Mama Bear tagged a few of us to do this meme. Now that I have written mine, I am concerned I may have ended up disclosing some slightly odd stuff. But at least I don't have model airplanes in my closet!
5 things in my freezer:
1) 2 blackened bananas (you know, for the banana cake I've been intending to make for, oh, 5 months or so)
2) a large chicken - dead, beheaded and de-feathered, of course. I looooove cooking roast chook!
3) Sara Lee rum 'n' raisin ice cream (there's gotta be ice cream!)
4) a golf-ball sized hailstone, stored assiduously by my children since the last hailstorm
5) leftovers in tupperware, for those nights when my frown is larger than my smile
5 things in my closet:
1) a short winter skirt that I once wore with tights and boots, but now could only wear with a very long skirt over top. It needs to go. I need to face reality.
2) a mouthguard, chest guard, shin guards and sparring gloves in a backpack (for karate)
3) my wedding top and skirt, hanging forlornly, wishing they would see the light of day again. Sorry guys.
4) bridesmaids dresses. Like the wedding outfit, they wait in vain.
5) handbags I have known and now know to be ugly.
5 things in my car:
1) crumbs
2) tissues
3) street directory
4) dinosaur mini-torch
5) 1-2 children, depending
5 things in my purse:
1) gum
2) baby wipes
3) ibuprofen
4) diary
5) roller mini-bottle of perfume my daughter gave me for Mother's Day. It is very floral, and very stinky. I pretend I love it.
5 things in my wallet:
1) photo of my hubby and kids,
2) photo of my brother and sister
3) stamps
4) ticket stub from the last movie I saw
5) old shopping list that reads:' floss, fly spray, salt, bread, beer, wine, crayons, paper, mags'. I don't know what occasion these items were for, but it sounds like it would have been fun. Except for the flossing, of course.
I'm done, all done. Who else feels like rifling through their belongings? Feel free to leave an abbreviated version of this meme in the comments section. I'd be interested in your freezers and closets, in particular!
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Sunday, July 30, 2006
tenuous connections
I used to visit her every day. She made me smile, giggle and laugh out loud. She had a knack with words that fascinated me. She was soft and sweet; she was sharp and sassy. And underneath her jokes and banter, there was always her raw and brutal grief, a grief that I wished with all my heart I could wipe away.
This woman was not an actual friend of mine. The 'visits' I speak of were visits to her blog. Yet I had read enough of her humour, and taken in enough of her pain, that I felt I was beginning to know her. Then, just over a month ago, she fell silent. Every day I check to see if she has written. Every day I see the same words, dated several weeks back.
Whenever she was going to be away, or knew she would be busy with her family, my fellow blogger would mention it in her posts in advance. She posted almost every day. Her last post was chatty, cheeky, light-hearted even. Now I wonder if she was actually fighting off a terrible despair, even as she typed those teasing words.
Where are you, my friend? Are you overwhelmed by your loss? Are you struggling with a new difficulty? I hope more than anything that you have someone to hold your hand and stroke your forehead. I worry that something awful may have happened to you, and I shake that thought away.
Wherever you are, please know that you are remembered, with compassion and fondness, with respect and admiration, and with a big smirk at the thought of all your cheesy puns. Please take care. You are one of a kind.
This woman was not an actual friend of mine. The 'visits' I speak of were visits to her blog. Yet I had read enough of her humour, and taken in enough of her pain, that I felt I was beginning to know her. Then, just over a month ago, she fell silent. Every day I check to see if she has written. Every day I see the same words, dated several weeks back.
Whenever she was going to be away, or knew she would be busy with her family, my fellow blogger would mention it in her posts in advance. She posted almost every day. Her last post was chatty, cheeky, light-hearted even. Now I wonder if she was actually fighting off a terrible despair, even as she typed those teasing words.
Where are you, my friend? Are you overwhelmed by your loss? Are you struggling with a new difficulty? I hope more than anything that you have someone to hold your hand and stroke your forehead. I worry that something awful may have happened to you, and I shake that thought away.
Wherever you are, please know that you are remembered, with compassion and fondness, with respect and admiration, and with a big smirk at the thought of all your cheesy puns. Please take care. You are one of a kind.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
thinking back
Before we went to Canada, I wondered if perhaps we'd bitten off more than we could chew (so to speak). I know that these days, hip and happening parents go trekking in the Himalayas with their 3 week old babies, but I have never been hip and happening. I thought Fatty and I were adventurous whenever we ventured out of the house with our first child. I thought we were extremely bold when we took our infant son and two-year-old daughter on a domestic flight to visit their grandparents. So to take a trip overseas - let's just say it was a big step for Fatty and me.
It's been a real confidence boost to see that, with some careful planning, and a lot of plain good luck, too - we managed it. We managed it, and we really enjoyed it (So there is life after children!).
One of the best things about the holiday, for me, was working together with Fatty. We are very different sorts of people, who often go about things in quite different ways, yet we worked in parallel to make the holiday run smoothly. Sometimes, tangled up in the details of day-to-day living, I fret over our disparities. I forget that we're a good team. We complement each other - yin and yang.
It was good to spend time with our kids, too. They were amazingly tolerant of all the tedious things about travel, and they were full of joy and vigour when it came to sightseeing. We talked, and walked, we ate and laughed. We had running jokes that continued the entire trip. We were just a regular, happy family on holidays, but I felt like the queen of the world. I woke up smiling every day.
Now life has returned to its usual pattern, but I am renewed. It's been brilliant to travel in Canada. Best of all, I did it with my sweeties.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
back in the saddle again
As I dressed for work yesterday, I gave myself a little pep talk:
"Come on, it'll be good to see everyone there."
"I'm sure your brain hasn't really atrophied during your four weeks off work."
"It'll probably be an easy morning; stop getting your knickers in a knot!"
Armed with a suitably perky smile, I strode into work, greeting various other staff members, and replying that yes indeedy, my holiday HAD been good. Very good. Too good!
The morning was running pretty well, and I was beginning to relax, when I called in 'Jenny'. She looked uncomfortable yet sheepish at the same time, as she explained she'd had this chest and left shoulder pain since yesterday afternoon. "I'm sure it's just a pulled muscle, but, you know, dad was only 62 when he died of a heart attack".
Right. "Let's just go get you on some oxygen," I suggest firmly, leading her to a treatment room. In many ways, a patient having angina or a heart attack is a straightforward scenario to manage (unless they go into an life-threatening arrhythmia or actually arrest in the surgery- which luckily is not too often). You have a certain formula to follow - check this, give that. Of course, as a suburban GP, there is one vital action to be taken - something a good doctor learns early, something that requires great wisdom and intellect. Want to know this most important step? Oh, alright, I'll share the secret. In an emergency, the most crucial job is .... asking the receptionist to call an ambulance. Pronto!
The ambulance arrived, with two burly paramedics. I had been about to insert an IV, but seeing as the paramedics can do IV's standing on their heads, and considering I only insert an IV about once a year (if that), I let them take over. Unfortunately, Jenny had tiny veins, and when one of the ambulancemen tried to put in a drip in Jenny's hand, it went right through the vein.
Now usually I am not especially confident as a doctor, and I would never put myself forward to take over a situation. But it just happens that the one procedural skill I have always been good at is inserting IVs. Even as an intern, I would be called to do the difficult drips. Once, a third-year resident saw me passing near the emergency department, and despite that fact I was on a day off, and was wearing a checked flannel shirt, called me to try to insert a drip in the arm of a large Fijian lady who'd already been 'stabbed' by various doctors half a dozen times (I don't know what the poor lady thought of the lady lumberjack who was poking her with a needle, but I got the drip in!) So it was very unlike me, but when the paramedic started talking about trying another vein in a position where the drip will often block up or fall out, I tentatively approached. "What about this vein here? I could have a try, if you like", I offered. "Sure doc", one of the ambulancemen replied. Now I really felt under pressure. Trying to get a wide needle into a small vein - was I going to stuff this up, and feel like a real goose?
No! I didn't stuff it up! Hooray and hallelujah!
It's amazing what a buzz I got from such a simple task. I can't explain why I should feel so pleased about such a silly thing. I suppose when skills don't get used, you wonder if you still have the skills at all. But it's OK. I can still whack an IV in.
And all of you who have nodded off can now wake up. This post is over!
"Come on, it'll be good to see everyone there."
"I'm sure your brain hasn't really atrophied during your four weeks off work."
"It'll probably be an easy morning; stop getting your knickers in a knot!"
Armed with a suitably perky smile, I strode into work, greeting various other staff members, and replying that yes indeedy, my holiday HAD been good. Very good. Too good!
The morning was running pretty well, and I was beginning to relax, when I called in 'Jenny'. She looked uncomfortable yet sheepish at the same time, as she explained she'd had this chest and left shoulder pain since yesterday afternoon. "I'm sure it's just a pulled muscle, but, you know, dad was only 62 when he died of a heart attack".
Right. "Let's just go get you on some oxygen," I suggest firmly, leading her to a treatment room. In many ways, a patient having angina or a heart attack is a straightforward scenario to manage (unless they go into an life-threatening arrhythmia or actually arrest in the surgery- which luckily is not too often). You have a certain formula to follow - check this, give that. Of course, as a suburban GP, there is one vital action to be taken - something a good doctor learns early, something that requires great wisdom and intellect. Want to know this most important step? Oh, alright, I'll share the secret. In an emergency, the most crucial job is .... asking the receptionist to call an ambulance. Pronto!
