Little Miss Moi

Life in Timor-Leste


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And just like that, the nanny quit…

Remember how I said it was nice to have a nanny on board?

Well, things were getting a bit stressful. The Mr had warned me that it might take a while to find a nanny that I really like, and I understand this now.

The Sprog HATED the nanny. I mean, would scream if the nanny tried to help her (e.g. go to the loo, get dressed, bath etc). SCREAM. She also took to saying “I don’t like you” directly to the nanny, so there was no mistaking that the nanny was not the Sprog’s favourite person. So I had no relief on the looking after the Sprog front – she still came with me everywhere.

Harrie didn’t seem to mind the nanny, but she certainly never giggled or seemed truly happy in her presence. The nanny wasn’t too big on play, preferring to sit with the Sprog on her lap while watching telly. Poor Harrie loves getting around so I would tell her to plonk her on the floor, to no avail.

So this all made me a bit stressed out, especially to have it happening under my roof.

I had promised to give her a one month trial, and today the month was up. She got a mutual acquaintance – who speaks English – to call me this morning to say that today one month was up, she wanted her pay and then she would leave immediately.

And so that was it. I paid her, and she left. Goodbye nanny.

I don’t really NEED a nanny – but today I spent three hours traipsing the stores looking for groceries with poor Harrie in tow. She would have been far happier at home, I know. That’s probably reason enough for me to start the search again.


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Struggling

I’m currently in struggle town. We have to move by 16 June – sort of against our will. Our landlords have decided to sell the apartment and they will obviously be aiming for the owner-occupier market rather than the investor market. Obviously, because they are booting us out to do renovations so they can sell it without our stuff smearing the potential buyer’s dream.

So we have to move our stuff, and we haven’t found a place yet. So we’re moving into temporary accommodation, which is a huge impetus for us to clear out all the crap we’ve accumulated in three years and six weeks in this apartment. It’s actually the longest we’ve lived in any place together.

I’m finding it really daunting to figure out where to jump in. Our place isn’t tiny but it’s not huge either, and we are using all the bedrooms, so there is no space for us to accumulate stuff as we sort it. And sure enough, just as I sort something, one of the children decides to go through it all and mix it up again.

Ah the joys. I can’t wait for the next six weeks to be over.


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A happy new year

I want to have a happy new year. Spending the last few months of 2011 as a new parent was both exhilarating as well as demoralising. Not as 100 per cent demoralising as I found the Sproglette, but there are still moments, at 1 am when you’re rocking a wired non-sleeping baby to sleep, that you stupidly decide to start discussing with your husband, in not-so-dulcet-tones, the parenting techniques you’ve decided to employ and why. Of course a fight ensues.

Baby number two is about a million times easier than baby number one. I’m sure the Sproglette will continue to be my test run as she goes through the years, but following up will be little miss Harrie who will benefit from the battles I fight with myself and the Sprog.

In general, though, I have struggled to be 100 per cent happy in a place I didn’t want to move to, a long way from my family, living with kids and a husband who travels a lot, in an environment that is debiliatingly hot and humid, with few recreational interests that I enjoy.

The Mr and I are the only break for each other. When we’re tag teaming the kids, it makes it really difficult to connect with each other, especially when he travels. And a flight to anywhere from Darwin is simply too long to take on a regular basis.

But, I’m hoping to put all these things behind me. I need to focus on the positive, get off my bum, put a smile on my face and enjoy everything. Enjoy the Sprog’s tantrums – I am becoming so good at diplomacy that I should be able to put it on my resume soon.

So here’s to having a happy new year, and I hope you’re having one too.


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The squeaky wheel gets the grease

I’m a great believer in being a pain in the arse providing constructive criticism. I used to work for an FMCG manufactuer, and being in a consumer driven industry meant that I became very accustomed to listening to what consumers had to say, and not just how they chose to spend their $$.

So I am quite happy to bitch directly give feedback to a company if I think their product is below par.

My most recent bug bear was my Palmolive Dishwashing Detergent. It claimed to be a concentrate formula, thus you use half as much. However even when it was closed properly, the detergent formed a plug in the lid and, in the process of squeezing the plug out, double the amount of detergent would spew forth from the bottle. ARGH – the ANNOYMENT! I mean, this totally negated the whole concept of using half as much with the 2 x concentrate.

Can you not see why this drove me bonkers?

