Picnic at Floriade
Every year, Canberra explodes into colour for the Spring flower festival, Floriade. CJ and I borrowed my photogenic nephew and lounged about on the grass just outside the gates (it is free and extremely popular) before going inside.
Floriade is on until 15 October.
Canberra Zombie Walk
Spring has sprung and the time is ripe for the dead to rise (who, coincidentally, are also ripe).
If you’ve ever thought, “Why aren’t there more zombies in Canberra?” it’s time to take your place in the shuffling masses.
When: Saturday October 29
Meet at: The Civic chess pit (Garema Place) at 4:30pm
We’ll stagger along en masse until the shrieks of the public don’t thrill us any more, and then disperse.
YES you may invite your undead friends, family and partners (and give them my email address fellissimo at hotmail dot com).
YES you may mention the civic meeting place & time in psychotic-filled public forums such as facebook.
If you need assistance with makeup, let me know. I have an expert on hand, but you will need to book a spot with her and pay for materials.
Baby Brain versus the Fuzz
I noticed the cop behind me when I glanced in my rear-view mirror. Sure I was speeding, but only a little. It’d be fine. Someone else’s car drove out of a street on the right too slowly, and I braked in a smooth and safe manner. Everything was going well.
The slow driver pulled up at a set of traffic lights, and I pulled up on their right, not wanting to continue driving behind them. I noticed the cop pulling up on my right (the turning lane) and felt the quiet relief that all upstanding citizens feel when the fuzz leaves the immediate vicinity.
Someone beeped. I looked at the car to my left, wondering if they were so stupid they thought I’d done something wrong. No; it wasn’t them. I glanced right. Surely the police weren’t beeping me? That was just silly.
OR WAS IT!?!?!?!
He beeped again, and motioned for me to wind down my window.
“Your registration sticker is out of date,” he said – in the usual copper monotone, just a shade deeper than the average male voice.
I looked at the lime-green sticker and then back at him, remembering a vague feeling of guilt back when the registration was due – such a long time ago. But I’d paid it – of course I had. “We’re definitely registered,” I told him.
“Pull up somewhere ahead so we can talk,” he said.
I nodded, and watched for the green light.
He followed after me with lights flashing until I pulled over onto the side of the road, wondering if pulling over onto the shoulder was illegal. Was it illegal sometimes, but not for an emergency? Was this an emergency? Should I keep driving until I found a better place to pull over – or would he think I was trying to make a hasty getaway?
I turned off the car and made as if to get out – the shoulder was narrow, and if he wanted to talk to me he’d have to stand in the road.
“Get back in the car,” he said.
I got back in the car, and turned the key so I could open the window (which is electric). The car alarm immediately went off, screaming at that piercing frequency so beloved by insomniacs everywhere. I fumbled for the alarm button, pressed it – nothing. That’s right: I had to turn the car off first.
I turned the car off. I turned the car alarm off with the button. I pressed the button again to de-arm the car. I turned the electrics on. I wound down the window. I switched off the car again.
“Your registration sticker has expired,” said the cop, ignoring my display of incompetence. “Is this your vehicle?”
“Yes,” I said. “But we paid. We always pay.”
“Wait here.”
He went and checked a database. I checked my scrawled notes at the back of my diary. “Car rego” was in my list of large expenses for the month of May – specifically, May 18th. I’d ticked it off, indicating that it had been paid. Thank the cosmic bunny I write everything down. That tick reminded me – the vague guilty feeling was because I’d paid it only one day before it was due – not allowing enough time for the new sticker to arrive before the due date. But the sticker should have simply arrived automatically in the mail. That’s what rego stickers do when you pay rego.
Apparently not this time. And it was more than just the sticker.
The cop returned.
“We paid,” I told him serenely, “on May 18th. Or a day or two before that.”
“According to the database, you are unregistered from that date.”
“Okay, so we have to prove we paid it. That shouldn’t be hard.”
“I’m very sorry about this, ma’am.”
“That’s all right,” I said, with the assurance of my tick-mark dancing before my eyes. “It’s not your mistake.” Or mine.
“Unfortunately I need to issue you with a traffic infringement until you’re able to prove that you paid. It will be for $1100.”
Yowser.
“You’ll need to send it in,” he said. “With that proof of your May payment.”
May, I thought. I was pregnant then.
How sick was I in May? All I remember is lying in bed trying not to vomit.
I did pay that bill. . . didn’t I?
“We won’t need to actually pay the fine, will we,” I asked him, “if we can prove we paid in May?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“Unfortunately,” he said again, “because of our records, I can’t let you drive away until the car is registered.”
