Last day of the holidays

It's the last day of the holidays. Already my thoughts have moved from lazy, slow mornings and meandering afternoons to an overflowing To Do list and a slew of deadlines.

It's the last day of the holidays. We are baking a cake. An oozy, gooey, chocolate cake. The boys are supposed to be helping me - which means they are watching Batman DVDs and emerging infrequently to lick the bowls and spoons.

It's the last day of the holidays. The school shoes have been tried on - and found wanting. Sigh. Little boys have feet with a habit of growing bigger and bigger. Judging by the size of my sock-matching pile, little boys also have about 100 feet each. I am living with a family of centipedes.

It's the last day of the holidays. Part of me can't wait to see them head back to school. Part of me is missing them already.

It's the last day of the holidays. I wonder what the next term will bring.

Is it the last day of the holidays at your place? Are you excited or ambivalent?

Facing the music in the school holidays

It's the first day of the school holidays and, as I sit here trying to write an article about infant reflux, Mr6 is singing pop songs on the pretend microphone his kindy teachers gave him as a prize last year (because he really needs a louder voice) and Mr9 is practising the piano. Phantom of the Opera. Over and over and over again.

Let's just say my thoughts aren't flowing clearly.

I should be rejoicing, really. Mr9 will sit down and practise the piano here and there all day. Ten minutes of scales. Wander away. Five minutes of trying to work out how to play the Ninjago theme by ear. Play Lego. Three minutes picking out the Transformers theme melody. Mooch off in search of food.

There is no consistent 30 minutes of practice a day. He wedges scales in when he feels like it (and not as often as his teacher would like it). But he floats and faffs and is happy. I think the key is that last word. At this stage of his 'music career', I'm just happy that he wants to keep going. He's been 'doing' piano for about 18 months now, following on from about 18 months of guitar lessons. He reads music, plays in the school band and plays Phantom of the Opera really, really well (over and over and over again).

He doesn't want to do a piano exam, despite his teacher's best efforts to persuade him. And I'm okay with that.

It's not very Tiger Mother of me, but I just want him to learn to play.

Hopefully, one day very soon, he'll move on to something that is not Phantom of the Opera.

Do your kids do music lessons? Do they have a set routine for practice?

So, I have this new newsletter

You might notice something new about the Fibro blog today - see that fresh, pretty little box over there to the right? It's the sign-up for my new monthly newsletter.

Designed by Kelly Exeter at Swish Design, it's a stylish little one-pager, which will feature the most popular Fibro posts of the month, book news, writing tips, exclusive extra content, giveaways and some of my favourite bits and pieces from around the internet. Writing, reading, WAHM and whimsy.

Why do a newsletter? I'm glad you asked, as this is a question I have asked myself several times over the past year or so. I have been galvanised into action by the demise of Google Reader, the generally more-sporadic nature of my posts here at the Fibro, and the fact that I have so many different projects on the go at present.

I'm working on my first newsletter right now, and I'm planning to send them out on the 15th of each month. If you'd like to have me land in your inbox once a month, pop your email address in the sign-up box and I'll get my parachute ready.

Tally ho!

What do you like to see in a newsletter? What do you hate? I promise to take all comments on board!

[image: Stolen from Maxabella]

There's always time for a cuddle

The Fibro household is a little overwrought at present. Mr6 has a cold and is snoring and grinding and snuffling his way through every night, waking up tired every morning. Mr9 is, well, nine going on 14 and has decided that the best way to assert his new independence is with an attitude the size of Australia. A bad attitude. And I am working late every night, eyes squinting against the glare of my computer, writing, editing, and trying to think.

Mornings are no fun round here at the moment.

This morning as I was trying to get Mr6's collar straight and shoelaces re-tied, with Mr9 shrieking away in the background about how school is 'bum', and a rising level of stress, Mr6 grabbed at me, toppling me over.

"What are you doing?" I shouted. "Can't you see I'm trying to get us out the door?"

"I just wanted a cuddle," he said, bottom lip quivering. "I need a cuddle."

"We don't have time for a cuddle," I said, through clenched teeth, attacking the laces once again.

"Mum," he said, seriously, putting his little arms around me, "there's always time for a cuddle."

So we stopped, and snuggled, and were five minutes late for school. The world did not end, but the day started out on an infinitely better note.

He's right. There is always time for a cuddle.

