Travel with Fascinator: Part 2

So, how did my Travel with Fascinator plans stand up?


I spent this morning, my first morning back, blow drying my hair between wiping a bottom and icing a bruised head, with three little people hanging off my legs who sounded like a virgin violin playing troupe.

The only thing that interrupted my hair drying in Melbourne was, “Champagne’s ready!”

I went to get everyone dressed this morning and realised it was Chinese dress up day at school, so spent the morning RACING to make a Sensei outfit, all before 8.15am. All the while (1.5 hours of ‘while’) I was YELLING for someone else to get himself dressed (which he has proved he can do in a flat 2 minutes), and trying to keep an eye on that wee wee getting itself in the potty rather than the lounge crevices.

In Melbourne I only got myself dressed. Quietly. With a champagne.

This morning I went to make 2 lunch boxes and opened the fridge to NO BREAD. Yes, NO BREAD. Then there was outcry – loud and long, when I said there was NO MILK left to have the routine glass of milk after breakfast.

In Melbourne I had coffee, after Panini, after coffee, after glass of wine in the middle of shopping in Myers, after dumplings, after pub meal, after cocktail, and then some more coffee. And of course, some champagne. All of which someone else made for me. They had bread. And milk. And gin.

On Melbourne Cup day, I got ready with my gaggle of beautiful girlfriends. We fluffed hair for each other, drew on glamour-making makeup, slipped on stockings, laughed at how silly we were to wear such high heels to an all day event whilst packing our foldable Party Feet into our handbags – handbags which were all, incidentally, too small to fit a single nappy or drink bottle. We popped on our outfits and fascinators which had been under construction for the few days of shopping beforehand, and made sure the champagne didn’t ruin our lipstick.

And off we went, without strapping anyone in, wiping anyone’s toothpaste off their face, or dealing with a last minute poo, chattering about the horses, fascinators, frocks and champagne ahead of us.

Packing? The Right Outfit? Really, it doesn’t matter when you have gorgeous friends and can indulge in a little ‘no kids’ time out. Not to mention champagne.

Travel with a Fascinator.

This mummy duck is currently preparing to go on a travel adventure by herself, for the first time in about, ooo, 8 years. Will I remember what to do?
In the preparation for the trip I have definitely not remembered what to do, it has not being like riding a bicycle where it all comes flooding back. I used to be known as the queen of packing – able to stuff a backpack in half an hour, for six months of travel, across 20 different countries, with only two outfits and a toilet roll. Now, give me three days in the same country - in a city no less - with clothes shops and toilets you sit on, and it’s taken me all week and about 15 squillion clothes fashion parades for my mum and sister. And shoes! Don’t get me started on the shoes.

The other difference is my confidence. Once upon a time I whipped up a silver lamé mini skirt and threw it over my ‘billiard table legs’ to go out dancing that night without a care. This trip, with my best girlies from school, is going to require a bit of flash – nice restaurants, smart shopping precincts, a cocktail crawl, and the Melbourne Cup, no less! My work uniform of trackies and 10 year old Supre singlet tops will not suffice.

So I have been labouring over sewing a lace frock and constructing a fascinator for the last few weeks for the Race Day itself, between nappies, a teething baby, work, school pick ups, sickness and swimming lessons. I've gone with my gut instinct on what the trend is, but let's face it, my gut is no longer what it used to be, post children. 

After all this trend turmoil and neglecting my children due to myself, my bag is packed. With another FOUR dresses to wear besides the one I made. I used to be so confident in a bit of wacky dress sense, how is it that now I feel I’ve got it so wrong? I don’t want to do Mutton, but I no longer feel I can do Interesting.

Hmm, interesting.

So, let’s watch this space. And see if my spark comes back when there are no kids to fill my heart and head. Just ME to think about…. I don’t know how that feels anymore! Let you know next week.

A lesson in beauty for women like me.

“How do you care for a spray tan?" I ask, "Not wash?”


It was a genuine question but everyone thought it was hilarious and consequently I was still none the wiser. Made me realise I need to do a bit of research in current beauty for mummy’s of my, err, Genre. (That Genre being the Slightly Glamorous But Never Mutton-esque Woman With Kids Old Enough To Be At School. As opposed to telling you how old we are).

