Real Mums.....

Ouch! She's gone and tagged me, the effervescent Shelly from Shells and Beans. The task was, to finish the sentence starting with 'Real Mums......' A photo was also required to go with the sentence. Go take a look at Shelly's photo and caption - both are brilliant and the caption is so, so true.

Here is my version of the meme:

Real Mums are making it up as they go along!

Now, just because I am a sharing type, I am going to tag Franny, Heather and Kerri (and of course you strange North Americans will have to say 'Real Moms.....'. Except for Kerri, who, being Aussie born but living in the US for many years, may be torn and confused!) I am looking forward to some great Mommy photos and mothering wisdom!

as it is in heaven

In this household - the Fatty/Jelly household - there are differing views as to the existence or otherwise of heaven. It is a topic we generally leave alone; Fatty and I agree to differ. In fact, neither of us are entirely sure of our beliefs and thoughts on the matter, so it is easy to not only respect, but even understand, the other's point of view.

The arrival of children, who are now old enough to ask questions about God/heaven/hell and the like, has made things a little trickier. A little trickier, but not too tricky. We answer the questions by saying, "Well, Mummy believes that......., but Daddy believes that...........". We inform them, "Some religions believe .............., and some believe........". Our children seem to accept this. I sometimes think it could even be a good thing. Laura and Benjamin will never be told didactically, This is how it is. They will form their own opinions over time.

It amuses me to hear how these two children have then taken this mish-mash of parental instruction, and come up with some concepts of their own. Laura thinks heaven has invisible gates, and that people sit around on clouds. Ben thinks heaven involves dessert for every meal. Both kids are quite keen on the concept as a whole.

Last night, Laura, who tends to be more contemplative on the subject, commented, "I wish I would nearly die - then I could see heaven, but I'd still be alive." My throat felt tight for a moment. I wished fervently and silently that Laura's wish would remain unfilled for many years to come. Laura burbled on, adding, "You know - how some people who get very, very sick get to see heaven, then come back? I heard that it can happen". Fatty was answered that yes, there were people who believed they had seen heaven, who had almost died but then been revived. Laura nodded. "Yes, that's what I'd like to do". I resisted the urge to say, "No, no, no, NO you don't". Fatty and I met each others' gaze. The mood at the kitchen table was a tad sombre, to say the least.

Thankfully, our other child is less interested in the spiritual significance of heaven, and more interested in toilet humour. Just when I couldn't stand another minute of 'heaven talk', Benjamin came to my rescue, offering this thought on the matter:

"Laura, you have to do lots of farts to take off to heaven".

I'd just like to clarify that this is a belief held solely by my son.

trolley torment

I'm sure you're all familiar with trolley torment. It's a common phenomenon. You rush to the supermarket, you grab a trolley randomly, and then spend the next half an hour careering wildly around the store, seemingly without direction. Literally. Because the damn trolley has a turned wheeel, and when you point the trolley straight, it goes left. Or right. Or if you're particularly unfortunate, it rotates in a full circle, so that you end up back in the same spot, still in front of the breakfast cereals. It's maddening.

These days, I like to think of myself as somewhat of a supermarket expert. After all, I was a Grocery Store Shopping Assistant to my mother for years. Now, I am the Designated Shopping Person in our family. I do this job every week. I know about supermarkets. Why, then, do trolleys still defeat me? What is it about their sneaky conniving ways that has me beat?

Early Sunday morning, I drove serenely to the local supermarket. I was looking forward to an hour of quiet, to be honest. For one whole hour, I would cruise peacefully up and down aisles, stopping occasionally to flick through a magazine. Any screaming kids would not be mine to deal with. In any case, it was too early for most parents to have wrangled kids through dressing and breakfasts and into the car. The store was full of old folks and me. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh.

I may have been dreamy, but I still was alert enough to select my trolley carefully. I pulled it from the stack. I tried it forwards. Tried rolling it backwards. Tested a quick turn to each side. Perfect!