Are you a screaming banshee in the morning like I am?

The view from my office

Last time I wrote a post about where I write, I was still living in the Fibro. I had a cosy little office, looking out over the back deck and the neighbour's fence. Now that I'm living in the Old Girl, this is the view from my office.

Do I feel lucky?

Yes, I do.

My desk is still a tip, with 1000-or-so items in the To Be Filed folder, but I can look out the french doors on a warm Autumn day and forget about it all.

Do I daydream?

Yes, I do.

Where do you write?

Starting Out #10: How to make the time to write

One question I am asked more often than any other, more than 'do I need an agent?', more than 'should I self-publish?', more than 'where do you get your ideas?', is 'how do you find the time to write?'. Regular visitors to the Fibro will know that I don't believe anyone 'finds' time to write a novel - you have to make time. But I also know that that can be easier said than done - and I am often heard to lament the fact that Ernest Hemingway probably didn't have to take his kids to swimming lessons.

Today's Starting Out post is written by Ros Baxter, author of Sister Pact (Harper Collins, 2012, coauthored with her sister Ali Ahearn) and Fish Out of Water (Escape, 1 April 2013), business consultant to government and private sector, teacher of professional writing skills, wife to Blair and mother to four "small but very opinionated children". (Phew. Are you tired yet?) If anyone is qualified to share some secrets on how to make time to write novels, it's Ros!


Keeping the muse in the groove when writing to a schedule

I once read that Capote would write lying casually on a couch (probably a chaise lounge), with a glass of sherry in one hand and a pencil in another. TS Elliot had a hideaway above Chatto & Windus, a publishing house on St Martin’s Lane. Edgar Allen Poe could only write in black; Mark Twain in white.

Me? I have no such luxury. I write at swimming lessons, while making dinner and sometimes on the loo. I write in aprons, dressing gowns and (just sometimes) smeared in other people’s dinner. I always write when the baby sleeps and the kids are at school. But sometimes he wakes up at the critical moment, and then he bounces on my knee sucking an arrowroot biscuit while I write, recalling teenage dreams of a narrow apartment in Paris, a classic old typewriter, and a skinny boy with a beret calling me cherie. Sometimes I miss him, that Parisian fantasy boy, but most of the time I’m grateful for my sunburned Australian husband who teaches me how to use Twitter and helps the kids with their homework.

I’m not unusual. Most of the writers I know multi-task to a punishing degree. They have lives – families, mortgages, responsibilities, often other jobs as well. So how do they do it?

As my sister, the greatest multi-tasker of them all, would say: It ain’t rocket surgery. My mother, The Adage Queen, had a good one, too: You want something done? Give it to a busy person. But none of that is terribly practical, so I thought I’d share a few tips, distilled from experience and the shared wisdom of other generous writers I am lucky to call friends.

1. Become a voyeur. Not all the writing happens when you’re plugged in. Watch for the raw material. The rough shard that becomes the polished diamond. The stolen glance between the cashiers at Big W; the way the principal’s throat bobs when she gets nervous at the P&C meetings; the cynical way that operator says “hold please”. It’s all fair game. Call it being a busybody. Call it plagiarism. I call it research.

2. Staple a notebook to your arse. You won’t remember that raw material if you don’t jot it down (or maybe you will, but I definitely won’t).

3. Set goals. Get to know how fast (or slow) you write and sketch a trajectory for your project. It lends momentum to what is essentially an exercise in self-motivation.

4. Make time to write every day. The muse is a jealous mistress. She needs your time, or she’s apt to feel neglected. And don’t give me that stuff about quality time, we’re not on Dr Phil here. She just wants you in place, ready to channel her. She’s egocentric like that. So find a space; make a regular date with your laptop, desktop, or sherry, chaise lounge and pencil; turn off the phone; and write. The more often you do, the quicker you’ll pick up the thread each time.

5. Set yourself a daily word count. Start easy, then build up. All words are better than no words, and editing can cure a thousand follies. Write. Just write. It helps you feel more like a writer, and less like someone who wishes they were.

6. Not feeling creative? Don’t curse the muse and settle in to watch Oprah. Work on the business instead. Update your social media, edit something, research the mating habits of fish (oops, sorry, there’s my inner mermaid creeping in). Preferably do something mind-numbing. You’ll be surprised how quickly you’ll locate the muse.