The ambulance arrived, with two burly paramedics. I had been about to insert an IV, but seeing as the paramedics can do IV's standing on their heads, and considering I only insert an IV about once a year (if that), I let them take over. Unfortunately, Jenny had tiny veins, and when one of the ambulancemen tried to put in a drip in Jenny's hand, it went right through the vein.
Now usually I am not especially confident as a doctor, and I would never put myself forward to take over a situation. But it just happens that the one procedural skill I have always been good at is inserting IVs. Even as an intern, I would be called to do the difficult drips. Once, a third-year resident saw me passing near the emergency department, and despite that fact I was on a day off, and was wearing a checked flannel shirt, called me to try to insert a drip in the arm of a large Fijian lady who'd already been 'stabbed' by various doctors half a dozen times (I don't know what the poor lady thought of the lady lumberjack who was poking her with a needle, but I got the drip in!) So it was very unlike me, but when the paramedic started talking about trying another vein in a position where the drip will often block up or fall out, I tentatively approached. "What about this vein here? I could have a try, if you like", I offered. "Sure doc", one of the ambulancemen replied. Now I really felt under pressure. Trying to get a wide needle into a small vein - was I going to stuff this up, and feel like a real goose?
No! I didn't stuff it up! Hooray and hallelujah!
It's amazing what a buzz I got from such a simple task. I can't explain why I should feel so pleased about such a silly thing. I suppose when skills don't get used, you wonder if you still have the skills at all. But it's OK. I can still whack an IV in.
And all of you who have nodded off can now wake up. This post is over!
Saturday, July 22, 2006
holiday happy-snaps
Hello! I've missed you all! (The occasional post from far away is just not the same)
We arrived home yesterday afternoon, and are all in pretty good shape today. I have phoned my friends, chatted to my mum, slept in my own bed (ahhhh), and patted the dog. All is right with the world!
I thought I would post some trip photos (Lake Louise, Butchart gardens in Victoria, sea otter from Vancouver aquarium)... hope you like them.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
"You make me feel so young..."
Whenever I hear the smooth notes of a Frank Sinatra song, I am taken back, way back, transported to the time when I was six or seven, to when I was small and my parents were still happy together. Perhaps there were stirrings of dissatisfaction and dissent between my mother and father, but my six-year-old self had not noticed anything amiss. I knew I was loved, I knew my parents loved each other, and my world was composed of the three of us.
Every night, both parents would kiss me goodnight. I would lie in bed, with the golden light from the living room spilling down the hall and glowing softly in my room - not enough to keep me awake, but enough to chase away my fears. With my door ajar, I could hear the rise and fall of my parents voices as they talked. The words were indecipherable, but the murmur of their conversation was a sound that I loved. If my parents laughed about something together, I felt that my life, at that moment, was utterly perfect. It was one of my favourite times of the day.
Sometimes, Mum or Dad would ask me if I wanted some music to listen to as I fell asleep. They had given me a recording of 'The Nutcracker Suite', and I remember listening to its familiar refrains as I drifted off to sleep. But mostly, I would be serenaded into the Land of Nod by the music my father loved .... Ivan Rebroff, the music to Dr Zhivago, but mostly, more than any other, Frank Sinatra. And if you have to listen to the same man singing, night after night, I can assure you that Ol' Blue Eyes was an excellent choice. His honeyed voice, his perfect pitch, his corny songs of love - they still appeal to me now. It's not that I don't love many other types of music - rock, pop, blues, classical, country/rock. Yet Sinatra's music still draws me in, holds me, soothes me, reminds me of when my world was much smaller. It reminds me of the warm yellow walls in my room, the kiss of my mother, the chuckle of my father, and the simplicity of a six-year-old.
Though my life has changed a lot over the past 30-odd years, and though my parents' marriage did not survive, one thing has remained constant. I know that both my parents love me dearly. And that knowledge I have carried with me like a talisman throughout my life. That, and the uncanny ability to sing the lyrics of any Frank Sinatra song you may care to name .....
"You make me feel so young
You make me feel like spring has sprung!"
Every night, both parents would kiss me goodnight. I would lie in bed, with the golden light from the living room spilling down the hall and glowing softly in my room - not enough to keep me awake, but enough to chase away my fears. With my door ajar, I could hear the rise and fall of my parents voices as they talked. The words were indecipherable, but the murmur of their conversation was a sound that I loved. If my parents laughed about something together, I felt that my life, at that moment, was utterly perfect. It was one of my favourite times of the day.
Sometimes, Mum or Dad would ask me if I wanted some music to listen to as I fell asleep. They had given me a recording of 'The Nutcracker Suite', and I remember listening to its familiar refrains as I drifted off to sleep. But mostly, I would be serenaded into the Land of Nod by the music my father loved .... Ivan Rebroff, the music to Dr Zhivago, but mostly, more than any other, Frank Sinatra. And if you have to listen to the same man singing, night after night, I can assure you that Ol' Blue Eyes was an excellent choice. His honeyed voice, his perfect pitch, his corny songs of love - they still appeal to me now. It's not that I don't love many other types of music - rock, pop, blues, classical, country/rock. Yet Sinatra's music still draws me in, holds me, soothes me, reminds me of when my world was much smaller. It reminds me of the warm yellow walls in my room, the kiss of my mother, the chuckle of my father, and the simplicity of a six-year-old.
Though my life has changed a lot over the past 30-odd years, and though my parents' marriage did not survive, one thing has remained constant. I know that both my parents love me dearly. And that knowledge I have carried with me like a talisman throughout my life. That, and the uncanny ability to sing the lyrics of any Frank Sinatra song you may care to name .....
"You make me feel so young
You make me feel like spring has sprung!"
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Mum, it's your birthday!!!
Now I know you don't all know my Mum, but take it from me - she is a divine creature. So please join with me in wishing the sweet Jellyma a very HAPPY BIRTHDAY !!!
Happy Birthday Mum. I'm sorry I'm not around to celebrate with you, but I will make it up to you when we return.
Hip hip....hooray!
Happy Birthday Mum. I'm sorry I'm not around to celebrate with you, but I will make it up to you when we return.
Hip hip....hooray!
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Rocky Mountain Highway
Everyone, everyone, I am so excited! Just now, I was peacefully eating some dinner with my family, at a restaurant in the Rocky Mountains, when a large elk sauntered past our hotel!!! I kid you not! I asked the waitress if this was unusual, and she tucked her hair behind her ear and calmly replied, "Well, it happens. We are right in the middle of a National Park, so ya. They walk through here sometimes." Incredible!
Other things that have amazed or intrigued me:
- the majesty of the mountains (compared to these, Australian mountains are just hills. Bumps.)
- the ginormous portion sizes. I tell you, it's just as well we've been piggybacking our kids on trails and walks every day, or we'd be very FAT by now. Of course, I realise there is always the option of not eating everything on your plate. But that's hard if the food's good!
- cute squirrels which seem to be everywhere, leading me to suspect they could possibly be regarded as vermin here. I am sincerely hoping that is the case (or at least that they are as plentiful as they seem) because I unfortunately squashed one yesterday. Sorry squirrel.
I am having trouble getting time to comment on all your blogs, but I am still reading when I can. Best wishes to you all,
the travelling Jelly
Other things that have amazed or intrigued me:
- the majesty of the mountains (compared to these, Australian mountains are just hills. Bumps.)
- the ginormous portion sizes. I tell you, it's just as well we've been piggybacking our kids on trails and walks every day, or we'd be very FAT by now. Of course, I realise there is always the option of not eating everything on your plate. But that's hard if the food's good!
- cute squirrels which seem to be everywhere, leading me to suspect they could possibly be regarded as vermin here. I am sincerely hoping that is the case (or at least that they are as plentiful as they seem) because I unfortunately squashed one yesterday. Sorry squirrel.
I am having trouble getting time to comment on all your blogs, but I am still reading when I can. Best wishes to you all,
the travelling Jelly
Friday, June 30, 2006
At first I was afraid, I was petrified.....
but I survived!!
Hello everyone, and thank you for all your farewell messages. Unfortunately for you, I have not kept quiet long (just long enough to get over a spot of jetlag), and I'm back!
The plane trip was pretty good all told, and no-one got hysterical - not even the kids. We are now spending a few days with our friends on Vancouver Island, pottering about doing short trips here and there. It is all so beautiful, with warm, sunny weather (which I'm told is not quite usual for this time of year) and I can see snow-topped mountains almost everywhere we go!!!!! It's so good to be here.
I have even driven our rental car several times, and have managed OK (though I have been driving as if I am about 90 years old- shoulders hunched up, fingers gripping the wheel tightly, forehead furrowed). Fatty, on the other hand, tried to annihilate his entire family today by swinging onto a highway on the wrong side of the road. I yelled, 'Wrong side, wrong side!', and quick as a flash we were once more driving legally and safely again. Whew.
I hope all the rest of you are driving safely and on the correct side of the road this week. Take care everyone. I will write another update soon.
PS: I may also post the odd piece of writing that has nothing to do with our trip (you know, just me raving on about whatever), and there may even be a guest post or two. I do try to keep you al entertained!
Hello everyone, and thank you for all your farewell messages. Unfortunately for you, I have not kept quiet long (just long enough to get over a spot of jetlag), and I'm back!
