Mystery of the Domestic Sphere - SOLVED

The little germ piñatas have struck once more and this weekend I found myself cosying up to the porcelain headrest at three in the morning - again. By Sunday afternoon I'd mostly recovered but, having been up all night, I decided to take Monday off from work to make sure I was well and truly clear of the nasty and to recover a bit. Most of the day was spent sleeping. Some of it was spent surfing the internet and catching up on stuff I haven't caught up on in ages. Like the Hamish and Andy show.

Unfortunately watching H & A vids off their website was not quite the pleasant experience I'd hoped for. Anyone that listens to their show knows that their sponsor is McDonalds. So every two minute vid of the boys begins with an ad for McDonalds - in this instance spruiking their "family dinner box". Aside from having to watch this stupid ad so many times that I know I'll be dreaming about it, something else was bugging me. And after about the eighth viewing it hit me - it's their concluder line at the end.

"Grab dinner at McDonalds and give Mum the night off."

Here's an ad that shows an older couple and a younger couple sitting around the dinner table and enjoying a meal. I presume this is Mum, Dad and the kids or Mum, Dad and kid + partner. Since they're all adults, why is it that by buying dinner they're giving Mum the night off? Why can't they just say "Grab dinner at McDonalds and have a night off"?

One of the Mysteries of the Domestic Sphere has always been why I am apparently the mistress of all things domestic. My husband is 31. He has a wife and two children. His IQ is in the genius range. He has an amazingly complicated job with a bunch of people who look to him for direction on a daily basis. He manages that job, and all those people, without a second thought. So why, when it's the weekend and we're about to do the housework, does he turn to me and ask me what I want him to do? Surely that's obvious? You're a grown up. You can see what needs to be done as well as I can. Just grab something and work with it.

It's something that really eats at me because we're meant to be a partnership. We were married seven years ago but I'm fairly confident that the vows we said were equal. There was nothing in there about, "Do you, Rebecca, take Charles and solemnly swear to direct him in the management of your joint household until death do you part?" I probably would have had something to say about that.

And tonight as I watched this ridiculously vapid little ad I realised how insidious advertising is. It's like the feminist movement never happened. Flick a channel and here's Mum cleaning the kitchen. Now here's "Dr Mum" administering cough syrup. Mum serving up lamb roast. Mum taking a kid with a cold to soccer. Mum, mum, mum. Where's Dad? He's smiling at mum over the gear stick in their brand new four wheel drive as two exceptionally cute and well-behaved kids beam from the back seat. Now here he is shaking the hand of a real estate agent while Mum stands slightly behind him smiling benevolently. Ooo and here he is again talking about how he arranged life insurance to look after his family when he's gone. It's no wonder Charles is first to climb into the driving seat and last to vacuum the house.

The thing is that these ads cheapen the role of men as much as they do women. Check out the Nurofen ad where Dad Andrew Daddo delivers the line, "Dad-proof" to describe the level of dumbness required to administer Nurofen pain medication to a tot. Forget that men run most of the world - they're clearly too stupid to measure out five mls of syrup because everyone knows that's a woman's job and they're so brilliant at it.

Rest assured people that my husband is every bit as involved as I am with the kids and he is absolutely capable of doing everything I can do in that department*. I consider myself very fortunate that his love for them has meant his involvement surpasses that dictated by societal roles established and maintained through the background noise of advertising.

I've never really considered myself to be a feminist because, like a lot of people, my mental image of a feminist is a stereotypical militant man-hater. But when I think about what that term means, I realise that I am a feminist. I choose to define my feminism as supporting the movement towards a society that accepts whatever role a man or woman chooses to have in their lives. I truly believe that a large part of achieving that acceptance will involve the depiction of men and women playing similar roles in advertising and media in general.

Finally I should say that while we don't yet see a man in jeans nursing a baby a few feet behind his business suit-clad wife as she shakes the hand of a real estate agent, there are signs of improvement. There are ads that show Dads changing nappies (thanks Huggies) and Dads tenderly nursing sick children (Panadol). Unfortunately I keep going back to that image of four grown-ups sitting around the table sharing a McDonald's meal...giving "Mum" the night off.

* Well...probably not the breast feeding part. Okay - definitely not.

Where Muppet fur comes from

Long, long ago in the before times I remember weekends being carnivals of sleeping in, relaxation, socialisation. Then we had kids. Now our weekends start as early as Thursday when the fierce process of negotiation starts. I'll look after the kids Friday night so you can go drinking with your friends if you mind them Sunday morning so I can do brunch with the girls. I'll sleep in Saturday and you sleep in Sunday. You wash the clothes, I'll sort them. Weekends then become a frenetic two-day period where we try to have a life outside children, a marriage beyond co-parenting, catch up on sleep, catch up on housework, try to do all the outstanding errands and pretend we can go back to work Monday totally refreshed.

Some things slip. Inevitably, for me, it's the haircut. Once I managed to persuade a family friend who is a hairdresser to fit me in on a weekend at a friend's house. It was a top idea. We all had children and so we lined up and one by one, had haircuts, throwing $20 a piece at our hairdresser and watching each other's children while dining on home made pizza. It worked a treat. Unfortunately when I asked about doing it again our hairdresser confessed that she wasn't going to do haircut nights any more because she's not comfortable cutting hair outside work.

