First glimpse of TV

Thumbs up

See what happens when you try to be a good mother? I was making a lentil thingie for Julian today, painstakingly cutting up celery, carrots, sweet potato and onion, when I decided to chop a bit of my thumb off as well. It's only the top bit of skin, and it will grow back. Was all very dramatic at the time; I had to rush off to hospital and everything. It will grow back, but for the next six weeks it's bandaged and I have to keep it elevated, dry and fairly immobile. So, no nappy-changing, baby-lifting, baby-bathing or blogging. Well, there may be some posts, but not too many. Sigh, I'm such a klutz. Although, I did prove to be good in a medical emergency: before I left home for hospital, I managed to a) wrap all the things I'd prepped for cooking and put them in the fridge; b) make a bottle for Julian since I knew my mother was coming over and I'd be missing a breastfeed; c) remember to fetch my health insurance card; d) call the hospital's ER rooms in advance to ensure they could take me. David remembered to put the tip of my thumb on ice, although we had to use Julian's frozen veggie stock, and I remember thinking, "but it took me so long to make that!" They didn't need it in the end, anyway.

1959 was a bad year for food

Yesterday, my mother-in-law gave me a "recipe booklet" she'd been given by the local council maternal centre when she was raising her babies; it's from 1959, and like my mother, she doesn't like to throw things out. In it, there are recipes for things called Groats Jelly, Golden Syrup Junket, Jellied Ground Rice, Mutton Broth, Liver Soup, Fricassee of Brains, Tripe, Scraped Beef Balls (now, that just sounds wrong, doesn't it?) and Gruel; if this is what we were all eating in the 60s, it's a wonder any of us survived. And what's with the gelatine? Nearly every recipe includes it as an ingredient.

Danger, Will Robinson

Cool kid

The other night, we had a friend over for dinner. Now, let me create some context: this friend had just done a health-food cooking class and had brought some grilled tofu for us. I'm sitting at the kitchen bench cutting up veggies for a stir-fry, heating up a vegetable soup and pasta and bolognese sauce I'd made, and generally feeling quite smug in my chef-dom. Said friend asked if I cooked for Julian. "Oh yes, I cook all his meals," I said proudly. Because here I am, making sure that Julian gets lots of vegetables and fruit and all the good protein and calcium and, as I said, feeling rather smug that I haven't subjected him to Evil Commercial Food.*

And then the friend said, "You don't use the microwave, do you?" This was said in the same kind of tone that one would use to utter, "You don't dip his hand in boiling water once a day, do you?" "Ah...yeah...I do," I stammered. Well, it turns out that according to the friend, the microwave is the Most Evil of all implements, far surpassing commercial food in its evilness. And the non-stick pans I used to cook Julian's fish? Almost as bad.

I flashed back to all the baby books I'd read that said that microwaving was a-okay, but the thought niggled at me all day. So what did I do tonight? I used a pan to heat up everything, even though it took me ages and there were loads of dirty dishes afterwards.

The whole thing was worse than the Other Incident That Clearly Indicates I Am A Bad Mother, which took place earlier this week. It was when my nephew looked at the frozen food I'd painstakingly packed away for Julian and said, "Mmmm, freezer burn. Not good". Although when he saw the horror/ guilt on my face, he quickly retreated. "Oh, I'm sure it's fine. No, seriously. I mean, it's not bad. It might just taste bad. And it probably doesn't even taste bad. You see, when I say 'bad', what I really mean is 'good'. It probably tastes great. In fact, I'm sure of it. But maybe you should, um, pack the things you put in the freezer a little more tightly."

There are endless ways to feel terrible as a mother if you are thus inclined.

* Just kidding. I've never met a food I thought was evil, not even of the fast variety.


Smiley boy

Autumn

Today, I listened to an ex-boyfriend talk about his life, and it wasn't so much what he said but how happy he looked as he was saying it. He's got a son, too, around Julian's age, and it made me wonder if he's extra-happy because he suddenly sees life through his child's eyes.