The plane trip was pretty good all told, and no-one got hysterical - not even the kids. We are now spending a few days with our friends on Vancouver Island, pottering about doing short trips here and there. It is all so beautiful, with warm, sunny weather (which I'm told is not quite usual for this time of year) and I can see snow-topped mountains almost everywhere we go!!!!! It's so good to be here.
I have even driven our rental car several times, and have managed OK (though I have been driving as if I am about 90 years old- shoulders hunched up, fingers gripping the wheel tightly, forehead furrowed). Fatty, on the other hand, tried to annihilate his entire family today by swinging onto a highway on the wrong side of the road. I yelled, 'Wrong side, wrong side!', and quick as a flash we were once more driving legally and safely again. Whew.
I hope all the rest of you are driving safely and on the correct side of the road this week. Take care everyone. I will write another update soon.
PS: I may also post the odd piece of writing that has nothing to do with our trip (you know, just me raving on about whatever), and there may even be a guest post or two. I do try to keep you al entertained!
Saturday, June 24, 2006
O Canada!
Ever since our children (the dear little blighters) were born, Fatty and I have taken a week's holiday here and there with our kids - almost always at the beach. We have had bucketloads of fun, but at the same time it's always been so good to come home, too. So what on earth were we thinking planning a trip involving 3 weeks and 5 days away from home, with a 25 hours worth of travel just to arrive at our destination?? I'm a little nervous about how it will all go, to say the least!
I'm also relishing the idea of four whole weeks off work. And I'm looking forward to spending time with our two sets of family friends, and doing some slow, drive-a-little, stop-a-lot exploring in beautiful Canada with Fatty and our kids.
I won't be visiting T, Mackeydoodle, or Franny. (Try to look disappointed instead of relieved, people!) I would love to sit and have chocolate cake somewhere with each of you, but with two small children in tow, we won't be travelling extensively, and won't even make it into Alberta, or anywhere near Ontario. But I will think of all my Canadian blogfriends as I travel.
Bags are packed, tickets and passports are at the ready, I have a large packet of baby wipes readily accessible....now is there anything else I cannot depart without? (Maybe I should have packed sedatives. I can see how sedatives could be helpful. For me, of course. A valium or 4, and I just wouldn't care if Ben was screaming his lungs out. Pursed-lipped passengers could turn in their seats to frown, and I would smile beatifically and slur, "Peace, man. Feel the looooove!") We leave in the morning, so wish me luck!
I will try to post now and then, and will have access to the internet most places we're going, so say hello if you drop by. Take care everyone!
Jelly
I'm also relishing the idea of four whole weeks off work. And I'm looking forward to spending time with our two sets of family friends, and doing some slow, drive-a-little, stop-a-lot exploring in beautiful Canada with Fatty and our kids.
I won't be visiting T, Mackeydoodle, or Franny. (Try to look disappointed instead of relieved, people!) I would love to sit and have chocolate cake somewhere with each of you, but with two small children in tow, we won't be travelling extensively, and won't even make it into Alberta, or anywhere near Ontario. But I will think of all my Canadian blogfriends as I travel.
Bags are packed, tickets and passports are at the ready, I have a large packet of baby wipes readily accessible....now is there anything else I cannot depart without? (Maybe I should have packed sedatives. I can see how sedatives could be helpful. For me, of course. A valium or 4, and I just wouldn't care if Ben was screaming his lungs out. Pursed-lipped passengers could turn in their seats to frown, and I would smile beatifically and slur, "Peace, man. Feel the looooove!") We leave in the morning, so wish me luck!
I will try to post now and then, and will have access to the internet most places we're going, so say hello if you drop by. Take care everyone!
Jelly
Friday, June 23, 2006
Once upon a time....
.... there lived a tall, willowy young woman with remarkable green eyes. I should say that she was usually willowy, but in fact at the time this story took place, she was rather portly. Her legs and arms were still slender, but her belly was round and taut. She was not quite 25 years of age, and she was about to have her first child.
This particular day, Green Eyes was tired, and her back ached. She was a stoic type, though, and she carried on with her busy day regardless. Green Eyes was married, but her errant husband was away, doing study in another country. So she was on her own as she went to the doctor for a routine check-up.
The doctor examined Green Eyes, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You're going to have this baby tonight", he remarked. "Better go straight up to the hospital". Green Eyes was surprised, too - but she obediently did as she was told.
Up at the hospital, the midwife took one look at Green Eyes, standing calmly, bag in hand.
"Are you in labour? Why are you here?"
"Well, Dr Knowitall sent me here", Green Eyes murmured, feeling like an unwelcome guest.
"Well, come on then", the midwife bustled. "We'll get you settled in bed for the night."
An hour later, Green Eyes began to have contractions. The contractions became steadily stronger, and Green Eyes breathed heavily, bracing herself for each wave of gripping pain. Midwives appeared, and raised their eyebrows in surprise, just like Dr Knowitall had done. After an hour of pain, Green Eyes began to feel a compelling desire to push.
Half an hour later, on the evening of June 23rd, a baby girl was born. Green Eyes loved her instantly.
And Mum, I love you, too. Thank you for carrying me in your body, for labouring alone to have me, and for raising me to be a woman who tries to emulate you in mothering my own children.
This particular day, Green Eyes was tired, and her back ached. She was a stoic type, though, and she carried on with her busy day regardless. Green Eyes was married, but her errant husband was away, doing study in another country. So she was on her own as she went to the doctor for a routine check-up.
The doctor examined Green Eyes, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You're going to have this baby tonight", he remarked. "Better go straight up to the hospital". Green Eyes was surprised, too - but she obediently did as she was told.
Up at the hospital, the midwife took one look at Green Eyes, standing calmly, bag in hand.
"Are you in labour? Why are you here?"
"Well, Dr Knowitall sent me here", Green Eyes murmured, feeling like an unwelcome guest.
"Well, come on then", the midwife bustled. "We'll get you settled in bed for the night."
An hour later, Green Eyes began to have contractions. The contractions became steadily stronger, and Green Eyes breathed heavily, bracing herself for each wave of gripping pain. Midwives appeared, and raised their eyebrows in surprise, just like Dr Knowitall had done. After an hour of pain, Green Eyes began to feel a compelling desire to push.
Half an hour later, on the evening of June 23rd, a baby girl was born. Green Eyes loved her instantly.
And Mum, I love you, too. Thank you for carrying me in your body, for labouring alone to have me, and for raising me to be a woman who tries to emulate you in mothering my own children.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
shortest post ever
Hello and Happy Tuesday to you all! It's Franny's birthday today, so please wish her all the best if you get a chance.
I've run out of things to say already. But that's only because I've just been blabbing away in a guest post for my friend, Heather. Are you curious? Keen to visit Blog Blah Blah? I'll see you there then!
I've run out of things to say already. But that's only because I've just been blabbing away in a guest post for my friend, Heather. Are you curious? Keen to visit Blog Blah Blah? I'll see you there then!
Friday, June 16, 2006
do as your Motherkitty tells you
Not so long ago, I was tagged by my friend Motherkitty. So here we go....
7 things to do before I die:
1) clean under the fridge
2) get a secret tattoo on my hip
3) have a fling with Liam Neeson (just jokes, Fatty...no, really...truly I wouldn't... not unless Liam begged, anyway)
4) train for and swim the swimming leg of a triathlon - my fleet-footed friend, Chooky, would do the running leg, and we would recruit someone else to do the cycling.... Val? You'll have time to train, being soon-to-be-retired and all!
5) travel around Australia with Fatty in a campervan, drinking cups of tea all around the country
6) go back to Uni to study languages (and then, with my brushed-up French, go stay in a cottage in France for a summer!)
7) become a weekend respite carer, once my own kids are grown and gone
7 things I cannot do:
1) get a tan
2) add up in my head
3) take criticism without getting defensive
4) throw a ball (I have been told I 'throw like a girl')
5) install or use most electronic devices
6) say no to dessert
7) survive without my female friends
7 things that attract me to my husband:
1) his ability to apologise mid-argument, if he believes he's in the wrong (it always takes me some 'cool-down' time before I can apologise)
2) his strong morals
3) his broad shoulders
4) the crinkles near his eyes when he smiles
5) his intelligence
6) his tolerance of my flaws and foibles
7) the fact he is a kind father who spends a lot of time with our children
7 books I love:
1) God of Small Things - Arundhati Roy
2) Cloudstreet - Tim Winton
3) My Family and other Animals- Gerald Durrell
4) Charlotte's Web - E. B. White
5) About a Boy - Nick Hornsby
6) Little House on the Prairie (and rest of series) - Laura Ingalls Wilder
7) The Great Fire - Shirley Hazzard
7 movies I'd watch over & over again:
1) A Fish Called Wanda
2) Gallipoli
3) When Harry Met Sally
4) Last Orders
5) Four Wedding and a Funeral
6) High Hopes
7) Muriel's Wedding
As for tagging 7 people.... I will simply ask anyone who feels inspired to consider themselves tagged!
Happy weekend everyone!
7 things to do before I die:
1) clean under the fridge
2) get a secret tattoo on my hip
3) have a fling with Liam Neeson (just jokes, Fatty...no, really...truly I wouldn't... not unless Liam begged, anyway)
4) train for and swim the swimming leg of a triathlon - my fleet-footed friend, Chooky, would do the running leg, and we would recruit someone else to do the cycling.... Val? You'll have time to train, being soon-to-be-retired and all!
