win or lose?

If I wasn't careful, I could end up one of those perpetually dissatisfied people - always wanting more. More success, more clothing, more holidays, more children even! I resist these urges; I fight my own greed and hankerings by telling myself in a stern voice how lucky I am for all I already have in my life.

At the karate competition on the weekend, I had only one opponent. She was tall, she had bleached blond spiky hair, she had a Nordic accent, and her name was Katarina. Katarina the Viking Queen gave me a thrashing. I tried, I really did, but I was completely outclassed. This woman had been on the State karate team, for Pete's sake! She well and truly kicked my butt.

Now, in my moments of rationality, I can tell myself Jelly, you are a mother and a wife and a doctor and a carrot-cake-maker and that is enough. You do not need to win karate competitions as well. This is what I tell myself, and as you can see, I give myself very sensible advice. HOWEVER..... I am often surprised to discover my competitive streak, lurking evilly under my 'oh-I'll-just-give-it-a-go-and-won't-that-be-fun' facade. I try to be pleased for simply entering the fray. I know that Katarina the Uber-Fighter has probably fought a hundred or more sparring bouts to my now one-bout history, and that I should be happy to have come away physically intact. But dammit, I wanted to win! Or if not win, at least not lose so decisively! Now you know my secret - I am a sore loser.

While I was fighting Killer Katarina, her coach was yelling out from behind me. "Keep going, keep it up, you've got it in the bag. Wait for her to come in, you've got it wrapped." It was all true - KK had it all over me. BUT DID THE COACH HAVE TO TELL THE entire AUDITORIUM? Mean man. Bad man. Stinky bott bott man (whoops, some three-year-old humour snuck in there)

So, like I said, for a day or so, I secretly nursed my wounded pride and wished I'd done better, wished I was better than what I am, in many ways. Then, today was sunny and the clouds were like caterpillars (or so Ben told me) and I laughed at work and kissed Fatty on the lips when I came home again.

My ungrateful thoughts have blown away. The house is still. I sit here typing, in a pool of yellow light. Peace and contentment are mine tonight.

superwoman

It's good to realise that one of the women I admire most is my own mother.

This is not to say that Mum and I have some sort of cloying, mutual-worshipping relationship. We are quite different personalities, and sometimes we frustrate each other. It is never very much, though, and never for long.

Earlier this week, Mum stayed at our place overnight. In the morning, Fatty reported to me solemnly that the car I usually drive had a flat tyre. Fatty was running late for work, but he offered tentatively, "I guess I should change it for you now?" I motioned him away with my hand, " No, you go. Mum and I will change the tyre."

I don't know whether to be proud or ashamed to admit that I have never changed a tyre unassisted. I am a feminist, and have always aimed to be a woman who is independent and self-sufficient. However, every time I have bravely and briskly begun to change a tyre, a delightful MAN has come along and changed the tyre for me! In general, men in Australia are quite gallant, in a flannel-shirted, beer-drinking sort of way. They may be sexist and macho at times, but they will always stop to help someone in need. I believe in encouraging this honourable behaviour, so I have never turned away a knight in shining armour. Also, it is much easier and faster than doing it myself. So much for my independent streak.

After Fatty tore off in his hatchback, making haste before I could change my tyre-changing mind, Mum and I headed for the flaccid-tyred car. First step - loosen the bolts. I stepped up to the fray, because after all I am 25 years younger, and I lift weights in the gym, OK.

Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnngh. Oooooff! Unnnngh. Uh!!

After much straining and striving, I had 2 of the 5 bolts loose, but the others were holding fast. Mum slowly moved into position. I didn't see much point. After all, if I, Superstrong Jelly couldn't loosen the bolts, what hope would a grey-haired, ancient.....HUH?? Mum performed the whole operation with brains as well as brawn. She held the tool (don't ask me the name of it) at the horizontal, so that she could lever her weight onto it; she bore down with her body and her farm-strong arms, and BEHOLD the bolts loosened. Wow.

