Contrary to popular opinion, I hate being idle. There is little that is more exhausting to me than a day of trying to look busy, without actually being genuinely busy. I like it when there are twenty things in my diary, organised into A, B and C priorities, a queue outside the door when we open at 9am and a phone that never stops ringing, as long as it's for me every time. I love it when I look at the clock and suddenly it's 5.30pm and I think, where did the day go? Oh yeah, on looking after my customers and making loads of money. Being efficient and focused leads me into that zen state you get part way through a yoga class. It's both absorbing and satisfying.

Unfortunately, the office where I still work is quiet in the extreme. Hours can go by without the phone ringing or anybody coming in. This ought to be a welcome relief from my home life, but since I get paid in commission, it only gives me long hours to stress about how much money I am not making. 

The advantage is that I can legitimately surf any website relating to travel, on the grounds of research and self-education. Hmm, surfing websites - aha! surfgoddessretreats.com - I think I've just planned my next holiday. The very act of reading about a day spa seems to make me relax. And when I need a little more intellectual stimulation, I can justify visiting sites about consumer behaviour.

But there are only so many sites I can read before my eyes get glazed and red and I start to develop DVT from sitting still for so damn long. Bring on 5.30pm.

Last Thursday, still foggy with sleep, I reached down to pick up one of Fizzy's toys from under the breakfast table. There was a sudden twang in my right shoulder. Uh-oh, here we go again. The muscle under my right shoulder blade had spasmed and sharp pain shot from the back of my skull down to my hip. Warily, I tried to turn to the right. Yeowch! The only way to do it was to turn my whole torso. Over the weekend, the tension mounted. After much begging and pleading on my part, Bobby Mowang massaged tiger balm into it, but I suspect he deliberately gives crap massages in order not to be asked too often. By Monday, I could scarcely move my mouse and the pain was so intense I felt nauseous. This wasn't going to clear up on its own. It was time to pull out the big guns and go to New Norfolk.

New Norfolk is about 35km from Hobart. It's a picturesque, very European village. The surrounding farmlands are used for dairy cattle, vineyards and growing hops. It is also well known for a nasty and well-publicised case of a local doctor who liked to do unseemly things to Rottweilers. He was rather outspoken about it - thought it was the last taboo which should be tumbled. This wasn't why I went there. I was there to visit a dilapidated weatherboard house with a peeling painted sign saying 'Every Body's Health.'

The carpets are threadbare, the ceilings are mouldy and I had to call out to the empty foyer for a staff member to come and attend to me. But despite its shabby appearance, this place is Gold. After marinating for twenty minutes in a steaming hot tub, I was treated to an hour-long massage in a sunny room with a view of the Derwent Valley. Once I was completely relaxed, warm and sleepy, the masseuse left me to lie there for a bit in the sun. A shaggy black dog wandered in and lay in front of the heater while I listened to a crackling Fleetwood Mac record. At length, a hippy about my Dad's age wanders in. This is Tony, the guru, the reason why everyone comes here. He takes me gently by the hand. Then he twists my arm up behind my back and cracks the bejeesus out of it. #%$^&*!!

It hurts like billy-o, as my Gran would say. Each of my limbs is given the same treatment. It's hard not to flinch, especially when he cracks my toes, which are cold despite the warmth of the room. 'Turn over, please,' Tony says. This is awkward. I'm in nothing but my undies and it's not one of those massages where they put a modesty towel over your front. I try Fizzy's trick: If I close my eyes, he can't see me. Tony sits on the massage table next to my head and puts his hand at my throat. Crack! Crunch! Suddenly, my Mum telling me a story about some friend of a friend who had a stroke after getting her neck cracked by an osteopath pops into my mind. For a moment I think my neck might be broken, but then realize it feels good. Great, even. 'Now stand up. Hmm, there's some upper back compression. Step forward with your right root. Turn it out. Bit more. One hand behind your head, one on top. That's it.' And with that, he gets me in a full nelson and jerks my upper body up and forward. CLICK! It's so sudden and unexpected that I yelp, but fuck me, the pain is gone. 'Now have a stretch. How does that feel?'
Extremely bloody uncomfortable, to tell the truth, practically in the nuddy, stretching in front of a man I know only slightly. But he doesn't seem to be staring at my tits and the knot is gone! It's gone! I can turn again! Whoo-hoo! I feel two inches taller.

Then I go home and spend four hours on the computer and my back's fucked again. 

