Sunday, December 4, 2011

More of the same

An update for myself I suppose, and those of you who are interested enough and care enough to want to know how it's going.
It's going. 10 days into treatment and Donno's body is being poisoned by chemotherapy, he feels sick, is sick, we want him not to be sick. More than anything.
My mind wants to take me to bad places. Funerals, dying, sickness, sadness. Fotunately my daughter has taught me so much in her time here, mostly about not letting my head dwell on negativity, instead focussing on just breathing, just being. So I fight the urge to be dramatic and find solace in my children, my Josh, my self and my wonderful, strong and good extended family.
There is humour in much of it. Donno seems to think he is a consultant in his medical treatment, so knows everything he needs to and regularly makes suggestions to the Doctors regarding courses of action. He and Mum are having a new bathroom built on to their house and he is in daily contact with the builder, insisting upon photos of the work be emailed to him and talking to the builder at least once a day. Some days 3 times, but that's our Donno :)

Amidst the horror of the diagnosis comes some wonderful reminders of humanity. The bathroom builder is now only charging for materials, not labour. Heartfelt cards from friends and family arrive every day. Offers of help, accommodation, spare cars are being sent to all of us, the somewhat helpless relatives who want nothing but to be there, to help, to love.
I stopped praying many years ago, but lately have been tempted to take it up again. But that Donno is a man of science, so it probably wouldn't do him any good anyway ;). Instead I just hope for the best, breathe in and think good health, breathe out and send that awful disease away. We are going to hold on to that wonderful man with everything we have and cherish every moment left. And maybe pray to the universe to give us more time xo

Saturday, November 19, 2011

Luke Heemia

Yesterday was not a good day. Disrupted sleep, an angry daughter, a lingering flu, another sick kid, a husband away for work. By 5 pm I'd had it, the world hated me & I was hating it.
Then the phone rang. My mother, in tears, indecipherable, except for one word. Leukemia. Another word. Donno. My step father.
Questions. Some answers, not the right ones. Nothing comforting about these answers. Chemotherapy. Isolation ward. 4 weeks. Get your affairs in order.
When you hear news like this it takes awhile to comprehend it, to understand it, to accept it. I've heard news like this twice before, the first when I was 12 about my Dad, cancer, 12 months, inoperable, get your affairs in order. He died on December the 25th, 1992, 12 months after his diagnosis.
The second was when I was 28 about my Father In Law, cancer, inoperable, get your affairs in order. He died on January the 30th, 2008, 12 months from diagnosis.
Leukemia kills. It ravages and hurts and destroys. Which is never good, but when it is planning on doing it to someone you love, someone your family love, someone your children love, it's awful. Revolting. Terrifying, infuriating, devastating.
I want to fall down in a big heap and scream this sorry business away. Cut my arms and bleed this hurt out. Stand in front of this wonderful man and protect him from this horrible disease.
As it is I keep laughing nervously and making black humoured jokes. Trying to fight off the waves of helplessness, sadness, terror by laughing, smiling, carrying on. I refuse to give into the pain. Not yet. Not until we know more.
Donno became a part of my family nearly 10 years ago. He fell in love with my mother, bedded her, then married her and thus became my Step Father. I've watched my Mum bloom through his love and it's always been so easy to know him, to love him. He is the kindest, softest, cleverest, gentleman I know. A man full of love and completely at ease showing it.
And how he loves my kids. What a man he has been to them. The greatest grandfather they have known and what love I have felt watching them connect.
Maybe he'll beat this. It will disappear from his 63 year old body and he will stay with us for another 30 years. Because life without him is unimaginable, unbearable. What will we do without him? Please beat it. Don't go. We need you.... Can you guilt someone into not dying?
So Keeping Calm and Carrying On is the mantra. Getting my own affairs in order and preparing for battle.

Saturday, October 29, 2011

Uncomfortable Zones

Today I'm going abseiling. Terrific. Little bit out of my comfort zone, but exciting, different, adrenaline filled.
Ridiculously I am going to be filmed whilst abseiling. For a short segment shown several times a day for weeks at a time on a local tv channel. All about ticking things off your Bucket List. So far there has been a lady learn to sail and a man skydive. Now me. Stay at home Mum goes way out of her comfort zone and abseils down cliff face.
I'm nervous about doing the abseil. Stepping backwards into nothing is possibly going to make me wee myself (just a little bit), but thats not what really scares me. It's the being on tv part that makes me want to vomit. The seeing myself on tv that sends a cold shiver down my spine. The possibility of me saying or doing something terribly embarrassing that will make me cringe for the next 3 years.
But I'm doing it anyway. Enjoying the rush of nerves and anticipation, over thinking what I'm going to say, excited and shitting myself all in one about this adventure. I'm so pleased that I'm putting myself out there. I'm so brave! It could all go pearshaped, but once again I can fall back on the knowledge that my family support and love me and think I'm alright whatever I do. So yay me and walking backwards off a cliff, here I come!

