Inbuilt obsolescence

While toddlerhood presents with many varied challenges, I have taken solace in the fact that we have reached a point in time where many things have become obsolete. Bittersweet as it is, I have moved on to the next stage of motherhood with the removal of many baby relics.

I think it is safe to say that around three years into this gig, I can regain some real estate in my house.

My top five space savers:

1. The pram - I no longer need the biceps of Xena to wrestle the German engineered contraption into the boot. I have just realised that the short one has two working legs - and it's about time she used them.
2. The nappy sack- one of those baby accessories that you felt that you just couldn't live without. The one that you pained over when selecting, making sure it color coordinated with the nursery…only to find that a Huggies box was far more practical, stuff the colour scheme.
3. The change table – that raised mobile platform dedicated to all that is waste product.
4. The nappy bag - the one accessory that I was really glad to see the back of...regaining the handbag option was so liberating. I could be a big girl again! An over the shoulder accessory that contained grown up things, as opposed to nappies, wipes, nursing pads, nappy cream etc etc.
5. The toddler bed - progression from bassinette to cot to toddler bed was mostly predicated by necessity and polite medical advice. A head injury, an ambulance trip and 6 hours of neuro obs tend to prompt some serious re-thinking in terms of sleeping arrangements. Who would have thought that toddlers don't bounce?

To be honest, it was hard at first...those early pangs of 'my baby has grown up'. But then came the overwhelming feelings of freedom, space, maneuverability, independence...

I do have to keep myself in check though - I have successfully managed to un-encumber myself so much now, that I run the risk of throwing the baby out with the bath water...so to speak.

The joys of toddler travel

Over the last couple of years we have become what I would consider veteran toddler travellers, as opposed to the virginal variety when I first started this blog.  There is not a lot that we can’t handle now, well so we liked to think…then our favourite Australian airline, made famous by juvenile choirs hanging off cliff faces and traipsing through waves, threw us a curve ball.

In a moment of questionable clarity, we booked seats on the red eye out of Brisbane. Ordinarily flights to our nation’s capital take just over an hour.  With a just-after-5am scheduled departure, we would be in Canberra close to 8am (allowing for daylight saving) and we would have the whole day ahead of us for touring the sights. Whilst it would mean a 3am wake up call, we thought it would be worth it. That was our first mistake…

Things were going along swimmingly.  

Then…across the loud speaker came the announcement passengers always fear… ‘Would passenger O’Connor please come to the service desk adjacent to Gate 16, passenger O’Connor?’

Daddy O’Connor headed over with the ever-trailing toddler. He returned wearing a wry smile, yet appeared somewhat ill at ease. ‘They just had to change our seats.’ He declares confidently. What he wouldn’t tell me was why.

  

With a prompt departure on the cards and the promise of breakfast, things were looking up.  Well…as much as things can when airline food is on the menu. The captain reassured us that we were on time and he would have us disembarking in Canberra at 8am. Something to look forward to.

Toddlers on a grounded plane...
more terrifying than the cinematic great, Snakes on a plane

Sadly mistaken…

Along with the announcement of our descent, the captain informed us of a heavy fog in Canberra (something I have since discovered is not an unusual occurrence).  Several planes have had difficulty landing and we were in a holding pattern, circling the nation’s capital. Twenty minutes later, the captain reassured us that the weather had cleared enough for 50 000kg of metal to come hurtling down towards the runway. A sharp descent ensues, followed by a severe case of whiplash as the plane is wrenched back up into a vertical position, reminiscent of Maverick and Goose.

Apparently not. All the while the short one snored on.

OK. I got the distinct impression that we were now going a lot higher than if we were just continuing our circling idea. Nope, I think we have gone back to altitude and we seemed to be suspiciously heading in a straight line as opposed to banking right…Sure enough our friendly captain returned with more good news…Sydney anyone? Apparently the weather is fine there.

It is about now that my beloved informed me of the reason why we were moved.  It was not because of the captain’s dislike for small children after all.  It appeared that one of the instruments on the plane was malfunctioning.  It was about now that I turned to Paul with eyes like saucers and said in a particularly measured way, ‘Two words that should never be placed together in a sentence are plane and malfunctioning.’

He went on to say that he didn’t want to worry me. Well, why in God’s name had he chosen this particular point in time to worry me instead?  That same particular point in time when the bloke up the front in the hat and stripes had just told us that he couldn't get this hunk of metal safely on the ground because he couldn't see anything; that we had just about run out of fuel after circling Canberra for over 40 minutes; and that our type of aircraft did not have a vital instrument that allowed pilots to land planes safely in fog…

Right, so let me get this clear…not only did we have malfunctioning instruments, we also had missing instruments. We were cruising at around 700km per hour, we were stuck up at a great altitude…and we were about to run out of fuel.