7. Finally, be grateful. This one’s a work-in-progress for me. Zen was never my strong suit and it’s easy to feel put-upon when the slings and arrows of the day make you hanker for the luxury of Capote’s lounge. That’s when I try to remember that no- one’s making me do this. And that when I can work really hard on points 4 and 5, it’s easier to remember why I am doing it. Because writing is, as Ken Robinson would say, my element. The thing that makes the time fly. The place that feels right. 

Ros Baxter writes fresh, funny fiction (you can tell by reading this post, right?). You'll find her on Facebook and Twitter, or you can email her here.

If you liked this Starting Out post, you might also enjoy: Which excuses are holding you back?, You've signed a publishing contract, now what?, and How to build an author platform.

Are you fitting your writing in around family, work and all the ... stuff? How do you make it work?

Little boys and big school

Mr6 is underwhelmed by his first few days of Grade One. I asked him what he did yesterday.

"Ohhhh," he sighed. "First we put our lunchboxes in the tub, then we learned some stuff. Then we coloured in a picture of someone - God, I think. Then we learned some stuff. Then we had recess. Then we learned some stuff. Then we had lunch. Then we learned some stuff. Then we finally got to go home."

"Goodness," said I. "That's a lot of learning."

He sighed again. "Do you know what the worst part is? Every time we learned something, we had to sit down at our desks. We hardly get to move around at all anymore."

The lament of every boy in every classroom in Australia.

"It must be good to be in grade one, though," I said, looking for positives. "You're not the smallest in the school anymore."

Another sigh.

"I thought we'd be bigger," he said. "But those new kindy kids are almost as big as we are. Last year, the grade ones were much bigger than us. How come we're not much bigger than this year's kindy kids?"

Perspective is everything.

How are your kids coping with the new school year?

Mapping my mind, one doodle at a time

You know you're losing the plot when you're reading your own books and learning from them. But that's where I found myself this morning. When I made my decision to 'work smarter, not harder' this year, my next thought was... all well and good, but how?

And then I remembered Kate Sykes. Kate is the co-author of Career Mums, my little blue guide for working mums. We had a great time writing our book, and some very interesting conversations. I particularly remember the discussion we had about 'mind mapping'. "It's really great, Al, you should give it a go," she urged.

Right.

The premise is that you get out the butcher's paper, several different coloured textas and some quiet time. You sit down, put a big circle with 'ME' in the centre, and then use the questions that Kate provides to really hone in on your thoughts and aspirations.

This is very not me.

Kate was adamant that it go into the book, however, because she's seen it work. Hundreds of times. So in it went.

Call me a late-adopter, but I've finally seen the light. With my new goal in mind, and various sub-goals in the 'might like to achieve this year' category, I decided to pull out my textas and actually give it a go.

Kate has provided us with a whole range of questions to answer:

•How would you describe yourself (tired)
•What are you good at (procrastinating with textas)
•What skills have you accumulated to date (Tweeting)

And so on and so forth. While my answers here are flippant, I've done my best to be serious on my actual map. I guess what it's given me is an overview of where I'm at and where I'd like to be. I've included a little section on projects I'd like to complete (stay tuned), people I admire and why, where I want to be in January 2014. (Note I use the word 'want' there, not 'like' - part of my new ethos to be more upfront about what I can do.) It also contains some of my best doodling work. Possibly ever.

It's not a roadmap by any means. But it's a starting point.

Because writing things down makes them real. Everybody knows that.

If you'd like to map your own mind, you can buy Career Mums here to help.

Have you ever tried mind mapping or any other tools to help you work out what you're doing? Did it work?

You're only as fast as your slowest team member

Since our move to The Old Girl, the boys and I have been walking to school every morning. Or rather, it began with us all walking, but now they ride their bikes while I run along behind, carrying Mr5's bag like a Sherpa (because he can't seem to ride with his eyes open and balance a bag at the same time), shouting 'don't forget to check the driveways' at regular intervals.

The first time we ventured out onto the streets, after months (and years in some cases) of practising at the showground, on bike paths and in the driveways, they were both very cautious. Mr5 wouldn't leave my side. Mr8 put on some Big Brother Bravado and ventured ahead, but he was quick to stop when I shouted and would actually stop at every driveway, look right and left, and then ride on.

Now, they waiting at the end of the drive by the time I lock the back door. By the time I get to the end of the drive, they are down at the first corner - where they must wait until I arrive, puffing, to escort them across the street.

