How do I love him? Let me count the ways...

There are a lot of things I love about my husband – the gifts he’s brought to my life have been many. At first, some of them were subtle. For example, the first time he slept overnight at my house on a work night my house mate Jules and I awoke to a brand new experience in the form of an interesting new obstacle in our living room complete with its own accessory. I came across Jules clutching her robe around her and staring blearily at it in stunned disbelief.

“What is it?” she asked, miffed.

“Not a clue,” I responded.

“It obviously came with Charles. Does it live here now?”

“Apparently.”

“Maybe it could…not? I don’t need to see stuff like that.”

“Don’t worry - I’ll talk to him.”

Turns out the ironing board and iron were both mine. Our uni-lifestyle coupled with a love of wash and wear clothing meant we’d never actually pulled it out before.

Domestically he was reasonably well trained. He’d managed to keep his room tidy amidst the chaos of a group house that was so filthy I refused to sit on the couches or even break my stride lest the crud start creeping up my ankles. In this respect I wasn’t disappointed – he moved in and managed to tidy up reasonably well after himself. He even tidied up after Jules and I which was quite impressive.

There were other issues to contend with as we slowly integrated out lives. I thought moving in together would be a simple transference of his one bedroom out of the group house into my mobile home. I was confident that two trailer loads would do it. Turns out Charles’ accumulations amounted to far more than one bedroom.

“I’ve got my whole degree,” he announced brightly, yanking an enormous box out of the linen cupboard.

“Er…yes, I know. In information technology.”

“No I mean my whole degree,” he said flipping open the box, “Every lecture note, every assignment, everything.”

“But why?”

He looked at me then like I was mad. In vain I reasoned and pleaded but in the end it simply came down to practicalities. I lived in a mobile home with two bedrooms apart from the Master. Jules occupied one and I told him that he could have the other but I simply couldn’t make the place any bigger than it was. Somehow (and I suspect it involves having played a lot of tetras in the past) Charles made most of it fit. A lot got thrown out – including most of his degree. As soon as I related this story to his mother she looked at him keenly and asked whether he’d finally be taking his boxes out of their attic as well.

Apart from the sheer volume of stuff he comes with, the only other hiccup in Charles’ domestic training was cooking. Here he was clueless. He knew how to cook one thing (and I use the term “cook” loosely as each time it would take me an hour of boiling and scrubbing the saucepan to clear the charcoal from the bottom) – a tomato-based casserole boiled to within an inch of existence that he would parcel up and freeze individually – eating one portion a night. I was unimpressed and uninspired at the prospect of eating the same thing every single day and so cooking duties fell largely to me until I got a job working from 4pm to Midnight in a media company.

To his credit he tried. His first attempt was vegetable soup – which I’d asked him to make because it was quite simple, filling and tasty. I gave him some brief instructions over the phone – dice the veggies, boil in stock, blend if you want your soup to be smooth. I was thrilled when he showed up to share dinner in the form of a blended vegetable soup with me. Then I tasted it. And spat it out.

“Good Lord, what on earth did you do to it?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, hurt, “I made it like you said.”

“That is not how I told you to make it!”

“Well….I might have added some curry paste for flavour.”

“But it tastes like fish!”

The eyes darted a bit.

“I might have added a tin of tuna as well.”

“But it’s meant to be vegetable soup. And I don’t eat fish!”

“Well I thought it needed some protein!”

That night we wound up eating hot dogs from the servo. Charles’ next attempt at cooking was satay lamb. I okayed this one on the proviso that he follow whatever recipe he was using to the letter. I was pretty confident when he showed up with dinner that we were onto a winner. The rice was fluffy, the satay smelled great. Then I tasted it.

“DON’T tell me that there’s anything wrong with it!” Charles exclaimed, before I could say or do anything, “I followed the recipe and it’s very tasty, so just eat it!”

I sat staring at him, a mouth full of dinner, trying to will my mouth to form a protective barrier of saliva around the offending mouthful so I could tolerate it until he’d had a chance to taste it. The salt level of the food was aiding me in this quest and my saliva glands were powering up to pressure hose capacity in an attempt to defuse the critical situation in my mouth.

Charles, eyeing me carefully took a bite. Instantly his eyes went wide and he spat it straight back out.

“You don’t have to eat it,” he said quickly and I immediately spat mine straight back into the bowl.

“What did you do?” I asked, blinking back the tears.

“I don’t know. I did everything the recipe said!”

“But it’s so salty! How much peanut butter did you put in?”

“The whole jar…” he whispered.

