Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Sticky Piccie - Boys and their toys




A fun morning at the local playground. Notice the lack of actual grass or shade. That’s France for you! Although you can be guaranteed that any patch of grass in french-ville is littered with dog poop - you know how the french are with their pooches - so I guess the town planners are doing us a favour when they build these kinds of nature-free playgrounds. Thanks....I think.

Monday, August 30, 2010

That feeling



Dear Bub-bub,


Your daddy generously let me sleep in this morning. At 8am, I padded lightly down the stairs to join the two of you. The minute I saw you, something big in me shifted. Boom! And there it is....


Today is the first day that I look at you and see a little boy, not a baby.  I thought it would be so subtle, watching you grow, but this morning, that feeling in me went off like a switch. Yesterday, baby. Today, toddler. Black and white. Day and night. How big a difference twelve hours can make! You looked up at me, said, ‘Mumum’, extended your little arms upwards and sat on my hip like you do each and every day, although this time, you were my big boy, no longer my little baby (you’ll always be my baby, but you know what I mean). 


After a delicious cuddle, I popped you back down and off you went, zooming around on all fours, playing with your trucks, walking with your baby walker, taking a sip from your water bottle. How grown up you are! It’s like you’re finally comfortable with this big world of ours. You know how things work. You know the rhythm of our days, what to expect next, how you fit in. 


I look at you and realise what a tremendous space you occupy in our lives. The biggest of them all. When you were a tiny baby, a newborn, even several months old, the pieces of our family jigsaw puzzle were still gently sliding over one another, gaging where and how they would best fit together. Now? Those three puzzle pieces are fused, locked into place, as if they had never, ever been separate pieces at all. 


Everything about being your mum makes sense to me now, more than ever. Waking up at 7am is normal and comfortable. Thinking ahead, preparing your food, folding your clothes, kissing you goodnight - actions that are all so organic these days. This is what it means to be a mother. This is what it feels like. This deep, grounding, warm, humming feeling that lives somewhere between my heart, my chest and my belly. 


I can feel it glowing right now. 


Je t’aime,


Mumum



Saturday, August 28, 2010

The french sure know how to entertain

Last night we were invited to dinner by our french/catalan friends.

Papadada and I fasted in preparation for the feast that awaited us. We know how these frenchies roll.

This was a casual friday night dinner between friends - 2 french couples and us ‘fr-aussies’ - all of us in summer dresses, shorts, flip-flops - totally casual.

The meal itself? Not so casual. Because food in France? Is NEVER casual. It’s a very serious affair, from the bread basket to the table cloth itself, no stone is left unturned, no detail overlooked. The way the french entertain still blows us away. The hosts are younger than us, yet their repertoire of recipes and hosting ‘know how’ is simply awe-inspiring.

The Setting - Al fresco, under the stars, dinner table set up on an old stone terrace.

Apperitif - A wide selection of beverages, from dry white wine, to Pastis, to chilled Rosé.

Starter - Cherry tomatoes and fresh mozarella kebabs, cool cucumber sticks with home made yoghurt dipping sauce, freshly baked savoury croissants, filled with asparagus spears, smoked ham and bechamel sauce.

Main - GIANT wood-fire cooked seafood paella. Chorizo, mussels, langoustine, white fish....

Cheese Course - (yes, cheese course) An ashy Morbier, a slab of bluey-tinged Roquefort and a selection of other high-cholesterol delights.

Dessert - Individual, home-made chocolate fondante puddings, with a white chocolate lava centre. Never.tasted.anything.like.it.ever.

Dessert #2 - (yes, two  desserts) Home-made raspberry loaf.

Dessert was accompanied by champagne. Of course it was.

Coffee - Plunger, of course. Espresso, you bet.

Liqueurs - The 70% alcohol kind...

