The Mummy Returns

Women Who Run With The Dogs

2006-09-05T13:01:00.000+10:00

We think PB must be quite advanced. The 'terrible twos' behaviour has reared it's ugly head six months early, and now at twenty months she already knows it is most effective in public....

We were walking Dog in the park the other day. No, she would not get in the backpack. She wanted to go to the 'side' (= slide). So, no she did not want to go home, or be carried in my arms. Or Daddy's.

Then we managed to lure her into the excitement of the tunnel and distracted her into heading home. But she was still going to walk, and at her pace...

And then a strange thing happened... she hugged a tree. Oh, how sweet, we thought. And in that ridiculous way that one reads meaning into these things 'perhaps she's going to be an environentalist, or a horticulturalist...' Tree-hugging hippy was right out.

And then a stranger thing happened.... she lifted her leg.

In exactly the same way Dog does.

And then she moved on to a stobie pole and did exactly the same thing, at exactly the same angle.

It was hilarious.

And our daughter was no longer Champion Tantrum Girl but Champion Mimic. With an eye for precision.

Perhaps she's going to be a.... mime artist? Oh no. No. God, no. How she could possibly support Aged Parents on that income?

No.

She's going to be a vet, specialising in pet psychology.

And she'll be seeing patients at the park... between the swings and the slide.

The Mummy Returns Again

2006-09-01T20:38:00.000+10:00

Dear Readers,

Forgive me, for I have sinned, it has been months since my last blogfession....

So here is the abridged version of Good News for this Modern Woman:

Finished second draft of script, and TV series has had the final green-light : it will be shot this year and screened next year. Bloody Hooray. It's only taken a year....

Judged a script writing competition, which meant reading 60 feature length scripts: page total? Approximately 6000. Would I do it again? Probably.

Got a second job as a Care Worker, which involves domestic assistance (house cleaning and shopping) and personal care (showers). Interesting, underpaid, worthy, exhausting and confronting. But more about that at a later post...

Working on Baby No2 but if PB has anything to do with it she'll be an only child. Her current mantra is 'I did it my way'. But she is consistent in the sleep department. Consistently waking at 5 to 5:30am, screaming MUUMMEEE until she is lifted out of the cot and then quietly pointing and saying 'door'. As in, take me beyond the door so we can 'get this party started' *
Cute factor remains high though.

Tried to sell house in Melbourne. Failed.

Hail Mary that we still have our heads above water although I am fairly moldy from the neck down and have well developed paddling muscles.

And despite three colds and a bout of gesture we're all still healthy.

Hallelujah.

love,
FM

* A Shark's Tale.

Stop, I have to get off…

2006-02-23T14:44:00.000+11:00

Today is a blue day. Haven’t felt like this for years and it’s hard to pull myself out. Somehow I never thought I’d feel like this again.

A friend once referred to her depression as being ‘Under the Doona’, as in ‘I’ve been under the doona for a few days’. I felt like that this morning. I didn’t go to bed late, didn’t get up especially early, but just felt drained, listless, indifferent, weary.

I thought of another analogy today as I tried to rally myself out of this mood. I was reading about inspirational people (or as they were so touted) in a glossy magazine, thinking about actions I could take, a mindset I should embrace and reminding myself there are so many, many people worse off. But that just served to make me feel pathetic.

And I thought: it’s like sitting on a train, looking at billboards that show you a way out, offer solutions. I read them, I acknowledge them, but I don’t move. I can’t get off the train to take up the suggestions. I just sit.

But I can’t do that. I have a responsibility to a child. Fortunately she’s at day care today in joyful play with other toddlers. I don’t fear my mood will cause me to do anything selfish but I fear that her light, pure soul will pick up on my negativity and I’m desperate for that not to happen. Desperate…

I don’t believe I’m a clinically depressed person. I don’t believe I have a chemical imbalance and will not seek drugs or counseling. There are reasons now, as there were last time. And I won’t go into them because it’s far too boring and quite pedestrian – lots of people have these problems. And it’s something I have, in the recent past, been determined not to get depressed about.

When I was at Tresillian (the sleep school – which was by the way, a success for us), I met a woman who was the mother of five month old twins. It was the second time she’d been there: one twin wouldn’t sleep.

She always seemed to be in a hurry, which was odd because there’s nothing really pressing to do while you’re there. And she was nice enough but kind of brittle and hasty.