That night we wound up eating hot dogs from the servo. I am still confident that I would have suffered kidney failure if I’d managed to down that mouthful. He called me later and admitted that closer reading of the recipe had called for two tablespoons of peanut butter and he’d used a 500g jar. He’d made a huge amount of the abominable stuff and it was decided that the dog would get it all. But even after we washed all the sauce away she just looked from the bowl to us and back again in a completely bemused way, looking more confused than usual, which is quite difficult for her to do given that she is quite a vapid animal to begin with thanks largely to a steady diet of marijuana smoke when she was a puppy (not from me, but from the home I rescued her from).

Unfortunately these little adventures into the epicurean world relegated Charles to the backseat in our kitchen for years afterwards. He couldn’t be persuaded to try again and even when I asked him for assistance with my own creations he’d get cagey. It didn’t help that I was raised on a farm cooking in a wood stove. I was quite comfortable cooking without time and temperature guides and knew how to check to see if something was done or not. Charles hates this method of cooking. To Charles cooking is scientific, formulaic and accurate. If a recipe says bake for 40 minutes at 180ºC, then that sucker is getting cooked for 40 minutes and at the end it comes out – regardless of whether it’s still sloshing around in the tin or it’s been baked to the same colour and consistency as a hockey puck. And if it’s a GOOD recipe then it should be properly cooked. To date the only recipe he’s found that he can do this with is, ironically, ANZAC biscuits.

So for years I have been the resident cook and, theoretically at least, Charles washes up. Over time he’s gradually increased his abilities and he quite often helps out in the kitchen but it’s rare for him to take the lead unless it involves his beloved Weber, which is a thoroughly scientific and wholly reliable exercise.

Now we come to the point of this week’s blog entry and the reason for the title above. I have already told you how Charles has been forced to take my place in the domestic duties of late, while I work at becoming a swim teacher. And it has been a rude shock for him. Impressively, rather than simply hold the fort and manage the kids, leaving the other duties for me when I come home, Charles has manned up and decided that he will achieve everything that I achieve on the domestic front. Including the making of dinner, often at the end of a day of looking after children.

And the results are incredible. We began with country potato and bacon soup. At first, it was looking dicey. The soup was far too watery, the bacon and onion were on their way to incineration and I had an attack of the giggles that wounded his pride horribly. Amazingly he managed to yank it all together and I found myself dining on the best potato and bacon soup that I’ve ever had the pleasure of consuming.

From there things have only gotten better. There has been lamb casserole and lamb steak in minted glazed. Plans are afoot for stuffed chicken breast with macadamia and honey glaze. He has followed the recipes religiously to their conclusions and every time has been a success. His confidence is growing and on one occasion he even realised that the dish had finished cooking and he pulled it out before the allotted time was up (for me this is the most incredible achievement of all because my man is a stickler for the rules). Charles is rightfully proud of his success but he was quick to indicate that he didn’t think he’d ever be able to be an intuitive cook who fiddles with recipes like I do. I was quick to reassure him that he’s selling himself short. He has an excellent sense of taste and with time, he will be able to adjust dishes to his liking. I have every faith that he will quickly surpass my own efforts.

After all, he’s only cooked a couple of meals so far and they’ve been a raging success. Even Charlotte tucked in to the lamb with mint glaze without complaint. And that’s really saying something.

Yoga for Dummies

You all might remember my attempts to complete the "New York Ballet Workout" as pre recorded on Foxtel IQ. Let me refresh for you - it all went somewhat swimmingly until we got to yoga poses when I went A over T and set my little guy off in the giggles. At that point I gave up the workout in favour of something reassuringly chocolatey. On the basis of this rather poor display of balance and willpower, I went and bought Yoga For Dummies off Ebay. Or at least I thought I did. When I finally put it on tonight (almost two months after it arrived) I discovered that what I have actually ordered is Beyond Yoga for Dummies. That's right folks. I don't have the core game but I own the expansion pack. Don't worry, says my chipper instructor, Sara, you can still do this workout. Awesome. I almost believe her.

To me yoga seems like something borne out of the disappearance of the Spanish Inquisition. Why torture a man with thumb screws when you can encourage him to torture himself in the name of living longer? Without any weights, devices or external influences yoga seems able to make me hurt a lot. I am not disappointed this time. We do some warm up exercises and before we even get to the core activities I'm wishing I could stretch myself on a rack instead. I cave on the first core activity to start writing this blog entry because people need to be warned. Okay so the first activity is;

The Chair; You get to lower your butt as though you're going to sit in a chair and then here's the surprising bit, there is no chair and you're supposed to keep your butt in the air. You can simulate this pose by pouring paint stripper across the tops of your thighs. At this point we're told that this pose is also called the lightening bolt. Oddly, it's not named after the pain you're feeling shooting through your thighs, it's a reference to the shape of your body and to remind you that this pose is energising and builds strength and stamina. Hold that for six breaths, then try a full chair pose for six breaths. Sara then reminds us that we're only getting started. Next up is;

The Warrior; For those still doing yoga, spread your legs and lean over each knee in turn, holding for six big deep breaths. For those of you simulating this - set fire to the paint stripper.