Fair enough. Unfortunately that means trying to line up a couple of haircuts in a row so we can all be done at once. Plus we need to juggle that with everything else we do on a weekend. So instead of once every six weeks my haircuts are averaging out at once every six months. The last month in particular has been a shocker. My hair is in total rebellion. Now stretching all the way down my back it has taken on a personality all its own. And unfortunately that personality appears to be a Sex Pistols-mad punk rocker. Split ends mean I can't pull a brush all the way through it and so most days it gets thrown into an untidy sort of dreadlock-ponytail-bun thing. For work I fight to get the front into an elegant sweep and the rest gets shoved into a snood to cover the fact that the last four inches of my hair has morphed into muppet fur. At night when the kids have gone to bed instead of working on sewing, or writing or anything that even vaguely resembles productivity, I've taken to crashing in front of the TV with my sewing scissors and randomly snipping split ends. I knew I had to do something when the ends of my hair frayed beyond a simple split and started sporting five or six separate bits.

This culminated, as most thing that frustrate me do, in a tantrum. Charles instantly offered to front the money if I would only make the appointment. So I rang Supercuts Gungahlin, where our hairdressing friend Hayley works, and by a total fluke managed to book in two appointments with her this Sunday. I was so happy to be there I almost cried. Poor Hayley struggled with my ratty locks and in the end about three inches of it hit the floor. I wasn't sorry. The instant I ran my fingers through it was bliss. No snags. No brittle fluff. Hurrah!

Next up was Charlotte who is totally paranoid that the hairdresser will make her hair short like Daddy's*.

"Don't cut it short!" she shouts at Hayley.

But we're in safe hands. Hayley carefully washes her hair and then ushers her over to a cherry-red little-person seat. Charlotte's in heaven as a Wiggles cape is wrapped around her and Hayley starts trimming her hair into a gorgeous little 'do. Then she offers to blow it dry and Charlotte's in heaven.

"She's getting all primped out today, isn't she?" one of the other lady giggles as Charlotte lifts her chin and examines herself in the mirror. Totally.

As we leave Charlotte slips her hand into mine - something Miss Independent rarely does spontaneously. I tell her she doesn't have to hold hands until we get to the car park.

"I know, Mama," she beams at me, "But sometimes I like to. And we have just had haircuts and our hair is still long and we are so pretty."

Yes indeed.

Shameless plug: Hayley is one of the best hairdressers I've ever been too and luckily she works at Supercuts Gungahlin. This is lucky because Supercuts is incredibly cheap ($26 for me, $15 for Charlotte and this includes complimentary shampoo and condition) and I'm fairly sure a hairdresser like Hayley could earn a bunch of money in a fancier place. The girls she works with look equally as good so if you're after a pretty cool 'do at fairly cheap prices, it's well worth a try.

*Daddy gets his hair cut at Just Cuts because they are cheap. Unfortunately he inevitably looks like Where the Wild Things are meets a Fabergé Easter special when they're through with him.

Quotable Quotes #2

As we're walking into our local Woolworths a little boy toddles past with his mother.

"Look Mama!" Charlotte exclaims, pointing at him, "He's got hair just like James!"

"Are you sure about that sweetie?"

"Sure I am! It's orange! And gorgeous!"

***

This next one needs some context. My mother-in-law and her husband own several cats including a very sour puss by the name of Madeline. Madeline does not like most living creatures. She tolerates the ones that feed and pat her. Just. Consequently she has earned the name "scratchy kitty" from the grandchildren who visit.

Then there was Chin. Chin used to be Charles' cat and went to live with Mum and Paul when Charles moved into a group house. And she never left. Chin was fat, happy and a total cat failure. No balance or grace to speak of and she actually like humans. Chin would have made an excellent mutt. Unfortunately Chin had to be put down recently because she was sick. But she isn't gone from Charlotte's memory. Recently she delivered this one to Mum;

"Nanny I love you and I love Scotty and I love Grandad as much as I loved that nice, dead cat!"

Further stroller dramas...

The very same day that I order a new "quick release locking pin" my good friend Mon and I make plans to take our babies walking around the lake the following day. Then I realise that I need the jogger stroller for that because the other stroller will not be as warm or comfortable for James. So at 8.30 that night I find myself in Bunnings - again - looking for a solution to the stroller - again.

After ten minutes of looking I explain to a Bunnings person my issue, explain the solution I want and am amazed when they produce exactly what I need. $15 later and back at home I find myself dummying up a temporary solution under the light of the front porch in the freezing cold of Canberra June night. I work away for a good fifteen minutes, slowly turning blue, fingers going numb, and finally it's all there and seems to be working. It's the sort of solution that will work for a while if I'm careful but it isn't by any means a permanent fix.

I debate putting the stroller in the car now but I have to clear out the boot first. I'm also dog tired, frozen to the bone and over it. So I leave it sitting there and head to bed. Naturally it rains.

Mon and I choose breakfast in a cafe over a walk in the rain with the babies and after that Mon comes back to my place to just sit and veg. Problem is that I can't relax because the stroller is totally soaked and I'm worried about it being permanently damaged. So Mon sips her tea and watches in amazement as I lift it through the house to the bathroom. I flick the heat lamps on and leave it to bake dry. Which takes about four hours. As I manoeuvre it back through the house it catches and I give it a small tug...removing the front wheel again.