We got talking in the lounge one afternoon and she told me about her life. About her first husband who ran off with the neighbour and no longer wants any contact with his two sons. About the twelve year old with ADD who had to move schools after being bullied, about the eight year old who is autistic.

Already a high school teacher she did special training so that she could handle his condition with early intervention. And they’re doing okay.

But way before his diagnosis, not long after his birth she was diagnosed with PPD – post-partum depression.

And she told me she could feel it creeping up on her now. Again. She sought help from the resident psychiatrist and been given medication for it. But she was still afraid. She knew the signposts and despite her exhaustion and the sleep friendly environment of Tresillian, she refused to lie down or sleep during the day… It was important not to lie down.

Then she briskly bundled the twins into the pram and went off for a walk.

And so I take my inspiration from her, not some famous celebrity in a magazine.

I’m off to mop the floor, coated in baked bean juice and crusty mashed potato.

Then Dog and I will walk up to collect PB who’ll very possibly be dancing with the others to a song from the kids movie Madagascar: You’ve got to move it, move it.

So I guess I’d better.

Small step for a big person, big step for a small person

2006-01-30T22:48:00.000+11:00

I finally got my first draft script in. Truth is it was the fourth version of that draft but so be it. Now we wait... and wait... and pray it's not all thrown out the window. Nevertheless it's good to have handed it in...

And just in time...

We're off to sleep school for a week, tomorrow. In a special house at the back of a hospital in the Not-So-Inner-West. I'm sure I will have to learn to sleep through the night as much as PB will. Maybe it will take me longer... I already wake up at three in anticipation of hearing her snuffles and squawks.

Despite my very practical self I'm getting a bit sentimental about it all. First time Wolfy will have had a night away from PB (he could join us in the barracks if he wanted but Dog can't, so it's boys week at home for the two of them.) Also, we are going to begin weaning. At least two of the four feeds.

Yes, it will be great to have my body back and try to get the boobs back into some kind of shape that makes them resemble a pair (not a pear). Yes, she doesn't really take it seriously half the time, feeding and simultaneously using her feet to explore my chin or just enjoying waving them in the air, playing with my bra strap with one hand and pointing at my freckles with the other... But still, it's one of those growth phases that makes you realise how quickly time passes and there'll be no going back. Not for this little one anyway.

Indeed I'm sure at the end of the week I'll also be happy to hand the maternity bra in...

Rune sharing

2006-01-15T22:04:00.000+11:00

This was mine and I'm pretty happy with it.

Algiz: Elk, protection.) Protection, a shield. The protective urge to shelter oneself or others. Defense, warding off of evil, shield, guardian. Connection with the gods, awakening, higher life. It can be used to channel energies appropriately. Follow your instincts. Keep hold of success or maintain a position won or earned.

I especially like the follow your instincts bit.

xx

New Year’s Resolutions

2006-01-10T21:51:00.000+11:00

It’s a week or so into 2006 and etiquette wise I think I just make it. The year is still pretty new.

So. I am resolved to:

GET MORE SLEEP
ASR (Anticipated Success Rate): moderate/high

You can only whinge about not getting sleep for so long (see previous post) before people start to yawn.

Princess Bride and I are booked into a residential stay at Tresillian, where we will have 5 nights of what will feel like luxury accommodation as PB learns to sleep through the night.

We will also begin the process of weaning. For someone who thought they’d be lucky to breastfeed for three months, I think lasting thirteen months is pretty good.

WORK MORE EFFICIENTLY
ASR: moderate/low

Got the rough first draft of my first script in before Christmas – WOOHOO! (Partly why I’ve been so slack on the blog front). I still have a polished first and two more drafts to go and really need to get a better writing rhythm going.

As a chronic procrastinator (I once bought a book on the subject “Do it Now” which I read cover to cover, as a distraction from writing an assignment) this is an issue for me.

I am also not used to working freelance and work better when I have a screaming deadline rather than a wafty one. Apart from anything I can’t afford to work so slowly as Wolfy and are getting into a hairy financial state…

BLOG MORE REGULARLY
ASR: moderate/high

If the above works then there should be a flow on effect. As the saying goes: if you want something done get a busy person to do it.