It's unbelieveable, really, how happy children are. Julian has many moments of pure joy throughout the course of a day, experiencing things that make him wildly happy. On the change table, when I pull out his nappies from the plastic bag - this makes him ecstatic beyond belief. (It's the sound of the bag - I let him kick it, sometimes, and he finds this game thrilling.) When he hears the sound of the bath water running at night, he kicks his legs and flaps his arms and starts squealing excitedly. And, whenever I lay him down to sleep and zip up his sleeping bag, it's his cue to beam and giggle and he's so happy, his eyes almost cross over in delirium.

Julian makes me happier every day, and not just because of the person he is. I'm also starting to see the world through his eyes, and oh, what an eye-popping place he is. Yesterday, on Sunday morning, we took a stroll down the street - he in my arms - and took in the stillness of the road. There was no wind, no breeze, and if you sniffed the air carefully, you could detect a soft scent of approaching rain. We picked golden and red leaves from trees, and crackled others in our hands. I pointed out a pink rose to Julian, and he laughed out loud, without even getting close enough to capture its fragrance. We looked out for cars and said hello to the neighborhood cat and, finally, tumbled on a towel which I'd laid on the grass on our front lawn. It was a perfect, perfect series of moments, and I don't remember ever appreciating something with so many of my senses, all at once.

I must do it more often.

Thanks, mum!

Julian at 8.5 months

There's a book I hadn't heard of before today - Oh The Glory of It All - that my friend Nicki recommended. I checked it out, and read a review by A.J. Jacobs which said, "If my son shows any hint of writing talent, I'm going to be damn careful whenever he's in the room." That's because this memoir, written by Sean Wilsey, contains "perhaps the most evil parental figure since Joan Crawford." "Who would possibly write about their parents in public?" I wondered when I read this. "Who would hold up their ever-sacrificing mother for ridicule and embarrassment?"

The answer struck me: I would. And I have.

You see, when I started out my journalistic career sending articles on spec to newspapers for publication, I didn't have much to write about. I was 19, so there wasn't that much wisdom I felt I had to impart. I hadn't done much, unless you count clocking up many, many television hours and creatively "editing" the comments from teachers on my report card using white-out and a similarly coloured pen. (Both would be good practice for my eventual career - who knew?) So, I wrote about my mother.

In fact, I wrote about her a lot. A whole series of articles about her appeared in my city's most prestigious newspaper, all of which poked fun at her. How she routinely whipped up something called Potato Surprise ("the real surprise is that there's no potato in it. Instead, there are unrecognisable pieces of chicken in it, somehow disguised to look like cauliflower"). How she wanted to set me up with unsuitable men ("He'd have to be dependable. Predictable. Kosher. A tad boring. Approved by a rabbi. That's not a description of a man, it's a description of a salami"). Here was a typical paragraph of mine:

Even when I found guys I wanted to date, they never met with my mother's approval. I'd introduce them to her, and she'd hide her jewellery. Admittedly, I went out with the sort of guys whose nicknames were better suited to automotive parts than human beings. One summer, I dated 'Steel Belt', 'The Radiator' and 'Clutch' - all within two weeks of each other. "Most daughters need only a pretty dress when they go out," my mother would say. "Mine has to take out a vehicle insurance policy."

Now, of course I was exaggerating. But that didn't stop all my mother's friends from quizzing her: Did you really say/ do/ think that? She took it all in with her good humour, and still remains one of my biggest fans. And I still don't relent. Today, on the phone, she signed off with, "Okay, play it easy," which I guess was a hybrid of "take it easy" and "play it by ear". "Hmmm, I'll have to write that one down," I thought, filing it away for future use.

Which brings me to today's point. Today, at lunch, I bumped into two women I know - a mother and her daughter. Seeing Julian, they both said, "Oh my god - he's a clone of you. He's exactly like you!" I was pleased, of course, until it later occurred to me: What if he grows up to be exactly like me? i.e. What if he, too, goes on to write pieces about me that everyone thinks are true even if they're totally fabricated? How will I take it?

Of course, I'm still fool enough to believe that there's no way I'll give him as much good material as my mother provided for me.

A visit to the opthamologist

Sleeping bag cuddly

Today we made a visit to the opthamologist, because there were some concerns from worried relatives that Julian might be cross-eyed. I wasn't anticipating a bad result as much as I was a bad doctor's visit - we were told that the consult would take two hours, and adding an hour's travelling time to that, I imagined a day from hell.