It’s truly an experience to dine with French people. You never leave the table before 11pm, but what’s not to love about that? Every chapter of the meal brings new flavours and palette sensations. My tastebuds grow new tastebuds the minute we walk through our friends’ front door. These guys certainly put my hosting abilities to shame, but I love learning from them, and watching the mouth-watering show they put on for us each and every time. Amazing.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Sticky Piccie - Father & Son

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Tag, you’re it

I’ve been tagged by the lovely Erin over at Huddy P. The posts she writes about pop-culture threaten my pelvic floor strength every time. Lots of laughs = pee myself. A little. Gross.

Here we go:

1/ What is your signature colour?
Ummmm.....clearly I’m not a proper grown up because I am struggling to answer this question. Or perhaps it’s the fact that we’re currently living the Expat lifestyle, residing in houses that aren’t our own...which translates to me not giving a rat’s ass about the decor. I shall answer this question once we move back to our home in Australia...and after I consult with an interior decorator....or Sven at Ikea. Ha! If it’s clothing, I love blood-orange as a colour.

2/ What is your most embarrassing moment?
There have been many. But I’m going to go with...Grade 2, I’m 7 years old, it’s recess. My group of girlfriends has been invited to play rugby with the cool boys. I’m already out of my depth but Ben Ware is on the boys team, and I’m in love. Before I get the chance to showcase my athletic ability, a giant oval shaped ball drops out of the heavens and lands on my head. I collapse in a heap. And then try my hardest not to cry in front of everyone.

3/ Would you get anything pierced other than your ears? If so, what?
I got my ears pierced next door to Bloomingdales on 60th street in Manhattan. I was 25. Which suggests that I would be 50 before I even consider piercing anything else. And the answer then will be "NO, you old boiler”!

4/ Are you a social butterfly or a homebody?
This is a tough one. Can I be a social homebody? Or a home butterfly perhaps? These days, I’m no good past 11pm MAX. But I do love me a good shin dig/bbq/dinner party/new restaurant/drinks with friends. No place like home, though. The couch, the hubby, the dinner, the tv, the sliding doors wide open inviting a gentle breeze in to cool us down.  Ahhhhhhhhhh.......

5/ Are you done having babies or do you want more?
Another sticky bub is definitely on the cards, but we’re happy to wait until the original model is a wee bit older. Watch this space.

6/ Are you loyal to your hairstylist or do you try every salon in town?
Total hairdresser slut.

7/ How many times have you moved in your life?
18. I’m counting from when I was a kid here. Still a ridiculous amount. #19 could very well be a few weeks away.

8/ If you could plan a vacation for just you and your love, where would it be?
Erin, I’m going to copy you on this one and say Bali! I’ve been dying to go to one of those self-contained villas, with your own private pool, all open-plan, breezy and fresh. Massages, scooter-hire to explore the Balinese surroundings, markets, beach bars, room service, fresh fruit, coconut oil. Yes please!

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Shake your tail feather

Monday, August 23, 2010

The end of something beautiful...

Forget I’m a mummy-blogger for just a second.

Sticky Baby will not feature in this post. This is serious adult stuff.

I need to vent about reality television.

My balance is out of whack and my stars are misaligned. The Hills is over for good.

Trisha Yearwood sang it best in ConAir when she crooned, "How can I live without you, I want to know, How can I breathe without you, if you ever go".

How can I BREATHE people?! The Hills is gone forever, never to return to my Philips flatscreen. A series that I watched from it’s inception, way back in the Laguna Beach days. Characters that I’ve grown to hate, and hate some more. Audrina, with her fabulously messy hair and vacant stare, Kristin with her twangy Californian accent and joygasmic beach houses, Justin Bobby and his ambiguous one-liners, Brody and his trucker hats, Spencer&Heidi and their freaky crystals. Dear God! I can’t stand not having these losers in my life anymore! And the soundtrack! The aspirational, so-trendy-it-hurts soundtrack! Ripped from my life! Gaaah!