CELEBRATE SIGNIFICANT BIRTHDAY OVERSEAS
ASR: somehow it will happen, in some form

Ideally, we’ve been talking about hanging out at a friend’s house in Tuscan Italy around this time. Realistically, W estimates an Italian holiday for the three of us will cost $10 000.

Maybe a package to Fiji or Vanuatu will be more likely. But I’ve never been there so I’d be happy with that…

Okay. A resort on an Island in the Great Barrier Reef also passes.

In which case it’d probably be cheaper to got to Italy… Or an Italian restaurant.

GET LESS INVOLVED IN FAMILY DRAMAS
ASR: high

After the huge stress my brother put us all through last year, Christmas passed as if nothing had ever happened. Turns out his “soulmate” who he went back to twice after my blog and finally left, was a nutcase. A ‘Bunny Boiler’ of the Fatal Attraction variety. She rang my sister-in-law and introduced herself as my brother’s girlfriend suggesting the two of them talk about that.

Not surprisingly, this did not endear her to my brother and surprisingly, brought my brother and his wife closer together. Go figure.

The Bunny Boiler showed her true colours recently (in case there was any doubt) by offering my brother a deal. She’ll leave his wife alone if he gives her five thousand dollars.

Nice try.

WORRY LESS WHAT OTHER PEOPLE THINK
ASR: moderate/high

It’s a trait I’ve inherited from my mother and constantly battle to shed. The battle is made harder when PMS paranoia drops by. I forgot how it affects me because I didn’t get it during pregnancy and the first six months of PB’s life. So it’s not been an issue for well over a year.

It also starts to creep up on me if I hang around my mum too much. For example, I invited some long time family friends and some more recent friends to PB’s first birthday party. I had a fine time apart from the heat and PB had a ball. However, my mother got feedback that one of the family friends couldn’t be bothered mixing with the ‘actor people’. Never mind that none of them are actors.

I wished my mother hadn’t told me. I can’t take back PB’s first birthday. And it has tainted my memory of the occasion.

My mother thought it would be good for me to know, so I don’t mix the groups again. 'Don’t want to offend people… '

Well, she’s right in one way. I’ll never mix the groups because I’ll never invite that family friend to any party ever again! I DON’T WANT TO BE OFFENDED BY HER IGNORANCE.

Did I mention I’m a Scorpio?

HEALTH AND FITNESS
ASR: moderate

I’m desperate to get back to yoga and although I’m well back to my pre-pregnancy weight, I’m way off pre-pregnancy fitness and a tummy that lands on the bed beside me before the rest has rolled over.

And if we’re thinking of trying for another on the wrong side of a Significant Birthday (and keeping up with PB) I’ll need all the strength I can get.

VOLUNTEER WORK
ASR: moderate/high

I think it’ll be good for W and I to get a bit of perspective on life. Things aren’t so hot financially but they could be a lot worse and the rest of our life is pretty blessed.

Can’t help thinking though that W’s suggestion is a bit like cheating: he’s put Dog up to be a Pet Partner. If he passes assessment we get to take him into children’s hospitals and aged care homes for people to pat and hug. We already get a lot of pleasure and pride from watching strangers enjoy our dog, so it doesn’t feel like much of a sacrifice.

Mind you, W and Dog will have to wear matching red bandanas as the official uniform (teehee) and W will have to speak to strangers which will definitely challenge him.

I think that’ll keep the slate full for another year of barely reachable goals. But hey, at least they're out there. And I was sober when I wrote them.

Happy 2006 everyone - Be resolute!

xxx

ps
If anyone wants me to pull a New Year's Rune for them - lemme know.

To Sleep, Perchance To… Sleep Some More

2005-12-06T20:58:00.000+11:00

A friend who recently had a baby was complaining about not getting sleep. And surmising I must be getting more because I am now writing a script… (a what? Oh yes, that thing that will hopefully pay for Christmas.)

I reassured her I was not getting that much sleep. And being the Sage Earthmother of one eleven month old baby, I deigned to explain ‘You get used to it’.

Then, as though I had consequently invoked the Curse of the Pompous Ass, Princess Buttercup got sick: gastro. Vomiting and diarrhoea. With the latter happening at any time of the day or night and so violent it required a change of clothing, bedding and usually a bath, usually around four. That’s ay-em.

I think the next strike was the ‘Did You Say You Were Thinking of Weaning?’ Curse. She couldn’t keep down any solids so I was back to breastfeeds – day and night, as regular as required for as long as required. Which was about six times a day for six days…

I didn’t get used to it.

