Welcome To The Wine Bar

Wine bar: GIN EDITION.

Oh guys. I actually started writing this post last night, but then #ALLOFTHEGIN happened.

Let me tell you: It has been a bitch of a week. I've had a nasty infection in one of my wisdom teeth, my phone shattered, I've had trouble sleeping - #insomniaclyfe - and then a million other tiny little things have all just snowballed into one big thing, you know?

Like last night for example: I had half changed into my pyjamas and had to run downstairs with an armful of laundry and empty baby bottles. So I'm topless, and it's only when I reach the kitchen that I realise that one of the bottles has tipped upside down and I now have milk running down my stomach. At this point, I should mention that I have a funny thing about milk on my skin, it really freaks me out. I can milk cows, I can drink milk, I just can't handle it touching me. Don't know why. So B walks into the kitchen to find me half naked and sobbing because I am the kind of person who will literally cry over spilt milk.

Being the awesome dude that he is, he cancelled his plans to head out with a mate and stayed home to make me gin and tonics. WHY I MARRIED HIM, LADIES AND GENTS! And so, #ALLOFTHEGIN happened...

 

...Because drunk tweeting is the best kind of tweeting, obvi.

And yes, Sam & Sasha were the best thing to happen last week, I don't know what I would have done had she chosen Michael. These two are so freaking adorable, I have never been so invested in a relationship that wasn't my own. A shout out to the Buzzfeed Australia team who also share my undying love for The Pasha.

WHO DOESN'T? #TeamSasha

Anyway, how was your weekend? Have you been squee-ing at Sam & Sash as much as I have? Was your week shit as well? Let's commiserate together!

Oh, and also - a quick hello to any Russians who happen to be reading this, you guys have popped up in my stats this week in a huge way, which I find both curious and delightful. Thanks for reading!

IGGLE PIGGLE, YOU'RE DEAD TO ME.

It's late. There is officially nothing on TV.

You decide it's finally time to drag your tired bones up the stairs to bed, so you turn off the TV, shut down the laptop. Brush your teeth in the powder room downstairs - God forbid a running faucet should wake up Liv at this ungodly hour. 

You creep up the stairs, praying that those dick cats of yours don't come sprinting up behind you.

You hear the sweet little sighs of a sleeping baby from behind the bedroom door and pat yourself on the back for not waking her up. Yet.

The door opens. You creep inside, making sure not to bang the jamb as you softly close it behind you. She doesn't stir. Another triumph!

You creep past the ensuite, keeping your knees relaxed, staying low, trying to almost glide across the carpet, lest the floorboards creak under your feet.

You're passing by the crib now. You're close enough to hear her inhale and exhale, to hear the air pass in and out of her adorable button nose. You wish you could lean over and kiss her chubby cheeks, but you know better than to poke a sleeping bear.

The bed is close, you've almost made it.

And then, you feel something under your right foot. Something soft yet solid. There is a slight "click" sound as your weight presses down. And then, and then...

THIS GUY.

"Yes, my name is Iggle Piggle, Iggle-Piggle-Wiggle-Niggle-Giggle..." This familiar Night Garden tune fills the room, as the walls are bathed in a blue glow. The mystery item underfoot is revealed to be Liv's Iggle Piggle lullaby doll...a doll that has been unceremoniously ditched overboard earlier in the night. You weren't to know.

"Why don't they put OFF buttons on this thing?" you silently cry as you throw yourself on the floor and desperately try to muffle the light and sound with your pillow. "And why is it so loud, and so bright? It's supposed to help them sleep, not rave!"

Seconds feel like hours, as you wait for the music to die out, for the lights to dim. "Come on, hurry up!"

 

And then. Silence. Darkness. Relief. Exhale.

And then.

WHAT AN ASSHOLE.

You hear the familiar thunk of tiny foot against wood. The sniff of a sudden inhale. The rustle of blankets. 

The cry of an indignant infant, awoken by a plush landmine laying in wait.

JUST LOOK AT THOSE EYES. NO REMORSE.

Iggle Piggle, you win this round.

Spring has SPRUNG

I love Sydney in the spring. The trees turn green, the flowers are in bloom, the chill is out of the air.

I took Liv for a walk today with the Mr Rogers theme playing in my head..."It's a beautiful day in the neighbourhood, a beautiful day for a neighbour, would you be my, could you be my, won't you be my neighbour?" 

I love our neighbourhood: we're inner city, but you'd never know it by how quiet our streets are. During the day, there's always a mum out pushing her pram, or a grandparent trailing behind a toddler on his trike. I love taking Liv for breakfast at the cafe up the road, where the retirees enjoy tea and scones and old men in hats hold doors open for me and the Bugaboo. After the local school lets out, the footpaths are clogged with bikes & scooters as kids race home. As the weather warms up, they are more likely to be headed to the park to kick a ball around or fly on the swings.

Today as I walked past the playground, I couldn't help but giggle at the little boys who had dragged their backyard furniture down to the park to chill. And I'm not talking foldout chairs, oh no, they'd brought down the big heavy plastic set. Adorable. Ten points for industriousness, boys!