This woman, my mother, has been a kind and accepting mother to her three children. She has worked as a special education teacher and achieved success with children who no other teacher had been able to help. Mum can sew (she made the Senior Formal dresses for my sister and I), she can knit (she recently made throw rugs for all three of her children's homes), she can cook anything and everything. Mum can herd cattle, repair water pumps, plant trees. She paints, she concretes. Mum is involved in community charity groups. And now, she changes tyres for her daughter, too.

My hat is off to you, Mum. You are the quiet achiever, but I've noticed, and I couldn't be more proud.

Jelly has wobbled back home again

Hello!!!! I'm back and I'm better than ever! (or so I tell myself). It was a happy visit with Writer and Ten. By day, Fatty and our kids strolled in parks (like the one in the photo), rode a ferris wheel and went to the museum. In the evenings, we banished the kids to bed, so we could have Big People conversation and some wine.

While I was away, my mum obligingly stepped in to keep you entertained. THANK YOU all for welcoming my dear JellyMa so warmly. I thought she did a great job of guest posting, too.

Today has been a frantic, crazy day and the rest of the week promises to be just as mad. The culmination of the chaos will be on Saturday evening, at which time I will be (how on earth did I let myself be talked into this?) sparring in a karate competition. Let me explain here that I have participated in several competitions, but have always avoided the fighting. Because I am a scaredy cat. I attend a special karate academy for nervous middle-aged woman called Yellow-Bellied Chicken-Livered Karate Academy.

In competitions, the sparring is supposed to be 'feather-touch only' contact, but.... there are errors of judgement, or even deliberate hits. So while I am happy to spar at my club, where there are no 'aggro' members, I'm not sure what vein-bulging, beefy, angry women I may have to face up to on Saturday. My instructor has already advised me that, as I have no hope of looking intimidating, I should try to appear 'ice-cool'. Hard to do when you're about to wet yourself with fear. I may try the 'if-I-wet-myself-you-could-get-wet-too' look. (Sorry about the toilet humour. It has been a long day)

To bed to bed my sleepy head...

Foto Fantasia

With a number of you requesting more photos ...
here goes ! Jelly will be back tomorrow.


"Sharing a shower with a friend."
A green tree frog in my bathroom.








A brush tail phascogale, a carnivourous marsupial, but this one loves banana.















Rufous bettongs, the smallest of the kangaroo family. The one in the foreground has a joey in her pouch. They come every night to feed.





A pair of tawny frogmouths "branching" on a blue gum tree, Eucalyptus teriticornis, which is a favourite koala food tree.

A Fulfilling Life

A guest post ? Help! What can I write ?
Something deep and meaningful ? - or funny or witty ? Nah, that's not me.
Maybe just give you all a glimpse into my life.

Reading Jelly's blog and those of many of you, her blogger friends, has become part of my daily life. I've even been tempted to become a "blogger" myself but the 'calling' has not yet been strong enough.

I have a simple but fulfilling life on the farm.

Caring for the farm animals - cows and calves, alpacas and chooks as well as the cat and the dog - takes some of my time.

Development of our wildlife corridor (planting hundreds of trees) and garden maintenance keep me active and fulfilled. (Fatty's koala, now in one of the smaller trees which we planted, is actually two. I saw her very tiny joey today.)

Preparing for visitors who come to share our beautiful environment takes a few more hours of some days.

Periodic visits to the "big smoke" to visit family and occasional 'jaunts' to Canada and the USA to visit friends take me away for a while and broaden the horizons.

... and then there are the days like today when I get called to return to the classroom. After 40 years of teaching I still get a thrill out of working with kids.

Every day I have the enjoyment of seeing the beautiful Australian bush, the farm animals, the native flowers, wallabies, koalas, bettongs, possums, colourful birds .... and at night the stars are ever so bright and sometimes the dingoes howl.
However, my greatest enjoyment comes from sharing our little piece of paradise with family and friends.
"Family Weekends" have seen 30-40 of my extended family visiting - and now the grandchildren are old enough to enjoy staying with "Jellyma". What more could a doting grandma want ?

Watch out, Jelly ! I'm coming down to 'kidnap' Laura and Ben again !

