and the winner of Most Exciting Parent 2006 is....not me

We share the child care, my husband and I. That is to say, he looks after the children one day of the week, and now thinks he's Mr Mom as a consequence. It's not just Fatty who thinks he's terrific, either...other women of our acquaintance are forever fawning over his perceived goodness and fatherly prowess and gushing over his wondrous ways. My mother thinks the sun shines out of his cute little butt. Huh! Does anyone praise me for taking care of my progeny the rest of the time? Not likely.

So anyway, the day that Fatty is the SAHD, he drops our daughter off to school, and then whizzes off to do something dazzlingly interesting with Ben. They go to the museum; they go eat donuts; they go to the library. Daddy is a veritable one-stop fun-shop. He says 'yes' to almost anything, food with any nutritional content is optional, and the house looks like a construction site when I pick my way gingerly down the hall after work.

Then there are the days I'm in charge. On these days, I must grocery shop, take kids to swimming lessons, take kids for haircuts, cut their fingernails, do washing, fold clothes, take kids to the dentist...blah blah blah. Do you see what I mean? I am simply no fun to be around. I get all the boring bits.

Now, in case you're about to tell me to let the house get dirty, forget the washing, and just go have some fun...well I do try to manage some small outing or new experience with Ben, while his sister is at school. I fit it right in between grocery shopping so we have food to eat, and taking the dog for her shots, so she doesn't die of rabies...or dog whooping cough..or whatever it is that dogs need vaccinations for. We still have good fun, but I suspect never as much fun as when time is unimportant; when Daddy is in charge.

Today, Fun Parent took Ben to the water's edge, to explore the mud flats in his Batman boots (I believe that -completely coincidentally - there happened to be some water birds in the area. And you know how my dearest Fatty feels about anything avian).

Tomorrow it's my turn. If the photo is anything to go by, I reckon the boots and the mud are going to be hard to top.

Freefalling

The sometimes serious, sometimes hilarious, and always fascinating blogger, cmhl, recently wrote a guest post for another blogger. cmhl bravely told a cringe-worthy story of a ski trip she once took, where she was embarrassed and humiliated in front of her then-fiance (now husband) and his oh-so-cool friends. It is a very funny story. Go here if you want to laugh WITH cmhl (scroll down to last Monday's post).You could probably even go there if you want to laugh AT cmhl. She's a pretty good sport, I can just tell (cmhl, am I right?!)

cmhl's tale reminded me of one of my more embarrassing blunders. I think I will share it with you. I will warn you in advance that there is nothing remotely as cool as skiing in this story.

All through high school, I played the violin in the school orchestra. Yes, I am a nerdy violin player. Our school orchestra was quite highly-regarded (as school orchestras go, that is!), and almost every year would win the all-schools title in our state-wide competition. So when, in my final high school year, I was made deputy leader of the orchestra, I was SO proud. I knew that I would be the one to lead the orchestra onstage for each performance (so that the leader could come on after the orchestra had seated, to her own round of applause). I would probably have a short solo here or there. I thought I was the bees knees and the ants pants.

One afternoon, our orchestra was performing in the city hall. I was excited. There would be a large audience. Two of my closest friends were watching. A boy who had just broken up with me would also be there. I had practised the music over & over, and knew it well. Now was my chance to shine.

I strode onto the stage, violin tucked neatly under my arm. I was also carrying an electronic tuner which our slightly tone-challenged conductor used to tune the orchestra. I circled around the back of the violin sections, making my way towards the front of the stage. It was dim light, and a large, plush curtain hung almost touching the chairs at the back of the violin section. Head held high, I stepped behind the last chair......felt my foot descend into nothing but air.... and landed in a small stairwell. CRASH! - my violin came down on its bridge, WHAM! the tuner hit the deck, and batteries rolled across the stage. OOOOOOH! inhaled the audience, in a rush of surprise and concern. I lay, half in the stairwell, half on the stage, for a moment, hearing the rumble of murmuring concert-goers. Why? Why do I always find a way to commit social suicide? I asked myself bleakly. A man climbed onstage and retrieved the batteries, handing them to me. I scrambled up awkwardly, pretending mild amusement. I wanted to run off and hide in a cupboard.

I had whacked my hip very hard in landing, but no way was I going to add to the drama by crying or limping. Making what I hoped was a 'rueful but unfazed' face, I continued to my chair and sat down. I played as usual, I smiled, I bowed with the orchestra at the end as though feeling perfectly fine. When I got home later, my hip was sporting a bruise the size of my hand.

After the orchestra's performance, I slunk into the audeince to watch other orchestras play. My friends greeted me with a muttered, "Are you OK?". There was something odd about the way their mouths were held - as if they were desperately trying to resist some uncontrollable movements. The second I affirmed I was, indeed, still physically intact, my friends bubbled over with muffled mirth...

"Oh my God, that was so funny!!! You should have seen yourself! You looked like you were trying to DIVE across the stage!"

They sputtered into silence as I looked at them in utter despondence. Kirsten tried to pacify me.
"Um, Michael didn't laugh. He seemed worried. We were with him when you - you know - fell. Down those stairs."

Great. He dumped me, and now he's witnessed me dump myself.

I rolled my eyes at my friends, but managed a small smile. I had to admit, I must have looked pretty funny - walking on with such proud, dignified bearing, then splatting onto the stage. Iris and Kirsten grinned back at me. Every so often Kirsten would start with muted laughter. Iris would shush her, and then we would all start to giggle again.

They say pride comes before a fall. I like to take these things literally.

black belt

photo by Neenjaw Tim

Today, I thought I'd simply post a picture. It is not me, obviously! Those of you who follow this blog will understand.

I am going to drink some champagne tonight!

defeated by a bee

Do you see these assorted insect parts? Do you see the smeary marks on the table? Now, do you think that this photo in any way resembles a bee????

Of course it bloody doesn't. It looks nothing like a bee. At the Pom Pom Pals factory, they obviously produce art packs designed to defeat and humiliate adults, never mind 3-year-old children. I bet every night those pom pom pal designers go home and snigger to themselves, wondering how many fully-grown men and women they have reduced to tears that day. Hmmph. Pah! Bugger bugger double bugger. I've no inclination for tears, but I'd love to flush this goddamn bee!!

I would have been tempted to rip the bee's head off, if only the bee's head was attached to its' body. It seems there is no glue sticky enough to unite head and body. The glue seems to stick to my fingers extremely well, yet strangely has no affinity with the pom poms. I don't really know why I persisted beyond the first step of trying to attach the eyes. Those little suckers were determined to resist me from the get-go. They were free spirits; wild, roaming eyes. I could not tame them.

I think this bee is representative of how my day has been in general - badly-organised and ultimately quite unsuccessful. My frustration levels are...well, elevated. Nothing so terrible has happened; nothing has gone very smoothly, though. I tried to be an interactive, hands-on mother and ended up swearing under my breath at a bee. A pom pom bee. Well yes, pieces of a pom pom bee, to be precise. I know! - get a grip, woman!

Ah well, I'll be much better in a couple of hours. The cure to all stress awaits ...... my karate class! Whoo-hoooooo!

a fanciful child

The more I get to know my daughter, Laura, the more I see traits in her that I remember from my own childhood. Perhaps I'm partly imagining them. Perhaps I'm projecting certain emotions onto her behaviour, which she may not truly be feeling. I don't think so, though. My Laura Lou is a sensitive, slightly serious creature, given to fanciful thoughts, and rapt in stories of princes and castles ... strangely similar to her mother at the same age.

The other night, when feverish and dull-eyed, Laura sighed and tossed in her bed. I sat at her bedside, and asked her what was wrong. Laura sighed again, shook her head, and murmured, "You'll think it's silly".

"I won't. I promise I won't think you're silly. What is it?", I queried.

"It's just.... my head feels too big for my neck. My neck is too skinny and my head is too big."

The thing is, I knew exactly what she meant - that thick, heavy-headed feeling that high temperatures bring. I smiled, and told Laura I understood; that what she said made perfect sense. I went to fetch the Nurofen.

When I was small, I remember trying to explain my odd thoughts to my mother. I don't ever remember her laughing, or telling me I was silly, but I have a vague memory of her seeming concerned, and loving, but slightly perplexed. My mother is a very down-to-earth person. I'm not sure that she knew what I was rambling on about much of the time.

I recall one summer being terribly un-nerved by the sound of slow knocking. Any sort of slow, insistent banging gave me the creeps. I remember trying to demonstrate the scariness to my mother, by rapping my fist in a rhythm on the wall, with long pauses between strikes. In my memory, my mother made some supportive sort of response, but I could tell she couldn't comprehend the fear. I was an odd sort of kid, I suppose.

Another time, aged 7 or so, I remember being very worried by the fact that over about 3 days, every time I burped, I could taste grilled cheese sandwiches. I kept telling Mum, " It's happening again! I can taste grilled cheese!". I felt like I would never escape the clutches of the melted cheese sandwiches, that Grilled Cheese had taken over my body like some sort of a demon. I probably didn't know about demons, then, actually. But I definitely was distressed. I'm not sure what my poor mother thought.

