Christmas blessings

(L to R clockwise): homemade plum pudding with brandy sauce; a decent posed picture of the troop; 4 stockings over our fireplace; Sean with new head flashlight; Monique's love for puzzles; Iron boy in the making; our homemade X'mas spread with baked ham, lamb and various veges; Sophia's tinkerbell wand; and a rare family shot.

Joyeux Noel!

I trust that everyone had a lovely Christmas; we did. We squished ourselves in church on Christmas eve and sang the same carols I'd grown up yoldeling; it made me a little homesick.

But our far flung families were with us, in heart and mind, during this season. Thank you to one and all who've spoilt our family with gifts galore; the children were beyond excited. The kids were yet again on Saint Nick's 'good' list -- I guess he doesn't keep a close enough tab on them.

I must have been good too. Santa answered my wish for peace, joy and good health for my family. What more could I want?

5 to 9

I’ve been quiet, not for the lack of words but honestly, there aren’t enough hours in a day to work in blogging. I get back from work and the last thing I want to face is yet another computer. My eyes are too old to keep up with staring at a screen -- no matter how flat or big it is, they are all the same. The crow’s feet around my eyes are begging for a rest, “enough squinting!” they say. Hope will never erase them. Maybe one day, I’ll have it all figured out how to best juggle work, family and play but during this period of adjustment, I’m going to be lazy and do a timeline version of my average day for those who are curious.


4.50 am: My alarm beeps; first melodious and then it degenerates into obnoxious buzzing.

Turn it off and wish the world would swallow my tiredness then spit me out fully clothed without my feet ever having to touch the stone cold bedroom floor.

4.55 am: Nothing. My wish never comes true. I’m still nestled under the thick doona, hearing the hubs gentle snores and feeling his occasional leg spasms from dreaming.

5.00 am: Resigned to dragging feet off to bathroom; I throw on the grey gym tee and yoga long pants too thin on a darn cold winter morning. I prepare for the gym on Mondays to Fridays, except on Tuesdays.

5.00-5.20 am: Check emails. Then, I get the kids’ lunches semi-ready/ put rice in the rice cooker on timer for dinner/ and -- depending on the leftovers we have or haven’t -- prepare dinner and leave it in the greatest invention ever -- the slow cooker. Seriously, without one, we might be eating crackers and cheese. Next, throw in the rest of the washing; then more kitchen tidying.

5.30 am : Hop into my freezing car, drive out of the garage in complete darkness and head downhill past startled deers, crossing skunks and squirrels.

5.40 am: Bounce into gym; spread the biggest smile for Ms Nancy at the front desk and have a small chit-chat; smile at fellow gym addicts pumping iron or climbing stationary hills. Place towel over stationary bike, and thank the two fit ladies already sweaty from working out -- the same ones who never fail to reserve my favourite bike and corner spot in the room.

to 6 am: Lazy workout on step-machine while watching 6 different channels on 6 flat-screen TVs at one time showing pretty much the same soundless rubbish.

6 to 6.45 am: Mad, sweaty cycling under the commanding voice of the instructor yelling, “Push yourself!” or “Come on fatso!” (kidding) while ignoring the groans in my legs and butts or the way my heart is loudly pounding. On Thursday, the same yells happen but we ditch the bikes for floor mats and put our stomach muscles to work.

6.50 am: Wave a cheerful goodbye to Ms Nancy. Hop back into the car and drive home in the semi-lit sky behind the train of cars heading -- like worker ants -- for work.

7 to 7.15 am: Shower.

7.20 to 7.45 am: The madness builds. Prepare breakfast for kids and myself; get lunches and snacks packed.

7.40am: Wake kids. Prepare for the usual crying from Sophia over wearing summer dresses in 26 degrees Fahrenheit or less (about minus 6 degrees Celsius). Sigh. I choose my battles and let her have the dress. These days, I haven’t the time nor energy to cajole nor reason with her.

8 to 8.30 am: “Stop talking Sean (or Monique)! Finish your breakfast now!” “Go brush your teeth!” “Did you comb your hair? It looks like a mop!” “Have you packed your bag?” “Did you pack your homework?” “Go brush your teeth!” “Why are you still here? Go brush your teeth!” “Did you hear what I just said? Go brush you teeth!”

8.40 am: Wash dishes; kiss kids goodbye; throw them out the door; drag Sophia upstairs to brush her teeth and mine; get dressed for work.

8.45 am: Yellow bus arrives; kids board bus. 3 gone; 1 to go.

8.50 am: Bundle Sophia into car; listen to her whimper about wanting to see “Mrs Carr and Mrs Foley” (sigh); drive to childcare. More hugs and kisses later; tear away from Sophia and head to work.