Dear Fizzy,

Happy birthday! I woke you this morning, as I do every morning, by flinging open your bedroom door and shouting, 'Buongiorno, principessa!' Today you sat up sleepily, ran your fingers through your curly hair and said, 'Green flowers.'
'Pardon?'
'Green flowers in my hair,' you explained.
'Did you dream you had green flowers in your hair?' 
'Yes.'
'Hey, guess what day it is today? It's Happy Birthday To You, Fizzy!'
'No, silly Mummy. Not happy day to Fizzy.' You were confused because we had your birthday party on Sunday. That was happy day to Fizzy.
'Yes, it is your birthday. Happy Birthday, Fizzy!' 
Suddenly you embraced the possibilities.
'A tebby bear cake? With two candles? A brown one tebby bear cake?'

Two years is such a milestone. At this age, you have so much more control over the world around you. I am constantly agape at the things you can do. Last week, you surprised your grandmother by reading the words Mummy, Daddy, Nan, Pop, Fizzy and Stella. Testing your abilities, I asked you what was written on your socks. For a moment, you frowned at them, concentrating. Then you grinned. 'Friday!' you announced. They actually said 'Friends.' See? I wasn't making it up when I said you were clever. 

Every Sunday, we let you stay up for the first half of So You Think You Can Dance. You adore dancing, and when the show starts, you climb up on the coffee table and dance right along. To our amazement, you can do the steps of the opening sequence - the 'Here are your girls... Here are your guys!' bit. If only we can get you out of the habit of stripping off all your clothes and dancing on the table in the nuddy. Goodness knows where you get that from.

In a trait you have definitely got from me, however, you are an organiser. You give me a constant stream of instructions. Charmingly, you always want to make sure that everyone has something to eat and drink. 'Mummy have some toast too. Sit dere, Mummy. Dat's Mummy's chair. Eat some! Eat some! Mummy have coffee too. And Daddy. Daddy and Mummy and Fizzy have coffee. Porridge? Yeah, let's have porridge. With sultanas. Want some more porridge, Mummy?' When I collect you from creche, you are busily matching up children with their shoes and backpacks and parents, and ensuring everybody takes turns at everything.

We are right on the precipice of declaring you toilet trained. You announce that you need to go, take yourself off to the facilities, shout, 'You wait dere!' if I try to assist you, remove your own nappy, climb on board the loo, tear off some toilet paper, wipe, climb down, flush, close the lid and wash your hands. What's missing? The aim of the exercise. You are actually supposed to poo. When I point this out to you, you scrunch up your face and grunt loudly, but only rarely does this result in any action. 

If only, and this is a big if only, you would sleep through the night! Sometimes you do, but it's the exception rather than the rule. I took the drastic step of throwing away all your bottles last week, so that I couldn't give in to your wailed requests at 3am. I've also been trying to fill you up with real food instead of milk or snacks during the day, but when you get hungry, you go quickly into screaming meltdown, so I end up relenting and letting you eat crackers and goat's cheese while I'm making dinner, which you then won't eat. Then you wake up crying because you're hungry again. Your sleeping habits (or lack thereof) make me the laughing stock of mother's group.

On a recent family trip to the shack at Orford, we tried letting you sleep in a big girl's bed. You were really tired by the late afternoon, so you asked me if you could have a lie down. I put you in bed, tucked you in, gave you a kiss and promised to be back in five minutes. I was so proud when half an hour had gone by and we hadn't heard from you. Clearly, you were ready to make the transition. But then your Dad went to check on you. The room looked like a war zone. You had pulled the mattresses off the three single beds, upended every drawer and container in the room, scattered the contents from here to kingdom come and finger-painted on the walls with a tube of zinc cream. I took one look at the devastation and decided you would continue to sleep in a cot until you're twenty.

People keep telling me this Mummy gig gets easier as you go along, but I dunno. After two years, I'm still tearing my hair out. Insanity is hereditary: you get it from your children. All I can say is, if we get through this alive, you owe me big time. 

Love, 
Mummy

Breakfast is my favourite meal of the day. I never miss it. It's one of my preferred dining out options. Hobart has a thriving cafe culture, so there are lots of good spots to choose from. More and more venues open all the time; owning a cafe seems to be the young person's equivalent of the B&B dream of retiring baby boomers. That is, the reality is exhausting and demoralising and a sinkhole for your money. Admittedly the idea has flitted across my mind, but I fairly rapidly decided that I didn't so much want to run a cafe as eat at one.

The point I wanted to make, if I could ever find my way back, is that there isn't a lot to distinguish some of these cafes. Sure, the Machine has outstanding eggs Benedict, while the Island has brilliant coffee, but most places seem to be trying to market the same points of difference, namely good service and good coffee. Frankly, good service is a minimum standard. After all, if I'm going to drag myself, my husband and my daughter out of bed on a Sunday morning, actually get dressed before the first meal of the day AND part with around $35-$40 for the privilege of doing so, the restaurateur needs to give me something I couldn't get at home. 

