My new title for allconsuming

Diary of a psychotic pregnant woman

Today improved. I know, I can hear the collective universal sigh.

Chef got home from work earlier than anticipated, there were hugs, tears and apologies all round.

One half of my kitchen is stunningly clean – I cleaned walls, shelving, the vent over the stove, all the cupboard doors, skirting boards and the pantry.

Our bestest friends in the world came for afternoon tea as they were back in the country for Christmas (I was worried about how this was going to transpire considering my frame/state of mind earlier in the day) , from half way through their two year work sojourn in the UK, then J Doodle and the three mini Doodles dropped in and J commented that my kitchen seemed to be gleaming. 🙂

I made a sensational dinner of honey soy chicken wings – to which I added four shallots, chopping into lengths about 3-4cm long. Served with boiled rice, steamed broccoli and carrots. We all ate together – including Jasper, who fed himself thank you very much.

Oh – I keep forgetting to share – but Jasper has been signing “finished” for about a week. It’s very adorable as he eats his food, and then signs at me finished. Along with his impressive word association/understanding and the fact he started signing “more” today, I am very proud of the little chap.

So look, maybe that whole trying to see the good side of things isn’t dead after all.

Happy New Year ‘n that

Well, it’s 1 January.

I had a SHITE day yesterday. I’ve woken up in much better spirits, maybe due to some lovin’ from Chef last night but I can hear you all gagging over there and it’s not due to the hangover, so I’ll stop there. I was asleep by 11.30 and that is a good NYE to me.

Also, the brother, his daughter and my mother haven’t descended unannounced and uninvited yet, hence to happy spirits.

Today it s absolutely bucketing down. My favourite weather ever.

2007 is bringing us a new baby, new challenges and hopefully many new wonderful experiences. May it bring all you hope for as well.


Oh, the adoption story, I got bored, I’ll continue in due course.

Happy 49th

Today is my natural mother’s birthday. Yes, I just turned 34, she just turned 49, you do the maths. I didn’t intend to write about this today, it’s not something I have actually written that much on and I’m not that sure why. I guess becuase it’s complicated, with multiple points of view, there are layers of time and emotion and so on and so forth. It’s also a subject that affects many many people, and – for once – I am very conscious of unintentionally upsetting people who maybe come at it from a different perspective or a different role in the whole adoption saga that is. Well, that was quite the disclaimer wasn’t it.

Anyway, I was having a really SHIT day today, peppered with incontrollable tears and blind rage. Delightful really. Then I finally rang H to say happy birthday, had a 40 minute chat with her and felt a whole heap better.

The end.

KIDDING. As a NYE special, here is the adoption story that is allconsuming’s.

I’ve known for as long as I can remember that I was adopted. My mum told me this story about fairies down the back of the garden and that there were some fairies that loved their babies so much, they gave them to fairies who couldn’t have babies of their own, because they knew just how special and loved those fairies would look after their babies.
That is probably the worst grammatical sentence I’ve written in quite some time and the likes of Bec and Suse have probably looked away in horror. Suckers.
Mum has a big family – six siblings – and Dad’s isn’t bad either – there were three of them. I don’t think my Mum will ever trully appreciate how alienating it was to see cousins who looked and were like your mother, when you had nothing. I see how sophisticated I have to be in dealing with Felix in particular (for you see, he is so like me) because I get his psyche. I never had this. I never had that compassion or understanding from my parents about who I was. They had NO idea that I had depression and quite frankly, by the time I was a teenager both of them were so caught up in their own personal worlds relating to divorce that short of a suicide attempt neither of them would have had a clue. That probably sounds pretentious, but this is my story, so fuck off.

My Mum’s family is deelpy competitive and not very nice to each other at all. It took a long long time for me to realise that their attitude and approach to me was very much related to the fact that I (and my brother) were an unknown quantity, and well, what you don’t know, you fear. Right? So, when me, the loud, sarcastic, drama queen with no arse and big boobs came along, the family of small waisted, big-arsed teacher/nurse brigade got seriously spooked.

The way they handled this was to treat me as the butt of most jokes. To pass judgment on my looks (and my weight) from around the age of 6. I’m sure it started earlier, but it was Boxing Day 1978, in my yellow crochet bikini which I LOVED at our annual family picnic at North Beach, Wollongong, that the first comment about my weight – and subsequent hearty laughs from the entire family, my mother included – was logged in my memory. It was the last time I wore a bikini and the start of life very focussed on my body and my weight. Thanks Aunty J, thanks very much. The last comment about my weight came at my cousin’s wedding two and a half years ago when I was in a size 12 skirt, size 14 shirt and some mighty fine kicky heels. My uncle – the husband of Aunty J – came up behind me as I was having a delightful conversation with my cousins, grabbed me around the hips and said, “ah, there’s a good bit of meat”. Yep. Mighty fine.

