The Kindness of Strangers

Markets are, generally, the best places to buy fruit and veg.  The produce is fresh, inexpensive and varied, and you are supporting small business owners when you patronise their stalls.  These people work HARD.  And they provide an excellent product at bargain prices.

Unfortunately, everyone who lives anywhere that there is a market knows this.  And so the prospect of going to buy your weekly fruit and veg on one of the three days the market is open each week fills you with a kind of delicious anticipation (that much stuff for only 40 bucks???) versus a kind of anxious dread (all those people!).

I was faced with these conflicting emotions yesterday, when, looking into my veggie bin containing two wrinkly baby eggplants, some corn on the cob I was too scared to peel and a bag of wilted lettuce, I knew that I would have to go. Normally the prospect of that much stuff for only 40 bucks would easily have won out over all those people, but this time I had to take P with me.  M was studying hard and it wouldn't be fair for me to leave her with him.  

I knew I couldn't manoeuvre a pram through the thronging crowds and tiny walkways at the market, so after some thought I decided to utilise my Baby Bjorn, the wonderful sling that suspends your baby, happily secure and kicking, on your chest like some kind of reverse pregnancy.  Never mind that she weighs nearly nine kilos now, and I need to have surgery on one of my shoulders, this will be a cinch.

The traffic on the way to the markets is unusually heavy for a Sunday afternoon.  Oh no, I realise, there is football on. Now, the footy ground in Perth is walking distance from the markets I was going to.  This was going to be fun.  As usual, there was little to no parking near the markets, and the rather dark and scary smell wafting towards me from the back seat told me that P had pooed, and would have to be changed before I started shopping.  Luckily, I always carry a spare few nappies in the car, and some wipes.  

P is a baby who, like most babies of her age, when it comes to nappy changes would rather be doing just about anything else.  She is also remarkably strong, and does NOT like to be laid on her back.  Unfortunately for her (and me) this is the tried-and-true superior position for changing a nappy.  My MO at home for nappy-changes is Restrain, Distract, Exchange, Congratulate;

Restrain:  Strap baby securely into change table with tightest possible setting on strap that will not render baby unable to breathe.

Distract: Curb inevitable instant protest and attempt to turn onto stomach with mirror, tube of something normally forbidden, soft toy containing rattle or rustly piece of paper.  (Note - at this point, never EVER sing to the baby.  They will know it is a diversionary tactic and they can scream louder than you can sing).

Exchange: Whip soiled nappy off, wipe bottom and get new nappy positioned with such practiced economy of movement that you can do it all in less than 10 seconds.  Fight off baby's suddenly appearing 19 sets of arms and legs, do new nappy up, blow quick raspberry on stomach (hers, not yours), re-dress baby.

Congratulate: Loudly and cheerfully commend baby for being SUCH a patient, good girl and putting up with the imposition of having nice warm bum exposed to cold air, even colder wet wipes, and inevitable comments on how cute and squeezable it is.

There are no public toilets around the markets that I would take P into and certainly none with nappy-changing facilities and a change table with a restraint - I would have to change her in the back of the car.  This was going to be fun.  

After pulling into my parking space I set up the back seat for what I hoped to be a stress-free nappy change.  I got out my bag of spare nappies.  Oh crap.  The package says 4 - 8kg.  These have been in here for a while.  Well, I thought, perhaps I could squeeze one on her just for now.  I extracted several wipes from the box and, the set-up complete, went around the other side and got her out of the car.

We did not get off to a good start.  P has a cold and lying on her back, on top of her usual aversion, makes it difficult for her to breathe.  Within two seconds of laying her down she was on her hands and knees, trying to crawl away.  Not fussed, I left her that way while I unbuttoned her suit and undid her nappy.  Luckily for me, this was not a big poo.  A happy little nugget was all she had been able to manage.  I wrapped up the nappy and wiped her cute and squeezable bum.  Setting up the fresh nappy, I lay her back down on top of it and was rewarded with an instant, ear-splitting, gut-wrenching scream of anger and frustration.  Several football-goers stopped to look at me, with `what ARE you doing to your baby?' expressions.  I looked back at them with what I hoped was an `I hope your team gets slaughtered' expression.  