“All right,” I said cautiously. It was a sunny day, and I wasn’t going to work. I’d already taken a moment to SMS Mum and tell her I was stopped by the cops and thus running late. She was running late too, and asked if I was all right. I hadn’t had a chance to reply.
The cop gave me a number to call and pay three months’ rego over the phone. Since I don’t have a credit card, this meant calling CJ. CJ was mildly concerned that $780 was unaccounted for and that his pregnant and ill wife was in the custody of the police beside a road somewhere, but he paid the bill and relayed back the receipt number.
At that point, I was free to go.
At Mum’s place, I checked back in the day-to-day section of my diary (in which I write EVERYTHING because I know exactly how my mind works – or doesn’t) and discovered that I had “Car rego TOMORROW” crossed out on May 17 – a second indication that I had paid the bill. My system means that if something has a single line through it, it means I have dealt with it. It’s a good system.
When I went home, I found the bill itself in my filing cabinet, marked “Paid 16/5/11” in purple pen. I had literally kept my notes in triplicate. It was very easy from there to find the receipt number.
Baby Brain: 1
The fuzz: 0
The three things you need to buy
1. A car seat (or you can hire them, but you’ll need them for a long while to come).
If you want one that lasts from birth to four years, Choice says the best ones are the safe-n-sound compaq (though not the compaq delux) or the safe-n-sound meridian. The meridian features a variety of colours – praline, grey frost, navy and licorice. They are all grey. Welcome to the bizarre world of retail.
The compaq is significantly cheaper, but my father-in-law is
(a) extremely safety conscious, and
(b) paying
– so we bought the super ultra delux one.
2. A cot (secondhand is okay, assuming it’s up to standard – antique cots hugely increase the risk of SIDS and portable cots aren’t as safe either).
Choice recommends the childcare balmoral as the best buy (it’s hard to find, but Big W theoretically stocks it). We bought the tasman eco siena (still recommended by Choice, but more expensive – only marginally more expensive, thanks to my complicated schemes and bargaining). My obsessive bargaining meant we were able to choose a light wood colour, and have curved ends. All the child-safe cots look extremely similar, but the wrangling gave me such a sense of power it was definitely worth it.
See? Pretty!
NB: Speaking of SIDS – remember to get a mattress that fits, to use NO pillows or cot bumpers (or toys in the cot), and to lie the baby on their back close to the feet end.
We happen to have a bassinet, but some experts recommend putting a baby in a cot from birth.
Most cots convert into a toddler bed. This one also converts into a sofa. How cool is that?
3. Nappies (or I guess if you have a friend who used the re-useable ones you could take those secondhand too).
Choice (and everyone else in the world with a newborn) recommends Huggies newborn nappies (the pertinent phrase is “They catch more than the rest. . . almost always all of it”) but Choice also says that the much-cheaper Woolies select crawler is almost as good, but a whole lot cheaper.
Congratulations! You are now an expert on the best brands to buy.
I’m feeling pretty efficient (and pleased with myself) now we have a car seat and cot. My nausea is largely okay as long as I’m careful. Yesterday I was able to ride our exercise bike for a total of ten minutes, which bodes very well.
Tomorrow: an incident with the fuzz.
Picnic in the park
There is a park near our house, so CJ and I carried a picnic blanket, food, and an Ana over for a lazy lunch.
The ants arrived with impressive speed, and we knew our picnic was complete.
Little did we know, nature had far more in store for us.
Ana is a stone-cold killer and all the wildlife in our area knows it. Look at her cute and murderous eyes!
At first she was nervous of the open spaces all around, but she quickly recovered and decided to pursue a bird she spotted in this tree.
That was when things got interesting. The bird was a young magpie. Two others immediately swooped in to cordially suggest that Ana desist from her attentions. She ran and hid in a bush (you can just see her face on the right).
Taking a hint is not, however, Ana’s forté. So she bade her time, and then launched herself back at the tree like a demented koala:
She’s not actually good at climbing trees, so CJ and I took pictures between giggles as she jumped from branch to branch, pausing only to flail helplessly (much like all those “hang in there” kitty posters you all have on your walls).
Its protectors didn’t bother returning.
At which point we plucked Ana from the tree before she hurt herself, and went home.
Drama with a capital ‘W’
Junk mail recently became interesting to me for the first time. Not only does it often contain entire magazines of baby-related items that I might just acquire (shiny!), but it’s now educational (“I should get me one of THOSE things”).
Fortunately, at least some of my enthusiasm has been moderated by Choice magazine, which is an independent body that reviews Australian products and rates them on safety, economy, etc. Since babies are small and easy to accidentally kill, this is a VERY useful resource for the underqualified parent (which, let’s face it, is all of us).
