Recently, Prima was asked the inevitable “What do you want to be when you grow up?” question by my mother. Encouraged by her grandmother’s praise over her prolific art work, Prima declared that she wanted to be an artist.  My mother duly affirmed her 6 year old optimism with a “That’s wonderful darling, you’ll be a brilliant artist.”

Prima then asked her grandfather what he thought about her career choice. Whilst I have always admired my father’s unwavering and unflinching honesty, I do wish he would calibrate his comments for his grandchildren sometimes. He said, “Well, if you want to be an artist, I will support you, but I would really prefer it if you were a doctor, lawyer or accountant.”

When my father said “I will support you…” I wasn’t sure if he thought I was raising a dilettante, that Prima would never make a living and so he would have to do as all Sri Lankan patriarchs do, and financially support her. My father seemed noticeably relieved when Secundo declared that he wanted to “be a banker, just like Daddy.”

After much thought, Prima then said she wanted to be a farmer’s wife.  Not the actual farmer, but the farmer’s wife. The Wife.  Now I have never professionally aspired to be any one’s wife, so I was concerned*.

[*OK, this is not entirely true. When I was Prima’s age, I aspired to be Han Solo’s wife but that’s because I wanted to be Princess Leia who was a fully emancipated woman, perfectly capable of leading an insurgency against the Empire.**

**OK, this is not entirely true either. In recent years I may have aspired to be Matt Damon’s wife, but we are ignoring that for the purpose of this post.]

My brain naturally went into overdrive (over-reaction).  When I say naturally, I mean naturally for a highly strung person. Where could she possibly have picked up this idea from and was it time to move Prima from her local state school to a more appropriate private girls’ school?

My poor little six year old was then subjected to an afternoon of (attempted) re-education:

Me: Darling, women are allowed to own property now in most parts of the world, you could be the farmer, not the farmer’s wife.

Prima: But I want to marry a farmer.

Me: But darling, you will be as clever, capable and educated as any man, you could own and run the farm yourself. Actually after a decade of drought, the bank would probably own most of the farm, but you could run it.

Prima: OK, but can I marry a farmer?

Me: Yes darling, as long as you understand that generations of women have broken barriers for you, fighting for equal rights, equal opportunities and equal pay.

Prima: What’s a broken barrier, do they have them on farms?

Me: I don’t know darling, my point is that your generation of women, I mean girls, I mean you – you can choose to be anything you want to be.

Prima: OK, I want to be an artist. And a farmer’s wife.

I watch a lot of children’s television. This is because my children watch too much children’s television (for example, see Law & Disorder). In the heady days of my first pregnancy when I had time to rub my belly with cocoa butter, read books on fetal development and contemplate (delude myself about) the kind of mother I was going to be, I told myself I would not be one of those mummies that allowed her children to be zombified by the television. I wasn’t going to be a fundamentalist about it, television in moderation would be allowed, but only educational programmes. My cousins duly sent me DVDs of Baby Einstein and David Attenborough documentaries.  I invested in every flash card on the market and I was convinced that between the gene pool, the selective television programming and the pre-school home schooling, we would raise a genius.

The regulatory framework around television watching was radically redrafted within days of my return from hospital with a newly born Prima. Desperate, depressed, unable to understand, feed or pacify my child, I turned to Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Buffy is great in a crisis. Prima and I watched all 7 seasons from start to finish together. My husband blames Prima’s tightly wound, slightly hysterical personality on this early exposure. I blame my side of the gene pool.

Arguably, Buffy is an educational programme:

• Prima has been introduced to a pop culture icon and cult classic (beginning a lifetime of good taste);
• Prima has a heightened sense of stranger danger and is particularly suspicious of deathly pale people (which was a little problematic when we lived in London); and
• she knows more ways to slay a vampire and close the Hell Mouth than any other first grader.

Beyond Buffy, the children watch too much children’s television, and therefore so do I. I find myself looking for subtext of racial tension in Handy Manny’s town (where are all the hispanic gangs, hasn’t Manny seen The Wire?); and more importantly, how does he make a living when he never seems to invoice any one for his fix-it jobs? I debate in the privacy of my own mind, who is better looking, Zac Ephron or Corbin Bleu from High School Musical, and then I quietly question the legality (if not the morality) of such thoughts. I am sure the teen heart throbs of my era (Kirk Cameron, Michael J Fox) were not quite as um… athletic.

