Memories

My earliest memory is of me waking up the stairs and saying I’m ready for my nap now. If I was still having naps I couldn’t have been more than three. I remember looking through the stringers on the steps and seeing our kitchen in our suburban house in pickering. Our kitchen Was 1970s mustard and brown, not to be confused with our downstairs powder room, which was 1970s green. 

Another memory that I have is trying to cut an apple for myself. I recall cutting my hand, possibly my finger. And wiping the blood in the towel. I write this because I don’t want to forget. I’m seeing g people around me forget and now it’s too late to ask them. So I must try to remember. 

Manicure Roulette, or You Get What You Pay For... Sometimes

I thought I was going to have a great Saturday when hubby announced that he was goin' fishin'. At the crack of dawn, with glee in my heart and sleep in my eyes, I happily drove him down to the beachy suburb where the 'boys' would be meeting and collecting their boat for the day.

On the way back, I was positively smacking my lips at the prospect of a husband-free day. No cleaning to do, since we'd recently outsourced that function. No homework to do or papers to complete, since my Masters degree was well and truly behind me. What to do with this new found freedom?

I headed to the mall, skim mocha and mindless celebrity mag in hand, and sought out a Nail Barn. A nail barn is an affectionate term I've given to these over-populated nail salons that appear in strip malls and shopping centres, where you can get a quick and dirty manicure for a steal. Under normal circumstances it would have been a relaxing albeit frugal endeavour, but on this occasion, the lady clipped my cuticles too short!!

Nail salon ladies, don't trim down to the flesh of the (bleeding) cuticle!! That is all.

Welcome (Back), me!

After another long blogging hiatus, I think I'm back.  You know how it goes - job,  job, promotion, dream job, pregnant, lay off, then you fall into the baby abyss... hoping to do this with some more consistency this time.

Choosing a C-Section, and other light decisions during pregnancy

It's funny that once someone announces their pregnancy, suddenly it's everyone's business how that little bundle of joy will enter the world.  With or without drugs?  At home or at the hospital?  At the birth centre?  Will there be a doula?  Will you breastfeed?  For how long?

Oh hang on, it's none of your business!

I decided from pretty early on that I was going to have my baby delivered by cesarean section.  I'm pretty sure I made the decision before I was even pregnant, and certainly, once I made my way through the public healthcare system in my country, I decided that I was, in fact, too 'posh to push'. 

Maybe that's not entirely true.  It wasn't about poshness at all.  Actually my decision had more to do with anxiety and a need for control than anything else.  In my enthusiasm to learn all about the birthing experience I watched an episode (or three) of One Born Every Minute (UK).  I was horrified to see women begging for pain medication and midwives telling expectant mothers to effectively 'man up' and deal with the pain.  These women were asking for epidurals and other wonders of modern science, and, during their most vulnerable moments, they were told 'no'.  So I got to reading about the general experience where I live, and the more I read and discussed with people, the more I saw the drugs-are-bad attitude prevalent locally. 

There and then I decided I was not going to miss my chance to have an epidural because of some midwife's belief in drug-free birthing.  I wasn't going to be guilted into some sort of experience that I didn't want. I couldn't take that chance.  So I mitigated the risk down to zero and chose a c-section.  I read,  I spoke to doctors, peers and friends, and my mom.  And then I made a decision that worked for me.

 Don't get me wrong; I didn't specifically need to know which day or which hour my baby would arrive, so I could plan my schedule accordingly.  The objective of the excercise is a healthy baby and mother.  To me, mental health is a huge part of the experience. 

Fortunately, I had the means and opportunity to make my decision with plenty of support, and in the end, baby came when he was good and ready (about 16 hours before his scheduled time).  I had no real problems breastfeeding, no issues bonding with my son, no complications and my recovery was lightning fast compared to my expectations.

In hindsight, not having a c-section might have been fine, but I wouldn't change my experience for the world. The most interesting part: once the baby arrives, no one gives a crap about how he got here, or how he's eating.

Foregone NBA Season spirals husbands everywhere into depression

"I wouldn't say I'm depressed, but I'm certainly searching for something". One husband to his wife, before the return of the 2011 NBA Season.

Boy am I glad it's back: http://www.theroar.com.au/2011/11/29/handshakes-save-the-nba-season/

How to Cope When You're New to an Industry

I recently moved from the world of legal professional services marketing to financial services marketing, and I've realised something significant about my career to date: I've never yet made a professional move within my 'industry'. 

I wonder if this is a bad thing.  I mean, what about the days when you pledged your loyalty to one company, one company only until death do us part.  Would that mean I was forever confined to industrial tools and services? or education services marketing?  How would I ever make the move to marketing products?  Was that what I wanted? What about all of those big, sexy brands that I've always thought I wanted to work for.  Was that a done deal?  Case closed?

Reaching Out

When the proverbial shit is hitting the fan, it's important to reach out to friends, family the guy on the subway or anyone willing to listen. 

In the past, my tendency is not.  I was the girl with her ducks in a line.  I'm the girl with the plan and project after project on the go.  I know what I'm doing now, then I know what's next, and I don't need anyone to tell me anything.  Or so I thought.

When my husband, let's call him D. walked out the door that night, I felt like the rug of my carefully planned life was pulled out from under me.  He begged me to call someone, anyone and talk to them.  I felt like I had no one to talk to.  I felt like my friends leaned on me, but I didn't need to do any leaning, ever, and that's why I felt like I had no friends or no one to turn to during a most difficult time.

I should mention at this point that I was as geographically far as I could possibly be from my closest family and friends.  Time zones, oceans and continents separated us.