A craving for a fling

Lately I have fallen into temptation. The moment I enter alone into the world outside of our home and contented little family, and set off to the mall to get groceries or to the post office to collect a registered letter, or some similarly mundane chore, I hear the seductive call of the Flings, their siren song promising secret delights.

And no, this promise of pleasure is not of the illicit, seedy-hotel-room kind! That's the last thing on my mind. It comes in garish yellow packaging which I rip open with mouth already watering, index finger and thumb delving into a collection of puffy cheese curls. Delicately I pick one rounded cheese curl out and pop it into my mouth, closing my eyes in quiet delight as the MSG soaks onto my tongue and fills my mouth with chemical-yellow gratification.

This habit of buying a packet of Flings whenever I'm out alone, has become a small ritual for me: it is a marker for my time away from home, away from being a mother, a partner, a self-employed businessperson. It signifies 'me-time'.

Thomas Moore wrote: 'The soul needs to be fattened' and I know that this craving for junky, momentary tastebud gratification is actually a deeper need, a little voice in my belly that whispers a soft wordless message, which my body feels as a kind of hunger, a hollowness of some sort, a need to be filled up. I also know that the times when my hands skip over the snack-size packet of Flings and head straight for the bumper 500g bag, are signs that I need to elbow my way into my own life and make some space for meaningful me-time.

This doesn't mean heading off for a week-long silent retreat - nothing so dramatic. It simply means carving out an hour or so in my day, when I can sit at a cafe and write in my journal, or lounge in our sunny garden and finish a good book, or take a long stroll on the beach with Nala as my only companion. It means heeding my inner hunger for nourishment and feeding my soul with small acts of self-cherishing, quiet moments of solitude, daily times when I drop all my doingness, my mothering, my partnering, washing bottles, changing nappies, sending emails, I look up at the blue winter sky and for just a moment, it's me in my human nakedness, the sky stretching above me, and the wind on my face.

Daily rhythm

I'm very happy (and at the same time, a bit wary in case I jinx it) to report that Jack has settled into a lovely daily rhythm.

WARNING: The following may be mindnumbingly boring for anyone except grandparents, aunts and uncles. Please feel free to scroll impatiently down.

Jack wakes around 6am and Joel feeds him while I wriggle my toes in speechless pleasure at the luxury of being able to sleep a bit longer in the velvet warmth. Then Joel and Jack go downstairs and Jack helps his dad with emails and important work stuff for the next hour, then they come back upstairs and Joel takes his small pink body into the shower with him. I sneak a look sometimes and it's a lovely sight. After his shower, I take Jack and dry him, dress him and pop him into bed with me for the next breastfeed, followed by a little nap.

The rest of the day follows with a gentle dance of nappy changing, feeding, playing, rushing through emails in the gaps, making a mental note to ramp up my small software business, washing bottles, planning to go for a walk on the beach and then getting sidetracked, feeding again, wondering why I didn't go out for coffee more often when I was pregnant and still had the chance, changing nappy, taking him for a walk in the pram, planning to take Nala for a walk and some one-on-one time, then getting sidetracked, changing nappy, realising I didn't do any business 'ramping up', feeding (yes, again!) making formula...

Then the last part of the day arrives, as the sun falls into the sea and the damp chill of the winter night creeps in. Our evening ritual is a breastfeed up in the tv room, usually while I watch (dare I say it?) Oprah, then I give Jack a warm bath downstairs in the steamy bathroom (learnt the trick of running the hot water in the shower to warm up the room from 'What to Expect: The First Year'), and wrap him up in a big towel and take him upstairs. This is followed by a baby massage, me savouring the feel of his soft skin and chunky legs, him sucking his fists. Then I dress him in his pjs and baby bag. The last feed at around 7pm is a warm bottle of formula while we cuddle on the bed: I breathe in the scent of freshly bathed baby and let the cosy sucking sounds fill the quiet bedroom. After a bit of rocking and burping, I put him gently down in his cot (asleep or not) and head downstairs for a glass of wine with my name on it. When I go back to check on him ten minutes later, he's fast asleep, little arms resting on the pillow next to his head in a victory pose.

I promise that the next blog entry will be about the state of the world in these changing times...(that's if I don't get sidetracked....)

The good enough mother

This blog entry is a postscript to the 'Selfish Selflessness' entry: I wanted to clarify what I meant because I was afraid I'd given the impression of a wine-quaffing precocious mother who leaves her child crying while she flicks through her wardrobe for the right outfit. Heaven forbid!

I wanted to express what feels very important to me, in this unfamiliar journey of motherhood, that when the time is right (clearly not with a newborn or very young infant but eventually) if a mother makes sure that she doesn't just become a hollow husk of a person who gives all she has to the others in the house, but rather gives herself snacks, slices and chunks of time to fill her inner well, she ensures not only her own soul's wellbeing but the inner health of the rest of the family too.

When I was at varsity, we learnt about Winnicott's concept of the 'good enough mother', which I'll end with here: he describes how this kind of mother 'starts off with an almost complete adaptation to her infant's needs, and as time proceeds she adapts less and less completely, gradually, according to the infant's growing ability to deal with her failure' (and before you think I either remember this verbatim from 20 years ago or I took the trouble to go through old lecture notes - what notes? - this quote is from a recent article in 'Living and Loving' magazine).

Hope this makes sense...

Rock stars

Jack's in bed in our room next door, Nala's in her dog basket next to us and U2 are rocking it on our big-arse tv, in their 'Rattle and Hum' doccie dvd. Joel and I are both living out our rock star fantasies through Bono's supremely arrogant prancing on stage. Joel (who turned 43 today!) asks me 'Is it too late to become a rock star?' I vehemently answer: 'No way! It's never too late!'

For the past hour, our slippered feet have been tapping to the epic sounds of 'With or without you'; 'Where the streets have no name'; and 'Still haven't found what I'm looking for'; and I can almost feel the sweat drip down my face from the bright lights.

'Sunday bloody Sunday' comes hauntingly on and I'm transported back to my varsity days, squashed with 4 friends into a maroon banged-up Toyota Tazz on our way to the latest student hang-out 'The Dogbox', with U2 raging on the car speakers and a fire in my heart. I felt like a dangerous rebel living on the edge and the night shone with possibility...but if I remember right, I had one beer, got a bit tipsy and went home early because the place was smoky and jostling with sweaty drunk people. Needless to say, I never really went through a wild rebellious phase.

But on nights like tonight, for as long as the song lasts, I can pretend I'm a tequila-swilling, cigarillo-smoking blues singer.

And to at least one person in this house, I am a rock star. For Jack, who beams at Joel and I whenever we walk into the room, arches his back and pumps his little legs in excitement when we talk to him and whose eyes follow us as we move around, we rock his world.