And you think MTV could’ve been kind and not aired the season finale of The City on the same night as the death of The Hills. For the love of staged drama, how much more can one reality TV addict take? At least give me a good dose of Whitney and Kelly Cutrone after ripping my heart out and stomping on it, you sadists! But no, apparently the cold turkey approach is best. Well I’m here to tell you it’s not. I’m twitching, as I type.

A little part of me has died. My brain cells are probably rejoicing at the prospect of no longer being killed off, episode by episode, but my soul is withering.

I’m off to cry in my The Hills themed pillow-case whilst listening to the theme song on repeat.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Man vs Beast

video

The Beast won.

End Note:  I called the beast a sheep...but now I’m thinking it’s a goat. Damn it, what is it? Sheep? Goat? I’m a city girl. Shoot me.


End End Note:  Sticky Baby did eventually recover from his terrifying Sh-oat encounter. Just when we thought the petting zoo trauma was behind us, a giant donkey trots over, bares its nightmare-inducing teeth and brays SO FREAKIN’ LOUDLY in Sticky Baby’s direction. Horror. More tears. 

Sunday afternoon introduction to farm animals? Blazing success.

Friday, August 20, 2010

It’s the final countdown

Departure day is nigh...Three weeks and counting.

Australia, start covering your furniture in plastic wrap, Sticky Baby is coming to town!

Papadada and I are on the edge of our seats. Even Sticky Baby’s little bum-bum is perched precariously on his high-chair. This trip will be our first trip ‘home’ together - EVER! Monumental, I know. 

The Sticky One and I travelled back to Oz in February of this year, alone, without our beloved PapaD. It was a tough decision - Work commitments meant that Papadada had to stay in France, but we knew it was important for family and friends to meet our fresh-baked offspring before his baby days were over and out. He was 5 months old at the time, bald as a badger, still not enough core strength to sit up independently. Baby factor was high.

Now? Well, he’s 11 months old, but don’t tell him that, ‘cause he thinks he’s 5. Proof, you ask? Tonight after his bath, he decided to dive off our bed, head first, as naked as Laurence Fishburrne’s daughter. It’s the baby equivalent of sky diving. Thanks to my feral-cat-like agility, I managed to grab hold of an ankle before his forehead met with the tiles. It was totally like that scene out of Mission Impossible.


Needless to say, when the folks back home see him walking through those airport doors, they won’t believe their eyes. He’s a not a baby anymore. He has hair, Converse boots, eats whole nectarines, and is obsessed with pointing at birds (airplanes, kites, satellite dishes, roof tiles - they’re all BIRDS, ok?).

This holiday trip to Australia is a landmark event for Papadada too. It’s been TWO YEARS since he last went home. That should be illegal. He misses it so much, for varying reasons. But let’s be clear. Papadada is a food junkie. He’s a big unit of a man, so he’s allowed to eat. And eat. And eat some more. When on vacation, most people makes lists of what they would like to see, do, experience. Papadada makes lists of foods he can’t wait to ingest. ‘Delicacies’ he cannot find in France.

On his to do eat list:

Red Rooster roll x 1000
Rissoles and chips
Loaf of bread + bbq chicken + coleslaw

You were fooled by the word ‘delicacy’ weren’t you?

For me, I am looking forward to so many things. Some of them may cause some serious frowning and eyebrow arching, but trust me, our petit french village is just that...petit. So places and services that you may take for granted in your fancy-schmancy big-ass, non-french town DO NOT EXIST HERE.

I cannot wait to....

✈Go to the gym a few times a week with my baby, while he enjoys the gym’s in-house creche and I burn calories like it’s nobody’s business. This body has not seen the inside of a gym since pregnancy. Why? Gyms in our town do not cater for babies, ergo, I can’t go. It’s me, myself and I 'round these parts, so if Le Gym doesn’t provide Le care for Le Baby, Le mummy must forgo group fitness classes and weight equipment until she is back in Australia. Sacre Bleu!