At this point I give up. I will wait for the bloody locking pin. The stroller sits in our hallway for a week-and-a-half until the locking pin shows up. When it comes I put it on and it works and I'm thrilled. I take the stroller out to meet Pippa for lunch and after about 100 metres the wretched wheel locks up and won't move. James spends the last little bit of the journey lying back in the stroller looking at the sky because only the two back wheels will work.

Sympathetic Pip finds this enormously amusing and who can blame her? The icing on the cake comes when we head back to my car after lunch - as I lift the folded up stroller into the boot, the back wheel falls off. It's now officially Charles' problem.

Tastes like chicken!

So today our small family unit made the epic journey across town to celebrate Rowan's* birthday. Rowan and Pippa have found a new and interesting way to save money during Canberra's housing crisis - they live, for free, in other people's houses instead of their own. They are currently house-sitting for what seems to be (from what I can glean from house and son) a very nice, if slightly OCD, couple.

Their house has a beautiful backyard complete with deck, barbecue, pool table, water features...and chooks. Charlotte was immediately in her element. Apart from really interesting things to look at and touch she was at an adult party where no one treated her like a four-year-old. Unfortunately for us her little day trip appears to have had unexpected consequences. Come dinner the choices were steak or chicken skewers. Madam chose the chicken, which came on a stick, her most beloved of all meats in her favourite form.

After about three mouthfuls, she looked at Charles.

"Daddy? Is this a real chicken?"

"Yes, it is."

"Does it come from the inside of the chicken?"

"Yes - it comes from the chicken's muscles."

She seemed to think about this for a moment.

"But why?"

"Well because it's tasty."

She seemed to look at it for a bit.

"But Daddy how does it come from the chicken?"

"Well we cut the muscles off after the chicken is dead."

Now the chicken is back on the plate and madam is staring at it suspiciously. She laughs a little half-heartedly.

"Boy those chickens will be all wibbly-wobbly when they wake up!" she giggles.

At this point Charles shoots me a glance and then puts his knife down to talk to her properly.

"Sweetie I don't think they wake up. Once something is dead, it stays dead."

Charlotte stares at her chicken skewers for a bit longer this time.

"Well I don't think I'm going to eat this chicken," she announces and off she goes.

I will be the first to admit that it's probably not how many people would have handled this conversation with their child. Both of us could see where her mind would take her when she started the conversation but we decided a long time ago that questions like "why do we eat meat" need to be answered honestly. Lying to children about meat has to be the biggest hypocrisy parents commit. As a society we have decided that it is all right to cultivate and kill animals for food. People may not like to link this harsh reality with the neat little packages of red they buy in the supermarket to throw in their stir-fry but there it is. When you buy your sausages you are subscribing to the concept that it is worth killing an animal in order to be able to eat meat.

Once I had a conversation with another mother about the meat issue. She had told her children that meat came from animals. But, when her children asked how the animal died, she caved and told them it was butchered after it had died of old age. Because that's how the meat industry works. We let them grow up, have families and wait for them to die of old age before we turn them into lamb cutlets. She almost had them living in little houses with central heating in Winter.

People lie about meat eating to their children for two reasons. Either they think meat eating is wrong and are ashamed to admit what they're doing or they don't want to tell their child the truth in case the child says, "my God that's horrible" and then they have to think of something more creative than bangers and mash to feed the little hippies. I realise that as a result of tonight's conversation I am now potentially raising a vegetarian. If Charlotte decides that killing an animal is too high a price to pay for her cheeseburger then I will support her by cooking vegetarian meals and educating her on what she needs to eat to cover the deficiency in her diet left by an absence of meat.

The origin of the meat on our tables is an uncomfortable truth that anyone with children will one day face. It's worth thinking about how you would address this issue with your child and, if you have a hesitation when it comes to admitting the truth, maybe you need to seriously re-evaluate your lifestyle and honestly judge your behaviours. Do you really believe that it's okay to kill an animal for the sake of a traditional family meal?

* Rowan is Pippa's hubby and doesn't need a pseudonym because he doesn't frighten people.

Mysteries of the Domestic Sphere

Despite having lived out of home for almost 15 years I still consider myself to be a total novice at the art of house keeping. Some days I feel like everything's under control. Other days I feel like I've stepped into someone else's house with all of the associated angst about locating where everything is and trying to work out what their routine is. There are some things that consistently baffle me. So in no particular order, here are my Mysteries of the Domestic Sphere;

1.) The Missing; In my house the Missing are teaspoons, socks, hair brushes and anything sewing-related. I know I own at least five tape measures. I know Charlotte has around twenty pairs of socks. We own four hair brushes. Twenty teaspoons. And yet right now, at this very second I might be able to locate one tape measure if I spend ten minutes looking. Chances are that I'll wind up using some dental floss and a 30cm school ruler out of the desk instead. I don't remember the last morning when there was just a clean pair of socks waiting in Charlotte's sock drawer. I know it was at least two weeks ago. And as for teaspoons...where are they? They're clearly too big to fit down the plug hole or be swallowed by the dog...so why can I only find four?