The fresh nappy wasn't even big enough to cover her bum, let alone do up and be adequate protection.  Oh dear.  No nappy.  Young baby.  Sunday afternoon.  Nothing open.  The prospect of suspending her on my chest nappy-free was not inviting.  

Well, necessity breeding invention led me to the conclusion that emptying the happy little nugget into the bin and putting her old nappy back on her was the best solution I had.  This, of course, involved finding a bin.  It also involved wrapping up a small piece of poo in wet wipes, and carrying my nappy-less daughter with me to said bin, hoping against accident on the way.  

After achieving all of this and managing to wrestle her old nappy back onto her and get her suit done back up, accompanied by more murderous screams echoing around the underground carpark, I was hot, sweaty and not looking forward to the prospect of fighting my way through crowds of shoppers, one hour before the market closed for the week. I had conveniently overlooked the `strictly no market parking' sign outside where I had put the car and it was a bit of a trek to the markets.  

Shoulders back, P in sling, a shake of the head and a deep breath and off we went.  

The markets, predictably, were chaotic.  I made a beeline for the shrieks of `one dollar!  one dollar!  one dollar!' I could hear, not more than a few metres away.  This was going to be great.  Navigating your way through tightly packed crowds of people with a large baby poking out of your chest isn't easy.  But when I got to the one dollar table I knew that the 20 minutes spent getting there was worth it.  I packed my basket full of bags of apples, mushrooms, capsicums, avocados and bananas, paid my five dollars to the vendor and then was given pause.  How am I going to carry these bags and my basket, and shop for the rest of the food I needed?  I only had two hands, and they could only be used pretty strictly by my sides, given said large baby poking out of chest.

This required some thought.  

Making my way through further crowds, down the pathway a bit, I spotted a stall that was less busy.  Brilliant.  I could leave my basket on the ground, put my bags down and get the things I need, returning to the basket to deposit each item periodically.  This was all going to be fine.  Plus, P was having a lovely time, faced with all these new and colourful objects, smiling at people and charming them, being adorable.

The only problem arose when I got back to my basket and found that I couldn't lift it.  It had to weigh at least 15kg and my right arm being what it is at present, I couldn't get it onto the counter.  But I wasn't willing to give up one snap pea to make this easier.  I smiled helplessly at the kind-looking, tiny, 107-year-old lady who was operating the register, and she deftly swung my basket up onto the bench with her little finger, bowing at me and grinning at P.  

As the bags filled up and my basket emptied, I began to wonder how on earth I was going to get all this stuff back to the car.  My eco-bags that I thought were in the car were not, and I was looking at eight flimsy plastic ones carrying my 15kg of fruit and veg.  Bracing myself, I paid (all that stuff for 40 bucks!!), picked up four bags with each hand, and began the slow struggle back to the market exit.  

The crowds had multiplied.  The frenzy of the final-hour bargain was on.  Multitudes of shoppers, all travelling in slightly different directions, blocked my path - any path.  My arms were slowly stretching with the weight of my bags, my fingers and hands losing their blood supply to the strangling pinch of the bags' handles.  P's weight was slowly bearing down.  I was dripping with sweat.  People were looking at me with an odd mixture of sympathy and schadenfreude.  But we were all in pretty much the same boat.  Lots of great food, a home to take it to, no prospect of getting there before nightfall.

Finally, a fresh draft of air hit my face.  I was nearly there!  With renewed vigour I tried to step up my pace.  There it was!  The light!  The exit!  The crowds were dispersing!  Only a few more metres and ahhhhhhhhhhhhh ... freedom.  I made my way quickly across the road and headed for a cafe where I could put my bags down and get a breather.  

Sadly, before I got there, two of them broke.  Apples went rolling away.  Mushrooms exploded around me like miniature atom bombs.  Half a watermelon landed on my foot.  Left with a choice between hysterical laughter and despairing tears, I chose neither.  I smiled weakly at two girls sitting at the cafe, put my bags down and bent, daughter and all, to collect my goods, my sweat dripping onto the pavement, my bloodless fingers clutching uselessly around me.

Before I could grasp the first apple, the girls were on their feet, picking up all my scattered food and re-packing it for me. And - wonder of wonders - offering to carry it all to my car!  Unable to turn down this magical offer, I accepted, and was rewarded with a lovely conversation with a lovely girl, who carried my bags while I carried my baby, and then packed them all into my car for me, giving me a delightful smile and then disappearing back up the carpark travellator to her waiting noodles.  