I'm leaving on a`jet plane

In a matter of a few hours, I am going to be jetting away to another Australian city. We are going to visit Fatty's brother, Writer, and his wife Ten (his wife I have called Ten because, apparently at school she was rated by the boys as a '10 out of 10'! The worst thing is, she is not only gorgeous but smart and nice as well. Damn I hate that!)

Writer and Ten lead a charmed life of going to restaurants, seeing plays, drinking red wine and pottering peacefully around their garden. They have been married four years, and seem vaguely interested in the idea of having children, but keep putting it off. And now, for four whole days, we will be inflicting our children upon them. hee hee. Ten will be doubling her contraceptive dose in no time. Writer will probably write an article about the untold benefits of the vasectomy.

While I am away, I have asked a mysterious guest to post for me. This person may or may not choose to reveal their identity. To be honest, they may or may not actually actually write a post for me! (I don't like to be too pushy about these things!). If they do write, please say hi to them. This person is not a blogger, so may be a little nervous. Also, I will be grading them out of 100. (Just joking Mysterious Guest!)

Bye for now,
Jelly

Soccerboy

Like many families these days, my family is complex. Some of you already know that my parents are divorced, and each parent has found a new partner. My father has had two more children since remarrying, so now I have siblings and half siblings.

My feelings towards my half-siblings have always been different to my feelings for my brother and sister. I have never lived in a household with my half-brothers (I'll call them Soccerboy and Bookworm). I never woke to their cheeky smiles or soothed their nightmare tears, as I did with my brother and sister. I only see them when there is a family get-together, every couple of months. Occasionally, I take them to a movie, or to the museum, but my life is so busy with my own family that this is only happens twice a year or so. One of the oddest aspects of my relationships with my half-brothers is that they are much, much younger than I am - Bookworm is less than a year older than MY eldest child. So in many ways, I feel more like an auntie than a sister to Bookworm and Soccerboy. I often feel guilty that I seem to love them in a fond, but absent-minded way. There is love, but it is muted, it is not always in the forefront of my mind; it is not a powerful love that reaches down into the depths of my stomach.

*************************************************************************

Last night, around nine o'clock, my father dropped around unexpectedly. He looked tired and his face was creased with worry, though he tried to act matter-of-fact.

"I've just come from the hospital," Dad commented calmly. "Soccerboy has a bad pain in his hip, and a high fever. They're not sure what's wrong with him".

Immediately I felt a rush of worry, and wanted to go to the hospital. Soccerboy was lying there alone, because my father and my stepmother had decided not to stay over. I suppose Soccerboy was being brave, and told his parents he would be fine, but I wanted to drive to the hospital straight away, just in case. I wanted to see if he was frightened, or in any pain. I wanted to be with Soccerboy. I thought about him as I tried to get to sleep; I woke with a headache.

In a few minutes, I will go to visit my sick little half-brother. I want him to know I am worried, I want to see if I can help in any way, and more than anything I want him to know I love him. Maybe he thinks my love for him is half-hearted, lukewarm; maybe he feels unimportant to me. If that's the case, I need to do a whole lot better. Going to visit him will be the start.

UPDATE: Soccerboy's MRI scan shows he has pyomyositis (an infection within a muscle) in his pelvic muscles. This is a fairly rare condition, but generally responds well to treatment. Soccerboy is being treated with intravenous antibiotics, but yesterday afternoon was still feverish and vomiting at intervals.
I am going up to visit Soccerboy after I drop my daughter at school this morning, because my father has an eye appointment, and my stepmother has a dental appointment this morning. Yes, you heard right, they are going to these appointments, and therefore will not be in to visit Soccerboy until the afternoon. They left him at 4:30 in the afternoon yesterday. Don't get me started on this.

camping capers

In case anyone's noticed, I've been away. I've been camping for the past 3 days, with Fatty and our kids, as well as another couple and their little boy. It was a great campground - near a lake, with wildlife all around. The photo shows just how many kangaroos were sharing the area with us (click to enlarge).

I haven't been camping since Fatty and I were childless. We may have even been still dating. If I recall rightly, we thought it was nothing but fun, and were all cutesy together. Oh bleah!