Look, I am no pilot, granted. But you would think that IF we were scheduled to arrive in Canberra in the early hours of an autumn morning, in a valley notorious for heavy fog, one would allocate a plane that had all the bits to do it. Clearly not. It is far better customer service to cancel a flight. Re-direct passengers to another state.  Disembark all passengers – including the dead weight of a sleeping three year old. Not offer any customer service or assistance. Make you walk the entire length of Sydney airport, carrying aforementioned dead weight. Make you queue for a further 15 minutes while your boarding passes are re-issued. Then tell you that your new aircraft (with working bits) is scheduled to leave on time at 11am. 

Our new friendly and one hopes competent captain informs us that as soon as the aircraft is re-fuelled we’ll be on our way. Fifty minutes later we are still sitting on the tarmac while we await the re-fuelling crew…

For God’s sake, give me the bloody keys and I’ll take it down to the servo myself!

Jemima and Daddy catching up on email

Five ways to diffuse the terrible twos!

Firstly, can I say that who ever coined the phrase 'terrible twos' obviously had one that was so terrible that it never made it to three.  After sailing through the twos with minimal backwash, I was rudely awakened by something nearing a head injury by the time three loomed.

Freud would say the short one is in the anal stage; Piaget would consider her preoperational; Erikson would declare a conflict between autonomy versus shame and doubt. Me…well, I would just say she is confused.

The confusion stage appears to be emanating from a lack of clarity around who is actually in charge.  Clearly in my confused state of mind, I am under the misunderstanding that I am in charge. And just as clearly, she is under another misunderstanding that by the time one reaches the ripe old age of three that she is.

I have had to consider some strategies lately to try and survive this battle of wits.

Here are the top 5 toddler diffusers:

1.     Choices – limited to two. Just make sure that you are happy with your short one doing either choice.  Gives them a sense of control, while you are in fact retaining it all.  Gotta love that gig!

2.     Appeal to their ego – being that this age is egocentric you can’t go wrong here.

3.     Humour – someone once said that the precursor of the mirror is the mother’s face so…mirror their behaviour. Make them see how ridiculous they look thrashing around on the ground, screaming ‘I hate you, you’re mean.’ Perhaps not a recommended strategy in the middle of the small goods section in Coles, unless of course you have no shame.

4.     Try reasoning with a literal being – this is always cause for a good laugh and instant diffusion. Explaining potential consequences for one’s actions to a child who is developmentally unable to infer usually results in further confusion; but an entertaining conversation nonetheless.

5.     And if all else fails - become your own mother…hear yourself saying those expressions you swore you would never say…

a.    Just wait until your father gets home  or

b.    Do that again and I’ll (insert own preferred consequence)

The short one said to me just the other day, ‘Mummy, my eyes keep leaking.’ And she’s right. We have probably had our fair share of crying lately attributed to holiday season tiredness, frustration, excitement, disappointment and anticipation.

So the next time you find your face springing a leak, grab that repair kit and give them a big hug.

Happy New Year xx

Complacency is the curse of the underprepared

Oscar Wilde once famously declared that work is the curse of the drinking class. How true that is during the festive season!  A time when overindulgence is par for the course and work interferes in having a good time.

For the first time in my working career, I will be working over Christmas, only pausing for breath on the public holidays. So with this restriction in mind, I thought it a good idea to have 15 people over for a Christmas dinner party, have all the Christmas shopping done by the first week in December, meet incredibly ridiculous timelines at work, and launch the family into another jet-setting holiday.

Yes, that is right.  Twelve months ago, as this blog will attest, we embarked on our European adventure with a travelling toddler in tow.  I once famously declared that I was an experienced single traveller, yet an apprentice baby traveller.  You would have thought that I would have learnt my lesson. This time round though, I am feeling far more confident, perhaps too much so…or is it just a case of I haven’t had time to think about it!

In less than two weeks, our little family will be getting on another plane and heading off into the sunset.  And…I have planned nothing!

Things are a little different for this trip though.  The short one is over that magic age of two years, entitling her to her own seat and ensuring more revenue for strike-plagued QANTAS; we are only flying for 2 ½ hours as opposed to 22 ½ hours; we won’t be encountering language difficulties; we will be using the same currency; and we have built in babysitters at the other end.

So…I think I deserve to be somewhat complacent…now where did I put that child?

Toddlers and Christmas parties

Travelling with toddlers has got nothing on travelling with toddlers to Christmas parties.

Up until today I wasn’t aware that one required a certain level of athleticism to attend the annual office Christmas party.  This year's party had to have made it into the top ten of the worst Christmas Parties of all time.