Now please, don’t get me wrong – I’m not even going to touch the whole arguement of would I/wouldn’t I have been better off with my natural family – this was the life I’ve had and I’ve gotten on with it, so really, the what if? hypothesis isn’t really that helpful.

Anyway, my natural parents H & L – were young randy things. Instead of going to the Easter show as they had told their parents, they stayed home and did it in L’s sunroom. It was H’s first time – and really, at only 14 you’d kinda hope it wasn’t happening at all – and the mentality at the time was you couldn’t fall pregnant on the first time. Apparently every time after that fateful evening protection was used. Too late!

H thought she was hiding my existence pretty well, but her Mum was clued in to the lack of – ahem – soiled underwear each month. Then she ran in the school cross country, and curiously, fainted. She was four months pregnant. When the school nurse asked her Mum if there was anything wrong, she collapsed in tears and wailed, “I think H is pregnant.” Which she was. So off she was packed to the single mother’s home. Curiously, they told the school she was going to a private girl school – the one where I went. Weird huh.

One of the most endearing parts of this story is that H’s two brothers, who at the time were only 8 and 10, or thereabouts, would make the trek from Sydney’s Northern Beaches to Sydney’s North Shore to visit her. On their own. Amaznig huh.

Meanwhile, L was kicked out of school half way through Year 11 and the principal tried to have him charged with carnal knowledge but due to him and a mate witnessing a bank robbery when they were about 10, and subsequent bravery awards, the local cops wouldn’t have a bar of it. Still, he never really recovered, dropped out of school altogether soon after that and went on to become a surfboard shaper – then a house husband. L and his wife S and their kids (my half sister and brother) just rock my world. I love them dearly.

When H had me, the hospital would bring groups of student doctors around claiming her to be the epitomy of a textbook labour and more people should be having children younger. Classy. She wasn’t allowed to see me, but said the glimpse she got was of these extraordinarily long fingers. L’s father and mother offered to keep me and raise me as L’s sister. H’s parents – her father – wouldn’t have a bar of it. She called me Lisa.

The day after she had me – her parents picked her up from the home and they went straight on their annual family holiday. Can you imagine? The day after giving birth, being picked up and expected to just go on with life as if nothing had happened, without your child? Oh, and that holiday? At the beach. H spent the entire time lying on the beach on her stomach because her boobs were leaking and like rocks and she didn’t know what to do.

Her mum and dad had counselling – the sum total of which was “the best thing you can do for H is pick her up and make no mention, no reference to the whole experience at all.” Nice. Can you imagine??? Here you have a 14 year old CHILD, and the advice is not to mention it? I mean, not even post-natal care. I get so mad about this on her behalf.

Cut to 18 years later. H was travelling overseas and got really sick in London. She was in hospital and this voice in her head just said, “go home.” So she signed herself out, got on the next available flight and got herself home. When she knocked on her mum’s front door, her mum couldn’t believe it. After all the squealing, hugging and kissing, she said to H, “Do you know what today is?”, to which H replied, “Lisa’s birthday” and for the first time ever, they talked about me.

Four years later I applied for my natural birth certificate, for no other reason than I discovered because I was a student and had a healthcare card it would only cost me $20 rather than $120. Sad but true. I mean, I always knew I’d look, but that was pretty shallow incentive, even by my standards.

My initial reaction was – OH MY GOD SHE WAS 14. The next reaction was “they called me Lisa, I had a name” – this was something I wasn’t expecting. And then their address – my neck of the words. Not the same suburb, but a nearby area. I was on the north shore, they were northern beaches. Yep, where we live now, L is about 8 minutes drive away and H is about 15.

I went to the state library and tracked her down in about 10 minutes. Then spent two hours looking harder, thinking it couldn’t be that easy. It would have been quicker but it took me a while to work out the microfiche. Then I looked up her mum in the phone book and got her number. I got home, rang, sounded all friendly and light – she gave me her new number. Then I rang her.

H: Hello
K: Hi, is H there?
H: This is H
K: I was after H
H: yes, I’m H
K: Oh shit. Oh. Sorry. Hi. Um. Look this is going to sound really weird, but did you give
H: is that Lisa?
K: Yes.


Chocolate Sludge (a chocolate self-saucing pudding) and prawn and fennel risotto

This week’s obsession is clearly going to be this.
This weekend was absolutely sensational. Highlights include:
– torrential rain for most of the weekend
– brekkie at the Fox yesterday with the boys and – because of the rain – not many others.
– an impromptu trip to Manly Aquarium with the Doodles. Then dinner at the Harbour Diggers, too much spontaneous, unplanned fun.
– three children who still whinge, fight, cry, wake me during the night, but for some reason, at the moment, my chest feels like it’s going to explode with my love for them.
– brekkie today at the Fox (again) with my natural father, his wife, their kids, and a few hangers-on for their son (my half brother!) because he’d had a sleep over for his 13th birthday.
– making a sensational dinner tonight – fennel and prawn risotto and a delicious dessert – chocolate sludge.

