Moata's Blog Idle

Moata Tamaira is a librarian with a black-belt in sarcasm who's been meaning to get one in procrastination too but always ends up watching TV instead. Her blog is an unholy mash-up of whimsy, cynicism and wry observation.

Big-brained or not, Paul Henry's not welcome in my house

05:00am 20 Jul 2015

MOATA TAMAIRA

OPINION: It's not every day you get quoted by the NZHerald.co.nz without realising it.

In this case it doesn't even have anything to do with my ponytail, which, given that I haven't been to see my hairdresser in about 8 months (sorry, Jeff!), is at a length that would be considered "tantalising" by a certain head of state.

Nope, this time it was a remark I made on Twitter last week, namely this one.

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Toastbusters: Why is it so hard to get untoasted bread at cafes?

05:00am 03 Jul 2015

MOATA TAMAIRA

We all have our quirks and preferences. Luckily mine are mostly harmless.

But having figured out what my preferences are, I do like to indulge in them if I can. I want my cider without ice. I want my peanut butter crunchy.

Nobody will be maimed if I don't get these things but I will probably make a face.

Lucille Bluth speaks for me with her face

This isn't generally a problem. I'm not in the habit of making outlandish requests.

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All toddlers are psychopaths

10:00am 19 Jun 2015

MOATA TAMAIRA

Hi.

It's been a little while since I last wrote. There are a few reasons for that, which if you're interested, you can read about on my website.

But for today I'd like to talk about toddlers, specifically the way in which they are like Joe Pesci (it's not just that they're short with high-pitched voices).

My beloved offspring is now 18 months old. He's walking and (sort of) talking and learning all kinds of neat things like how to spin round in a circle until you get dizzy and fall over. Some of the time it is just plain hilarious. We're not laughing with him. We're laughing AT him.

But here's the thing - he's also an uncontrollable psycho. With no warning whatsoever he can turn from delightful to frightening.

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Do you know where your toddler is?

05:00am 07 May 2015

MOATA TAMAIRA

Since returning to full-time employment after having a child I've faced a number of obstacles. Most of them are The Master's toys which are strewn from one end of the house to the other. But certainly the removal of daytime naps from my life has been a sad loss. And then there were the feelings of sadness that I'd be spending less time with the little guy.

There have been teething issues, of course. Some of them were caused by actual teething, some by The Master's haphazard approach to daytime naps at his nanas' but on the whole we've been managing the transition pretty well. Apart from the first day, I haven't been that upset about leaving him to go to work.

However, I've noticed something since I've started work that's beginning to really bug me. Every time I've met a new person (or more likely have been re-introduced to a former colleague since I'm back at a previous workplace), I've been asked about my childcare arrangements. In the last few weeks, I would reckon that upwards of 20 people have inquired about where my son is and who's taking care of him.

I mean, what is that about?

I don't think the individual people asking necessarily mean anything by it. I'm fairly sure they're just making conversation, but the sheer volume of these inquiries in a short space of time has had the effect of making me a tad paranoid. Where IS my toddler? He's probably being dandled upon a loving nana's knee ... but what if he's actually been kidnapped by Colombian drug-running ne'er do wells? What then?

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The difficulties of maternal giftware

05:00am 05 May 2015

MOATA TAMAIRA

It's Mother's Day on Sunday.

You probably already know this due to the plethora of mailers and store displays encouraging you to show your mother how much you love her by shelling out some money and buying her a gift or two.

This is will be my second Mother's Day since having a baby. I feel like I should be able to remember the first one but that whole first six months of parenthood is something of blur of vomit, tears, and self doubt that not even the best greeting card in the world could've cut through. I'm sure the Silver Fox got me a lovely card and a thoughtful gift but I honestly have no idea.

I recently sat down with a pile of these mailers in the hopes of narrowing down the options for the SF, maybe circling a couple of things that I considered appropriate gifts.

Boy, was that a waste of time.

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