PB has never slept through the night and at first people said that was pretty common, but I seemed to be surrounded by pesky Allnighters from very early on. One mother in particular would preface her gloating by saying ‘I don’t mean to boast but Violet (‘Vahlet’ in a North Shore accent) has been sleeping through the naht since she was 6 weeks’. Oh yes, I said, trying to focus daggers through my puffy eyes, do go on… ‘She goes to bed at seven and wakes up at 5am and then we take the dog for a walk’.

I took some comfort in the fact that 5am is at least 2 hours short of ‘through the night’ in my book. So she could kid herself that getting up at 5am, feeding her child and NOT going back to bed was jolly. But I could not deny she was getting at least seven hours straight sleep. Cow.

As I lay awake the other night post-feed (see, waking up in the night to feed is one thing, then you have to get back to sleep) I realized it had been over a year since I had more than five hours uninterrupted sleep. In the latter days of my pregnancy I had extremely bad heartburn whenever I lay down, plus the constant peeing…

I guess it’s nature’s way of preparing you… For hysteria, for not being able to work (or write blogs), change out of trackydaks or sometimes even leave the house, for turning you into a sooky lala or an impatient stickinthemud.

I’m starting to fantasize about a night in the future. PB (weaned) is with doting grandparents. Darling Wolfy and I are in a fancy hotel. There’s maybe a bit of uninterrupted horizontal dancing with the option of making noise. I drink a little too much champagne (because I’m not breastfeeding) and pass out til about 9am with no need to get up and pee during the night. My head hits the pillow and I do not move for eight hours.

But then…

Where’s the little toddler whose soldier penguin walk and excited gummy smile greets me in the morning, lighting up her face and mine? Arms outstretched for cuddles and giggles that say: we’re both awake and it’s daytime, isn’t that great?

Aaah. I’m going all mushy. I must be tired.

Dream on. I have a happy, healthy, alert eleven month old baby girl.

I must be lucky.

Broken

2005-11-15T22:48:00.000+11:00

Last night my brother rang to tell me he’d broken up with his girlfriend. He was pretty sad about it and said it was mutual decision on both their parts… He really felt like they had a connection. If only they’d met ten years ago.

I found it hard to know what to say. The reason they broke up was that he decided to return to his wife and sons, one of which was born three weeks ago…

This is not the post I thought I’d ever write about this situation.

When my brother left his wife, she was seven months pregnant with their second child. Everyone was outraged. How could he do this?

He said he was sick of doing what everyone else wanted. He’d been unhappy for well over a year. They were fighting all the time, she was constantly putting him down, hadn’t spoken to him for three weeks and rarely showed any basic affection, including before she was pregnant. Sex was even rarer – but clearly effective, as people smugly liked to point out.

He confided in my parents two nights before he told her. They did their best to talk him out of it – to wait at least until the baby was a few months old. His response – as far as everyone’s concerned I’ll be a bastard whether I do it now or later… I’ve had enough.

My brother and I are not close. We’re very different people: different values, interests, occupations. We couldn’t be less similar if we tried. When we were growing up we clashed a lot.

When I was about 21 and he was 18, we called a kind of truce and learned to respect our differences. This was made easier by me living a long way from home for 13 years.

So there was no way I could tell him what I really thought about his decision. I couldn’t tell him that the stress his wife felt, his unborn child felt… That counseling is not a pathetic option, that his wife and children deserve for him to try to sort it out. He would have told me where to go, and we would never have spoken again.

My parents are in their seventies and in different ways did not cope. My mother felt terribly guilty, as if she was responsible – how could she have reared such a heartless son? She tried to make it up to my sister-in-law (and her five year old grandson) any way she could. This often involved letting my sister-in-law vent her anger about my brother. My mother would then try to reason with my brother, resulting in arguments. My mother does not handle stress at the best of times. She cried and vomited almost every day for a month.

My father kind of went to ground and when he finally succumbed to my mother’s request for support, to confront his son, it was nearly too much for my brother. He threatened to cut them off. Nobody seemed to be interested in his happiness, he claimed. And to an extent, he was right.

The whole situation was exacerbated by his meeting someone else within days of moving out of home. He was sitting alone in a pub having dinner when this woman approached him.

