorful!) books and shaking bright noisy toys at him, what kind of life we're slowly laying out for him. I wonder how he will see his childhood.

At this point, it's impossible to know what kind of dude he'll become, and what kind of parents we'll be. But I have to hope that all this attention he's getting - that someone's noticing his ever increasing neck rolls and his thick, long eyelashes, in all their minute detail - will somehow make him feel loved and wanted, and therefore a confident, competent adult.

Or it could totally backfire and he'll move to LA and star in a future season of The Hills.

Hmm. I guess we'll see.

Out of the fog

2010-07-18T22:41:00.006-05:00

Henry is 8 weeks old, and the dense fog of newborn chaos that has covered us for the past few months is lifting slowly.

He's eating and sleeping and pooping relatively regularly. He's cracking smiles and wants to wax lyrical about the world at his 2am nappy change. He's demonstrating crazy yogic back strength during tummy time, and batting like hell at colourful toys. He's, like, somehow growing up already.

Effing crazy, dudes. Eff. Ing. Cray. Zay.

(Trying to swear a little less to prepare myself for the inevitability that H will someday understand me.)

And meanwhile, I've started wearing makeup again and brushing my hair. I've gone for runs, and I've caught up on Friday Night Lights. I've written some thank you cards. I've even cooked meals that don't require defrosting.

This cataclysmic life change into parenthood - though still filled with moments of head scratching ("Should he be drooling that much?"), feisty debate ("No, burp him that way"), and continued interruption (I have gotten up twice to shoosh him while writing this post) is quietly normalizing.

There's becoming fewer surprising lifestyle adjustments to make.

In short, I'm beginning to feel less like a batshit insane crazy homeless woman stumbling around with her pants on backwards, and more like, well, myself.

Oh, Henry

2010-07-01T21:27:00.003-05:00

This was by far the funniest moment we've had in a very long time.

Jon and I were laughing so hard tears were running down our cheeks, while poor Henry sat startled on the floor, unable to move because the bear suit was so big and fluffy.

Dressing our child up in funny costumes is now our new favourite pastime.

Also fun? Including self titled candy bars in the picture.

It's bath time, it's baath tiiiime

2010-06-26T17:13:00.001-05:00

A 9 minute epic of Henry's bath time, including a Flight of the Concords cover, a barf mid-bath and demonstration of his amazing aquatic abilities.

Sorry about the fact that you're looking upside down for most of it; we got a new video camera & I don't know how to work it...

Running revival

2010-06-20T01:22:00.004-05:00

I took my first little run yesterday, despite the doctor's and everyone's advice to stay away from exercise for 6 solid weeks.

I didn't run long, or fast, or far. Just a slow, steady trot - broken up by bits of walking up hills and stairs - to relieve my tension and get some fresh air.

But what I had forgotten in the four-and-some months I have not been running, is how very good it feels to lope along the harbour, sun shining in my face and the breeze at my back. So good, in fact, that I couldn't help break out into a huge, wide grin as I ran, thinking thoughts like, "Running is so awesome! And I just had a baby! Isn't that amazing?! How great is it that I can run after having an effing baby inside me?!" And so on. Plus, I hadn't listened to my designated running playlist in a long time, so I was also revisiting some of my most favourite music.

So here's me, jogging at a very humble pace with my wobbly newborn deer legs and also wobbly remaining baby weight, smiling and bouncing along to music no one else could hear.

Yeah, I got some stares.

And even though I probably shouldn't have, and perhaps it will do me more harm than good in my long-term recovery, it brought me the first hour's alone time I've had in 4 weeks, and therefore some sanity.

I can't wait to head out again.

Father's Day.

2010-06-20T01:17:00.002-05:00

This is part of how Henry celebrated Father's Day in the US & Britain. We also took a long walk in Centennial Park and admired the sunshine, and ate ice creams topped with Magic Ice chocolate sauce which, as he will soon learn, is possibly his father's most favourite desert, ever.

He's hard to please, that one.

In a few more months, I hope that Henry will likely celebrate the Aussie Father's Day by wearing budgie smugglers & drinking VB.

Square Peg, Round Hole

2010-05-25T18:56:00.005-05:00

Everyone has been asking about my birth experience, since Jon alluded to my 23-hour labour on Facebook when he announced Henry's birth, and especially since I've been harping on about wanting a natural labour since he was conceived.

To be honest, it was a pretty traumatic experience.

I was 11 days overdue when I went in to get induced. Here in Australia, doctors generally don't let you go more than 14 days overdue, and my doctor felt like, since Henry's head was still very high in my pelvis, that we'd be more successful if we tried earlier than later. So we arrived at the hospital at 7am on Friday 21st, and the midwife who examined me said my cervix was soft and I was already about 1cm dilated, so conditions were "favourable" that the induction would work.

She put a hormone gel on my cervix to see if that would kickstart things, and left Jon and I to mill about and get things started. We took a walk outside, had a bath, walked some stairs, had another bath. When I hadn't started contracting naturally, they decided to break my waters at about 2pm.

My contractions started regularly pretty much right away after that, and from here I made regular progress until about 8:30pm, when the midwife checked and told me I was 7cm, and that in a few hours I'd be fully dilated and ready to push.

Having taken prenatal yoga, Calm Birth and Active Birth courses, I was doing my best to deal with contractions naturally at this point. Jon and I had been in and out of the shower a few times, also sitting on a big Swiss Ball. I had even taken to sitting on the toilet during contractions - which is more comfortable than you'd imagine. But the best way I found was to lay on this big soft mat they pulled out, and at every contraction I'd get on all fours or in Child's Pose, and then start doing yogic "hummingbee breaths". During yoga class, these hummingbee breaths were a lovely OM-like mantra you sang everytime you breathed out, and when our class did them, it would sound like soft wind chimes. When I did them during labour, however, I sounded like the loudest, most horribly wounded dying moose. I felt sorry that the midwives had to walk around the ward hearing that. But hey: it got me through about 6 hours of labour at this point.

So we dealt for a few more hours, and at around 11pm, when the midwife came back and I was all pumped to C'MON AND PUSH THE BABY OUT ALREADY, I was crushed to hear that I was still only 7cm, and the baby's head was still really high.

The doctor's orders were to hook me up to Syntocinin, increase the length and power of my contractions, and hopefully push the head down. He also suggested I get hooked up to an epidural, because I wouldn't likely be able to cope in bed with the contractions. At this point I had been labouring intensively for about 9 hours. Jon and I discussed this (briefly) in between contractions, and decided it was really the only option. I didn't have the energy to cope with Syntocinin on my own, nor did I have the energy to sit and wait out contractions for 6 more hours to see if my cervix would open up on its own.

So, I got an epidural. And OMG was it fucking AWESOME.

I went from moaning like a dying animal, to cracking jokes with the anesthetist (this was also helped by sucking on gas while we waited for him to do his business): "So, are you the best they could find on a Friday night? Did you come straight from the pub?" I also informed him that normally I don't moan like a dying animal, normally I'm the LIFE OF THE PARTY.

I also got to lay down for about 3 hours and sleep, and so did Jon - who totally, utterly needed it by this point.

As a semi-side note, Jon was a total rock star during this whole epic. He sat with me at every contraction, stood for, like, 4 hours with me in the shower, and literally cheered me on at every single stage of this event. And beyond that, he organised this incredibly thoughtful gift, where he had a bunch of people I love write messages to cheer me on, or even just distract me, while I went through labour, which he read out in between contractions, and which gave me the energy and courage to get through a few more (and for those of you who wrote them, if I haven't said a huge THANK YOU already, I'll say one here: I'm so honoured to have all you guys in my court, and I couldn't have gotten through this without you!).

Right, so after the AWESOME napping, the midwife checked me again, and I was 9.5 cm dilated, but a lip of my cervix was still in the way, and the baby's head was still really high. He was having a really good time in there - his heart rate was very happy, and he just kept spinning around. The midwife thought it was very strange.

It was about 3am at this point, and the doctor suggested we turn off the epidural, so I could start to feel the contractions and push the baby into position. They would then guide the baby's head around the lip of the cervix that was in the way, and I would push him out.

So they turned off the epidural - fucking BAD IDEA folks, OW - and at about 4am I started pushing. And the baby?

Got nowhere. Still spinning happily around in there.

At about 5am, my doctor showed up, and after giving me probably the worst internal exam I have ever experienced - pretty much with his fist - we did it all over again. I pushed and pushed and pushed, and he tried to guide the baby's head around the cervix and out.

He had me push for a half an hour, and then declared that the baby just wasn't going to come vaginally. It just wasn't - the head wasn't going to fit, it was posterior, and it wouldn't even come through my pelvis. I was out of options: I had to get a cesarean.

I thought I would be more heartbroken to hear those words after having been labouring for about 23 hours at that point, but honestly I was just like, "FINE, NOW TURN THE EPIDURAL BACK ON." I was just so exhausted.

Jon was so great during this part, because as we were wheeling into the OR, I sort of panicked a bit and said, "Have we tried everything? Is it okay that we're doing this?" and he knew I would be dissapointed, and he kept saying, "Look, we have tried everything! You have given this everything you've got! It's just not meant to be!"

So, yeah, then they wheeled me into the O.R., and at 6:02, I gave birth to a 4.1 kilo boy with cheeks the size of golf balls. And it suddenly made sense why he would have never fit.