The fresh produce section went well enough. I breezily bought bananas, and cheerily bagged apples. La-la la! I grabbed green beans and toyed with the thought of buying pumpkin, just to annoy my kids.

It was sometime during the viewing of Aisle 3 that everything unravelled. As the trolley filled with groceries, it began to move against my will. As I pushed straight ahead, the trolley would surge obediently forwards a few metres, then angrily pull to the left. As I tugged it forwards again, it swung wildly to the right. I swear it had a mind of its own. This was a trolley with intent, and I'm talking evil intent.

As I fought to steer the trolley down each aisle, I began to sweat lightly. I grimaced as I wrenched it away from shelves of teetering tins. I apologised to a frowning elderly lady as the trolley suddenly lunged at her. I laughed and shook my head, explaining, "This trolley is crazy!". The old lady silently glared back. It was evident where she thought any mental instability lay.

The worst thing was, there was no way to predict what this damn critter (i.e. the trolley) would do. Its behaviour was completely inconsistent. It would lull me into pushing in a normal fashion, then veer off at almost ninety degrees. I tried to compensate for the left veer, but would end up still going left. Or right. Never straight. It seemed to defy all laws of physics. Not that physics is my strong point.

I'm just saying - watch out for these trolleys. They don't reveal their true natures until you begin to relax. They don't show the wild whites of their eyes until you are committed; until the trolley is already half full. All the pre-shop rolling and testing will not help if you don't try to sense the trolley's aura. You must stand next to it. Pause. Wait for any malevolent vibes. Trust your trolley instincts.

Good luck, my friends. May the trolleys be kind to you.

bye bye beach

So, I'm back already. Back and feeling a little post-holiday bluesy, which I guess is to be expected. The beach was sunny, sandy, warm and wet when required - just heavenly. I ate a lot of gelati, too. The last day they had Pina Colada flavour - how good is that?

*

It wasn't all idyllic, because no holiday seems to be complete in our family without someone falling prey to some sort of stomach bug. However, this holiday, it was only Fatty who was afflicted, and only for the last couple of days. I kept the children away from him, and the kids and I gaily continued to swim, eat ice creams and go for shell-seeking walks on the beach. Occasionally I checked on Fatty before swanning off to our friends' unit to drink wine on their balcony. He needed his SLEEP, alright? he he.

*

The dog has been instrumental in cheering me up. I left the holiday unit feeling a little dejected (not to mention tired, from having done every bit of packing, washing and cleaning unassisted by The Germy One). But when we arrived home, there was Millie - all waggy, gallolopy, and happy licky. If you've never owned a dog, and never experienced a dog's welcome home, you have missed something glorious. Milllie may be a thieving scoundrel (just to help us get back to our normal routine, she stole Laura's crackers and cheese yesterday afternoon, right off the table) but damn she is a fine old hound.

*

I'm off to start washing the 372 loads of dirty clothes and linen. In between hanging stuff, I will come by your blogs, catch up on your news, and say hello to you!

*

XO Jelly

*

PS Why won't Blogger/Google let me have spaces between my paragraphs anymore? Why must I insert silly little asterisks if I want to denote a new paragraph, (which I like to do, especially if the previous paragraph runs to the end of a line?) WHY, WHY?!!

beach bound

I can be a bit of a Pollyanna. I can be hugely Pollyanna-ish, truth be told. Now that I am married to Fatty, I tell myself that I have to be the cloud-silver-lining seeker, to counteract Fatty's natural state of discontent and ingratitude (Did I mention I am prone to exaggeration, as well as Pollyanna-ism?)

I'm telling you about my Pollyanna tendencies because today, as I prepared for our week away at the beach, the thought occurred to me that I was grateful we didn't live at the beach all year round. I am so excited every time we go to this same beach unit, at the same beach, with the same friends - and somehow I don't think I'd feel the same anticipation and thrill if we lived there always.

So tomorrow we head off for seven days of sticky sunscreen, ice-creamed elbows, warm whooshing waves and sandy sheets at night. This Pollyanna is takin' a break!