Then there were the strong feelings I had about numbers. Odd numbers were shady, shifty, mean sorts of numbers - not to be trusted. Even numbers, on the other hand, were honest, straightforward and decent. So if asked to choose a number between 1 and 10, it was always going to be an even number. Two was too few, eight was too much. Four was OK, but to be frank, not quite enough. Now, SIX....well, how could you go past it?? The number six was obviously the perfect number. I am still a huge fan of six.

Perhaps I wasn't such a strange child - perhaps all children have these weird thoughts, but just don't tell each other. Instead, kids confide in their old, sensible parents.

I may be old, but I'm still not completely sensible. And when it comes to parenting, that's not always such a bad thing.

things left unsaid

You know, I've been thinking about what I said yesterday, when I joked that I had lost all ability to write. I was kidding around, but I also genuinely thought I had nothing to say.

Today, I realised I have plenty to say, but it just isn't anything profound, or funny, or especially entertaining. I suspect I may be editing myself, just in case you guys get bored with me. Now, as much as I don't want to send any of you into some kind of catatonic state, I also don't want to get too self-conscious, either. This is my blog, and if it's occasionally a blustering, bumbling and basically bloody boring blog....well at least you'll be proud of my alliteration.

There are three things on my mind at the moment, and they're sitting in the centre of my brain, taking up almost all the space. (The rest of the space is occupied by fat, if you believe my dear husband).

These are my current musings:

1) I have a karate grading in just over a week. I am going to attempt to get my first black belt. I am very nervous, and can't stop thinking things like - 'What if I freeze up, like I did that time last year?' and other self-destructive thoughts.

2) My daughter has had fevers, just fevers, for 4 days now. Although she isn't too unwell in herself, I worry a little. Sometimes being a doctor helps, because I can check her throat, her ears, her chest. However, I can also imagine all the rare things she could possibly have (and almost certainly doesn't have!).

3) One of my patients died this week. She was in her late 70's, with widespread cancer, and it was an expected death. But to me, every death is sad in some way, no matter what platitudes people mouth about 'it's better this way' etc. It would have been better for this stoic, beautiful lady to have done Tai Chi and played suduko and had the odd glass of wine, and lived in ruddy good health until she died in her sleep, aged 90, after a laughter-filled evening with her family. It would have been better that way.

I didn't ever get close to 'Marjorie'. When I told her, gut twisting, that her cancer had spread, Marjorie took it all in her stride. She asked, dry-eyed, about treatment options. I never saw her shed a tear, even during several home visits towards the end. I know Marjorie must have cried sometime. I honestly believe, though, that she was a woman who took what life threw at her and did the best she could with it - good or bad.

I was not close to her, but I had the privilege of attending to her in her last days. Marjorie, rest in peace.

garden happy-snaps

OK, it's official. All rational thought has been eradicated from my brain
by the grocery shopping, the sandwich-making, the clothes-folding, the fight refereeing...

I must now resort to merely posting pictures. I may have to re-name this blog 'Jellyhead's Gallery'. I will simply snap, snap, snap all day, and show you what I've discovered, wordlessly. Or at least, with only a few succinct words.

Actually, I have just done a 'guest post' for a fellow blogger. It was a nerve-wracking experience. I didn't want to embarrass this blogger in front of her adoring audience. I squeezed my last tiny drop of creativity into writing something for my friend. Now I am a hollow vessel. A remarkably talkative hollow vessel, you may remark. Shush up. I'm going now.

triple chocolate muffins

Yesterday, I did a bit of cooking with Laura and Benjamin (see pictorial evidence). I find that my children provide a great excuse for me to go ahead and bake all kinds of wicked treats. They'll enjoy pouring and mixing, I tell myself. It's something we can do together, I rationalise. I suppose the kids and I could bake some healthy, oatmeal-encrusted, dried-fruit-loaded, yoghurt-based slice. But we don't. We make naughty, iced patty cakes, peanut butter biscuits (cookies) and chocolate cake. And now these gooey, chocolate-y muffins.

I blame Flossy for this latest venture into Sweet Toothery. She should never have posted a recipe for triple chocolate muffins. It was quite irresponsible of her, really. What about the diabetics? What about the people with high cholesterol? What about the greedy women in their mid-30's who have husbands who wear their socks too high, and thus need consolation in the form of chocolate??? Did Flossy consider any of these minority groups when she so selfishly posted her favourite muffin recipe? Nooooooo, she did NOT.

Some people are just all ME, ME, ME.



PS Flossy, these were very yummy - thanks!

a legacy of love

I visited my grandfather this week. Grandpa still lives in his own home, at age almost 92, and is still as sharp as a tack. Two days before I visited, he had overbalanced and fallen, bruising his hip and shoulder. Thankfully there were no other injuries, besides his wounded dignity. We ate some fruit loaf together, and talked.

Visiting Grandpa is always tinged with a little sadness, because my Grandma is no longer alive. Grandpa and Grandma were a real team, and my grandfather still misses her keenly, although it has been 11 years since she died. Grandma and Grandpa had such a profound love for each other - I suppose that kind of love doesn't just die when one partner dies.

As a teenager, hoping to one day find a long-lasting relationship myself, it was my grandparents' marriage that I held up as an ideal. This was partly because my parents' marriage was clearly not something I wanted for myself. This was also because, although they occasionally quarrelled, Grandpa and Grandma never disrespected each other, and in daily life they were loving, affectionate and playful together. They thanked each other for chores one did for the other. They kissed hello and goodbye, even if my grandfather was merely going out into the paddocks for a few hours. They laughed at each others' jokes. Anyone who spent time with my grandparents could see the happiness they brought to each other - it glowed all around them like a double aura.

My grandparents were married for over 50 years. They worked hard to establish themselves; Grandpa built their house himself, and Grandma made it a comfortable home. They raised 2 children, and saw their children have children. They travelled together, to Europe and to North America. They shared many joys, and few sadnesses, in their life.

My Grandma was ill for many months before she died, but she was lucid up until her last few hours. Grandpa cared for her at home, and Grandma died in her own bed, with her beloved soul mate beside her.

Just a few days before Grandma died -when she was painfully thin, and weak, and barely able to whisper - Grandpa came into their bedroom to check on my grandmother. Finding Grandma on his side of the bed, Grandpa teased his girl, saying, "What are doing over here, pet?". Grandma smiled, and touched a hand to his cheek. "Looking for you, Romeo!", she replied.

I wasn't present in the room during that brief exchange. My grandfather told me the story. It's a story I'll treasure and remember always.

birds on the brain

Before I say anything, let it be known that I am myself a person of great nerdiness. I was born nerdy, grew up nerdy, and have remained so. I have never entered the ranks of the cool people. I am quite comfortable with that.

But there's nerdy and then there's beyond nerdy. There's regular, slightly-unfashionable-and-occasionally-socially-awkward nerdy and then there's HUGELY, no-need-for-contraception-when-your-husband-is-this-nerdy nerdy. My husband has definitely approached this threshold.

Yesterday, Fatty had an afternoon off work. So what would any good birdwatcher do? Of course, he donned hat and sunscreen and disappeared off to the bush with his camera. But just before he left, our 3-year-old Ben starting crying, bleating, 'I don't want you to go bird-watching, Daddy'. Guiltily, Fatty promised he'd meet up with us at swimming lessons in an hour, and then he slunk away to get his birdie fix. Tweet tweet.

Ten minutes into the kids' swimming lessons, I figured Fatty probably got distracted by the striking markings of a blue-faced honeyeater. Understandable, really. But alas this was not the case. Striding towards me along the length of the pool was a sweat-streaked Fatty, in tucked-in polo shirt (ugh), yard shorts (hmmm), with belt (what?), and some grotty running shoes, with socks sneaking towards mid-calf region (who *is* this man?!). The whole ensemble was set off by the fact that Fatty's hair, having been compressed under his Akubra hat, had morphed itself into a kind of comb.....rooster-like. I bravely smiled in greeting, and tried my best to look loving and accepting. Perhaps I could pass him off as my brother.

It seemed all the other fathers there had trendy shorts, or funky shirts, or earrings in one ear. They lounged, casually, as Fatty whipped out his camera and started furiously snapping shots of our aquatic-dwelling offspring. He refused to sit down, preferring to remain standing and snapping. I furtively tried to smooth down the peak of hair on his head. He snorted derisively, " Who cares? I'm not here to hit on anyone, I'm watching my kids swim!".The woman next to me glanced at my shiny, rumpled husband, and politely averted her gaze again.

Now you all know I do adore Fatty, and I'm not so superficial as to think any less of him just because he publicly humiliated me at the pool. But let's just say that when Fatty's been out birding, the blue-faced honeyeaters probably want to be close to him a hell of a lot more than I do. And even they take flight.

kid conversation

In my experience, life is rarely dull with kids. Exhausting, yes; frustrating, it's true; but hardly ever boring - especially with slightly older children, who have plenty to say.

Both my kids seem to have pretty good memories...way better than me, anyway. I told one story about Princess Missy Moo and Brave Knight Steve (who incidentally wasn't very brave at all - kind of whiny really- and Princess Missy Moo refused to marry him, which unfortunately caused Laura to cry, and made Fatty remark that my stories are way too feminist) and then several weeks later Ben was requesting a story about 'Brave Knight Steve'. I sniggered at the name before slowly remembering that this fictional character was created by me. Er, right....more about Steve then...