Yesterday I ended up having a big hormonal cry about it, just because I went to a physio class here at the hospital, and everyone was talking about their birth experience and sharing what it was like to feel the baby's head come out, and I felt really cheated that I didn't get to experience that. Especially having totally and utterly prepared for it for 9 months, and psyched myself up about it. And also dissapointed that now, I may never be able to experience it, because it's much more difficult to have a vaginal birth after cesarean, and who knows if I'll be able to considering that second or third babies are usually bigger than first ones.

But, my brother had a really good point: He was like, look, if this had happened 150 years ago, you and Henry would both be dead, so thank god for modern medicine. Just looking at him, you can see that there's no way those cheeks were fitting through.

And god, I know I'm the most biased person to say this, but he's such a beautiful, good baby, and I just don't want to think that not having him birthed directly onto my naked chest, or letting the cord naturally stop pulsing, or being able to breastfeed seconds after birthing him, has hindered him or our relationship thus far. I guess I can't think that way.

At the end of the day, it was a case of square peg, round hole. And when you've got the most delicious looking cheeks available for nibbling all day long, how he arrived sort of becomes a bit besides the point.

He's here, he's healthy. That's what counts.

Henry

2010-05-25T18:05:00.004-05:00

Welcome to the ranks of humanity, Henry Tiago Retka Tidd.

Born 6:02, May 22nd, 2010, and weighing a whopping 4.1 kilos (9.03 lbs), and 52 cm long.

We're glad you're finally here.

Step Aside, Wives Tales

2010-05-11T19:42:00.005-05:00

I'm now two days overdue, and my mother is angry.

Relatives keep emailing me, telling me they're waiting with baited breath to hear the news. And, considering there's a very High Stakes Baby Pool going on, I can see why.

But.

If I get one more piece of advice on what I can do to get the baby out? I will eat an entire tub of Ben and Jerry's, and then lay on the floor and moan at Jon.

Well, I may do that anyway.

But the point is, I have tried. Everything. Absolutely everything. Aside from caster oil, which my midwife is vehemently against (apparently, it often causes meconium in the waters), you name it, I've done it.

So, for posterity's sake, and for everyone to go ahead and GET OFF MY BACK, I give you the full list of things I have done to induce a natural labour. I won't admit that they have failed, exactly, persay, but my doctor said it fairly well: if I keep doing them long enough, eventually they'll work, because the baby's gotta come out sometime.

- Prenatal yoga, twice a week: I've been going since 15 weeks, but since about 37 weeks, I've been spending lots of time in Downward Dog, which is supposed to help start labour.
- Raspberry Leaf tea: drinking 3 cups a day at least, since 36 weeks.
- Spicy food: I love spice, anyway, but I've been eating at least one spicy meal a day. My bowels do not thank me.
- Acupuncture: Since 37 weeks, I've been seeing an acupuncturist to help the baby drop and encourage the onset of natural labour.
- Squatting: While watching tv, or reading, I've been sitting in supported squats since about 38 weeks.
- Labour-inducing cookies: Thanks to this recipe from Monique, I have made and eaten an entire batch - like 40 - of these very delicious, and spicy ginger cookies. They have made the baby go nuts in my belly for hours, but not a single contraction. I'd make them again though. They were seriously good.
- Sex: well, kind of. Considering, at this point, for Jon, it's almost like having sex with a moose.
- Walking: I have walked hills. I have walked stairs. I have walked miles and miles and miles. I have walked with friends, and by myself. I have walked slowly and briskly. I'm tired of walking.
- Raspberry Leaf Supplements: at some point, someone told me there wasn't enough Raspberry Leaf to do any good, in tea form, and that I should switch to supplements. So now I'm taking supplements 3 times a day. And still drinking the tea. I might very well overdose.
- Nipple tweaking: Oh, you thought I wouldn't go there? I just went there. And...nothing.

At this point, Jon and I agree that the best thing to do, is give up. This not-yet-born baby clearly has exponentially outdone the Retka and Tidd genes for stubbornness, and will come when its good and ready. And as noted above, there's obviously nothing I can do - no more hills I can climb or spice I can suck down - to change that.

I believe we've just learned our first lesson in parenthood.

Week 40.

2010-05-11T02:36:00.002-05:00

Dear Bean,

2010-05-08T00:27:00.005-05:00

In a mere matter of days, fingers crossed, you'll be here. With us. Outside.

Forever changing our lives.

I've been trying to think of what to say to acknowledge this huge period of transition - when we go from a young married couple to, you know, parents - but when I start to think about it, my mind starts clattering through our future like a row of dominoes: first smiles, to crawling, to splattering banana all over our kitchen wall, to giving your jabbering dad a run for his money in the verbal department, to preschool, to high school, to college, to getting married as your greying, pot-bellied parents look on...

The impact of you - all 7 or 8 pounds of you - suddenly becomes so huge I can't fathom it.

The truth is, we have no idea what you're about to bring to our future. Bill Cosby said it wonderfully: "Having a child is surely the most beautifully irrational act that two people in love can commit."

Following some strict advice from friends who already have kids, your dad and I have been spending the last few weeks before you arrive mostly lounging around the house in our pajamas, reading books in silence, watching Friday Night Lights, cooking intricate meals or just deciding to pop out for dinner. Things we don't imagine we'll be able to do very much when you arrive.

This morning, as we transferred our sleepy bodies from bed to couch, all glassy-eyed and doughy, leaning into each other as the sun rose over the bay, your dad quietly sighed.

"We're so lucky. We've got it so good."

Now, let me explain a little more about your dad: he can be the world's most insufferably positive person.

There have been moments where I have been literally shitting myself with Salmonella-induced diarrhea in the back of a Peruvian minibus, as it rounds hairpin turns so dangerous you can still see the smoke from the trucks in front that fell down the cliffside, and your dad is smiling and rubbing my back and pointing out the incredible 360 degree views we get as we hover off the edge, and reminding me that we're lucky I didn't get Salmonella two months ago.

But you know, in that instance - in most instances, and especially this morning - he's right.

We are two people that have been blessed in so many ways, in such a variety of circumstances, and so repeatedly, that even I - the speculative realist - am continually amazed. We've had the opportunity now to create lives together in two different countries, and to spend a year traveling around the world and doing nothing much more than enjoying each other's company (well, that and contracting Salmonella). We have a huge support network of family and friends who have been cheering for us over the years, and who have spent the past nine months cheering for you. And now, we're lucky enough to bring you into the world.

At this point, we don't know whether you're a boy or a girl, whether you're a six pound squirt or a heffer-of-a-ten pounder. We don't know whether you're healthy, or if you have ten fingers or toes. We don't know whose genes have won out in the Retka Vs Tidd Spawn Off: whether you'll have huge fuzzy eyebrows or a forehead the size of a football field.

But here's what we do know: we love you, already.

You're about to enter into a home so filled with love, affection, and devotion that I kind of feel sorry for all the other kids in the world. They don't have a dad like yours, who is often so excited to be near you that he holds onto me, ear to you on my belly, as I walk around the apartment. Today he spent a little while kneeling underneath you, his whole head hidden by my big round belly, giving you directions on how to get out. And your mom, nut job that she is, spent the last week squatting in the corner so you'd be able to fit out naturally and have the best possible start at life.

I am proud to bring you into this marriage. I am proud to welcome you into a relationship that has withstood the challenges of several countries, unemployment, sickness, poverty and family tragedy. I am already proud of who you are, because I am proud of us.

You are wanted. You are loved.

Come soon.

Toes on fire.

2010-05-01T01:35:00.008-05:00

I've been seeing an acupuncturist for the past few weeks. It began as a suggestion from my midwife, to try to relieve swelling and pain in my hands and feet, and has since become another way to try and get this baby's head to drop and come out naturally.

She's a lovely South African woman who studied Chinese medicine in the UK, and who seems very concerned about the colour of my tongue, my pulse, and - of course - my chi.

I've seen her three times, and she's been sticking me in all sorts of interesting places (middle of my forehead, corners of my nostrils, thumb joints etc), but at my most recent appointment she thought she'd bring out the big guns on the particular acupuncture point that's related to the baby's positioning: the outside corners of my little toes.

She stuck them with needles - yes, it did hurt - and then she decided she wanted me to use moxa, twice a day.

Moxa - or moxabustion - is a cigar-like tube of mugwort incense that you wave around a certain acupuncture point. It's supposed to help get your circulation flowing by warming the point, and in my case, encourage the baby's head to get-a-movin'-on-down.

Only, since I can barely even reach down to tie my shoes, she provided me with a bagful of tiny stick-on moxa, and strict instructions on how Jon was supposed to help light them, let them burn, and remove them.

So, here's me, on my balcony this morning, toes on fire.

Lets hope it works.

One Last Weekend

2010-04-26T21:39:00.006-05:00

Jon has spent the past few weeks speaking in low tones to my belly button, attempting to negotiate a pact with the baby, whereby it would come any time after this weekend. I'm not across what all was promised, but I heard something vaguely about a trip to Disneyland and a curfew extension.

The reason for the series of important negotiation was because of One Last Weekend.

One Last Weekend was created a few months ago, as a plan whereby SteveO + Kate would come down from Brisbane to spend a few days with us in a cottage outside the adorable arty village of Berry, NSW, and we would enjoy all the childless-couple, grown-up things that, in a few months, we may not be able to repeat without much fuss. Things like going out to dinner, staying up late, doing whatever we wanted, when we wanted to - and for SteveO and Jon, last-minute games of golf and late-night football matches watched at the pub.

Also on the list was getting drunk on margheritas, drunk-dialing random friends and family, and dancing away the hours at a club, but unfortunately as Kate + I are both up the duff, we had to redirect those energies. To desert.