Look after yourselves (and don't forget to find those silver linings!)

embrace

I saw them at the corner of a busy intersection. A dark-haired man, in a blue business shirt, and a schoolboy in school uniform and hat. They caught my eye before I'd even reached the corner. The man was kneeling, smiling, with his arms wrapped around the boy, who in turn was tightly hugging back.

I was driving with the music turned up ridiculously loud, blasting my ears like a teenage hoon. I was buoyant - celebrating my escape from the clutches of domesticity, free of the demands of my children for an evening. And there they were, these two, child and man. My gaze was drawn to them, and I stared as I drove past; peered in the rear vision mirror when I had rounded the corner. They were still embracing.

As I continued, I wondered about the man - was he the boy's father? It had appeared so. I wondered what had prompted the hug. Was this a long-awaited reunion? Were they celebrating an achievement in the boy's life?

I was intrigued by their story, but something else about this scene had fascinated me. What had made me stare, and keep staring?

It was the kneeling. It was the fact that a grown man, dressed for work, at a busy intersection, cared so little what anyone else thought that he knelt and hugged his son. He couldn't care less if he attracted glances. He couldn't care less if the knees of his trousers got dirty. He didn't pat a shoulder, cuff the side of his boy's head, or simply smile. This man got down on his knees and gave his son his whole self. It was a beautiful sight.

the dingo and the calf

It was a dark, still night. The stars which normally lit the country sky were obscured by cloud. The farmhouse stood waiting for dawn, its walls creaking now and then as if in time with the breathing of its occupants. The woman snored softly. The man dreamt of ride-on mowers. The cat twitched its tail as it slept, stretched out across the foot of the bed.

A panicked bellow broke the silence, abruptly waking the sleeping couple. A moment later, the frantic bellowing came again- the sound of an animal in distress, in pain. The woman's heart raced; the man leapt up and ran to the door. The woman searched for a torch while the man stood and yelled - a wordless, primal scream; a defiant warning to any marauding creature.

Together the man and woman strode off into the paddocks, with just the torch beam to guide them. They checked the livestock in the house paddock, they counted cattle on the creek flat. All animals were accounted for, and appeared to be unharmed. The woman giggled to herself - partly with relief, and partly because she was as naked as the day she was born. There had been no time to dress.

The couple trudged back to the farmhouse, and discussed the night's events as they made their way back to bed.

"Must have been one of Connor's cattle", the woman mused.

"Yeah", the man agreed.

The house fell silent, and the woman and man slept until sunup.

The next day, the man went off to work. The woman went into town for provisions.

As the woman arrived home, she noticed one of the calves, Amy, was lying down. The woman stopped the car, and anxiously approached the pretty white calf. It was clear the calf had been the victim of a dingo attack the previous night.

One flank had the distinct puncture marks of upper and lower teeth. The other back leg was ravaged, knawed, chewed, but the calf's hide had not been pierced. The woman knew both leg injuries were at risk of serious infection. She telephoned the local vet, and arranged to collect some antibiotics, which she injected. She sprayed the wounds with antiseptic. She fervently hoped that little Amy would pull through.

The woman and man moved the two motherless calves, Amy and Boo, into a safer paddock. Over the next few days, Amy slowly began to move about again. And so far, the dingo has not returned.



Epilogue:
The woman's daughter came to visit her last weekend. The woman's daughter took photos of the calf, Amy, and her injuries. The woman told the daughter she could relate the story of Amy and the dingo, providing she didn't mention the woman's nakedness.

The daughter is notoriously unreliable.

May I suggest?

This weekend I have been catching up on a spot of blogreading. It's difficult to keep up with all the incredible writing out there!

I went to read the latest post by Mimi, who home-schools her four children, and is a clever and compassionate woman. Recently, Mimi spent some time at a youth correctional facility, and has written about her experience. Her post is an inspirational read, and the poem she received from one of the inmates is so very bitter-sweet. Please consider dropping by, and saying hello while you're there if you feel so inclined.