I can’t quite marry the fact that I used to be a beauty editor, advising people on what makeup colours were hot on the catwalks and which one was the best body shimmer, to the work I do now which involves the best texta remover from a two-year-old’s cheek bones, and the benefits of scrubbing Bolognese off your face properly with a damp washer as opposed to my trousers.

It was easy back in those days though: The concerns of my greater masses were getting the right amount of shimmer in your blue eye shadow (yes, it was crazily called eye shadow then, as opposed to eye mousse, shadow stick or -deep breath- “Impact 3D Illuminating 5 Colours for Sculpted Eyes”), or, my personal mission, how to get the BIGGEST hair. Yeah yeah.

So, what are the current concerns of a mummy duck in the Slightly Glamorous But Never Mutton-esque Woman With Kids Old Enough To Be At School Genre?

Obviously a spray tan to begin with. The Google Beauty Bible tells me you look after it by moisturising. Great, I do that already because I have a genuine fear of the saggy knee syndrome, so I’ll be ok on that front. Tick, spray tan knowledge up to date.

The next concern for our Genre is the face: Personality lines (because we don’t say wrinkles, Daddies), and those strange blobby brown marks we’ll call Genre (not Age) Spots. Now this I do know about. My best advice from personal experience here mummy’s is NOT BOTOX, and not a whitening product (it’s BLEACH!), and yes to a really moisturising moisturiser. You need one that makes your skin feel soft and supple all day long. (I should do infomercials). Moisturiser is like a high gloss laquer for the face - the gleam deflects the eye from the timber grain underneath. And the drier your skin, the more obvious the grain. I use Dermalogica Intense Moisture Balance right now but I’m a moisturiser whore, sharing myself across the brands.

Botox is an horrendously bad idea. Not only is it a mad cow disease thing you’re injecting into your face, but also at some point in your life you’ll have to give it up and the personality lines will come smashing into your face making it look like a cranial earthquake just cracked it all up. Best it happens gradually, that way no one will notice, I promise.

Other issues for our Genre are obviously working out what to do with the body decimated by childbirth. It’s just not a good design/concept/functional idea, never has been. Men should do it - their below bits already stick out - ours are inny's and they should be allowed to stay that way.  And manboobs look like they've done years of breastfeeding regardless of if they have or not. Anyway, on this topic I throw my hands in the air (making sure the chook wings don’t knock over my six year-old). I’m still waiting on that manual called How to Put Everything Back IN That Now Sticks Out, Post Pregnancy and Birth.

Found a good thing, sticking to it

Can you hear the whingeing in my house? 
It's teeth. Their growing generates a sound very much like fingernails down a chalkboard. Yes, yes, some experts have said teeth don't hurt when they come through.  Well, 3 kids down - that's 60 baby teeth breaking gums, causing bleeding and not to mention what it does to the nether regions - makes me an expert too, and I say it hurts.  Them and me.
So what to do...
I have tried all the recommended tricks and I have to say, not many work.  Sometimes not even the hardcore drugs. But today I came across a wee miracle.  It's a piece of rubber shaped like a pimply fish, and known by little Miss Screechypants Soreteeth as "Pishie" (pimply fishie = pishie. So advanced).

For a baby who's been seriously ill in her little life I am now ridiculously fanatical about what goes in her mouth. So big tick for the Natural Rubber Teether, aka Pishie, for being made of completely natural rubber from rubber trees - not a petro-chemical or BPA in sight (why has the rest of the world banned this and NOT Australia?). Chew the living daylights out of it Beautiful.  And it's all one piece so I know she's not going to swallow and choke if one part comes away like some of those poor little bubba's in the news.
To begin with Miss Screechypants cuddled it. Having never been a baby who automatically inspects things with her mouth, it did not occur to her to chew Pishie, especially as I'm always telling her not to chew her brothers. So I showed her what to do, to the hilarity of my sons.
But she copied, and I could see the relief on her face as little Miss PeacefulwithPishie knawed away. Ahh, the serenity.
Serenity for sale at http://www.makeuwell.com/.