They talked all night and he told her absolutely everything. She was still interested, despite having had a similar experience. Sixteen years ago the father of her only child left her when their baby was three months old.

It was as if a light went on for him. She had all the qualities he was looking for in a life partner.

Then he wanted to introduce her to our family…

As a way of trying to be a buffer for my parents, I told him he could ring me any time he wanted, if he needed to talk, blow off some steam. To my surprise he did.

I felt like a fake. I was supportive while subtly offering the opposing view – why his wife might be responding in a certain way. Most of the time I wanted to scream ‘you’re so selfish. Can’t you see how badly you’re handling this?’ But no, apart from his girlfriend, this nasty big sister became one of his closest allies.

At one stage I even agreed to meet the girlfriend as a way of stopping him putting pressure on my parents. Later I realized I couldn’t go through with this. I couldn’t be complicit in that and look my sister-in-law in the face, knowing she had no idea, however nice the girlfriend might be.

The day my sister-in-law went into labour, my brother was with her – from six in the morning til four in the afternoon. He was devastated when he was kicked out of the delivery suite just as his son was born. I later found out it was decided his presence was stalling the labour, which was why he told to leave. I don’t know whose idea that was – the midwife, my sister-in-law or her sister. But the baby was born within twenty minutes of him leaving.

The baby is fine, looks like his dad, of course. But he cries a lot.

Over the last few weeks my brother has been spending his days with his family. There’s been little communication to my parents from either of them, which is fine. They’re just as happy to stay out of it.

Apparently the crunch came when my brother was heading out to work and his five year old burst into tears – daddy, please don’t go. Stay home with us.

And so my brother rang me last night from his car phone as he was heading back to the house. The first night he’s spent there in three months.

‘I can’t leave the kids. And I’m sure that’s the wrong reason to go back.’

He told the girlfriend and she told him there’d be no coming back to her if he changed his mind – just keep walking.

And so my brother is returning to the woman he said he never really loved. And leaving one he thinks could have been the love of his life.

Maybe deep down he knew the effect his new son would have on him and that’s why he left when he did. They don’t call them ‘blood ties’ for nothing.

I could say it'll work out but that feels wrong – naïve, simplistic and unlikely.

And yet I do hope they can find a way to be a happy family.

I hope my brother can be happy within that.

Rave #1

2005-11-08T13:48:00.000+11:00

One of the first things I learned while studying screenwriting was to be sensitive when talking to writers about their work.

Be respectful. Take into account the amount of work they’ve done, that they’ve thoroughly considered the choices they’ve made and focus on the positive things before being (constructively) critical. And that’s if they’ve asked for feedback.

Speak to a writer about their work as you’d like them to do with your writing and so on. We’re all in the same boat etcetera…

So.

Why does this not apply to parents? Of all the groups you’d think would band together, why are parents so harsh on each other?

In my experience it’s mostly mothers guilty of this but fathers are just as capable of being tactless, opinionated, judgmental and ironically - childish.

It starts during pregnancy…

The knowing smile, as two large bellied women strike up a conversation in a bank queue, quickly turns to a frozen grimace when it turns out one has found out the sex of their unborn child and the other has chosen not to…

It’s a bit like meeting someone at a party and discovering you follow the same code of football and then shock, horror, realising you follow teams that are not just traditional rivals, they HATE one another.

You have two options in this situation. You can politely nod, concede ‘each to their own’ then change the subject OR you can try to shove your opinion down the other person’s throat. It’s staggering how often people go for the latter.

But why???? It’s completely subjective! You follow your team and I’ll follow mine! And we’ll both be happy!

Then when it comes to choices surrounding birth, the hysteria goes up a notch: from home birth to elective c-section, midwife versus obstetrician, private versus public hospital system (not a choice for some), going home early versus staying in hospital for a week…

Isn’t it enough we’re all so fortunate to be having babies? Can’t we accept most parents have done their research and made a decision probably based on the health and welfare of the particular mother, child and family?

Apparently not.

But maybe this is to warm you up for life outside the hospital and the lion’s den that is…

A Mothers’ Group.

Actually it’s more subtle than that. Mothers’ Group is like being at Red Riding Hood’s Grandma’s house. It feels safe and warm (and it generally is) but you never know when a breastfeeding wolf is going to snap at you:

WE (for some reason it’s always ‘we’) are so happy we had an elective Caesarian, Rupert’s head is perfectly round. Not squashed like the ones that have been squeezed out…

WE are so thrilled that Trinity was born with hair, I just sooo wanted a baby with hair (staring at Princess Buttercup, who at ten months still has less hair than her one week old cousin).

