by Jessica Rowe
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
Another time when I put every ounce of my energy in going for an opportunity was when I auditioned for Play School a few years after doing the dancing show. Now I had two little girls; Allegra was five years old and Giselle was three. I had been doing occasional fill-in news presenting on Weekend Sunrise but it wasn’t enough to restore my confidence as I was still struggling to find regular television work. What were my talents? Hey, I play dress-ups and sing with my girls, so I thought it would be a cinch to work as a presenter on Play School, the long-running children’s show on the ABC. Conveniently, I didn’t focus on the fact that I really couldn’t sing!
‘Red and yellow and pink and green, purple and orange and bluuuue. I can sing a raaaaainbow, sing a raaaaainbow …’
‘Stop it, I don’t like it,’ Allegra complained.
‘How about this one? The dinosaurs were dancing round the prehistoric swamp. They shook their heads, swished their tails and …’
‘No more singing, Mummy,’ my three-year-old Giselle said bluntly.
With my daughters pretending to be mermaids wearing their green Princess Ariel tails in the bath, I rehearsed my songs over and over again to them. I knew I had a captive audience because those tails meant they couldn’t get out of the bath in a hurry. And, boy, I needed all the practice I could get for my Play School audition.
Just a week later I found myself having an out-of-body experience in one of the vast ABC television studios at Ultimo in Sydney. Despite my valiant efforts, I warbled on through ‘Sing a Rainbow’, a song with far too many key changes for an amateur like me. That part of the audition finally ended as I attempted to trace the shape of a rainbow in a jumble of hand movements. Then after I’d energetically leapt through the story of the dinosaur stomping through the forest, with Groucho Marx eyebrow movements and spectacular sound effects, I was swiftly shown the door by the director.
One of my personality traits apart from persistence is stubbornness and I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Big Ted and Little Ted just yet. Realising I needed professional help, I enlisted the expertise of Play School royalty, my friend Jay Laga’aia, who listened patiently while I read him some kids stories. Jay told me to lose the newsreader precision and perform like I was simply talking to my daughters. Next, he played some songs on his piano while he heard me ‘sing’. The sounds coming out of my mouth weren’t even close to the notes but Jay was still encouraging and gave me the number of a fabulous singing teacher.
My desire to crack the nursery-rhyme code led to the beginning of a special friendship with my singing teacher Margi. It wasn’t about hitting the right notes—my renditions of ‘Little Peter Rabbit’ and ‘Sing a Rainbow’ were still all over the place but I discovered such simple delight in that weekly singing lesson. It was my time, my bubble, just for me. There was no one there to judge, snigger or criticise me, so I let the notes, rhymes and vibrations caress me. Singing scales, flubbering my lips and blowing fart sounds while making a cat’s bum face brought me such pleasure!
Finally, I got a second crack at Play School. Jay went over all the moves I needed, coaching me through the steps known as the grapevine. Margi got me as close to the right notes as I was ever going to get and this time there was no out-of-body experience as I shook my head and wiggled my tail for the director. Even my dinosaur drawing wasn’t too bad. I finished the audition knowing there was nothing more I could have done. The phone call came a few weeks later but unfortunately I still wasn’t good enough. I sulked for a few days but had no regrets.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
Not only had those singing lessons helped me to get in tune with myself again, they were an entree into the enchanting world of theatre and the talented, passionate souls who tread the boards. Through my singing teacher I met some more of her students and friends, who took me under their costumed wings to perform as the narrator (no singing required) in the musical Side by Side by Sondheim.
‘Don’t go, Mummy. You can’t leave!’ Allegra said, her surprisingly strong hands grabbing around my waist and stopping me from getting out the door.
‘It won’t be long—it’s only four sleeps and you’ll have so much fun with Grandyfrog (her grandfather). You love it when he looks after you. He lets you drink Coke and stay up and watch all the Harry Potter movies,’ I said, wondering why Allegra never gave her father a hard time when he had to travel for work.
We were about to tour the Sondheim show well off Broadway, playing theatres in a couple of country towns in New South Wales and Victoria.
‘No one else’s mummy goes away. You always go away.’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous. I never go away! I’ll be back soon. And I’ll bring you a present.’
‘Another cat?’
‘We’ll see!’
Each night of the tour, at the time I would usually be dealing with dinner, bath and bed for my girls, I revelled in putting on false eyelashes and slipping into a black sequinned cocktail frock. When I walked on stage accompanied by the pitch-perfect tone of two baby grand pianos and grasping my hand-held mic, I knew my butterfly wings were shimmering and that, for now, it was my time.
My music theatre career might have only lasted a few weeks, but those steps out of my comfort zone paved the way for the more confident strides I took onto the State Theatre’s stage as the domineering empress in the Aladdin pantomime. And that’s what I want my darling girls to realise, that you need to keep taking those steps to lead a brave life. There is not one of my fabulous failures that I regret. My dream for my daughters is that they too will leap for the stars. Sure, they’ll have those moments of fear, tears of frustration and anger at the unfairness of it all at times, but I still want them to go for it. I want them to remember the words of the poet Erin Hanson who says, ‘What happens if I fall? Oh, but my darling, what if you fly?’ And what I love about Hanson’s words is the sense of optimism that underlies taking such a leap of faith.