Boy, was I wrong. Firstly, Julian's eyes are just perfect. And kids' doctors sure have changed since my day. At this specialist's, Julian was subjected to a range of eye tests, but he wouldn't even have known it because the whole experience was so much fun. The lights that were shone in his eyes all took the form of things like dinosaurs and butterflies and robots - I guess pediatric doctors need to be prepared in this department. And, when it came time for him to do a long-distance eye test, the doctor flicked the light switch and turned on a whole mechanic-and-lights show in his office. There were dancing Winnie-the-Poohs, a TV screen with cartoons playing, and a range of talking, singing, moving animals. Julian thought he was at Disneyland, and hey, a weekly visit to this doctor would probably work out cheaper.

Compare this to my childhood: when I was a little girl, my mother took me to a dentist who used no anaesthetic for fillings. I had plenty of fillings, but didn't even realise that the option of getting an injection for fillings applied until I was 18 (and wisely went to my own dentist).

The opthamologist told me a funny story. He has an old lady who sees him, and whenever she pays him a visit, she says, "Lionel, you are my eyes, my eyes." One day, this woman had a party, and has Lionel the opthamologist approached her, she again said, "Lionel, you are my eyes, my eyes." Her gynecologist, who was also there, turned to the next person and said, "I wonder what she calls me." Ba-da-bing.

In other news, we have stepped it up a notch, food-wise. Inspired by nephew Adam's cooking class this week, Julian has sampled pan-fried salmon (a hit), red lentils (depends on his mood) and peach semolina (the verdict is out). For someone who orders take-out at least 200 times a year for herself, I'm feeling like quite the gourmet.

We did it!

Me and the dog - 8 months, 6 days

Oh my goodness, he really slept through the night. Until now, "sleeping through" has been an eight-hour stretch, from 11pm - 7am, and has happened twice.

Last night, he went down at 7:30 pm. I woke when the dog started barking at possums in the roof, and I heard a grizzle at 6:30 am. But he didn't wake properly until 7 am. That's nearly 12 hours straight, people!

I think that sleep, or lack thereof, has to be the topic that dominates new parents' conversations more than any other. So, sorry this is about my thirty-seventh (or thereabouts) post on the topic. But I'm just so damn thrilled!. Now, if only I could figure out a way to get the dog to sleep through the night, I'd be onto something.


Me and Ali on the couch

All in due time

I subscribe to newsletters from babycenter.com, who frequently update me on everything Julian should be doing. Today's email started out with the (paraphrased) words, "By now, your eight month, one week old baby should be sitting up unassisted and well by now..." and then I stopped reading. Julian is eight months and two weeks if you adjust his age to accommodate his due date, and he's not sitting up by himself, no way, no how. On the other hand, he's rolling like a champion: it seems like he's been rolling longer than The Stones. His rolling has turned our nappy-change sessions into wrestling matches, and I am the one who usually loses.

Yes, I know there's a huge variation in when babies do stuff. And I'm truly not worried about it, because as a Jewish Mother, I secretly believe my child is a genius prodigy, anyway. Still, I hate it when the Baby Milestone Nazis don't let me relax and enjoy the moment we're in

Playpen

Julian's playpen

When David found this house, he immediately loved it because of its large, bay window. It's been the centrepiece of our living room for so long, and in summer it's framed by lush, green foliage.

It's now become the centrepiece of Julian's playpen. Yep, Julian has scored the best area in the house, all for himself. So far, he seems to love it. Hey, put a desk and computer in there, and I'd willingly spend most of my day there.

First Babies

Everyone says that it's different with a second child, and not just because you're less confused. Mothers also talk about the way they documented each milestone and move of their first baby, but not their second. They took more photos of their first. They went to music sessions, library story-times, Wiggles concerts. They used cotton balls and sterilised water to clean nappies (as opposed to baby wipes), they meticulously sterilised bottles, they shunned commercial baby food. When I asked a group of mothers if they had ever taken their kids to infant swimming classes (for 6 month olds), they each said the same thing, in unison: "I did with my first baby!"