The Triangle: This is the pose that made me fall over last time. It's no different this time. I feel like I've downed half a bottle of vodka and then tried to do this. Simulators, down your bottle of vodka and try to do a cartwheel. Ta-dah!

At this point Charles comes home and finds me half upside down and alternately giggling and squeaking in pain. His eyebrows disappear into his hair and I decide to stop the DVD and wait for a more private moment to learn the last nine poses. Stay tuned blog followers!

Out of the mouths of babes

In the before times, when I was still able to sleep in on weekends and I didn't constantly feel like I've been at an all night rave, one of the philosophies relating to child rearing that I used to scoff at was "children should be seen and not heard". Before you have kids of your own you like to stand on your soapbox about this one and talk about freedom of expression, encouraging children to be independent people, etc. Unlike some philosophies, which vanish almost the instant they're born, you'll probably hold onto this one for a little while. Well...at least until about three nano seconds after your child randomly insults a member of the general public for the first time. That's the point when it hits you that you've got no control over what comes out of their mouth but society as a whole blames you for it anyway. When that happens you're less about the freedom of expression and you start thinking that maybe the Victorians were onto something.

The first moment of real parental mortification for me was when my tiny daughter, not even three, marched up to an enormous man sitting outside Coles, complete with beard, tatts all over and interesting dental arrangement, patted him on the knee, narrowed her little eyes and said, "Only dirty, stupid people smoke."

Her entire tiny life flashed before my eyes as his eyebrows went up and then my life flashed before my eyes as his gaze settled on me. In that moment, when all sensation bar cold fear ceased, I had no idea that it was about to get worse.

"Did your Mum tell you that?" Mr Beefcake asked her.

She popped her hands on her hips and gave him a firm nod.

"Yes."

I was so frozen in mortification and fear that I couldn't even defend myself. I had told her no such thing but I knew precisely who had. Fortunately for me, Mr Beefcake was not as nasty as he looked.

"Well your Mum's a very smart lady," he told her.

"I know," she agreed two milliseconds before I snatched her up and ran for the safety of Coles.

"Oh yes," Charles said breezily when I confronted him about it, "I'm working on some early indoctrination to make sure she heads in the right direction."

I suggested that perhaps we could work on indoctrination that wouldn't get me knifed in a car park, thank you so much. I wasn't surprised that Charles found the whole thing enormously amusing. He wasn't within striking distance of Mr Beefcake's enormous knuckled Christmas ham masquerading as a hand.

In that case we could have seen it coming. It wasn't a stretch from what she was being told to her telling someone else the same thing. Unfortunately kids are not restrained by what they've been directly told. Sometimes they seem to wing it with a mish mash of creative imagination peppered with something you've told them in the past. Take, for example, the time Charlotte confronted a man with no arm, shaking her finger at him and telling him, "It's your own fault, you should have listened to your Mama and kept it inside the car."

And my other favourite, when she marched up to an enormously tall man with skin like ebony and said, "How come your skin's all black?" That wouldn't have been so bad except that in the time it took for him to identify me as her Mum and give me a questioning glance, Miss Three gave him some possible options;

"Is it because you don't like having a bath or did someone leave you in the oven for too long?"

I think this one followed on from an explanation of the term "a bun in the oven" relating to babies growing inside their Mum coupled with an explanation of why we keep checking our food while we're cooking. That and my showing her how black the face washer was after I'd scrubbed her with it in the bath.

I'm not always the one present when these little faux pas take place. Charles has been treated to his own stellar parenting moments including a delightful little cultural gaff when Charlotte, freshly clued up by her educational television programs, said hello to their Vietnamese server in Chinese. And kept saying hello in Chinese, louder and louder, because the poor woman didn't understand Chinese.

What got me thinking about all of this was the latest Charlotte-initiated cringe moment. In an effort to cheer her up over there not being any preschool today (school holidays) I took Madam through the McDonalds drive thru for lunch. The young man that served us had a bit of a cold, making his voice a bit raspy and weird, but he was delightful and chatting cheerfully to Charlotte through the window while we waited for the EFTPOS payment to clear.

"Excuse me, can I ask you a question?" she asked, very politely.

"Go ahead," he told her.

"Why do you look like a man and sound like a little girl?"

As my toes curled he looked at me in confusion.

"What did she say?"

"Um...she's just really excited about getting a happy meal," I muttered.