5) travel around Australia with Fatty in a campervan, drinking cups of tea all around the country
6) go back to Uni to study languages (and then, with my brushed-up French, go stay in a cottage in France for a summer!)
7) become a weekend respite carer, once my own kids are grown and gone
7 things I cannot do:
1) get a tan
2) add up in my head
3) take criticism without getting defensive
4) throw a ball (I have been told I 'throw like a girl')
5) install or use most electronic devices
6) say no to dessert
7) survive without my female friends
7 things that attract me to my husband:
1) his ability to apologise mid-argument, if he believes he's in the wrong (it always takes me some 'cool-down' time before I can apologise)
2) his strong morals
3) his broad shoulders
4) the crinkles near his eyes when he smiles
5) his intelligence
6) his tolerance of my flaws and foibles
7) the fact he is a kind father who spends a lot of time with our children
7 books I love:
1) God of Small Things - Arundhati Roy
2) Cloudstreet - Tim Winton
3) My Family and other Animals- Gerald Durrell
4) Charlotte's Web - E. B. White
5) About a Boy - Nick Hornsby
6) Little House on the Prairie (and rest of series) - Laura Ingalls Wilder
7) The Great Fire - Shirley Hazzard
7 movies I'd watch over & over again:
1) A Fish Called Wanda
2) Gallipoli
3) When Harry Met Sally
4) Last Orders
5) Four Wedding and a Funeral
6) High Hopes
7) Muriel's Wedding
As for tagging 7 people.... I will simply ask anyone who feels inspired to consider themselves tagged!
Happy weekend everyone!
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
the pangs of parenting
I'm astounded by the reaction to my last post - not so much the number of comments (though there were quite a few), but the length of the responses you all wrote. Thank you. I so enjoyed hearing all the different perspectives, and I think I learnt something from each and every comment.
I also realised that one thing that weighs so heavily on me, as a parent, is a matter that some older bloggers still feel guilty over, and that bloggers with young children agonise over, too. (I am not alone - oh joy, oh joy!) It seems all parents worry that they are not spending enough time with their little darlings.
We all believe that all those other Marvellous Mothers and Fantastic Fathers are spending hours every day reading, painting, singing, and talking face-to-face with their kids. We all believe we are the only bad parents who read one book, then try to put a load of washing on; we fear we are the only evil mothers (or fathers) who put the paint and paper out for the kids, then sit down nearby with coffee and a magazine. Yet I suspect we're almost all harbouring this guilt.... so most of us aren't acting like non-stop entertainers/teachers/life coaches. We're just parents at home. Besides caring for children we're trying to get the kitchen clean, trying to pay the bills, trying to stay sane with the odd spot of blogging!
One of the most guilt-assuaging theories from the book I read ('Perfect Madness' by Judith Warner) was about this very issue. While giving our children time and affection is obviously important, Judith Warner discusses studies, and relates comments made by educators, which suggest that the modern concept of child care - of interacting for hours, providing numerous activities, directing their play by joining all their games - may not be ideal. Teachers are beginning to despair of children who are not only self-centred (after having non-stop parental attention), but who are also unable to play spontaneously, to create, to think for themselves. Who knew? It turns out talking to your kids every now and then as they play, maybe giving them a few props to play with (dress ups, Lego, even cardboard boxes!) and just letting them explore their world with our intermittent participation .... just doing what a lot of us do anyway.....turns out that is thought to be just fine.
Oh, what a relief. We're doing OK after all. Join with me now as I sigh happily.....ahhhhhhh!
I also realised that one thing that weighs so heavily on me, as a parent, is a matter that some older bloggers still feel guilty over, and that bloggers with young children agonise over, too. (I am not alone - oh joy, oh joy!) It seems all parents worry that they are not spending enough time with their little darlings.
We all believe that all those other Marvellous Mothers and Fantastic Fathers are spending hours every day reading, painting, singing, and talking face-to-face with their kids. We all believe we are the only bad parents who read one book, then try to put a load of washing on; we fear we are the only evil mothers (or fathers) who put the paint and paper out for the kids, then sit down nearby with coffee and a magazine. Yet I suspect we're almost all harbouring this guilt.... so most of us aren't acting like non-stop entertainers/teachers/life coaches. We're just parents at home. Besides caring for children we're trying to get the kitchen clean, trying to pay the bills, trying to stay sane with the odd spot of blogging!
One of the most guilt-assuaging theories from the book I read ('Perfect Madness' by Judith Warner) was about this very issue. While giving our children time and affection is obviously important, Judith Warner discusses studies, and relates comments made by educators, which suggest that the modern concept of child care - of interacting for hours, providing numerous activities, directing their play by joining all their games - may not be ideal. Teachers are beginning to despair of children who are not only self-centred (after having non-stop parental attention), but who are also unable to play spontaneously, to create, to think for themselves. Who knew? It turns out talking to your kids every now and then as they play, maybe giving them a few props to play with (dress ups, Lego, even cardboard boxes!) and just letting them explore their world with our intermittent participation .... just doing what a lot of us do anyway.....turns out that is thought to be just fine.
Oh, what a relief. We're doing OK after all. Join with me now as I sigh happily.....ahhhhhhh!
Saturday, June 10, 2006
perfect madness
I'm reading a book called 'Perfect Madness', and it is doing me the world of good! This book is about how our society has become SO child-centred, that we forget parents are not just parents, but people with needs such as time alone, exercise, intimacy with their partners, and intellectual challenge. We forget that nourishing our marriages is vital, not just for ourselves, but also for the sake of providing happy homes for our kids. We sometimes become so focused on the immediate demands of our children, that we forget part of our responsibility as parents is to provide good role models for our sons and daughters, who will one day be parents themselves. We need to show by example that most parents need some time away to pursue an outside interest, be it work or hobby or sport, and that this is normal; it is not bad or wrong. Being rejuvenated by time apart from our kids makes us better and happier parents all the rest of the time.
This book also deplores how crazy we let our lives become.... taking our children to endless rounds of play-dates and birthday parties.... driving around to soccer, ballet, swimming, piano lessons... baking chocolate fudge at 11 pm for school bake stalls...attending P&C meetings...working (in the home or in paid work)...organising (library books, school forms, lunch money, packed lunches...the list never ends)...shopping for food, clothes, and birthday presents for all those birthday parties our kids attend!.....and that's without even mentioning all the feeding, bathing, dressing, entertaining, soothing and settling of our kids!! I know I am guilty of taking on too much, and then becoming stressed and cranky and tired. I think we need to draw the line sometimes. We need to say 'No, sorry - I won't be able to, this time' more often. Because although we might like to think we are superhumans, we are not, and we and our children suffer when we overextend ourselves.
Now any parent out there who is reading this, and who loves the frenetic whirl of activity, who thrives on each parenting challenge and never tires, never needs a break.... please don't comment!! You will only make me feel inadequate. For those of you who can relate to anything I've said... be kind to yourself this weekend. And don't feel guilty if you take a moment (or preferably at least an hour!) for yourself. You deserve it!
For those of you whose children have grown and left home - I congratulate you for the job you have done in raising your children. Enjoy your weekend, too!
This book also deplores how crazy we let our lives become.... taking our children to endless rounds of play-dates and birthday parties.... driving around to soccer, ballet, swimming, piano lessons... baking chocolate fudge at 11 pm for school bake stalls...attending P&C meetings...working (in the home or in paid work)...organising (library books, school forms, lunch money, packed lunches...the list never ends)...shopping for food, clothes, and birthday presents for all those birthday parties our kids attend!.....and that's without even mentioning all the feeding, bathing, dressing, entertaining, soothing and settling of our kids!! I know I am guilty of taking on too much, and then becoming stressed and cranky and tired. I think we need to draw the line sometimes. We need to say 'No, sorry - I won't be able to, this time' more often. Because although we might like to think we are superhumans, we are not, and we and our children suffer when we overextend ourselves.
Now any parent out there who is reading this, and who loves the frenetic whirl of activity, who thrives on each parenting challenge and never tires, never needs a break.... please don't comment!! You will only make me feel inadequate. For those of you who can relate to anything I've said... be kind to yourself this weekend. And don't feel guilty if you take a moment (or preferably at least an hour!) for yourself. You deserve it!
For those of you whose children have grown and left home - I congratulate you for the job you have done in raising your children. Enjoy your weekend, too!
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
dreaming of a nap
You know the saying short-term pain, long-term gain? Well, it is just as true when you turn it around to be 'short-term gain, long-term pain'. In my parenting life, it is always exactly like that. Whenever I try to cut corners with my kid-wrangling, there is always the price to be paid.
Last night, my three-year-old son woke and summonsed me. He was sitting up, wide awake. Cheerily, he informed me that the bed felt wet. I pulled back the covers. Yep. Feels wet, looks wet, is wet. Funny that.
For some reason, I had been silly enough to stay up until half past 11 the night before. It was just so peaceful. I was reading a great book by Kate Grenville. I was relaxing. Manababies will understand. So in the wee hours of the morning, with the cold floorboards chilling my soles, and my soft bed begging me to hurry back, I chose to ignore the wet sheets. I wiped down and re-dressed Ben in dry clothing, and scurried to The Big Bed (as it is called in our house) with child in tow.