We ate so, so much good food this weekend. We dined out one night at The Posthouse, salivated over all sorts of freshly baked breads at the infamous Berry Sourdough Bakery, and then had a fabulous meal on Sunday evening at the locavore favourite, The Hungry Duck.

It was a lovely weekend, and one I know we will look back on with great fondness, as we will soon experience just how very rare it is to go out to dinner with friends at posh restaurants, sans babies.

I also look forward to heading back to Berry and Jervis Bay with kids, as it's a fantastically beautiful area of beaches, huge swathes of rolling hills, wineries and wild bushland - with tons of family fun to be had, a la The Grizwalds.

The nursery

2010-04-20T21:08:00.008-05:00

The nursery is about 90% finished, though there wasn't that much space to begin with, let alone "finish".

Our flat, if you haven't been, is comprised of 2 lovely bedrooms (the master bedroom of which has a lovely walk in closet), an open plan lounge and kitchen, a bathroom (sans bath, to my detriment), and a fabulous balcony overlooking the bridge & opera house. You can refer to this set of pictures, for a tour.

The flat is also fully furnished, which means all the furniture belongs to our landlord, and can't be sold or gotten rid of. This is tricky when you need to figure out how to create a nursery from a bedroom which already contains a double bed.

We love our flat and its location, so although we've considered finding something bigger (and with a bath and a refrigerator that's larger than dorm room size), we can't seem to find anything comparable, and so have resolved to stay put until we're desperate for more space.

So, as you can see, figuring out where/how to create a nursery was tricky.

We opted, logically, to put the nursery in the second bedroom, though not without meticulously careful consideration. Jon got out the measuring tape and we moved that bed at every angle, to figure out the best way things could work. Then we scoured baby stores for furniture.

After much much MUCH searching, one huge argument involving an Ebay bid gone astray, and multiple sets of tears (granted, they were mine, and I'm going to play the pregnancy hormones card) we settled on a Love-n-Care cot, which is one of the smaller, narrower cots that comes with a drawer included. And the price was reasonable, too.

The chair - which is becoming a feeding chair - also belongs to our landlord, but slots in nicely next to the cot. I'm sure I'll be spending loads of time, there.

Since that left us with approximately 3 feet of space left in the room, we had to figure out how and where to store all of the baby's varied sundries. Hello, Ikea.

We opted for a dirt cheap dresser (Anabodna), and were initially hoping to attach a changing table (or mat) to the top. Our measurements were off, however, and nothing quite fit. So I purchased an over-the-cot changing table from Gumtree for $30, which ended up being waaaay too heavy and bulky to ever prove useful (you had to lift it on & off the cot every time you used it; we ended up giving it away to Vinnies).

So, back to Ikea, where we purchased a $16 blow-up changing mat and cover. Much easier.

As for early days, our stroller (a Valco Matrix, FYI) came with a very snuggly basinette, so we've stuck that in the cot at the moment, with the changing mat next to it in the cot, as many people say the cot is just too big for a newborn to stay warm in.

I think, were I to do it all over again, I might swap our dresser for this very reasonably priced cabinet from Ikea, which has an attachment for a changing table that you can add on.

That said, with our relative budget and some serious space constraints, I think we've done pretty well.

All that's missing is another piece of art to hang in that big blank space on the wall above the cot. Your suggestions welcome!

Four.

2010-04-14T01:20:00.038-05:00

It's hard to believe Jon and I have been married four years, now, and together for seven. It's also hard to believe that in a few short weeks, our marriage will turn into a full-fledged family.

This man has stood by me on several continents, through rain, shine, and everything in between. He will soon be a father to my children, and someday we will hopefully grow old, grey, and cranky together. So I thought it fitting, before our twosome turns into a threesome, to give a brief glance back at our coupledom over the years...

Clockwise from top left: Singapore, Singapore, Thailand 2003, Barcelona 2004.

A London winter, 2004
Alberobello, Italy, 2005

Il Bordello (our favourite mafia-owned London restaurant), first anniversary, 2007

Tiddgiving 2007, London

AmsterDAMN, 2007

Salvador, Brazil, 2008.

San Pedro de Atacama, Chile, 2008.

Hats at the bottom of the Colca Canyon, Peru, 2008.

Bondi to Coogee walk, Sydney, Christmas 2008.

House Boat, October 2009. Photo: Erica Brooks.

Date nite, Sydney, March 2010.

Happy anniversary, bunny...

Women for women

2010-04-12T23:21:00.008-05:00

I like Oprah, but I tend to stay off her bandwagon.

I think it has to do with the whole Tom-Cruise-couch-jumping episode. I feel like she should have said, "GET OFF THE COUCH, TOM", and ended it there. After all: dude, those couches are white. The footprints probably never came off.

So that's why, when I sat down to eat my lunch this afternoon and flipped on the television, I was surprised to find myself totally engrossed in this show about micro-financing loans for women in war torn countries.

After Jon and I read White Man's Burden a few years ago while traveling, we both felt that non-profits and aid organizations can actually do a lot of harm to the countries they are trying to help. For me, this especially rings true as I spent so many years as an evangelical Christian, going on mission trips to "spread the word". I've known a few people who have taken advantage of others' generosity to be "missionaries" in places like western Europe, where they live off donations so they can spend their days in coffee shops, teaching English to all the many downtrodden Europeans...who generally have socialized healthcare, free university systems, and heaps of government programs to lean on in hard times...

Nice work if you can get it.

But ANYWAY, what Jon and I do like the idea of - him especially, being an accountant - was the notion of micro-financing loans. If you're unfamiliar, these are tiny loans given to people to start or upkeep small businesses in developing countries. They tend to work because they're given in cultures where accountability is high: if you defaulted on a loan, everyone in the village would know, and most people consider their pride more important.

What Oprah was saying, beyond that, though, was that micro-financing loans work even better when given to women: while the men would sometimes spend the money buying crap to show off to his neighbours, women almost always use their loans to better the lives of their children - on getting educated, having clean drinking water, etc. And although micro-loans are generally well paid-off, women have an even better rate of paying off their loans than men - at around 95%.

Even more, a micro-loan empowers a women to take control of her life, make decisions, and empower her family members - often in cultures where women aren't educated or allowed to work.

Here I am, watching Oprah, crying my eyes out at these amazing stories of women across the world creating their own businesses, out-earning their husbands, and giving their children the best shot at a better life, and I thought, "Holy cats. THIS is what's important. THIS is what I want to teach my children."

Also, "THIS is why people love Oprah so much."

So I signed up to sponsor a women at Women for Women International. $27 a month gives a woman an education and job skills, as well as direct aid for her business. Also, as part of the program, my "sister" and I will write letters to each other, learning about one another's lives and sharing in her progress.

I hope to learn a lot from her, whomever she is, and pass that on to this bub, rolling around in my tummy. And honestly, it feels good to be inspired.

I would have couch-jumped if the weight of my pregnant belly wouldn't have caused a dent in the floor.

Four Day Weekender: Clontarf

2010-04-02T01:25:00.002-05:00

In a bid to keep my large, pregnant arse active and enjoy the blissful blue skies of a Friday bank holiday, Jon and I wandered out to the Sydney Harbour National Park, which overlooks the heads where the harbour meets the ocean.

First, we stopped to spy on peoples' wobbly bits at Shell Cove, Sydney's only inner-harbour nudist beach. We were disappointed there weren't any racks on display, so we continued adventuring and walked the trails around the park, stopping first for an ice cream cone (Jon), and later for lunch at a rocky beach.

Afterwards, we headed home for a two hour nap (me), and then we sparked up the barbecue for dinner.

Jon was saying it's the equivalent of the middle of October in the northern hemisphere, here now, and though I miss the feeling of a crisp fall football game (partly because we're addicted to Friday Night Lights), I can't say I'm not enjoying the feeling of hitting the beach in autumn.

Tuesday, via Hipstamatic

2010-03-30T21:45:00.004-05:00

We're taking a seven week prenatal course at the hospital, and this Tuesday, because we arrived via the Megan Clock (ie: approximately 30 minutes early), I had some spare time to fool around with my new Hipstamatic iPhone app.

My arty face.

Jon's arty face.

The wide, round globe, as pictured from above.

Lift mirror, apple juice.

Hipstamatic tip via Dooce.

Jon, cooking gnocchi

2010-03-27T03:12:00.006-05:00

Gnocchi is a well-established tradition in our relationship.

Ever since spending time in Uruguay & Argentina, where everyone eats it on the last day of the month because, traditionally, they couldn't afford to eat anything else (the day before payday), we tend to eat gnocchi when we're out of ideas. Or time. Or energy. Or money.

So we tend to eat gnocchi quite often, is what I'm saying.

Of course, Jon could eat gnocchi every day and be a very happy man indeed, but I'm a bit pickier. And we all know how much I've whined about being unable to eat certain things that I love during pregnancy.

That's why, when I stumbled upon this book, "Eating for Two" by Kathleen Gandy, and flipped open the page entitled "Gnocchi with blue cheese and walnut crumble", I ran towards the till with gleeful abandon.

Gnocchi with blue cheese?! The same kind of delicious blue cheese that pairs with the same kind of lovely red wine to which I haven't had the pleasure of digesting since last winter with the Wheelers (and by winter, I mean Sydney's, so, like, July)?

But, as I'm getting huge and grumpy and tired in the evenings, my excitement to cook dinner from of this wonderful cookbook has been waning, and since part of Jon's new years resolution is to learn how to cook, and to cook more, I thought this would be a good chance for him to make his gnocchi and eat it too.

