A Mother of a Whinge

My friend L has a new baby too. She's perpetually nervous. Has the baby had enough to eat? Too much? Did she eat too fast? Too slow? She's crying. Should I rock her? Sing to her? Play with her? Am I over stimulating her? PUT THE BABY BACK IN AND TELL HER TO COME OUT AGAIN WHEN YOU'VE CALMED DOWN, I say. Not sure she'll be asking for my mothering advice again.

Have done my back in. Not even in a glamorous, sporting way. I was in the bathroom and I bent down to pick up the toilet roll then couldn't get up again. Just yesterday my mother was telling me how fit and healthy I'm looking. Serves me right for being mean and spiteful. Am walking around in manner of elderly war veteran who wasn't quite the same after he came back from the camps. No medals though. Have taken copious amounts of Voltarin in hope of finding messiah and shutting L up.

Nothing yet.

Me in midflight 

Tears on the Dashboard, Vomit on my Shirt

After several attempts to get the bub and the dog into the car to go to a mothers group meeting, I finally set off. Only to discover a splattering of baby vom on my fresh black shirt. I suppose the one place it's appropriate to turn up to avec vomet is a mothers' group. Still feeling tense from yesterday's dreadful attempt to return to work. Then they played a new song called "The Special Two" by Missy Higgins on the radio. There's a line in it about how when we're young we have an image of what our life will be like. That was all I needed. I started to weep. Embarrasingly loudly. With occasional pig like snorts and wails. It's not even a particularly good song.

Ehem.

My Brain Hurts Like Dysentery

Oh Horror. Spent the day with my script editor, otherwise known as The Most Successful Writer in Australia. Was very excited to have babysitter for the day so I could focus on work and feel like a functioning member of society for five hours. Within seconds, we got stuck. Spiralled into an abyss of terror where the script that I’ve spent a good part of three years working on suddenly seemed to have no merits whatsoever. I had to keep reminding him that he used to think the story was great, the characters interesting. We were sucked into a vortex of negativity. He told me the script makes a good paperweight. Should have done that medical degree when I had the chance and been a paediatric surgeon by now. Have this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach that is making me want to hurl. If I had a medical degree I’d know how to deal with that too.

Wonder whether it’s too late to pretend I’m eighteen and start again. Become important doctor and save children's lives.

Drugs are Good for Children

Okay, this is the last blog I will do about drugs because 1. I don't usually do drugs and 2. They're bad. Except for the 2 emergency joints R and I smoked on Sunday night. The mild Diva Marijuana snapped us both out of our horror at his evil cousins and helped us sleep. After taking an absurd amount of digital pictures of us making funny faces, and a video of the hound licking R's head which I dare not upload for fear of being reported to some animal rights group. Why does video-ing something make it look far more sordid than it is? We were both in such great moods on Monday that I could argue the green herb made us better parents. Have now thrown away remnants of herb-filled peanut butter jar and intend to wait another three years before indulging again. And no, that wasn't me rummaging through the garbage looking for one more wafer thin emergency joint.

The Gateway Drug

Tonight at the pesach seder, R's dad was going on about how much more pernicious marijuana is than alcohol or cigarettes. I vehemently disagreed. Silently to myself. Tonight, in bed, R and I were discussing how absurd it was to argue that marijuana does more damage than alcohol. It reminded us that we had an emergency joint, given by a Greek goddess years earlier, and stashed securely in a peanut butter jar somewhere in the house. We're about to smoke it. I haven't had as much as a whiff of dope for at least 3 years, but the thought of pissing R's dad off, plus the effect of his horrorshow cousins on my fragile psyche has driven me to the hitherto sealed peanut butter jar. Plus drugs feel good.