Laura also has a memory like an elephant, and will dredge up memories from when she was two or younger, just to torture me...

"Remember Mum when I was really sick, and you had to put medicine in my bottom?". Yes, well, I do remember that now; thanks for reminding me.

Of my two kids, though, Benjamin is the more vocal - he talks an awful lot. When we are out somewhere together, and I become aware of someone listening to our conversation, I realise just how much Ben loves to chat. I spend hours listening to his ideas, exclaiming over his fanciful tales, and answering a gazillion questions. Today in the supermarket, Ben asked me, "What does EGGZILLERATING mean?". He'd heard it on TV. I did my best to explain.

Some of the best amusement I get, though, comes from Ben's ability to recite phrases from movies, television, or overheard adult conversation. He stores these little gems up, and uses them at the oddest of moments. Last week, in the change-rooms at the swimming pool, I left Ben perched on the toilet, as I ducked around the corner to help Laura turn the shower on. There were mothers and children dressing and showering everywhere. Ben's cheery voice came echoing off the tiled walls....

" Now that's something you don't see every day!".

I busied myself with Laura. No way was I going to admit to being his parent.

looking back in time

Mackeydoodle, that wicked Canadian, has tagged me. I am not very obedient when it comes to tags. I thought I'd try to appease by at least answering the first question:

What were you doing ten years ago?

Ten years ago, I was working in a hospital. It was my second year of work, but I was still very nervous about my job (heck, I'm still nervous NOW!). It didn't seem quite right that I should be doctoring, because that was supposed to be for wise, confident, knowledgeable people who strode about proclaiming The Diagnosis and ordering The Treatment. I felt like an impostor, fearing discovery at every turn.

Early in the year, I was rotated into a job on the paediatric orthopaedic ward (that's kids bones, for anyone scratching their heads). This job was pretty easy - I just had to check the kids over prior to surgery, hold up various little people limbs during surgery, then make sure the children recovered safely afterwards. I settled into the job with relief. There was nothing too tricky, and the hours were good, too.

Often in the mornings, I would come across a serious, messy-haired man who was the anaesthetic registar (ie training in anaesthetics). I thought he was cute, but reserved - the brooding type. And perhaps because he was just that teensy bit cool towards me - why is this so true of many women?! - I found him terribly intriguing. I figured he probably had a long-term girlfriend anyway. Ah, what a shame, I mused.

Then one day I found myself holding a leg in the air in the operating theatre (yes, all those long years of medical school had taught me special leg-elevating skills), whilst shaggy-hair-man kept the small patient asleep at the head of the table. The two training-to-be orthopaedic surgeons doing the actual operating were going on with their usual macho b***s***. I really found it hard to maintain basic politeness towards these archaic cave-dwelling creatures. It was nothing for them to comment on my appearance, remark that I should be getting married soon, or send me to do any tedious non-medical job that they preferred not to do for themselves.

I was getting tired of keeping quiet and listening to their crap. So this particular day, I started countering everything they were saying. When they started ribbing me about how I'd soon be wanting to find a husband, have babies and stay home, I countered by retorting that I had no intention of marrying unless someone truly spectacular came along. If for some reason I did choose to procreate, I rambled, I expected to continue to work, and my husband could stay home with the kids. They laughed and went on with their blokey hammering and nailing. Turns out they were quite right to laugh, but let's just gloss right over that, please.

Suddenly the messy-haired man spoke. He said he'd been reading in his textbook about how women's bodies had much higher percentages of fat. Therefore, he concluded, women's brains must, compared to men's, be full of fat.

I was appalled. I thought this guy may be cute, but he's a jerk and a male chauvinist. In fact, this was my dear Fatty (as you've probably guessed), trying to get my attention by provoking me. It was similar to when you're a schoolboy, and you pull the pigtail of the girl you like, I suppose. You can most likely deduce that I soon figured out Fatty was actually not such a jerk. I also came to realise that Fatty's reserved manner was more to do with shyness than arrogance. So when he asked me out one day, I was buzzing with excitement. I had a feeling that this was the start of something huge. Even as a romantic, hormonal teenager, I had never felt so energised. A voice inside my head was telling me - this could be The One. As it turns out, he was; he is.

To summarise - ten years ago I was tentatively bumbling my way through my job, verbally defending myself against sexist pig registars, and falling head over heels for a man with hair that was perpetually in need of a cut.

I think that about sums it up.

unmasked

In case you didn't notice from the comments section of my last post - I have been exposed and identified. My blog address is now known to my mother, an aunt and two cousins. I feel a bit like you do in that dream where you turn up to school in just your undies.

Having read a post from my blog once, then cleverly remembered the address, Mum has been reading my blog for a couple of months now. I didn't much mind having Mum perusing my posts. She's a very uncritical mother, and we've always confided in each other, so I didn't feel self-conscious, knowing she might be reading. But no-one else knew but Mum until just now. I think her mother's pride got the better of her. She was irresistably compelled to show my writing to her sister, who then mentioned it to her 2 daughters.

I was cranky with Mum when I discovered - I was sure she knew I wanted complete anonymity. It never crossed my mind that she would tell anyone else how to access my blog. Now I am no longer mad, but I do feel weird about this blog. I hardly knew how to start writing tonight. And this is in no way any comment on my aunt or my cousins - in fact they are all very warm and lovely women - it's just strange trying to write with readers who know you. I feel vulnerable.

I'm not sure what the solution might be. I'm trying to 'act normal', and in this case, my 'acting normal' involves writing about a situation that has distressed me, in the full knowledge that the people involved may well read these words. It feels bizarre. I don't want anyone to feel slighted, and I don't want my mother to feel worse (because she knows she's upset me, and she already feels bad enough).

I guess in time I will forget I have relatives reading, and will just write as always. I hope so. Tonight I am practising continuing to write what's on my mind. No doubt it's less than a rolicking read, but sometimes blogging is like that.

I know many of you, my blogpals, have family and friends who read what you write. Does this cramp your style? Are you more guarded in what you write than you'd like to be? Any solutions for problems you've encountered? I really want to get over this small hump, so your advice is much appreciated.

love, spoken and unspoken

My husband, Fatty, is not a gushy type of man. I sometimes get to feeling unappreciated, because he is sparing with his praise. Fatty doesn't often speak of why he loves me. I'm rarely told that I am a good mother, or partner. Most times when we go out together, my careful preparations go unnoticed, or at least Fatty seems not to notice. He doesn't mention anything. He's not one to compliment me automatically.

On the weekend, Fatty and I went to a party together (which, by the way, was LOTS of fun - thanks everyone for your good wishes! I danced to 'Dancing Queen' with my friend KP and we thought all our Christmases had come at once. And Motherkitty, I did wear purple eyeshadow!). There were people there we hadn't seen for a long time. We mingled, mostly separately, for most of the evening, occasionally meeting up with a smile and a touching of hands. Fatty looked surprisingly dashing in his spangly shirt. I glanced across, every now and then, as Fatty talked and laughed with friends and acquaintainces. He wasn't gesticulating wildly, or loudly commanding the attention of several people at once. My husband has no artifice. He is simply a calm, friendly, genuine man.

Later, as we lay on our backs in bed, discussing the night's events, Fatty said something that made me realise that love doesn't need to be dissected, in order to prove it exists.

Fatty said, " I'm glad you're my wife."

"What do you mean?", I asked. " Why are you glad I'm your wife?"

"At the party, when I looked for you, and I saw you, I just thought, 'That's my wife'. And I was happy that you were my wife."

Although Fatty didn't explain himself further, I knew what he meant. Because at the party, when I sought him out with my eyes, I found him with a sense of finding home. I am always drawn to the way he looks, but more than that, I love the way he is. There was no-one at that party who could make me feel that way. There never is.

I guess I am someone who likes to articulate my feelings. It's just the way I am. But I forget sometimes that, whether or not it is defined, love is love. It doesn't always need explaining.

saturday night fever

The day has finally arrived...the day of the DISCO PARTY! I've been humming "I Will Survive" half the day (well, not quite half the day. I wasn't humming disco tunes at work this morning. It could be a little off-putting if your family doctor broke out singing "Boogie Fever" whilst inspecting your throat, right?). I'm psyched. I'm ready to get down on that dance floor.

I have made certain purchases at a local 'op shop'. For my dear husband, a delightful shirt. It is very Peter Allen, as you can see. Fatty is a little underwhelmed with my purchase (ungrateful man that he is). 'It's a costume party!', I chirpily reminded him. 'What else were you going to wear?'

For me, there is even more synthetic beauty to behold.....a purple sequinned dress, worn over luminescent gold bell-bottomed pants, with gold platform shoes. I am going to look soooooooo shiny.

It's six hours to go now. I'm actively seeking advice on accessories, hair styles and dance moves.

It could be a late night. It could be exhausting. It's just as well I was Born To Be Alive.

the tooth fairy came last night

It can't be true. My (only-just-turned-5) daughter has lost a baby tooth! This means she's close to leaving home, and I'm a mere step away from the grave!! Or perhaps I exaggerate. It's been known to happen.