I've come to the conclusion that when camping as a married couple, there MUST be marital discord. On arrival at the camping ground, it is essential that griping and bickering begin. If you want to get straight into the swing of things, may I suggest arguing about the tent positioning. There are so many variables to consider, you can argue on this one for hours. Unfortunately, Fatty and I couldn't find a good solid point of dispute with this topic, so we had to move straight on to.....

Erecting the tent....it's the pinnacle of camping conflict. Each couple must nag, whine and mutter at each other. If you can, try to leave the tent instructions at home (this was our stroke of pure genius). That way, you can each explain to each other in slow, 'don't-you-realise-how-moronic-you-are' statements, how the job actually should be done. Priceless!

The couple we were with didn't fight at all over tent siting, or tent erecting. The husband, Lonky, did all the tent putting-up, while KP calmly made lunch. Hmmmm, I thought to myself, perhaps that's the way to do it. Just keep away, let one person do it all.

That night, Fatty and I were first to say goodnight, and snuggle down into our beds. All sniping at each other forgotten, we cuddled up and whispered our conversation to each other, so we wouldn't wake the children. Soon afterwards, KP and Lonky switched their gas light off, and all was quiet momentarily. Then there was the flash of a torch being shone about, and the strident tones of an upset woman.

"Look! Look at the roof over there! It's sagging!"

(indecipherable muttering from Lonky, who had during the evening consumed a whole bottle of white wine unaided)

"It is sagging. The whole bloody back of the tent is sagging too. It's going to fall down on us in the middle of the night!"

(murmur, murmur, it's fine, go to sleep, murmur)

"You haven't put the clips on over HERE! Look! No wonder the whole roof is caving in!"

Rustling and tent-unzipping noises ensued, and then the conversation was clearer, just a few feet from where Fatty and I lay, uncomfortable witnesses to the unfolding drama.

"I can't believe I let you put the tent up. You've stuffed it up completely! God! Why can't you put up a tent with clear instructions? This is just ridiculous!".

"Look, it's a little lax but really, it'll be fine. Let's just go to bed. Next time you can put up the tent and it'll all be perfect."

" WHAT? You want ME to put up the tent next time? So that's what this was about...you figured if you stuffed it up, I'd let you off the hook and do it all myself after today. Unbelievable!!!"

Fatty and I shifted a little on our skinny little mattresses. What could we do? There was no way not to eavesdrop on this heated discussion. We were hapless, helpless witnesses to this marital meltdown. Then, like a rainstorm onto a bushfire, a miraculous dousing of the flames occurred...

"Did they just giggle?", KP suddenly asked Lonky. She still sounded angry. I quailed under the sheet.

"I don't know. I'd be laughing if I were them!". Lonky began to chuckle, and KP allowed herself a brief giggle.

"Were you two LAUGHING?", came a stern voice, suddenly mere inches away from our heads.

"No!", I squeaked. "Honestly, we weren't!". (We wouldn't have dared!)

"Good." Silence.

"Really, we didn't!" I repeated nervously.

The flashlight waved and wandered away. I could hear KP and Lonky murmuring and giggling off and on for several minutes.

Silence descended on the campsite again. Fatty and I smiled at each other in the darkness. It's comforting to know that all couples bicker. And if you can laugh together after you bicker, it's a marriage made in heaven!

my daughter at the dentist

I sat in a chair by the window, trying to show by my nonchalant lounging posture, arm along the window ledge, that I was unconcerned. I didn't want to be an uptight mother, projecting my nervousness onto Laura. We were at the dentist yesterday, and Laura was having 3 fillings done.

I sat looking at Laura's big, puppy-paw hands. They are beautifully-shaped, slightly oversized hands, and they always make my heart melt. Laura's hands twisted just a little from time to time. She sat on her hands, and then took them out again. Her bottom was so far from the fold in the dental chair that Laura's coltish legs only touched the chair at the heels of her white sandals. It looked very uncomfortable. Yet this five-year-old girl of mine proceeded to sit in that chair for almost an hour, had 2 injections in the process, and had to 'open wide!' for the entire time, with not even a whimper of complaint.