It's quite rich, but because the sauce sort of dries up, which makes it less rich than it would be if it were really saucy. Great with a huge salad and, if you're not pregnant, a large glass of cabernet (if your pregnant, just sip your partner's when he's not looking).

Gnocchi with blue cheese and walnut crumble
from Kathleen Gandy's 'Eating for Two'
Serves 2 (although we always have leftovers)

Gandy reminds her blue-cheese loving readers that cooked blue cheese is fine for consumption during pregnancy, as it kills any lurking listeria. Plus, the walnuts add a needed protein punch.

250g gnocchi
40g butter
1 golden shallot, finely chopped
150ml double cream
120g soft blue cheese
freshly ground pepper
2 tbsp grated parmesan
30g coarse breadcrumbles from day-old bread
2 tsp thyme, finely chopped
50g walnuts, finely chopped
Bitter leaf salad (such as radicchio and witlof) to serve

Preheat oven to 200 C (390 F)

Grease a round 9-10 inch (23 cm) gratin dish. Cook the gnocchi in a large saucepan of boiling salted water until it floats, then
remove with a slotted spoon and place in the gratin dish. Do not rinse.

Melt 20g butter in a small saucepan over medium heat and cook the shallot for 5 minutes or until soft. Add the cream and simmer until slightly thickened. Crumble in the blue cheese and stir to combine, then season to taste with pepper. Spoon over the gnocchi.

Mix together the parmesan, breadcrumbs, thyme and walnuts and scatter evenly over the cheese mixture. Dot with the remaining butter and bake for 35 mins or until golden, crisp and bubbling.

Serve immediately with a big salad.

As sidenote, I'd really recommend a lot of other recipes from Gandy's book - they're all very quirky, interesting and unusual. And when you're sick of eating the same things for 7 months - as I've been - they're a bright shining, delicious beacon of light.

Singapore, again

2010-02-11T05:41:00.005-06:00

These are incredibly, utterly belated, but after speaking to my cousin Julie about blogging (hi, Julie!), I got perusing through old entries, I realized I had an edit of pictures from our December jaunt to Singapore just sitting around, begging to be posted.

This was our first trip back to Singapore, after falling in lurve there in 2003 (which is highly documented via the Jan - April 2003 episodes of this blog), and it was surreal and romantic to go back married and expecting our first child.

We wandered around NTU, our old university, hit up Orchard Road and the Kinokuniya bookstore where we spent hours and hours, and wandered through Boat Quay and Little India.

It was only two days, but it was great fun, and I've very glad Bean got to go, too (albeit in utero).

"Te Bing", which I drank lots of last time, but couldn't bear the taste of this time around, as it's half iced tea, half condensed milk. This particular cup went straight in the bin. Don't tell my dad.

This is taken inside the award-winning, grass-covered Media Arts building, which I would have enjoyed had I been about five years younger when I studied at NTU.

The ever-popular Southeast Asian mini-bus, with the air-con cranked up to Frostbite Level.

Hawker-centre Indian food, which I probably shouldn't have eaten (but did, and enjoyed).

Something we never got around to doing the first time around: [virgin] Singapore Slings at the Long Bar, Raffles Hotel.

On my 3 pound past...

2010-02-04T04:08:00.007-06:00

I'm about 27 weeks pregnant, now - give or take a few days - and in the past week a quiet, creeping worry has snuck up on me. It has taken the form of terrible dreams, dull throbbing headaches, and long stints of being unnecessarily moody at my dear husband.

You see, my mother gave birth to me on her 28th week of pregnancy.

I was about 3 pounds, couldn't suck, with skin like a pink see-through jelly-fish. They put tubes in me to feed me, water me. They laid me in an incubator to keep me warm, and dressed me in doll clothes because nothing else fit. I spent months in the hospital, and they only let me leave because my mother was a nurse with cardiology training who would know what to do when I forgot to breathe again and my heart stopped.

She likes to joke that we couldn't go anywhere or have any fun as a family after I was born, because I always had to be plugged in. And growing up, after I threw a tantrum, displayed my superior talent for being stubborn, or continued to defy doctors who told her I'd be disabled, she'd ask me the same question: did I live because I was a fighter? Or was I a fighter because I lived?

Growing up, I had great pride in the story of my "miracle" birth. No one else I knew had pictures of their dad walking around with them plopped on his shoulder like a wee sack of flour. My brother also likes to remind me that no one else was bald until they were two, or got pinworms in elementary school. Twice.

But ANYWAY, as I face this big mystery that spreads out before me - a baby inside me, growing, getting ready to come out and face the world - I'm seeing my own birth from my mother's eyes.

And it's terrifying.

I read this story in the New York Times last year on parents of NICU babies and PTSD, oddly just as I became pregnant, and suddenly realised what it must have been like for my parents: seeing their tiny baby hooked up to tubes and wires, unable to do anything but hope for the best. My mother, unable to breastfeed or comfort me, my dad pacing the halls with worry, jingling the change in his pocket.

The thing is, there's nothing either of them could have done better, or differently; there was no point of preparation she missed, or piece of information she should have known. It was totally and utterly a random, chance occurrence - my birth, and even perhaps my survival.

I don't think my parents necessarily suffered from PTSD after my birth, but I often wonder if this is because my mother's medical training served as their biggest coping mechanism, and source of empowerment: even if they couldn't control if and how I thrived, at least my mother knew when I had a temperature, or was getting another ear infection.

And other than being able to wow acquaintances with the amazing THREE POUNDER story, I never felt like the circumstances of my birth defined me, or my relationship with my parents, which, considering the situation now, is rather remarkable.

I watched The Business of Being Born this evening, and aside from all the crying I did at the many births shown (the tears just FLEW out of my eyes), I was simply overwhelmed by the desire to give this baby the best entrance into this world as possible.

If I've learned anything from this pregnancy, though - from the sheer impossibility of getting pregnant (a la Channel 4's The Great Sperm Race), to being able to grow eyes! And ears! And even bones inside your own body, to a woman's ability to stretch and contract and allow this tiny person out - it's that absolutely nothing is certain.

I can plan our cots and pushchairs, I can line our drawers with diapers and tiny, adorable clothes, but in the end, I can't determine how the birth of this baby will happen and who our child will be.

I can only take a deep breath, and continue down this road, hoping that someday our children will have their own acquaintance-wowing stories to tell (pinworm, baldness, and jellyfish skin excepting).

For those of my family members not on Facebook

2010-01-19T20:20:00.003-06:00

I give you: my ever-expanding belly. See how it grows...

Week 19:

Week 22:

Week 23:

Week 24:

In, like, forever.

2010-01-14T15:47:00.002-06:00

Not sure if I have any blog readers anymore, as I haven't posted in, like, forever.

Normally during one of these dry spells, I'd say something about promising to post something marvelous soon, and how guilty I feel, etc etc.

But as I've had this blog longer than I've been an adult, longer even than I've been with my husband - essentially, it's one of my longest relationships - we all know I'll be back soon, with bells on.

Meanwhile, backstage

2009-11-24T01:24:00.003-06:00

I was stopped short by this gorgeous photo exhibition, called “Please step quietly, everyone can hear you,” by Magnum photographer Trent Parke, while out for a jog past the Opera House on my lunch break today.

It's a lovely Alice-in-Wonderland view of the Opera House: tiny doors, strange statues, otherwordly lighting. Very inspiring.

A few [more] words on food.

2009-11-20T00:32:00.005-06:00

Forget about developing a spare tire, barfing in the bathroom at work, or having gas worse than a certain lactose intolerant dog we know, the absolute hardest thing about being pregnant so far, is being unable to eat lots of the food I love.

See, the Australian government is quite strict in terms of what they advise pregnant women to ingest. No booze, of course. Limit the coffee. No food from delis. No salad bars. No soft cheeses or smoked meats, and careful about the red meats. No ham (I can hear Bettina gasping from Colorado). No pre-made sandwiches. No sushi, and keep to only those types of fish that are pre-approved – and make sure they’re so well cooked they taste like cardboard. No soft serve ice cream, and no milky drinks. Careful with the yoghurt. No bean sprouts. Step away from any adorable little lunch places, with their lovely pastas and pies and sweet little soups. Just forget about eating out for lunch. In fact, just forget about eating out, in general.

So, it’s basically plain, souless homemade chicken for me. Except make SURE TO GOD that it’s fully cooked, and no stuffing and don’t eat leftovers, whether cold or reheated. And if served with vegetables, make sure they're so clean you could perform an appendectomy with them.

It’s like my worst diet nightmare come true.

Sure, I’m sacrificing for my unborn child and keeping safe and blah-de-blah, but MAN ALIVE do I just want a slice of smoked salmon. Or a spicy tuna roll lathered in soy & wasabi. Or a meatball sandwich from this incredible deli run by embittered Italian ladies, near work.

I know it’s petty and immature and tragically selfish, and everyone I complain to reminds me that I only have about five months left of this, but let’s be real, here: five months is a long time to go without sushi. It's a long time to survive without sliced lunch meats. And when I ask myself every single day, "What can I have for lunch?", the time stretches out before me in blurry grey increments of tinny canned soups and hot, rubbery Lean Cuisines.

There are only very few palatable flavors of ready meals, and I've used up my yearly allowance of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. It IS a long time.

[Of course, the appendix to this story is that even though I bemoan and complain ad nauseum, I've been sticking to that damn pregnancy safe-list like white on rice. I'm not stupid. Just picky.]

