Infidelity

I’ve been cheating on Mr Moi.

For the past week, I haven’t been able to think about anything else. You see, on Wednesday last week, I went into a bookstore in town, and that’s when I saw it. Twilight. On a whim, I bought it. And anyone who knows me, knows that when I get some frothy fiction, I just can’t put the book down. There’s no point fighting this compulsion to read until the book is finished. Resistance is futile. And so, I read it.

I had to be very evasive around Mr Moi, because he thinks I read books too quickly. And, when they’re getting up around $30 a pop in Australia (yes, that is right, $30 for one book), well, knocking it over in 20 hours doesn’t represent great value for money.

So, I waited two days until I let myself anywhere near the bookstore again. But when I did, I bought New Moon, and read that too. And so on, and so forth, until I finished the final book, Breakin Dawn, a couple of days ago. I sunk $120 on a series, and read it in six days.

From a purely technical writing perspective (cause that’s what I did, I was a comms peep), I don’t think the books are particularly well written, but it’s a hopelessly pathetic romantic yarn, and added to that, it’s set in high school and it’s a tale about a really good-looking guy who falls in love with an ordinary girl, and that, I think, resonates with a lot of people because really, who didn’t feel like a freak in high school?

(Although it’s not like the best looking guy could have fallen for me at high school because the best looking guy was still really ugly and probably in his 40s. And a teacher. I went to an all girls school).

So, I’ve finished the Twilight Saga and, to be truthful, I probably won’t re-read it, at least for a while. It’s an appealing story to my fat-ugly 16 year-old inner-self, but I didn’t feel like there were a lot of layers to it. And in some ways it bore similarities to a favourite series of mine, The Obernewtyn Chronicles by Isobelle Carmody, which is a truly complex story and extremely well written.

If you click on that above link to the Obernewtyn Chronicles, you’ll see the headline reads, “The Wait is Over”, and it is. I started reading Obernewtyn when I was 14. And the fifth book in the series has just been released, 10 years after the fourth! So before I was getting carried away with Twilight, I was engrossed in re-reading the Obernewtyn Chronicles (except for the second book in the series, which was mysteriously lost during all our moving).

So in order to revive all the braincells I killed by reading frothy fluffy fiction, I must now go and tackle some literature. Or essays. A quick glance at the bookshelf gives me some options: Understanding Power by Noam Chomsky, or The Origins of the Boxer Uprising. Emotionally Weird by Kate Atkinson (or if I’m feeling lazy, I’ll just pull out my all-time favourite of her books, Behind the Scenes at the Museum.)

Hmn. Food for thought indeed.

And 45 minutes after this photo was taken, we discovered she has an egg allergy

The red welts on her cheek were caused by an amorous nana, not the egg

I never wanted a child with an allergy. C’mon, who does? I was horrified when I found out my nephew has a peanut allergy, and I really felt sorry for my sister-in-law.

My first ‘proper’ job after finishing university, was working in corporate communications for a very popular Australian food brand. In my first year there, FSANZ brought in new relguations around how food companies must list allergens on food packs. The reason? Because allergies have become such a big issue, especially anaphylactic shock caused by, among other things, the tiniest traces of peanuts and fish products.

So, I’m very aware of allergies, what they do to people, how difficult they can make life become, and how just a sniff of peanut can cause a kid to almost die.

That’s why I really really didn’t want a kid with an allergy.

Earlier this year, back in Brisbane, I was enjoying some time with family friends. Le Sprog had been on solids for a while and everyone was keen to give her something to nibble on. A peice of bread, a stick of carrot, a chicken bone… Of course, this freaked me out, as I’m convinced she’s going to choke. (Notice I wrote the last part of that sentence in present tense. This is because I’m still convinced).

I’d come to the lunch well stocked with some ’safe’ foods – mashed pumpkin and spinach and mashed apple. After she’d eaten these, I was sure no one would try any other silly food bizzo. I handed her over to my mum and started on my own lunch.

Now Mr Moi tells me I’m turning into my mum, and he tells ME that I’m stubborn, so I guess that means mum is too. So when Nana Moi was eating her lemon meringue pie dessert and decided to give Le Sprog a taste, I yelled at her. “MUM. NO. NO EGGS YOLKS UNTIL THEY’RE NINE MONTHS. NO EGG WHITES UNTIL THEY’RE ONE.”