Monday, September 5, 2011


Tonight I went to the first session of an introductory meditation course. I'll set the scene - held at the community room in the local library, flourescent lighting and creaky chairs, 30 pairs of ugly bare feet connecting with Mother Earth (through the brown printed carpet) surrounded by orange & grey stripey walls.
An overweight man with greasy hair introduces himself as Anthony, proceeds to explain some of the aims of Sahaja Yoga, points out our various chakras on a whiteboard marker drawn diagram. Anthony has a kind of Jim Jones thing going on and he fidgets, which is totally uncool. I'm seriously thinking of about bolting, but 2 things stop me - 1) There are various 'legitimate' Indian people here to help us with our meditating and 2) I'm much too far away from the exit, I can't bear the thought of all these people with ugly feet seeing me give up 10 minutes in.
He starts the meditation. It involves moving our right hand to various places on our left side and repeating different affirmations in our head with each spot. It lasts about 10 minutes and by the end of it I'm feeling reassured, relaxed, calm. Then he asks us to move our hand to hover over the top of our head to feel the cool air emanating....I'm not feeling it. My Kundalini has not been awakened. He asks for a show of hands and 3 bullshit artists raise them, the rest of us concentrate on our ugly feet.
Doesn't matter, it will happen, he says.
Then he puts on a dvd of the lady with the long name who was the founder of this form of meditation. She has a wonderful Indian accent and she is on a screen that's roughly 7 inches across. It's both difficult to see and to understand. Then a miniature cockroach runs across the top of the screen, then again, then back once more. It's odd.
Eventually they fade the lady's voice out and he asks for any questions. There are the usual suspects 'I couldn't understand her accent - it was a language barrier for me' says one particularly aussie lady. 'I don't know what I'm supposed to be achieving' says a man with a sceptical eye. Another man stands up, bows at the lady waiting by the door and leaves.
I'm tempted, very tempted to run with him but there are biscuits on a table for after and that's enough to keep me here.
Finally Anthony introduces a young, fit Indian guy to talk. He pretty much tells us all the same stuff the fat white Anthony did but in a more legitimate manner. He takes us through one more meditation, again about 10 minutes, similar to the first and again I feel calm, capable. I only do one set of pelvic floor exercises before I remember I'm supposed to not be thinking.
All this lasts for about an hour. They have barely said thank you and goodnight before people are leaving - many turning their mobile phones back on as soon as they stand up. What the fuck is that? Who goes to a meditation course and takes their phone with them?
Some of us hang around, sniffing for the free biscuits and orange juice. Various discussions about the lighting being a bit bright and why on earth did people bring their phones with them? Mingling with the 'staff' who are actually just volunteers who practise this meditation every week together in this very room. They don't worry about the lighting - they don't notice it anymore. Words like 'bliss' and 'thoughtless awareness' are thrown around. Exactly what I'm looking for, I think.
So I reckon there will only be half the amount of ugly feet next week, but I'm going back. It's a 5 week course, one night a week, but I'm going to be away for the last 2 weeks so that works perfectly - I can commit to this but not with too much gusto. I'm fairly sure it can't get much worse than this week and if it is, then that will be a great surprise. Look out Kundalini here I come...