So, I guess when I'm joyfully basking in the gift of birthing new life, and enjoying just how adorable The Bean's little Jon-like eyebrows are, I will also be celebrating the gift of good food. Like a rainbow flag declaring our support for diversity, so too our kitchen will be: roquefort, parma, and bean sprouts - our baby will grow up in a soft-cheese, deli-meat, sushi-friendly home.

Movember.

2009-11-11T15:59:00.004-06:00

Meet Jon's "mo".

Here in Australia, in lieu of Thanksgiving or Bonfire Night, they celebrate the great month of Movember, whereby men of all walks of life come together to grow hideous mustaches to raise money and awareness for mens' health issues.

Jon's particular mo is inspired by Australian cricketing icon Merv Hughes, and as you can see, even though it's only in its early stages, it's growing very well.

He's had several "compliments" from workmates and friends already, including "that's the most horrific mo I've ever seen."

If you'd like to see Jon's mo continue to grow, and support mens' health issues, please visit his page and make a donation, here.

Mego is...Prego

2009-10-28T04:14:00.003-05:00

That's right. You heard me.

Meet the Tiddlett 2010 (aka The Bean, El Frijolita, The Satchel, The Budgie I am Smuggling, etc), at 12 weeks in the womb.

In the very bad picture of the ultrasound you see above (our scanner's on the fritz), he or she is curled at the bottom of the photo, in profile. You can see his or her little head, a little body and teeny legs, and then a wee hand (with little fingers) waving at the camera about right where the nose is. In the real picture you can ACTUALLY see the fingers.

The bean has grown a lot in the past 12 weeks - busy sprouting limbs and a spinal cord and graduating from an embryo to fetus - altogether blowing my mind with his or her aptitude for development. There are even eyes and a heart that goes goosh-goosh-goosh at an alarming tempo.

Jon and I are, of course, elated. And surprised, as although this was planned, The Bean came about very early in the process. Which is the best sort of surprise.

We've been taking things slowly and quietly, which was difficult, considering I spent a lot of time over the past weeks yakking up my lunch in a bush outside the office. But thankfully all that bush-yakking has passed, and we're now ready to share.

So, this is something big. Something huge.

And sharing it here - on this blog which I've written since before I even knew Jon or went to Singapore, or got married or travelled the world, or even imagined I'd ever start a family - it somehow makes this milestone even more real, indeed.

One Sunday

2009-09-24T02:05:00.005-05:00

Various Whatnots, 1.0

2009-09-24T01:47:00.001-05:00

Highly terrifying, if you ask me.

Crazy red ass bird on our balcony

2009-09-10T00:26:00.003-05:00

This was more of a "do you think he'll bite me if I get up close?" picture than a "quick before he moves!" shot. Am pretty sure dude would have set up camp on that chair, if he wasn't shortly scared off by a Magpie the size of Jon's head (including hair). Yeah, I know. Serious bird drama going on.

Elsie and Tom, Luna Park

2009-09-01T17:46:00.004-05:00

Look at those pigtails! Lucy said it took her about an hour to get them in Elsie's hair. So worth it.

Standing Room Only

2009-08-27T18:22:00.004-05:00

Game night, karaoke bar

2009-08-22T21:59:00.009-05:00

Last night we had the pleasure of joining Tom and Lucy for the Bledisloe Cup - an infamous rugby game between rivals Australia and New Zealand. I didn't mind the actual playing of the rugby, so much as I wanted to see New Zealand perform the Haka live, in person (for those of you who are unfamiliar, the Haka is a Maori warrior chant that the New Zealand rugby team traditionally performs in front of their opponents, to wig them out before the game). As I'm no massive rugby fan, I decided to cheer for New Zealand based on their Haka chant. That and because they had lots of very fit men swanning about in tight black shirts and short shorts.

Afterwards, we followed the hoards back into the center of Sydney, where Lucy and I talked the bartender into giving us free cocktails, followed by a late night Chinese takeaway, and a few hours singing astoundingly baaaad karaoke in our own private suite, at an awesome karaoke bar in Chinatown (tambourines included!).

We finally left Tom and Lucy to sell their family jewels to pay the babysitter, and ambled home, where I fell into bed and Jon fell asleep on the couch watching England play cricket.

Turning Japanese I really think so.

2009-08-13T20:06:00.005-05:00

After a manic work day, Jon and I decided to visit this adorable Japanese cafe we'd been eyeing for the past few months, near Neutral Bay. Everytime we drive past this place, there's a queue out the door, so I was very excited to nom nom nom lots of things on the menu.

Very minimal, quaint and of the 'school cafeteria' aesthetic, it was great to just sit there, listening to the owners chat in a language I couldn't understand, as traffic zipped by down the busy road. I wanted to try a bunch of new dishes, but Jon being Jon The Non Fish Eater, I had to settle with some fresh edamame, miso, gyoza, and a little roll stuffed full of bright orange mouth-popping caviar. Jon stuck with his regular staple, chicken katsu, and I couldn't persuade him to even sip some miso. Dude is missing OUT.

Midwinter.

2009-08-10T00:09:00.005-05:00

Our midwinter days here have not exactly been arduous.

At worst, they are rainy and windy, with a chill sneaking in from underneath our balcony door. Nothing that a pair of wool socks, a blanket on the couch, and a good movie can’t solve.

At their best, they are like the picture above: bright, sunny weekend mornings on the balcony, our hands cupped around warm mugs of coffee. Sometimes we’re silent, our noses stuffed in books, or me ticking through my recipe box picking out meals for the week; sometimes we’re chatty, sitting back admiring our view, or watching Magpies fight with Rainbow Larakeets in the trees overhead.

We’re totally going to become ornithology-enthusiasts in our old age.

I recently saw The Castle, which, for those of you who don’t know, is an Aussie movie classic about a rather bogan family whose house and lifestyle are threatened due to a nearby Airport expansion. They fight the courts and appeal to stop development. Anyway, the funniest part about the movie – other than the 90s hair and the plethora of stereotypes – is the main protagonist, Darryl Kerrigan, who meets every challenge with an enthusiastic speech about the excellence of his home and family; how a man’s home is his castle, how he has the brightest, smartest children, the most beautiful, talented wife, and despite planes overhead and lead in the ground, he wouldn’t want it any other way.

So those mornings, when we sit on the balcony and Jon waxes lyrical once again about how great we have it – this great city, this great life, this great view – I nod and wholeheartedly agree, and realise that aside from the mullet and mustache, my husband is truly Darryl Kerrigan incarnate.

Jon on Platform 4

2009-08-06T18:55:00.004-05:00

Jon and I have been walking to the train station together in the morning, which is significant because most of the time we've been married, neither of us have had the same schedule.

When we first moved in together, I used to get up early to catch the train, then a bus to a rural London suburb, while Jon got to sleep in. Then, for a few years, Jon used to wake up at 5:45am and drive at least an hour to work across the centre of London. And finally, when we moved to Rutland in 2007 for a few months before we went travelling, he woke at 5 and drive 2 hours on freezing, wet highways to work, while I slept in until 9:15 – only to roll out of bed and wander downstairs in my pajamas, so I could work from home all day.

Jon has certainly paid his commuting dues.

Thankfully now, since our commutes are both about 15-minutes on the train, we spend each morning together: ignoring the alarm clock, fighting for sink space, consulting one another on outfits, then slowly plodding up the massive hill that sits between home and the station. Jon offers carry my large bag of gym stuff, and in a new tradition, he comments on the two cars with Queensland license plates that are always parked side-by-side (“Look! Those cars are from Queensland!”).

We kiss and separate after the turn-styles, he hands back my bag, and then we wait on different platforms. And sometimes, if we time it just right and there aren’t any trains, we can turn and wave at each other, smile and make faces, before being whisked away to our busy days.

Thursday morning, Waiwera Street.

2009-08-05T22:11:00.003-05:00

When boarding.

2009-08-05T01:16:00.005-05:00

I got an iPhone recently, after many months of patient, beatific waiting. Ask Jon. Whenever he brought up an iPhone, or when my cousin told me he got an iPhone and named it iHop, or I learned about another of the seventy million cool apps, a virtuous expression would fall upon me, a halo would spring up over my head, and I would launch into fervent commentary about material modesty.

“The love of money is the root of all kinds of evil”. Or “One cannot take things with when one dies.” Or the old chesnut, “It is not good to have everything one wants.”

Then I’d lock myself in the bathroom and sing CAUSEWEARELIVINGINAMATERIALWORLDANDIAMAMATERIALGIRL into my hairbrush.

So, basically, what I’m saying is, Jon and I made an agreement: if he got a new job, I would get an iPhone. This agreement was signed in vampire blood, which as you know, never expires and causes teenage girls to faint in euphoria. This was a contract arguably as important as our very wedding vows: “In sickness in health, in richness and in poor, but if you get a job, I get an iPhone because I’ve waited very patiently.”

Therefore, on Saturday morning we woke up and marched straight to the store, where a road was literally being built over our heads, and above the heavy drilling that was causing the windows to shake, the store employee hemmed and hawed and refused to give one of their own employees an iPhone contract plan. Oh, sure, I said. No, that’s okay, no problem but DID YOU NOT SEE THE VAMPIRE BLOOD?

And then I was forced to wait almost 48 whole hours more, before Jon had a word with the customer service people and, like my knight in shining armour, strode home and plopped the little black box on my lap.

If that is not the crux of a romance novel, I don’t know what is.