It started off so promising…

All kitted out in our finery, the short one wearing her self-proclaimed ‘pretty dress’, we all headed into the city to ‘Australia’s best steak restaurant’.  Commanding spectacular views along the waterfront, we were treated to a private function room, great wine, good company and scintillating conversation.

Following a scrumptious entrée, and eagerly awaiting the main, someone decided it was a good idea to take the short one from the confines of her high chair for a ‘cuggle'.  As a result of this spontaneous act, this person has been scarred for life and will probably either never eat steak again or at the very least never have children.

I have never, ever, ever, seen anything quite like it in my life.  If I was a proctologist or a gastroenterologist it may have constituted a normal day in the office, but in a fine restaurant, it beggars belief.

I suppose it was reminiscent of what may happen after one enjoys, so to speak, the after effects of an enema. I am not really sure, and to be honest, I don’t care to be that familiar with the symptomatology. But being somewhat responsible for whatever deems itself necessary to emit itself from the short one’s entrails, I sadly had the job of dealing with it.

Not unlike Europe, baby change facilities are hard to come by, so desperate times called for desperate measures.  I had no other choice but to put together a make shift change space on the floor of the ladies toilets. Not that I am an expert on all things digestive, but I did question the sheer volume of matter however, and how it was at all possible from such a small person.

Her ‘pretty dress’ was relegated to the ‘oh my God, you can never wear that again in your lifetime dress', as I frantically tore things out of the baby bag looking for a change of clothes.  At this point in time, the short one reached in and said, ‘Hat, mummy,’ as if that made all the difference.  

Standing there in nothing else but a nappy and a skewiff hat, smiling up at me, I just had to smile back through welling tears of desperation. Just then the piped music became obvious and the short one started dancing…I just shook my head and wondered at the complete obliviousness.

There was nothing else for it, we just had to go home.  After having consumed one glass of wine, I insisted on catching a taxi with the short one.  Daddy would follow in our car  after dinner.

A short while later, the short one and I arrived home safely with my steak in a take away container, to realise a small problem, well, two small problems actually:

1. I have the parking ticket in my handbag and
2. Daddy has the house keys…

It is at this point, forlornly standing in the front yard, in the pitch dark, drizzling rain, with an unhappy baby, that I think to myself...a certain level of athleticism is always a handy commodity…nothing is insurmountable…

Except... for our joint.

It’s OK. I am a mother and with that supposedly comes a range of mother talents. Immediately after giving birth we instantly become more resourceful and multiskilled; more capable and adept; in fact not unlike Bear Gryls.

After trying all possible cavities, I remember something that will allow us entry…it may also afford me a DIY hysterectomy, but it had to be done.

Finally, success enabled us entry and the short one into a bath, a change of clothes and bed, and me…

...well, I enjoyed a very nice medium-rare rib fillet, served with a red wine jus and a glass of sauvignon blanc!

Toddlers and Jetlag

I equate the feeling of jetlag to being held under a pool of water for extended periods of time, while still being able to breath; everything is just a little bit blurry and things, like your brain for instance, are slow to respond, to anything...now, what was I talking about?

Oh yes, the properties of resistance under water make things just that little bit harder. It probably takes a normal adult about 3-4 days to start to feel human again.  If you have a toddler in the same house as you, also suffering from jetlag, you would not be considered normal… and I would estimate that you will never recover, until perhaps one or more of you relocates.

Water has long been used as a preferred tool of torture.  Lack of sleep, also.  Put them together and you are in some cruel parallel universe.  It’s one thing struggling with your own time clock issues, but when you have to deal with another’s it makes it twice as hard – especially when those out of sync clocks are out of sync.

What was just a few days ago a charming and endearing quality has now turned into sheer torment.  If I hear the short one announce from her cot ‘guten morgen’ at some ungodly hour again, I think I will scream.  Oh, hang on, I already have, repeatedly.  The neighbours are probably wondering what in God’s name is going on in our place at 2 o’clock in the morning.  I can assure them, it’s not a fun time being had by all!

My rudimentary research into this topic revealed the encouraging words that toddlers and babies acclimatise to changes in time zones a lot better than adults and a lot quicker.  In fact, one piece of priceless advice went so far as to say that they get over it very quickly, taking only a day, usually. Clearly these researchers haven’t met our torturous toddler.

They also suggest that flying in a westerly direction is much easier to cope with.  Oh, OK, next time I’ll just ask the airline pilot if he wouldn’t mind altering his flight path somewhat. I mean, only slightly, like turning around and flying the other way altogether!

Another ever-helpful site suggested changing the sleep pattern prior to coming home.  Useful information, last week!

If I hit on anything that remotely resembles a cure for this insidious condition, I’ll let you know, but at this rate the best I can come up with is leaving home. 

Now, where did I leave that suitcase?