Most recently I have been trying to work out what is going on between Max and Milly, two life-sized puppets who live on a farm in outback Australia. The exact nature of their relationship is ambiguous, they might be just good friends, siblings or a couple.

The writers are clearly bored at the moment and thought today’s episode would be an exploration of gender stereotypes and relationships, the veracity and complexity of which was completely lost on the target audience of 2 year olds (including my Tercero) but not on the co-viewing mummies of Australia.

Today, Max, the hapless, disorganised but kind-hearted male puppet developed the “Max System” of organising his chores. He explained to Milly, the organised and efficient female puppet, that he was going to write down a list of his chores, prioritise them and then only do them in that order. Max set out Time Management 101 as though he had just received wisdom from a burning bush, and Milly had the forbearance not to explain that all women already know this. She just smiled affectionately, bless her.

As the need for other chores arose, Milly suggested that they complete these tasks immediately (I hear you Milly), but Max continued to stick to his system dogmatically, refusing to do other tasks until the written and prioritised tasks were completed. The problem was that on this puppet farm, Max spent so much time wandering about preparing, prioritising and pondering his list that he did not even get the important tasks done on time, let alone those other tasks he considered less important.

By the end of the day he had achieved nothing, Milly had to help Max with all of his chores as well as her own and I thought, they are definitely a married couple. Of course, this is children’s television, so instead of rolling her puppet eyes at Max and behaving in that slightly smug, self-righteous and self-martyred way some wives (certainly not me…) do when we have to manage our husband’s time and to-do list, Milly helped Max happily and constructively, encouraging and empowering him to do better next time.

Then in an uncanny turn of events, Max apologised for not doing his chores, he vowed to do better next time and thereby create more relaxation time for him and Milly to enjoy together. I was sure the writers were speaking to me through the television. That is exactly the kind of thing my husband would say and do (yes, he’s lovely isn’t he).

And then they both danced a country jig together with the puppet cow and the puppet pig.

Watching Max and Milly reminded me that (a) I could learn something from Milly and be nicer to my Max as he tries to get through his to do list; and (b) I watch way, way too much children’s television.

Before I had children, I never baked a damn thing. I never saw the point.  Why bake when you can buy (especially if you shop at Waitrose)? I remember attending the 1st birthday of my niece, years before I had Prima. My cousin, the baby’s mother, is a brilliant doctor and dedicated mother, who insisted on baking the birthday cake herself.

In Sri Lankan Tamil families, the first birthday is a very important one. Families have been known to invite the entire community, the attendance list and seating plan is highly political and the poor unsuspecting one year old is subjected to a trial run for her wedding where she is surrounded by complete strangers, 500 of her parents closest friends and people they were too afraid of not to invite. Thankfully my family has always had the presence of mind and the tightness of wallet not to do the traditional first birthday, sticking to a party for just immediate family, which brings the number down to 50.

At this particular birthday party I just could not understand why my cousin would want to bake for 5 people let alone 50, and why, when so many of our aunties can bake so well, she didn’t simply outsource.  That’s just good project management.

But then of course I had my own children and moved into a neighborhood where every mummy and nanny could bake for England.  Suddenly my sense of womanhood, no my sense of motherhood, became intimately connected to this previously innocuous if not tedious task. Not only did I need to bear and breastfeed my children, I also had to be able to bake for them. The innocent cupcake came to represent something far more ominous than the sum of all its ingredients.

Amongst my circle of friends, I was one of the few women who went back to work after having children. I make absolutely no value judgement of any woman’s choices in this area, except my own.  Every morning, 4 days a week, I slung my red shiny handbag over my shoulder, packed with a blackberry, tube pass, security ID card and a massive guilt complex, placed neatly between my lipgloss and my growing sense of failure. All day at the office I would run around like a crazy person trying to complete a full workload in fewer days for lesser pay, never feeling like I was completing anything. I would then run home, and force my children to spend quality time with me.