I have been so excited to have a handy camera again – especially with all the cool apps – and I hope it will keep me shooting more regularly. I am also thankful you can turn of the sound and take sneaky snaps at the train station.

A few minutes before the above shot was taken, at one of Sydney's busiest downtown train stations, a man walked by with a green bird perched on his shoulder - like a pirate gypsy. I was too slow and in too much awe to take a picture of him. Plus, he probably would have slain me with a stink eye.

Anyway, bless you, my little iHop. I hope we have a long and happy companionship.

Friday loves

2009-07-31T01:01:00.006-05:00

1. This incredible room was featured in this NYT article. Like a ship's galley on acid.

2. Born to Run, by Christopher McDougall. Yes, yes, I've harped on about this to everyone I know, but mark my words: this book will someday become the bible of runners, everywhere. You should read it.

3. The Sydney Boat Show, which we are hoping to attend this weekend. I will be the one wearing an ill-fitting, super ironic captain's hat.

4. Babies! They're everywhere these days, and my warmest congratulations goes out to new parents Megan + Jeremy Gibson, Ann + Luke Daugherty, and Elisha + Tim Deyer.

5. The new ninemsn video channel. Hate to be all YAY! WORK! but it's actually a pretty stunning design and mechanic.

6. Aussie band The Waifs, whose 2-disc live album my workmate gave me. It has been steadily shuffling on my iTunes all afternoon. Like a quirkier Patty Griffin ensemble.

7. Jon, who will henceforth be known on this blog as Boss Man.

8. Am fully intending to make this this weekend: Zucchini & Red Pepper Enchiladas with 2 Salsas.

9. It's spring! The japenese tree-thingy near my house, with the big pink flowers, is blooming, it's been sunny for, like, three straight weeks, and spring dresses are in the shops. I'm started to covet some very pretty ones, and need to devise a spring shopping wishlist. This adorable party dress will most certainly be on it.

Insert one hundred exclamation points here

2009-07-28T19:20:00.007-05:00

Jon got a job, which means we can stay!

For those of you who don't know, Jon's job sponsored us to be in Australia, which was all well and fine until they decided to merge with another company and restructure everything and make everyone apply for a new job.

We have been through this whole 'will we, won't we stay' thing for, like, 6 months before his sponsorship came through, so we've been taking this development with a pile of salt and being all zen about whether or not we'll have to pack everything up and move.

No big deal. Whatever, we said.

But when he called this morning and said that not only did he get a job, but he got a promotion, a 93-pound weight suddenly lifted off my shoulders, grew wings, and flew away. This means we can stay. We don't have to pack things up. We don't have to move again. We can stay and settle a little more, apply for the US visa from here, and enjoy Sydney at our leisure.

This is also accompanied by this weekend's events, whereby the railroad company decided to cut down all the trees behind our balcony that were blocking our views (and risking the power cables and train line nearby, yada yada), so now we have perfect sight of the bridge and opera house. We had joked for months that if only they would cut down the trees, we'd have million dollar views. And, well, they did.

This must be lucky week, for the Tidds. We should buy a lottery ticket.

We are very blessed people, indeed.

Pick me, pick me

2009-07-27T17:31:00.002-05:00

In a bid of shameless self promotion, I ask you, dear readers, to go here and vote on my book!

If you don't know what I'm talking about, you can get the skinny, here.

Pretty please?

Minnow, at 27

2009-07-06T04:05:00.003-05:00

Okay, okay.

This is obviously not Minnow at 27. Actually, the debate last summer was that this was, in fact, not Minnow at all, but some random child inserted into her family's summer holiday photo album.

Because, if you've ever seen Minnow's Michael Jackson family home video, you would know she was the most adorable child that ever lived. All big doe eyes and eyelashes nine feet long, wiggling around someone's living room; dragging the Thriller record around to beg her relatives to put it on. Again.

She just had to dance!

This is my hands-down favourite Minnow story, ever.

Anyway, I've known Minnow 9 years now, and somewhere there is a picture floating around from our freshman year, where we're sitting in a dorm room with Natalie and I've got a terrible haircut and a big eyebrow ring, and Minnow looks just as cute, comfortable and sure of herself as she does today.

Excuse my camera's terrible night vision, but this is one of favourite pictures of Minnow, taken when we visited her and Charlie last summer, in Chicago. It makes me smile, because somehow I imagine her giggling to herself about some quiet, silly joke.

That today is Minnow's birthday is important to me for so many reasons. First and foremost, because Minnow has been perhaps the most constant friend I have ever had - a steady voice and comforting presence, despite lots of miles and months apart. Just as she so quietly, steadily succeeds and grows in her life, she also remains an source of inspiration for me, and many others.

In Baltimore, she and Charlie had a poster on their wall from an old World War II British government campaign. "Keep calm and carry on," this poster said.

For me, this is Minnow at her very root: calmly achieving great things without big fanfare. She writes, she draws, she paints, she knits, she sews, she cooks, she runs, and she always sends thank you notes. She also dances to Michael Jackson.

But you knew that already.

This birthday is also important, as Minnow is the kind of friend who never forgets my birthday; who spoils me with love and packages full of beautiful things. If you're lucky enough to ever receive one of her packages, you know what I mean.

As a less-beautiful-but-hopefully-just-as-thoughtful package is winding its way across the world to her doorstep, I use this moment, this post, to help celebrate Minnow.

A tremendous woman, a noble friend.

A great dancer, too.

A word on our car.

2009-06-29T02:28:00.005-05:00

Feast your eyes up this, our mode of transportation: the Daewoo Matiz.

(Pictured here in such heavenly light, parked in front of the Audrey Wilkinson winery in the Hunter Valley, with Kate. Picture by SteveO!)

Also known as “The Beast”, “Massive Attack”, and “The Clown Car”.

This car is a borrowed gift from Jon’s mum and her twin sister, Kate, whose Victorian farm we’ve visited a few times. Kate has used this car to drive about 70 miles to work and home every single day for years, down windy country roads. She filled it to the brim, and whizzed it right through deep, dirty puddles, squat little wombats, and piles of goat turds. It was modest, and served her without fail. She was so enamored with her little Matiz, in fact, that she mourned losing it. And when she finally decided to give it to us, she drove a parting lap so her grade school students could wave goodbye.

Allowing us to use in while we’re living in Australia was a kind and noble gesture, and I’m very grateful. It is such a generous act, in fact, that I don’t even mind my life flashing before my eyes whenever I get inside.

It’s a manual, without power steering, and our knees bump the engine. But it DOES have four doors and the two front windows are powered (well, whenever you can wedge your hand in between the stick shift and the seats to press the button, that is). We’re fairly certain some country animal is living and/or died inside, as despite a thorough interior clean, removal of the seat covers and multiple air fresheners, we can’t get rid of the death smell.

(As an aside, it reminds me exactly of two smells on this earth: 1) when a squirrel nested in my Ford Taurus while it sat on my parent’s driveway during my Freshman year of college. It smelled like a combination of acorns and wet dog, and there were maple leaves EVERYWHERE. Also, 2) when I left my backpack in Jon’s Singaporean dorm room while we travelled around Thailand, and an iguana crawled in, latched on, and died a very stiff death. Despite washing and washing that bloody thing, the smell never came out. I finally threw it out – and it was a nice backpack!)

Anyway, Jon and I have an ongoing argument about me learning to drive this car. It usually goes something like this:

Jon: I drive all the time. I’m sick of driving. You should learn.

Me: my last memories of learning to drive a manual car include blowing the fuse on Derrick Kunes’ Jetta’s electrical system, resetting the dashboard and all its radio stations while facing oncoming traffic. It did not go well, and I’d rather not repeat that experience in a foreign country, on the opposite side of the road, with a clown car.

Jon: You’ll be fine. You already practiced once and didn’t die.

Me: Last year, I had to pretend I was sixteen again and learn how to drive in the UK and I FAILED my test once before passing – though I’ve been driving TEN WHOLE YEARS - and it was possibly one of the most embarrassing experiences of my life. I’ve done my time. Not doing it again.

Jon: You can learn in a parking lot somewhere!

Me: I will someday give birth to your children. This is the ultimate trump card, and I am playing it.

Truth be told, I feel awesome that we’ve had the same tank of petrol in our car for the past month – and despite lots of weekend runabouts, we’ve still got a quarter of a tank. It’s also remarkable that we can zoom around car parks and pull up in spaces usually reserved for motorcycles. So there’s that.

But me, negotiating traffic in Sydney’s hills via The Beast? Hmm.

I’m not as brave as the wombat-thudding, puddle-braving Kate.

Because it's Friday, and my plans to leave work early have been thwarted.

2009-06-19T01:34:00.004-05:00

1. If you're reading this stateside and haven't discovered Triple J Radio, you need to. Commercial free, awesome public radio that supports great music.

2. This is painful, and yet kind of good: Ellen Page + Harmar Superstar + Some other girl doing "Don't Stop Believin'." (This one's for you, Minnow!)

3. Dooce had her baby. What do you think of the name Marlo?

4. I'm ashamed I looked through most of this gallery. I've got a serious celebrity crush. Don't tell my husband.

5. Speaking of hunks, this is great article about Rafa. He is, interestingly, highly ambidextrious.

6. We spent the recent long weekend tasting wine in the Hunter Valley with SteveO & Kate. I have yet to do a proper post with pictures, but my favourite moment was meeting up with some other friends from Sydney, sitting on the veranda here and tasting wine while watching the sun set over the vines. It was a fantastic weekend of grown-up, cultured fun.