Friday, August 26, 2011

3 things

Tomorrow I have three things to do.
Swim 250m. Cycle 10km. Run 2.5km. All relatively simple individually, join them together and what have we got - a fucking triathlon. A baby one, yes, but a triathlon nonetheless.
Months ago I heard about it through my gym. I entertained the notion of doing it, started jogging on the treadmill once a week, figuring if I can run I can finish it.
Kept jogging, about twice a week. Slowly, but steadily. Did some cycling classes, took the bike out for a few rides. The weather got hotter, I started swimming again. Amazing myself by pushing through & finishing 20 laps of freestyle - 1 whole kilometre of big arms! Not quickly, but correctly.
Now here I am, the eve of my first triathlon, shitting myself. Hearing a horrible voice in my head that says 'Why on earth do you think you can do this? Who are you kidding? Your too slow/fat/unfit to race a triathlon.'
I'm worrying, maybe that voice is right. Maybe I better not do it, in case I can't do it. See the logic? What if I come last? What if people laugh at me? What if I can't finish it?
So all this running, swimming, pushing myself out of my comfort zone has been leading me to this? I don't think so.
So I'm challenging everyone of those ridiculous thoughts with what I actually know. I know I can swim, ride & run. Maybe I haven't done all 3 in a session, but I can give it a try and see how I go.
I am slow, but I'm steady.
I'm a bit fat, but I'm also a bit fit.
Even if I come last, I've still finished.
If anybody laughs at me I'll give them the finger.
So there is nothing else for it. I'm doing it. I'm going to have my beautiful family waiting for me to cross that finish line and I'm going to give them all a huge red faced sweaty high five. And they are going to be so proud of me. And I'm not planning on racing anyone, but I am planning on finishing. I'll probably cry, but that's ok. And Ii it really hurts I don't ever have to do it again, maybe I can take up yoga for my next challenge.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Drop Off

3 weeks before school ended last term a note appeared in the classroom window. "Can anyone help? E's mum needs someone to drop E off to school each day so mum can get to work on time."
I know E and her mum as I used to teach E swimming and I often run into her mum as she is dropping E's little sister off at her family daycare house, 5 doors down the road from my own house.
So I'm obligated, I'm a stay at home mother who has all the time in the world to drop someone elses child off to school, I'm going there anyway, right? So I volunteer, feeling slightly proud of myself for my generosity and goodwill. One for the sisterhood.
She's dropped off at 7.30 each morning. School starts at 8.15, we leave about 8. Do the math. (I'll do it for you - 2.5 hours per week of childcare, I've spent some time on this.)
She's terrified of dogs. Especially ones that bark alot, jump up and generally intrude on your personal space. Oh I've just described Jess, our almost 2 year old blue heeler, who guards our fence from sun up til dusk and doesn't seem to understand E's resistance toward her.
"Whatever you do Don't Run," I yell from the balcony, looking down on them.
I do this every weekday as they come cowering in my gate. I understand their discomfort, but she's my bloody dog and I love her. So suck it up.
So by the end of week one I'm starting to feel an irritation creep up my spine as 7.30 rolls around each morning. I'm wondering if it would be rude to ask for some sort of payment, $5 a day, a bottle of wine at the end of the week, a book voucher? Something, anything, just don't let me be doing this for Nothing.
So much for my generosity and goodwill, it's out the window.
Lets cut a long story short. I didn't ask for any payment, I just sucked it up & took the poor kid to school. Plenty of thank you thank you so much from the mum but Nothing came my way of any value. No fucking bottles of wine, no flowers, no Nothing. I'm seriously pissed off, can't believe I've been taken advantage of like this. Sure I'll do a nice thing but you better return the favour. Thats the way I was bought up, to an extent. If someone does something for you, you pay it back in kind.
I've been stewing over this all 4 week holiday. Discussing it with friends, lamenting the bad manners of this Mum. All the while realising the new term starts very soon & neither E's mum or I have discussed the drop off. Ideally she would ring me, I'd say sorry can't do it anymore, cough your a cheap skate cough, bye then. She didn't ring.
So heres the part I'm really proud of. Last night, after jogging 3.15km on the treadmill (22 minutes of mental preparation) I rang her. Had a quick chat, apologised, said I could no longer do the drop off, good luck with it all. Very nicely and certainly Very maturely. Job done, finito, no more stewing, complaining, worrying.
I can't even tell you how easy it was. How good I felt after. How unlike me it is to tackle potential social discomfort head on and not end in tears.
So good on me. Not for the goodwill but for the good ending.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