The most recent comment was at Gymbaroo – on the mini-trampoline. The children wear name tags and a nearby mother looked at PB’s (real) name and said – Oh WE were going to call Elle that but we’re speaking Spanish at home and I really hate the way they pronounce it. It sounds like ‘mud’.

Okay, we’ll let the pretentiousness of proclaiming ‘yes, we’ll be having a bi-lingual daughter’ go through to the keeper. But for all she knew, I may really like the European pronunciation of my daughter’s name. Why did she feel compelled to inform me that my daughter’s carefully chosen name just didn’t cut the mustard for her?

You’ll be happy to know I did not say – ‘actually, we were considering ‘Elle’ as a name but we like to talk in Spanish accents around the house and it sounds awfully like ‘Hell’. You know, such as ‘giving birth was like going to Elle and back.’

No, there was no time. I had to stop PB from poking Elle in the eye. (Pointing is a new obsession at the moment and when she gets a bit of momentum going, she could point for Australia.) Ole, PB!

You’ll notice I haven’t ventured into the minefield of breast feeding versus bottle feeding, co-sleeping versus straight into the cot in a separate room and the myriad of routines connected to feeding and sleeping. And the nature of ‘advice’ - giving and receiving – is also a whole other post.

Of course, even though I am surprised by the animosity between parents, I do think I understand where it comes from: insecurity.

There is so much information out there, not to mention advice from well meaning friends and relatives, it takes a lot of sorting through it all to decide what’s best for you and your child. And then when you meet someone who has chosen a different path, it challenges your decisions. Decisions that are often irreversible.

And that’s why I think parents seem so fervent in venting their opinions… they’re reassuring themselves and probably wanting the listener to say ‘ oh, you’re so right, we’re doing the same thing’.

I guess it’s a way of seeking support.

I shall get off the soap box now and take off my President of the Amateur Psychologists’ Society badge and return to work.

Since beginning this blog, the network have approved the scene breakdowns and so it’s off to write my first First Draft of a television drama. There are changes to be made of course and I am yet to get the detailed feedback.

Hopefully they’ll be gentle and considerate.

If not, I shall get PB to poke them in the eye.

Destiny or Virtue

2005-11-01T11:00:00.000+11:00

I have these cards. Some people call them Angel cards, Destiny cards or in my case Inner Beauty Cards of Virtue. They each have a word written on them like GENEROSITY, HUMILITY, CHEERFUL, TRUST, LOVE etc. - all positive things. The idea is that you have them face down in a bowl and you pick one daily or whenever you're in the mood for some kind of guidance or positive focus in your day.

I hadn't unpacked them since we moved over a year ago. (No time for meditating on virtue I guess.) They were sitting in their packet on the bookshelf and, I thought, out of the way of inquisitive PB's hands.

But now she knows how to stand on tippy-toes and reach further...

I came into the lounge room, suspicious of why she had suddenly gone quiet: was she eating tissues, sucking on the stuffed lion's tail or reading her father's Australian Geographic with particular interest in the Uluru article?

She had managed to open the packet of Inner Beauty cards and spread them over the floor -all 60 of them. Who would've thought there were so many virtues to aspire to?

She had one in each hand and was taking turns sucking on them. At the time of reclaiming the cards I retrieved ENTHUSIASM from one hand and extracted POWER from her mouth. And when I picked up her squirming body I discovered she had been sitting on SURRENDER and OBEDIENCE.

Hmm...

My interpretation?

I'm going to need UNDERSTANDING and STRENGTH to get through the toddler and teenage years. Then hopefully by the time W and I are ready to retire, PB will be some high powered exec and will be CARING and show RESPECT and GENEROSITY by looking after us in the luxury we could never afford. For we have unfortunately chosen the life of CREATIVITY which means any BALANCE in our lives does not refer to our bank account.

In the meantime I look for CLARITY in my writing and PATIENCE, as we still haven't heard back from the network yet as to whether we've been given the green light to continue writing the series.

Hopefully, if the answer is no, my SELF-CONFIDENCE won't be shattered. Of course, I will have more FREEDOM to spend time with PB. But I will have to exercise DISCIPLINE in my spending.

