Being Perfect

Yesterday I was thinking that I really should make more effort to obtain some dance work.  Then I thought, no I really should be making time to use my artistic voice and network properly amongst other professionals in the arts.  Then I tripped over some stuff on the floor and made amends to keep the house more oganised so that we can actually find things in cupboards and have clean clothes and dishes.

I then wandered out to my office and looked at the disaster of materials which had been thrown in there when it had started raining.  Must clean out office.

I was also thinking that I should really be looking in my cookbooks for good ideas for family meals, and then go to the two or three shops needed to buy the ingredients (all locally-produced, organically grown, super-expensive of course).  I was then berrating myself for not spending enough time reading and writing with Henry.  Of course Rufus needs me to do some playing with him as well.  There goes poor old Jonty crawling around the house, stuffing coal into his mouth, dribbling and crying when he accidently closes another door on himself.

Need to make up three classes for Thursday night - what music can I use for 13 year olds?  Need to send CV to Chunky Moves for possible teaching job there.  God - I am going to UK in just under two months - supposedly to offer a fantastically inspiring weekend dance workshop.  On a farm.  Need to make sure that is in the bag within next couple of weeks.

Must make more of an effort to contact friends in Australia.  Have not even seen half of them yet.  Need to email UK friends, just in case they have forgotten me.  Need to make more of an effort to remember birthdays. The Accountant's was on Sunday.  He spent it jet-lagged, hungover, hot and bundled out of the house to attend Rufus' Kindergarten welcome party at the not-so-shady park in 35 degree heat.  And I made everyone walk.  Must make more of an effort to not be so bloody bossy.

Must make an effort to be more friendly to other school and kindergarten Mums.  Even though it is hurting my head trying to remember all of their names, plus their childrens, and husbands. And pets!  We are definitely the most ramshackle family living in this area, no doubt about it.  I suppose a nice way of putting it would be "bohemian".  But more chaotic.  Definitely not perfect.

Retail Therapy

Been shoppin' down the high steet luv.  Needed a few trinkets for the family.  Asked a mother at school at drop off time where to go: "Doncaster Shopping Centre".  A mall?  No thank you.  Convienent yes.  Soul destroying and boring - very.  So tripped around Camberwell this morning and actually found a few good things, as well as some bargains.  Nothing very exciting pour moi, except for bras and undies.

Cost Centres 1, 2 and 3 though got lots of new clothes.  Would be much simpler shopping for a baby girl than boys.  It is very hard to buy nice boy clothes which are cute and are design and style savvy.  Mostly it is TRUCKS and DINOSAURS and "Yo, Yo Cool Dude Monster".  They may as well write "Little M***** F******" on the poor darlings t-shirts and be done with!  These childrens designers do not seem to understand that we do not want a nine month old baby looking like a fifteen year old. Would be nice if they were children for five minutes.  But in cool clothes.  If I could be at all bothered, I would start up a shop myself.

Dance classes went very well last night.  Everyone had a good time and I absolutely loved being in the studio again.  Turns out getting back into teaching dance is like riding a bike (as long as you don't fall off, forget your sequences, mess up the counts, strain your hamstring and limp out like a soggy potato....).

PS. Don't bother commenting on how many asteriks are meant to be in the space above, it is just an example of how it might be.  I know my curses off by heart. I swear it.

Vermin!

Anyone who knows me, knows that I have a morbid fear of mice and rats.  Well we had one in our garden!  It died and had to call our gardener to come and remove it this morning as The Accountant is off Accounting in India.  Yuk.  Can you imagine anything worse? Maybe stonewash skinny jeans and a matching jacket - but apart from that I can barely eat outside thinking of what might be lurking in the bushes.

Started making up my two classes for tomorrow evening.  Used to do that in my old office with a one metre by one metre space, children getting in the way, stirring a pot of something now and then, and probably texting and emailing at the same time.  But yesterday I needed breathing space and, God forbid, had to actually concentrate.

 So I found all my old writing journals I used to keep my dance notes in, and had a good look at all the stuff I had done.  I have created so much movement over the past few years, it was incredible reading it all back.  I even remember teaching the actual sequences and exercises and whether it was winter or summer, at college or at good ol' EOCC.  Dancers will probably recognise my highly technical jargon - "big monster hand comes over head" or "butterfly arms quiver then turn" or "demented elbow move into caveman on floor".  Good times.

I wonder what these poor innocents will make of all this when they meet me tomorrow.  I had better watch my language and my playlist.  Will not be able to play that certain Lily Allen song (f*** loads of diamonds), or Kayne West (too many niggers and bitches) or even that lovely song be Cee Lo Green.  The dirty version.  God it is such hard work being nice.

Dance Job No. 1

Got a job. Probably going to turn it down.  Interfers with the weekly line-up of activities for the family as it is on a Thursday night and it will be a case of picking Henry up from Karate at 6:30pm, hauling ass back home, running out the door and coming into the dance studio hair messed-up, puffing like a steam train and generally not looking like calm dancer ready to confidently move into teaching mode.  Also they are teenagers so they will have no sympathy whatsoever.

But will do it for the next couple of weeks as have Grandmother No. 1 staying with me and she is a big help and can be at home with Cost Centres No. 2 and 3 whilst I deliver Henry to door.  The lady who runs the dance school is lovely though, very supportive and also on to a good thing with her own studios in a little strip shopping centre.  Think of me on the Cowley Road with two studios to myself - except make that Didcot (no offence V & D!).