As soon as they hit footpath again, they're off, 'check the driveways' ringing in their ears, a quick glance sufficing as they sail past each house front. They are at the next corner, waiting patiently, by the time I get past the first property.

And so we do this dance all the way to school. Race off at 100 miles an hour. Stop, wait for mum. Race off at 100 miles an hour. Stop, wait for mum.

"You must be getting to school much quicker now that they're riding," said The Builder to me over dinner one night.

We all looked at each other.

"We can only go as fast as Mum," said Mr8.

We all looked at each other.

"Which is fast enough," said Mr5, patting my hand.

I wonder if Tenzing Norgay had this problem.

At least he didn't have driveways to contend with on Mt Everest.

[image: from here]

Will you stay with me forever?

Mr5 is afraid of the dark. He's never been afraid before, so I can only assume that it is because the dark is now unfamiliar. New house, new spaces. The rambling rooms of The Old Girl, so quirky and beautiful during the day, become echoing maws of blackness after dark.

Despite the night lights left on and the careful explanation of just where Mum and Dad will be once he goes to bed, and when, and what time we will go to bed ourselves, he is worried. He curls up in his bed, making himself as small as possible, tiny voice quavering as he calls out "Mum. MUM! Where are you?" Why I'm right here in the kitchen washing up son, right where I said I'd be three minutes ago.

Last night we had a little chat about it. I asked him what he was worried about.

"People might break in," he said. "Like the bird did." Yesterday we came home after school to discover a large bird had taken up residence in the sunroom. I had no idea how it had got in or how long it had been there. In a panic, I rang my friend K who, I reasoned, had chickens so would know what to do.

"Er, open a window?" she suggested. All windows are screened.

"Er, um,... wait til The Builder gets home," she recommended.

I rang The Builder. Who did not seem to understand the emergency at hand. "I'll be home in half an hour," he said. "Open the front door."

To do so, I had to sneak past the bird. With the boys eyes upon me, and knowing that to show fear would simply freak them out, I dashed down the sunroom and flung the door open. Then Mr5 and I sat on the front verandah, doing some bird spying, talking in very quiet voices (that is, not very quiet at all in Mr5's case) until the bird strolled out the door.

All of this had clearly had an impact on him.

"The bird didn't break in," I said. "Mummy left the door open by mistake. And he's gone now, and all the doors are locked."

He nodded. He took a deep breath. "I'm worried you'll leave me," he admitted. Silence. Leave him? Me who stayed home and worked around him, who is with him nearly every minute of his waking life, beyond his time at school?

"I would never leave you," I said. "I love you. Do you think I would creep away in the middle of the night?"

He nodded, big blue eyes welling up.

"Never," I said. And meant it.

"Does that mean you'll stay with me forever?" he asked.

Visions of him lolling on the couch at 35, scratching his hairy stomach and shooting rubbish-bin two-pointers with beer cans flash through my mind.

"Forever," I say. Knowing that one day he will forget this conversation and leave to step into his own life, while I won't forget it and will stay, waiting for him to visit.

He sighed happily, gave me a kiss and rolled over and went to sleep.

I stayed awake a long time last night.

[image from here]

In sport as in life, take no hostages...

The boys have been caught up in the sporting frenzy engulfing the world. They are keenly awaiting the Olympics, endure the highlights of the Tour de France (faking interest in my enthusiastic descriptions of the psychological warfare of the peloton), and watched the Wimbledon stories on the news with great interest.

Mr5, in particular, is taken with tennis. To the point, where he insisted I download the 'Stick Tennis' app so that he could "practise". No amount of explanation that swiping your finger on an iPhone screen is not the same as actually playing the game will convince him that he is not Roger Federer.

Despite his somewhat flimsy grasp of the rules.

"Mum, do they have hostages in tennis?" he asked earlier this week, busily swiping away at the screen.

"Hostages???" I spluttered, wondering if he's been taking in a bit too much of the news.

"Yes, hostages," he said, serene in his swiping.

Pause.

"Like in soccer," he continued.

I spluttered again, but this time with laughter. I knew he didn't like his time on the sidelines as a substitute at soccer on Saturday morning, but I had no idea it was having this effect on him!

[image: from here]

To the moon... and back.