✈Drink a soy latte...every hour on the hour. You ask for soy milk in France? They report you. And anything other than a short black? They hold you in the cell without bail.

✈Spend an afternoon in one of the luxurious baby change facilities at the local mall. Yes, you read correctly - I want to hang out in the toilets. I’ve written a previous post on the apalling lack of baby-friendly facilities in France. So you can bet your bottom AUD$ that I’ll be spending leisure time in the baby care rooms, soaking up the sweet smell of disinfectant, twirling around in circles like Frauline Maria in The Sound of Music. 

✈Attend a ‘grown-up’ event, such as the Valentino Retrospective Exhibition that is currently touring back home. Another grown-up event I can’t wait for? My bff’s 30th birthday bash! Holla! We’re going to the polo.  For the love of Hugh Hefner’s silk pjs, THE POLO! I see sexy cocktail dresses and lots of champagne bubbles in my very near future...hic...cup.

✈Spend a weekend away, ALONE, with the hubby. Nice hotel, crisp white sheets, a bit of boom-chic-a-wow-wow (omg my family read this - abort, abort!),  room service, sleep-ins, hotel pool, wining and dining, window-shopping.....can.not.wait.

In a nutshell. The 3 of us are trés excited. We say that we are counting the days, but secretly I’m counting the hours.

504 hours to go!


Thursday, August 19, 2010

Nigella Lawson, I am not

In an attempt to create a jaw-dropping mid-week meal, complete with home-made arugula and pine-nut pesto, this happened:



What the eff.
Seriously, who rams a wooden spoon in a blender....with the power still on? I do.
I was trying to smoosh the ingredients down into the blades. The arugula was just sitting there - not spinning, not smooshing - just being plain rude and totally not getting into the pesto spirit of things. Now? I want to punch that arugula in the head.

On the menu tonight: Tomato and fresh mozarella salad with grilled chicken topped with arugula and pine-nut pesto...and a side dish of SPLINTERS.

Bon appetit.



Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Sticky Piccie - Rawhiiiiiide!

A few days ago we took Sticky Baby to the local horse centre thingy (I'm sure there's a proper name for it, but I just had dinner and I can't digest and think at the same time). He was too wittle to ride on any of the steeds, but he did a damn good job of dramatically staring out into the distance. Seriously, I think he's got a mini wild west holster and sheriff badge tucked away inside his Pampers. You did Clint Eastwood proud, baby.


Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Job well done

You know that feeling when there’s a job that needs doing, yet you can’t quite bring yourself to do it?

I am procrastination royalty when it comes to niggling little chores that really don’t hold any value, but you know deep down in your clogged face pores that you should just get them done. Not big ticket tasks like cooking, vacuuming or laundry (although.....) but more along the lines of:

☁ Filing that rogue health insurance letter from back in February
☁ Removing the big-ass wad of lint/fluff/dark blue shiz that fills up the clothes dryer filter
☁ Picking out that piece of frozen rotting lettuce that is stuck, barnacle-style to the fridge vegie drawer
☁ Organising the plastic container cupboard in the kitchen so it no longer looks like a Tuppaware sales lady threw up in there (‘cause Tuppaware sales people always vomit mis-matched lids and receptacles....duh)


(☁ = dark, looming, ever-present cloud in my domestic day)


So the task that’s been eating away at me for the past 2...ahem...12 weeks?


Wiping down the kitchen cupboard doors.

Seriously, who gives a crap, right? But readers, these cupboard doors have a serious attitude problem. They’ve been mocking me, taunting me for what seems like an eternity. Bitchy little droplets of water, vindictive spots of detergent residue, spiteful handprints of varying sizes, all staring me down like Clint Eastwood and John Wayne in an old western flick (cue the ooy-ay-ooy-ay-oo of the ocarina + rattle-snake sound effect + tumbleweeds...I’m a master of visualisation, no?)