So my darling girls, always remember that if you don’t fly the first time, I will always be there to catch you.
CHICKEN AND CASHEW NUT STIR-FRY
This stir-fry recipe is from MasterChef star Adam Liaw. I have a track record for making soggy stir-fries; however, I’ve made this recipe successfully. Not surprisingly, I don’t have a wok so I cooked it in my trusty frypan. And I also made it without onions and garlic as these ingredients weren’t in our cupboard and I knew the girls wouldn’t eat them!
Ingredients
500 g chicken thigh fillets (I bought them already cut into cubes at the supermarket)
1 tbsp soy sauce
1 tbsp Shaoxing wine
2 tsp cornflour
¼ cup vegetable oil
3 slices ginger (I left this out as I know my girls won’t eat it)
5 cloves garlic, peeled and roughly chopped
1 small brown onion, peeled and cut into 3 cm chunks
½ red capsicum, cut into 3 cm chunks
½ yellow capsicum, cut into 3 cm chunks
½ green capsicum, cut into 3 cm chunks
½ cup of unsalted roasted cashew nuts
Sauce
2 tbsp oyster sauce
1 tbsp soy sauce
1 tbsp Shaoxing wine
1 tbsp white vinegar
1 tsp sugar
¼ cup of chicken stock (or water)
Method
Combine sauce ingredients in a bowl and set aside to marinate. (I left out the Shaoxing wine as I only had rosé in the fridge!)
In another bowl combine the chicken with 1 tablespoon of soy sauce and 1 teaspoon of the cornflour (this was a revelation—it made the chicken SO tasty!) Mix well to coat the chicken.
Heat your wok/frypan over medium to high heat adding 2 tablespoons of oil. Add ginger and garlic (if your kids will eat it) and toss for about 30 seconds until the garlic is browned. Add the chicken and cook until browned (this took me a few minutes, I also cooked the chicken in a couple of batches). Once the chicken cubes are cooked, remov
e from the pan and set aside.
Put remaining 1 tablespoon of oil into your wok/pan and add capsicum (you could put onion in at this stage but I left it out, because the girls won’t eat onion either) and cook until the capsicum starts to soften.
Return the chicken to the wok, add the sauce, stir and bring to a simmer.
Finally, combine the remaining 1 teaspoon of cornflour with 2 tablespoons of cold water and drizzle this mix slowly into the wok/pan and stir until it thickens slightly. Toss through the cashews and serve.
Serve the stir-fry with rice (again using that microwave rice that comes in a bag from the supermarket).
Success rate
Two out of four family members loved this! Peter couldn’t believe that I made it! Allegra had a few mouthfuls of stir-fry but both she and Giselle ended up eating the plain chicken without the capsicum and cashews.
6
Sex
No woman gets an orgasm from shining the kitchen floor.
BETTY FRIEDAN
My husband is terribly nervous about this chapter.
‘You’re not going to write about sex, are you? Don’t write about our sex life … You are NOT going to. Come on, Pussycat. Enough is enough!’
‘No, Petee, I won’t …’
‘Promise? Because I’ve heard Kyle Sandilands say he does it Peter Overton-style in the kitchen!’ said Peter, explaining that just that morning he’d heard Kyle mention it on his morning radio program, the Kyle & Jackie O show.
I laugh, reminding him that he must have been talking about that one sentence I wrote in my last book about us having sex on our kitchen benchtop!
‘And you had the chance to read my edited manuscript before it was sent to the printer. But remember you didn’t want to read it and I told you if you weren’t going to, then you couldn’t complain about what was or wasn’t in the book,’ I replied, aware that my strident-sounding voice was also because I hadn’t meant to embarrass my dear husband.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
Here is the disclaimer about this chapter: it’s not about the sex life of Peter and me. So, from the title of the Salt-N-Pepa song, one of my dance favourites and a song whose nineties beat and catchy, cheesy lyrics would get me attempting to hip hop in my younger days: let’s talk about sex, let’s talk about you and me (not my husband and me, but generic you and me!). I want to talk about sex and whether any one of my vintage is having much sex anymore.
Rationally, I tell myself that sex isn’t about how many times you ‘do it’ a week and I know that knee-buckling feeling between your legs can ebb and flow. Generally, women need more time to get into ‘the mood’. And yes, I know that’s a generalisation but I’m basing this observation on myself and the chats I’ve had with my girlfriends. My desire for sex has diminished simply because I’m too tired! For me to get into the right headspace, I need time—a lot of time—and not the worry that our bedroom door will be shoved opened by insistent, oblivious little people.
What is enough sex? And how much sex ‘should’ we be having? I’ve never been a fan of the word ‘should’ because it’s loaded with guilt and expectation. Don’t we put ourselves through enough of that nonsense? Plenty of inexact science has been done around the actual amount of sex that couples are having each week. According to the Sexual Wellbeing Survey sponsored by Durex, six out of ten Aussie couples are having sex once a week. Let’s remember that this condom company has an interest in couples having a lot of sex! Another survey claims married couples are having sex, on average, six times a month. Are you having more or less? Normal? Abnormal? Okay, after you’ve done the mental calculations perhaps the self-doubt starts to creep in, like it does for me. And suddenly you’re thinking your sex life is on the skids.