I should explain that our bed is a smallish Big Bed, as Big Beds go. Fatty and I fit well in said bed, but add a squirmy child, and I, Princess Sleeper, can only achieve fitful slumber. I knew this, but I thought ..... I'm not sure what I thought actually. Perhaps something like cold, cold, sleepy, find bed again. So in hopped Ben and I, and we were certainly all warm. Warm, but awake. Or rather, Ben and I were awake, tossing and turning as we bumped knees and hands and feet and the mattress bumped with each movement. Fatty was fast asleep. He could sleep with a bugle playing in his ear. Or in a bed full of caterpillars (which I suppose is a more appropriate analogy for last night).
An hour later, I had to admit defeat. I stripped Ben's sodden sheets, I remade the bed, I reinstalled Ben with cuddle sheet and toy puppy. I answered a few more questions about the habitat of crocodiles. I refused to answer any more questions about crocodiles. An hour and a half later, we both got back to sleep. It could have been 15 minutes, if only I'd remembered the short-term gain rule.
Ben slept in so late that I had to wake him to take Laura to school. He's fine, he's bright as a button. Now, do you think he'll notice if I just rest my eyes for a minute......
Last night, my three-year-old son woke and summonsed me. He was sitting up, wide awake. Cheerily, he informed me that the bed felt wet. I pulled back the covers. Yep. Feels wet, looks wet, is wet. Funny that.
For some reason, I had been silly enough to stay up until half past 11 the night before. It was just so peaceful. I was reading a great book by Kate Grenville. I was relaxing. Manababies will understand. So in the wee hours of the morning, with the cold floorboards chilling my soles, and my soft bed begging me to hurry back, I chose to ignore the wet sheets. I wiped down and re-dressed Ben in dry clothing, and scurried to The Big Bed (as it is called in our house) with child in tow.
I should explain that our bed is a smallish Big Bed, as Big Beds go. Fatty and I fit well in said bed, but add a squirmy child, and I, Princess Sleeper, can only achieve fitful slumber. I knew this, but I thought ..... I'm not sure what I thought actually. Perhaps something like cold, cold, sleepy, find bed again. So in hopped Ben and I, and we were certainly all warm. Warm, but awake. Or rather, Ben and I were awake, tossing and turning as we bumped knees and hands and feet and the mattress bumped with each movement. Fatty was fast asleep. He could sleep with a bugle playing in his ear. Or in a bed full of caterpillars (which I suppose is a more appropriate analogy for last night).
An hour later, I had to admit defeat. I stripped Ben's sodden sheets, I remade the bed, I reinstalled Ben with cuddle sheet and toy puppy. I answered a few more questions about the habitat of crocodiles. I refused to answer any more questions about crocodiles. An hour and a half later, we both got back to sleep. It could have been 15 minutes, if only I'd remembered the short-term gain rule.
Ben slept in so late that I had to wake him to take Laura to school. He's fine, he's bright as a button. Now, do you think he'll notice if I just rest my eyes for a minute......
Monday, June 05, 2006
the useless doctor (um, that's me)
One of the things it's taken me a long time to accept in my work is that I can't fix everybody. I can't cure all ills, and I can't ease all ailments. Were I to be the smartest, most innovative GP that ever walked the earth, I still could not eradicate all disease and suffering in my patients.
It may sound silly that this should be such a revelation to me, but such is the ethos of doctoring - we are taught to investigate, diagnose and treat. Textbooks are even written with diseases described under these very headings. Medical students are led to believe that they will save countless peoples' lives, riding in on their high horses to rescue the sick and the injured, then galloping away again (preferably with some very shiny medals pinned to their chests). No-one talks about the many, many patients for whom the medical profession can do very little.
Take the most common of illnesses...a 'cold'. What does the doctor say? "Rest, take some decongestant, maybe some paracetomol, rest, and ah, rest. Yes. Hope you feel better soon. Plenty of rest now. Bye!". I said just that today to someone. Maybe not as perkily, but conveying a similar message.
What about stomach wogs? "Ah, yes...rest, take fluids, and above all rest. Get better quickly. Did I remind you to rest? O-kay then! Bye!"
In actual fact, it has been quite awhile now that I have been comfortable with the futility of my advice when it comes to these minor illnesses. I quickly realised that time healed these diseases, while my role was merely to reassure. It has taken me a bit longer to discern that for other, more serious conditions, I must also accept that my role is supportive not curative.
Mrs I, a thin, worried-looking lady in her 60's came to see me today. When Mrs I first started coming to see me about a year ago, my heart used to sink just at the sight of her name on my schedule. YES, I know that is not very nice of me, but I'm trying to be honest here. The woman's very name was enough to give me a migraine. I dreaded the consultations. Mrs I always had about 7 complaints for me. Many of these complaints had been extensively investigated, and multiple treatments had been tried. Mrs I was now coming to see me, she explained at the time, because Dr 'Bloggs' (another doctor at my practice) 'doesn't listen to me anymore'. Poor Dr Bloggs. I think his well of empathy had run dry. I, on the other hand, had the deepest empathy- for Dr Bloggs.
Every time I saw Mrs I, I tried my darnedest to sort out some of her problems. I had to page back through her computer file; I had to retrieve her paper file. I detailed all her symptoms. I organised some more investigations, where I felt it was appropriate. I suggested a few treatment options. I suspect I sighed a lot.
Nothing I did made a scrap of difference. Every test I ordered found nothing useful. Everything I advised caused Mrs I to retort, "Yeah, I've tried that doctor - it didn't help at all". Eventually, I simply said to Mrs I, "It must be so hard to put up with all these problems. You must get very frustrated."
Every time I see Mrs I, I check her over, and I listen to her telling me what is bothering her. I do nothing to fix her ailments ...... not because I am unwilling, but because I do not know how. And yet - Mrs I treats me as if I am someone special to her. She is always thanking me, though I can never figure out what for.
I went through 6 years of medical school and 3 years of family physician training, and no-one ever told me that I would do so little, for so many people. I'm slowly getting used to it.
And Mrs I, I'm sorry. You have had a hard life, and you deserve all the kindness in the world. I'm learning. Thank you for teaching me.
It may sound silly that this should be such a revelation to me, but such is the ethos of doctoring - we are taught to investigate, diagnose and treat. Textbooks are even written with diseases described under these very headings. Medical students are led to believe that they will save countless peoples' lives, riding in on their high horses to rescue the sick and the injured, then galloping away again (preferably with some very shiny medals pinned to their chests). No-one talks about the many, many patients for whom the medical profession can do very little.
Take the most common of illnesses...a 'cold'. What does the doctor say? "Rest, take some decongestant, maybe some paracetomol, rest, and ah, rest. Yes. Hope you feel better soon. Plenty of rest now. Bye!". I said just that today to someone. Maybe not as perkily, but conveying a similar message.
What about stomach wogs? "Ah, yes...rest, take fluids, and above all rest. Get better quickly. Did I remind you to rest? O-kay then! Bye!"
In actual fact, it has been quite awhile now that I have been comfortable with the futility of my advice when it comes to these minor illnesses. I quickly realised that time healed these diseases, while my role was merely to reassure. It has taken me a bit longer to discern that for other, more serious conditions, I must also accept that my role is supportive not curative.
Mrs I, a thin, worried-looking lady in her 60's came to see me today. When Mrs I first started coming to see me about a year ago, my heart used to sink just at the sight of her name on my schedule. YES, I know that is not very nice of me, but I'm trying to be honest here. The woman's very name was enough to give me a migraine. I dreaded the consultations. Mrs I always had about 7 complaints for me. Many of these complaints had been extensively investigated, and multiple treatments had been tried. Mrs I was now coming to see me, she explained at the time, because Dr 'Bloggs' (another doctor at my practice) 'doesn't listen to me anymore'. Poor Dr Bloggs. I think his well of empathy had run dry. I, on the other hand, had the deepest empathy- for Dr Bloggs.
Every time I saw Mrs I, I tried my darnedest to sort out some of her problems. I had to page back through her computer file; I had to retrieve her paper file. I detailed all her symptoms. I organised some more investigations, where I felt it was appropriate. I suggested a few treatment options. I suspect I sighed a lot.
Nothing I did made a scrap of difference. Every test I ordered found nothing useful. Everything I advised caused Mrs I to retort, "Yeah, I've tried that doctor - it didn't help at all". Eventually, I simply said to Mrs I, "It must be so hard to put up with all these problems. You must get very frustrated."
Every time I see Mrs I, I check her over, and I listen to her telling me what is bothering her. I do nothing to fix her ailments ...... not because I am unwilling, but because I do not know how. And yet - Mrs I treats me as if I am someone special to her. She is always thanking me, though I can never figure out what for.
I went through 6 years of medical school and 3 years of family physician training, and no-one ever told me that I would do so little, for so many people. I'm slowly getting used to it.
And Mrs I, I'm sorry. You have had a hard life, and you deserve all the kindness in the world. I'm learning. Thank you for teaching me.
Friday, June 02, 2006
hark! do I hear whistling?
They say hope springs eternal, and that's surely a useful concept to embrace. So, although in my heart of hearts I felt sure Fatty had not been perusing my blog, I asked a tentative question:
"So, are you planning on doing any whistling later today?"