And from the back seat, clear as a bell, came "I SAID..."

Words fail me at times like this but I can't help thinking that maybe there is something to that old adage that children should be seen and not heard.

* I would be especially delighted if you would leave a few examples in the comments telling us about your own "out of the mouths of babes" cringe-worthy moments.

I honestly don't know how you do it...

I know the debate rages constantly over the working mum versus the stay-at-home mum. We talk about mothers that have no choice to work, families who sacrifice so much financially so mum can stay at home...and no matter which side of the fence you sit it seems that your opinion is the correct one and you think anyone different has a hot spa all their own reserved in hell. Recently there was a study into which environment led to healthier children - ironically full time working mums and stay-at-home mums fared equally poorly...both churning out equally obese little tackers while the part-time Mums had the healthiest children.

Rather typically for me, I really don't know or care which is best. I don't believe there is a cookie cutter solution than can be applied like a security blanket to all children. Follow this method and your children will turn out well adjusted, happy little people and no one will ever turn to a life of crime again. I think it's something every family must decide for themselves. I also think that fathers got off pretty lightly in the whole debate. In some ways its sad that a father is simply expected to keep working - but my sympathy is curtailed when I see the sheer amount of guilt and expectation placed on mothers. Why is it all about the mother's choice? Why don't people ask fathers if they plan to work after the baby's born and then curl their lip and say, "I've always thought that small children need to be at home with their Dad"?

In our case Charles earned the most money and I had the milk-filled breasts so the choice about who would stay home was easy. What was harder was whether I would return to work at all. With Charlotte I was going to be a stay-at-home Mum. Then I gave birth to Miss Outgoing and by the age of six months, if we spent the whole day at home she would almost drive me mad. We needed to go shopping, playing, swimming, visiting other babies - anything to keep her occupied. And it was painfully obvious that apart from the milk-filled breasts I was a bit redundant as far as she was concerned.

She went into daycare at 10 months and it was immediately obvious that I'd made the right decision. She surveyed the room in wonder - clearly wondering where all these playmates had been her whole life and she never even noticed when I left - she was already engaged in the serious business of playing with the other babies. Her first ever tantrum came that weekend when we didn't go to daycare. I had prepared myself for tantrums, tears, separation anxiety...and I was the only one who suffered those afflictions. Apart from her obvious delight with the working mother arrangement, I have to admit that I really loved being back at work. Nice clothes untainted by baby sick, ten minute blocks of time to sit down and not have to get up, leisurely lunches and extra cash to play with. Bliss.

I have never regretted my decision because it was obviously the right one for Charlotte. She's blossomed into a social, bright little girl who makes friends within two minutes of landing in a new social situation and I think daycare has played a large part in that.

James was a whole other kettle of baby. The day he was born he growled when anyone held him but me and his infatuation has continued unabated since. Until very recently he had to be in the bathroom with me so he could see me while I showered and when I left him with anyone but his Dad he would scream uncontrollably until I returned. Rather than play independently he would only be happy when he was in my lap and we were playing together. My only respite was when he slept and when he was in his Jolly Jumper. I didn't think daycare was going to be an option at all and I was ready to give up work all over again.

It's funny how few people appreciate how hard the decision to stay at home can be. They think it's some sort of mythical modern utopia. You stay at home and you play with your children all day. What fun! They don't take into account how you suddenly become responsible for all the housework, all the errands - how people call you up to do their errands (because you have so much free time) and not to mention how insane a total lack of adult conversation can make you.

My husband is a little bit guilty of this. He says he doesn't expect me to do all the housework but it's definitely not a 50/50 arrangement and he always looks to me to point out what housework he should do (as though the threat of being crushed by the mound of clean washing in the laundry isn't a good enough indication). He also rather glibly arranges extra curricular activities outside work like business trips, gaming and drinking with his friends and then doesn't understand why I get so frustrated and upset. I admit, it's hard for him to know how alone you can feel when you're a stay-at-home mother because he's never had to do it. I really look forward to him coming home and just talking to me and giving me a break from 24/7 suicide watch on the big one and constant entertainment for the little one.

I've tried explaining it but he's never had to watch either or both of our children for an extended period so I know he doesn't really understand it. Three or four hours is the longest I've ever managed to get out and about without James since he was born. Even then I've only managed it a handful of times. Charles' solution to my frustration was to tell me that I should get out more and do more things. And happily enough, James has recently become quite mobile and his Mama addiction has eased to the point where I feel comfortable leaving him. So I've been going to burlesque classes.