I already see how this happens. Part of it is that you don't have as much time to spend with your subsequent children, and you have to juggle all their needs. And part of it is that you start realising that babies aren't as fragile as you feared. hen Julian first had formula, the preparation was a big deal. I carefully sterilised a knife so that I could level off the amount of formula on the scoop, just like the instructions said. There is a warning on the formula tin which reads, "Do not change proportions of powder except on medical advice. Incorrect preparation can make your baby very ill." I always thought the latter sentence referred to the incorrect amount of formula, but it probably refers to people who don't wash their hands properly or leave the formula out for too long. Today, when I prepared formula for breakfast, there was no knife as I tapped the scooper on the side of the tin. A few grains of powder fell out of the bottle, and I wasn't concerned. It may seem like a small thing, but it made me stop, and think: You've come a long way, baby!

But, oh, the delight of a first child. If I'm ever lucky enough to have a second baby, I'm sure I'll love him/ her just as much as I love Julian, but I can't imagine it being the same. There's something about the newness of each day with a baby, as you saunter down a path that's never been walked on before. Everything is so mysterious, still: how, exactly, do they get from pushing up on their stomachs to crawling? When do they figure out that they can form words in their mouths? Are they born with that keen sense of humour, or do you somehow nurture it within them?

Logically, I know I have to start thinking about having a second child. Time is running out - I will be 39 in a few short months - and it took me five years, four operations and several IVF treatments to have Julian. But, emotionally, I just want to hang on a bit longer to the magic that comes with having a first baby. I know I'll never get to have this particular experience again.

Flow

There is all this stuff you imagine you'll do when you have a baby, and all the things you actually do. For instance, I thought I'd breastfeed until about six months, then wean. Not because I necessarily wanted to wean, but because I wanted to try for a second baby. But here I am, at the eight month mark, still breastfeeding. (Although every day I plan to substitute at least one feed with a bottle, it hasn't happened yet.)

Another thing: when I was 5 months' pregnant, I heard that daycare was really, really hard to get into, so I booked Julian into a creche for when he turned 18 months. We just got the letter of acceptance the other day, and guess what? I'm not ready to enrol him then.

Or, about a month before I started Julian on solids, I bought a couple of organic baby food cans at the health food store. But now that he's eating, I only want him to eat things that I've prepared. (This is not to say I'm against commercial baby food or anything, just that it turns out I'm less lazy than I thought.)

Finally, I told my office I'd be back at work within three months of giving birth. And here I am, five months after that mark, nowhere near committing to a full load. When you have a baby, you just go with the flow - that's what I've learned.

Nieces and nephews

At some point in your life, everything does a big flip-flop.

I used to be the cool, young aunt who my nieces and nephews looked up to. My face routinely appeared in magazines, I lived in New York and LA, and when my nephew turned 13, I got him Cindy Crawford's autograph. (And later, Will Smith's.) Now I'm just the old aunt who begs magazines not to photograph her, and didn't even call her offspring 'Apple'. I've lost major cool points.

But my nieces and nephews, now they're cool. I've got seven of them on my side (my niece on David's side is also cool), and they've all turned out pretty damn well. I say this because I spent yesterday with my 23 year old nephew, Adam (the one who's got Cindy C's signature), who was teaching me how to cook. Yeah, you heard me right. Turns out Adam's been cooking since he was a wee tot - he's always loved it, so that when he was a kid who still needed naps, his parents would threaten him with not being allowed to watch cooking shows if he didn't have his afternoon sleep. I asked Adam to come over and teach me some easy recipes that I can later make for the family. In two hours, we whipped up a herbed roast chicken, a roast vegetable salad with toasted pine nuts, wild mushroom bruschetta and vanilla poached pears with toffee shards. And this is just Adam's hobby! Spending a couple of hours with Adam just made me appreciate what a good guy he is: he's super-smart, funny and has a knack of infusing every moment with enthusiasm and humour. He was just a joy to be around.

Oh, did I mention he was recently in Japan where he spoke a fluent Japanese? Yep, he's got it going on.

I also found out today that my teenaged nephew Anton got into an art camp in the US that only accepts 63 kids out of the whole country. Meanwhile, his sister Bianca, who's a freshman in college, just got written up in the school paper, where she was named a future leader for a heap of things she's done, including organising a Casino Night to raise money for tsunami victims in Asia.