Now you would think this was a rather odd question, wouldn't you? You are probably thinking right now Why did she ask THAT? Fatty MUST have queried why she would say such a thing! But, no, no, you ignorant-of-the-ways-of-Fatty people. You forget he is NOT a curious man. You forget he is NOT fascinated by his utterly fascinating wife (outrageous!). So his reply went something like this:
"Whistling? No, no whistling. You know, I've never been able to whistle very well." (begins to demonstrate.....various hissing/faint whistling noises emanate from Fatty's pursed lips) "I can't hold a tune for some reason." (warbling whistling starts up again)
I smile with my back to Fatty, as I stand at the kitchen counter. He may be somewhat less intrigued by my thoughts than I'd like, but I am amazed at how he has reacted to my opening conversational gambit. I'm sure anyone else would have snorted, "Whistle? Later this evening? What the hell are you talking about, woman?". Dear Fatty must be so used to the weird workings of my mind that he simply 'goes with the flow'. Possibly it would be exhausting to be too curious about how my mind works.
I turn back to my gorgeous, bad-whistling, accepting husband. "I can whistle pretty well, actually." I launch into a lilting rendition of 'How Much Is That Doggy in the Window?'. Fatty laughs. I bring our coffees over to the couch.
And there was no more whistling of any kind.
**************************************************
ADDED NOTE: I can see from the comments so far that I need to clarify something. Fatty and I had coffee on the couch. You know, made from beans, a hot beverage. Coffee! So stop with the sniggering and giggling.
And, no, whistling isn't some sort of a prelude to intimacy in Australia, unless you count the wolf whistle. And frankly I don't think wolf-whistlers quite have romance in mind!
That said, I think whistling to indicate interest in a romantic interlude is a mighty fine idea - thanks Susan! Perhaps, 'How Much is my Doggy...' was just not the right song choice! Now, how would I whistle, 'Sea of Love'?.......
"So, are you planning on doing any whistling later today?"
Now you would think this was a rather odd question, wouldn't you? You are probably thinking right now Why did she ask THAT? Fatty MUST have queried why she would say such a thing! But, no, no, you ignorant-of-the-ways-of-Fatty people. You forget he is NOT a curious man. You forget he is NOT fascinated by his utterly fascinating wife (outrageous!). So his reply went something like this:
"Whistling? No, no whistling. You know, I've never been able to whistle very well." (begins to demonstrate.....various hissing/faint whistling noises emanate from Fatty's pursed lips) "I can't hold a tune for some reason." (warbling whistling starts up again)
I smile with my back to Fatty, as I stand at the kitchen counter. He may be somewhat less intrigued by my thoughts than I'd like, but I am amazed at how he has reacted to my opening conversational gambit. I'm sure anyone else would have snorted, "Whistle? Later this evening? What the hell are you talking about, woman?". Dear Fatty must be so used to the weird workings of my mind that he simply 'goes with the flow'. Possibly it would be exhausting to be too curious about how my mind works.
I turn back to my gorgeous, bad-whistling, accepting husband. "I can whistle pretty well, actually." I launch into a lilting rendition of 'How Much Is That Doggy in the Window?'. Fatty laughs. I bring our coffees over to the couch.
And there was no more whistling of any kind.
**************************************************
ADDED NOTE: I can see from the comments so far that I need to clarify something. Fatty and I had coffee on the couch. You know, made from beans, a hot beverage. Coffee! So stop with the sniggering and giggling.
And, no, whistling isn't some sort of a prelude to intimacy in Australia, unless you count the wolf whistle. And frankly I don't think wolf-whistlers quite have romance in mind!
That said, I think whistling to indicate interest in a romantic interlude is a mighty fine idea - thanks Susan! Perhaps, 'How Much is my Doggy...' was just not the right song choice! Now, how would I whistle, 'Sea of Love'?.......
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
whistle for me, my love
In my marriage, there are a couple of 'issues' which crop up again, and again, and then once again, just in case we'd forgotten. I suspect other marriages also have their own recurring conflicts. (If not, we are in deep trouble!)
Sometimes I find it depressing how nothing seems to change. Sometimes I find it vaguely comforting....here we go again, where I say 'blah blah', and he says 'dum de dum'. Mostly, I just accept that two people can never live together in perfect harmony, and that we both do try to make each other happy. We may not get it right all the time, but mostly we do. Our arguments have become less frequent and less heated over time.
Something that has always driven me crazy is when Fatty doesn't listen to me. It wearies me even to tell you the details, so often have I tried to explain to this dear man what I would like from him. It is all rather like shouting into a gale-force wind! The fact is, I am fascinated by people, and love to hear their thoughts and feelings, whereas my beloved husband is fascinated by IPods, birds, football, and composting bins. Hence, my chosen topics of conversation often bore him silly.
One night, not so long ago, I spoke to Fatty about how I had realised how I had judged someone too quickly. (I had met the mother of one of Laura's school friends, found her to be a bit bossy and gossipy, and decided she was not someone I wanted to spend any time with. In time, I discovered she was an incredibly thoughtful and generous person, with a huge heart). I was amazed by the lesson I had learnt from being too quick to judge - I thought what I was discussing was terribly interesting. Fatty, on the other hand, was showing his ennui in no uncertain terms - yawning, lying staring up at the ceiling, making no response other than an occasional disinterested 'mmm' or 'uh-huh'.
When I finally snapped, and told Fatty how awful it made me feel to have him barely bothering to interact with me, he explained in not-so-many-words that what I was talking about bored him (my husband is nothing if not honest). He was not trying to make me feel bad, he continued, it was just that the subject matter left a lot to be desired. WELL. In my steeliest voice, I replied that not all conversation was for the sole purpose of entertaining him. I suggested that he would never treat a stranger in the street in that way.
We talked it through, and I admitted maybe I don't sound riveted, either, when he talks about who's been injured in his favourite football team. We are different, and that is part of the attraction. I conceded I would try to pick my moments - for example not chatting away merrily at bedtime (but why can't I? It's so much fun; just like a sleepover!). Fatty decided he would try to show more interest in my thoughts and feelings. He vowed to .... drum-roll..... start reading my blog! (yes, folks, my posts are eminently accessible to my life partner yet he NEVER reads them)
So now, my dearest Fatty, I am checking to see how you're going with that resolution of yours. The signal that you've read my words will be this - when we go to bed tonight, whistle the call of the magpie softly into my ear.
I can hardly wait.
Sometimes I find it depressing how nothing seems to change. Sometimes I find it vaguely comforting....here we go again, where I say 'blah blah', and he says 'dum de dum'. Mostly, I just accept that two people can never live together in perfect harmony, and that we both do try to make each other happy. We may not get it right all the time, but mostly we do. Our arguments have become less frequent and less heated over time.
Something that has always driven me crazy is when Fatty doesn't listen to me. It wearies me even to tell you the details, so often have I tried to explain to this dear man what I would like from him. It is all rather like shouting into a gale-force wind! The fact is, I am fascinated by people, and love to hear their thoughts and feelings, whereas my beloved husband is fascinated by IPods, birds, football, and composting bins. Hence, my chosen topics of conversation often bore him silly.
One night, not so long ago, I spoke to Fatty about how I had realised how I had judged someone too quickly. (I had met the mother of one of Laura's school friends, found her to be a bit bossy and gossipy, and decided she was not someone I wanted to spend any time with. In time, I discovered she was an incredibly thoughtful and generous person, with a huge heart). I was amazed by the lesson I had learnt from being too quick to judge - I thought what I was discussing was terribly interesting. Fatty, on the other hand, was showing his ennui in no uncertain terms - yawning, lying staring up at the ceiling, making no response other than an occasional disinterested 'mmm' or 'uh-huh'.
When I finally snapped, and told Fatty how awful it made me feel to have him barely bothering to interact with me, he explained in not-so-many-words that what I was talking about bored him (my husband is nothing if not honest). He was not trying to make me feel bad, he continued, it was just that the subject matter left a lot to be desired. WELL. In my steeliest voice, I replied that not all conversation was for the sole purpose of entertaining him. I suggested that he would never treat a stranger in the street in that way.
We talked it through, and I admitted maybe I don't sound riveted, either, when he talks about who's been injured in his favourite football team. We are different, and that is part of the attraction. I conceded I would try to pick my moments - for example not chatting away merrily at bedtime (but why can't I? It's so much fun; just like a sleepover!). Fatty decided he would try to show more interest in my thoughts and feelings. He vowed to .... drum-roll..... start reading my blog! (yes, folks, my posts are eminently accessible to my life partner yet he NEVER reads them)
So now, my dearest Fatty, I am checking to see how you're going with that resolution of yours. The signal that you've read my words will be this - when we go to bed tonight, whistle the call of the magpie softly into my ear.
I can hardly wait.
Monday, May 29, 2006
Today at work....
.... I saw the radiant 'Kayla' who, after several months of failing to conceive, and a heartbreaking miscarriage, is halfway through a healthy pregnancy - a little brother or sister to her boy, 'Mikey'.
I spoke with a brave woman who is living with the fact that she and her husband have endured six unsuccessful IVF cycles thus far.
I congratulated a young woman who was rather startled, yet thrilled, to find herself pregnant after the first month of trying for a family.
A young pharmacist told me how she and her husband have only one child, by choice, because one child was 'more than enough!' for them to handle.
I discussed the treatment for a sexually-transmitted infection with a young woman who has recently has her second termination.
It's a funny old world. Life on this planet is glitter-good, brutish-bad, wonderful, awful, and all the shades in between.... but always, always fascinating. What a strange but enthralling day it's been.
I try never to forget what a magnificent gift I am given by those who entrust me with their confidences. Their stories I carry with me, often seared into my memory. I can't help but feel my life is so much richer for what these people have shared with me.