9.15 am to 5.30 pm: At work -- brains tested to the limits about the process of various scientific inventions. Brain fizzles; eyes protest; coffee is my new found friend.

5.45 pm: Rush to pick up Sophia; her brightest beam and wide open arms never grows old. I get my overdue Sophia-fix – it is addictive.

6 pm: The other 3 get picked up by the hubs (either from school or from ice-hockey), I arrive home and tread gingerly over bags, winter jackets, snow boots, mittens, files strewn at the entrance. Listen to competing voices eager to spill stories about their days. I have missed this.

6 to 7 pm: Get kids to complete homework. Cook; serve out dinner. Listen to kids endless nattering at the dinner table but my brain is in shutdown mode.

8.30 pm: Clean up dishes. The hubs get the kids ready for bed.

8.45 pm: “Mummy! Can you come upstairs to give us a hug and kiss?” the same holler every single night.

8.45 pm: Kiss the little-lies goodnight; kiss all four of Sophia’s favourite bedtime toys goodnight; listen to her cry “I want my Mummy” when I leave her room. Sigh. She’s only started doing this since my return to work. There has been a lot of crying from her.

9.00 pm: Quiet in the house. Time with the hubs, or of late, I’ve been crashing and heading to bed by 10 pm. Gone are my night owl days.

Set my alarm on repeat for the next day.

Changing Lanes

A new day beckons

Transitioning from a working life to motherhood was one of the biggest changes that turned my life on its head. On one hand, I was glad to be rid of seemingly mundane meetings where people talked way too much; the plastic smiles at enforced company socials; the deadlines that hung over my shoulder that went away only to be replaced by new deadlines; and the politics rife amongst career climbers. All that was replaced by endless nappy changes; the constant waking at various hours at night tending to a hungry baby; having a schedule that was largely determined by the needs of a tiny person who didn’t regard the sanctity of a restful night, and the constant feeling that there was more to life than sitting with other mothers and listening to their stories about how wonderful their little Bobby and Joni were. My former life started to look more enticing -- where the hours were defined and a life less hectic.

Since life is what we make of it, I shifted my priorities and as it turned out, I rationalized that mothering wasn’t that overwhelming after all. Once the sleep deprived nights vanished, the world seemed less daunting; and the appreciative gestures like the ear-to-ear smiles, bear hugs and misshapen drawings buoyed my world. Those were my domestic bonuses and I was entirely OK with that. But now that 3 of my kids are at school and Sophia attends pre-kindy twice a week, my head noodles are itching for a challenge.

Come Thursday, I will close ranks with many other Moms who have chosen to return to the politics of the corporate world while leaving their kids in the hands of other childcare providers. Instead of rejoicing, however, I feel apprehensive, anxious, and sad. Granted that I’m not unique as thousands of Mothers before me must have similarly felt their hearts mangle days before returning to work, and thousands after me will also feel the same guilt kissing their little-lies ‘goodbye’ before sprinting off to their jobs only returning to pick them up when the sleepy sun is over-shadowed by the darkening sky; but deep down, I have a nagging feeling that I might be short-changing my kids, particularly the younger two.

Many will assure me that my kids will adjust and that they will be just fine, if not better off as a result of not having Mom at their beck-and-call. There will be studies proving cases of how back-to-work Moms will positively impact their kids’ well-being. We are models to both our daughters and sons that women can also wear the pants in the family and help bring in the bacon; we aren’t just lounge-pants-food-stained-clothes-wearing women with panda eye-bags and silvery stretch-marks. We are women who can juggle a career, kids, home life and every odd ball thrown at us in various directions. We suck it up; we don’t cry about it; we believe that the world continues to hum regardless and even if our guilt gets the better of us, there is always the lavish birthday/ Christmas presents to make-up for it all, right? There is no place for a wimpy working Mother; the system doesn’t allow for it.

And that’s why it is so hard for me to feel wholeheartedly excited about my return to work even when this opportunity awaits to jumpstart my flattened career, mushy brains and ailing pocket. I’ve dreamt of this day but now that it has presented itself, my feet are stone cold numb. I’m a wimp. My worries are many but they are all derivatives of one thing -- that I’m denying my kids my time in vain pursuit of needing to do something for myself even if for just 3 months. And worse, will 9 years of letting my brains turn soggy rear its ugly head?

Fear is destructive and worrying isn’t helpful so I retreat to what I know best and that is evoking the help of a higher order at a time like this. I sure could use the prayers of many, and maybe several miracles for good measure.