This leaves my over-achieving niece Natalie, 23, who is finishing off her law degree and spent the last year in France (she has a perfect accent now), my brilliant niece Rebecca, 18, who just got her driver's licence and is in first year uni after getting one of the top grades in the State, my equally clever nephew Josh who's working his butt off in the last year of high school and will probably one day invent the cure to something, and my youngest nephew Jake, 12, who's an accomplished sportsperson, smart-as-a-whip and the funniest pre-teen I've ever met. Ever.

Lucky they have me as their aunty; I'm going to start taking credit for how well they've turned out.

Lucky

Last week, I went to see an endocrinologist about my thyroid condition. She asked me if I was trying to conceive again, and then added, "I would wait quite awhile before I had another baby if I was you." I waited for her to back up her opinion with some medical hypothesis, but instead she said, "I had two babies close together, and it was very, very hard." When I didn't reply, she added, "And if you care about your career, you will be taking a big step backwards. One which your career might never recover from."

Okee-dokey: remind me to file that under Bad Choices and the Medical Practitioners Who Can't Live With Them.

My response was calm and measured. "Thanks for being so honest and open with me about your situation," I said. "I can appreciate that what you've gone through is very hard, but I think what's right for you may not be right for me."

Do I get brownie points for not just slugging her? What I wanted to say was this: "Lady, if you think having two, healthy babies less than a year apart is hard, try being infertile and having no babies." But I didn't, because I have a thing for doctors, even pinch-faced ones who didn't like the fact that I came in with a book entitled The Thyroid Solution at all.

And consider this: I have two friends who are both eight months' pregnant right now. I have told each of them how exciting the journey is upon which they will soon embark, and how their days will be filled with an indescribable happiness. They have each said to me, "Thank you for saying that, because everyone else has been so negative."

Yep, turns out there's no end of people who'll tell you how much sacrifice is involved in parenting. How you'll never have a good sleep/ real holiday/ peace & quiet again. I know these people exist, because when I was infertile, they were the same ones who said, "You want kids? You can have my three."

That's so funny.

I'm not saying that parenthood is without its challenges or sacrifices or hard moments, and I'm not claiming that there aren't times that are distinctly not fun. But I feel sorry for people who can't keep the bigger picture in mind, who can't appreciate the many moments of utter joy. The times when your baby raises his arms because he wants you, only you, to lift him up. When you share a joke together, needing neither words nor punchlines. When you watch your baby sleeping and see his small chest rising up and down, a look of pure contentment on his face.

Every time I hear someone complaining about how hard parenthood is, I know how lucky I am.

Love

Julian is so desperate to crawl: he lies on the floor on his stomach, flapping his arms and legs, as if trying to take off. It's the cutest thing to watch, even if he gets sooo frustrated. He's also sitting up pretty well; while he still can't do it unaided for long periods of time, he can sit upright for quick spurts.

People tell you that you fall more and more in love with your child every day, and for me that's certainly true. I want to be a better person because of him; I long to make all his moments pleasurable, and quickly erase any of his pain. Today, at his Zaide's house, he cried all of a sudden - we're not sure why - and it was heartbreaking to witness. You don't want your child to ever experience any kind of hurt, even if it is the fleeting, baby kind.

I love him, so much sometimes that it aches.

Mother's Day

Julian's first mother's day

Today was my first Mother's Day as a bona fide mother, compared to an angry-at-the-world, embittered infertile person; I have to say, celebrating it as the former is a whole lot cheerier. For the first time in years, I could pick up the paper that gave double page spreads to all the new mums in hospital, proudly displaying their bundles of joy. I could watch those teary ads on TV. I imagined getting a bad bottle of perfume one day, a slab of soap or a pair of slippers. It was a revelation.*

My husband did the unexpected, too: he went out and bought me a present from "Julian". I give him bonus points for the effort, if not the advanced planning: at the last minute, this morning, he apparently walked into a florist and bought me a potted bamboo plant, with heart-shaped chocolates attached. I loved this present, especially when you consider our history when it comes to gift-giving.