My heart would sink when one of them would produce a crumpled note reminding me that tomorrow was yet another fundraising bake sale. After putting the children to bed, scoffing dinner, logging back on to work and attempting to control my inbox, I would bake at 10pm so I could wake up at 5:30am to ice the cake, so I could be at work by 7:30am so I could leave work at 5pm so I could be home by 6pm so I could force my children to spend quality time with me again. The icing on the cake was so haphazard (my eyes aren’t really open at 5:30am) that Prima knew she was supposed to lie if asked about it and say that she and her little brother did it. But at least Prima went to school with a homemade cake proving in my sleep deprived brain that she was not a love and attention deprived child because I was a working mummy.

Which brings me to why all this talk of baking. On Saturday it is election day and Prima’s school is a polling station. The school will be holding a fundraising bake sale, raising money from Australians as they go to vote. Today the head of the Bake Sale Sub-committee of the Fundraising Committee of the PTA approached me with a note requesting contributions. There was a fire escape behind me and although the voice in my head was shouting “Leave the children, save yourself!” I knew that she knew that I was trapped. I anxiously asked her what kind of a contribution she would like, hoping she would say cash or cheque would be fine. Apparently homemade cakes or slices are fine. I should have said to her that I recently migrated from London and am still living out of boxes, I have four children including a newborn who has a cold, and after years of juggling a blackberry and a baking compulsion, every part of me just needs a nap. Instead I found myself committing to make a cake which had me more worried than the prospect of being governed by the speedo wearing, abstinence swearing Tony Abbott.

But then I remembered the following: all those years ago, my first attempts at baking involved detailed research using multiple primary sources, retaining a panel of mummies for advice and expert evidence (including the wonderful mummyinahurry), marking up recipes where best practice dictated deviating from the letter of the law and anally retentatively keeping all my know-how in a black folder with colour-coded dividers. Baking gave me a bigger tension headache than due diligence. Then one fateful day, Secundo, aged three at the time, pulled up his small stool next to me while I was baking. He put everything in the blender: the flour, the sugar, the block of butter, the eggs and a good measure of shell. He laughed his tinkly little laugh and pressed blend. Unwittingly he recreated Nigella Lawson’s Victoria Sponge cake (just blend everything whilst seductively wearing your pyjamas) and we have never looked back (or stopped laughing whilst baking) since.

Yes I know that probably makes me sound pretentious but for the Brits reading this, you know there is only one news service.

Here’s another game that both men and women like to play but only women admit to (honestly, minds out of the gutter please, we are still talking about the news).

The game is called “If you could be any one other than yourself, who would you be?” Most men will not admit to playing this game but they all want to be international footballers.  I know this because after much cajoling and promises of confidentiality, my husband admitted that he would want to be Zinedine Zidane (before the head-butting incident).

I would want to be Mishal Husain from the BBC. I know you all think I would want to be Mrs Matt Damon, but you have to choose some one that you will never actually become.

Mishal Husain is brilliant, articulate, has a fascinating job and great hair.  I met her once at a work event and she did that super-polite thing where she said “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

I was torn in that split-second before I responded.  I wanted to say “Yes, it was at the BBC’s 50 Most Powerful Asian Women in the Media/Britain/the World/the Universe. ” I would have added “You were number 2 after Shami Chakrabarti and I was number 37…” because if you are going to lie, it’s best not to exaggerate at the same time.

But before I could lie, it occurred to me that Mishal and I might one day become best friends and she might ask me to fill in for her, anchoring BBC World News or hosting Impact Asia.  So I told the truth – or rather, the verbal dyslexia that happens in the presence of famous people took over (please see What would you say if you ran into…?), I could barely manage a sentence (let alone an elaborate lie) and I just shook my head and smiled stupidly.

Back to the BBC. In London I watched it daily but not religiously. My addiction began in Australia, shortly after the birth of Newborn (now aged 5 months). Long, frustrating days spent in my PJs, endlessly breastfeeding the baby. Long, lonely nights spent in my PJs, endlessly breastfeeding the baby. I rarely left the house in those early days and it seemed unlikely I would leave the state or country (ever again).