Mr8 has informed me that he is going to the moon. Not anytime soon, you understand. But one day.  He has it all planned. He will go to uni, he will become an astronaut, he will walk where Neil Armstrong first walked (conspiracy theories aside).

The boy who will not go to the school canteen by himself is going to the moon.

"Won't you miss me?" I ask, looking for a few last drops of the Mum worship that he had in spades right up until about six months ago.

"Sure," he says, flicking his Margaret Pomeranz fringe out of his eyes (note to self: haircuts need to be scheduled more often than every school holidays). "But we can Skype."

Of course.

"Or," he adds, coming over for a quick hug allowing me to get a little hair ruffle in, "I'll send you a postcard."

Having a blast. Wish you were here.

So what exactly would you write on a postcard from the moon?

[Image: from here]

About that moving house thing

The final week is upon us. By the end of it, Fam Fibro will have upped sticks and resettled elsewhere. I underestimated just how unsettling this would be from a writing perspective. Somehow, I thought, I would manage to produce whimsical little blog posts about life whilst walls of cardboard boxes built up around me.

I was wrong.

I cannot think about anything but boxes. Packing boxes. Moving boxes. Unpacking boxes.

So I'm giving up on pretending to be a blogger this week. Instead I will be a wannabe-blogger. I will compose pithy posts in my head as I wrap my glassware in newspaper. I will apply SEO to my headlines as I cull the pantry. I will imagine perfect images as I dust down the blinds and sweep away cobwebs (not that I ever had any).

And I will be back next week with the real thing.

In the meantime, I'll be tweeting and writing fascinating status updates on my Facebook page. Oh, and a word about Facebook - if we're friends via the Fibro Facebook page, I need to let you know that I won't be updating that page after today. If you'd like to stay in touch on Facebook, please visit me at my official Allison Tait page. It's very... officially unofficial.

Thank you so much for sharing my years at the Fibro with me. I'm really happy that I get to take its spirit to my new home.

10 things I learned this week

I am having a bit of trouble blogging at present. Every single sentence I begin has the words 'packing boxes' in it. Which, I have to tell you, is about as riveting to read about as it is to actually do. So I'm going to try something a bit different. A simple list of things I learned this week. Feel free to add your own in the comments below.

1. Sadly, it is not a shock when the husband is arrested.

2. Little boys carry big thoughts. Mr5 is currently walking around the Fibro taking photos of rooms on his Dad's iPhone. So he 'won't forget'.

3. Uranus rotates totally on its side. Its atmosphere is made up of hydrogen, helium and methane. Mr8 could tell you more, but I'd probably have to stop him somewhere around about the point at which your eyes glazed over.

4. I know where Keith Urban lives. Doesn't that sound crazy stalker.

5. Mr5 knows all the words to 'Someone like You' by Adele. In the sense that we all know 'all the words' to anything - he fills in the bits he doesn't know by making very emotive, vaguely musical sounds, sliding in a consonant when he remembers one.

6. Chanel No 5 doesn't smell as lovely when it is sprayed around the bathroom by an eight-year-old boy making 'potions'.

7. I really, really, really don't want Lance Armstrong to be guilty. Sigh.

8. Those romance novel manuscripts that I have, stuffed in the back of my filing cabinet, may not be as dead as I thought.

9. Even Telstra has good days. My iPhone, which has never worked properly, will be replaced next week with a shiny new one. One that works. Hopefully.

10. The paid work comes first. Always. So if I'm a little bit sporadic over the next few weeks, blame it on a major time squeeze. That, and packing boxes.

Always with the packing boxes.

What did you learn this week?*

*I may or may not have stolen this idea from Maxabella. I think she used to do it and now she doesn't, but maybe I got that wrong. Either way, I hope that you (and she) will forgive me.


[image: designinspiration]

Packing boxes, packing bags

I feel as though I've been moving house since about 1974. The settlement has been long, which means that the packing can be done in dribs and drabs and dribs and drobs (technically, no such thing, but you get where I'm going with this).

Earlier this week, The Builder packed the clocks. To find out what time it is, it's a matter of checking the microwave or the computer. Or a phone. Or something. The boys and I have been late for school every day since the clocks disappeared into cardboard. I mentioned something to The Builder along the lines that it is possible to be too efficient.

The great cull continues. When we started this process we decided not to have a garage sale because 'we didn't have enough stuff'. Famous last words. We could have held a garage sale for the past three weekends and still had Wiggles DVDs left over. On that subject, does anyone want a bread-making machine? Rarely used (are they ever?). Pick up only.