I've always found the reaching of each childhood milestone to be bittersweet. I'm not one of those mothers who says "Hallelujah! That's one kid off to school!".... or "Thank goodness we can get rid of that cot." I always feel a certain nostalgia as each phase of childhood passes, because I know it's never coming around again. You can't say, "Stop, hang on! I wasn't paying enough attention!", because that time is gone forever. So, packing away the cot for the last time gave me a tight feeling in my throat; taking Laura for her first day at school left me faintly sad as well as awfully proud.

Luckily children always have new tricks up their sleeves to distract us. Ben constantly amazes me with his inquiring mind. Laura, my sweet gap-toothed Laura, is showing an artistic streak that fascinates me. In this way, our kids show us that although the past is lost to us, today is a joy in itself, and the future holds many more wonders. So no need to chastise me, I don't stay nostalgic for too long. Just until the tooth fairy dust has settled.

sick kid Sunday

I spent last night attending to a vomiting child, then awake off and on for hours, ever-alert for the sounds that would require me to assist with bucket-holding and brow-stroking. It was not much fun for either of us.

For those who don't already know - I am completely intolerant of nausea. In the face of nausea, I am a snivelling, moaning, wailing, groaning wretch. It's truly pathetic. One of the main reasons we only have 2 children is because, as wonderful as babies are, you have to spend the best part of nine months feeling queasy in order to get one of these amazing creatures (or at least that was my experience of pregnancy). Being pregnant twice, and enduring the vomitousness (a very new word - you may not have heard it yet) - that was enough for me. Labour - well that was tough, but I got through it, and I'd do that again more readily than deal with the churning stomach. Crazy? Not really, just weirdly phobic about nausea and vomiting.

Hence when my children are queasy or vomiting, I am just so anxious for them. I know that awful tumbling tummy feeling, I dread on their behalf the moment when they bend over the toilet in tears. I wish I could wave a magic Anti-Vomit Wand. Now there's something that would sell.

Last night Ben woke with a bad dream, then couldn't stop crying, and eventually was copiously sick. I held him, I rubbed his back, I mopped his face. He sat on the bathroom floor afterwards, with tear-matted eyelashes, and asked me quietly,

"Mummy, when you were a little girl, and you vomited, did you cry, too?"

"I sure did," I replied seriously, "and sometimes I've even cried when I've been grown up and vomited."

"Oh". He seemed oddly comforted by that.

As kids often do, Ben has bounced back quickly. He's racing around the house as I'm typing. And so we come to the end of another day in my family life!

bold birds and being blessed by blogging

Beside our front path stands a palm tree. On the palm tree is a heavy bough of flowers.

Each afternoon, these rainbow lorikeets have been feasting, nuzzling in with their heads, and even ducking their entire bodies deep within the flowers. We go racing along the path and up to the safety of the veranda - to reduce our chances of being splatted by messy missiles.

Rainbow lorikeets are so common in our neighbourhood that I wouldn't normally think twice about them. 'Yep, another lorikeet, what of it?' But one of the many good things about blogging is that it makes me look at my life from an outside perspective, and see the beauty and joy that is there every day, if only I take notice.

So, voila - another pictorial slice of my life.

While I'm mentioning paying attention - I want to thank all of you who stop by here regularly. It means a lot to me that you take the time to read my ramblings, and to comment. I have found some truly funny, kind and intriguing people through blogging. I am really happy to know you all.

the troops revolt

My children think I'm a tyrant. They wish they had a kind mother, instead of the dictator they seem to have been lumbered with. Secretly they yearn for one of those ever-smiling, 'sure-you-can-sweetie', blonde mothers you see in margarine ads. How do I know this? Just consider the following statements which have been directed at me recently:

Laura: 'Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! (loud tearful wail) Don't turn the TV off yet! Leave it ON!'

Benjamin: 'When I'm a Dad, I'm going to let my kids have lollies for breakfast, lollies for morning tea, lollies for lunch, lollies for afternoon tea and lollies for dinner"

Laura: 'Why do I have to do all these jobs?' (she has to put her PJs under her pillow and pull up her doona)

Benjamin: ' Guess what Mum? We're going to go to another country, where the mums and dads say you can put your feet on the table'

It's very distressing to think that they want to leave home at such an early age. I'll have to do something.

I'll pack a little snack for their trip.

no sugarcoating

One of the things I find so refreshing about reading John Cowart's blog is the honesty in his writing. He's not trying to make himself sound saintly. He doesn't pretend to have completely perfect relationships with his loved ones. John even blogs about his struggles with staying true to his convictions and religious beliefs. I find it comforting. If such an obviously lovely human being admits to a few flaws, then I don't have to be ashamed of having flaws, too.

I've been thinking about how things went at dinner last night with Fatty. We had a delicious meal, and we were thoroughly enjoying talking to each other. But then we had a minor disagreement, and the celebratory mood was gone. We talked through the issue, and there was no residual conflict. Just - the evening had lost a bit of its' shine. This happens in a relationship. You have your wonderful times, your good times, some fairly ordinary times, and even some awful times.

Yet, I found myself thinking,"I just won't mention the dinner on my blog. I'll let everyone assume we had a romantic evening. Why write anything negative?". But this would be to portray my marriage as something it is not; this would be sugar-coating my life to make it look pretty. My marriage is not happy all the time. I don't live a charmed life.

So I've told you all the truth. Our much-anticipated dinner was a bit of a fizzer. Hopefully we have many more dinners ahead of us, and hopefully we'll get it right next time!

hallucinations and hot dates

It's the weekend. It's a hot day. My kids are splashing around in their paddle pool again. Fatty is gardening. I've slipped away to blog.

Something very weird just happened to me. I walked into our bedrooom, and accidentally kicked a backpack that I take to karate class. A maniacal laughing erupted from the backpack. It was a little startling, but I quickly reasssured myself...it's just that lion toy of Ben's that shrieks with laughter. One of our friends had given Benjamin a battery-powered, crazy lion that responds with hysterical mirth when shaken.

The problem is, the lion is not IN the backpack. It is not near the backpack. It is not behind the door. It is not under the bed. It could be in the cupboard. Now that I'm writing this, I realise I haven't looked there. But if there is no lion in the cupboard, you know what that means...........it means I don't have to wrestle with a giant cat when I want a pair of shoes, of course. It also means I have started imagining I hear laughing lions. There better be a lion when I look.

I have to cling to my sanity for at least another few hours. I cannot be sent to an institution just yet, because tonight I have a hot date. Yes, it hasn't happened for awhile, but this evening Fatty and I are going out to dinner just the two of us! We're going to a small but lovely restaurant just nearby. I have even bought a new summer dress in an attempt to impress. I can hardly wait.

We will be able to talk without a small child intervening with, " Do I have to eat ALL this broccoli?". We might even hold hands, without a chubby child body wedging itself jealously between us. We can order spicy foods, hard-to-manage foods, any foods we like. But best of all, I can gaze into Fatty's amazing green eyes and remember exactly why I love him so.

I'm now off to hunt for lions. Wish me luck

The young woman who had to wee 6 times a night

You know, I think I may have diagnosed something rare, and potentially quite harmful (if left untreated), in one of my lady patients. I arrived at the diagnosis through a brilliant and little-known process called 'scratching my head and feeling baffled', followed by the also particularly clever method I like to refer to as 'phoning the pathology lab for help'. You're really impressed, now, aren't you?

Names and other details are changed here, but the medical facts are correct.

Amy, a 25-year-old child care worker, has seen me on 3 or 4 occasions now. She seems a bit quiet, and a bit anxious about her health. Each time she has complained of a few unrelated ailments. She is a thin young woman, who has lost more weight over the couple of months since she first came for a consultation. I know this because I weighed her at the first consultation - I originally suspected she may have an eating disorder, and wanted to keep a check on her weight.

On her last visit, she was complaining of an episode of backache. To rule out a kidney infection, I asked her to provide a sample, and I enquired about any symptoms. Amy denied having any pain but admitted she was troubled by frequent urination. The urine test was normal.

After further questioning, I calculated that Amy was drinking over 3.5 litres of fluid a day, and discovered she was waking multiple times through the night to pass urine (well no wonder, with all that drinking). Hmmm...perhaps she has diabetes, I hear you thinking? That's what I wondered, but the fingerprick test showed a normal blood sugar. Hmmm again.

Blood tests showed nothing out of the ordinary except a high blood protein level ... something that is often found when people are a bit dehydrated. Dehydrated? On almost 4 litres of a fluid a day? I knew something was not right here. I knew it could be something endocrine (hormone-related).... all those weird endocrine disease names began to romp around in my head... medical school was so long ago... it's all so hazy...... I rang the local pathologist. He was very charming.
'I agree with you,' he said, 'that this most likely is a case of diabetes insipidus.'

AH-HA! That's what it's called. I mean, 'Yes, that's exactly what I was thinking.'

Amy is having further tests, but the endocrinologist I spoke to is confident that Amy does have diabetes insipidus. Most cases can be managed or cured. So, hopefully, Amy will soon be drinking less and sleeping a whole lot more at night.

You know, I complain about my job but I also really love it. Sometimes I think I really do make a difference - not by knowing a lot or having any great powers of deduction - just by being diligent and following through. It's good to feel useful.

PS if you want any information on diabetes insipidus, you can go here

Fountain of Youth or Doorway to Dementia?

I've heard it said that your kids keep you young. I'm not sure that I subscribe to this theory.