The thoughts come easily, but the answers don't

Been doing alot of thinking. Too much, possibly.
My attempts at Mindfulness are only successful when I'm in the grocery store, surrounded by food and products, immersed in choice.
So much of my day is vacant for thinking. Hanging washing out - I tell my body to suck that tummy in, listen to the neighbourhood noises - what can I hear? I listen, then find myself a minute later having an imaginary conversation with an old friend, or reliving any number of strange incidents that have occurred in my life.
Listening to the neighbourhood is completely forgotten.
My Post Natal Shrink is encouraging me to challenge my negative thoughts. Acknowledge them, then let them go. Become aware of them. Laugh at them. Imagine I was saying them to a friend (but I would never speak that way to a friend...?). Be mindful.
It's fucking hard. I have a well established pattern that has developed into something of an addiction, the more I know I should change it the tighter I hold on, terrified of what's underneath.
It seems a terribly strange concept, embarrassing almost, to actually like myself? Love myself? That used to be a put down when I was at school...'Oh Kelly, she loves herself, pfft'. Yet all around me I'm seeing people I once knew, older, younger, school mates and they all seem to be so together, so pretty, so capable.
I feel like I'm being left behind. Again like I should be more.
I wore makeup today, that wonderful mineral powder that swirls on and leaves one looking almost flawless, or at least one tone. I saw a friend and she complimented me 'Are you wearing powder? It looks great, your skin looks so good'. Which I struggle to take as a compliment, but I think it was one.
I've been reading some great books, a marvellous technique I use to avoid reality.
The Book Thief by Marcus Zusac made me weep, amazed me, touched me.
Currently I'm reading A Million Little Pieces by James Frey about an addicts recovery. I can relate, in a way, I'm actually finding it quite addictive...theres a line on page 43 I like -
"..for a brief second I feel strong. Not strong enough to face myself, but strong enough to keep going".
And so we go.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011


The family and I have been suffering from some sort of gastro for the past 4 days. Some are vomiting, some squirting, some doing both. It's a terrible thing to see your children sick and not be able to fix it, a good reminder of what it is to be a mother when all you can offer is love and comfort.
However 4 days in and myself being one of the gastro sufferers the novelty of being Nurse Nightingale has worn off. I'm sick of my kids, sick of my husband and definitely sick of the back of the toilet door. In between caring for family I've spent what seems like hours contemplating the back of that door and my thoughts keep taking me back to the same place. This is shit. Literally. Totally. I'm desperate for someone to tend to me, longing to just lay in bed and feel sorry for myself for as long as my bowels will let me.
The best I got was a rub on the back from hubby, with the question - "Do you think you'll be better tomorrow?"
It wears thin, being the homemaker. Running the household. Home Duties. Often I feel moments of hysteria, where I really can't believe that this is where I am, somehow I've ended up some Stepford wife, albeit not a very good one - not thin enough, clean enough, committed enough.
Even worse my Baby Bonus money just ran out so I have no money to call my own. Hubby puts a set amount into a shared bank account each week and I am, I believe, a kept woman. On a budget. Yet the question remains, if I were to go back to work, even part time, who would tend to these home duties?
How dare I complain? My mother never would have, and I know, I know, there are people who long to have what I have. And most of the time I'm delighted by my lot, proud of myself, proud of them, I try to find a sense of achievement in dusted louvres. But evenings like this one, where I'm halfway to falling apart, it's just a pain in my arse.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011


It's 5.30 on a Wednesday morning and my daughter can't sleep. So here we are. Her on the floor playing with a container of pins (it's too early for me to care) that make a great noise and me slumped over the computer desk trying to feel positive.
Theres not much to love at this time of the day. Sorry kid.
The worst of it is it's my own fault. My daughter sleeps well and is quite a pleasant baby so long as I stick to several golden rules.
No dairy. Milk & cheese have been easy to kick - it's chocolate that I can't let go of. My old friend. I went for 4 weeks completely dairy free and what a month it was - lighter, happier, healthy....Then somehow the chocolate has found it's way into my shopping trolley and I'm back on the gear, finding comfort in a brown bar. Meanwhile my daughter becomes more & more irritable, can't drop off to sleep, wants to be held all day. Screams like a newborn when she's not. Torturous. My own fault.
Then I give up the chocolate and think it's only fair I have a beer or 2 in the evening, just to take the edge off if you like. Turns out this is as effective as chocolate and we are back to her wanting much more of me than I can give.
So back to square one. Dietary control. Exercise. All that business of health. Maintaining positive thoughts, fighting back the negative ones that want to take control. It's just that its gonna be a long day today, I know it, and I can't even 'reward' myself with chocolate or beer! Looks like its a beach walk & a healthy dinner and perhaps even a few daytime kips.