I spoke with a brave woman who is living with the fact that she and her husband have endured six unsuccessful IVF cycles thus far.
I congratulated a young woman who was rather startled, yet thrilled, to find herself pregnant after the first month of trying for a family.
A young pharmacist told me how she and her husband have only one child, by choice, because one child was 'more than enough!' for them to handle.
I discussed the treatment for a sexually-transmitted infection with a young woman who has recently has her second termination.
It's a funny old world. Life on this planet is glitter-good, brutish-bad, wonderful, awful, and all the shades in between.... but always, always fascinating. What a strange but enthralling day it's been.
I try never to forget what a magnificent gift I am given by those who entrust me with their confidences. Their stories I carry with me, often seared into my memory. I can't help but feel my life is so much richer for what these people have shared with me.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
home alone
Here I sit, in a silent house. No husband, puttering and muttering around. No children, arguing over the plasticine. Even the dog has vacated the premises. It is quiet and still. You may be wondering how I got so lucky - is it my birthday, or perhaps have I taken a 'me' day? Am I taking a day off work to nurture my inner soul?
Well, no. No, negative, nup, uh-uh. I owe this day alone at home to the joys of...how can I put this delicately... gastrointestinal distress. Or I could use a good old Aussie term 'the collywobbles'. Let's just say my guts are crook. It's all fun, fun, fun here at the house of Jellyhead.
You know, I withheld some vital information from you all about our holiday last week. It's not that I wanted to be deceptive or anything - I just didn't want to be a moaner and a groaner, a whiner and a wailer. And let's face it - it's really not terribly interesting for people to read about diarrhoea and vomiting, is it? I tried to spare you, especially those with squeamish sensibilities. But the fact is, Laura got sick on the first Saturday of our week away, then Fatty and Ben followed on the Tuesday. They remained a bit under-the-weather for about 5 days each. So while we still had some fun, Fatty and the kids were below par, and I spent a lot of time getting up through the night, cleaning up and washing. (Now you know part of the reason I was soooo glad to get home)
I consoled myself with the fact that I was the un-chosen one. By the start of this week, I thought I was in the clear for sure! Well, you know now that I was sadly mistaken.
It's awfully peaceful here, though. And I don't feel THAT bad. I think the worst may have passed. I'm starting to feel guilty about not going to work which is SO dumb, even from the point of view of not infecting any of my poor patients with this bug. So here I sit, idly blogging, wondering what all the rest of you are up to.
I think I might proclaim this WHINING DAY. Now that I have whined, I want to hear some complaints from the lives of you, my blogpals. It will make me feel better, truly. They say misery loves company, so let's form a great big company of woe. Let's block out all happy, grateful, appreciative thoughts, and concentrate fully on all our frustrations! T, your hubby took your car keys to work, and you ended up locked out of the house to boot - let's hear an outraged diatribe from you, please. And Motherkitty, we know you still have plenty of knee pain and stiffness after your recent surgery - surely you can manage a small gripe? There must be more of you with something negative to say - help me out here.
I need your whingeing support, friends. Over to you.....
Well, no. No, negative, nup, uh-uh. I owe this day alone at home to the joys of...how can I put this delicately... gastrointestinal distress. Or I could use a good old Aussie term 'the collywobbles'. Let's just say my guts are crook. It's all fun, fun, fun here at the house of Jellyhead.
You know, I withheld some vital information from you all about our holiday last week. It's not that I wanted to be deceptive or anything - I just didn't want to be a moaner and a groaner, a whiner and a wailer. And let's face it - it's really not terribly interesting for people to read about diarrhoea and vomiting, is it? I tried to spare you, especially those with squeamish sensibilities. But the fact is, Laura got sick on the first Saturday of our week away, then Fatty and Ben followed on the Tuesday. They remained a bit under-the-weather for about 5 days each. So while we still had some fun, Fatty and the kids were below par, and I spent a lot of time getting up through the night, cleaning up and washing. (Now you know part of the reason I was soooo glad to get home)
I consoled myself with the fact that I was the un-chosen one. By the start of this week, I thought I was in the clear for sure! Well, you know now that I was sadly mistaken.
It's awfully peaceful here, though. And I don't feel THAT bad. I think the worst may have passed. I'm starting to feel guilty about not going to work which is SO dumb, even from the point of view of not infecting any of my poor patients with this bug. So here I sit, idly blogging, wondering what all the rest of you are up to.
I think I might proclaim this WHINING DAY. Now that I have whined, I want to hear some complaints from the lives of you, my blogpals. It will make me feel better, truly. They say misery loves company, so let's form a great big company of woe. Let's block out all happy, grateful, appreciative thoughts, and concentrate fully on all our frustrations! T, your hubby took your car keys to work, and you ended up locked out of the house to boot - let's hear an outraged diatribe from you, please. And Motherkitty, we know you still have plenty of knee pain and stiffness after your recent surgery - surely you can manage a small gripe? There must be more of you with something negative to say - help me out here.
I need your whingeing support, friends. Over to you.....
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
why did the emu cross the road?
I can't help myself - I have a pressing need to show you a few holiday snaps.
The animal pictures were from an outing to a nearby wildlife park.
The bird photo was taken by Birdman (of course!), while I snapped the photo of the bush cottage. If you look closely at the cottage, you can see the avian-lover out front, peering into the trees through binoculars. The spotter is spotted!
**********************************************************
Before I go, one last thing....
Haaaaaappy Biiiirthday to yoooooou, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Heather, HAPPY BIRTHDAY to YOU!!! Heather (aka Tootie, my recent guest poster) is another year older and wiser and lovelier today, so go congratulate her if you have a minute!
Saturday, May 20, 2006
there's no place like home
I'm feeling just like Dorothy at the end of "The Wizard of Oz" - truly glad to be back home. They say home is where the heart is, but for me, home is where my house, computer, wardrobe, washing machine and dog are. Assuming my family is there, too, of course.
I firmly believe that one of the most important roles of The Holiday is to make you realise how you feel about your everyday life. I once took a vacation with Fatty (pre-children) and realised that I wasn't happy with my life. I was working way too many hours, and was getting burnt-out. On that holiday, I dreaded our return to 'normal life'.
This past week, we combined visiting Fatty's darling parents with a 2-night stay away in a country cottage (the photo is from just near the cottage). As much as I enjoyed the break, I also found myself looking forward to returning to our day-to-day routines. I wanted to come home and pat our beagle. I wanted to blog. I wanted to sit with Fatty on our comfy couch. I'm keen to take my kids to their swimming lessons, and to go to karate class. I want to see how everyone is going at work.
I am reminded that every part of life is precious, whether glorious or mundane.
*****************************************************************
*THANK YOU Tootie my sweet friend, for keeping the home fires burning! For those of you who would like to read more from the very entertaining Tootie, go here. Some of you already visit her blog, and I'm sure many others will become new fans! *
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
What's in a nickname?
It's still me, Tootie.
A question was asked in the comment section of my last post. A reader wanted to know the story behind the name "Jellyhead."
Well, I do believe it's because Jelly can be a little bit of what we Americans like to call "airheaded." Despite her medical degree and her obvious intelligence, it would seem that she sometimes walks around with her head in the clouds. Aren't we all guilty of the same thing from time to time?
I, myself, went to my credit union the other day and asked them to call the branch across town because I was certain I had left my driver's license in the carrier there. The nice girl behind the counter was very sweet and courteous and she called the other branch, waited on hold for several minutes while they searched for my license, and then sadly informed me that my license was not at the other branch. I frowned slightly and wondered aloud, "Where could it possibly be?" Just then, I opened my billfold to place the cash I had withdrawn from my account, and the cashier exclaimed, "There it is!" Yes, folks, my license was staring out at me from my billfold. It was right where it belonged all that time. Imagine that! Even worse, I had been looking for it for a week! Yes, I think we can all be a jellyhead at times.
But I really must protest that some of you seem to think my nickname, Tootie, is self-explanatory. It really isn't. It has nothing at all to do with any flatulence on my part! Nor do I have a habit of tooting my own horn. Nor do I sound like a train whistle when I blow my nose. Honest. Cross my heart and hope to die. Here's how my nickname came about:
Apparently, nicknames are the norm in Australia. Jellyhead's real name is used in it's shortened form by her friends. She really does call her husband "Fatty" a lot of the time. She calls her daughter "Louey." She has nicknames for all of her good friends. She was recently lamenting that calling me by my real name seemed much too formal and asked if she might call me by a nickname. I had no problem with that except that I have never had a nickname. My name is impossible to shorten and no one has ever called me by anything else. I set Jelly to the task of coming up with a nickname. She tried "Nicki" but my grandmother stubbornly insisted on calling me by that name (which is a shortened form of my middle name) when I was born despite my mother's obvious irritation. So Jelly didn't want to be like a stubborn old lady. She begged and begged me to give her something to work with. I reluctantly admitted to her that my father's nickname for me has always been "Tootie Brown." Don't ask why. I have no idea. I mean, the "Brown" part is because I always had dark skin. The "Tootie" part was invented out of thin air. Jelly was bubbling over with happiness. "Oh, I LOVE Tootie! Can I call you Tootie, can I?" My husband was a witness to the conversation and he said, "Yeah, did you tell her she can call you Tootie only if she has a death wish?" See, I have always been reluctant to share my nickname with anyone. That's why my husband was so surprised when I sighed, "I guess." It is a testament to how much I adore Jellyhead that I have bestowed upon her the honor and privelege of calling me by my childhood nickname.