Prawn and fennel risotto

  • extra virgin olive oil
  • butter
  • 1 onion, finely chopped
  • 2-3 cloves of garlic, smooshed
  • 1 good-sized bulb of fennel, finely chopped
  • handful flat leafed parsley, finely chopped
  • 1 (big) glass white wine
  • 5-6 cups stock
  • 500g (or so) raw prawns
  • salt and pepper
  1. heat the olive oil and butter
  2. saute off the onion and garlic
  3. add the fennel, cook for a little while
  4. add the rice, cook, stirring, for 2 minutes or so
  5. add the wine, stir until all absorbed
  6. add the stock about a cup at a time, stirring occassionally as it absorbed
  7. stir through the parsley about half through the stock additions
  8. at the end, stir through the prawns – they’ll cook quickly purely from the heat of the rice
  9. season.

I know that normally you add parmesan to risotto, but I didn’t have any, and it was delicious regardless.

Chocolate Sludge
This comes from a very dear friend of mine who I don’t see nearly often enough, Sook. It’s quick, it’s easy, but most importantly, it’s probably the best self saucing pudding you’ll ever taste.

  • 1 cup plain flour
  • 2 teaspoons baking powder
  • 3/4 cup caster sugar
  • 1/4 cup cocoa
  • 1 tblsp butter, melted
  • 1/2 cup milk
  • 3/4 cup brown sugar
  • 1/4 cup cocoa
  • 1 cup boiling water
  1. Preheat oven to 160C, grease a smallish baking dish
  2. mix together the flour, baking powder, caster sugar and cocoa
  3. stir through the butter and milk
  4. the batter is very thick, scrape into the baking dish
  5. scatter the brown sugar and cocoa over the top, pour over the boiling water
  6. bake for 40-45 minutes.
  7. serve with vanilla ice cream.


Hello Aurorix, the drug that makes your bits go zing…

Can I just say, it is really quite bizarre to go from zero sex drive – I mean z.e.r.o., zilch, not-a-nadda – to having your bits start to randomly tingle. Seriously, I’m like “so this is what it must feel like for every pubescent boy that walks the earth, without the physical humiliation”.

Anyway, lets just say we’re back on the bike and Chef has quite a kick in his step and twinkle in his eye.


I’m so addicted to Rockstar I’m feeling jittery and edgy in anticipation for this week. I’m betting the entire internet a dollar that Toby will get the gig.


My Mum goes on her swanky cruise this week. We spent much of last night and tonight sitting online looking at the ship (it gave her a virtual tour of her room – she’s so excited she has a full-size bath!) that we’re all so excited for her. I’ll give you updates – obviously – over the next three weeks, but she’s going to Libya, Malta, Turkey and Egypt and looking at lots of old stuff.


unconcious mutterings

    1. True love :: Chef
    2. Age :: is no boundary
    3. Stern :: voice
    4. Elastic :: is my friend
    5. Rustic :: is how I cook
    6. Enhance :: my looks
    7. Jackson :: my half brother
    8. Inherit :: the earth
    9. Devious :: mind
    10. Scapegoat :: coward


You can play too!

I can hear the soothing tones now

If your child is crying incessantly, whinging constantly or pouting profusely, press one now.
If your child is refusing to eat, refusing to sleep and refusing to get dressed, press two now.
If you are drinking a bottle of red wine alone each evening, press any button now as it won’t get any better than the floating feeling it instills in you.

(after deliberating on pressing any button and what that really means about your true dependence on alchohol, you press 1.)

Talk in a low, calm voice. Even though your child won’t hear this over their crying or whinging it will give you a sense of false empowerment which far outweighs the morose worst-parent-in-the-world mentality permeating your existence. Don’t try to reason, they don’t care. Bribe if you must. Find the bottle opener. Secure a fine Margaret River Cab Sav. Turn on The Simpsons and let it all wash over you. Feel the relaxing waves of the red water ebb at your brain. Let the droning drift into the background. Breath one, two, three…

Yes – I have set shelves in the refrigerator for types of food groups. Sure, it is quite fluid as the fridge is a pre-children, dual-income-we-eat-out-all-the-time purchase that barely fits the family size container of vegemite and peanut butter in it, let alone food stuffs to feed a family for a fortnight.

While I have a photographic memory for food inventory in our house, it is my peg prediliction that after almost 14 years still makes AB shake his head.