I think Charles has found those few hours on a Sunday quite challenging. A couple of times I've stayed on to have a drink or two with the girls and the tone of voice down the phone when I've called in has been frustrated and a little despairing. But he maintained that I should still strive to get out more. So, in an effort to bring in some money without having to pop the littlie in daycare, I enrolled in a swim teacher course which ran all day Saturday and all day Sunday with a view to working on weekends to bring in some extra cash. Charles assured me he'd be fine with the kids while I did the course but I still had some reservations. Turns out it was one of the best things I could have done.

When I got home on the Saturday Charles had the stunned, slightly glazed look I see in the mirror at the end of every day. When I asked him how he went his eyes got the wide-eyed stare all war veterans get when recounting their experiences.

"I don't know how you do it," he gasped and I laughed. His eyes got wider.

"No, I mean it," he said, "I honestly don't know how you do it. I haven't managed to do any housework at all."

He was completely flabbergasted at how exhausting it was just to look after the two of them for a whole day. He'd had visions of not just getting the housework done, but of doing a really good job and I could tell that he was a little bit miffed that all he'd managed to do was keep the kids alive. He's always maintained that all I need to do is keep them alive and he'll be happy. But I've always felt that there's an unspoken expectation that because I'm the one at home, I'll do all the chores and errands. For me this means distracting Charlotte while James has his morning nap so I can work like a hummingbird on speed at the housework. This doesn't give me a lot of time to do things and so I work on what I call "the essentials plus one" principal. Which is all the essentials like dishes, clothes, vacuuming, etc first and then either one room gets a proper clean or I do one major cleaning activity like dusting.

The result of the essentials plus one method is that my house is in a constant state of clean but cluttered. It's never pristine but then no one calls DOCS and reports me for neglect and my home hasn't had its own feature on "Hoarders" (yet). I don't know how other mothers keep their homes in an orderly state but I suspect they're a lot nastier with their kids and hubby. Certainly it would take a megaphone and a cattle prod to get mine to clear up after themselves. Charles thinks I care too much about the state of the house. He thinks as long as we're all clean and happy, I'm a success. It's also obvious that as far as he's concerned, I'm the one who cares about it and I'm the one with the time to clean it. I have been unofficially wearing the "domestic princess" tiara ever since Charlotte was born.

It was nice to hear that he found it hard to look after the kids and the house for two full days. Sometimes I feel like a spectacular domestic failure. I get the urge to check into a motel - by myself - just to have a clean place to stay and someone else to pick up after me for a change. I feel like calling a skip and chucking everything out except one set of dishes each and three sets of clothes. I fantasise about making a new rule that if you don't clean your own dishes and clothes, no one else will. And oh how I dream of going back to work. My own money, my own space, adult conversation, and out from the yoke of domestic expectation.

I am thrilled that James finally seems to be becoming a little bit more independent and I would love for him to graduate to daycare - even if it's only part time. But for now I will settle for a little more time to myself and a husband who has a better understanding of why I look so frazzled at the end of the day and why his underpants draw isn't always full.

See? This is why we can't have nice things!

Until recently we had a fairly respectable queen sized ensemble for a bed. It was great until the little fat guy came along. We could still all fit but if one of the kids sneezed, either Charles or I were unceremoniously dumped out of the bed depending on which way the source of the sneeze was facing. So we decided that with the sale of our old house, it was time to invest in something more family friendly in the bed department – something king sized.

As is the usual practice in our relationship, I did all of the groundwork and research, scurrying through bed stores armed with catalogues and outraged brats in tow and then, when I’d narrowed it down to a couple of choices, I brought Charles in to make the ultimate decision. This is where all of my careful research and frugal negotiations are thrown aside and we buy something I would usually never look at twice.

I’m not disappointed. In this instance Charlotte’s King Single with trundle for sleepovers was quickly upgraded to a purple princess double bunk monstrosity. Then my modest King sized sleigh bed with middle-of-the-range mattress is transformed into an enormous phallic monstrosity in dark timber with its own gold name plate…and matching side tables that rival the size of the sideboard in the dining room. Oh yes, and deluxe mattress. All up our new bedroom suite costs five times what I paid for my first car.

For a visual check out this ace photo, clipped from the catalogue:

This always happens. Charles’ tastes are a lot more extravagant and expensive than mine (just look at how much jewellery the man wears as opposed to me) and he always manages to talk me into these ridiculous purchases with extremely reasonable arguments. Which in this particular case were;

1.) The bed I’ve picked is solid timber, not just pine with a dark surface stain so when it chips or dents, it won’t have cheap pale pine showing through.

2.) If we buy this bed we won’t need to buy another bed for as long as we live. So really we’re saving money in the long run.

3.) I have a bad back so I need a top-of-the-line mattress.