Today, I did it. I finally did it. And really, I think I should consult with a therapist, ‘cause I even did the chore in a way that kind of, sort of made me think I wasn’t doing it. Whuhh? A bit like when you tell a kid that you’re not going to rip the bandaid off then point to a random birdy in the window and then YANK it off before they even realise it’s happening. Yes. Over here...sicko with the cupboard cleaning reverse psychology diversion tactics...

So, one minute Sticky Baby and I are sitting on the pantry floor eating sultanas, and the next minute, while whistling a tune to distract myself (could I get any weirder?), I have a bottle of white vinegar in one hand, a sponge in the other, going hell for leather on the cupboard doors. SHAZAM! And she’s cleaning! A bit of elbow grease, a few sultanas tossed in Sticky Baby’s direction, and KAPOW! Kitchen cupboards are immaculate!

It all happened so fast, I could hardly believe that after weeks of wincing each time I noticed those smudged doors, it was really, truly over. And breathe.....

I just love tricking myself into doing stuff.

Next on the agenda? Purchase straight jacket on Ebay...

(Papadada if you’re reading this, I know this post may suggest that I’ve lost my marbles. Dont’ be alarmed. It’s just the white vinegar fumes...I think. And besides, I know how much you like salt and vinegar flavoured chips, so I’m using it as my new summer scent. You likey?)

Monday, August 16, 2010

Sticky Viddie - Glimpse into the future

Aside from the fact that Sticky Baby is crawling, is this not a sneak preview of his teenage years, when he’ll be walking straight to the pantry after school, asking, ‘What can I eat, mum?"

video

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Mali’boooooooo

It’s time for me to vent. Sticky Baby is snoozing, Papadada is at work, I’m cradling a glass of chilled sangria in my hand - I’m ready.

So Papadada and I have been in France for 3 years now. There are lo-hoads of other aussies here and most of the expats are set up in a holiday resort called Malibu Village. Cheesy, so very cheesy. Sounds a little Melrose Place’ish, minus confused, ambivalent Billy and psycho-chops Amanda.

When we first arrived, the thought of ‘community living’ gave us the heebie-jeebies. Could we deal with living next door to Papadada’s work colleagues? Together, 24/7. Mi casa, su casa. Can I borrow a cup of sugar? How about a cup of ‘please piss off’..Can you see where I’m going with this? We were scared. So, we chose to find our own place, content with the decision to live away from the masses, while still being social butterflies when we chose to. It’s a fab house - big, bright, right in the thick of things, a 40 metre walk to the mediterranean. Who could ask for more?

I’ll tell you who. Me! I could ask for more!

You see, since the birth of Sticky Baby, I’v realised that perhaps living at Malibu Village wouldn’t be so bad after all. My mum-friends and their kidlets all live there. There are play dates going on all.the.time. Obscene amounts of tea-drinking, open-door policies, communal-pj-wearing at 2pm. It’s my sort of place. 3 years ago it wasn’t. Now....it is. I need that sisterhood, that comraderie that would be available to Sticky Baby and I all the time.

Dear Malibu Village,

I take back all the nasty shiz I said about you. So what if you’re slightly on the dodgy side and your name makes me throw up a little in my mouth. The truth is, I secretly have a crush on you. You and your 4 pools that make Sticky Baby flap his arms with joy. You and your 2 restaurants. You and your 80’s themed bar that is open for the summer. Sweet jesus, a bar in my backyard? Where have you been all my life, Malibu! I want you, Malibu. I love you, Malibu. Take me, I am yours.

Ok, so that about depicts my level of desperation at wanting to move into a villa at Malibu. Guys, I had even started packing. 4 boxes. 3 suitcases. Taped up and ready to go.

Yesterday. Phone rings. Malibu calling.

"The Villa we told you would be yours on Sept 1 is now NOT YOURS. We suggest a 2 bedroom ground floor apartment instead. Perhaps you would like to see if that would work for you and your family?"

Boo. Hiss. Sob. Villa-mourning. Papadada and I contemplate apartment living and figure maybe we could do it, seeing it would only be for 1 more year?