As I gazed at my stoic little girl, I wondered why I get so impatient with her sometimes. I felt awful as I remembered being snappy with her the day before. Because she is such a well-behaved kid, who tries so hard to do the right thing. Even when she's been naughty, she'll often apologise later without being asked to. She is just that sort of child - anxious to please.

Always a bit more serious than her brother, Laura is slowly learning about joking around. Yesterday, though, her anxiety must have caused her innate serious nature to return to the fore. The dentist was trying to lighten things up the whole hour, asking Laura, "Are you asleep there Laura?" (solemn shake of the head), and "ZZZZZ......Was that YOU making that snoring noise?"(frowning..'No, it was you.') and, "What flavour fluoride would you like...squashed cockroaches, or mint?" (pause. unsmiling steady gaze. 'Mint, please')

I asked Laura afterwards how it went. She told me, "It hurt in my mouth like a sore. I tried counting to five in my head, but that didn't help. So I just tried not to cry." I hadn't realised she'd felt anything. She hadn't made a noise or shed a tear.

At times like these I feel a rush of protectiveness for my older, less vivacious child. She is quieter, and less attention-grabbing than her little brother. But she is a sweet, bright, brave little girl and oh I love her so. Puppy paws, colt legs, tousled hair and all.

the sound of my voice

There are thousands of songs about romantic love. Poetry, fiction and movies reflect our fascination with the heady rush of a new romance. It is considered human nature to seek out the affections of a partner. There is something within us that yearns for a powerful and passionate love.

The love we feel for our children is something that you don't hear about nearly as much. Sure, there are songs, poems and works of fiction that are centred around a parent's love for their child. Compared to the vast works on romantic love, though, there is so very little written about this pure and abiding love. I sometimes wonder why we don't speak more of our bond with our children. Is it because authors and songwriters fear boring their audiences and readers? Or is it because this love is just presumed?

I honestly don't know why parental love is so comparatively unspoken. When I had children, all previous notions of unconditional love seemed pale and pallid in the face of this astonishing, overwhelming emotion that hit me like a body blow. If anything, my love has only grown fiercer with time. I am a parent; this is how we love.

My love for Fatty is no less deep, but it is different. It is more complicated. It is more conditional. If he were to hit me, or constantly belittle me, or have affairs - my love would wilt, wither and expire. I promised to love him for better or worse, but I'm not a punching bag or a masochist. Some things are vow-breakers. So I cannot honestly say I would love him, no matter what. But my children I would love in the face of any wrongdoing - vicious cruelty or the most hideous crime. I may not like what they'd done, I may not even like my son or daughter any longer, but my love would be unwavering. It cannot be switched off or snuffed out. I know this, without question. And I have seen this love in the actions of parents the world over.

************************************************************************

I know I've been guilty of bemoaning the challenges of parenting, and I have followed in the footsteps of many other tired parents. Yet the negative aspect of having children is so insignificant compared to the seam-bursting happiness that children bring. For not only do we love our children profoundly - our children love us unreservedly in return.

Last week, my children spent a night away from us. My mother was helping us out with childcare, and it suited her better to collect the children a day early. So I waved a cheery goodbye to my kiddies, trying not to think of the time my mother drove sedately into the side of a bus (She says she just didn't see it. I find this faintly disturbing...after all, buses are not exactly small. I should explain that this is the one and only accident that my mother has been involved in, and she is otherwise a careful driver. Nevertheless, when she's driving my kids, I suddenly recall the incident with the invisible bus!). I waited for Mum to phone me to say they'd arrived at the farm in one piece.

My dear mother phoned me on arrival, and spoke to me as you would to a fretful child - soothingly, patiently.

"They're fine, love. They're excited that we're going to have spaghetti bolognaise for dinner."

"So they're not sad? They're OK?"

"Well, Ben got a bit upset about halfway here." Mum conceded. "He started crying, and told me he wanted to go home. In fact he got quite angry when he yelled TAKE ME BACK TO MUMMY! and TURN THE CAR AROUND! and I didn't do what he asked." Her voice was fond and I knew Mum had handled this episode with her characteristic kindness and patient resolve.

