Wordless Wednesday - Fluff

As us teachers like to refer to filler activities in place of a more

substantial lesson, here's some visual 'fluff' - taken recently. 

Sometimes, I have fun pretending to get arty farty...

Linking up with: and then she snapped

My sidekick

With the Faery at school, Miss Pie is now the main target

of my lens - whether we're out and about, 

or just hanging at home. 

I probably whinge too much about the toddler stage, but I 

also know that it's a lovely stage too. I remember when the Faery 

was my little sidekick in everything - my little shadow, 

my little friend. She still is, of course, but school steals

a lot of that time away from me.

School hours, I now have a new little sidekick

and she is seriously cute. Seriously active.

Seriously loveable.

*  *  *

And on the weekends?
There's lost time to make up for with my original little buddy.

Full moon over sunset

The other night, J and I had ourselves a bit of a date night. Sort of. It was a friend's birthday, and this friend was also performing in the Voodoo Lounge at the House of Blues on the Sunset Strip... does it get any more L.A. than that? It sounded too fun to pass up, so we went along and pretended for a few hours that it was the olden days, pre-kids.

The moon was full, the sky was black, and Sunset Boulevard was brightly lit for us. We managed to get seats at the bar, listened to several talented acts, admired the window views of a sprawlingly lit metropolis below us, talked about non-kid related things, ate the tastiest burgers, licked our fingers, and giggled on our way out as we heard the screams coming from the downstairs venue (where a New Kid on the Block was performing)... grateful to be thirty-something. We drove back through the bright lights, cut through the winding back streets of Los Feliz, ogled at homes grander than we'll ever live in, and saw coyotes in the shadows. Magic. Then we arrived home, kissed our sleeping girls good night, fell into bed, and swore at the alarm clock six hours later.

Must do this more often.

Labels and denial

Only the other day, I realised something. In the twenty-six months since I was last employed, I haven't once referred to myself as a Stay At Home Mother (SAHM). 

When I meet people and they ask me what I do, I find myself saying that my field is teaching English to foreign students. Which is true, but it's been a while now. Why not tell them I'm a SAHM?

I guess I dislike labels, for a start. It's not like I grew up with rose-tinted visions of one day being a domestic goddess, patiently dispensing all that my children need, while maintaining an immaculate home and spending hours in the kitchen as I prepare dinners that would make Nigella Lawson proud.

Nope. I know that's not what being a SAHM is about, and that the reality is far more grotty. I'm living it.

However, I never held a desire to spend a large chunk of time at home, raising kids. I always wanted kids,  but I also have no problem with the concept of the kids being minded by family, or in day care, while I work an enjoyable, fulfilling job and contribute financially. I've never held lofty career ambitions either - I've only ever wanted a job I enjoy, even if it doesn't pay that well.

In the time between having the Faery and Miss Pie, I returned to work. Mostly, it was 2-3 days a week. I was very fortunate to work for a school (one of the few) with a flexible timetable, and one that job-shared. Initially (when the Faery was ten months old) my mother-in-law minded her. Close to her second birthday, when my workload increased and I began working more days, we put the Faery into day care.

In those days, I didn't view myself as a working mother. I'm not sure why, but I think I viewed the label of working mother as belonging to those who had the hard slog of working full-time. I had it easier than that... but I definitely wasn't a SAHM either.

I loved having 2-3 days a week with the Faery. For me, it was the perfect mix. Some days for the park and mothers group picnics, and other days for adult interaction and using my brain more.

I planned to do it similarly when I started (unpaid) maternity leave with Miss Pie: a year or so at home, then off to day care, while I work part-time.

Then J was offered - for the second time - this job in Los Angeles. We decided to accept. Not long after making that decision, just in case we'd had any doubts, the (Japanese-owned) school I'd been working at went bankrupt and closed down... just weeks after Miss Pie was born.

My plans for returning to my old workplace eventually? Down the gurgler.

Yet here I am now, dragging my heels about becoming gainfully employed. In my defence, it's been a little complicated - not being able to legally work when we first arrived, applying for social security numbers, work permits... accidentally leaving behind my entire CV and proof of qualifications in an unknown box in storage in Sydney (yeah, smart move, huh?).

And I'm still to admit that I'm a SAHM. That title weighs heavily around my neck, and one that I suppose I don't feel I deserve. That if I admit it, then I have to start doing a better job of that designated title.

But labels or no labels, I know one thing. I'm incredibly grateful that - unlike so many mothers - it's not a necessity for me to work. My little family's survival does not depend on it. The extra dollars would be more than welcome, and I'm sure my self-esteen would be better for it, but I've been incredibly lucky that we've been able to get by on one income - that in itself hasn't been easy, but it hasn't been impossible.

For now, just humour me with this first world problem of mine. I'll get over myself... eventually.

Malibu

Having a swimming pool in our apartment complex has made us rather lazy when it comes to seeking out the beach. That, and the fact that I have issues with sand. Knowing we have to drive through about an hour of LA's finest traffic to hit the coast doesn't help, either.

Hailing from the east coast of Australia, it's not like beaches are novel to me. Our beaches are pretty spectacular - meaning even though I'm not really one for the beach, my standards are high nonetheless. I've been spoilt over the years.

Over the weekend, I surprised myself by suggesting we go for a drive, have a little adventure, and check out one of the beaches in Malibu.