7. We're thinking of throwing a Christmas in July party, as it's wintery here and we're craving the mulled wine and roast veg we never had this year. Thoughts?

When a little motivation is needed

2009-06-16T00:02:00.002-05:00

The Running Superfans. I love these guys.

What it looks like from the other side

2009-05-29T02:22:00.005-05:00

I had the weirdest dream a couple days ago, involving some of my Interwebs BFFs.

In my dream, and I was doing my regular blog roll, and I visited a very abandoned Pioneer Woman. In my dream, she hadn’t posted anything in months, and the effect was very much like clambering through the cobwebs of an abandoned house. Old, retro pictures and forgotten stories lay lifeless on the page, frozen in time. Dear readers, it hurt my feelings. I felt neglected, as if my friend had simply deserted me, and the only remnants of our friendship was a couple old casserole recipes and a bad picture of her flower garden.

This is important for two reasons:

1. It illustrates how I’m sure my many thousands of faithful readers (hi, Mom!) feel when I don’t post for a month. All you’ve been left with is smooshed Lamingtons and silly idioms about unemployment. For that, my appologies.

2. Secondly – and I’m reaching here – it exemplifies my transition back into the working world. My plans of pottery projects, 3-tiered cakes, and reading to the elderly have been shelved while I struggle to balance an entire day at work followed by any productive activity, whatsoever. I have had to relearn how to both work full time AND work out, clean my house, and make dinner, and it’s certainly a shocking adjustment. The clothes strewn all over my house in random piles can certainly attest.

The strangest moment in the past few weeks in my new job (which has been great, thanks!), was witnessing the tearful goodbye of a well-loved designer here, who was leaving with her partner to travel the world for awhile. I pinched myself at the surreality of it all: having been in her exact same position, leaving a job and team I loved to engage in a year of total and utter, exciting uncertainty. Through her tears she couldn’t even articulate a response to her boss’ kind remarks, and although I don’t think I ever actually visibly produced tears when I left my old job, I certainly cried my bliming heart out in the weeks running up to the actual departure. What an emotional shitstorm THAT was.

Watching this poor girl face a countless stream of goodbyes was a reality check in my changed circumstances. In total honesty, I was overcome with joy that I was not in her shoes; that I was not packing up my life, saying farewells and riddled with worry over flights and foreign muggings. I was practically dizzy with relief. Of course, our situation here is still chock-full of ambiguity, but I’m so grateful to have a flat and a job, making plans with friends and getting involved in the community. Most importantly, I’m thankful that I can go home tonight and spend the weekend wearing a dent into our couch.

So, I have become an agoraphobe. Now all I need are some cats.

Or maybe it’s Post Traumatic Travel Disorder, of which the most common symptom is getting cold sweats when touching a backpack.

Either way, until we move back to Minnesota, start living with my parents (hi, Dad!), and get season Gopher Hockey tickets, I’m technically still travelling. But thank the sweet, sweet lord it no longer involves a Lonely Planet and cheap, roach-ridden hostels. I’m way over that.

Bring on next week’s trip to the Hunter Valley with SteveO & Kate, where we’ll drive up, stay overnight, drink our weights worth at Aussie vineyards, and drive home the next day, to continue working on that couch dent.

Bring on my late twenties, a steady paycheck, and a place to call home.

Dear Unemployment,

2009-05-04T22:32:00.004-05:00

I write to you with mixed emotions. On the one hand, I'm fairly glad to be rid of you and your bored, cash-strapped face. On the other, we had an okay ride.

I'm finding it difficult to conclude, emotionally.

There was the sunshine and the outdoor pool, and the wearing of my pajamas until whenever o'clock in the afternoon. But there was also the abject tedium of having my empty diary stretch out, for days upon weeks - and filling all that time with things that are free, fulfilling, and don't include Oprah.

I realized a couple days ago that I have not been in an office setting, full-time, since November of 2007 (including a 3.5 month stint of working solely from home, and our ten month trip). This is shocking. I'm pretty sure I will forget how things in offices are done, and find myself in embarrassing, unexplainable situations. Like accidentally changing into my PJs between important afternoon meetings.

I know you wouldn't mind, Unemployment, but then you're a lazy bugger. Jammies are all you know.

Anyway, it will be a big adjustment for me. For example, when will I be able to hang up my laundry? Or slowly caramelize onions in the oven? How will I be able to track the comings and goings of our neighbours, and my beloved Saxaphone Man?

Unemployment, you've taught me many things. I will make a numbered list, because you've taught me that making numbered lists for my days kind of helps with the boredom:

1) Making numbered lists for my days kind of helps with the boredom.
2) Never pay full price for anything, ever again (excluding perishable food items).
3) I don't need it. Even if it is half price, cute, and very desirable. I can get by without it.
4) Getting fresh air and exercise fixes most things.
5) It's a wonder that anyone gets anything done at home while working an office job.
6) After a while, with all the bird-watching, pool-going, and outdoor-spending, the days started to fly by.
7) I will be very, very good at retirement.
8) Nothing is ever certain, anymore. Getting used to this has rocked my very foundations, but has also brought me new delight in the world.
9) Work is dignity. For me, it's not about bringing home the bling or dedicating my life to saving baby seals. It is simply about using my talents and skills, building relationships, and contributing a bit more to this world.

Truth be told, Unemployment, I'd be a lot less prudent and wise without you. I'd still be worrying a lot about things I can't control, and spending money on stupid crap I can't afford. I'd still be unable to swim a full length of freestyle.

So good riddance, Unemployment.

And thanks.

Make Yourself A Lamington

2009-04-26T22:46:00.007-05:00

Last Saturday was ANZAC day, a holiday meant to honour the Aussie & Kiwi soldiers who fought in Gallipoli during the first world war. There were services all over the country, lots of special television programming, and of course, everyone was selling ANZAC biscuits.

I clipped a recipe for ANZAC biscuits out of the weekend newspaper, and was planning on making them to post here, until I saw the recipe for lamingtons posted next to it.

Hold up: chocolate AND coconut on a light, fluffy sponge cake? GAME. ON.

You can read about lamingtons here, but they are an absolute staple of Aussie culture. They're the Girl Scout cookie of Australia.

I saw Maggie Beer make a variation strawberry jelly (jello for you US readers) lamington on her infamous show, "The Cook & The Chef", and she said the trickiest part was not smooshing the coconut coating, once it's been dipped in the chocolate. She was right: even though I used a skewer to dip the sponge and then coat it, my fingers inevitably bumped into the wet coating, and most of my lamingtons came out bruised and wounded.

Bruised, wounded, and delicious.

Lamingtons
(from Spectrum Magazine, Sydney Morning Herald)

Makes 25

4 eggs
1/2 c caster sugar
1 c plain flour
1 tbsp unsalted butter, melted
350g good quality dark choc (this is the US-equivalent of a large bar)
3/4 c cream
4 c dessicated coconut
5 tbsp strawberry jam (optional)

Preheat oven to 180C/350F and lightly grease a 20cm square cake tin. Whisk the eggs & sugar on a high speed for about 10 minutes, until very light and fluffy. In 2 batches, sift the flour over the egg mixture and, using a metal spoon, gently fold to combine. Finally, fold in the butter. Pour into the prepared cake tin and bake for 20 minutes or until a skewer comes out clean. Remove from oven and leave in the tin for a further 10 minutes before turning out onto a wire rack to cool completely.

While the cake is cooling, place the chocolate & cream in a heatproof bowl and set over a saucepan of simmering water. Stir until the chocolate is melted and the mixture is combined and smooth, then set aside. Scatter the coconut in a tray for dipping.

Cut the cake into 25 4cm square pieces. Using a long skewer, dip each square into the chocolate and shake off the excess, then roll in the coconut, again shaking off the excess. Place on a wire rack until the chocolate sets.

Optional: before coating the cake in chocolate & coconut, slice each piece in half and spread with a layer of strawberry jam.

Saturday Morning

2009-04-24T20:47:00.003-05:00

Here at the Tidd residence, we love our weekend mornings. Sleep in, brekkie at the cafe, grab a paper and then bask in the sun like cats while reading.

We sometimes enjoy spicing weekends up, with a few other entertaining activities.

In this picture, Jon is doing his best "Shirtless Hungover Man Pretending to Be McDonalds Drive Thru Employee At Our Window" impression.

"Do you want, like, fries with that?" All said in a hoarse, groaning whisper.

And currently, Jon is playing Hide And Seeking Respite from Bad Hangover, which is a game that requires him to lay on the bathroom floor, in the dark, and think back to why he had that last shot of Jaeger for Sian's birthday, last night.

That's not his favourite choice of recreation, nor is it mine to spectate, but at least we have all of Sunday to get back to the essence of the weekending morning: all that vigorous cat-napping.

With This Bling, I Thee Wed.

2009-04-23T21:19:00.003-05:00

If you hadn't heard, Jon threw my wedding ring off a cliff, last summer.

Wait. That's not entirely fair: he threw BOTH our wedding rings off a cliff, last summer.

We were rock climbing in Colorado Springs with my brother and his friends, one of whom suggested we put our rings on a carabiner, to keep them safe. So she tossed us a carabiner, we slipped our rings on it, clipped it, and Jon tossed it back. Then time stopped and turned slow motion as we saw it bounce from her hand and tumble 50 feet straight down a precipice.

We froze. We heard a sickening thud-thud-scraaaape as the carabiner landed and slid into the scrubby bush, below.