In the past, I have received an ab-roller from him on my birthday, which seemed insensitive at the time, but now that I know him better, I get it: he would've seen the infomercial on TV, thought that it was a brilliant way to buy a gift because he didn't have to leave the couch, and been quite pleased with himself. Until he saw my horrified reaction to receiving a present that clearly implied I was too fat. This was only slightly worse than the other strange gift I received from him: a dead butterfly backed on black velvet. There was also a fossilised fish and crystal that year, purchased from his favourite store, Maxilla and Mandible. I reiterate: his favourite store. He clearly didn't shop at my favourite store, because Prada don't do fossils, or dead things, unless they're elegantly made into a snazzy pair of crocodile shoes, or something.

So, I wanted to give my thumbs up about the plant, because after The Great Fossil Incident of 1997 (as we refer to it in our house), I don't want to scare him off completely. But, where's the evidence that I'd actually like a plant? Here's my plant history: I recently demolished our indoor garden, because I hated it. And, when Julian was born, I made David put the other indoor plants outside. So, I'm not sure where David got the idea that I like plants from. I really don't. "How thoughtful!" I said to him when I received it. "What made you think of it?" (Translation: didn't you realise I hate plants?) "I thought you'd want something living, that you could watch grow," he said. Uh-huh. My reply should have been: you always give me that gift, honey, whenever you leave the dishes in the sink too long. You could grow enough bacteria to support a science faculty.

But I didn't. It's Mother's Day, and it's the best Mother's Day I've known.

NB. I should add that my husband has bought me excellent gifts since my 30th birthday: for instance, Ali the pug was one birthday gift.

* It turns out that I have guilty of giving all those "bad" presents to my own mother in previous years.

Zzzzz

He Slept Through The Night!

Well, just about. I put him down at my mother's house at 8pm, and he slept until 11pm. I then took him home, and he slept from 11:30 or so until 7:45 am, without a peep.

Of course, I'm racking my brain to work out what the magic ingredient was. There are too many variables, but this is what I've narrowed it down to:

- He had a later bedtime, by about an hour - 8:15 pm instead of 8:00 pm. I could do this again, but this would mean that I couldn't watch my 7:30pm TV shows (like Survivor!) uninterrupted. Or start dinner until late. Selfish, selfish me.
- He had a later second sleep in the afternoon. Which meant that he was about for 3.5 hours, instead of 2.5 hours.
- He had more to eat during the day. He loved those pears for lunch, namely because his big cousin Adam (who's nearly 24, and whose diapers I once changed) fed them to him. He doesn't eat that much for me.
- He had lots of mental stimulation before bedtime. Friday night sabbath dinner at the parents' house, 12 of us in all. Four chirping cousins, three lots of pat-a-cake, two roasted ducks and a sleeping baby in a pear-tree.
- I dropped his fifth feed the previous night, and maybe he realised there's no good reason to wake up now. So, he's only on four feeds (and three solid meals) a day. Or, as my mother likes to describe it, "You're starving the poor child!"
- He's finally over his cold. Thank goodness. Because you can't blow a baby's nose.
- The heating was on all night. Again, something my mother would not approve of. She's never met an open window she didn't like. (Or, as she puts it, "Your house is so stuffy!")
- The dog didn't bark at 6am as per usual. Ali, from this vantage point, the kennel in the backyard is starting to look mighty good to me. (Instead of the oversized faux fur beanbag in the living room, where she now rests her weary head at night.)

Can we get a repeat performance tonight?

Rice pudding face (nearly 8 months)

Blog-o-rama

This week, I became involved in a blog-o-rama exercise, devised by my friend Twizzle. Five of us were involved, and we each had to "interview" each other - i.e. send questions to a nominated person (names were picked out of a hat) who would then post the answers on his blog. I interviewed Twizzle, while Papadog interviewed me.

Below are my answers to the allotted questions. If you'd like to read "my" interview of Twizzle, or any of the other interviews, today is the day to check 'em out:
Transit
Lila Quinn

Oh, and happy Cinco De Mayo day.

1. As new parents, we tend perhaps to overestimate the influence our every action and utterance will have upon the life of our children. Looking back on your own life, what do you think has been most instrumental in shaping the life you’ve had and the person you’ve become? Parents and family? Friends and lovers? Environment? Experience? An innate sense of self? Something else?