In the meantime, I'm also packing bags. Off to the Big Smoke to 'do coffee' and meet some people. I have a new book to read because I'll be spending the better part of my day on the train, getting from Point A to Point Z and then back to Point B. I don't really mind. It's rare to get uninterrupted reading time these days.

Two more weeks and the Big Pack will be over. Then shall begin the season of the Great Unpack. Which, frankly, doesn't bear thinking about.

[image: Bonnie Branson]

One of those mornings

This morning, as Mr8 and I were having our daily fight about putting on his uniform and finding his shoes, the phone rang. It was 8.15am. The lunches were half made. The teeth were unbrushed. My pyjamas were still firmly in place.

"Hello?" I said, out of breath from wrestling over a teddy bear and in no mood for chatting.

"Er, hello, it's Mr B from the school. We're ready to go on our excursion and we were just wondering if Joseph was on his way."

"Oh, but, er..." I spluttered. "The note said 9.30am."

"Oh no," he said, cheerfully. "That's 9.30 in [another town]. We really need to leave now to make it in time."

Silence.

"We'll be there in five minutes," I said, slamming down the phone and hitting the panic button.

Three minutes later, Mr8 was in the car, uniform on, hair brushed, teeth clean, lunch in place, bag packed. Mr5 sat beside him, half a uniform on, hair unbrushed, teeth uncleaned, lunch on the kitchen bench, no bag. I'd managed to put on a pair of tracksuit pants, and thongs, a t-shirt and sunglasses. We screeched out of the drive, screeched up the road, screeched to a halt two minutes later.

He made it.

At which point, Mr5 and I looked at each other, then slowly turned the car around to drive home and finish getting dressed.

Not a great way to start the day. But now that I know Mr8 can get ready in five minutes, our mornings are going to be very different.

Have you had one of those mornings lately?

[image: LisaStorms]

Avoiding the cracks

Mr5 and I enjoyed a leisurely walk home today, at the cigarette-end of the afternoon, as the sun dipped and the traffic stream swelled with workers desperate to get home. We strolled along, me on foot, him on his scooter, little legs pumping as he showed off his prowess.

"Look Mum! I can stop!"

Hallelujah.

Somewhere around the abandoned petrol station, where the concrete is smooth and expansive, I decided I'd have a go. He handed over the wheels reluctantly. I bent almost double to grip the handlebars, one foot taking up almost the entire deck of the scooter. You don't realise how low to the ground kids actually are until you attempt this kind of thing...

One push and I was off.

All went well. To begin with. He ran along beside me, cheering. A second push, and I hit the footpath. A third push and I... hit a crack and almost went over the handlebars on my head.

"Whoops*!" I said.

"Mum," he said, racing over the pat my arm. "You have to avoid the cracks. If they go up and down, they're okay but when they go side-to-side, you can't just ride into them like that."

I handed back the scooter, laughing. He proceeded to lecture me, in minute detail, about the various methods of tackling cracks in the footpath. (I think he's spent too much time with his Dad...) Apparently, one should slow down as one approaches, allowing one to dip in and out of the crack without actually colliding with the crack. Or some such.

As he settled back on the scooter and we went on our merry way, he looked up at me from under his straight blonde fringe and smiled. "It was a good try, Mum," he said. "A bit more practice and you'll be as good as me."

He zoomed off. A minute later, he zoomed back, riding rings around me.

"Actually," he said. "I think it would help if you were a bit smaller."

*May or may not be edited for G rating

In praise of the singlet

When I was a kid, I hated singlets. Hated. Singlets. Particularly the long-sleeved variety known as 'spencers'. Even the word makes my flesh crawl.

Now that I am a parent, however, I am the Queen of Singlets. You might even call me the Mad Queen of Singlets, so obsessed am I with ensuring that my boys are wearing one at all times.

If it's cold, they give you that handy little extra layer. If it's warm, they will wick away sweat or provide a handy extra layer should you wish to remove your shirt and - voila! There you are - cool, comfortable and not walking around topless*.

My love of singlets began when I was pregnant. They were the only safely unisex thing I could buy, so I bought them by the container-load. Seriously, I had so many singlets that neither Maxabella nor Multiple Mum had to purchase a single one, sized 0000 to 2, for years. They were just so... cute. And white. And fresh. And innocent.