2.) Let's do the time warp again; I am sure Einstein could explain this one to me. Why is it that no matter what time I leave the house I always arrive at Charlotte's school with precisely two minutes to spare? Similarly, why is it that no matter what time we get out of bed and what time we actually leave the house for swimming lessons, we're always five minutes late?

3.) Domestic blindness; It's real and it's costing valuable time. I recently asked Charles to get me the Spray 'n Wipe. I knew it was on the bench. I told him where to find it. After two minutes of dedicated search a flustered Charles gave up and said something like, "I don't know what you've done with it but it's just not on the bench, Sweetie." It was on the bench. Right smack bang in the middle of it as it happens. It was probably one of the things he lifted up to look under three times in his search for it. I used to think domestic blindness was limited to the fridge. I was positive the inability to locate the cheese was a result of being dazzled by the fridge light. But it's an insidious affliction with far-reaching consequences. I'm not picking on Charles. All men seem to have it. Mind you, he's not the only one with domestic failure. Because I have;

4.) Domestic Alzheimers; For some reason there are these holes in my domestic brain that leak out whatever it is I need to remember. And it's always the same things that I forget. Case in point; Charlotte's swimmers. She has a swimming lesson on Thursday. Every Thursday afternoon when I pick her up from school I remind her that we have swimming later. Then we go home and I race around like a mad thing trying to locate her swimmers and wash them and dry them. I mentally chastise myself, promise myself that this week will be the week when I remember to bring them inside and wash them as soon as we come home from class. Guaranteed they will sit in the swimming bag in the boot of my car until next Thursday. Rinse, repeat. *sigh*

5.) Why I even bother; We have blonde laminated floating floor stuff in our living areas. I try to vacuum and mop them once a week. I don't know why I bother. Five minutes after the floor dries there are tumble weeds of dog fur and ugly sticky smears all over it. It is the most ridiculous choice of floor colour ever and as soon as I can afford it I'm going to yank it out and replace it. I also don't know why I bother cleaning Charlotte's room, asking Charles to take his shoes off when he comes in the door (hateful cream-coloured carpets) or tidying up the family room. These are all exercises in futility and I'm sure they will add up to several years of wasted life.

6.) Unexpected guests; Why is it that people only ever drop past when it's been at least three days since we managed to get any cleaning done? Yesterday I was right in the middle of having a meltdown over the state of the house which had reached EPA approval levels (again). Naturally, right as I'm surveying the chaos trying to decide where to start, my most OCD of all friends drops past for a quick visit. It's this sort of thing that convinces me that there is a God and he has a huge sense of humour.

The Drama of Turning One

James has turned one. In the lead-up to this momentous occasion we worked ourselves into a total lather over how to celebrate, what to get him and who to invite. I mean the kid is a year old. He's not even aware of his bowel movements yet so what's the point of holding a big bash with lots of gifts? But first birthdays are a HUGE milestone and we threw an enormous bash for Charlotte's first birthday (admittedly it was also a house warming to celebrate moving into our new house too). So we're on the hook to go all out for Baby James too.

Being the middle of June an event at home was out. This is because the guest list runs to about a hundred people and they would either destroy the house trying to fit in it or they would be shivering outside in the cold. So we need an external venue. Since I also can't be bothered going to huge efforts, we decide to hold it somewhere where we will have to do a minimal amount of work. So we book a table at KidCity for our friends who have ruggers and we book the Hellenic Club bistro for a dinner with everyone else.

Next comes cake. Since the Woman's Weekly train cake was Charles' first birthday cake and also my brother's first birthday cake (see picture below)...I figure we should have the same one for James. Unfortunately Charles is a train enthusiast and we quickly wade into the murky water of how unrealistic the cartoon train in the cake book is and how it would be so much cooler if we made it more realistic.

As a side note I feel that I must point out the dynamics of our cake-making relationship. Basically I come up with a concept and then Charles becomes artistic director and project manager, instructs me to the point of divorce, insanity and murder before an agreeable compromise is reached*. Apparently opting for a train cake is like writing a waiver allowing him to redesign the cake so it is a perfect working replica of his favourite steam engine.

So instead of an engine and four little freight cars full of lollies we have a modified engine that is more correct in detail. Then we have a petrol wagon (filled with choc fudge sauce so it looks like oil), a coal car (with chocolate rocks for the coal), a stock car (with various animals in it) and finally a log car (with Flake logs strapped down with licorice). I am tempted to sarcastically suggest sourcing dry ice to drop into the more realistic funnel to make it seem like the engine is steaming but I censor the words before they reach my lips. I do not want to spend an afternoon on the phone trying to find dry ice.

Then we debate colours.

"Well," says Charles, "technically it should be a sort of rusty brown".

Here is where I do my block.

"I know," I say brightly, "We can make a whole train station out of fondant and we can even have a fat controller man. Oh wait...we already have one of those..."

He takes the hint.

"Well what do you want?"

"I just want a cute little train cake for my baby son. And I want it to look sort of like the one Jase had and the one you had. And I don't want it to be complicated or overly realistic - it's a baby's first birthday cake!"

Then I sulk. Charles is a little bit silent after this but he agrees to compromise before I come out of my sulk. Feeling placated I agree to different sized wheels for the engine. I agree to a more realistic funnel and I love his idea for steam....marshmallows bubbling out the spout. In return he agrees to simple freight cars filled with lollies in the same colours as the book.