For example, my upper eyelids seem to have disappeared. I'm not sure where they've gone but I definitely used to have them. I last noticed them just before my first child was born. I think the chronic sleep debt has taken my upper eyelids forever. I liked having eyelids top and bottom.

And what about energy levels?.... before having offspring, Fatty and I used to have dinner with friends and stay up laughing until 1 am, without even noticing the time. Now we are yawning at 8 pm. We are elderly. We may as well put on cardigans and bemoan today's youth. Wait, we do wear cardigans and bemoan today's youth (at least, Fatty bemoans and I wear cardigans)

With meals... just like nursing home patients, we eat dinner by 6 pm sharp. Earlier sometimes. That's not young and funky, that's staid. That's us.

I tell the same stories over & over (stop me if I've already told you this). I blame pregnancy, and then children. My friend Chook calls me Alzheimer Girl. Her memory's fine - she's got no kids, has she?

And just in case I'm ever having a day where I kid myself I'm looking bright-eyed and feeling bouncy....my children bring me right back to reality. Like today in the grocery store. I was cruising past the toothpaste section, when my son asked me earnestly:
"Were you born in the olden days, Mummy?"

I smiled, and nodded. "I suppose I was, Ben".



So place your votes, folks. Are kids ageing or just engaging?

PS I must admit I do play a lot more 'Snap' these days

doctoring day

I've been at work today and my brain is tired. I have had too many perplexing patients lately. I'm restless and fidgety and fretting over the unsolved mysteries of the day. I need to do some medical reading. But first, a blog entry. Blogging can be a real stress-buster after a tough day, don't you think?

There were some great moments in my day, busy though it was. I saw a young woman for a follow-up visit after starting treatment for depression 3 weeks ago. Last visit she was wan and sad and quiet. Today she was smiling and talking with animation - almost back to the person I have known for the past 5 years. Now that's a real joy to see!

Another patient today reminded me of something that never fails to leave me in awe - the power the human body has to heal itself. We doctors think we are curing people, yet often it is simply time, and the body itself, that turns the tide. Today I saw a lady for a check-up, 8 weeks after having a baby. During the delivery, she had an episiotomy done (don't read on if squeamish, OK!) which for non-medical people/non-mothers, is a cut made at the vaginal opening to allow the baby's head to come out more easily. When I saw this lady 8 days after childbirth, her nether regions were a mess. I had to control myself not to say 'Good God!' out loud. The stitching had been done messily, and the two edges of the wound had separated, so that a centimetre of raw flesh was on view. There were no signs of infection, however, and I knew the lady was a sensible person, who would return if there were problems. So I explained to her how things were, suggested salty bathes, and asked her to come back for check-ups. Today, at her second appointment since then, the scar is fine and pale, and almost flat. I unfortunately can take none of the credit. This lady's body did all the work. It is amazing and humbling to witness.

Perhaps you think I'm a little odd, being amazed and humbled whilst staring at someone's genitalia. I certainly thought I was weird, when re-reading the previous paragraph. But medical jobs turn people a bit strange and twisted. You become fascinated by rashes, intrigued by boils, inquisitive about phlegm. It's not normal, but someone's got to do the weird jobs. We can't all be well-dressed financial advisers or sensible librarians.

That was my day - mundane but satisfying, challenging but interesting. How was your day?

There's a MONSTER in my house!

This morning, I woke up to the sound of yelling, and there was my normally-amiable three-year-old son, standing in our doorway. Half in tears, and stamping his feet, he shouted, "Get up NOW Mummy!". As I refuse to be dictated to by someone who is not yet a metre tall and still sucks his thumb, I tried to get the little guy to calm down, without leaping up obediently. No luck.

Ben loves to go get the morning paper from our yard, so we asked if he wanted to go do that. "Yes, but NO ONE can come with me," he fumed. He stomped to the front door, burst into fresh tears when the door wouldn't open for him, then went wailing out to the side where the paper always lands. I'm sure the neighbours think we use our child as slave labour - all they would have seen was a sobbing boy trailing tearfully out to get the newspaper.

At long last Ben is calm again. Half an hour of TV watching seemed to give him time to compose himself (and time for us to sigh with relief that the awful noise had ceased!) He's now eating cereal and even smiling.

I've heard about 'getting up on the wrong side of the bed'.... now I've seen the kid version of this!

burn baby burn......disco inferno!

An invitation arrived in the mail this week. It is printed on silver paper, and covered in glitter. The heading says - "Freak Out!"

One of our friends is celebrating her birthday in a big way, with a party involving a disco ball, floating dance floor and cocktails. Entry is by costume only. I have booked the babysitter and I'm champing at the bit until I can hit that dance floor. Bopping to groovy seventies music - why that sounds almost as good as leaping about to eighties music!

I do love a boogie.... even at my own wedding I spent the last two hours, when I probably should have been greeting elderly aunts, wiggling and jiggling with my friends and siblings. So this party is a great opportunity to dance without having to enter a nightclub, or frighten and embarrass my children. My one problem is this ..... seventies fashions are not very forgiving. I will need a costume that allows for thighs. Shiny lycra jumpsuits are NOT okay. HELLLLLLLLP!!!

Your feedback and suggestions are much appreciated!

morning has broken

Good morning! It's a glorious day - the flowers are blooming, the sun is shining, and you can probably tell I've had my coffee!

Hope everyone has/is having a good day.

The Great Gender Divide

It's occurred to me over the past few months that my son and daughter like to talk with me about vastly different things. Not just a wee bit dissimilar - vastly different, like I said.

Now maybe others disagree...perhaps they have sons who have many so-called 'feminine' qualities, or their daughters are 'tomboys' who don't fit the stereotypes. I know my kids are not necessarily 'the norm'. Still, I suspect that there will be quite a few other parents who can relate to what I'm saying.


EXAMPLES of questions/statements from my daughter, Laura:

* "Mummy, what if no-one ever wants to marry me?"

* "When I grow up, I want to be .... a Mummy"
("Really?" I say. "Anything else? Because you know, you can be anything you want. And you could be a Mummy as well as something else, if you wanted to."
"No, I just want to be a mummy")

* "Is there a way not to have babies if you don't want to?" (Yes my sweet, it's called don't even think about it until you're 18. Make that 21. Actually, check with me closer to the time)

* "Do you think this skirt looks good with this shirt?"

EXAMPLES from Ben:

* "When I grow up, I'm going to be a space policeman."

* "Imagine if a crane put its' hook in the river....it could catch a REALLY BIG fish!"

* "Why do ladies like babies so much?"

* "I want some pants with pockets. To put my cars in."

Of course there are plenty of topics they are both interested in... lately we've been talking about the Earth rotating, the sun shining on various countries around the world to create day and night, etc. Both boy and girl are discussing it, and trying to comprehend.

But still I marvel at how the dump truck we bought Laura as a toddler has only ever been used by her to transport dolls around, while Ben has played with any of Laura's multitude of dolls...oh, about twice. I used to think that the differences between sexes were all socialised... you know, inflicted (!) on the children by their parents. And then I became a parent, and saw how wrong I'd been.

OK, so I'm not saying anything new here - just that girls are often girly and boys are often boyish. But it intrigues me. And I like it!

Sunday

This is what has happened in my household today, in pictorial form. Get ready, it'll be an adrenaline ride for you just to hear about it. Or maybe not.

1) I went to the gym

2) Fatty went bird-watching this morning. He is now in a fabulous mood!

3) My children have been playing for hours in a cardboard box

4) I have been wandering the garden to take snaps

5) I am about to bake a banana cake, with these near-deceased bananas - ably assisted by my two ratbags, of course!

What have you all been up to this weekend?

oh no, another meme!

The funny, warm, dirty-joke-loving Canadian, Mackeydoodle has tagged me again. I must pick a gender, then list 8 qualities of the perfect partner.

So for a MALE, as my perfect partner would need to be, these would be the ideal qualities. The first four are pipe dreams only, the last four are qualities I cherish in Fatty.

1) an intent listener. A bloke who says things like, "Hang on a sec while I turn the TV off - I want to focus better on what you're saying". (Once I stopped fainting from disbelief, this would be fabulous!)

2) a quiet night breather. A man who inhales and exhales almost silently. Perhaps just a whisper of sound would be OK, so you could tell he wasn't dead.

3) a man who, when you ask him to help out, jumps into action immediately, with a cheerful expression on his face. He may even add a chirpy remark, such as, "No problem, sweetie! Heaven knows you're busy enough as it is - is there anything else I could do while I'm up?" How perfect would THAT be?!!!

4) a fellow who, when you are exhausted and refuse to cook that night, whips up a healthy and tasty meal in minutes. Just to clarify, he does NOT leap into the car and drive to the nearest fast food outlet. He really cooks, real food.

5) a man who loves his wife, and tolerates with patience her human failings - who treats her with respect and makes her feel like there is no other woman in the world for him

6) a man with whom you can laugh, every day

7) a male with whom you have incredible chemistry

8) a man who you trust implicitly

Actually, I don't ever hanker for the perfect partner (which is just as well, since that would be like hankering after a unicorn, I suppose!). I figure 'the perfect partner' would then expect ME to be perfect, and that's just never going to happen.