Saturday, March 19, 2011


At 3.30 this afternoon I found myself at a Tupperware party, surrounded by containers, mothers, many types of cheese and inquisitive daughter at my breast. I wore my new Bali dress, strapless and bright purple, pretty coloured beads around my neck, feeling fresh and vibrant. For the first 15 minutes we were there it was boob out, while daughter fills up. She drinks for a bit, then up she comes and takes a breath. Scans the crowd, exposing my erect milk nipple and eventually leading me to kind of clasp my free hand around and over my breast, essentially groping myself in public. I just try and continue to act normally and listen to the lady explain how to cook chicken curry in 18 minutes in the microwave.
I left without buying anything, resisted the cheeses but with a new found respect for the art of microwave cooking - that curry was tasty. I did however partake in a cup of breshly brewed black coffee, hence the sort of late night blogging.
Finished the day with a picnic at a park next to a beach, with friends and children in tow. The kids had a wonderful time playing, telling us stuff, eating sausages and running on the balmy Darwin beach.
Whilst my baby girl sat up so cleverly on her bum, delighted that she is seeing the world right way up finally. Two funny little teeth sprouting out her bottom gum, a wonderful smile and a temper that is all bark, no bite. I think. She has slept through 2 nights in a row and I'm not sure I've ever loved her this much.

Friday, January 28, 2011

A Passport Story

The story of my baby and her passport.
It began with a trip to the local post office to collect a passport form and get her photo. Easy enough, dreadful photo - her serious face covered in drool and no bottom lip to speak of, she's sucking on it. Pasty looking, angry, not at her best. There are 8 of them, headshots, you need 2 for an application. One must be signed by a 'guarantor' to say 'this is a true photo of so and so, signed other so & so'. This is what happened to them.
Photos 1 & 2 & form #1 filled in & signed by my old friend who popped in for a cup of tea one afternoon. Says she will message me her passport details later. She does so, adding it's out of date. I read the instructions on the passport form, unacceptable.
Return to post office, pick up 2 forms.
Get newly married friend to fill in form. Her passport is current, but hang on, her married name is now different to her passport. Remember to check every detail before getting form signed next time.
4 photos left. We are leaving to Bali in 6 weeks with 3 of my girlfriends. One of them offers to be guarantor. Perfect. Until she fills in form & checks passport to see it expired 4 days earlier.
2 photos left. I reread the guarantor page and realise there are 2 options - 1) passport or 2) enrolment details. Get friend to fill in form & sign photos. Take to post office. Organise appointment for the following day.
Arrive at appointment. Go through f form, no problem. Man looks at last set of photos and says Sorry these have scratches on them, you can't use them.
I try not to cry. Ask the lady taking passport photos if she can take one of my baby. Sorry we don't do baby passport photos, you'll have to go to the camera shop. Try not to cry, or throw myself onto the floor in a tantrum.
Find camera shop. Get photos done. Wait 20 minutes for them to develop.
Here we arrive at the point of this blog. The new photos show a gorgeous baby girl, looking deep at the camera, possibly the best photo she's ever taken. I can't believe it. I profusely thank the woman who took them, tell her a bit of our story, tell her she's transformed the whole experience into a positive one, a happy one because of this beautiful photo she's given me.
Passport submitted, arrived in mail 10 days later. We're going to Bali baby!

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Domestic Bliss

It's the eve of our 8 year anniversary.
Tha baby wakes me at 6am. I lie in bed with her, feed, goo & gah a bit, nudge her Dad to let him know it's his turn.
'I'm really tired. Didn't you have a better nights sleep?' he mumbles.
If you mean did I have 7 hours of broken sleep as opposed to the previous nights 5 hours, then yes, I suppose I did.
'Please,' I say 'I need more sleep'.
'Just give me 20 minutes more. I stayed up late watching the tennis'.
In that moment I am more furious with him than I think I've ever been. I want to smash him with my fists and kick him in his arse and push him out of bed, scream obscenities at him, scratch him, hurt him. Selfish fuck.
I don't do any of that. I get out of bed with our baby girl and proceed to spend the next 30 minutes channelling all that rage into love for her, tickles & funny faces & silly noises & kisses.
It doesn't make me feel any less angry with him, but it's nice not to feel angry with her.
I take her back into the bedroom, lay her on the bed and leave the room. Eventually they get up and I lay down to try and get some extra rest, fortunately remembering to close the bedroom door. This does muffle her cries slightly, but they are still fairly distinct to a mothers ears. I ignore them and he lasts for about 15 minutes before he comes into the room.
'Can you help me' he cries
'YOU DIDN'T HELP ME' I yell like a petulant 6 year old. Grabbing her away from him.
'I'M SICK OF THIS SHIT' he roars, throwing the somewhat useless dummy onto the bed and charging out of the room, being sure to slam as many doors as he can along the way.
I'll just clarify here, we are generally not fighters, or yellers. We tend to prefer sulking, stewing over things and not speaking rather than the raised voice of anger.
Thats that really. He pisses off to work and I'm left wondering whether I should feel bad about the events of the morning or if dammit I should have said more. Can't it be about me? Why can't I be sick of this shit and stay up late and watch tennis and throw dummies? Why should I feel bad? I don't have any answers, just a bubble of trouble in my tummy that says you guys need to sort this mess out, but I don't know how.
Just had to write it while it was fresh.

