Alphabet Soup

by Melissa Doyle

  By the time I got back to my room, kicked off my heels and twisted and wriggled my way out of my boned and buttoned dress, the magic seemed to wash away with all my make-up. The pumpkin had reappeared. And I imagine the superstars I had been gazing at were doing the same thing.

  Just like a bride, the next day you wake up to a stunning gown hanging on the back of the door, a tonne of happy snaps to remember the occasion, some great stories to tell and an extraordinary night to remember forever.

  Romance

  There’s a great episode of Everybody Loves Raymond where Ray and Debra finally get out of the house for a date night. They spend hours getting ready, savour the build up to being alone, then, before the entrée is even served, they run out of things to say. A long boring silence is met with ‘Pass the breadsticks . . .’

  Funny, but true!

  It usually takes a wedding anniversary or birthday for John and me to finally book a babysitter and head out for a romantic dinner. The delay is not for any reason other than we simply don’t get around to it. We’re just as happy to hang out at home, order take-away, watch a movie and be together as a family. Once you have children, they tend to take over your life and dominate your social calendar.

  It’s so easy to get caught up in the every day and forget to take a little time out for yourselves as a couple. Particularly when the kids were little; I felt guilty, as though I owed my non-work time to our children first and foremost.

  It took me a while to realise that nurturing my children is just as important as nurturing my relationship and myself.

  Happy parents make for a happy family.

  It’s almost like you go into this child-cocoon for a few years when you start a family. You are focused purely on home base. Babies are completely reliant on you for everything and that can be all consuming and draining on your time and energy.

  But then you come out the other side. You’re ready to hit the town again and happy to see your partner as the spunky young man you once married, not just a nappy-changing assistant. You want him in your bed, and not just so you can shove him out when the baby cries during the night.

  The mother of a friend of mine has a lovely saying: ‘You have your kids on loan but each other forever.’

  So we continue to strive for the right balance. Time alone as a couple, time alone as individuals, and time together as a family.

  I snatch moments for myself when I can. It may be as simple as driving home from work with the radio blaring and the windows down, or, on days when I’m all talked out, switching the radio off and enjoying the silence. It can be pottering in the garden given the kids find that way too boring to hang around for long, or being home alone in the middle of the day, ignoring the ironing and instead watching TV without feeling guilty.

  Time together as a family can be a picnic blanket at Saturday morning sport or a barbecue just for us on a Sunday afternoon.

  And time together as a couple can be as simple as a nice dinner out, or even a quiet dinner in and a movie uninterrupted—and, of course, a basket of breadsticks.

  Rostering

  I have spent much of the last week baking ahead of an overseas trip for work. Meringues, muffins, panforte, (my mother-in-law’s recipe which I had to learn as a condition of marriage!)—all bribes or rather thank you gifts for my girlfriends and the volunteers I have recruited to keep the kids’ lives running while I’m away.

  Now, I know an ice-cream container stuffed with homemade pink meringues doesn’t quite equal collecting my son from school and taking my daughter to ballet, but it’s one small way to show my girlfriends how much I appreciate them.

  My hubby has cleared his diary as much as business will allow, but given the average nine-to-five job is those hours and more, I need a few extra hands on deck to fill the gaps.

  There’s a lunch box packed with treats for Poppy. He has the Wednesday afternoon soccer-training shift. He’s pretty easy to keep happy though . . . a regular Friday night roast dinner and the odd chocolate cake usually cuts it.

  My mother-in-law is also scheduled to come and stay for a few days. For me, that’s a treat. I will return to clothes ironed with starch and creases sharp enough to cut butter, the bath scrubbed with Gumption and the kids high on lollies and priceless grandmotherly love.

  I have left a detailed roster on the fridge—who picks up and drops off—and a week’s worth of meals prepared and in the freezer. All carefully labelled, of course. Making sure every ‘i’ is dotted and ‘t’ is crossed eases a bit of the guilt I feel when I’m away from home.

  But even when I’m not going away, it’s the logistics of having everything run on time every time without a hitch that does my head in. Trying to keep up the pace without sounding like a nag.

  It’s the everyday planning that I find the most time-consuming. Who has sports day, news day or a project due; how to organise things when one has ballet and the other has to be at cricket training at the same time; who’s dropping one child off at the party on Saturday morning and taking the other one to sport.

  Most of the time it runs pretty smoothly, until it’s stuffed up by me, ironically the one who ties herself in knots trying to keep it all on track.

  I once took some time off when John was away for work and embraced the full-time mum hours. I baked like Donna Hay, and packed lunch boxes with wondrous fluffy delights. I read every note that came home on the very day it came home (as opposed to three days later when I found it in the car/at the bottom of the school bag/ under the junk on the bench) and arranged them on the fridge door in calendar order.

  I even replied to a party invite before the due date.

  Just when I thought I had it all under control, we reached day two and I forgot it was mufti day. Marching through the front gate were all my son’s friends dressed in their casual gear. So, with a seven year old in tears in the back seat, we turned around and dashed home to change. The note on the fridge stared back at me—I must have forgotten to actually read it.