I found articles on nappies, cots, car seats, and strollers – excellent! The first three are clearly important, but I did pause at the thought of a stroller. I’ve never used a stroller before (even during countless hours of babysitting), and I hate walking pretty much anywhere. Bowing to the fact that CJ loves walking, that children apparently have to go outside sometime, and that everyone says strollers are super important, I accepted that this was a necessary purchase. But I wasn’t planning on spending a LOT on something to carry my baby when I already have arms.
This made the choice of stroller super easy: Choice’s “best buy” (ie the cheapest of the safe brands) was the Steelcraft Holiday stroller. This is it:
And so it was that I emitted a cry of delight while perusing a Big W sale catalogue. There in full colour was OUR stroller – and it was reduced from $98 to $78.
The following day was a Monday. Determined to catch a bargain with a hint of destiny about it, I made the herculean effort and showed up to the relevent Big W store to look at our stroller (because all the books say to check you can lift it, that the handles are a comfortable height, etc).
There was no sign of it (except for the Steelcraft Orion, which is cool but considerably heavier and more expensive). We rang for customer service repeatedly. Other than hearing the automatic page over the intercom (which was terribly exciting I’m sure), nothing happened. We figured maybe we were too quick off the mark – the sale didn’t start until the next Wednesday.
On Wednesday, CJ returned. The stroller was there, and he even spoke to a genuine 3-D staff member – who refused to open any of the boxes and let him actually look at the stroller. By this stage we’d arranged for CJ’s safety-conscious parents to come and try it out with us on the weekend.
We tried to find the stroller elsewhere, so we could look at it and therefore not waste any of CJ’s parents’ time. It turned out that Big W was the only store in Canberra who stocked it. I called them and tried to put one on hold for three days, but they refused. By this time I knew exactly why Big W was consistently cheaper than anyone else. because they sucked at customer service.
And so Saturday rolled around. I checked the magazine for the twelth time, and noticed I’d got the name wrong (using the name of another model also stocked by Big W). It didn’t seem like a major error.
And so it was that we showed up to Big W and realised that CJ hadn’t even seen the box of the correct stroller (he’d been looking at the Orion). No-one had. I immediately realised that I’d organised my in-laws to come and see a stroller that looked more and more like a myth.
We were mildly surprised when a staff member actually showed up in response to the customer service page. We were even more surprised when she fetched someone who was familiar with the nursery section. The nursery expert hadn’t heard of the stroller. I said it was in their magazine, on special. She said – as politely as was possible – that she’d go and get the magazine so I could “point it out”. We all knew what she meant: I was nuts.
At this point CJ’s parents showed up, and we explained to them that I’d apparently imagined the whole thing.
The nursery expert returned with two different sale magazines. They were definitely not the magazine I’d seen, but I leafed through them anyway. No Steelcraft Holiday stroller. So much for that.
The lady muttered something conciliatory and went away after mentioning two other stores that I might have confused with Big W. I’d obsessed over that magazine for ten days, and I didn’t know what to think. We poked half-heartedly at other nursery items, pretending there was some point in us being there.
Then – *pause for inspiring power chords* – the lady returned. With my magazine. With the picture of the stroller in it.
“No-one here has seen this catalogue,” she said, “but let me check the stockroom computer and see if we have some out the back.”
She did so, and said there were Steelcraft Holiday strollers in a back room – or so the computer said.
We waited, unconvinced the myth was about to appear. But it did. The lady re-emerged with a big smile and a pallet full of Steelcraft Holiday strollers. She and CJ and CJ’s Dad took one out and put the wheels on. It was a beautiful thing, and after establishing that it did indeed fold up, and was not too low or too heavy, we bought it.
Big W’s customer service seriously came through in the end. I can haz stroller!
(For those keeping score of how little CJ and I have spent on baby items, we are still at $0 – some friends of ours got together and paid for the stroller for us. Double win!)
Crazy Pregnant Lady
As of this morning, I have reached my pre-pregnancy weight. Four months to go (if she arrives on time, which only happens in 5% of cases, but oh well). I feel movement every day, but it’s not big enough to reach the outside of my belly yet.
I have good news on the nausea front: It turns out about 20% of my nausea was actually heartburn, which is easily and safely treated with gaviscon. Suddenly I’m much less sick, and the hope of getting off ondansetron/zofran is reignited once more (it’s not an especially plausible hope, but it’s there).
So how’s things on the crazy front?
I have an anxiety disorder (had it for years, and it’s severe enough I can’t do more than about twelve hours of non-writing work in a week), which is a pretty clear disadvantage from the starting gate – but it’s also one I’ve claimed as an advantage, since I’m used to my mind and body telling me things that aren’t true.