4.) We may as well get the matching side tables – it’s not that much extra compared to the price and it will look really nice. Did I mention we won’t be buying another bed for as long as we live? So we should get a bedroom suite and not just a bed.

Then he divides the cost over ten years, breaks that down into a weekly cost and suddenly I’m not looking at $ but instead a fairly minimal amount that could be spent on either going to lunch or buying an impressive bed. So I give in and we get the very masculine bed. In my head, where occasionally I divide our assets into "His" and "Hers" as a mental exercise for the purposes of maintaining sanity and recognising that divorce, not murder, should be the first choice for concluding our marriage, I assign the whole thing to the “His” column. As soon as we’ve given them a non-refundable deposit I go home and start having misgivings. I’m not even sure the whole lot will fit into our bedroom. Charles remains confident.

When the whole thing comes it is massive, it barely fits, but Charles is right and it does indeed look awesome. In fact, it makes the rest of the house look a bit small and crappy. It also helps if I don’t think of the price or compare that amount of money to all the other things I could have spent or, worse, how much interest I would have saved if all that money had gone on the mortgage instead.

When she sees it in person for the first time Pippa spends a long time looking at it and when I prompt her with, “I know, it’s all very phallic, isn’t it?” she looks at me appraisingly and says, “It is very ‘this is where me and my whole medieval family of twelve sleep’”. She won’t be drawn further on the subject.

For all of my misgivings the new bed does the job it was bought for and all four of us fit comfortably, even accounting for Charlotte’s personal preference for sleeping sideways while thrashing. Unfortunately all of Charles’ predictions about it lasting a lifetime failed to factor in the kind of abuse it was likely to see at the hands of our family. I personally had thought the first blood would come from Charles' penchant for throwing himself down onto furniture instead of sitting. Instead, it came when we discovered this morning that some of the decorative moulding had been snapped off the foot of the bed.

The instant I point it out Charlotte pops her hands on her hips, narrows her eyes and says, “Well I didn’t do it.”

Our eyes instantly meet – whenever a four-year-old announces that she isn’t responsible for something, especially before anyone has accused her or asked her about it, you can conclude that she is 100% the source of the trouble at hand.

In this case her habit of scrambling over the foot of the bed in the morning and launching herself onto us from her delicate toe-hold on the moulding has taken its toll on our month-old super deluxe sleeping apparatus. There’s no point being cross about it – this is the sort of thing that kids do. It’s why we only own cheap, solid Fantastic Furniture couches and a dining table made from cheap Indonesian hardwood that requires either four men or a small explosive device to shift it. It is the latest in a long line of wanton destruction, the worst of which included an explosion of Picasso-esque activity throughout the house with a permanent marker while I slept one afternoon.

That particular incident, which included the “prettying up” of our white kitchen cabinets, our new fridge, our new flatscreen, my mother’s antique hall stand, every wall and door up the hallway of our BRAND NEW HOUSE, every piece of furniture in James’ room and, indeed, James himself (who was turned into a baby zebra), gave us quite a benchmark by which all future naughties will be assessed. Compared to that the bed is a minor blip on quite an erratic radar and no doubt it will all be fixed with a bit of PVA and some brown shoe polish to hide the seam.

Clearly as parents we're becoming accustomed to the destruction of everything we own, despite our efforts to contain the source of the trouble. This time all she got was a stern, "No more climbing over the end of the bed". It's not even worth yelling about. The point of relating all this is to serve as warning for people who don’t yet have children. It’s no good having nice things if you have littlies. This is the reason older people fill their houses with beautifully polished timber furniture, snow white lace doilies, fine china and elegant crystal everything. Because, for the first time in their lives, they can.

Shimmy, Shimmy, Shake!

Week two of burlesque classes involves clustering around what has to be the tiniest laptop with the tinniest speakers in existence trying to watch short clips that will help us understand the origins of burlesque and give us some clues about choosing a prop and developing our alter egos. I have a strong idea about my alter ego’s personality, a vague sense that it shouldn’t be allowed out in public and not even the vaguest hint about what her name might be.

During the week I did practice my dance. In fact I ponied up, applied a skimpy outfit, did my hair and makeup and performed our little routine for Charles after the kids had gone to bed. Before I went to get ready I asked him to clear me some space in the family room. When I came back I found about two square feet of clear space directly in front of his chair. I rolled my eyes and explained that he would not be receiving a lap dance. A larger space was hastily cleared. Then I laid out the ground rules. If you laugh, you’re dead. If you criticise, you’re dead. If you look remotely sceptical about any part of the performance, you will be severely maimed and left for dead. Yes you’re allowed to tell your friends.