Ok, Malibu, you’re on like Donkey Kong! Let’s see this 2 bedroom ground-floor apartment you speak of. It’s a date.

Today. Phone rings. Malibu calling.

"The 2 bedroom ground floor apartment we were trying to ram down your throat as a consolation prize for the villa? Sorry, NOT YOURS either. We no longer rent any form of accommodation year-round. New policy as of 3 seconds ago. Only holiday rentals now. Au revoir, suckerzzzz........"

3 bottles of Sangria later.......

So Malibu have nixed us. Karma. I just know it is. We bad-mouthed them in the early days and now it’s pay-back, Malibu style. Half of friggin’ Australia lives in Malibu Village, except US!

Malibu is now Mali’boo.

Dear Mali’boo,

I hate you just as much as I hate Martha Stewart’s way of talking. I will keep going to your 4 beautiful pools, but from now on I will be removing Sticky Baby’s swimmer nappy. Good luck to you, bitchezzz.


Result of the drama of the past few days? We are staying put in our house. No community living for us. No walking across the street at 8am, with bed hair and eye crust, for play dates and coffee. That dream is dead. I will have to continue making the 5 minute drive from my house to spend time with my Mali’boo-dwelling-friends.

I’m the Mali’boo-outsider.

SO ALONE. SO ISOLATED. SO FAR AWAY FROM MY PEEPS. 5 minutes away is FOREVER....

And damn it! Now I have to unpack.......

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Sticky Reminders


-Camila Batmanghelidjh-

Friday, August 13, 2010

Routine love

When Sticky Baby was born, Papadada and I made the decision that our little family would operate best if we followed some sort of routine. GAH! ROUTINE! Excuse my french! For some, the word ‘schedule’ is almost a swear word. It brings to mind the death of spontaneity, a stifling lack of freedom, utter boredom, ground hog day. I get it. I really do.

For us, it has given our parenting some guidelines. It has given our wild boy some structure. Thanks to a touch of anal retentiveness here and a sprinkle of I’m-Addicted-To-Looking-At-The-Time-On-My-Mobile-Phone there, we are raising a little man who loves his naps and dreams beautiful, restful dreams for 12 uninterrupted hours each night. We revel in the miracle that since Sticky Baby’s birth, the two of us are still able to veg out in front of the tele of an evening, glass of Sangria in hand.....and that we are yet to have a serious argument. Swear to God. We get along freaky-good like that, the PapaD and I.

Routines are certainly not for everyone, and sometimes I wish I could fly by the seat of my pants a little more. But let’s face it, I’m a planner from way back. I owned a Filofax before I owned a Cabbage Patch Kid. And then I named her Filofax.
It’s so funny how habits become just that. This afternoon, I had to smile as yet another groove in our day became apparent to me. I am lucky enough to have Papadada home from work a few days a week from around  lunch time to 4pm. It rocks my socks off. We usually put the Sticky One down around 1ish for his afternoon sleep. As soon as that’s done, hubby and I pass out on the couch for a well deserved power nap. There’s lots of co-drooling and deep-sleep grunting going on. We digs it. But it’s what always happens next that makes me realise what creatures of habit we really are...

We hear Sticky Baby awake from his slumber, around 3ish. Papadada stretches, heads upstairs. I stretch, head towards the kitchen, switch the kettle on. As the water bubbles and boils, I prepare Sticky Baby’s afternoon bottle while setting out two mugs, a heaped teaspoon of Nescafe in each. Papadada returns with Sticky Baby. My two boys hide from me behind the fridge - the same game nearly every afternoon - one of my favourites. I go in for a hug and my thirsty boy and I settle on the couch for some bottle-time. Papadada finishes the coffee preparations, brings me my hot mug, as I place Sticky Baby down for a play. United caffeine sipping ensues. And so our afternoon begins. Like clockwork. 