My mother gave me a poem called The Art of Marriage. It's on a fridge magnet, so I don't think it's anything obscure - you've probably heard it. I like the last lines, though -
"It is not only marrying the right partner,
It is being the right partner".

Ain't that the truth?

Happy Australia Day!!

It's a holiday across the country, to celebrate AUSTRALIA DAY!!!

I'm proud of our country. It is a beautiful place to live. We are very fortunate in so many ways.

Australians have their flaws, but on the whole we are friendly people who believe that life is to be enjoyed not endured. We know the value of savouring the joys of everyday life, and we do!

Today Fatty, Laura, Benjamin and I are having a BBQ on the back deck of our dearest friends...it may be cliched, but to us it's the perfect way to honour AUSTRALIA DAY!

Happy Australia Day to all my fellow Aussie bloggers, and especially to Alice , Shelly , and Flossy, and also to honorary Aussie Wendy A !

(the photos are TOP: view of flowering trees in our neighbour's backyard, MIDDLE: the beach from our last holiday, BOTTOM: the creek at my Mum's farm)

leaving the smog behind

On Sunday, Fatty and I looked at each other over the breakfast table, with the wails of children arguing over seating arrangements reverberating in our ears.

The previous day had been...well...a bit BORING (are parents allowed to say that? Is it politically correct to acknowledge that not every moment with your offspring is riveting and remarkable? Too late, you all know I am not a SuperParent). Saturday had passed in this way...me working, Fatty doing a few loads of washing (big bonus points for that!), kids bumbling around the house and yard, dinner cooked, food eaten, blah blah blah. Fairly peaceful but let's just say we were all ready for something more interesting than watching our back lawn grow. So I caught Fatty's eye across the table of toast and asked, "Shall we go the the F-A-R-M?"

Anyone who has, or has had, small children will be familiar with the sneaky spelling communication technique. I use it a lot. I like to keep one step ahead of my kids if at all possible.
Fatty, who is very clever but kind of, um, UN-clever as well, has trouble with this method of conveying information. His usual response is something like, "Huh? F-A -what? Go where?". I sigh in exasperation, and spell so slowly that I fear our dog may work out what I'm saying.

In what was obviously a good omen, Fatty had no such problems on Sunday morning. He smiled, nodded, and after a quick call to my mother, we were off! Goodbye city, hello moo cows!

The kids' favourite farm activities that day... looking at tadpoles in the old bathtub outside, discovering ferns growing in the crack in the side of the rain tank, collecting chook eggs, eating biscuits

My favourite farm activities that day ... walking along the dirt road in the lightest sprinkling rain and seeing 3 koalas, finding that the olive tree in the orchard has olives on it

Fatty's favourite farm activities that day...wandering off on his own taking photos of birds, avoiding being gored to pieces by the neighbours bull (see above)

We came home after dinner - tired, but somehow refreshed as well. There is something magical about my Mum's farm.

elated in the eighties

The other night, I escaped my crazy toy-strewn home and drove to a friend's place across town. It was raining so hard that I had to drive with the windscreen-wipers set on 'frantic'. The few other cars that were game enough to be out driving were trailing each other like caterpillars. I swung in at the end of the column.

Happy as a clam in my car, I had the radio cranked up, and was half-bouncing in my seat as I drove. There was an eighties song playing, an the radio announcer remarked cheerily, "And we're up to our elbows in eighties tonight!". Fantastic! thought I. Up to our elbows in eighties! Now that sounds perfect for a trip to see my old high school friend, KP.

As I bopped to 'Walking on Sunshine', I wondered why I so adore 80's music. It's certainly not the awful electronic keyboard tunes, or the woeful lyrics. It's definitely not about the music itself (although there are some songs I swear are sheer genius...just can't think of an example right now... hang on....maybe later in the post....). I realised I love the way 80's music makes me feel... I recreate the time in my life when I was young, fresh, vital and almost obligation-free. The world held limitless possibilities. When I hear these familiar songs, I am awash with the emotions I felt 20 years ago... trepidation, excitement, the first tastes of freedom, yearning, a slow-building belief in myself, the beginnings of faith that one day someone would love me. Whew! It's a heady brew!

There is one REALLY trashy 80's song that just about makes me cry every time I hear it - Lionel Ritchie's 'Hello' (yes, embarrassing but true!). This was a song that my high school band rehearsed over & over at a music camp (This one time? At band camp?---ignore if you've never seen 'American Pie'). As the band rehearsed, the object of my unrequited love..whom we shall call Lincoln (because that was his name) sat watching the band over the other side of the room. I also watched the band, in between looking over at Lincoln. To my deep pleasure, I frequently caught Lincoln glancing at me, too. I was thrilled! Maybe this meant he had a crush on me, too! After 2 years of silently adoring him, perhaps Lincoln was finally noticing me!

Well, no. I now realise the poor boy was only looking over because a freckly, blushing girl in a lurid pink sweater kept staring at him. Nothing ever eventuated with Lincoln. (I met him again at Uni once, looking scruffy with a beard. I had blossomed in confidence, and our mutual friends were teasing me about how many different boys I had been dating. I was secretly glad Lincoln was witness to this conversation) But for those few moments, all those years ago, I had a hope of romance with this fascinating, reserved, handsome boy.

Now whenever I hear 'Hello' playing, I am swept by feelings of longing, elation, and just a tinge of sadness (because boo hoo, it didn't end in love!). How odd that a full-grown woman can be reduced to such silly emotions by a mere combination of musical notes.

I don't mind though, being silly and nostalgic. Because I love to feel. To me, life is all about experiencing emotions, of every kind. I know one day I will look back on this time of my life, and remember chubby arms around my neck, sticky faces and crayon drawings on the fridge. I'll probably smile with teary eyes. I fully expect this.

For now, I'll enjoy my eighties nostalgia to the full. Especially when cruising, with the music blaring, in my large sky-blue family sedan.

I don't have anything much to say today, so I grabbed the camera and took a few random photos. Welcome to my life! (or at least, my back yard!) It's a dismal wet sort of day, but I'm finished work for the day, and had a great morning, so no grey skies are going to dampen MY spirits!

Evidently my children are feeling pretty peppy, too. Laura has been doing some avant garde artwork which she has displayed on the back deck. I think I prefer Laura's usual paintings of flowers and girls and love-hearts but I'm sure Sharon's previous art college tutors would go crazy for the random blobs!

Thank you everyone who commiserated with me over the 'lack of sleep' post. Though I'm not sure I wanted to know that it only gets worse when kids are teens...maybe there's an easier stage in between then and now? (say yes, just say yes dammit!!). Last night the 'bad man' came to Louey again during sleep, but this time instead of getting up and down to my nightmaring daughter, I resorted to my old standby trick of plopping her into our bed, banishing poor Fatty to Louey's bed, and thus we all slept. (actually, what am I saying..'poor Fatty' for?! He slept alone, in comfort, undisturbed!!) The next two times Louey woke, I could reach out with sleep-drugged arm and comfort her without moving any other part of my body. That's my style of child care!

Hope you're all having a good week. And Heather, get well soon.

yawning mother

Really, it was silly of me to even try. But somewhere in my tired head, I thought maybe, just maybe my kids would let me have a quick nap. So I lay down on my daughter's bed, ready to drift into slumber with the sound of their happy playing in the next room as pleasant background noise. HA!

I can hear you guffawing - don't think I can't. I can see now it was always destined to fail. But desperate sleepiness calls for desperate measures. I've had a busy week, I've been exercising a lot to try to fit my clothes properly again, my kids have had a spate of nightmares about kidnappers, crocodiles and 'baddies' in the hallway... I dunno, I'm just tired today.

After a minute or so, the kids relocated themselves to the floor right next to the bed. No problem, I thought, I can still doze. Then Laura started rhythmically bumping the bed with her hip...shove, shove, shove. " Laura, can you stop that please?". "Why?" (insert boring explanation here). "Oh, OK Mummy".

A few seconds later... "Mummy, can you be one Barbie and I'll be one Barbie and Laura be one Barbie?".
"Ben, Mummy's trying to sleep. Only wake me up if it's IMPORTANT, OK?"..."OK Mummy".

A few seconds later again..(shouting)" 1, 2, 3...WAKE UP MUMMY!".

"What's wrong Ben?"

"It's an emergency."

"What's the emergency?"

"We want you to read us 'Charlotte's Web'."

SIGH. I'm vertical again. As soon as I'm done complaining here, I'll be doing some reading aloud. There will be no sleep until they sleep. I know that now, and I secretly knew all along (one can live in hope, though!). I realise this is why coffee was invented.

Anyone else who needs a jolt, meet me in my kitchen in 5 minutes. Chocolate is optional.

nightmare

Tonight I wrote a silly, flippant post, posted it, and then took it down within minutes. I felt like I wasn't being very real.

Instead I'll be all serious and tell you about my dream.

I dreamt, a couple of nights ago, that I had inoperable ovarian cancer. In the dream, all I could think of was my children, how they would be left without a mother. I felt terrible guilt that I had ignored a minor symptom (which I have in real life, but which is inconsequential) which was the KEY to early diagnosis, according to my weird dream. I was devastated beyond words.

Even now, awake, rational (-ish) and being a 'medical' person....I have this uncontrollable urge to go get a scan. It's like I believe in my dream as a portent of what's to come. I am aware this sounds ridiculously sombre and ghoulish. I can't explain it.