A: I definitely think my parents have shaped my life more than anyone else. I always felt that my mother was a very emancipated woman – she worked, took care of the home, and always emphasised the importance of financial self-sufficiency and a university degree. As a result, I became independent early on. I always knew I could stand on my own two feet and wasn’t daunted by much. With those qualities, I didn’t hesitate to move abroad when I was in my early 20s (I ended up living in LA for two years and New York for five, and later in Sydney for a further three) or start writing professionally in my late teens.

My father always encouraged my writing; even though I was studying law when I started to write and it looked like I might not complete my degree (I did), he was always proud of my writing work and to this day tells me what a great job I’ve done. He still takes any magazine article I’ve written and shows it to all his friends and local shop-keepers! He has always believed in the strength of my mind, so that even when I didn’t do so well at school academically, I had no doubt that I was smart. That confidence has served me well.

2. As new parents we also tend to look upon our children as the repository of all hope and goodness in the universe, despite the fact that human history indicates pretty clearly that it doesn’t always work that way. Can you imagine Julian in some way growing up to be a disappointment to you, or do you think you’ll always find a way to be happy about the choices he makes?

A: I hope that I never put pressure on Julian to do certain things – for instance, becoming the best football player on the team, or the number one in his class. I would like him, however, to try his best at whatever he does, and to be motivated. I want him to follow through with things even when it’s difficult, and I want him to finish what he starts (as I was taught). I don’t want him to give up, or not be able to keep going just because things are tough.

I don’t think I will always be thrilled about every single choice he makes; that would be too Pollyanna. I would be deeply disappointed, for instance, if he didn’t perpetuate the Jewish religion. I hope he grows up with a strong sense of Jewish identity and values it enough to pass it to his children, if he has any. But, while I may not always be happy with his choices, I hope that he knows I will always love him, no matter what.

3. Tell me about a piece of writing that directly affected your life.

A: I think the first time I read Neil Simon’s plays, I was blown away, because they were so timeless and funny, even on the page. And I related to his work; it wasn’t like I when I read Ulysses at uni and thought, “I could never write that!” I would read Neil Simon’s works, and other playwrights, and soon after being exposed to that I went to study playwriting / screenwriting at UCLA in Los Angeles. That move changed my life – I will never be the same after having that experience.

I also loved reading Elie Wiesel’s memoirs, and wrote to him about it. It really gave me new understanding into what my mother must have suffered as a Holocaust/ concentration camp survivor. I still have his hand-written letter, from June 96, which says, “Simply: thank you for your warm and moving letter – I wish you well. Please convey my greetings to your mother.” At least, I think that’s what he wrote – his handwriting is quite indecipherable! I think his book affected my life because it did give me new insight into what my mother has been through.

4. There was a Simpsons episode where Bart prank-calls some poor Australian kid to enquire about the way water swirls down the toilet in the southern hemisphere. Does it really go counter-clockwise? ‘Cause I think that would freak me out.

A: You know, I’ve never really done a comparison. I don’t know that it swirls here – it just kinda flushes. I will check next time. Trust me, there’s more that would freak you out about the way we live down under. Do you know that we use kangaroos as a form of transport? Kidding.

5. How, if at all, has your relationship with Ali the pug changed since you had a child?

A: I said I’d never be one of those people who loved my dog less when I had a baby…and I was wrong. I don’t pay her any less attention – one thing I do try to do is to still make sure she’s walked, played with and loved. But there was a time when I thought I’d simply die if I lost Ali. Now, my feelings for her aren’t that strong, I hate to admit. I enjoy her, but also think she’s a pain in the ass at times. Still, I do pick her up and cuddle her often – like last time. I don’t think she’s neglected in the least, even if she has fallen down a few notches in my regard. Oh, and I don't dress her up in funny costumes anymore - her cowboy hat and "princess" t-shirt have been stored away.

And here are the alternate questions I didn't answer:
1. If you could only eat one kind of cheese for the rest of your life (you could still eat other foods, but only the one kind of cheese), what kind would you pick and why? I’m assuming here that you like cheese. If you don’t like cheese, explain why not, and be prepared to defend your heresy.

2. You’ve mentioned once or twice that you only learned to cook five years ago. I’m guessing that between then and when you left your parents’ home you ate out a lot. As one who subsisted for many years on bachelor food, I’m curious: what were your key strategies for warding off the scurvy?

