Sisters

I hope they'll be the best of friends one day.

My Faery

Tomorrow, my first baby starts school.

In some ways, it feels like a huge milestone... yet it also seems as though she's been barrelling towards this day since her birth.

My first baby, who - instead of crying when she was born - looked up at my face after she was placed on my chest, and studied me intently. An old soul peered at me through her eyes, like we'd met before.

My Faery, who was speaking in sentences at such an early age. Despite her baby face, people always expected her to be older, because of how well she could speak.

My Faery, whose personality is one big paradox. Incredibly innocent, but also mature beyond her years. How is that even possible?

My Faery, who has such a sensitive soul. An ever thoughtful, kind, considerate little girl with an amazing awareness for others' feelings.

My Faery, who's had to learn the meaning of adaptation over the last twenty months - more than many adults do in a decade of living. First of all, becoming a sister (sharing J and I after having us to herself for three and a half years), then moving to another country and leaving all that she'd known and loved - in her short little life - behind.

My Faery, who possesses a runaway imagination. Books are devoured, and I can't keep up with her output of drawings. Empty boxes, toilet rolls, odd-shaped plastic packaging - in her eyes, they are all potential toy homes, robots and rocket ships.

My Faery, with her heart-shaped face, a light splatter of freckles under wide blue eyes and across her tiny nose. White golden hair with unruly waves, and the most stubborn cowlick to boot... have I mentioned how stubborn she is, too?

I watch her in awe, and study her features, amazed at this beautiful creature. She's sweet, she's smart, she's healthy and - I hope - happy.

I couldn't ask for more.

Golden Oldies

It's taken a while, but I finally get it.

Now I know how care-free it feels to be driving alone, with some favourite music blasting away. In the past, given my lack of driving confidence, I've usually preferred no music when it's me who's driving. Music felt distracting. Also, with two little people in the back of the car - oh, say 98% of the time - things tend to get noisy anyway. On those rare occasions where I'm alone behind the wheel, I've savoured the silence in the car - just me and my thoughts.

Lately, 'just me and my thoughts' don't seem to cut it, though. Last weekend, when I was making an escape for a few hours, I impulsively switched the radio on. Lucky for me, J had it tuned in to a station he'd already discovered and likes - KROQ. Even luckier for me, the station was having a 'Nothing but the 90s' weekend.

Heaven.

It must be a sure sign of ageing - being reduced to fits of bliss when hearing songs from 'way back'. As a kid, I remember how happy my mother would be listening to songs from the 70s, when we were in the car. The Doors aside, I remember thinking how daggy and old those songs were - songs that weren't as old (then) as the songs I found myself belting out to on Sunday.

Oops.

If anyone cares to join me in a trip down memory lane, here are some of the songs from KROQ's playlist that had me smiling like I haven't smiled in a long time:

Ah, sweet youth...

Most of our CDs are boxed into storage back in Australia. Many of our favourite albums are on our iTunes library, but we never got around to putting them all on. I wish we'd been a little more organised in that respect, but hey, the internet is a wonderful thing in the mean time, right?

What songs take you back?

Double D

As promised to myself, ages ago, I finally got around to treating myself and went bra shopping last night.

What an epic mission.

A few weeks ago, when our budget didn't allow for such folly, I cheekily went into Victoria's Secret and got fitted anyway. I was child-free for a few hours, and thought why not? It'll save time for when I actually go bra shopping later.

I was so wrong.

The assistant measured me, and told me I was size 34DD. I was more than happy to hear that, given I was a DD pre-kids, before two pregnancies and three years of breastfeeding.

Armed with that knowledge, I went back last night and spent a good half hour, painfully selecting a few bras in my size. It took longer than I thought because whenever I saw a style I liked, I couldn't find a colour I liked in 34DD.

Turns out 34DD is not so easy to find nice bras in, even in Victoria's Secret.

Eventually, I made my way into a fitting room, only to be horrified once I began trying on the bras.

First, what the hell is wrong with the fitting room lighting in those stores? It was suitably dim, yet somehow, every dimple and vein in my skin was highlighted. Did I look hot in those bras? No siree.