It was just me, the baby, the sofa and the television. BBC World was my connection to an increasingly distant external world, the memory of which was becoming increasingly dimmer as sleep deprivation set in like rot in what was left of my brain.

Mishal, George, Orla, Zeinab, Rico and the rest of the team were there, every minute of every day and every night, like old friends, reassuring me that they understood what was going on in the world and they could explain it to me in words that I could understand. And if I could not understand it the first time I could watch it on the loop and understand it the second or fifth time as I sat glued to my sofa and baby for hours.

When my parents are home we watch the news on the Australian commercial channels. And whilst I do care what happens in Kootamundra, Coonabarrabaran and Wollongong (these are real names of Australian cities, I didn’t make them up) I need to understand my place in the world and my country’s place in world history and politics. Without it, I feel stranded on an island, with my perimeter defined and patrolled by four, small, lovable guards.

Speaking of my personal border security detail, last Saturday morning I was making Star Wars pancakes for the children whilst watching BBC World. By 8am I had watched a documentary about the violation of women in the Congo, news of floods in Pakistan and the murder of medical aid workers in Afghanistan. Watching me cry into the batter, Secundo reassured me that the pancakes didn’t all have to look like the Millenium Falcon, I could make the Death Star if that was easier. Prima suggested we change channels and watch Playhouse Disney. I sat down with my four little ducklings, a plate of pancakes rolled into light sabers, and as we watched Ariel the Mermaid swim happily amongst a coral reef that had not been destroyed by BP, I felt better already. Sometimes you just need a little Disney.

For Things I miss about London (Part 1): John Lewis…

My husband is the Sri Lankan equivalent of Jason Bourne.  I’m serious, and I’m not just saying that because I have an unhealthy interest in Matt Damon.  You can put my husband in any vehicle, of any size, in any city in the world, on any side of the road and he will immediately and effortlessly know how to start, drive, navigate and park said vehicle.  The only other person I know who can do this is Jason Bourne, and may be James Bond (but I don’t really know James Bond).

Twelve years ago, the first time I drove with my husband, he took me to a cafe in Notting Hill and he casually reverse parallel parked his 1970’s fire-engine red Mercedes, with one hand and in one go.  [Actually, it was his mother’s Mercedes but you never see Jason Bourne borrowing his mother’s car when he’s being chased by the CIA.]

At the time, I was ticking off a mental key competency matrix I have for the perfect mate.  “Must be able to reverse parallel park” got a big tick. [Months later his mother showed me baby photos of my (future) husband and he got another big tick.]

My husband’s competence in this area, and my complete incompetence, was recently brought to light when we were test-driving 7-seater cars.  The birth of Newborn had precipitated a radical reassessment of our infrastructure needs, including the inevitable purchase of a 7-seater.

The challenge for us was to find a 7-seater that was big enough to hold our family of six (including 2 baby seats and 2 booster seats), a pram and a grandparent; but small enough for me to actually drive without getting motion and altitude sickness.

We tried them all.

There were the SUVs – more stylish than armoured tanks but only slightly smaller.  These are the black, shiny cars you see in Tom Clancy adaptations, and they are usually driven at high speed by the CIA, in convoys, through the streets of some war-torn backwater.  They can also be seen on the mean streets of Primrose Hill, Notting Hill et al, driven by mummies on the school/soccer/ballet circuit.  I was able to drive the SUV (after my husband gave me a hand climbing into it).  However, I was not able to park the SUV.  I’d have a better chance trying to reverse parallel park the Millenium Falcon in an asteroid belt.

At the other end of the size spectrum, we tried the station wagons. These cars were just big enough to hold our 4 children but all luggage and grandparents would have to go on the roof rack.

We finally settled on what is known as a “people mover”.  My husband had terrified visions of piling the children into a Partridge Family-esque mini-bus but the people mover wasn’t quite as bad as that. His dreams about owning a Masserati have been postponed for his mid-life crisis, and now we all pile into a Citroen C4.

My husband drives it easily, and he could probably engage in a high-speed car chase with the CIA through the streets of Moscow in it.  I still forget how to start it, stop it, find the indicator or control the rear windscreen wipers.  However I can drive it, and, with rear vision guidance from all of the children in the backseats, I can actually park it.