Making it is time consuming and a bit interesting. We need ten individual cakes. A slew of different lollies and chocolate. I spend all Saturday baking. Together it takes us three-and-a-half hours to put it together and decorate it on Sunday before the party. It is so enormous that we construct it across two cake boards so we can fit it in the fridge and transport it. Here is what the finished product looked like;

Truly we wouldn't do things like this unless we enjoyed it. I can confidently say that by the time we got around to assembling it the train cake was one of our best collaborations ever. We had the same thing in mind, we were working towards the same goal and I think we were both over the moon with the result. Best of all it tasted good and by the end of the party there was just nothing left...which is the best endorsement of all.

* I throw the piping bag at him and tell him to do it himself.

Quotable Quotes

Nothing entertains me more than what flies out of my daughter's unguarded mouth in our quiet moments together. In the interests of keeping a record and sharing her little dramas I will be adding "Quotable Quotes" posts from time to time. They will be short and sweet - just a record of these little interactions. Here goes' example one;

Charlotte is playing in her room by herself and I go to check on her.

"Hey sweetie, what are you doing?"

"Playing!"

"Cool, what are you playing?"

"Zap the wizard!"

"Awesome, are you winning?"

Her shoulders slump.

"No...I'm the wizard."

"Killer" the American Pitbull

I have just finished shopping with my kids. We went out to buy some ingredients for James' birthday cake and here was me juggling two kids when we had a run in with what can only be described as a bogan. Be forewarned, there's going to be some pretty heavy discrimination here and references to stereotyping. I can't help it - the dude was a bogan.

First up it's the middle of a Tuesday. Second, we're in Charnwood. Next he's wearing a flanny over a wrecked death metal T-shirt with tracksuit pants and Ugh boots that look like they were made out of one of the sheep that came off Noah's ark. He's also holding a VB (have I already mentioned that it's about 1pm on a Tuesday?). But the thing that causes me to grab my daughter's hand and put myself between her and him is his dog - which is very interested in her in a way that isn't making me altogether comfortable.

It's straining at its leash to get at her but the tail isn't wagging. The ears are flat. In doggy language it doesn't look good. In fact it looks like it's trying to get at her and attack her. In typical four-year-old fashion she's making a beeline to it to pat it. And so I say no, grab her hand and start walking her away.

The bogan speaks.

"What are ya doin' lady? You act like that and your kid'll be scared of dogs!"

Excuse me? You've got an American pit bull covered in scars charmingly dressed in a studded collar with the word "KILLER" unmuzzled in public and it is not wagging its tail. It is also practically strangling itself to get at my little girl. Maybe I'm reading the situation all wrong but what it comes down to is that I have no idea who you are or what your dog is like. All indications, including its behaviour, are somewhat unfavourable.

Regardless of appearances, I have been trying to teach Charlotte for some time that you don't go up to strange dogs and pat them. I can guarantee that if I'd let her go near this dog and it had savaged her its owner would have been bleating to the press about how lovely the dog was, how it had never been aggressive before and how he had no idea that it would turn like that. No doubt his lawyer would have claimed the name "Killer" is ironic - despite the fact that his client can't spell the word and thinks "irony" is something his wife does to his flannies after she washes them.

I simply find it incredible that someone who is clearly investing themselves in and promoting their dog's aggressive image takes offence when someone actually buys it.

Family Resistance Office

After four months of attempts Charles and I have finally managed to have something changed by the Family Resistance Office. Our troubles first began when James started daycare. Until then I thought we had a family CRN (Customer Reference Number) and a CRN for each child. But when I tried to enrol James in daycare it turned out that Charles had a completely separate CRN to me and that James was "linked" to his CRN not mine. This, apparently, was because Charles had filled in our baby bonus form - not me. Forget that the money all goes into the same account - separate CRNs means as far as Family Resistance is concerned, we're not a family. And why does that matter? I never did get a straight answer - it just does. For whatever reason it was too hard for everyone for the kids to be "linked" to separate parents but attending the same daycare centre.

Thus began an epic battle. The first hurdle was getting them to understand our family situation. What are our custody arrangements? Well we fight a lot over who has to look after the kids on the weekend. Huh? There are no custody arrangements because we are a family! Surprising as it is, there are still parents who live together and raise their children together and no none of the children are children from a previous relationship. We got married, we had two children and despite our best efforts we still live together because the rule is whoever leaves the relationship has to take the kids with them. Well if our circumstances haven't changed, why did I apply for the baby bonus for Charlotte and Charles applied for the baby bonus for James? Well because I filled in the 29-page form the first time and I felt that it was his turn to experience your efficiency and the subsequent carpal tunnel from filling in the form. The number of times I got asked whether we were separated boggles my mind. Clearly despite their name, the concept of "family" is completely foreign to Family Resistance.

First we were told we could change our claim details online. When this failed, we had to go in to the office. When I got to the office, I couldn't do it by myself and we both had to be there. When Charles took time off work and we were both there, we needed a copy of James' birth certificate with us but only one of us would have to bring it. When Charles was there with the birth certificate he couldn't do it on the spot, he'd have to fill in a form that we both needed to sign. Finally the birth certificate was photocopied, the form was filled in, we'd both signed it and then it would take up to 21 days for them to process it.