  Day four was hardly better. We left his school bag behind.

  I’d been putting all my energies into mastering the afternoon shift, and it’s clear that while I was at work I gave little consideration to the mornings, what they entailed or how they worked.

  My son has had two late notes in his whole school year . . . and both were on my watch.

  So my lesson in all of this is stick to what you’re good at. I’ve mastered afternoons and all the stuff in between, while John has the mornings sorted.

  Keep the roster on the fridge, updated and organised. And keep baking pink meringues.

  Royal Birth

  There I was standing outside St Mary’s hospital in London in July 2013, excitedly telling Australia Catherine the Duchess of Cambridge had gone into labour. There were helicopters hovering overhead, photographers on stepladders packed into a holding yard behind metal barricades, and journalists like me lined up in the street giving breathless reports to viewers back home in every language from English to French.

  And deep inside the hospital, trying to ignore the commotion, was a 31-year-old woman probably screaming in agony as she gave birth to the future king of England.

  Every mum has a birth story. Granted most won’t be anything like Kate’s, but most mothers will happily share the details of one of the biggest days of their life.

  Some will want to fill your mind with fear. They’ll describe every gruesome detail, maybe even embellish the bad bits to have you believe their labour was the toughest, longest and most painful ever. They want kudos and they want you to walk away in shock and awe.

  Others, like me, will take the more politically incorrect road and tell you it was the most amazing experience of their life. Of course it hurts—hey, you’re pushing a kid out—but it can also be the most powerful, amazing, incredible thing you will ever do.

  You grew a human in your body!

  I remember feeling so amazingly strong following the birth of my firstborn (after I recovered from fee
ling so weak and worn out). From that moment on I knew I could do anything. Giving birth entails some of the most incredible moments of my life; the emotions, the physical limits I could push myself to, and the gorgeous little people that came into being because of it are simply indescribable.

  Both my births were pretty textbook. I had smooth pregnancies and carried full term. I remember our hurried dash to the hospital to deliver Nick. It was during the 2 a.m. car trip when I realised my contractions were rather close together. John wasn’t sure whether to drive slowly and gently or step on it. He stepped on it. Nick was born a few hours later after John had enjoyed a hot breakfast delivered to the room ( intended for me, but clearly not what I was wanting at that point) and watched Tiger Woods win the US Masters. Talia’s birth was a little more organised . . . due a few days before Christmas, we opted to have her induced. I had a lovely little bundle in my arms on Christmas Day.

  Don’t listen to the naysayers who will try and scare you with tales of horror and pain. Give some serious thought to how and where you want to give birth and embrace it. I hope it goes to plan, but if it doesn’t, let it go. The health of you and your baby is all that matters. When your robust child is rushing home to you from school, you would have long forgotten you didn’t light the incense or use your playlist.

  It will change your life in more ways than one.

  School Holidays

  Parents either love school holidays or hate them.

  Maybe because I escape the house every day to head to work, I fall into the first category. School holidays in our house are an excuse to be together all day, wear our PJ’s, make a mess and check off all the fun items on the wish list we stick on the fridge at the end of every term.

  We hang sheets between chairs and transform our living area into a Bedouin playground . . . using pillows, towels, pegs and torches. Once I give in to the mess and relax, we have a blast. We bake cakes, decorate chicken pies with our initials in pastry and make Smarties biscuits.

  There’s a little bit of control that every modern mum just has to let go of once in a while. And trust me: when you do, it’s liberating!

  The kids love helping me cook, so to hell with the mess, I can sweep up flour later. So what if the Smarties aren’t centred, the icing is a gross shade of blue and crayons cover the coffee table? The ironing can pile up in the corner while we have a pyjama day.

  When the kids were smaller, we’d go to the video store and hire classics from my childhood such as Mary Poppins and The Jungle Book. There is something blissful about not going anywhere, not having to dress up. Our biggest excursion is often to the supermarket for more supplies.

  Dinners are a little more extravagant than usual. By that I mean anything that takes longer than twenty minutes. We trawl through those admired but largely untouched cookbooks for inspiration, and because I’m not rushing out the door to get Nick to footy training or collecting Talia from ballet, I can put a roast in the oven.

  When you live life by a routine it’s so nice to throw that out the window once in a while. It’s grounding to just chill out.

  It goes without saying that as adults we’re busy. Always overcommitted, with somewhere to be and someone to see. But what about our kids? Are we forcing them to grow up via our diaries and timetables, always a training session to go to, a friend’s house to be at, homework to complete?

  I know how much I crave just plonking on the couch and vegging out in front of my favourite mindless TV show, so why would my kids be any different?

  The bulk of our summer break is usually spent at home, having barbecues, playing backyard cricket, inviting friends to stop by, or going to the beach and doing as little as possible.

  In winter we bunker down, hold movie marathons, have friends over and drink hot chocolate.

  With so much on the agenda all year, sometimes we just need to stop. Be together. Do nothing. Eat popcorn on a Saturday night and play a game of Uno.