My brother's friend offered to absail down and look for it, and when he cried out, "I FOUND IT! THEY LOOK OKAY! ALL THE DIAMONDS ARE STILL THERE!" We all cheered, and got back to our climb.

It wasn't until a few days later, while walking in downtown Colorado Springs, that I noticed the diamonds on my ring were wiggling. Like loose teeth.

I promptly went into a jewelry store to investigate.

If you haven't seen my original ring, it's like this: four bands that hold eight little diamonds in a tension setting. I lost one diamond already, and had it replaced with the admonition from Jon that I "should never clean the house with my ring on, again!" I took this to mean that Jon would rather clean, but that idea soon faded when I told Jon to do the vacuuming, and he didn't know where the vacuum lived.

Anyway, in this jewelry store, the lady told me all of the diamonds were loose and the ring itself was badly warped and bent. Sure, she said, she could fix it, but it was going to take a couple weeks and would never be the same, again. She said, because it was a tension setting, the diamonds would always be at risk for falling off.

We were leaving Colorado Springs, so I declined her offer, but she wouldn't let me leave the store until I promised I'd stop wearing it.

Fast forward to Sydney. It's now been, oh, five months since I've been able to wear my wedding ring. I've happily replaced it with a number of faux blingity rings, all of which gave me a rash and would fly off my hand when I gestured (I've got thin fingers and I'm a hand talker, so this happened a lot).

We have discussed whether to get my ring fixed, which we knew would cost more than the ring is actually worth. This discussion ended when I spent two hours waxing poetic about rings with the head jeweler of Mussons, who chided me for wasting money on what he called, "a party piece," and that if I wanted a ring to leave behind to my grandchildren, then I should do it properly and invest in good materials and craftsmanship. He said he could fix the ring, but it he would do it his way (ie, PROPERLY), and it would therefore lose the tension setting. He then showed me my ring under his microscope, and I was HORRIFIED.

The thing was a heap of junk, with the cloudy diamonds hanging on thanks to wonky slabs of solder.

Mr. Musson then dragged me into the showroom to show me all the lovely options I could choose from - starting at only about $2,000! - and I admired them for awhile before wisely taking my leave.

Of course, at this point in our recession-dodging life, investing thousands in a ring is not really smart or possible. But then, neither is getting rashes on my finger, or going ringless. Or at least this is what I told Jon when I dragged him into the airport Pandora jewelry store a few weeks ago, on our way to SteveO & Kate's wedding.

I also followed-up with: "But if I don't have a ring on, all the single blokes will hit on me!"

That was the clincher.

We settled on the option you see, above. Nice enough to be rash-free, but cheap enough we can still buy groceries. A happy medium.

We're still wondering about salvaging my old ring's diamonds for a new ring, someday. Right now, I don't mind. I'm happy with the new ring, and the old diamonds are probably the product of enslaved children, anyway.

At least one thing is certain: I will NOT be rock climbing with this one.

Added to "Things I'm Proud Of"

2009-04-20T00:36:00.008-05:00

Jon's anniversary present arrived today, and I must say I ripped open that FedEx cardboard box like it was Christmas morning.

I've spent months on this book, arduously combing through my archives, compiling emails and blog posts, meticulously laying it out in an arguably tasteful fashion, and I couldn't wait to see how it turned out.

Not bad, eh?

I used self-publishing company Blurb Books, and after a quick flip through, I'm moderately pleased with the end product.

I opted for an image-wrap on the cover, instead of a dust jacket, and I kind of wish I would have gone the jacket route, if only to make the cover really pop. The cover printing is meh. Also, Blurb provides a free, super WAY easy layout software, but at the end of 142 pages, I got quite sick of the same templates, and you couldn't tweak them to your exact liking.

Still, I'm really proud of putting an entire external hard drive full of travel pictures to some remarkable use, and it brought many-a-forgotten image, and memory, to the forefront.

I hope it will serve as due reminder of all that's happened over the past year. So when we're grayed and cranky, paying off a mortgage with our teenage kids throwing tantrums and staying out past curfew, we can sit down, crack it open, and remember just how wild and adventurous we used to be.

Shadow by the Window

2009-04-19T18:53:00.003-05:00

Two things about this image, really:

1. Our flat faces northeast, which, in the southern hemisphere, means that we get the bulk of the direct morning & midday sun. It's nice. We have our coffee on the balcony and get sunburned foreheads before Jon leaves for work. Come evening, though, our house should technically be cast into darkness, but thanks to a bank full of high-rise residential buildings across the bay from us, we get sun pretty much all day. See, their posh floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the evening sun right into our kitchen, making a secondary sunset with soft, lovely light. The amazing shadow pictured - its rays all broken and scattered for unknown reasons - comes to rest on our kitchen cupboards for about ten minutes every evening, and it's getting earlier by the day with the coming of winter.

2. When we moved into our first flat in Sydney, although it came furnished, it lacked a number of necessary items. A mildew-free duvet, for example. A working television, is another. And, of course, suitable drinking glasses. Us being us (and by that I mean 'in our newly hatched, wildly-rampant frugality phase'), we stopped drinking directly from the tap and improvised. I bought everything in jars, and then washed them out, peeled off the labels, and voilà! Drinking glasses! For awhile, I didn't throw anything glass away, but as our shelves slowly filled with the pre-loved vessels of olives, artichokes, tomato sauce and pickles, I had to start editing my collection down. When we moved into our second flat, I was pleased to see the only glasses provided were squat little tumblers that would be of little use for the amount of water that goes down my gullet each day. So I brought along my glasses: now, a quaint little assortment of jars in different shapes & sizes.

My proudest discovery, in the Great Quest for Drinking Jars (which I can't believe I'm about to give away!), is that Bertolli Pasta Sauce jars, in the 400ml size, make the world's best drinking glass. They're sturdy Mason jars, the label comes off easily when soaked in hot soapy water, and they are absolutely adorable when filled with lemonade and ice. Plus, Bertolli Pasta Sauce, itself, is one of the most delicious, natural store-bought sauces out there. No emulsifiers, no additives, and about six ingredients, all of which I can pronounce. It's win/win.

Our shelves, as you can see from the picture, are starting to fill up, but I still can't throw away a good Bertolli jar.

Feel It In The Hips

2009-04-15T18:05:00.005-05:00

I took this image for the run club that Jon and I joined a few months ago.

Every week, we meet for a short jog across the bridge and around the Opera House, and finish by heading to the pub for a pint or two. It's the best sort of club: no one is too serious, and everyone enjoys a good chat. It's more social than competitive, and we've really appreciated running with other people. Especially since we signed up for the Sydney Half Marathon, in May.

It's the longest distance I've run in a long time, and stepping back into training mode has been a tingly reminder of my underwear-chaffing, mile-upon-mile marathon days: running clothes forever hanging to dry around the house, everything scheduled around mileage days, and the constant, nagging fear of never training hard enough, going far enough.

According to my body, it's also been a rough readjustment, because as we hit six in our ten miler on Monday, my old friend Bursitis of the Hip decided to come calling, and I had to stop and walk. Thankfully, I was right near Harry's Pies, which consoled me substantially. Tiger Pie forever!

Originally, this injury happened directly after the London Marathon, when I thought it a good idea to take a month off and then hop straight back into 12 miles. Then, I was getting so much pain I had trouble walking, and so I saw a physical therapist, who assigned me rehab exercises and gave me ultrasound therapy (when she first told me I was getting ultrasound, I was so excited I told workmates I was going to SEE INSIDE MY BODY. In reality, she just set up a big box attached to nodes on my hip, which clicked to stimulate something-or-other inside). She told me I had to rest rest rest, and so ended my Period of Peak Physical Fitness.

The thing about bursitis is, though it's painful and annoying, it never goes away.

You just whack some ice on it, pop some ibuprofen, and run through it. And if it really, REALLY hurts, you beg your GP for a stick of cortizone. It's inflamed by hills, by street pavement running, and by doing too much mileage, all of which are unfortunately necessary in completing next month's Sydney's half marathon.

So, I guess I'll be running with a wonky hip for awhile, and you can bet my training routes will continue to take me past Harry's Pies.

To Jon, Three Years On

2009-04-14T17:24:00.003-05:00

(image by Michael Saab)

Today is our third wedding anniversary, and my, we've had quite a year. Geographically, vocationally, emotionally, financially, and lots of other 'llys' which escape my early morning mind. We've weathered a lot this year, and we've come through stronger.

I'm proud of us.

So, this year, given the profundity of it all, I thought I'd give Jon something a little different.

Happy anniversary, bunny. We've come a long way.

From The Archive: Daguerreotype, Samoa

2009-04-13T20:24:00.006-05:00

During our time in Samoa, I took hundreds of pictures in the water. It was the excitement of having an underwater camera: I just couldn't NOT try to capture that one boring, sand-coloured fish swimming, like, eight feet away, because I had an under water camera! To take pictures under water! Of the under water critters! Snap snap snap snap!

Of course, the file folder now containing all my Samoa pictures became bloated with out of focus pictures of sand and waves. Blurry, splashy, and smudgy are good adjectives for most of them. As are all the names for various shades of turquoise. Aquamarine, for example.

Still, as I was sifting through them, this image stuck out. Like it was taken by some 19th century explorer's aide, after their ship ran aground and they had to seek help of a local island. Unsure of the natives, the aide made this daguerreotype as the lifeboat was rowing ashore, as his one last living testament before the Samoan people charmed him straight to death.

This is a much better story than what actually happened: I was too busy being excited about my underwater camera that I forgot to point AND shoot.