Have a wonderful day everyone!

let's hear it for the boys!

As most of you know, I adore my daughter. She is a wonderful, sweet and creative little person. She can be serious and earnest and anxious to please; she can be bossy and emotional - just like her mother was at the same age. Because Laura's personality is quite similar to mine, I get her. I understand her. I can explain to Fatty why she is wailing and being irrational; I can ease her worries because I know what concerns her even before she tells me.

When Benjamin came along, I was excited but a little wary, too. Boys are not a known commodity. I have not grown up as a boy, I don't have personal experience to help me comprehend the world of males. I had no doubt I would love this fat little boy baby, but would I be able to relate to him? Would we ever bond as well Laura and I would?

I guess I can answer that, after 4 1/2 years spent with my funny fiercely-loving fascinating son. Yes, and absolutely yes.

I should explain that while females and males are not exactly different species (or are they?), I am a very girly female. I am interested in people, relationships. I like flowers and satin and lace. I enjoy languages and writing. I nurture, I nag. I love children and babies. I cry easily. (Of course, there is also my penchant for karate. But who says 'feminine' women can't kick some butt occasionally?!)

And yet, as part of establishing a relationship with my son, I am developing new interests and skills, and swags of knowledge I never expected to possess.

We read 'Amazing Facts about Australian Frogs and Reptiles'. (Did you know that the knob-tailed gecko does 'push-ups' when it's scared? Or that legless lizards may rear up, snake-like, and will even strike at their enemies, despite the fact that they have no fangs or venom?)

We look for cars with 2 exhaust pipes.

We know that a Blackbird is the fastest aircraft.

We discuss the peregrine falcon, which can swoop at speeds up to 390km/hr.

We have met the ladybirds, worms, grubs, grasshoppers, katydids, stick insects and a whole multitude of other insects which inhabit our backyard. I never even noticed them before. How-do-you-do, neighbourhood bugs?

Having a daughter is brilliant, and I love spending time with my Louey-girl. We talk about her friends, she asks me why some people stop being married, I listen to her read for me, she draws elaborate, detailed pictures and gives them to her admiring mother. I sense a kindred spirit in Laura, and I hope we will have this connection throughout our lives.

With Benjamin, I am aware that the way he and I think, and the way we approach situations, and our natural interests are all quite different. And yet because of that difference, I find myself being drawn into a whole new realm of ideas. I find that once I actually sit and peruse 'Australian Dinosaurs' (which, pre-children, I would not have done unless you paid me), I find it intriguing. Who would have thought?

Once when Ben was a toddler and obsessed with earth-moving equipment, I was driving somewhere with just my friend Belly. As we passed a construction site, I began to exclaim 'Look! A digger!', but had to quickly change to 'Look what a beautiful day it is!'. That was when I knew I had changed - all because of my son and his entirely new perspective.

The gender divide will always exist, but I like to think we can build bridges and cross over to visit each other. I have to thank Ben for being patient and welcoming, and for allowing me to wander across whenever I please.

If you'll excuse me now, there's a whale stamp Ben and I need to soak off an envelope.

facing facts

I truly believe that appearance is largely irrelevant, but with a caveat: only when referring to everyone else. I can wax lyrical about inner beauty, but somehow I'm still watching the lines etch themselves on my face with growing alarm.

I told a couple of my closest friends of my silly dissatisfaction. I was aware of how stupid it sounded - to worry over wrinkles when people are starving, ill, at war. Yet, knowing how trivial my concerns were did not allay them. The knowledge of my own vanity simply made me guilty. And still horrified by the advancing signs of ageing.

I think part of the problem is - I have never been conventionally beautiful. As a girl I was awkward, freckled, angular. I grew into a more graceful, freckled, pretty-enough young woman. After realising that there certainly were some men who were drawn to pale, freckly and slightly pear-shaped women, I gained confidence in my appearance, and in myself. I knew I was no stunner, but what I lacked in classic good looks, I could make up for by being funny, or cheeky, or smart, or interesting. I made peace with my flaws, and decided I was satisfactory, just the way I was.