I do like cheese, and I ate a lot of sushi and expensive restaurant meals, and that's all I'll say about those two questions.

Emmanuel's photos

Emmanuel's photo of Julian and David (older)

At the end of March, a friend of David's, photographer Emmanuel Santos, told us he'd take some photos of Julian as a gift to us. Here is the result! Well, two of them, anyway.


Julian by Emmanuel Santos

Too little time now

Since I'm so busy now, I often wonder, what the hell was I doing with my time before?

Let's go back ten years ago. I was living in New York, working a day job as a point person in the foreign bureau for an Australian magazine company, and I was also moonlighting as a freelance journalist, publishing, on average, two articles per week.

Sounds busy, right? But I couldn't have been that frantic: after all, I saw movies. I read books. I got my hair dyed when grey strands started poking through. I packed a lot in, to be sure, but that included going out to dinner every night and rollerblading in Central Park after work.

Okay, fine. I can justify that. But what the hell was I doing three years ago? I was working part-time from home, and pursuing fertility treatments, and for some reason I felt like I never had enough free time. Yet I look at how many hours I had free to me then, and I realise that I could have learned four new languages in that time. I could have written seven novels. I could have done a hell of a lot more than I actually did. What I did, from memory, was have four baths a day when the weather got really, really cold.

I clearly had too much time on my hands.

I want that phone and I want it NOW!

The Best Baby Food Maker

I am a pretty good cook, but it's not something that's come easily. I only learned how to cook five years ago, and can only whip up something after carefully following a trusty recipe. It takes me a long time. I will never be one of those people who can magically create a fabulous risotto from the ingredients I have in my pantry.

But, what I have discovered is that I'm a really, really good chef for babies. I could be the cordon bleu chef of toddlerhood.

Why? Because everything you make for babies has to be boiled and overcooked until it's basically unrecognisable mush. I am soooo good at this. This is because I come from a long line of women who burn food, or at least that's what I suspect, after tasting my mother's cooking.

Don't get me wrong: I love my mum's cooking. She has altered my taste buds forever, so that now I feel a pang of dismay if I see that her chicken doesn't have blackened skin on its underside. When her meat balls are crunchy and dark, I like them best. She doesn't believe in steaming, and her vegetables are boiled so thoroughly that they all emerge as one shade of grey (even carrots!). Today, I made rice for Julian, and the health care centre advised me to overcook it until it became gluggy. The packet said to cook it for 15 minutes, but I didn't get the right texture until 40 minutes had ticked away on the clock.

I tasted it. It was perfect...and it tasted exactly like my mother's rice!

Sometimes, my mother takes this overcooking thing a bit too far. I like to tell this one story, about how my brother bought a toaster for my mother when he was 19. Two decades later, she was still using it, claiming it worked "fantastically". It didn't: it burned the shit out of bread, any bread, even bread that had only been in its grasp for two seconds, until the whole kitchen would become a mass of black smoke. I'd walk in the front door, smell fire, and call out, "Mum, have you made toast again?" "I like it this way," she used to claim, even though she'd have to scrape black soot off each piece before eating it. "You can't eat that!" I'd say, looking at the piece of charcoal on her breakfast plate. "My body craves coal," she would reply. Honestly.

I begged my brother to buy her a new toaster so she could get rid of the old one. "I'll pay for the f---ing thing myself," I told him.

She still burns stuff, though. And it turns out, I have her to thank because I am the best baby food maker ever.

Catch up

I can barely keep up with Julian's ever-growing ways; yesterday, for instance, he was pulling himself (with help) to a sitting position, and today he was almost sitting unsupported. In the food department, I have been ever-so-slowly adding new ingredients to the mix: one day it might be avocado, five days later it's apricots. But, I'm now lagging behind: Julian is ready for lumpy food with a bit of texture, and he should be sampling milk products, protein, bread. Yet all I've given him, thus far - with the exception of yesterday, when I whipped up some chicken for lunch - are fruit and vegetables. Keep up, mum!

And, happy birthday daddy. David turned 42 today, and the three of us went to Claypot's, a seafood restaurant, for lunch. Julian was as good as gold, which is to say, he let us eat our meal and happily cooed to his toys.