Secondly... back fat? Wtf? When did that happen? Deep breaths. The bras do feel rather tight... 

Turns out I'm not a 34DD after all. The assistant handed me a 36D to try on, which fitted okay-ish. I pointed to a little spillage at the sides, and suggested to her that perhaps I need a 36DD, but she told me the wire would go too high under my arms, and a D would be better.

Back to the drawing board, I left the fitting room to choose a new selection of bras. This time, different colours were available, and again, not all to my liking, so it took me a while.

Armed with my new selection, I returned to the fitting room. No more back fat, but each of the bras gave me massive spillage at the sides - more than the initial 36D I'd tried on. Unattractive, and uncomfortable. I called in the assistant - who, thankfully, was different to the other girl and seemed to have more of a clue.

Turns out I'm not a 36D either. Definitely a 36DD.

I had to start all over again. Different colours, and all that. Turns out DD, in any size, has less variety.

In the end, I settled on just one bra. An hour and a half it took me, to buy one mother-effing bra. A very pretty bra - no less - but only one bra.

I am so glad I didn't have to do that with small kids in tow. I'd have lasted ten minutes - praise the forces that be for night time shopping!

But next time? I'm buying online. At least after trying on over a dozen bras, I know my size for sure. Clicking on a few little boxes has got to be easier, and surely the big warehouse will have all the colours/styles in DD. That's what I call a win.

This is not me...    (Photo source)

I think I fill out my Victoria's Secret bra 

better than any of their models do -

no tissues or chicken fillets required.

Pandas and polars

While we were on our little holiday down the coast, we visited San Diego Zoo. 

We loved it, and it didn't feel as massive as I'd heard it was. Although we didn't see everything that day, it wasn't because of the size. We just took our time and stopped often, knowing we'll be back to see more another weekend. We walked the entire length at one point, and it didn't seem to take that long. It didn't feel any more sprawled out than Taronga Zoo in Sydney.

As I was waiting in line to see one of the pandas, I overheard a couple of people behind me, talking on their phones - saying how big the zoo was, and how much walking they'd had to do. I had to hide a smile. I get the impression that there's a large portion of the American population who dislike walking. Or aren't used to it. 

As for the panda? He was the first one I've ever clapped eyes on in real life, and the word cute doesn't do justice. He was so round and soft-looking... I just wanted to curl up into him for snuggles.

Our year's membership is just the incentive we need to force us off our bums one weekend, and return - I'm looking forward to it already.

Whose idea was it to give the kid some Coke? (not mine...)

Up close and personal with my first polar bear...

by far the coolest sight.

Floating foot of a sleeping Faery, coming back from the zoo.

Nothing says 'road trip' more than a car floor scattered with road maps.

Please enter

In past posts, I may have referred to the health care system here, and how I'm not a fan.

Last week, I made an appointment for something that wasn't urgent, but I'd been putting off for a while. Women's business. Naturally, there were slim pickings for times that suited me (ie not having to drag both girls along). Three weeks from now, I should be sorted - a whole month after I made the appointment, for what is essentially a basic check-up.

Yay American health care.

As I was making lunch for a suddenly-starving Faery today, my mobile phone rang. I didn't recognise the number, but answered anyway.

There was a pause, I almost hung up, then a pre-recorded message greeted me.

"Hello, MJ. This is an important announcement from Kaiser-Permanente. For your patient notification, please press one, or you can retrieve your message at any time."

Kaiser-Permanente is the stupid health insurance company we are with (as provided through J's workplace), and has us by the short and curlies. I'm unimpressed with them because our options seem pretty limited - we can only see doctors in their medical centres as it seems the more independent practicioners don't accept KP. Thankfully there is a centre close by, but as mentioned before, I can never get an appointment when truly needed without waiting. It's quite ridiculous.

So, being KP, I thought I'd better quickly listen to the message, in case it was about a change to my appointment.

I pressed one.

"Please enter your patient medical record number, followed by the pound key."

Really? The message isn't just waiting for me after all? I scrambled to find my purse so I could grab my KP membership card -

"The number you have entered is invalid. Please check the number and enter it again."

Sheesh! Give me a chance to find my number, why don't you? I located my card, and entered its number.