Now, I love my mum to bits, but I guess this is where the stubborness kicked in. “Ohhhhh, she’ll be right. I fed you kids a three course meal starting with steak tartare and finishing with eggs cracked straight from the shell by the time you were eight months old,” she said.

It was futile anyway, because by the time this exchange had taken place, Le Sproglette had launched herself on the spoon and happily ate the teeny, tiny, sugar-filled scraping of barely cooked eggwhite and egg yolk.

The situation rattled me, so I took control and put the baby to bed. Except she wouldn’t go to sleep. And when she finally did, she only slept for 30 minutes before waking up. And on waking up, she couldn’t stop rubbing her eyes. And after about 15 minutes of her doing that, her nose started dripping and her eyes started running. And we realised that perhaps she wasn’t rubbing her eyes because she was still tired. So I looked at her belly and she was covered in red welts.

An hour later, we were at the hospital. Her face was red, her ears were swollen to the point they no longer had any definition, her body was one huge big red lump. She was given an antihistamine and a steroid, and we stayed at the hospital for four hours under observation. Thankfully, it wasn’t an anaphylactic reaction. And thankfully, she calmed down after the initial outbreak. She was positively beaming at the hospital. The nurses loved her.

I felt terrible. Like a bad mum. Annoyed that we now have an allergy to deal with. And I really felt sorry for this tiny little human being that was swollen to almost twice her size, all because of something we were silly enough to put in her mouth.

And, of course, I felt completely, 100 per cent guilty.

When the clock hit 9pm, the doctor was happy for us to leave. So we walked past the front desk, waved goodbye. We walked past the full waiting room.

And as we were walking out the door, the triage nurse leaned out of her room and yelled, “And no more lemon meringue pie!”

Every parent in the waiting room turned to stare at stupid mother who feeds her baby evil foods.

Guiltguiltguiltguiltguiltguiltguiltetc.

Boxes as a moment in time

I open our most recently delivered batch of boxes (the shipment from Ukraine), sneezing at the dust and trying not to get my white shirt dirty (much easier to handle things gingerly than to go get changed, no?)

I’ve previously touched on the little moments of homesickness I feel for Kyiv. It was my home for 2.5 years. But, as I unpack the few belongings we had in our apartment there that ‘made it feel like home’, I’m overcome with another wave of Ukr-sickness.

Me pregnant. No, I can't believe I am pining for this furniture either.

It’s the smell. I unpack the clothes and linen that we practically wore thin (we didn’t buy much because we knew we’d just ‘have to ship it all home’), and the smell wafts up: the smell of a life that I loved to complain about, but was pretty cool actually (especially now that I’m back in Australia and a min. $2000 flight away from Europe).

The smell of Tide washing powder, mixed with hard water tinged with heavy metal from old pipes. The smell of 24/7 central heating that was created miles away in a huge furnace on the outskirts of the city and beamed into my apartment. The smell of wooden parquet floors, built after WWII (and if you listen to the gossip, built by the hands of German POWs).

The smell of a group of wonderful friends, of being pregnant, of lovely summer days and miserable winter ones, of watching my tiny baby grow a little every day. The smell of a different life, just for a while.

It was my everday smell for over two years. And those wonderful movers managed to pack it into a box, and ship it all the way to Australia.

ETA: Holy moley I became unglamorous when pregnant. Sure haven’t reclaim any glamour. I think I will have to launch project “get glamour mojo back”. At least I’ve finally had a haircut.

Boo to things that make me cry (and everything does…)

Last Saturday, I was up bright and early, as it was the day Mr Moi was coming home. I was going to drive our Brand New Car to the airport to pick him up. I was excited.

In order to make time pass more quickly, I called my mum to have a natter. Time did indeed pass quickly – I looked at the clock mid-conversation and realised I’d be leaving in half an hour. At the same time, Le Sproglette started to get a little whingey, and I realised I’d neglected to give her breakfast.

After shoving her beloved WeetBix down her throat (she eats two every morning) (and she cries when her breakfast finishes), we quickly dressed. I even put on a little make-up so that I’d look extra nice for my returning husband. Five nights alone with the baby in a new city with no friends is a Long. Time.

We arrived at the airport two minutes after the plane’s scheduled landing, and I quickly unloaded the stroller and the baby, and we made our way inside. (Darwin is a very small airport. If we could clear customs in the former Soviet Union in 20 minutes at times, then I expected that one could practically walk off the plane into the carpark in Darwin).