Okay, TRUTH is now I'm getting addicted to the DELIGHT that comes from using these virtue words for no real PURPOSE.

PEACE and HARMONY be with you till next time. I'm off to watch the Melbourne Cup because it involves GAMBLING...

Teehee...okay I was only joking with that last one.

Hopefully you've all got a sense of HUMOUR!

Nature Versus Nurture

2005-10-24T14:24:00.000+10:00

There was once a little girl who grew up in a country town, way, way out west. Her cot was by a window and when she was old enough to stand, she could look out across a paddock. In the paddock lived a sheep and a kangaroo. They were best friends. So much so the sheep thought it was a kangaroo and would (to the best of it’s ability) hop around after the roo.

Much to her parents’ amusement and her grandparents’ chagrin the little girl’s first word was ‘baa’…

Whether she tried to hop around in her cot as well is not part of the folklore but is very likely. It would explain my weak ankles.

Fast forward thirty-cough years or so and ‘baa-girl’ now has her own baby girl… Of course, we are not way out west, we are urban inner west (Sydney). There are no paddocks, no sheep and no kangaroos.

The biggest open space is the sky above and the most prominent beasts there are not the feathered kind – we live in a flight path.

And so it came to pass that PB’s first word was:

Qantas747.

(Well, at least it’s got a kangaroo on it…)

I’m joking.

Her first word was plane.

We don’t get all the letters every time. Sometimes it’s pay, play, ane or pain. But we always get the matching gesture – the face looks skywards, the hand goes up and the index finger points to the sky. Even when we’re inside. Even when she’s breastfeeding.

So despite all the conspiratorial mum,mum,mumming and dad,dad, dadding, our daughter is indeed a product of her environment. So much so her second word mimics the other common beast of the Inner West. Her second word was:

Woof.

Oh well.

At this rate her third word will be:

Gelato.

And finally, she’ll be talking mummy’s language.

Bringing Up Baby

2005-10-16T15:53:00.000+10:00

It started, it stopped, it started… Like relationships, cars, contractions, screenplays and it would appear, my very first blog.

I contemplated quoting Dickens for my opening line – “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” hoping this would pique a reader’s interest in the duality of my new life as both parent and individual with an eye on creative fulfillment.

Reading that back it sounds awfully Frasier. Not that that’s all bad – because it’s a television reference. And a well written show… Clunk. Grind. That’ll be the segue…

So. To the point. Names have been changed to protect te innocent. And because it’s fun.

I, Frankenmum, am a mother of a nine month old who I shall refer to as PB for Princess Buttercup because The Princess Bride is one of my all time favourite films. I shall refer to my husband as W for Wolfgang. It’s the name he picked should we have had a son. Perhaps that’s why PB cried so much at birth, with relief: I heard you from in there. You were going to call me Wolfgang!? Let’s see how ‘W’ likes it.

The pooch shall be referred to as D for Dog, also not his real name.

Apart from heading into the universe that is Toddlerworld, I am also heading into the parallel universe that is Being Paid to Write My First Television Script World. Yikes.

I am in turns grateful and petrified to have been handed this opportunity and it feels a bit like going home from the hospital with my newborn daughter. That ‘oh my God they’ve handed the baby over to us, do they really think we’re the best ones to after it’ feeling.

Writing my scene breakdown was similar to the first few weeks of parenthood: there was joy in looking at what had been created, sleepless nights, stuff that was just well… crap, frustration when it didn’t do what I wanted, satisfaction in nurturing it and a little pride in presenting it to the world.

Of course, the network may not see it that way. They may not like the way I have dressed it. May want to chop off a finger here, add a leg there, change it’s hairstyle.
But it’s most likely I’ll get the stock phrase executives like to share with their minions as if they were bestowing the Ultimate Wisdom: umm, goo-ood… just… make it better.

So now I wait until I get that feedback.

In the meantime I shall hang out with precious PB, watching her reach for her favourite toys: the TV remote, D’s water bowl, any power cord she can get between her toothless gums…

I shall enjoy her baby talk: eardrum bursting, high-pitched squeals followed by growls that suggest she is channeling some extinct ancestor of a frog, but dinosaur size.

We’ll have fun at dinnertime as she spits out her home made, hand pureed gourmet food and trills a response that I’ll understand to mean – umm, goo-ood… just make it better.