Really, I have no complaints about the service in most places I visit. Sometimes it's rushed, but generally it's friendly and the coffee is fine. Admittedly, there is such a good thing as good coffee and bad coffee, but once it's above a certain standard, you need to be a real connoisseur to tell the difference. 

So where could the cafe owners of this world make a difference? Breakfast, of course. How many times do I have to pick up a menu and see the same items? Bircher muesli - boring! Poached eggs on toast - even Bobby Mowang can make that. Fruit and yoghurt - for crying out loud, I am not paying $11 for fruit and yoghurt even when I am on a diet.

I want to be impressed. I want to have difficulty selecting from a menu that contains four or five things that I absolutely, desperately must have. I want to experience meal envy watching other diners getting served. Here's what I would like to see on a breakfast menu:

TEENAGERS and people with very fair skin will not be allowed to use solariums in at least one state under new regulations to stop vulnerable people developing cancer.

The Aussie bronzed look is still (unfortunately) popular, particularly among teenage girls. 'Bad things happen if you're not brown,' as Kathy Lette said, in her famous book Puberty Blues. I think. The reference escapes me and a quick Google search is not turning anything up. 

Regrettably, this includes me. My teenage efforts to acquire a tan resulted in third degree burns to 90% of my body on more than one occasion. Clearly, I'm not a fast learner. When the fiery red sheets of skin peeled away, they revealed my new look: Tan Through a Screen Door. Yup, I was so freckly I looked like I had some kind of skin disease.

Finally I saw the light, or rather, saw the dark. I locked myself away for many years, venturing forth only with a liberal application of sunscreen and a broad-brimmed hat, and the freckles have faded almost completely. Now I am back to my natural state: glow in the dark. 

It's probably a good thing that I am likely to be banned from solaria. It would take three weeks of expensive daily treatments for me to go from blue to white. 

Now, if they can just ban fluorescent lighting, my skin may be safe.

OK, so I'm just a mommyblogger. Yet another one of those women who can do twelve things at once with a budget approximately 30% below the poverty line and still crank out some reasonably amusing bloggery a couple of times a week. Yawn. Dime a dozen, we are. 

But on Thursday, I slipped down a rung. 

I was at Northgate Shopping Centre with Fizzy, buying dressing gowns and Easter eggs and changing the direct debit details for my health insurance. Fizzy had been a particularly good girl, so I rewarded her with a ride on one of those annoying parent traps they put just inside the doors. This one was the Bananas in Pyjamas, with a little red car to drive. Two dollars a hit, but after last week's incident in a jumping castle at the Taste of the Huon, I realized my money would be ill spent. Fizzy would probably start screaming blue murder if the car started moving. I let her just play on board without setting the wheels in motion. 

Fizzy is turning the steering wheel, pushing the buttons and hugging and kissing B1 and B2. I'm standing there juggling my shopping bags, wondering if she's likely to finish any time soon and what we're going to have for lunch. Just then, an older woman approaches me. She's walking with a cane and perhaps doesn't seem entirely compos mentis. 'What a little darling!' she exclaims. 'Is she a good girl for Mummy and Daddy?'
'Yes, she's a very good girl,' I agree.
'But she's Nanny's girl, isn't she?'
'Um, yeah, she does love her Nan and Pop,' I say.
'But she really seems like a Nanny's girl,' the woman insists, tapping the floor with her cane for emphasis.
With a sinking feeling, I suddenly realize that this woman thinks that I am Fizzy's Nanny. Oh. My. God. For my offshore readers, a Nanny in Australia is not the au pair, the babysitter, nor the hired help. 'Nanny' is what you call your grandmother. 

Admittedly, we are out in the Badlands, north of the latte line, beyond the flannelette curtain. (The queue is shorter at the private health insurers here than in the city). At 28, I am a good decade older than most of the mothers in these parts. It's theoretically possible that I could be Fizzy's grandmother, though it would have meant a very early start. Nonetheless, I have not felt this embarrassed since a fellow delegate at a conference congratulated me on a non-existent pregnancy. I have never worn that outfit again.

Out in the car, I check my reflection in the rear vision mirror. The make up I hastily applied this morning can't cover the fact that I have exceeded the baggage allowance under my eyes by a good 20kg, but at least the full set of Louis Vuitton is drawing attention away from my red, aching eyes and deathly pale skin. 

She's right. I have become a Nannyblogger.

I need a rest.