Finally today when I called Family Resistance it seems that James has been "linked" to me. I don't know why it's all so complicated - the money is going to go into exactly the same account as it would have under Charles, we all still live at the same address and our children still go to the same daycare centre. What I can't figure out is whether it's been so difficult because we're a "normal" family with no complicated divorces, separate addresses/bank accounts, same-sex marriages and adoptions or whether people who have those "complications" find it even harder to navigate the ridiculous obstacle course that lies between parents and the childcare rebate.

Either way, I would argue in favour of a name change because "Family Assistance Office" is just false advertising.

Quick! Release the locking pin!

Anyone that read the pregnancy diaries will remember our jogger stroller and the monumental efforts we went to to construct it using instructions that were largely unhelpful. Example; "Attach wheels to main body of stroller" - complete with very grainy photocopy of something that might have been Sanskrit when it started out its existence. Since we first assembled it there have been only minor stroller-related incidents. Stuff like tires deflating. Until recently. A few weeks ago after walking home with the kids from Charlotte's school I went to load the stroller into the boot of the car and was unimpressed to have the front wheel come away in my hand. Closer inspection revealed no discernible way to reattach it. Trips to Bunnings failed to inspire me with a workable solution.

The stroller brand in question also appears to not have a website where I can buy spare parts. Reluctant to throw away a perfectly good stroller simply because I have no way of attaching the front wheel, I went back to Toys R Us where I bought it and was given a customer service number. Calling this number enlightens me as to why there is no website - the brand name is completely different from the name of the parent company and, hence, the website where I might have got some help. I am hoping that this isn't a clever ploy to divert customers needing assistance away. It's with some anticipation that I wait for a customer service officer.

But a real person answers in under 60 seconds and I tell her my problem. Do I know the brand of stroller? Um...the black one? It has taupe bits... Then I notice (possibly for the first time in the five years I've owned it) that it has "Terrain" scrawled on it in loopy writing.

"Sounds like you've lost the quick release locking pin," she informs me.

"Yes," I say, "it sounds like it quick released while we were walking."

My helper finds this hysterical but I cannot for the life of me figure out why anyone (other than Macguyver) would need a quick release locking pin on their stroller. Has anyone ever been present for such an event? "Quick! Release that locking pin and hand me the wheel so I can save this man's life!!!"

Maybe I'm just not living my life to the fullest but in five years I've never once had to take the front wheel off my stroller and it's never been a problem. It seems to me that a welded-on wheel would be a lot more use to most people. I suspect that the quick release locking pin is designed to ensure that people have to come back and buy from the company again. Either way, after a surprisingly painless phone call for the price of $12.85 we have our new quick release locking pin coming in the mail. Stay tuned folks, I'm sure it can't be that easy...

Everything I hate about shopping...

Shopping is rarely something I enjoy. I do not get that "retail high" - I don't enjoy browsing and of all the things I hate right at the top of the list is shopping for clothes. Today I had to do a bunch of shopping. Shopping for food. Shopping for bridesmaids shoes. Shopping to update my work wardrobe for this Winter. It did not go well. In fact, this shopping trip managed to tick most of the "reasons I hate shopping" bingo card. In no particular order;

1.) Shopping centre car parks. Most people know it's illegal to talk on their mobiles while driving. Unfortunately everyone seems to think yakking on the phone while driving in a car park is perfectly legal. And when you see these morons going in the wrong direction, weaving, bouncing off other cars and generally not paying attention, it's suddenly abundantly clear that banning talking on the phone while driving was an incredibly smart move.

While we're on the subject of driving in car parks - I think we're all clear that car parks are two small to be operated as dual carriage ways with concrete dividers. Most of them are, sadly, one way affairs. Handily enough someone's gone to the trouble of painting the most enormous attention-getting arrows on the concrete to show you which direction you're meant to drive in. It is a total mystery why people ignore these and do their own thing. And don't get me started on car park pedestrians, trolley ditchers and car park stealers. See? We're not even in the mall yet and I could rant all day.

2.) Sheeple. A pet hate. I've mentioned them before. Unsure of their direction, oblivious to others, intent on bottlenecking the walkway. Please people, if you must stroll along at the ponderous pace of a freshly milked jersey cow heading back to the pasture, for the love of God move to the side and let the rest of us through.

3.) Fashion for fatties*. Not content with the appalling effect of turtlenecks on the curvy population, the fashion industry has gone one step further this winter and decided that knitted tops need a spare tire of fabric tacked onto the neckline. Worse, they're paring these monstrosities with skinny jeans. News flash ordinary members of the public - if you wear skinny jeans and you don't have skinny legs then you will look like a bowling pin. If you teem your new skinny jeans with one of these horrendous jumpers, you will look like a jabber-the-hut bowling pin.

4.) Weak-willed parents. Do not give your child a toy "just to hold" while you do the shopping. This is kiddy torture. You are building up their hopes. If they sued you for breach of promise, you would lose. Just say no as soon as they pick it up. Failing that, do not leave it until the cashier is waiting for you to pay for your other items to have the "Now we discussed this already..." conversation with your child. Unlike you I am buying everything in my trolley because it was all negotiated and settled before we got here. Which is why it's that much more annoying that I have to listen to you wheedle your child into handing over Generic Man action toy to the thoroughly bored teenager at the till. Oh and by the way, that teenager has probably summoned the spirits of their ancestors and all the Gods they know to lay a curse on you because at the end of their shift they will have to return Generic Man plus seven other similar toys to wherever they came from and their evil-overlord type employer probably won't pay them for it.