Mothers Group

My Mothers Group is the epitome of the saying 'it's like putting on an old pair of shoes'.
Our first born's are the ripe old age of 6 now, and half way through a successful first year at school, so they no longer get to see their little pals every week. Yet the mummy's and siblings still meet up, even if it's a little less regular than years past.  Now we find the need to do dinner, as well as a once a month park date. 
I have an image of that first Mothers Group meeting that will never leave me: In the small stuffy clinic room, all of us nervous, sitting there willing the most amazing thing we've ever achieved, to not scream. Everyone introduced themselves, and first impressions were fairly correct - a bunch of honest, fun girls who would turn out to be a pretty amazing support group for each one of us. 
Some breastfed, some co-slept with their babies, some started food before the clinic's allotted age. At the time they were huge issues for us all; we talked, we coached, we listened and provided a shoulder to cry on, or a funny story to lighten the atmosphere. Now that our babies have taken that first big step toward independence in going to school, the conversation is all about homework, how we survived their first day, and how amazing it is to watch them learn.
Second babies came along.  Another time I won't forget is the day one mother announced her second pregnacy, and bit by bit much of the rest of the mothers group said they were pregnant too, all due around the same time.  We had twins in the group, and learnt all about how two little beings grow in one space, and very recently what seems to be our last little baby has been born, much longed for and a true miracle - a great celebration for us all.  
Having a baby is possibly the most miraculous thing an ordinary person will do. But longer lasting than those first fraught and joyful years, is the blessing of friends to share the experience and the memories with.

Stolen Children

When we lived in Romania, girls being stolen for prostitution was one of their biggest criminal issues.  You'd see Lambourghini's parked in poverty stricken Bucharest streets alongside the gypsy horse and carts, and I could never stop the thought that such extreme money could only be made from this repulsive activity. I could have been wrong, but the idea was ever present for me.
I move back to Australia, to an area many call "God's country", no less.  Sunny, relaxed and above all, safe. 
So why is that I now find myself feeling as sickened about stolen children as I did when I lived in Bucharest?
A child, who dared play hide and seek in the next isle of the supermarket, 10 steps away from her grandmother, is dragged away by a suited, high heeled woman. Luckily the police caught her - and rescued the other two stolen children in the back of her car as well.  All in a quiet suburban shopping centre on the Northern Beaches.
A man in a white van driving slowly along grabs a young girl at a bus stop dragging her into his van.
Another white van, driving slowly, with a man walking alongside of it with a blanket, ready to silently snuffle away a little boy.
These peope are not human, to even have the thought to do this to a child.  I am nauseous that it could happen to one of mine in this "safe" little part of the world I thought I lived in. But that feeling of safety is what makes us a primary target.
Eyes in the back of your head mum's.

My Mum

I was recently reminded of how great my mother is, by a female impersonator. Not that my mother is in the habit of frocking up in sequins and the CN Tower of blond wigs, per se…. Actually, that’s not strictly true. Anyway, she is far too short to be a drag queen herself.

So instead, she surrounded herself and our little family with a bunch of wonderful, colourful, clever characters. Our family friends ran businesses such as Polly’s Follies, were part of the original Les Girls troupe, and we regularly attended DIVA (Drag Industry Variety Awards), as a family.
We became skilled at the true art of applying make-up, how to dance in platforms, and discovered all about glitter, glamour and the most fantastic sense of humour.
We learnt all about Oxford St shenanigans from the comfort and security of backstage with family. We learnt - not from any class at school, the dangers and sadness of HIV. We discovered that family can be not only blood lines, but in a world where some are extremely ostracised, family are those who support, love and care for you. No matter the colour of their wig.
Of course there was a lot more to her parenting than these exposé’s:  She was, I realise now I’m raising my own kids, very strict. But an overriding lesson she taught us was highlighted to me the other night: That our mother brought us up to accept everyone, see who they are past the facade and the antics. But she didn’t teach us with words, she taught us with her own actions: Her own open heart and mind, her patience and fantastic sense of humour.
This extended through to our friends: Our house was always open to them. They were cooked for, had beds made up on our floor, and laughs…did we laugh. All sorts of fun parties were regularly held at our place, possibly, I suspect now, to monitor teenage activity, but many were my sister and I with a bunch of mum’s hilarious adult family friends. Mum took some of our friends in to live with us in our already squashed house during difficult times of their own, and she accepted some boyfriends which I know would challenge my own acceptance as a mother now. But I guess she could see the beauty in them all, just as we did. Or perhaps even that they needed a mother’s love too.
How great though art, that mothers love. How blessed I am.