I walked in, looking up at the monitor as I entered. There were two flights landed – one from Kuwait at 9:00am, and Mr Moi’s plane.

“Hmmm,” I thought to myself. “Strange that Darwin has a direct flight from Kuwait.” *

When I looked away from the monitor and took in the scene in front of me, I was in shock. There were about 100 women and children crowded around the small waiting area, staring at the door that spits international arrivals into the arrivals hall.

Some were holding balloons. Some were holding signs. One was holding a teddy bear. There were kids wearing the Australian flag like a cape. And they were all dressed in their best. Some in clothes that had no right being worn at 9am on a Saturday morning (unless you’re just coming home from the night before). They were waiting for a planeful of Army folk who’d just returned home from Iraq (and may I say: fighting there a battle which most of Australia didn’t want them to fight).

I was embarrassed on a couple of levels. Firstly, that I’d been upset that Mr Moi had been away for six days, while these women were waiting for men who’d been away for four months. I was also embarrassed because I was only wearing a country shirt and a denim skirt and looked terribly out of place, even with my touch of makeup. I rang Mr Moi and asked how long it would take him to go through customs. He said about half an hour, so I walked off to the coffee shop and waited.

While I waited, I watched these women welcoming back the men in their lives.

There was the young woman in skinny jeans and killer stilettoes; crop topped. She looked like she’d just come from a club. But her stilettoes ensured her tired man didn’t have to bend far to kiss and hug her hello.

Then there was the man who, as soon as he walked through the door, was almost bowled over by a tiny pink-and-blonde bundle. His daughter, about three years old, took a running leap into his arms and wouldn’t let go. He couldn’t move; he was holding too tight to his daughter to push the trolley. His wife came over to him, crying, but their daughter would’t let go. When she finally did, his wife buried her face on his shoulder and cried. The little girl came running back to her daddy, waving a canvas at him. I later saw it said, “Welcome Home Daddy”.

Finally, there was the uncertain lady who looked about my age. She looked worn out, tired. In her arms, she was carrying a baby boy, wrapped up well despite the heat outside. He looked about one week old. Her husband was one of the last people to emerge. She gave him a kiss, but not a cuddle, because her arms were full. The man looked shocked, obviously overcome by seeing his first child, for the first time. All born, all there. I’m sure he felt every possible emotion, all at once. He took his baby into his arms, but seemed so overcome that he handed the baby back after a minute.

Viewing this scene through my haze of sleep deprivation (made worse by being home alone), I was touched. I got rather emotional (but I didn’t cry). When the crowd mostly dispersed, I moved back over to the waiting area and pulled Le Sproglette out of the stroller onto my lap, all the while looking at the door that spits people into the arrivals hall.

A senior Army bloke walked over to me, looking concerned.

“Are you still waiting?” he asked.

“Uh, NO! I’m just waiting for my husband, who’s been away. On BUSINESS. Not in Iraq. Not in the army.” Blunder blunder etc.

Finally Mr Moi came into the arrivals hall. And even though it was only six days and not four months since I’d last seen him, I was still very happy to see him. Even if I was I was just wearing a country shirt and a denim skirt.

* Firstly, it was a charter flight. And secondly, Darwin is an Defence Force town. And no, Mr Moi isn’t in the Defence Forces.

A collaboration

I tell you, I know a good thing when I see it (said tongue in cheek).

One day recently, I decided to give my lovely friend Olya a plug for the benefit of my eight readers, and what do you know but only three days later, she’s reviewed on the UK’s Mirror website.

They do say imitation is the most sincere form of flattery.

Well Olya, being a dab hand with the brush, put out challenge to the blogosphere, seeking suggestions for how she might use words to add a new dimension to her paintings about Hackney/Brick Lane, where she lives.

So she and I have started a little collaboration project. I decided to write poetry. I haven’t written poetry since I was angry, drunk and 17 (before emos were invented. Once again, I’m so ahead of my time!)

So pop over to her blog and have a read. I’m glad I’m a pseudonym writer, because I feel all jubbly when I read stuff I wrote (besides all the corporate guff I used to get paid to do. To this day I read all my old work and think I kicked ass and give myself a pat on the back. Then a slap in the face).