Maybe I've been watching too much TV.

Katherine

'Katherine' was a vibrant, talkative, quick-moving lady who came to see me as a patient from time to time. She had lost her husband quite suddenly just three years before I met her, but she carried herself with poise and a smile. She was always dressed impeccably, and without fail wore stylish high-heeled shoes in every possible shade of colour. Her hair was 'just so', her makeup discreet and tasteful.

Her manner of addressing me was more of an interrogation than a greeting..." So? How are you then? I LIKE that shirt; is it new? It's nice, matches your eyes. So when are you going to have some babies, hmm?". I wasn't really required to reply, more just to smile and nod.
Likewise, when asked her reason for attending, Katherine would respond with a list of demands, as opposed to requests. " Well, I want some cream for my rash, and I think there's something going on with my knee. Oh, and I think my hair might be getting thinner - what do you think? Is it? By the way, you need to do a breast check - I thought I felt a lump last week. And don't forget I need that cream". It was all I could do not to click my heels together and bawl, "Yes, maam!"

Despite her unusual ways, I found Katherine intriguing and appealing. For one thing, she was obviously clever, and loved nothing more than to partake in snappy repartee. Her eyes would sparkle as she tried to tease with a poker face; she would burst out laughing with a hooting, body-shaking mirth.

The best entertainment was when Katherine would tell me about her social life. She was always out and about, and delighted in telling me the latest gossip about all her friends. For awhile, one friend, Barbara, seemed to be particularly important to Katherine. Then one day, Katherine came in seething. Barbara had asked out Katherine's current love interest! And even worse, the wretched man had accepted the invitation! Katherine was seething, she was fuming, she was flaring her nostrils in disgust. Now she turned snarky... " That Barbara... she wears SO much rouge, it's AWFUL. And her TIGHT TOPS...she' s too old for TIGHT TOPS. They're low-cut, too, just trashy." Katherine tossed her head. " If that's what he likes, he's welcome to her."

Katherine had no qualms in telling me about her s*e*x life, either. One boyfriend she ditched because he hardly ever wanted 'it'; another she mocked, because he required, shall we say, some 'chemical enhancement' in order to perform. " My husband NEVER needed anything like THAT!", she scoffed. It was difficult to keep a straight face around Katherine sometimes. Much of the time she was funny without meaning to be. I did a great deal of 'ahh'-ing and 'mm'-ing. The lady was a riot.

But I haven't told you the funniest thing about the vivacious and dynamic Katherine. Katherine was a giggly and gorgeous 78 years of age. Fancy that, eh?

breakfast at jellyhead's

It's Saturday morning and I'm eating a mango, all to myself. Luxury indeed!

It's funny how certain foods can bring back memories. For instance mangoes remind me of when my mother left my father.

One day my mother came and asked me to pack clothes for my two younger siblings, because she was leaving Dad. I felt shocked but secretly a bit excited (it sounds shameful, I know, but this is the honest truth). I had always fantasised about how peaceful my life would be if we children lived with just Mum. Dad arrived just as we were leaving. He pleaded with Mum not to leave. He sat in an armchair looking dazed and forlorn as we kissed him goodbye. Although I know he was not an innocent player, it still brings me to tears just writing about that moment.

We drove towards the city in the Corolla. I sat in the back with my little brother and sister. Mum played the Paul Simon CD 'Graceland'. I kept thinking of Dad, and the utter desolation in his eyes. But I also felt as if my life was going to be lighter, easier, sometime soon.

Shortly after we got to the city, I went to stay with an older, widowed family friend, Mrs B, because I had upcoming exams for which I was supposed to be studying. Mum and Dad would each phone me, and I would counsel them in my own, teenage and inept manner. I lost my appetite almost completely. I went from skinny to quite underweight.

Mrs B, bless her, took me under her wing and coaxed me to eat a little every meal. And every morning she gave me mango, fresh from her tree, sliced up in a little pink bowl.

You would think that eating mango might make me feel sad, or heavy-hearted, but it does not. Mango reminds me of the incredible kindness of a lady I knew only a little before my parents' separation, but who treated me as if I was a treasured daughter. She is now a dear friend of mine. And now each of my parents are happy in their new lives, with new loves.

And when I want to spoil myself with something healthy, I buy a large, juicy, sweet mango.

three easy questions

My son Benjamin likes to besiege us with questions. I am constantly racking my brains to come up with intelligent answers. Often I just don't know. I'm concerned that this 3-year-old child of mine may be considerably brighter than his dear mother.

Today I had some staggering questions thrown at me during the course of the day:

1) "What's at the edge of the world?"

2) Who made the world?

3) How do babies start to grow?

Whew! I'm exhausted from thinking and explaining and straining my poor mind. What will it be like when this boy is 7? Or 10? Or, Lord help me, 13???? (Come to think of it, he probably will be barely speaking to me at 13, so that'll get me off the hook)

I'd better go to bed now. It all starts again around 6 am tomorrow. Goodnight!

dreams of escape

I know I am very fortunate .... I do not lack for food, clothing or shelter, I have a supportive if somewhat eccentric family, I have my own family now which is the centre of my life, I have fantastic friends. So no lectures, please, about how ungrateful I am. I know how lucky I am. Truly.

It's just that sometimes the anxiety that my work provokes in me makes me want to go back here (see photo).

I like the fact that the most vital decision I make at the beach is whether to go down to the water, or to go for ice cream. To eat in, or grab fish & chips? To read a novel, or read the paper? Wonderful, lazy, idyllic choices.

Some days I cruise through my working day, feeling that I've been useful, and (mostly) confident with the decisions I've made. Other days, when I've had a few complex patients, and their complex problems have caused me to run late (hence I'm in a flap and everyone's cranky with me), and I'm worried that I've missed something crucial that might cause harm to a patient....those days I want to quit my job and become a check-out chick. That or take an extended holiday at the beach..... about a month could do it. I've had a few of 'those' days lately.

I have to go to work tomorrow. I don't want to. Anyone else feel like coming to the beach with me?

jelly square eyes head

Lately, there has been nothing on TV but re-runs of re-runs. It's been a viewing desert. A wind-swept plain of entertainment nothingness. What's a body to do after dinner then?

I know, I know, I could read (and I do), I could spend time with Fatty (and I do), but sometimes a person just needs to slump on the couch and forget about work worries, family obligations, upcoming commitments... and stare at moving pictures on a screen. Vegetate.

With my every need in mind (oh, and also because he was bored with the mindless TV on offer), Fatty went out and purchased "The Sopranos" on DVD. He brought it home and showed me proudly, and I thought YUCK. I mean, I'm really not into gangster movies or shows. What I love most are dramas (though comedies are right up there too)... I love to see people interacting & reacting....crying, laughing, arguing, making peace again... That's my kind of TV or film. So I admit I started watching The Sopranos with reservations.

Oh My God. Why had no-one told me? This is brilliant TV. It has some violence, sure, and some mafia business goes on, but the people, the characters... their day to day relationships are what drives each episode and they are all so real. It's hard to grasp that they're only actors playing roles. I'm hooked, I'm a fan, I extol the many virtues of this show to anyone who will listen (like now for example when you dear reader are trapped here on my blog)

The first episode, I thought hmmm, there's potential here, but by about the 3rd episode I was an addict. Fatty and I have devoured the first 3 series, and now we've purchased series 4 and 5 and have started eating our way through these, too. We're about to watch an episode now. But I'm very concerned about this habit of ours. It can only end in tears, and I hate to see Fatty cry. After series 5, we have to wait for more episodes to come to TV. It could be a long wait. What will we do until then? Where can I turn? Who will help me with my withdrawal symptoms?? (deep breaths, in....and out...and in..)

Maybe one of you can suggest an alternative TV drug for when my Sopranos supply runs out.

my lovely wandering mother

Today my Mum came to see me at work. I didn't know she was coming - she just dropped in. Mum is renowned for arriving without warning. I have tried to get her to change her wicked ways, and let me know if she's going to visit, but she smiles and says mmmmm and comes over whenever.

And so it was today - Mum hadn't mentioned even the idea of coming by. Mum told the receptionist she was there, and then sat down politely in the waiting room, as if she was simply waiting to be seen about an embarrassing rash. I called her to come in to my consulting room, and she grinned her big wide smile - the one she does when she's slightly embarrassed or shy. She looked so happy and gorgeous in her blue shirt and skirt. I was really proud to be able to introduce her to a few of the staff. The receptionist told me I have Mum's smile.

My Mum may have her funny ways, but she has been such a good mother to me. She has a softness and gentleness that I lack. She is truly a beautiful soul.

Today I signed the papers Mum wanted signed, and chatted awhile, then hugged and kissed Mum goodbye at my door. A lady in the waiting room looked startled. I should have offered her a smooch, too. Therapeutic hugs.... now that could really catch on!

Hugs to all of you, (but especially to my Mum)

Jellyhead

Playing Possum

Look who's been spying on us... a chubby little ring-tailed possum.

Fatty and I were sitting on our front steps just now, watching as Laura and Ben swept the front path (No, don't phone child protection just yet - the kids like sweeping. Honestly! They beg to be allowed to do it!) As I was just beginning to explain to Fatty my innermost thoughts about something, he interrupted with relief, "Look! It's the tail of a possum hanging down - just there!".