Now, unlike Blanche Dubois, I have not always depended on the kindness of strangers, but sometimes it can make your whole day.

Only a spider

So, being someone who is both utterly terrified of spiders and completely unable to kill anything at all, I found myself in a quandary a few days ago when I was doing some laundry and I saw a reasonably gigantic garden spider crouching in the corner of the doorway.  As I've got older I've managed to get myself past the immobile, frozen, screaming hysteria stage of arachnophobia and these days when I see a spider all that happens is that I feel a rush of nausea sweep over me, I start trembling and I usually run to someone else and make them make it go away.  This day, I was on my own.  Dun dun dunnnnnnnnnnnnn.

After about five minutes of standing completely still, swallowing hard, staring at it trying to work out if it was dead or alive it moved one leg fractionally, galvanising me into action.  (Namely, running with a strange, wriggling-with-fear kind of gait back into the house, closing the door and leaning heavily against it, panting).  What to do?  P was asleep, the dogs would be no help at all.  I couldn't just leave it there.  So I decided that I would have to try to pick it up and put it over the fence.  

Picked up dustpan and brush.  

Went back outside.  

Stared at spider.  

Stared at spider some more.

Reached towards spider with dustpan and brush.

Started to cry.

(Me, not the spider).

Realised that there was no possibility of ever being able to pick the damn thing up.  Knew I would have to put it out of my misery.

But then, how?  Squish or spray?  This is the question of course, that has been echoing down through the ages. Squishing, the ultimately kinder way to go, involves some degree of proximity with the creature.  Then, of course, there is always the chance that your shaking hands will cause you to miss, and then said creature has golden opportunity to jump on you, and eat you.  Spraying solves this problem.  One can simply spray, and then make a quick getaway before said creature has chance to jump on you and eat you.  But then one is left with the knowledge forevermore that one has poisoned an innocent creature and left it to die a slow and agonising death.  

Realising I wasn't getting anywhere I stared at the spider in an agony of indecision for another five minutes, reasonably sure that the spider was staring back at me in an equal agony of indecision (Do I make a run for it? Do I pretend I'm not here? Do I jump on her and eat her?)

In the end, realising that P would only be asleep for another two hours and I was running out of time, I opted for the lesser-known `spray then squish' option.  I would spray the spider just enough to make it move out of its awkward-for-squishing position in the corner of the doorway, and then I would squash it flat with one of M's shoes. Minimal agony for both of us.

So, went back inside, armed myself with Mortein spray and Converse boot, took a deep breath and went back outside. 

Took another deep breath and sprayed.

Spider moved with lightning speed, under the doorway and out onto the patio, but to my utter shock, terror and dismay hundreds of little baby spiders that it was carrying on its back came flooding off it like something out of an arachnophobic's worst horror-movie nightmare.  I squealed and gibbered like a kid who really does find a boogie-monster under the bed.  OH MY GOD.  THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING!!!  In my panic and terror I sprayed and sprayed and sprayed until all the little babies were dead and gone, and the mother was staggering back to the haven of the corner of the doorway.  At this point, I squished and squished until she was no more.

Then I went back inside and cried and cried.  Not only had I killed an ecologically valuable little being because I was too scared to move it, but I had murdered a mother and her babies.  The little voice telling me that I would have fainted and been eaten alive by hundreds of spiders if I had have picked her up and tried to move her was no consolation.  I, a mother with a baby, had killed a mother with babies.  I felt sick.  I felt cold.  I felt wretched.

I went back outside and washed away the evidence of my crime with buckets of water, and picked up the tiny carcass and put it somewhere the dogs wouldn't find and eat it.  Sighing, I went back to my laundry.

I guess at the end of the day, people tell me to forget about it - they wouldn't have given it another thought.  "It's only a spider".  But to the spider, that was its whole life and all of its babies.  Gone in a few agonising moments of terror and pain.   It never hurts to remember that life is life, and everything is made for a purpose.  Even if it is only a spider.