  And it’s so important to let the kids entertain themselves. Holidays don’t have to be an endless array of theme parks, excursions and play dates. What is wrong with finding worms, drawing or building tents?

  When life feels like every moment is accounted for in order to make it all run smoothly (and, believe me, I’m a big advocate of routines) it’s nice to sometimes throw the agenda right out the window. Savour having nowhere to be. And let kids be kids . . . let them find ways to entertain themselves. Send them into the backyard, let them take over the floor with a puzzle and stay up late watching reruns of Tom and Jerry.

  May my biggest dilemma be trying to work out the secret password to the tent.

  It won’t be long before they don’t want to do this stuff with me. Their friends will be more exciting and important.

  And when that happens I’ll probably long for the time I spent putting the house back to normal, folding the sheets, putting the mixmaster back in the cupboard and packing the face paints away for another time.

  Smoke and Mirrors

  I used to think that when I took my daughter out as a toddler I needed some sort of badge to pin to her top when she was wearing an outfit of her own creation. One that told people, ‘I’m three and I dressed myself.’

  I needed a disclaimer that would absolve me from any responsibility when she was wearing every available shade of pink and purple finished off with sparkly Barbie gumboots, a crown and a giant pair of fairy wings.

  Maybe as a grown woman I need to do the same—to fess up to when I don’t dress myself. For it’s when I am teetering across the playground in high heels and full make-up straight from work that I feel most out of place and self-conscious. My girlfriends crack a few jokes as my heels sink into the wet grass, because normally I would have slipped into ‘my’ clothes by then.

  There are two decidedly different ‘fashion Mels’: the Mel who would get glammed up each morning to appear on Sunrise with impractically high heels and some wonderful borrowed clothes, and the regular, casual, slightly less-coordinated Mel who existed the rest of the time.

  The daytime Mel was very lucky. She had clothes chosen and laid out by a professional with way more style and coordination than I’ll ever have. Her hair was blow-dried and her make-up carefully applied to conceal dark circles and create what Mother Nature didn’t. I wore suck-it-in underwear, great shoes and lipstick, all to make me look and feel slimmer, taller and prettier.

  It was like playing dress-ups each day, because God knows I didn’t wake up looking like ‘that Mel’.

  But once the clock struck 9 a.m. I’d run out of the Sunrise studio, discarding my heels faster than it took for the coach to turn back into a pumpkin.

  The at-home Mel removed all the make-up the moment she got in the front door. She’d be straight into flat shoes and comfortable clothes and instantly feel relaxed.

  On weekends I used to think I had to at least look a bit like Mel from the TV, but to be honest that was just way too difficult, time-consuming and simply too much pressure. We all need to relax when off-duty and for me that means avoiding a mirror. I’m hardly going to rock up to the kids’ soccer games on a Saturday morning in full make-up. I used to worry I would disappoint people who expected me to look like I do in front of the camera, but now, as long as I’m looking half decent and tidy, I’m ok with it. Mind you, I do get ‘Has anyone ever told you you look a bit like that girl on the TV?’ I don’t want to know if I look better or worse.

  And the help I receive Monday to Friday makes the weekend contrast seem even crueller. It’s like waking up the day after your wedding when you were looking your most gorgeous and finding your hair flat, face blotchy and you can’t wear that incredible dress again. It’s a blow to any girl’s ego!

  Please don’t for a moment think I don’t care. I probably spend way too much money on skincare in the hope of attaining the glowing youthful complexion we see in the ads. And like most women I’m always striving for that smart casual I’ve-just-thrown-this-together look. I tear pages from magazines for
inspiration and stick them to my cupboard door, and sometimes straight out copy them. But try as I might, I never seem to look as put together, neat and casually glamorous as those models do.

  And when I get called away on assignment and left to my own devices, it’s even more haphazard.

  I remember a few years ago when I flew to Tasmania with less than an hour’s notice to cover the mine collapse. It was a Sunday night and I was cleaning my teeth in my PJ’s when I got the call. As we thought the men would be out by dawn, I took one pair of jeans, an extra shirt and just one jacket. I was there for two weeks. All I could find at the local hardware store was a pair of men’s Blundstone boots three sizes too big. I did manage to find a few extra pairs of knickers at the local supermarket.

  Covering the Victorian bushfires, I was in a similar situation. There I was rinsing my socks and underwear each night in the bath and hanging them around my room to dry.

  It was decidedly unglamorous, but far closer to the real me.

  I’ve had near disasters. Flying to Canberra to host Sunrise’s coverage of the 2010 federal election, I arrived on time but my luggage didn’t. A problem at the best of times, but when you’re on national TV in less than 24 hours and every panel member had been dressed to colour coordinate . . . well, it was tracked down later that night and couriered to my hotel, but not before I had started to panic.

  Although, maybe I would have been better off had it not been returned. I wore a white jacket and a top underneath in such a soft pink that on air it blended into my skin and looked like I was wearing nothing more than a very low-cut blazer. Viewers assumed I was being unusually risqué. My colleagues and I have since dubbed that particular shade of pink ‘election nude’.