Suitably distracted from any further navel-gazing, I peered closer, and found this cute furry fellow. Fatty raced off to get his camera, and here you see his handiwork.

Something about having a possum in our front yard makes me feel really good. I've always said how small things make me happy...maybe that counts double for small furry things.

Have a wonderful weekend everyone!

bumbling around the 'burbs

I'm feeling really zippy and skippy and flippy and I think I may be on some kind of an endorphin high. It's all this exercise I've been doing in an attempt to stop my shorts squeezing my midriff flesh into a roll of dough above the hips. It seems my chocolate habit got a bit out of control over Christmas.

On Monday I went to a gym class (the first exercise class I've been to in, oh, about 10 years!!) called Sweat Your Fat Away. Words to that effect, any rate.

On Tuesday night, it was karate. As some of you know, I am trying to get my black belt this year (at a grading in March, to be precise), because I've been doing karate so long now that NOT to have my black belt yet is just plain embarrassing.

Wednesday there was no exertion on my part, unless you count hanging 3 loads of washing. So my mood slipped down from buzzing to normal that day.

Yesterday was karate again - a sparring class, so great for hyping me up. Sometimes I come home from 'fighting' so energised - ducking and punching the air, and demonstrating for Fatty how I managed to score this one particular point.... Fatty just shakes his head and asks me to move so he can see the TV again.

Then today I went to yet another gym class (encouraged by the fact I didn't pass out or fall over during Monday's venture). This class was called Punch Your Fat Away....or it could have been called CardioBox. I had no problem at all maintaining interest, what with the instructor being so cute and muscular and helpful and did I mention muscular?

I'm worried about tomorrow, though. Fatty is on call, which ties me at home with Louey and Ben, so what will I do for my endorphin fix??? I suppose there's always chasing my kids around the clothesline...

party with the one (or ones) you love

Yesterday, my kids and I organised a party for Fatty. On the back deck, we wound coloured streamers along the rails, and hung them from the rafters of the roof. We blew up a few balloons and tied them here and there. We scurried about to straighten up the house. I cooked supermarket pizzas to eat with salad; I opened a bottle of wine. The kids helped me bake a chocolate cake, too (aided and abetted by Betty Crocker). So you may be wondering what the occasion was.... a birthday? An anniversary maybe? The celebration of a new job? Hey, was it to celebrate an unexpected pregnancy??? (um, no, no, no and NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!) There was no special occasion. As I said to Fatty on the card I gave him...welcome to your We Love You party!

Now, for anyone here who is clutching their throats and making retching, gagging noises....I am not some sycophantic wife, always cloyingly sweet and loving. Far from it. I am quite regularly grumpy, unappreciative, demanding and snappy. And our marriage is no peachy picnic of connubial bliss. It's a real marriage, with the usual ups and downs. But thank heavens we have our kids, because the whole party idea started with them, and their enthusiasm swept me along until we ended up having a celebration to be remembered.

It began in a cut-price bookstore. Ben spotted a book on birdwatching, and crowed, " Look, a bird book! I bet Daddy would like that!". I had a gander, and was inclined to agree. Laura chirped excitedly, "We could wrap it up, and give it to him when he gets home!".

"OK", I agreed, " and we could have something nice for dinner, too".

"PIZZA!!!!" my offspring screeched in unison. ('Hmm, I guess we're having pizza then', I thought to myself)

Laura wanted decorations, and did most of this job. The present was wrapped in a messy kid-done way; I resisted the urge to show them how to make it neater. It was fine.
I found a card to write in, and both kids made their cards. Ben was disappointed that the smiley face he drew looked sad (but was heartened by the fact that it looked happy if you turned the card upside down)
I set the table with a tablecloth and our 'good' plates. The 3 cards perched atop the gift, in the centre of the table.

Fatty looked really chuffed when he got home to see the deck all 'beautiful', and when he read the cards. The book he seemed to like, too, but he had the widest smile after reading what we each wrote to him (well, I of course had to take dictation for Ben's card). It made me wonder why I'd never done anything like this before. I mean, I've made a fuss over our anniversary, organised birthday gatherings, purchased Christmas surprises.... but never have I given him a party just because he is a good man.

Maybe you're still thinking this all sounds silly. I guess it was silly. But it was fun, and it was worth it just to see the pleasure on Fatty's face.

So I'm just putting the idea out there....there could be someone you love who would be thrillled to have a We Love You party held in their honour!!

5 (possibly) weird things about me

I've been tagged, supposedly to write about 5 weird habits of mine. However, this would just be too gross.... like if I mentioned how I scratch my scalp when I'm stressed, sometimes to the point of causing scabs ....see what I mean? Just too nausea-inducing. So I'm going to cheat a little (sorry Mackeydoodle!)

So instead here are 5 facts (whether they're weird or not I couldn't really say):

1) I used to be very superstitious... and would always say 'Touch wood' to ward off bad luck. Then one day at work, I was talking to an elderly patient of mine on the phone about her upcoming operation. I wished her all the best, and told her I'd see her when she came home from hospital. As I said this, I touched the wood of my desk, just to 'keep her safe'.
A week later, I received a letter from the hospital. There had been post-operative complications, and my patient had died.
I realised then that all this superstitious hoo-ha was just silly and pointless. I'll never forget that lady, either.

2) I have 2 half-siblings, as my father remarried after my parents' divorce. One of my half-siblings is less than 2 years older than my own daughter.

3) I used to have really buck teeth. Horsey teeth. Very large teeth, too (all the better to eat you with, my dear). After some serious orthodontic work as a child, I've lost the equine look. And my face has grown to suit the teeth, too. Although that could just be my healthy self-esteem kicking in and deluding me!

4) I expect a LOT from people. Like loyalty, attention, generosity and fairness at all times. I know this is not my best trait. The only good thing about my high expectations is that my two closest friends and husband are the most wonderful people you could ever meet (obviously they had to be, to meet the Jellyhead Stipulations!).

5) I am short-sighted, tongue-tied and knock-kneed. (Apart from that I'm a prime physical specimen)

OK, that's more than enough divulging! I won't 'tag' anyone else, but anyone who feels like confessing THEIR weirdnesses, be my guest. (keeping it clean, of course!!)

an idle question

This occurred to me whilst washing a dish in the sink.......... why is there a word, 'uxorious', for a man who loves his wife excessively, when there is no corresponding word (that I know of) for a woman?

My take on the whole thing is...we women love our men so deeply and thoroughly that it is not unusual. It is simply expected of us. Hence there is no term for loving greatly. (Though there is of course that famous book, "Women who Love Too Much"!)

I asked Fatty this question. He has become used to my questions, now, and rather than replying, " Now why would you think of something like THAT?", he will skip over this and my resultant tangential explanations, and will simply answer me. His response (stated plainly but with telltale twinkle in his eyes): "That's because women have no love in their hearts. The greatest emotion they can muster for their husbands is fondness." OUCH!

Now you may answer (or rebut Fatty. Or rebut me. Or remain silent, whatever!)

A Poem by A.A.Milne

In keeping with my resolution to be more child-like and child-orientated, I have been reading some A.A. Milne to my kids this morning. These were no Disney, cartoonified Winnie-the-Pooh books, but dusty old tomes, unearthed recently from a trunk of my childhood treasures.

This poem tickled my fancy, and also seems appropriate given the apparent outbreak amongst bloggers recently of some dreaded dripping-nose, clogged-chest, razor-blade-throat disease.

So here it is. Bless you and gesundheit!


Sneezles

Christopher Robin
Had wheezles
And sneezles,
They bundled him
Into
His bed.
They gave him what goes
With a cold in the nose,
And some more for a cold
In the head.
They wondered
If wheezles
Could turn
Into measles,
If sneezles
Would turn
Into mumps;
They examined his chest
For a rash,
And the rest
Of his body for swellings and lumps.
They sent for some doctors
In sneezles
And wheezles
To tell them what ought
To be done.

All sorts and conditions
Of famous physicians
Came hurrying round
At a run.
They all made a note
Of the state of his throat,
They asked if he suffered from thirst;
They asked if the sneezles
Came after the wheezles,
Or if the first sneezle
Came first.
They said, "If you teazle
A sneezle
Or wheezle,
A measle may easily grow.
But humour or pleazle
The wheezle
Or sneezle,
The measle
Will certainly go."

They expounded the reazles
For sneezles
And wheezles,
The manner of measles
When new.
They said, "If he freezles
In draughts and in breezles,
Then PHTHEEZLES
May even ensue."

Christopher Robin
Got up in the morning
The sneezels had vanished away.
And the look in his eye
Seemed to say to the sky
"Now, how to amuse them today?"

-------------------------------------
Get better soon my sneezling wheezling friends!

Hey, it's 2006!!

It's a New Year and I'm feeling like a change....so now my blog looks like it's been colour-coordinated by my five-year-old daughter. But pink is happy, pink is cheerful, and being in a five-year-old frame of mind is not so bad either. (When I leapt, fully clothed, into the paddle pool with my kids this afternoon, I felt so happy that I decided I will act like a child more often this year).

Wishing you all a very happy New Year!! May the year ahead bring many joys.