by Jessica Rowe
‘Jess-ICA!’ I heard Peter calling. ‘It’s 7.10!’
‘Oh great, it’s 7.10!’ I replied.
My husband, who worked on radio early in his media career, has a habit of giving me time calls in the morning, under the misapprehension it will make me get ready faster.
‘Come on, Baby Bear. Out of bed, so we don’t have to listen to these times anymore,’ I said to Giselle.
The pair of us giggled as we walked hand in hand down the stairs, both rugged up in our soft, fleecy dressing gowns. But I couldn’t resist resuming my singing routine by the time we got to the kitchen bench.
‘Sometimes, I get confused which paws go in my shoes, Ho-NEY Bear …’ I sang. This was my latest song, having been introduced to it on YouTube by Giselle.
‘Your mother is a lunatic, girls!’ said Peter.
‘I love being a lunatic and at least I’m not a pork chop, Petee,’ I replied, as Giselle giggled. I’ve always liked an audience and it doesn’t matter that it’s only an audience of one.
‘Mummy, stop it …’ said Allegra.
You’d think that my daughter would have my measure by now; she knows that if someone tells me to stop doing something, I’ll do the exact opposite. And I can see those same traits in her.
‘I’ve sunshine in my heart because I’m a HONEY bear …’ I continued, encouraged by Giselle’s giggles, which were now turning into laughter.
‘I used to have this running smoothly in the mornings, before you decided to stop work and start mucking things up! It’s 7.20 now …’ insisted my husband.
‘Okay, we’ve still got plenty of time. I’m just doing the girls’ morning tea,’ I replied, trying to force open the drawer that has become stuck with the mismatched stacks of Tupperware containers. It’s always impossible to find a matching set and I’m convinced the missing lids of the Tupperware go and have a party with all of the odd white school socks. Both of these items are always without their other half in our household.
Distracted by the newspaper on the benchtop, I started reading the front page of the Daily Telegraph, temporarily forgetting about Peter’s time calls and organising the girls’ morning tea. The headline declared that Christmas carols had been banned at primary schools.
‘This is the biggest load of nonsense! Where is the evidence that schools have told kids to stop singing carols for each other? What is the point in spreading such ill-informed crap? Every year there is always a slightly different version of this story …’
‘Pussycat, you’re not on Studio 10 anymore. Stop the rant and get ready. It’s now 7.35!’
‘Alright, but come on, you must see how dumb this story is. This will be all over the radio today, and we’ll keep hearing how it’s political correctness gone mad …’ ‘Yes, yes … just get dressed, Pussycat.’
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
In the early days of being a mother, I used to worry that I was the only mum who had a messy, chaotic house. Now I’ve stopped wasting energy on that and have become more in tune with writer Elizabeth Gilbert’s way of thinking. Her approach has helped me embrace my magical, messy approach to living. As you know, I’ve always had a tendency to be untidy but since having children, this tendency has only worsened as the clutter has intensified in our home. When our two girls were babies I used to find the following discarded under our king-size bed: dusty dummies and plates of green cut-up apple that had shrivelled to look like wrinkled prunes, porous with mould. Most nights the dirty dishes would pile up in the sink after the effort of cooking dinner and getting the kids to bed had used up most of my stamina. It’s extraordinary how severe dehydration, hunger, the need to be read another story, have the light switched on, or have the light turned off will suddenly strike any child who is meant to be going to sleep. Endless treks up and down the stairs with glasses of water meant I had no energy left to deal with any more domestic duties. Many times Peter would come home from work and find me asleep, lying on a pillow in my daughters’ doorway supposedly to get them to go to sleep!
Our study/junk-room door had become permanently closed with another handwritten note for Christina, blue-tacked near the doorknob asking her not to bother trying to clean it. The room had become a burial ground for files, old toys, photos and boxes that still hadn’t been unpacked from when we first moved here eight years ago. What do get moved around the house are our laundry baskets of clean clothes. These baskets get shifted from the laundry to the living room, before travelling to the bottom of the stairs. The piles of clothes linger on the bottom step until everyone has run out of underpants. At last the baskets make it to the top of the stairs and there they remain; wobbly stacks of pink T-shirts, a never-ending combination of patterned leggings, my big, beige, underpants, and Peter’s giant navy polo shirts and exercise shorts. I have a silent challenge with my family—would these laundry baskets ever be totally empty? And the answer is still no.