Clothes

Cost Centre No. 2 and I went shopping yesterday.  We didn't mean to, we just literally fell into the shop. (I mean how hard is it to open a door for a struggling mother, with buggy and four year old, with a door that could be from Hogwart's Castle - four shop assistants under 25 and no offer of help.  F*** Off!  Bloody Country Road.)  Anyway we soon showed them.

Rufus and I both bought inappropriate clothing because the pieces were both from the girl's section!  Rufus loved the divine spotty leggings (well they are navy blue so that machos it up a bit) - size 3.  And I bought a gypsy top (painting smock really) for a 12 year old girl.  Well they breed them big in Australia, must be the hormones in the chicken or something.  The top had stars on it.  Why don't they ever make fun clothes for women?  This could be Stella McCartney in her Kate Moss era circa 2010.  It won't be on me of course but I'll accessorise.

The sales girl was practically pouting as she put it through.  "For your daughter?". 
"No for me and him thanks".  You only work in a shop you know, you can drop the attitude.

Chunky Move

It turns out I can still roll all over the floor and lots of other cool stuff as well!  Rolling around on a dusty dance floor, making all sorts of postures, which in the real world would be seen as ridiculous, but in the dance world are called Forth Position On The Floor.  Come to think of it - it is all bloody ridiculous, but lots of fun as well.  I remember they call it Floor Technique.

So finally made it to my first advanced contemporary class at Chunky Move dance studios in the city.  Lovely dance studios.  You could fit five EOCC upstairs halls into this studio.  It has a rather bizarre colour scheme, but nonetheless I soon got over that as I did leg swings, helicopters and shoulder rolls (they are obsessed with the floor in contemporary dance in Australia).  The teacher was ALMOST as funny as me.  But not quite.  Did not quite have my eclectic taste in music (I think it was a U2 remix), but great class, lovely sequences and overall a double-thumbs up.

Has anyone ever had a conversation in a heated indoor pool whilst your children are at swimming lessons?  Must be one of the best examples of multi-tasking for the modern mother.  Whilst holding baby, throwing pool rings and watching that the other two children do not either drown or wander off, I managed to hold quite a meaningful conversation with another Mum-friend from Rufus' ex-kindergarten.  (We are still waiting to see if Rufus gets a place at his old Kindergarten, whilst outwardly flirting with the new one.  Would rather the old one as it is closer to home, thus able to walk easily - but the new one is really great AND there is a very good social committee and champagne is their middle name.....)

Anywho to summarise the week so far - managed to get to class, yoga and maintain good mother-management skills at home.  Have posted little photo on blog in effort to make more of a go of things.  Pathetic I know, but it is a start.

Five Year Plan

The other day whilst I was wearing my apron, bustling around the kitchen making dinner, changing Jonty's nappy (YES I WASHED MY HANDS) and generally multi-tasking, The Accountant leans against the kitchen counter, beer in hand and casually asks "What is your five-year plan?  Where do you see yourself in five years?  What do you think you will be doing? What about your dancing?".  Jesus!  My head was full of curry sauce recipes, devious childcare plans and the fact that we were just about out of laundry liquid.

I thought it might be a trick question, and I was confused anyway. "Marks and Spencer?" I asked hopefully.  By the bemused expression on his face I could see it was the wrong answer.  "No. Where do you see yourself in five years? What will you be doing? We need to talk about this and plan ahead not just coast along!"  The only coasting along I've been doing is running at full pelt with Jonty in pram and boys in front on bikes about to cross at a busy intersection.

I used to be able to write three and five year plans in my sleep for Biserk.  Swing into meetings full of determination and ideas.  Now, everytime I try to envisage some sort of artistic notion, I have three voices demanding my attention elsewhere.  Make that four voices, The Accountant can be a pain in the ass as well.

(Interlude whilst I tell you that during the writing of this blog - Rufus and Jonty were playing blocks nicely together in the family room.  Rufus joined me in the office and I asked him where Jonty was: "Watching the washing go round and round..."  Just as I thought I had better rescue the nine month old baby from being in the house by himself we heard an almighty crash from the laundry - luckily followed by screams from Jonty.  I ran in there to find him pinned to the floor by the ironing board, the iron beside him on the floor.  He wasn't hurt, just startled.  I however, am up for the Worst Mother of the Year Award already.....).

Will come up with some sort of plan for the next few years.  It will definately involve contraception.

It's A Dad's World (Apparently)

Just had a shipment of visitors descend on us for the month of January.  All of them most welcome of course! (They all read this bloody thing.)  The last of the visitors was Grandparents No. 3 (in order of them visiting us - not popularity).  They have gone up to Canberra to rest and probably to get a bit of Grandparent Counselling, if such a thing were to exist.

Another visitor this week was The Cousin's five year old girl Sienna.  Sienna has lots of opinions and, like Henry, is a first born, and like Henry is also ambitious, bossy but lots of mischievous fun.  The children were sitting at the table having a discussion over Second Breakfast (the first not being good enough).  "Dads have jobs and the Mums don't" was one part of the conversation.  I had to put things right.  In came I, wearing rubber gloves and all: "No that's not right.  Your Mum works Sienna."  I appealed to my oldest son "Henry, what does Mama do?".

Henry looked perplexed.  Perhaps he had forgotten how to pronounce Choreographer?  Maybe he didn't know the difference between Dance Artist and Dance Teacher or Professional Dancer.  Finally he spoke "Clean up?".  That just about says it all folks.