5.) While we're on the subject of teenagers at the till - what the hell are they giving Generation Zzzzzz? These kids don't seem capable of independent thought. Unless my little computer thingy says I can do it, it's clearly impossible. Example of actual conversation with Generation Zzzzz person in a restaurant.

Me: Can I please have the grilled chicken breast with mushroom sauce?

Z: Let me check. Errrr. No. I don't think we do that any more.

Me: Oh. Do you still do the chicken breast?

Z: Yes.

Me: Do you still do the veal with mushroom sauce?

Z: Yes.

Me: Can I get the chicken breast and a bowl of the mushroom sauce by itself?

Z: Sure!

Me: Great! Now instead of putting it in the bowl, can you just pour the mushroom sauce over the chicken?
Z: Yeah sure, no problem.

Me: Awesome. That's all, thanks.

Z: Okay so that's a grilled chicken breast with mushroom sauce! Oh.

Me: I know! And I totally thought you guys didn't do that any more!

Why is it that the customers have to think for the retail staff? This is your job and just because you don't know how to do it and it's not immediately clear from the pictorial icons on your register, doesn't mean it's impossible. Seriously.

6.) People with no concept of cash. When did people decide actual currency was a dirty thing? Why am I lining up behind people trying to buy a $3 cup of coffee or a $2.50 sushi roll with a credit card? What is the matter with you people?

7.) People with no cash or credit. None of us want to wait while you try your sixth card to see if it will finally go through. Don't you know how much money you have? While we're at it, let's change this category to "Bottleneckers". You know who you are. You've got a jillion people behind you and you're going to string it out as long as you can. I thought that was on special. Are you sure? Can you check? Oh, this one has a mark on it that I didn't see before. Can you discount it? Can I see a manager? Just a moment, my husband's got my purse and he's just gone to get our son. I think he's playing hide and seek but I'm sure it won't take him too long to find him. Do you know what? I think I might get this in blue instead. Can you wait a minute, I've just sent my little girl to get some butter. Oh I don't know what's taking her so long.

I am aware that I sound like a super-grumpy old person...which is honestly how I feel after a couple of hours of shopping. Hateful, hateful shopping.

*Are you over a size 12? You're a fatty.

Why yes thank you, a purple puffer fish WAS the inspiration...

Every bridesmaid harbours reservations about their dress. Will their bride make them look like an overstuffed couch? Will there be unflattering puffs, tucks and pleats? Will the fabric glitter and sheen unflatteringly over every curve? And really, what are the odds that you'll ever be able to wear it again? When I got married I wanted my bridesmaids to look elegant and feel comfortable. After all, they were my closest friends and dearest family members. I didn't want them looking like mangled puffer fish. We managed to chose a dress style to suit them all, despite wildly varying sizes and I made sure that they were all happy with the style and colour. I thought this was fairly normal bride behaviour but the lady who owned the store informed me that I was almost unique. Most brides have a vision and very few care whether the size, shape and colouring of their maids fit it. Which is why the hideous spectre of bridesmaid dresses of yore haunts all maids-in-waiting.

I've already mentioned in this blog how much my baby brother means to me. He's been my lifelong companion, he's one of my best friends...and now he's all grown up and engaged. I consider myself beyond lucky because he's chosen a wonderful partner who I love very much to be his bride. When they started planning their wedding I was delighted to be asked to be a bridesmaid and I instantly and unthinkingly agreed. Four seconds later I started freaking out about the dress. My one consolation was that even though we're different sizes, all of the bridesmaids are fairly well endowed up top. So I was fairly confident that I wouldn't be squeezed into a shimmery sheath dress designed for a respectable B-cup in a push-up bra.

The first plan was to have the dresses made through an online wholesaler. I showed up to the house of a seamstress known to the bride who seemed concerned that all the manufacturers wanted was a bust, waist and hip measurement. I could see her point. With an empire line sitting just under the breast, you don't really want it to be ten centimetres too short and bisecting the nipples. Not attractive.

A few weeks later and I had a call from the bride who announced that she'd found four really pretty matching dresses at a shop in Tuggeranong that she thought would fit all four of us. She described them as "sort of a cerise, deep pink dress that's very floaty and pretty with spaghetti straps". When asked about the online manufacturer I'm told there were language barriers which undermined her confidence a little. Off-the-rack retail is plan B. Plus there's an alteration place right next to the store where we can have them fitted if we need to.

I promise the bride I'll go and try one on the next day. When I hang up Charles, who knows all about my dress anxiety, asks me how it sounds. I tell him it sounds like I will look like a dragonfruit.