25 Random Things

1. I don't get the whole thing with Krispy Kremes.  Are they really that good?  I didn't think so.  Meh, they're just doughnuts.
2. When I was four, I was playing `Mummies & Daddies' with some things my brother and Dad were using to glue model ships together.  I managed to stick myself to the chair I was sitting on with superglue.  I was rushed to hospital and to this day, because of the burns, I still have lovely smooth spots on my bum.  I also made it to the front page of The West Australian.  We still have the article, more than 30 years later.
3. When I found out I would have to be induced with my daughter, I opted to go for July 21st, so she would be born a Cancer and not a Leo.  True story.  She was born at 9pm the next day, just in time.  I think it could have backfired on me though.  Typical.
4. The most embarrassing moment of my life was when I was caught flashing my naked bum at my then boyfriend while walking up the street outside my parent's house.  I didn't know there was an elderly couple walking their dog behind us.
5. When I was 18 and joined the Army Reserves, I only did it because I thought walking around in my uniform would impress people.  When you join up they don't tell you about the tinned sausages and beans in jelly, or the friggin' rifle picket at 3am, or the fact that having to clean that rifle when you first wake up in the morning - every morning - before you're even allowed to wee, is a sophisticated and brilliant form of torture.
6. I am so scared of spiders that once I didn't go out the back of my house in Scarborough for a whole week, because there was one clinging to the underside of my outdoor table.  It was less than 5mm in size.
7. The last time I went to the gym, I ran into an old friend from primary school, and while we were talking, a little bird flew into a window behind us and knocked itself out.  I held it on my outstretched palm for nearly 45 minutes while my friend and I talked, speculating about it's condition, thinking it had broken its neck and wondering how I was going to give it a decent burial, when it hopped up, shook itself, and flew away.  THAT was a good feeling.
8. Once I weighed my boobs.  Really.  The results were surprising.
9. I have an irrational prejudice against four-wheel drive owners.  I could explain it, but I probably shouldn't.
10. I wish I had the guts to get a whole sleeve tattooed.  I wanna look like Kat Von D.  Just for a year or so.
11. I have a total of 14 piercings and three tattoos.  These days I'm boring though, and only wear one pair of earrings.  I still wear all my tattoos.
12. The thought of anything happening to my daughter mainly freaks me out because I don't know if I would have the strength to go on living if it did.  I know that's really selfish, but it's the truth.
13. Every time I turn a light switch on or off, I have to touch it's whole surface with my fingertips.  It drives me nuts, but I can't snap out of it.
14. Farts really, really make me laugh.
15. I can't kill anything.  Not anything.  Flies, cockroaches, spiders, ants - you name it, nothing.  I saw a spider near P's playpen the other day and I had to kill that because I was too scared to pick it up and put it outside, and I cried for nearly ten minutes afterwards.
16. Before I die I want to :  i) Hang glide.  It's the closest thing to flying I can imagine.  ii) To a ski jump.  It's the second closest thing to flying I can imagine.  iii)  Ride a tube wave.  Because everyone I know who's done it says it's indescribable.
17. I spend WAY too much time on Internet forums.  There are a couple of people at politicalforum.com that I would throw a drink over if I met them in real life.  Really.  But there are more people there that I feel really sad that I will probably never get to meet in person, and that's a bummer.  
18. I never, ever thought that one day I would say the Tour De France is the most exciting sporting event that exists in the world today.  It's awesome. 
19. I have had the same song in my head, honest-to-God truth, for more than 20 years.  It goes away sometimes, but not for long, and it's nearly always there in the background.  And worse, it's played with bagpipes.  Not a word of a lie.
20. One of the experiences I am most grateful for, is having been able to study music and singing under Richard Gill for a whole year.  That was brilliant.
21. If I could say I have a real dream, it would be that one day I would win the Man Booker prize for something that I write.  It used to be the Nobel Prize for Literature, but that could be a stretch.
22. I cannot blow raspberries.  I discovered this after P was born.  I still haven't decided whether or not there is a God, but this makes me think maybe not.
23. I did not try a prawn until five years ago.  That is 29 years of my life that I missed out on prawns.  More proof that there probably is no God.
24. I have read The Pillars Of The Earth by Ken Follett 27 times.  I really like it THAT much.
25. I spent two years secretly transcribing The Lord Of The Rings into screenplays, and then when I found out that Peter Jackson was making the movies I burned all my work in a barbecue.  I forgive him though.  Those movies were so incredible that I was completely silent for over an hour after each one.  Nothing else has been able to achieve that.