"Actually, it was rather sweet", Mum continued. "He tried to persuade me to go back, telling me but I LOVE Mummy. Then he added tearfully, I love the sound of her voice."

I smiled into the phone receiver. I could hear Ben playing happily in the background, so I knew his anxiety had passed. And what a thrill it gave me to hear his words, repeated to me.

There is nothing special about my voice. It is a regular kind of voice - not especially soothing, not especially lilting or sweet. No one has ever complimented me on my voice. But that was before I became a parent. Now, my voice is beloved to my son simply because it is his mother's voice.

I am blessed beyond my wildest dreams.

communing with cows and chooks

I've been away at my mother's farm. I missed you all, even for such a short time. I especially wanted to check how Motherkitty was progressing after having her knee replacement surgery. I was eager to hear how Heather's stepdad was going. And cmhl - how would she be feeling, after having some medical concerns herself? It was a relief to find out everyone was doing pretty well.

Kerri, I thought of you as Fatty and the kids and I wandered amongst some trees near Mum's house, hoping to spy a koala. You had asked me to post a picture of a koala sometime, and you did ask so nicely! So here, for your viewing pleasure, is the cutie-pie Fatty photographed today!

There are also a couple more photos I couldn't resist posting.

I know I've been compelled to wax lyrical about Mum's property before, but the fact is, her piece of acreage is a real haven for me. After visiting for a night, I feel like I've had a four day escape. Maybe these pictures will give you a hint of what I love about Mum's farm. If only I could post a photo of Mum, too, with her wide, wide smile. After all, she is the farm's star attraction.

Spooked

Weird, unexplainable things are happening at our place. No-one knows how, no-one knows why. I'm considering phoning a TV producer and pitching them the idea....a show called Scary Suburbia. Or how about House of Horrors? (I know 2 small horrors, at minimum)

Firstly, there is this freaky phenomenon in which crayons and pens are discovered scattered far and wide across the kitchen floor. They have obviously been projected with such force that some have even come to rest partially under the fridge. It is quite a spectacular sight, come to think of it - a colour burst over the black and white lino. The strange thing is, no one knows how it happened. Fatty and I are mystified; Laura and Benjamin solemnly deny all involvement. And I believe my children, you know. They are perfect angels. My little sweeties would never deceive me. And so you see, we have the first evidence of a ghostly presence.

Other occurrences have baffled certain members of our family. For instance, Fatty and the children definitely don't know how the mountain of clean washing that was on the dining room table has found its' way into the drawers. All they know is, it certainly wasn't done by their hands. I have, from time to time, suggested that perhaps there is a Folding-and-Putting-Away Fairy, but this suggestion has always been met with derision. Part of the problem may be that when I query my dearest ones (about how the fresh clothes have magically disappeared), they often deny ever having noticed the pile in the first place. Sometimes I wonder if they are actually in cahoots with the Folding Fairy.

Sometimes food disappears, and this time I can assure you my children are not to blame. Often, we have been entertaining guests over coffee and cake, and then have trundled, en masse, out to the front veranda to farewell our visitors. When we return, still smiling and discussing the visit, we discover that the leftover cake has gone. Vamooshed. Left the building. We ask the beagle, lying nearby on her mat, if she saw anything. Millie stares blandly back at us. We wonder why she didn't bark at the cake thief. It's very odd.

Objects go missing, and we never find them again. Socks, library books, balls, hairclips.... they disappear into some kind of a black hole. There is no rational explanation. We turn the house upside down, but never do we rediscover the missing items.

I can't help but think all these events must be somehow connected. I have a brilliant theory about what's really going on: Somewhere, there is a malevolent pink-hair-clipped, crayon-throwing ghoul reading 'How Chickens Grow' with one hand, bouncing a Barbie ball with the other, wearing one red sock and one navy. Feeling quite nauseous after eating half a carrot cake, but satisfied that at least all the folded clothes are put away.

Elementary, my dear Watson.