Not so, according to sexologist Dr Nikki Goldstein. She says there is no right or wrong amount of sex for couples. She says that couples who don’t have sex can still have a good relationship. Ummm, really? However, Nikki says this only works if you both don’t want to have sex. But is there a way to ignite your naughty side when you feel out of practice and would rather eat chocolate in bed while reading a Swedish crime thriller? What is the sure-fire way to find your missing mojo?
Dr Goldstein is a believer that having a ‘quickie’ is one way of getting those sex hormones firing again. She says sometimes you need to ‘use it or you lose it’. But it doesn’t have to be ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am’ because despite what some blokes say, sex doesn’t have to be about penetration. She says that sexy notes, text messages and compliments are all ways you can get those endorphins moving again. Why not take a moment to get into the right headspace and remember the things that turned you on about your partner? For me, there is nothing better than watching Peter dressed in black tie talking to a room full of people. I love just to sit back and watch him … Hold on, this isn’t about us!
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
Why not ignore the domestic drudgery, the rushed goodbyes in the morning and tune in to what you find sexy about your partner? Betty Friedan wrote about the myth of women’s domestic fulfilment in her book The Feminine Mystique, which became a rallying cry for the feminist movement of the 1960s. And a part of me imagines that she would also have been a proud craphousewife, as she urged women to ditch their vacuum cleaners and embrace their many talents. Women have great fantasy lives, so take a moment to clear out all the stuff in your head and focus on what makes you blush and unravel in the best possible way. Good sex is about what works for you and not some glorified, false image we see on Netflix, in movies and pornography. The only porno I’ve seen, I remember the bloke wore a beret and nothing else. And it was the most unsexy thing I’ve ever seen! Most pornography is made by men, for men, and some of those bizarre positions have been designed not for our anatomy but solely for the camera. You won’t reach nirvana that way and all you will get is a crook neck and an emergency appointment at the physio. Book some time for the two of you, consider organising a regular ‘date night’ where you endeavour not to talk about your kids for the entire time. Rediscover the part of yourself that melted at the right touch of your lover. But if you can’t do that, at least get a childproof lock on your bedroom door.
When Allegra was just a toddler, I remember her sweet little face would be pressed up against the shower screen while I tried to have a moment’s peace to think about the day ahead. It wasn’t long before she worked out how to push open the Perspex shower door, so she would also get herself wet while I quickly rinsed the two-in-one shampoo and conditioner out of my hair. Showers would last 30 seconds and it was little wonder that the hairs on my legs and armpits needed their own postcodes. I was far from feeling desirable.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
Although my heart would physically ache if my daughter was too far away from me, it was hard to ignore my growing irritation over my diminishing amount of personal space. And that irritation would grow in direct proportion to how little sleep I was getting each night. The ultimate aphrodisiac for me had become sleep and I’d turned into one of those people who, when I finally got beneath the covers, would say out loud, ‘I love bed!’
I hadn’t expected that staying at home with my daughter would be a struggle; the loving part wasn’t hard but nothing had prepared me for the permanent fog of exhaustion that I stumbled through every day. Sure, there were those moments of bliss but it seemed like I had lived a lifetime in one day: changing endless nappies, wiping down benches, doing incessant loads of washing and building up stacks of blocks only to have them knocked down moments later. My darling daughter pulled on my legs, hid under my skirt and constantly demanded my attention.
Now I laugh with my mum when she reminds me that I had been exactly the same when I was a little girl. She would take my sisters and me to Centennial Park to ‘play’ as we didn’t have much of a backyard. Once we got to the park, settling down near a duck pond, we’d sit all over Mum like a litter of puppies rolling around the picnic rug. The three of us were oblivious to our mother’s desire for som
e personal space.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
Since becoming a mum, I was craving my own physical space too. Once I’d managed to get Allegra into bed, I definitely wasn’t up for anyone else’s demands for my attention. Desperate to have my body to myself, I would hold my breath if my husband rolled over, stretching his arm around my waist. Lying still, I would have everything crossed so that his hand would stay exactly where it was.
‘Can’t you just hold me?’ I’d ask.
‘Oh, but I know I can get you in the mood,’ Peter would say.
‘Nothing will get me in the mood. Just give me a cuddle, I’m too tired … I love you.’
‘But what about me?’
‘Go and take a cold shower …’
My tolerant husband would sigh, roll back over and turn on the radio. As he struggled to tune it in to a talkback station, the baby monitor playing havoc with the reception, I would be already asleep and snoring, very loudly. My heavy sleep would remain undisturbed until I heard the chirpy sounds of my daughter through the monitor, ready to start her day, despite the sun still hours away from waking up.
Life hadn’t always been like this, and I wondered what had happened to that careless, carefree young woman I had once been. How were other mums coping with the changes in their bodies and the never-ending demands on their emotional energy? Was that mother with her toddler in the stroller I saw each morning at the cafe too exhausted for sex too? Or was it just me?