Mundane to some, I know. To me? It’s a dance that we have somehow, mysteriously learnt the moves to. A finely tuned machine, made from three parts - One big, one medium, one sticky.



Thursday, August 12, 2010

Sticky Piccie - I ♥ party food


Sticky Baby having his first taste of heart-shaped fairy bread at a lovely little girl’s 5th birthday party (totally Sticky Baby’s ‘Mrs Robinson’). Doesn’t he look adorable and angelic?...Let it be known, dear readers, that mere seconds after this shot was captured, Sticky Baby threw the girly fairy bread to the ground. And stomped on it. The coloured sprinkles left on his sticky fingers were terrifying reminders of his near brush with ‘girl germs’.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Preparing For Take-Off: Part 1

Flying with Sticky Baby =


(Yes, having no MTV factors into my definition of hell. I’m super loyal to crap TV like that)

I’ve never blogged about flying with children before, mostly because I’m still un-curling myself from foetal position, and slowly putting an end to the rocking in a corner, crying, saying ‘No plane, no plane’ repeatedly. Yes. My last flight with Sticky Baby was that bad.

In a nutshell: the noise, the lights, the sounds, the vibrations that everyone swore would lull my child to sleep (freakin’ idiots) turned my baby into a poor little overstimulated bundle of sleepless nerves. He never slept for more than 1 hour in a row. And the voyage lasted an agonizing 25 hours. Do the math, people. I didn’t pee or eat the entire time. I lost 2 kilos on that flight, my sanity, and my ability to see good in the world. Other people suck the big one. No one helped me and some moron was rolling his eyes at me the whole time. I wanted to take his trendy noise-cancelling headphones off his ugly head and ram them up his date.

I was so prepared. Nappy bag was packed to perfection. Bottles pre-measured. New toys ready to be discovered. Comforter. Blankies from home. It all went to shiz when we got delayed 8 hours before even leaving the country. Fail. By the time we boarded at 11:30pm, we had been pacing airport floors since 9 that morning. Oh, and we got stranded on the tarmac a further 45 minutes before finally taking off. During that time, I had to lock myself in one of the mini-bathrooms with a purple-with-rage, screaming, massively over-tired 6 month old. Welcome aboard Shit-Air.

The rare times that he did fall asleep in the provided bassinet, he would be awoken by A-holes that needed to use the bathroom. You see, airlines are super clever like that. They bung the bassinet row right where all the action is. Toilets. Staff galley. What the eff. So it was either a Dubai-an (we were flying Emirates) doing a massive bog and flushing the toilet 6 times or the hissing sound of the galley espresso machine waking my child up. Oh and did I mention the twin 3 year old witches girls that were seated beside me? And their 4 month old brother in the neighbouring bassinet? He, on the other hand was an angel. Which made my plight seem even crueler. 

At one point I did consider chugging half a trolley’s worth of airplane booze and hoping for the best. But I sat it out, hour by hour, soothing my boy, until Sticky Baby and I finally arrived at our destination. Home. Australia. Where my parents and in-laws were there to greet us, and put the pieces back together. Red-eyed and wired from lack of sleep and anxiety, the two of us were not the poster children for flying with kids. Hella no.

I don’t think it always has to be this hard. Keep in mind I was travelling solo, without Papadada. And we were delayed a monstrous amount of hours. And my little guy needs peace, quiet, dark, familiar surroundings to fall asleep. And Enya playing a live concert in his room, please. He’s low-maintenance like that.

The way home was better. Not in a I’m-a-born-again-flyer-with-babies kinda way. Marginally better. I had chamomile tea carefully measured into each of his bottles. I had a bottle of Brauers Calm syrup, and I had the old hood of a stroller that I Ma-Gyver-strapped onto the bassinet, to provide some sort of shield from the bright lights. These all helped tremendously. 

This post was all very NEGATIVE, I realise, but this is the first instalment of a 3 part series! I hear you all whooping with joy. Part 2 will cover our preparations for our up-coming holiday trip back to Australia (4 weeks and counting). Part 3 will relay the reality of said trip. 