Ah, it's Friday night... hooray!! And now for a spot of blogging, to round off the week.


Today, Fatty and I have both taken some happy snaps.

Fatty got home from work early, and went off stomping around a nature reserve. He took pictures of a koala, even though he wasn't interested in it, simply because another avid nature-watcher excitedly beckoned Fatty to come and see. Fatty didn't have the heart to tell him yeah, yeah, another koala - I've seen bucketloads. Instead he chatted to the guy, and took three or four photos. He is a good man, my Fatty.

Fatty also spotted this bird (pictured), which he informs me is not an Australian bird. I suppose it is a runaway pet. Perhaps the owner had squawked, 'Polly, want a cracker?' just one too many times. Or maybe the bird got a bit peckish? Had ruffled feathers? Wanted to spread his wings? Felt caged-in? (someone stop me, I can't control these awful jokes). Anyway, he is a migrant bird. We mustn't make jokes at his expense. We must help him assimilate. I'm going to send Fatty back tomorrow with a plate of Vegemite sandwiches.

As for me, I took a fancy to the sunset colours, juxtaposed across the moon. Sunsets always make me thankful I'm alive. A brilliant sunset is like a piece of art, hung in the sky for all to see.

Wishing everyone a happy and colourful weekend!

Jelly

the truth is out

My mother phoned me yesterday. She had a smiley sound to her voice, and I asked her immediately...

"So? What news have you got then? You sound like the cat that got the cream!" (I wondered to myself idly, is it 'got the cream' or 'ate the canary'?)

"Nothing, no news,"Mum replied, " ...just that sometimes I read what you've written on your blog, and I want to shout to the world that's my daughter!!. I'm just really proud of you."

I've written before of how supportive my mother is, and yet again I counted my lucky stars for this mother of mine, who always thinks the best of me. At the same time, I felt somewhat uncomfortable with her praise. In fact, if I must be honest, I am a little fazed by the wonderful comments I received after my last post. You, my blogger friends, have given me such glowing compliments that I feel....well...I feel a bit of a fraud! I thanked my mother for her words, and I really want to thank all of you, my readers and blogpals, for giving me such wonderful and positive feedback. But, as I told my mother, I'm feeling like I need to redress the balance here. Because so far on this blog, I've told the work stories that are uplifting, or feel-good, or interesting (at least, interesting to me). Funny how none of these stories happen to portay me in any kind of a bad light.

Funny how I haven't posted about the consultations when I lose track of what my patient is saying, because I'm wondering if I remembered to defrost the chicken for dinner. Funny how I haven't posted about when the chemist rang me up last year and said did you really mean 5ml of this syrup daily? - because that is a really large dose. Mmmm. It is. Let's make that 1 ml daily. (Thank you, you clever, observant pharmacist!! Mwah Mwah!) Funny how I haven't posted about how I once got so irritated by a middle-aged male who came to see me with a list of demands, that I actually saluted him and barked, "Yes, SIR!".

I won't go on. I don't want to disillusion you all too much. There may be only so much truth you can handle before you decide to boycott my blog. Or petition to get me deregistered.

Just take it from me.... I make mistakes in my job; I just choose not to publicise it too widely. I am a doctor just like many others. I know many compassionate fellow doctors, who are kinder, and more patient, than I am. I know many, many doctors with greater clinical expertise. I think I am a caring doctor, with an awareness of my own knowledge limitations; I am a decent doctor. That's it. I am no worse than that and no better.

I just thought you should know.

where there is life there is hope

This morning I slunk into work feeling reluctant to be there. The weekend had been busy and draining, and I felt more like a long nap than being pleasant to anyone. However, I'm a great believer in 'fake it until you make it', so I greeted my co-workers cheerily and got on with the day. And in the end, it was a pretty good day after all.

One of my cutest little patients, 'Mikey', came for a check-up today. Mikey is a blond, curly-haired toddler with a cheeky grin and a way with women. Don't tell me he's too young to have a way with women...today this kid put a hand up to gently cup my chin as I checked his ear! Mikey is just an adorable kid. He is also, to me, the embodiment of the concept of hope. Whenever I think of miracles, whenever I think of how sometimes, wonderful things happen in the face of dire predictions - Mikey is who I most often think of.