I’m very anxious about the nausea, particularly about throwing up without warning. As far as anxiety triggers go, this is about 70% rational. Things that have triggered vomit include walking across a room (due to feeling better), coughing, sipping water, having a shower, and cleaning my teeth. I’ve thrown up at every possible time of day, and not just in first trimester.
So yes, I’m anxious about the nausea. That makes rational sense.
I’m not anxious about Louisette. I was anxious about the effects of the medicine, but not any more. Apart from anything else, intense nausea is considered a good sign for baby health – it’s abundantly clear every hour that my body is doing its thing. Now I have daily movement as well.
I’m less functional than usual (maximum four hours of paid work a week) but I’m actually less anxious than usual. I think there’s something about the nausea that just dampens all my emotions – and I’m fine with that. It helps pass the time. Plus I’m so pleased that we were able to conceive.
I have found, ever since CJ and I began trying for a baby, that some of my obsessive-compulsive fidgets are much more pronounced. The OCD part of my anxiety is a very small part, and although it’s irritating for me personally, I don’t think it’s at the stage where everyone around me has to join in or I can’t function (which would be so annoying for me and for them).
If something does make me feel anxious, it also makes me nauseous – so I’m steering clear of books and TV that are the slightest bit scary or gross. That’s quite annoying, but certainly survivable.
Our finances aren’t great, but they’re okay. I’m a bit anxious about the social obligations of the baby shower, but I feel a lot better having taken certain friends aside and told them to buy me certain dull-but-vital baby items.
I’m not anxious about labor yet – I expect I’ll be fine until January, then anxious (more about getting naked than about pain – mine is a predominantly social anxiety disorder), and then labor itself will be similar to anyone else’s experience.
Here is the bassinet I’ve been lent, as modelled by the adorable one-year old punk (the mohawk was non-deliberate) who has long since grown out of it.
The castle playground
In Canberra there are a few truly awesome playgrounds that are spoken of by those who’ve grown up here with a happy sigh and a faraway gaze. This one may be my favourite. We call it the castle.
The rest of this entry is at weekend notes.
The things women do
I was in Indonesia, staying with an Indonesian friend and his Mum in their two-room house. There was a smell of slightly-charred meat in the air. I lay down on the bed for a nap.
“Here, have some of this,” my friend said, and sliced me off a piece of meat.
I looked down at the piece of meat on my plate, and couldn’t help noticing that the meat had been taken from my leg, which was still steaming gently with heat.
Something was definitely wrong, and I paused before eating. Now what was it that was bothering me?
My friend and his mother savoured a mouthful, and motioned for me to do the same.
NO! I suddenly realised. I’M NOT FOR EATING!!
The shock of it woke me up.
That was the day I realised I needed to stop going along with every single aspect of Indonesian culture. (My friends weren’t unreasonable; they were just different to me.)
Not everyone goes from middle-class Australia to stay in the home of relatively poor Indonesians, but we all adjust to different mini-cultures throughout our lives and throughout a day. One family walks around naked, even when they have guests; another family shrugs when their birds defecate on the couch. One school will turn a blind eye to certain weapons; another will put a child on detention for trying out a new swear word.
Women sometimes live their whole lives to please others, completely erasing their own personal culture in the process. Some men do, too, but it’s less common (due to socialising – women are taught to appear nice, men to appear confident).
On the first day of Year Eight, one of my friends called me “Lou” instead of Louise, and dissolved into giggles (“loo” in Australia means “toilet”). I protested at first, but several other people joined in. By the end of the day it was well established, and I’ve been introducing myself as “Lou” ever since. Why would I embrace a stupid nickname like that? I’m not even a passive person, but I still have that deep-seated urge to please other people at almost any extent.
Dear women of the world:
You get to choose what people call you (new people, anyway).
You can say no – even if someone gets mad at you.
Your children can wait while you take a shower/talk on the phone/finish cleaning the kitchen.
You are not for eating.
A little bit post-apocalyptic, a little bit rock and roll
The perfect place to be when disaster strikes is just close enough to feel a thrill, but far enough away to be in absolutely no danger. I’m in precisely that place today. Also, no-one has actually been hurt.
The North side of my little city is ablaze with toxic fumes and chemical explosions. Apparently flames are shooting 200 feet in the air. Buses, schools, and childcare centres have been shut down, and residents advised to stay inside with the doors and windows closed (which reminds me slightly of a “duck and cover” propaganda video from the Cold War, but oh well). It’s still burning.
I live way down on the South side. Outside, the sky is blue. Having offered my home as a toxin-free shelter for a couple of Northside friends, my job here is done.
Not much happens in Canberra. We find our thrills where we can.
Felicity Banks 