"The number you have entered is xxxxxxxxxx. If this is correct, please press one. If this is incorrect, please press two."

Oh my god. Just give me the frigging message already - YOU were the ones who rang ME. I pressed one.

"Please enter your date of birth, followed by the pound key. For example, if your date of birth is January 12th, 1973, enter 01121973, followed by the pound key."

Aaaaaghh! I entered my date of birth, and pressed the hash key.

"You have entered xxxxxxxx. If this is correct, please press one. If this is incorrect, please press two."

With an almighty exhale, I pressed one... to receive a general message about the importance of having a pap smear, and if I have not already done so, I should make an appointment as soon as possible.

Oh the pain.

If I hate bureaucracy and the American health care system, I think I detest automated phone prompts equally - especially when I didn't even make a bloody phone call in the first place.

How. Rude.

(Meanwhile, the Faery almost passed out from hunger.)

I also hate having to call customer service, and this perfectly illustrates why.

I'm glad I found that. I needed a laugh...

Subtitles unavailable

Without getting into the pros and cons of kids watching TV, lets just say that I belong in the 'whatever gets you through the day' camp.

Some days are easy. I'm in a groove, I'm relaxed, and I'm on fire - in terms of entertaining the Faery and Miss Pie. Stimulating their little brains, and all that. Other days... well, the TV is my saviour.

When the Faery was a toddler in Australia, we figured out which shows were okay for her to watch.

By 'okay', I mean the visuals, voices, or songs didn't leave me wanting to bash my head, repeatedly, against a wall, and start downing glasses of wine at 10am. Shows such as Hi-5 had that effect, so that one was definitely avoided. If you're not from Australia, I dare you to click on the link. The off-key singing and costumes will make you want to vomit... not really selling it, am I? I also try to minimise exposure to Dora The Explorer, for my own sanity.

Shows that we liked (or weren't horrendously offended by) over the years were:

- Play School 
- The Wiggles
- Bindi: The Jungle Girl
- Sesame Street
- Go Gabba Gabba
- Curious George
- Pingu
- Thomas & Friends
- Maisy
- Pocoyo
- In The Night Garden (seriously, what substances had been imbibed by the creators?)
- Peppa Pig
- Shaun The Sheep
- Fifi & The Flowertots
- Charlie and Lola

(Photo source)

Okay, so some of these still left me wanting to bash my head, but not as violently.

A large portion of the shows are British, because that's just how it seems to be in Australia - more British children's shows than Australian or American. As annoying as some of these shows were (hello, Fifi) I didn't mind having them on in the background because their accents were so lovely - especially the ones with regional voices. I always have time for a Scouse or Yorkshire accent.

Moving to the US, I realised we wouldn't have access to quite a few of the Faery's favourites any more. I was fine with that because as long as Sesame Street and Curious George were around, I knew I'd have a babysitter for at least an hour or so a day when needed.

I learned very quickly that Barney & Friends brought out the worst in me. He was banished.

For a while, our cable package included the Nick Jr channel, and a whole lot of old favourites from back home were available to us again. Joy! However, that joy turned to disappointment when I noticed that many of the British shows had been dubbed with American accents.

It's nothing personal about American accents, but I can't help wonder why this was done. Some head honcho of some company, somewhere, decided that American children may not understand British accents, perhaps? If so, give me a break - that's underestimating the intelligence of kids. Or maybe it was done for their parents' benefit? Who knows.

Shows such as Peppa Pig - where the voices are mostly from the south of England - have been left alone. However, Thomas & Friends, Fifi & The Flowertots, Maisy, and Bob The Builder (with voices from the north of England) have all received the dubbing treatment. It's a little sad, really. They had the best accents.

We no longer have Nick Jr. We only have one of the PBS channels that airs Sesame Street, Curious George, and a handful of other small children's shows. Before we stopped getting Nick Jr, I recorded a stockpile of some of their better shows on the DVR... but thank god for Netflix and it being able to stream Yo Gabba Gabba to us. That show has saved many a day.

And as I type? Miss Pie is ensconced in a Maisy DVD that I'd forgotten about, and have only just dug out.

Thank you Netflix, and thank you DVDs.