I'm so glad we did. The weather was glorious, and we arrived nice and early before the serious stress of finding somewhere to park would have been an issue. Within ten minutes of arrival, we spotted dolphins out for a swim. That alone is hard to beat.

The water was still wintery cold, but that didn't stop the Faery (and eventually, Miss Pie) from running in and out of the pint-sized dumping waves... and for some reason, the sand didn't seem to bother me as much as usual. A sign, perhaps, that we should do this more often.

Happily, I had a great excuse to get serious with my 'real' camera again. That hasn't been the case much this year (I'm sure my camera is jealous of my iPhone) and is something I need to work on. I couldn't be happier with the shots I took yesterday.

At any rate, I have a feeling that the (northern) summer of 2012 is going to be a fantastic one.

Belly dancer

Source: naturesfreak.tumblr.com via Christal Moore on Pinterest

Long before the English-speaking world had even heard of Shakira, I writhed my way through a six-week belly dance class.

I loved every moment of it.

I was in my final year at university, and had seen an advertisement for the classes - taught by one of the Women's Studies teachers - pinned to a noticeboard. As I was already in love with the rhythmic sounds of Middle Eastern and Indian music, I signed up the first chance I had.

The classes were held in the early evening, mid-week. The venue was a large room in a ninety-year-old building on campus. The ceilings were high with exposed wooden beams, and the leadlight windows were set in warm sandstone. A large Oriental rug on the floor completed the historical ambience. Each week, I felt in awe as soon as I walked in - but not intimidated.

The students were a mixed bag of body types. Some possessed generously soft rolls, and others were androgynous and angular. Back in those days, with my short hair, pierced nose and widening hips, I was somewhere in the middle.

However, it didn't matter what we looked like. All that mattered was we moved to the rhythm. We swayed and we undulated. We shimmied and shook. We felt free.

Six weeks flew, and the final class took place at the end of a hot, airless Sydney day. When the thunder began to roll over the building, promising relief from the heat, the music's volume needed increasing. As the fat rain drops blew in through the open window, relief was found. As a lover of storms, that night is firmly etched in my mind.

Those classes were probably one of the first true experiences of being with 'the sisterhood' that I've had. It was also great to gain insight into the history and customs of women in Egypt (the style of belly dance we were taught).

Once the classes were finished, I told myself I'd perform for fun. Turns out, that 'fun' only ever seemed to happen when large amounts of alcohol had been imbibed at parties. Although I don't remember, I've been assured that I have put on a show here and there.

I do know that to this day, the moves I learnt in that class have quietly infiltrated my own way of dancing. A little jiggle here, a little hip sway there. A twirl of the wrist, held high in the air - I'm told that became a trademark move of mine during my days of clubbing in London... also a long time ago.

*  *  *

Last week, I thought I'd try out a Bollywood Fusion class at my local gym. The memories of my belly dancing days resurfaced, and I grew excited at the thought of learning some new dance moves. When I arrived, I was more than disappointed to discover the class had been cancelled, and replaced by a Zumba class. Oh well, I thought, might as well give that a try.

Yeah, well... turns out Zumba is a lot harder to fall into a natural flow with the music. I was the least coordinated woman in that room, pretty sure about that. The stout Armenian grandmothers next to me seemed to keep up more easily than I did. However, I managed to have a laugh and reminded myself that I was burning a shite load of calories... so all was good. I may even take that class again one day - who knows?

*  *  *

This post was inspired by MamaKat's writing prompt:

Tell the story of learning a new talent or hobby that you only pursued briefly.

Mama's Losin' It

*  *  *

Seeing as we're on the topic of bellies, my friend Angie - The Little Mumma - has recently had the most amazing pregnancy photos taken. They're not your average belly shots, people. They are slickly surreal, and she rocked the artiness of it, 150%. Little Mumma? Hot Mumma. If you want a peek, you can see the photos here. 

Somewhere over the rainbow

The serious lack of rain in Los Angeles means that seeing a rainbow is a pretty big deal. A real, bona-fide rainbow - not one that's been conjured up on a movie set somewhere.

On my way to pick up J from work yesterday, I emerged from our underground parking to be greeted by this happy sight.

It took both girls and I completely by surprise, because when we'd walked out our apartment door, there had been no rain, nor any hint of sunshine about to burst through. I guess a lot can happen in the time it takes to wrangle two small kids out the door, into a lift, down two levels, across to the car, and into their car seats.

As we began the ascent up the driveway from the carpark, large fat raindrops pelted the car. I put on the windscreen wipers, stopped to turn into the street, looked a little to my left... and WOW.

My phone was conveniently within reach, so I became that annoying driver (I normally detest) idling in the shared driveway, as I took a quick snap.

The Faery just about wet her pants with excitement - because, you know, when you're a five-year-old girl, rainbows, fairies and unicorns are what makes the world go round. (Let's face it, if I had a dollar for every rainbow she's ever drawn, we'd be filthy rich.)

Breathlessly, she exclaimed this was "the first real live rainbow" she'd ever seen.

Not exactly true - she'd seen her share when she was younger, in Sydney, but it seems so long ago in her short life that she doesn't remember. When you're five, now is what counts, right?

Although, in a way, she was right. I'm pretty sure that in our almost-two years living here, this is the first proper rainbow we've seen. I've never taken rainbows for granted (who does?) but like anything that's rare, their currency holds even more value to me these days.

Don't we all secretly hope to find that pot of gold one day?