The following day I strap both kids into the car and drive for forty minutes all the way across town. The shop is closed. Closer inspection reveals that every other store in the mall opens at ten but they're not open until eleven. So I need to "fill in" my time elsewhere with a distracted Charlotte and a rapidly deteriorating James. At 11:15 the door finally rolls up and flustered me plus bored-out-of-their-skulls-to-the-point-of-chronic-naughtiness kiddies troop in. The saleswoman produces a dragonfruit-coloured sheath that might fit a swizzle stick if she diets for a couple of months. It looks lovely where it is but a cloud of doom is brewing - I am not shaped remotely like a coat hanger. It turns out that the perception of small size is a product of the way it hangs from the 2-minute-noodle-sized straps and it's a lot bigger than first thought. Although not in the way it needs to be.

I manage to get it on easily enough and it falls beautifully from the empire line to just below my knees (meant to be mid-calf apparently but I'm freakishly tall for this particular store's standards). The problem is that the top bit cannot be persuaded to even think about coming up over my nipples. It's designed for a B-cup and my ladies were somewhat....bustier...even before they started feeding a small Viking. Now they're as close to a B-cup as Marilyn Manson is to God.

As soon as I get the horror off I am subjected to the most humiliating, soul-destroying conversation I've ever been forced to have with a retail person. She suggests that perhaps I could buy "a nice black dress" from "somewhere else" and "find a flower in the same colour as the other dresses" to pin onto my...garment. Her manner conveys that perhaps I will locate the little black dress of my dreams from the costume department at Taronga Zoo. She asks if I'm the maid of honour. I tell her I don't think so. Well maybe the bride can make me the maid of honour so I can be dressed differently to the other girls. She throws in that she's happy to discuss these issues with the bride directly if I like. Her tone leaves me in no doubt that she's not about to let a fatty get in the way of a bloody good sale. And she's not about to let me leave the store until I agree to her plan to get me to wear black to my brother's wedding and stand like a funeral usher next to some beautifully styled chickees in gorgeous flowing cerise numbers. That's about the point where I've had enough. It's been a long time since I've felt this horrible but she's edging me closer to tears with every condescending sentence.

I've tried being delicate and polite but clearly Ms Make-A-Sale is going to set the tone of the conversation to rude and confrontational. I tell her that I'm quite capable of discussing my "options" with the bride but I will pull out of being a bridesmaid altogether before I will wear black to my brother's wedding. I am not in mourning over the fact that he's found the love of his life and that he wants to make a lifelong commitment to her. She shuts up immediately and we're finally allowed to leave. I strongly resist the urge to console myself with donuts and vodka. Then I go home and tell Charles all about the hideous experience.

Finally I have to call the bride. I'm very nervous and upset because I want to simply tell her that the dress is lovely and I instantly bought all four. I don't want to be the problem bridesmaid. So I'm slightly high-pitched and hysterical before I even start yammering. As the phone rings I get to thinking that the vodka wasn't such a bad idea.

I start out quite calmly (I think) but I quickly get down to it. I tell her that I look like a dragonfruit. I tell her that even if I were dead six months they'd probably need a stick of butter to grease me into that dress and that no amount of alteration will make my ladies fit. I tell her all about Ms Make-A-Sale and how she's willing to "discuss options". Finally I offer my personal opinion that we might have more luck shopping at a dedicated wedding outfit store or having some dresses custom made to the bride's requirements by a local seamstress. And, knowing that the happy couple are on a budget, I offer to pay the difference between their budgeted cost and the actual cost because I'm the reason we're unlikely to be able to find matching off-the-rack dresses. Plus I do not want to be a dragonfruit or a hippo-esque funeral usher with a fake pink flower tacked onto me at their wedding.

Luckily for me the bride is instantly sympathetic. She wants us to be comfortable and pretty. She doesn't want to buy dresses that don't fit from Ms Make-A-Sale and she doesn't want me in black. She asks me to come pick her up straight away for a shopping trip and before I know it we're at Rosies Bridal Warehouse and the woman there is delightful. We tell her about the last experience and she's shocked. She eyes me critically, pulls at my clothes and informs me that I have quite a small waist, lovely height and that I'm not so big - it's just my exceptional ladies. Which means I need to buy a dress size larger than I would normally wear and have it altered to fit.

Then she pulls a stunningly elegant gown from the rack and our eyes bug. Within two minutes we're trying on dresses, giggling, squealing and jumping in excitement. There are veils, lingerie, jewellery, dresses and shoes. I am so excited I'm almost hyperventilating and it looks like the bride is right there with me. There are so many pretty dresses and we can have any style in any size and colour we want. I am so delirious and giddy I think I'm going to pass out. And finally the bride settles on a gorgeous gown with matching wraps that is so classically elegant that we'll be able to wear them again and again. I am so chuffed I could faint.

It's funny how we sometimes don't realise how worried we are about something until after the crisis has passed. The high of the dress triumph doesn't leave me for a solid two days. I am so happy that I will be a bridesmaid - nay - apretty bridesmaid that I float in a bubbly pink air of bliss smiling benevolently at everyone for hours. It's hard enough to live up to the honour of being a bridesmaid - to subject yourself to scrutiny for a whole day, attempt to deliver the perfect day for the people you love the most...I just don't have the words to express how much easier it will all seem from the shell of confidence that a beautiful dress will provide. This blog post is for you Lenks and for everything that you mean to my brother and I. I'm thrilled that he's found such a thoughtful, considerate person to be his life partner and I very much look forward to supporting you as you make your vows. In my lovely, lovely dress.

With much love,

TC
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