I must say that, as much as I enjoy guest posting on Jelly's site, I am missing her so much! I am sure I am not alone. I know all of you are anxiously awaiting the day when Jelly brings her own honest, yet witty, style back to the blog.
Come home soon, Jelly! We miss you!
A question was asked in the comment section of my last post. A reader wanted to know the story behind the name "Jellyhead."
Well, I do believe it's because Jelly can be a little bit of what we Americans like to call "airheaded." Despite her medical degree and her obvious intelligence, it would seem that she sometimes walks around with her head in the clouds. Aren't we all guilty of the same thing from time to time?
I, myself, went to my credit union the other day and asked them to call the branch across town because I was certain I had left my driver's license in the carrier there. The nice girl behind the counter was very sweet and courteous and she called the other branch, waited on hold for several minutes while they searched for my license, and then sadly informed me that my license was not at the other branch. I frowned slightly and wondered aloud, "Where could it possibly be?" Just then, I opened my billfold to place the cash I had withdrawn from my account, and the cashier exclaimed, "There it is!" Yes, folks, my license was staring out at me from my billfold. It was right where it belonged all that time. Imagine that! Even worse, I had been looking for it for a week! Yes, I think we can all be a jellyhead at times.
But I really must protest that some of you seem to think my nickname, Tootie, is self-explanatory. It really isn't. It has nothing at all to do with any flatulence on my part! Nor do I have a habit of tooting my own horn. Nor do I sound like a train whistle when I blow my nose. Honest. Cross my heart and hope to die. Here's how my nickname came about:
Apparently, nicknames are the norm in Australia. Jellyhead's real name is used in it's shortened form by her friends. She really does call her husband "Fatty" a lot of the time. She calls her daughter "Louey." She has nicknames for all of her good friends. She was recently lamenting that calling me by my real name seemed much too formal and asked if she might call me by a nickname. I had no problem with that except that I have never had a nickname. My name is impossible to shorten and no one has ever called me by anything else. I set Jelly to the task of coming up with a nickname. She tried "Nicki" but my grandmother stubbornly insisted on calling me by that name (which is a shortened form of my middle name) when I was born despite my mother's obvious irritation. So Jelly didn't want to be like a stubborn old lady. She begged and begged me to give her something to work with. I reluctantly admitted to her that my father's nickname for me has always been "Tootie Brown." Don't ask why. I have no idea. I mean, the "Brown" part is because I always had dark skin. The "Tootie" part was invented out of thin air. Jelly was bubbling over with happiness. "Oh, I LOVE Tootie! Can I call you Tootie, can I?" My husband was a witness to the conversation and he said, "Yeah, did you tell her she can call you Tootie only if she has a death wish?" See, I have always been reluctant to share my nickname with anyone. That's why my husband was so surprised when I sighed, "I guess." It is a testament to how much I adore Jellyhead that I have bestowed upon her the honor and privelege of calling me by my childhood nickname.
I must say that, as much as I enjoy guest posting on Jelly's site, I am missing her so much! I am sure I am not alone. I know all of you are anxiously awaiting the day when Jelly brings her own honest, yet witty, style back to the blog.
Come home soon, Jelly! We miss you!
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Blogger Trivia
G'day, mates! It's not Jelly. It's her American friend whom she affectionately (or laughingly?) refers to as Tootie. The reason she calls me Tootie is divulged on a need-to-know basis only. I could tell you but then I'd have to kill you. Or feed your children chocolate candy and espresso and send them back to you. Choose your poison.
When Jelly and I first started getting to know each other, we played a fun little game where we shared one mostly silly trivia fact about ourselves and one not-so-silly fact. It was a great way to get to know each other fairly well in a short period of time. We no longer play the game because now we know enough about each other that we can hold an animated conversation without difficulty.
One of my not-so-silly facts is that my parents divorced when I was six years old. It affected me greatly. One of my second grade teachers told my mother, "Your little girl is the saddest child I have ever seen." Because my parent's split was quite violent and they remained hostile toward one another throughout my childhood, I worried myself sick during our weekend visits with my father. I cried when I left my mother because I felt that my loyalty should be to her and that I was betraying her by leaving. I cried for the entire 30-45 minute drive back home to my mother's house at the end of the weekend because I feared that I might never see my father again since he had been in my life every day one moment and the next he was inexplicably absent. Not to mention the fact that he missed several of our weekend visitations and my brother and I sat on the front steps watching for his truck to pull around the curve and up to our house and finally, when the sun began to set, dejectedly shuffled back into my mother's house knowing that Daddy had forgotten about us once again.
I shared that fact with Jelly because it explains a lot of the issues I have had to tackle in my life as an adult. I have great difficulty trusting others and I fall apart when I feel invisible or forgotten by those I love. I panic to the point that I break into a cold sweat and feel nauseated when I place my trust in someone and then feel abandoned by them. It is an area in my life where it is easy to see that I was crippled by some aspects of my childhood. I always feel it is important to share such facts when I make close friends so that my neuroses don't come as such a surprise deeper into the friendship.
On a lighter note, one of my silly trivia facts I shared with Jelly is that I have to eat things on my plate in a certain order. I eat all of my meat, then my potatoes, then my salad, etc. You'd be surprised how many people pay attention to the way other people eat. It also just so happens to be my pet peeve for people to watch me eat. For that reason, I consciously try to eat more like a normal person; a bite of this and a bite of that. I am always secretly thrilled when I have the rare experience of observing someone else who eats the way I do. I used to think it meant I have a highly organized brain but one look in my hall closet dispels that theory.
In honor of mine and Jelly's friendship, I thought it would be nice to ask all of you to share a fact or facts about yourselves that you believe to be unique or silly or just plain weird! Jelly will be so entertained to read of your quirks upon her return!
~Tootie
When Jelly and I first started getting to know each other, we played a fun little game where we shared one mostly silly trivia fact about ourselves and one not-so-silly fact. It was a great way to get to know each other fairly well in a short period of time. We no longer play the game because now we know enough about each other that we can hold an animated conversation without difficulty.
One of my not-so-silly facts is that my parents divorced when I was six years old. It affected me greatly. One of my second grade teachers told my mother, "Your little girl is the saddest child I have ever seen." Because my parent's split was quite violent and they remained hostile toward one another throughout my childhood, I worried myself sick during our weekend visits with my father. I cried when I left my mother because I felt that my loyalty should be to her and that I was betraying her by leaving. I cried for the entire 30-45 minute drive back home to my mother's house at the end of the weekend because I feared that I might never see my father again since he had been in my life every day one moment and the next he was inexplicably absent. Not to mention the fact that he missed several of our weekend visitations and my brother and I sat on the front steps watching for his truck to pull around the curve and up to our house and finally, when the sun began to set, dejectedly shuffled back into my mother's house knowing that Daddy had forgotten about us once again.
I shared that fact with Jelly because it explains a lot of the issues I have had to tackle in my life as an adult. I have great difficulty trusting others and I fall apart when I feel invisible or forgotten by those I love. I panic to the point that I break into a cold sweat and feel nauseated when I place my trust in someone and then feel abandoned by them. It is an area in my life where it is easy to see that I was crippled by some aspects of my childhood. I always feel it is important to share such facts when I make close friends so that my neuroses don't come as such a surprise deeper into the friendship.
On a lighter note, one of my silly trivia facts I shared with Jelly is that I have to eat things on my plate in a certain order. I eat all of my meat, then my potatoes, then my salad, etc. You'd be surprised how many people pay attention to the way other people eat. It also just so happens to be my pet peeve for people to watch me eat. For that reason, I consciously try to eat more like a normal person; a bite of this and a bite of that. I am always secretly thrilled when I have the rare experience of observing someone else who eats the way I do. I used to think it meant I have a highly organized brain but one look in my hall closet dispels that theory.
In honor of mine and Jelly's friendship, I thought it would be nice to ask all of you to share a fact or facts about yourselves that you believe to be unique or silly or just plain weird! Jelly will be so entertained to read of your quirks upon her return!
~Tootie
Thursday, May 11, 2006
you say hello, and I say goodbye
I once saw a card that so perfectly encapsulated my nature that I laughed out loud, standing by myself in front of the card rack. The card said, "I worry too much", and inside it read, "and that worries me."
I am about to go on a week's holiday. I am aiming to stop fretting about how much I fret, and even stop fretting altogether (at least as much as I am able!). There will most likely be a post or two from a VIP guest blogger (no, not JellyMa this time) while I'm gone. So there'll be no need for you, my blogpals, to fret at all.
I hope you all have a very happy week until I next visit your blogs!
Jelly
I am about to go on a week's holiday. I am aiming to stop fretting about how much I fret, and even stop fretting altogether (at least as much as I am able!). There will most likely be a post or two from a VIP guest blogger (no, not JellyMa this time) while I'm gone. So there'll be no need for you, my blogpals, to fret at all.
I hope you all have a very happy week until I next visit your blogs!
Jelly
Sunday, May 07, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, May 05, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
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...
Sunday, April 30, 2006
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.
Friday, April 28, 2006
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 !
Thursday, April 27, 2006
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
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
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
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!
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, April 14, 2006
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.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, April 07, 2006
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
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
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.
"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.
Monday, April 03, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
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."
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."
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