It really annoyed me in that niggly fashion and being at work all the time meant that I never got around to calling the Colgate-Palmolive consumer line during business hours to have a whinge. (Yes I’m all for giving consumer feedback, but I didn’t want to embarrass myself by revealing my complainy, pain in the arse side to my work colleagues!)

Roll on maternity leave. When Harrie didn’t arrive on the third day of my mat leave as planned (!!), I decided to take fate into my hands and emailed off a little note to Colgate-Palmolive, letting them know my problems (with their product).

Imagine my surprise when I received an email back that very afternoon, saying they had actually made some modifications in the product, and they were going to send me a bottle of detergent so I could try it out.

Lo and behold, two weeks later, two bottles of detergent arrived. I was sceptical at first – after all the 2 x concentrate formula was only a new product in its own right – but believe you me, those pesky detergent plugs are gone forever.

Which means I will now happily buy my purple sink detergent once again. So YAY for consumer feedback, no?

And all I can say is, when confronted with the much hated task of cleaning the dishes, my grumpy mood is no longer exacerbated by detergent related frustrations.

The fact I am blogging about this may just be an indication of the fact that I need to get a life? But I am busy raising one.

Have you ever complained about sub-standard products, or do you just grin, bear it and shift your loyalties to a different brand?

*I was not asked or sponsored to write this post. Colgate-Palmolive has no idea I have a blog and that I am blogging about it. I was just very happy with Colgate-Palmolive’s commitment to their consumers, so thought I would let you all know.

 


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How Harrie came into the world – Part 2 *

See Part 1 here.

Mr Moi and mum finally arrived at the hospital just as I was entering the ‘I can’t talk’ zone of labour. I will still staring out the window and recording my contractions into an app on my phone, cause hey! it was something to do.

Eventually the pain became a little too much, and I demanded an internal because I wanted to figure out just how much I was progressing. I believe I uttered the words, “If I’m only 3cm dialated, it will break my heart”, quickly followed by, “and if that’s the case, I want an epidural”.

So in comes Doc to do my first and only exam of this labour – hurrah. I was 4 – 5 cm dialated and it was at this point I decided that I would hop in the shower to try and relieve the pain. Problem – I can’t get my dress off. Solution – get it over my head and arm, add it to the tangle of drips and hang it on the drip stand. So into the shower I go, where I sat for an hour breathing through the utter pain that is labour. I kinda remembered the pain from Frankie, but not really. There is simply no reason to remember the excrutiating pain of labour, it’s designed to be so horrible that it’s banished to the dark realms of memory as soon as possible.

Anyhoos. In pain I was, and every few minutes someone would poke their head into the shower to ask if I was OK. Yes I’m not OK dammit was about the response I could muster, when I could actually talk.

After about an hour, I noticed that the contractions had slowed down despite me now being on more Syntocinon. And when I was contracting, my tummy felt a kind of lightness. Also, I was becoming very vocally over the pain, and over everything – thus the rational part of me that existed under the heaving breathing Mad Woman of Labour determined that I must have been in transition. I mentioned it to the midwife, who seemed rather unconcerned, telling me to hop out of the shower and onto the bed when I ‘felt ready’. Whatever the hell that was supposed to mean! Take charge of me already!

In the end, one of the midwives gently suggested that I get out of the shower and head on over to the bed. Her suggestion was a little too gentle, because it took me five minutes to realise that she actually meant it.

When I got to the bed I expected to be told I was still only about 5 cm dialated. In fact, they didn’t even do an examination, they just told me to start pushing. I took this as meaning I’d reached 10cm and pushed away…

(This is the la-di-dah moment where one inserts an intermission, and John Cleese starts running around the Hollywood Bowl trying to sell people ‘Albatross flavoured Albatross’. There’s not really much to say except I pushed, the Doc was there, the cord was wrapped around the neck x 2 (just like Frankie) and Harrie was born in less than 20 minutes. It was painful. By God it was painful. My poor uterus felt broken. But y’know, no different to any other woman who gives birth.)

And so, 4 hours and 15 minutes after Doc stuck my arm with Syntocinon, Harrie entered the world and was plonked on my tummy, where she immediately lifted her head to look at me and started crying – and squeezed one real crocodile tear. The start of a lifetime of emotional blackmail, I’m sure.

To be concluded (maybe)…

* Part 2 of probably a billion, the way I’m going

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