And then I take my place and wait. The dance starts with my back to the audience and I have maybe two seconds while Charles cues the music. I almost make a run for it. But then I swallow my fear and turn, starting the dance. As soon as my eyes hit Charles I lose almost all of my nervousness. He is wearing that stunned half smile I imagine men reserve for those infrequent moments in their lives when amazingly erotic things take place. Things like bursting in on two women making love, stumbling across frisky nymphs skinny dipping in sun-dappled pools…that sort of thing. His eyes are full of wonder and a hint of disbelief that he’s being allowed to watch this. Sixty seconds in and that’s all the routine we’ve learned.

“I don’t care,” says Charles, “Just ad lib it.”

And so I do. Adult situations ensue.

So here we are back at burlesque classes for week two and this week we’re joined by the rather aptly named Deb Delicious. First up we gather to watch various burlesque-related clips. Some of it is so amazingly risqué that I feel a little like a teenager watching porn. After watching the clips it’s time to learn how to twirl nipple tassels. This is a lot easier to do than it sounds. Really all you do is pin the tassels to your bra and bounce. Lunge to the right and they spin clockwise. Lunge to the left and they’ll spin anti-clockwise. It’s a neat little trick. What’s a lot harder is getting them to spin in alternate directions by shimmying your breasts. I shimmy like I’ve been tasered to no avail. All I manage to do is make my tassels look like they’re in the throes of an epileptic fit. Deb Delicious can do the most amazing breast shimmying I’ve ever seen and her tassels obliging spin in alternate directions. It is completely mesmerising and totally soul-destroying. I have to stop and watch – which is a much better use of my time because there’s no way I’ll ever be able to do that.

Before we leave Miss Kitka impresses upon us the need to come up with our alter ego names and props. I feel horribly pressured because I'm nowhere near coming up with a name, so I race home and immediately start working on it. I start by typing “burlesque name generator” into google. There are quite a few but my favourite is at http://www.empty-handed.com/archive/burlesque/burlesque.html This site just throws up random burlesque names – some are worthy of glittery billboards in Vegas, others are purely the giggle factor. I flirt with something involving Kitten or Kitty, which has always been Charles’ nickname for me. Unfortunately Kitty or Kitten is about the cheesiest burlesque name in existence. That and anything Rose.

Clearly my mind is working on the name issue even while I sleep because a few days later I wake up at three in the morning and announce that my new burlesque name will be Ginger Storm. Charles’ response is, “Huh? Okay. Ginger Storm. Sure.”

The next morning I wake up and announce I have a burlesque name.

“I know,” Charles says a mite smug, “Ginger Storm.”

“No, Ginger SNAP,” I giggle.

I get an eye roll before he goes to have his shower but the name sticks and the feedback so far has been pretty positive. The name also works with my prop – a riding crop. So I have a name, I have a prop, and I can twirl my nipple tassels. And thus concludes week two of burlesque…

Get Your Shimmy On

The number of official comments and followers I have on this blog would suggest that maybe four people start reading it and two actually finish it (and one of those two will be a paranoid Pippa checking up to see what I wrote about her). Mind you, when I separate from my husband and stop writing the blog suddenly there are people I didn’t even know had access to it who start calling me up and asking me why I’ve stopped writing and when the next instalment will be.

Well I stopped writing because my husband left me – hard to be witty and jovial when you’re feeling like one of life’s great losers. And when will the next blog be? Well that would be NOW.

So getting things back on track suffered a minor setback with the whole SEPARATION but since then I’ve managed to turn (some) things around. As I write, all three laundry hampers are empty, the only dirty dish in the house is the cup I’m drinking out of and it’s been at least three nights since I had to call in emergency takeaway so my family didn’t starve to death. I even have the ingredients for tonight’s dinner in the fridge as I type. Plus the kitchen and the bathroom are clean, I’ve cleaned and vacuumed my car and the living and dining room are looking quite tidy. Household wise, I’m doing fairly well.

Then there was diet and exercise. Well the diet has been okay, not great and so far no real weight loss. I’m chalking this up to nursing my sorrows with my good friend Cadbury. Exercise is slowly building up. Tuesday night I mowed the lawn (which was far more epic than first anticipated thanks to all that Indian Summer and rain we had recently). Thursdays and Fridays I walk Charlotte to and from preschool – which is a lot harder than it would be if she wasn’t so taken with the concept of being my personal trainer. “Faster Mama!” “We can’t go home yet, I’m not tired!” (That’s because you’re in the stroller that I’m pushing). Speaking of that stroller – it weighs 12 kilos, James weighs 11 and Charlotte weighs 20+. So I’m pushing about 45 kilos – a tidy workout really – not that Ms Brat will give me any credit for that.