What a beautiful afternoon. The warm breeze rustled through the eucalypt trees, the scent of wattle hung in the air...as well as a blossom that vividly reminded me of my grandparent's garden...and also strawberry Hubba Bubba? Blue skies and chubby baby thighs.

Yeah. Life is good.

EVERYBODY BE COOL :: In Defence of Kim Kardashian West

I recognise that this may be an unpopular opinion, but this has been eating away at me for a while so I'm finally saying something. BRACE YOURSELVES.

Last week, the MTV Video Music Awards were held in Los Angeles. In attendance to receive the Video Vanguard award for lifetime achievement was rapper Kanye West, accompanied by pregnant wife Kim Kardashian.

Kanye wore his slouchiest best, paired with Yeezy Boost 350's (in a new colourway!!! ...people lose their damn minds over these shoes) while Kim wore a bespoke lace up gown designed by Olivier Rousteing of Balmain. Personally, I thought Kim looked beautiful: love her or hate her, you have to admit the woman has some damn good genes. Plus, she's pregnant, and I think every pregnant woman is gorgeous.

But apparently, I am in the minority.

Here is just a sampling of some of the delightful comments that have been floating around since the ceremony:

OK. I'll be blunt: If you are making fun of a pregnant woman's body - REGARDLESS of who the woman is - you are being an enormous tool.

I understand the Kardashian family inspires strong reactions in people; B was not impressed when my younger sister asked for the DVD sets for Christmas: "We have to spend our money on Kardashians?!" I get it. I tend to fall on the side of "tolerating" them: I'm not going to pretend that there aren't better role models out there for my daughter, but I also don't think they are the four horsewomen of the apocalypse.

I also know that Kim's fashion choices aren't always everybody's cup of tea; her style has become far more, shall we say, "experimental" since she began her relationship with Kanye. It only takes a cursory glance at the Kim Kardashian tag on Go Fug Yourself to realise that the woman wears A LOT of stuff that people tend not to like. And never more than when she's pregnant, it seems. Cast your mind back to the Met Gala of 2013, and the Givenchy dress that launched a thousand memes...

 

...I mean...Yeah. That wasn't cool either. A woman has zero control over how her body carries a pregnancy, so you're ridiculing her for something that she can't change, even if she wanted to. It's not like she can just diet that belly away! It also has to be said that Kim is quite small: she's only 5'3" so a pregnant belly has the potential to overwhelm her figure more than it might on a taller woman.

"But Jess, why then would she choose to wear such unflattering clothing?" Well here's the thing: Pregnancy does not suddenly negate your right to wear what you like. A SHOCKING CONCEPT I KNOW. And when your body is changing in ways it never has before, when you feel exhausted and uncomfortable, the clothes you wear can feel like one last little thing in your life that you still have control over. As I was pregnant over an Australian summer, where I could barely handle the feeling of fabric on my skin, I spent A LOT of time in bikinis. When I actually had to leave the house though, my wardrobe choices were often flowing and/or elasticated. Comfort all the way!

Conversely, you also have women like a friend of mine who kept her pre-pregnancy wardrobe - 5 inch stilettos included - in rotation well into her third trimester. It was only once her seams literally split that she relented and bought some maternity gear. And that's OK too - at the end of the day, it's whatever you feel comfortable in. If you feel good in caftans? Awesome! If you would rather rock a more tailored maternity wardrobe? Sweet! And if anyone tries to tell you something isn't "appropriate" or "flattering," then fuck that noise. YOU DO YOU, BABES.

(Another point I'd like to add quickly: Your body can change SO quickly during pregnancy, so there is always a chance that in the time between Kim's final fitting and the VMA's, her shape changed and affected the fit of the dress. I can vouch for this happening, after putting off buying a dress until the last minute for an event when I was around 5 months pregnant, then finding it fit differently only days later. Super annoying.)

Anyway, at the end of the day, Kim is just another pregnant woman, who is probably uncomfortable, exhausted, and incredibly sensitive about her appearance. And when you consider the awful jokes made at her expense during her first pregnancy - a pregnancy in which she suffered preeclampsia resulting in an early delivery and was apparently such a terrible time for her that she was unsure if she could endure it again - I can only imagine how she must feel seeing these kinds of comments being made once more.

Play the ball, not the player. If you hate Kim's Balmain dress? Then say you hate the dress. That's cool. Fashion is art is subjective, after all. But if you're cracking jokes about her body?

You're just being a dick.

Blue Eyes, Brat-titude and Other Gifts For My Daughter...

"Who do they look like?"

When you have a baby, this question is one that you'll hear more than most others. It is also one that you'll be pondering yourself.

When my daughter was first born, it was obvious that she had inherited my husband's big blue eyes, and, oddly enough, my toes. As she's grown, her inherited features have only become stronger - she has my bone structure and her daddy's mouth.

However, what I find myself thinking about more often is what personality traits of ours she may receive and in particular, what traits I would like for her to have.