The Breastfeeding Nazis

So last weekend I had my old friend, Breastfeeding Nazi #1, her partner, Breastfeeding Nazi #2 and their lovely daughter, possibly Breastfed child till the age of 4 (currently only 14months but all the warning signs are there), to stay for a few nights.
#1 is the dominant female. Cosleeps with child, breastfeeds child to sleep, eats mostly organic, unafraid to speak her mind. Patting herself on the back every step of the way. Ordering #2 around like a drill sargent, offering me advice right left & centre, only to remind me I can take from it what I like, choose to act on whatever I wish.
Why thank you #1. I'll be sure to do that.
My partner offers her a wine "Oh No Thanks" she says, "I'm still feeding, it does go through the milk"
Please feel free to ignore the second glass of the evening in my hand. My child is regularly offered a free wine tasting, particularly when I'm in a stressful situation.
The next morning they come in for breakfast. "Oh, Clare, #2 did some research for you last night, #2, tell Clare what you found out."
"Yes Clare," he says "Well I looked on the ABA website for you last night (did I ask him to do that and don't remember due to my 2 glasses of wine last night? ABA being Aust. Breastfeeding Assoc.) and found out that one cup of coffee takes 90 hours to go through a breastfed babies system. It can leave them irritable and alert, along with making them jerky."
Nope I didn't ask him to look this up. I'm already aware of the fact that coffee is a stimulant which is why I use it.
"Righto" I say. Backing away from the kettle & reversing out of my kitchen, away from these people I invited into my home.
"Oh she is perfectly safe sleeping with us" #2 says. "Breastfed babies and their mothers have a special bond, it's mostly bottlefed babies who are affected by SIDS."
I discreetly position myself in front of the large tin of formula, used once a day for a late afternoon low milk time of day feed. The best part about this is her Dad can feed her, with her staring up at him thinking 'sweet. you have some abilities that please me. your no mum and certainly no giant luscious nipple, but this is really quite nice'.
"You know when you go overseas with your baby, you can use your sling with her, rather than a pram" she says.
Yes, thats right, thats why I use it everyday, with my baby. My second baby. I already used it with the 1st baby, now I use it with my 2ND baby. I've had 2 now.
It's taught me things. Such as using a sling, breast & bottle feeding them (and the bond that exists with both), how much I thought I knew when I had ONE child means nothing now I have 2 and everything is different.
She won't be told. Not that I'd be telling her anyway. I certainly wouldn't have believed anyone if they told me having 2 children was this much harder and different to having just 1. In fact maybe people did tell me, I just wasn't listening. Or perhaps more likely, I figured "won't be like that for me". I was wrong. Breastfeeding Nazis didn't help matters, but I'm smart enough to know that I'm irked by them because part of me feels guilty that I'm not like them, that my love for my children is different to theirs. I'm a lot more tired this time around and possibly not as breast orientated. So screw them and their ABA, I'm doing it my way.

Monday, January 17, 2011

An adventure in tofu

I did some careful meal planning this week, Thai recipe book out on Saturday, market shopping Sunday, enough herbs & veggies to do 3 meals. Larb Tofu Monday, Thai Beef Salad Tues, grilled fish Wednesday. Was fairly confident.
Turns out Larb Tofu ain't much fun for the novice tofu chef such as myself. Drain it, chop it, deep fry it, mix with salad & herbs & dressing. The deep frying was the problem. My first batch had a slightly crispy edge but the rest of it was just rubbery snot. And so on and so on with the following three.
Thankfully I had the foresight to throw 8 tiny pork sausages into the oven in case my son wouldn't eat the tofu. Cut up some extra salad, butter sone day old bread and voila...
Pigs in blankets & thai coriander salad, with a side of tomato sauce. Delicious.
Tuesday night goes to plan! A lovely Thai Beef Salad, an almost happy baby & a trip to the waterpark to sate a 4 year olds appetite. All this on 4.5 hours sleep. The odd psycho Mother moment, but got through without hurting anyone.