Seriously, is anything sweeter than a baby in a nappy and a clean white singlet? No. Thought not.

Anyway, I am ridiculed for my singlet obsession. My children are the only children in the extended family still wearing one every day. Now they come in multiple colours (even a classic navy Wife Beater or two) and patterns, but I still love the classic white the best. But never, ever long-sleeved.

The boys don't seem to mind. Yet. Every once in a while, when he's feeling rebellious, Mr8 throws the words 'well, I'm not even wearing a singlet' at me. And I laugh. 'You'll be so-o-orry,' I throw back at him, secretly pleased that I've managed to create such a benign point of revolution.

Mostly though, they're happy in their singlets. In fact, if you popped into the Fibro after school any day in summer, you'd probably find them in singlets and undies... and nothing else.

Hmmm. Perhaps it's time to take the focus off singlets and address the issue of pants. Before I run into real problems.

Is yours a singlet household?

This post was inspired by Maxabella, who took the time to throw slings and arrows at my singlets in her post yesterday.

*Note to male population, no-one really wants to see your pecs or your tatts or your beer gut, so please put it/them away.

[image: where else but Bonds?]

Mrs Fibro's Guide to Etiquette: Pyjamas

With the nights drawing in and temperature cooling down, I thought it was time to address the etiquette of pyjamas. Specifically, what time to get into them, and what time to get out of them.

In many ways, I am not the best person to broach this particular subject. My views on pyjamas as perfectly suitable daywear are widely known and strongly held. But not many seem to adhere to my notion of pyjamas as the perfect Leisure Wear, superior in so many ways to any garment involving the use of velour or Lycra... Not that I'm ready to give up that war just yet. I shall live to fight another day.

In the meantime, however, I'm looking for suggestions. I found myself sliding into my pyjamas at 5pm today. Having worked hard all day, even slipping in a visit to the RTA for a licence renewal (it's terrible, thank you), and then ferrying children to activities and outings, I found the lure of the flannel too strong to resist. As I did up the pink buttons on my brown-and-pink spotted two-piece, working it back with a lovely pair of dazzling white sports socks, I found myself wondering, briefly, 'is it too early?'.

But no, I reasoned. My day was done. Visitors were unlikely. It was getting dark(ish) outside. There was just me, the boys, a casserole for dinner. Who would know? (Except you guys, of course...)

A small part of me considered the fact that I would die of embarrassment if a friend were to drop in unexpectedly. Much as I'd died of embarrassment when a lovely bloke I know managed to surprise me still in my pyjamas at 1pm one day. In my defense, it was the school holidays and I was trying to work and entertain children at the same time. It would have been okay... had I managed to clean my teeth at some stage. (Are you dying with me?)

Looking at that record, I am getting very close to wearing my pyjamas 24/7, am I not? It's a good thing I have school drop-offs to consider.

What's the rule at your place? Is it ever too early for pyjamas? Or too late, for that matter?

[image: brownbutton.blogspot.com]

I'm linking up with Glowless for her last-ever round of Flog Yo' Blog Friday. Join in!

Don't put off until tomorrow...

I have been lying on my sofa, thinking about blogging, for the past three hours.

"Must write a post," my mind said, over and over.

"Ah, but I'm so comfortable," my body whispered back, snuggling its left buttock a little more deeply into the cushion.

"Must write a post," my mind reiterated, sounding a little snippy. "I need to get back into the habit."

"Ah, but this Beaconsfield thing is more interesting than we thought it was going to be," my eyes responded, refusing to admit that knowing the ending kind of spoiled the drama.

"Must write a post," my mind shouted, over and over. "You'll forget how to blog."

"Ah, but there's always tomorrow," my toes replied, curling with delight at the thought of a clear day to tackle my work after I waved the boys off to school.

"Oh, bloody hell," my mind said, resignation in every tone. "If you must."

I think it was the resignation that did it. I got up. I walked to my desk. I wrote a list of all the things I needed to do tomorrow.

"Be a good idea to cross one thing off that list right now," my mind whispered, sounding all hopeful.

"Oh, bloody hell, all right," my body said, slumping down in my office chair with a huff.

And so it was done.

Never put off til tomorrow what your mind reckons you should do tonight. For that way, insomnia lies.

[image: from frayedattheedges]