So I did promise you that I would complete a series of physical challenges during March on my way to getting fit and I also promised that I would make Pippa come too. Our first brand new activity is, somewhat ironically, an activity that Ms Pippa has suggested. We’re doing burlesque. YouTube it if you have no idea what I’m talking about and for those even less inclined to look it up, it’s a very gaudy sort of erotic dance. Think Chicago. Sequins and beads, shaking of T and A, bawdy big band music.

I am so nervous about doing this class that I wake up with night sweats in the week leading up to our first class. I have visions of myself, rapidly heading into middle age, post-two kiddies body and about ten years since I last went clubbing, surrounded by lithe young whipper snappers with Playboy-worthy bodies doing my best to pull my shattered self esteem together and jiggle in a way that might be attractive to someone somewhere while they giggle behind their feather boas. Bitches. I hate them already.

When I actually show up to class, I realise pretty quickly that I am far off the mark. Everyone that shows up is as nervous as I am and we all huddle and chat, pretending to ignore the music filtering through from the class before ours. I doubt any of them are in their twenties and none of them are the atypical bimbo type. My confidence perks up a little. When we’re ushered in we’re confronted by our teachers – who are wearing pink polo shirts and tights. So much for glamour. Before we start we sit in a circle and we talk about how we found out about the class and why we’re there. Then we have to go around and say what makes us feel sexy and what makes us feel unsexy. Before we start our teacher, Miss Kitka, emphasises that we’re talking about what makes us feel SEXY not HORNY.

Ironically the stuff that makes us feel sexy is almost universal – looking good, nice clothes, nice lingerie, perfume, makeup, confidence and having people compliment us or appreciate us. No shattering of clichés for this lot. But what makes people feel unsexy varies a great deal. When it’s my turn, I don’t talk about tracksuits and ugh boots (which are quite unsexy in my opinion) but instead I mention nasty comments and bitchiness – nothing can shatter my confident, sexy mood faster than that. Since they’re all nodding and smiling in agreement I figure they feel the same and hopefully those things will be absent from the class.

And now it’s time to get our jiggle on. We start by – well I suppose the only accurate word for it is – “strutting” in a circle. Hands on hips, elbows back, breasts out and up, swing those hips to the beat ladies. As we strut we learn how to hip thrust, breast shimmy and grind. It is all deliciously titillating and a number of us are giggling uncontrollably. Almost as soon as we’re done with the strutting we learn how to butt shimmy. Fortunately I know how to do this one thanks to belly dancing. Unfortunately I have the same problem now as I did back then– the instant I try to think about or concentrate on what I’m doing and it’s a bit like blowing a tyre on the highway. The shake starts to be a bit off centre, then it’s horribly exaggerated and finally the material you’re driving with explodes in all directions and you limp to an ungainly halt.

And now we start learning our routine. The smooth moves are set to some very cheesy big band type music and “tawdry” is a fairly accurate description for it. It begs to be danced to by a bunch of floozies. Or us – housewives cleverly disguised as floozies in training. For our dance half the class must sit and be the subject of the dancing while the other half dance. Miss Kitka explains that she used to give people a couple of weeks to get used to the dancing before this bit but then she just figured people could deal with it and get over it. She promises that by the end of the beginner’s course we’ll be able to perform this dance for anyone. For some very weird, unknown reason a mental image of John Howard pops into my head and I get the giggles.

The dance is quite saucy, very teasing and I love it instantly. What I’m not loving is having to perform it for another woman who is clearly deep in shock with her eyebrows half cocked in disbelief at the realisation that she is actually about to be the subject of an erotic dance performed by me. After all, it’s Sunday afternoon at the Irish Club – I’m sure we could find half a dozen slightly inebriated rednecks who will wear that stupid grin of masculine appreciation while we grind away. Never mind, deep shock it is. Not a single woman in the room looks like next month’s Playboy pinup. And yet I can confidently say that every single one of them is managing to dance in an extremely enticing way which makes me look away and blush quite a bit. Burlesque is not just about the moves, it’s about the feeling and emotion behind it too. And what makes it so exciting is the fact that we’re all about the tease and showing off our feminine charms – this is not a lap dance designed to harvest a five dollar bill as fast as possible.

By the end of the class I’m totally hooked. It’s not often you walk into a dance class for a new style of dancing and feel instantly at home with it and confident that you’ll be able to master it. We’re given a bunch of homework – pick out a burlesque name, think of a prop to go with the name, and practice everything we’ve learned today. Pippa has already thought of hers – she’s “Dolly Pegs” and she’s going to make her own saucy little housewife apron to go with her routine. I have not a clue what my name will be but I’m almost 100% sure my prop will be a riding crop. And I can’t wait to go home and practice…