Will our theories, ideas, tips, tricks, drugs really work? Can I be turned into the matronly saint of flying with babies?

Stay tuned....

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

What the?

Evenings in our house run a little like this: I feed Sticky Baby his dinner, the three of us have a play on the rug, Papadada & Son head upstairs for tandom male showering, while I finish up our dinner preps, whizz around the house for a turbo-clean, and prepare Sticky Baby’s bottle. 

Hooooooohhhh....exhale.

Some time around 6:45pm, I hear my two men walking down the stairs. So fresh and so clean. We do the baby transfer, and I settle down on the couch to give Sticky Baby the sacred and much loved ‘bedtime bottle’.

Although tonight, things looked a little different. Sticky Baby looked, well, confused. Or at least his pjs did.....


I laughed so hard. Papadada didn’t even realise he had put the pyjamas on back to front. He thought it was a new design. Friggin’ hilarious. Priceless.


Monday, August 9, 2010

Sticky Viddie - Spoonfed


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I clean a lot during lunch time....but I also laugh a lot. Can you blame me?

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Sticky Reminders



-Cynthia Bourgeault-


Friday, August 6, 2010

Sticky Piccie - Sling shot


Back from a morning trip to the markets. My sleeping koala. He’s heavy as all get-out, but having him this close to me is like a drug.

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Summer Lovin'


Does this not scream summer to you? Two little dudes sucking the life out of chunks of cold watermelon? Bliss. This is Sticky Baby’s best friend, Jax. He is 18 months old, eight months older than the sticky one. People often wonder if they are brothers, as they really do look alike...(although Jax is randomly staring at his big toe in this photo, so you probably can’t tell. Also, Jax’s daddy is Samoan. How on earth do these two look alike???) TOTAL TANGENT. Anyway, these two are cute as pie, and hang out trés trés regularly. They are as boisterous as one another, as loud, as messy, as excitable, as loveable. Double trouble. Jax’s mum and I rely on each other for endless cups of tea and obscene amounts of play dates to fill our days. We speak the same language, we understand one another - Being the mums of boys like these two, you’ve got to stick together. She is  my Mumbrella...(Oh my Lord, I think I’ve coined a new word! Should I copyright it? Ok, here goes. ©)

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Sticky viddie - Hallelujah


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The holy grail of baby-training....


Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Job description expanded

Ok, new bullet point to add to my job description:

  • Human Kleenex Tissue

Sticky Baby is sick. Some form of common cold. Probably contracted from yo-yo-ing between the air conditioned house and the heat outside. Boo.

I caught it too, but the major difference between he and I is that I can actually blow my nose. He, on the other hand, chooses to wipe his shnoz on every article of clothing on own, even when I’m waving a tissue or hot wash cloth in his face like a Spanish Toreador to his bull. No thanks mum, I prefer shmearing my snot on your shoulder.



Would you like to know what I’m wearing this minute, in  preparation for Sticky Baby awakening from his morning nap? A full-length terry-towelling bath robe. Papadada’s in fact, so you can be sure the thing is GI-MASSIVE on me. Seriously, if the kid is going to use me as a hanky, I may as well make myself as absorbent as possible.

My guess is that the handsome one and I won’t be trying for a second baby any time soon, as this ensemble if quite possibly the apparel-version of birth control.

If only snot had miracle properties...then maybe I could maximise my situation and apply it as a rejuvenating moisturising face mask. Or a kick-ass hair treatment. Dreams...

Monday, August 2, 2010

Inspired

Some people’s imagination and creativity is beyond words...

While her daughter naps, a mother tries to imagine, and capture her baby’s dreams.

If this doesn’t make you smile, you better check your self...



See more here

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Sticky Piccie - Bin buddies


Why, oh why must he bestow his affections on the trash can. Like a moth to a flame..