Often, especially after visiting the immaculate homes of friends, I’d have to remind myself of some words of wisdom from Rosa, the South American grandmother who helped me when the girls were tiny. She told me that a family home was a place where you lived and loved your family—your home was not meant to be a showroom. And who wants to live in a showroom? Rosa also gave our family lots of practical help too, as I needed an extra pair of hands in the afternoons after I brought Giselle home from the hospital. Recovering from the caesarean meant I couldn’t lift Allegra in and out of her highchair or bath, but what I also really needed was some company during the long afternoons. Loneliness and isolation had crept up on me the last time, and I didn’t want to feel marooned during the chaos of dinner, bath, breastfeeds and bedtime.
Rosa came over most afternoons. In theory this was to help with the girls, but what she was really doing was helping me to believe in myself. She reassured me that I was a wonderful mother and how love was all that mattered, and she sprinkled her love throughout our house. I would take Allegra for walks to our corner deli to have some time with her while Rosa sang Spanish lullabies to Giselle before putting her down for her afternoon sleep. When we came back the house smelt of basil, garlic and love. Allegra delighted in tasting the chunky tomato sauce that would be layered through the cannelloni, and slurping the minestrone soup off her Hello Kitty spoon.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
Of course I appreciate that a sense of order can help calm your mind (I’ve got friends who need tidiness to stay sane) but there’s a huge difference between having your own self-imposed standards versus feeling judged and pressured to have the beautiful life and immaculate house because ‘everyone else does’. Author and activist Glennon Doyle puts it perfectly when she says: ‘Let whoever think whatever.’
Too often, we see other people’s ‘front of house’—basically, those carefully curated Instagram, Facebook and
Snapchat images—and compare them to our ‘back of house’ (real life). You see these perfect homes, interiors, holidays, relationships and children and worry that somehow you don’t measure up. Oh, but you do! All of us have the same ‘back of house’: those fears, insecurities and negative voices. For goodness’ sake, let’s at least aim for a level playing field if you want to start that dangerous, slippery game of comparisons. And that’s precisely why I share images from my everyday life—so you’ll often see dishes in my sink and cats sitting on the benchtop but you can be guaranteed that there is always, always plenty of laughter.
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
For me, laughter has been the antidote to dealing with the challenges of life. And as I leap closer to turning 50, I’m far more self-deprecating, willing to laugh loudly and overshare the predicaments that I find myself getting into more and more. The legendary writer Nora Ephron put it perfectly when she explained that, ‘When you slip on a banana peel, people laugh at you. But when you tell people you slipped on a banana peel, it’s your laugh.’ And Nora’s ability to write stories about her family, heartache and heartbreak has had a big influence on my own truth telling. Unfortunately
, though, my eldest daughter in particular doesn’t see the benefits (yet) of having a mum who doesn’t take herself too seriously!
‘Mum, can you not do your “whoo hoo” and clap loudly?’ said Allegra.
‘Why can’t I whoo hoo?’ I asked, hoping my eleven-year-old will hear the hurt in my voice.
‘Because it’s embarassing …’ she said, while zipping up her schoolbag and putting her unicorn water bottle into the side of her backpack. She had her regional athletics carnival that day and wouldn’t let me drive her there, preferring to take the team bus with her friends.
How come I’m an embarassing mum? Surely I am a cool mum? Okay, I might be a bit loud sometimes but I’ve always just put that down to being an enthusiast.
‘I just clap and yell whoo hoo because I’m proud of you.’
‘It’s just irritating, alright …’
When did I start to be irritating? If you ask my husband and some of my former work colleagues, it has been in my DNA for quite some time! But when did my little girl start growing up and pushing a part of me away?