I hope she gets B's athleticism - this is a man who, in his yearbook, is noted in every. single. sport. Football? Check. Cricket? Check. Cross Country running? Check. Athletics? Check. Swimming? Check. Rugby? He was the captain. There's not much that he doesn't excel at. He is also incredibly driven, with an amazing work ethic. And above all else - the reason that I fell in love with and married him - he is more devoted to his family than any man I have ever met.

As for my own charming qualities? I hope that she inherits my love of reading and my obnoxious need to know everything. And whilst I don't necessarily wish for her to receive my temper - a gift from my father, it is famously fiery and incredibly short - I do hope that she sticks up for what she believes in and stands by her opinions.

But more than anything - and stay with me here - I hope that she grows up unashamed of her intelligence. I was fortunate to attend a selective high school, so we never had to deal with bullies picking on the "nerds" because, let's face it, we were all nerds* in our own special way. But I am very aware of the appeal to be found in playing down your intelligence, especially for young girls. I want my daughter to feel secure enough in herself that she can be above that sort of behaviour.

When my dad teases me for being arrogant, I like to jokingly respond with my nose in the air: "There's nothing wrong with being awesome." However, when it comes to one's education, it's a statement that I completely stand by: There is nothing wrong with being smart, with enjoying learning and succeeding at school. I hope that this is an attitude that I can pass on to my Liv.

..and if she doesn't feel the same, then God help me, I will make her.

* I despise the word nerds. It is only permissible when used in an affectionate manner between loved ones. Or, when uttered by Liz Lemon in frustration. Because sometimes, a maddening situation just calls for a shaken fist and a NERDS!

mamamusings :: Meet Me In The Blanket Fort

As I write this, I'm in hiding. Any minute now, my tormentors could discover me, and the jig will be up.

I am, of course, referring to my darling husband & baby daughter.

In the infamous SSB episode of Sex and the City, Carrie Bradshaw spoke of her need to "decompress" at the end of the day - to walk into her apartment and be silent and alone. Now that I'm a mother, the only time I get to decompress is once the baby is down for the night - usually around 11pm. If you were to come into my bedroom around 1 in the morning, you would find me curled up with my iPad, catching up on my twitter feed, or reading a book by nightlight. Or occasionally, sitting on the bench top in my ensuite reading magazines. It's the only "me time" I get.

Don't get me wrong - I love my daughter with a ferocity heretofore unknown. She is delightful. But some days are harder than others, and I miss being able to take moments for myself to just breathe.

So today, I decided I was taking time out for myself. I took the baby downstairs with B, got her to sleep, and came up here & climbed straight back into bed. B thinks I have a migraine & need to sleep it off (which isn't a lie - my head is pounding this morning) but really, I just need a break. A moment to myself, hiding under the covers with a packet of biscuits and a copy of ELLE from March that I still haven't read. 

A moment, before Liv wakes and the jig is truly up.

mamamusings :: Tea & Apathy

I am a terrible housewife.

I mean, I love vacuuming, and I can iron like a champion, but if you were to ask my husband what my biggest domestic weakness is, he would, without a doubt, respond thusly:

"She doesn't cook dinner."

...Am I the only one who finds the entire concept of meals tiresome? I am a grazer - I eat a little here & there when I feel like it. And it's even worse now on maternity leave, without the structure of a working day & the breaks that it entails.

In a perfect world, he would arrive home from work to find me in the kitchen, cheerfully preparing something both delicious and nutritious, completely from scratch. Of course, in this perfect world, my hair is set, I am dressed in a pretty-yet-casual floral frock, and our daughter is serenely playing with her toys.

In reality though, he often arrives home to a woman still in PJs with her hair hastily thrown up in a messy topknot to stop the baby from ripping it out by the roots. The drapes are still drawn, the cats haven't been fed, and forget playing with her toys - at this stage, all she wants to do with her playmat is pee on it.

Frankly, I am too busy keeping an infant alive - I have very little energy left to think about food.

For the sake of my marriage though, I really do need to sort this shit out.

Ugh. Exhausted already.

Starting Over, Yet Again...

Why another attempt at blogging, Jessica?

I guess I had the idea the other day when I found myself balancing a magazine on top of my baby...who I happened to be breastfeeding at the time.

[This is where I had written a lot of flowery introduction bullshit, but then I read it back & thought "ugh, you loser, DELETED"]

I'm just a new mum, who is becoming increasingly aware of the unread magazines piling up in her lounge room. Who can't remember the last time she sat down with a cup of tea & read the Sunday papers. Who occasionally hides in the bathroom to check her twitter feed.

In short - I miss my pre-baby "me time" and am trying to snatch little bits of it back where I can. (The other day, this involved me reading Vogue through the glass whilst showering. I kind of wish that weren't true.)

Also, I don't get out of the house much. There's only so much dissection of the September issues my husband can take. My three month old daughter isn't offering up much in the way of conversation either. So, I can just ramble on here instead of boring them.

Does that answer the question?

...probably not, but eh, I'm sleep deprived. 'Til next time!
J.

...oh, and yes, that title is a Sex and the City reference. Well spotted.