I have known Mikey's mother for several years. I was responsible for her antenatal care during her pregnancy with Mikey. Mikey was a much-planned-for baby, and his mother, 'Kay', was so looking forward to his birth. I was also eager to meet this baby, who I had poked and prodded many times in his mother's belly. So when Kay came for a postnatal appointment, looking exhausted and sad, I wondered what on earth was wrong. The flaxen-haired baby, swaddled up in a blanket, was chubby. When he opened his eyes, he fixed his gaze on my face. He reacted to noise; blinked in the light. He looked perfect.

Kay wearily related the story of Mikey's birth. It had been a difficult labour, and towards the end, Mikey had shown signs of distress. After an emergency Caesarian delivery, Mikey was born with reduced responsiveness, and promptly proceeded to have a series of seizures. Mikey was now on anti-epileptic medication, and his parents had been told he would have brain damage. The extent of his disability remained to be determined, the paediatricians said, but it was almost certain that there would be both intellectual and physical delays.

Kay told me she felt such despair. No-one had been anything but negative about Mikey's outlook. Yet mixed with her fear was a tiny flicker of hope. Like me, Kay saw in Mikey a healthy-looking baby boy. Like me, Kay noticed his reactions were appropriate. Like me, Kay wanted to believe that the doctors might be wrong about Mikey.

I spoke to Kay, choosing my words carefully. I didn't want to mislead Kay by being unrealistic, yet I wanted to have a different attitude to the hospital doctors. I suggested that Kay and her husband be prepared for possible problems, but not to expect them as a certainty. We spoke about dealing with problems IF and WHEN they arose. I really had no idea what would happen with Mikey, but I did know that everyone needs hope.

Today, Mikey is an outgoing, sturdy, talkative little boy who will be two this month. He gets into every drawer and cupboard in my consulting room. He walks to me and puts his arms up to be picked up (so he can attack all the fascinating objects on my desk!). Today I pointed out a bus going past outside, after which Mikey remarked brightly, "All gone now!". This is the 'disabled child' that Mikey's parents were warned about. He is a little ray of sunshine, come into the world. He brightens up all our days. He brightened mine today, yet again.

bedtime song

Every night, Fatty and I put our kids to bed in the same way. It is a fairly elaborate ritual involving two books being read aloud, two made-up stories being told, and then a song being sung to each child in their bed. We have friends who laugh at our folly, and think we are nuts for committing to this complex bedtime pattern. My friend KP tells me sternly that she has a strict 'one book, then bed' policy. But I like our carryings-on. It is a time when I focus completely on my kids - snuggle with them, chat with them, and sing to them softly.

When I was a little girl, my mother sang to me every night. My favourite song would change over time. At one stage, Mum would sing 'Yellow Bird' to me each night. There was one part of the song where she didn't know the words, so she would sing,"da-da, da-da-dum, da-da, da-da-dum.... you're more lucky than me!". Now, I sometimes sing this same song to Laura. For ages I sang the 'da-da, da-da-dum', too. Now I have googled the song, and know all the words. Funny, though...it doesn't sound as comforting without the da-da's.

When Fatty sings the bedtime songs, he often sings the first 2 verses of a song called 'Two Little Boys'. It is a sweet, sweet song, that brought tears to my eyes the first time I heard it. To hear my children singing these words in their their lisping, clear little voices...it is one of the most beautiful sounds I've heard:

Two Little Boys by Edward Madden (first two verses)

Two little boys
Had two little toys,
Each had a wooden horse;
Gaily they played
Each summer's day -
Warriors both of course.
One little chap
Then had a mishap,
Broke off his horse's head;
Cried for his toy,
Then cried for joy
As his young playmate said:

"Did you think I would leave you crying
When there's room on my horse for two?
Climb up here, Jack, we'll soon be flying;
I can go just as fast with two.
When we grow up we'll both be soldiers,
And our horses will not be toys,
And I wonder if we'll remember
When we were two little boys."

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.