Okay, I understand that as parents we can sometimes cramp our kids’ style, and as I drove out alone to the carnival I reminded myself about how my own mum and dad were also sources of embarrassment for me, even though I now realise that they weren’t that bad! Perhaps it’s just that being a parent also means being an embarrassment to your children?
Once I made it to the grandstand to sit with Allegra and the rest of her team, one of the organisers approached me.
‘Jessica, would you mind presenting some of the medals to our athletes in the next lot of events? We’ll make sure you have plenty of time between that and your daughter’s events.’
‘I’d love to, thanks for asking …’ I replied, even though I could hear Allegra already groaning.
‘Mum, you cannot go near the microphone. You cannot speak in the microphone!’ she said.
‘I won’t speak in the microphone. They’ve just asked me to hand out the medals, darling.’
Later during the medal presentations, I spotted my daughter laughing with her coach as she was cheekily hiding under the metal railing so she couldn’t catch my eye. Although I was tempted to pretend to grab the microphone and do some singing and tell some jokes, I managed to remain on my best behaviour.
Another place where I’m well behaved is on the sidelines of my eldest daughter’s weekend sport. I’ve only recently been ‘allowed’ to come along, as Allegra prefers her dad to take her along to the soccer games.
‘Mum, no clapping, no cheering, don’t walk near the white lines onto the field, and don’t give me a hug afterwards,’ she says every Saturday morning, lacing up her soccer boots before we walk out the front door on our way to another windswept sporting field.
So far I’ve followed her instructions; my style of clapping is the ‘fairy clap’ and this involves gently tapping together only two fingers from each hand; no cheering comes out of my mouth; and I try my best to stay hidden behind the other parents. After each game I point out to Allegra how ‘good’ I was and explain how every other grown-up, including her father, is far noisier on the sidelines than I ever am!
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
It’s impossible to always be good; being good all the time would be terribly boring. Although fashion has always been a passion of mine, I delight in getting out of my grown-up clothes, taking off my make-up and putting on my pyjamas whenever I get home. The simple sensation of having soft fleece or flannel against my skin makes me exhale and slow down. Who knew that PJs could be so calming? Ironically, I’ve never worn a tracksuit out of the house but I have no such qualms in wearing my pyjamas to school pick-up in the afternoons, or to the fish and chip shop where we order our regular Friday night takeaway feast of burgers, calamari rings, chips and fish cocktails.
The first time I wore my cat PJs to school pick-up, I saw Allegra’s face drop when she clambered into the back seat of the car with her sister.
‘Muuum, the teacher saw! Mrs Doherty saw you in your PJs!’ Allegra hissed.
‘Oh, darling, that’s okay. She doesn’t mind.’
‘Mum, she saw you when she opened up the back door of the car. Promise me you won’t do it tomorrow?’
‘I promise, my darling heart,’ I replied, explaining that it was quicker to keep my PJs on and not waste time getting dressed in ‘proper’ clothes so I’d make it in time to get them from school.
‘At least I still have my false eyelashes on from work!’ I said, not impressing her at all. Remember at this stage, I’d been leaving home early each morning for my job on Studio 10 and had been missing out on taking my daughters to school in the mornings.
The following afternoon, I managed to get out of my PJs and get dressed in time for school pick-up. Luckily, I found a legal parking spot around the corner from the school gate, giving me plenty of time to walk up the road to get the girls from their carline. But Allegra didn’t miss a trick as she looked down at my feet.
‘Mum, you’re not wearing shoes!’
‘Come on, at least I’m not in my PJs …’
‘Quickly, Mum, let’s go to the car,’ said Allegra, pulling my arm away from the group of kids also waiting outside the school gate.
She strode out in front of Giselle and me, trying to put as much distance between me and her.
‘I like my nude toes, don’t you, Giselle?’ I said, as the two of us laughed.
On the third day, I was determined to get it ‘right’. Hurriedly, I got out of my PJs, dressed in a denim skirt and top, laced up my leopard-print brogues and managed to again get to school in plenty of time to park and pick the girls up from the gate.
‘Mum, can we play in the school playground?’
‘Absolutely,’ I replied, my aversion to playgrounds having lessened because my daughters were now old enough to share the swings and clamber onto the jungle gym without me having to be hypervigilant for any accidents or brawls over the equipment. Standing next to the flying fox, I started chatting with one of the other mums while Allegra was patiently waiting for her turn. Giselle was sitting in the sandpit, just near where I was standing.
‘Mum, you haven’t got ANY underpants on!’ said Giselle.
‘What?!’ replied Allegra, as the other mums and I started to laugh.
In my haste to leave the house, get out of my pyjamas, and make sure I was dressed for my eldest daughter, I realised that I’d forgotten to put on any undies!
‘Mum, I can’t believe how embarrassing you are! You are sooooo embarrassing!’ said Allegra.
Each night, while I tuck up my eldest daughter under her pale-pink velvet doona, we have the same conversation:
‘Mum, promise me, no pyjamas, make sure you’re wearing shoes. And promise me that you’ll be wearing underpants!’
‘I promise,’ I say. And I mean it, each and every time.
TERIYAKI SALMON
This recipe came after yet more requests from Peter to have meals with protein but without pasta! I was tempted to tell him where he could shove the protein but I was inspired to cook this teriyaki salmon after a suggestion from Tracy Bevan. (I first met Tracy through her advocacy work for the McGrath Foundation. We also regularly chat over Instagram.)
Ingredients
3 tbsp teriyaki sauce
3 tbsp soy sauce
1 tbsp white vinegar
4 salmon fillets
microwave bag of rice (the best and only way to cook rice)
Method
Preheat oven at 200 degrees Celsius. Combine all the sauce ingredients in a small bowl.
Next put salmon fillets into a mixing bowl and pour the sauce over the top. (I just did this with two of the fillets as I knew my girls would only eat plain salmon.) Cover the mixing bowl with plastic wrap and then let it marinate for 20 minutes. (I marinated mine for only 10 minutes as I got impatient!)
Next put the salmon onto a baking tray (I like to buy the foil barbecue trays as it saves on washing up) and bake fo
r around 15 minutes. Depending on how thick the salmon is and how you like it cooked, it could take longer or shorter! So keep an eye on it. Remove the salmon from the oven and serve with rice or salad.
Success rate
Four out of four! Peter and I ate the teriyaki salmon and the girls happily ate their plain salmon with rice and a squeeze of lemon!
8
School
Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people.
ELEANOR ROOSEVELT
You never truly leave school. Even as a grown-up you find there are groups that you gravitate towards during different stages of your life. Often the joy of embarking on the wider world outside of the school gates is that you can reinvent yourself and find your own posse if school wasn’t your happy place. But once your children start school, you discover all of these groups are still there—only this time, they are parents. And no matter how hard I fight it, I still find myself succumbing to the pressure to fit in!
Suddenly you find yourself thrown into a mix of people you wouldn’t choose to spend much time with in your ‘normal’ life. The only common denominator is that you have kids of the same age. And it can take some time to sort out who ‘your’ people are. Although I wonder if I’ll ever be wise enough to take note of Eleanor Roosevelt’s wisdom since my ‘small mind’ does delight in discussing people. There are always the cool crowd, the diligent bunch, the sporty types, the intellectuals, the party animals, the misfits and the loners. Depending on my mood and the armour I’m wearing, I can fit into most of these categories—apart from the sporty crew. The only activewear I like to get around in is my cat unitard!
# CRAPHOUSEWIFE
My daughter’s big, blue eyes were widening and looking up at me, seeking reassurance. Trying to do my biggest, beaming smile, I gazed down at my first born in her slightly too big uniform and gleaming, black school shoes. She was walking awkwardly since her small feet weren’t used to the clumpy confines of heavy, lace-up shoes. The pair of us were stepping over the fallen purple jacaranda flowers that were making the uneven footpath a little slippery.