Then came gravity, holding hands with time, accompanied by child-bearing. Just when I was content with face and body, everything started to change. ('Wait! Come back, body! I was kinda getting used to you! Hey, face! Don't go changing like that. You were not so bad... I didn't mind you, just as you were.') So I realise now that I'll have to watch everything change, change and change some more (yes, strange that I didn't predict this, right? I must have had some delusion about never ageing!)- and still somehow retain confidence in my appearance. Or perhaps that is not the answer at all. Perhaps the answer lies in re-defining what makes me an attractive person. Perhaps I need to gaze again upon the pink-cheeked face of my grandmother, now 90 years of age, and one of the most beautiful women I know.

One friend told me that when she looked at me, she saw the face of someone who smiled often and frowned rarely. That pleased me. Because if you must have grooves, it's good to have happy grooves, right?!

Another friend simply sent me the card you can see above. I like the sentiment. I want to grow old with those I love. However, I may be compelled to ditch any friends who show signs of ageing too gracefully - too smooth-facedly, too pert breastedly, too taut-thighedly. That can not be tolerated.

When I say I want to grow old with my loved ones, I expect them to keep up.

glorious rain!

At last, some decent rain! Our poor, parched garden is grinning from ear to ear. The flowers look brighter and perkier, and everything is glistening with raindrops.

There is a weird woman hopping about my backyard, taking photos of odd things like puddles.

Even the clothesline looks happy!


The skies may be gloomy grey, the dog may smell musty-wet, the trees may be dripping fat wet blobs down the backs of our necks, but hallelujah we love this rain!

ode to Tootie

My friend Tootie said to me today, Are you ever going to post again?

'Yes', I retorted. 'Maybe next January'. The fact is - sometimes my life is just not blogworthy.

'What can I blog about?', I persisted. ' Got any ideas?'

'You can write about how wonderful I am', she joked.

'That would take way too long to write', I answered.

I've been thinking, though, that maybe, if I wrote only about her very best attributes, I could finish this before sunup tomorrow:

*TOOTIE*

Tootie loves like there is no tomorrow.

Tootie eats bullies for dinner and spits their bones out.

Tootie's brain works so fast, I can't keep up with it.

Tootie can make me laugh against my will.

Tootie is a dark-eyed beauty whose ingratitude for her good looks pains me greatly.

Tootie is my friend, and that's not always the easiest thing to be.



Tootie, you better believe you're wonderful.

I've glimpsed my future......

Last night I ended up curled awkwardly and grumpily on the living room couch. I have this eerie feeling it won't be my last couch sleep.

Before people start sending me numbers for marriage counsellors, I wish to be clear that I still love Fatty. I may be glaring at his back today; I may be somewhat clipped in my responses. I may even be considering performing some radical palatal and tonsillar surgery on him, in the kitchen, without anaesthetic (I suppose that's a little harsh, isn't it? I'll give him an anaesthetic lozenge). Yet, despite these seemingly ominous signs, I consider myself happily married. At least during daytime hours.

I knew Fatty was a snorer when I married him. I figured I would eventually get used to it. And I have, for the most part. Having kids has made me so tired, I fall into slumber most nights within seconds. If I happen to wake to a rumbling sound beside me, I just jiggle the bed until the rumble stops, and I am asleep again in seconds.

I have failed to factor in the worsening of this problem, though. I stupidly didn't consider the fact we would both get older, greyer, saggier, and, in Fatty's case, snorier. When I vowed to love Fatty for better or for worse, I never imagined that vow referred to the nocturnal truck-gear-grinding noises that would one day emanate from my husband.

I never imagined that I would lie awake, as I did in the dawn hours this morning, wishing I had a giant MUTE button for dear Fatty. Now wouldn't that be helpful?

I could even lend him the mute button to use on me, for when I whine too much. Which is hardly ever.

when the truth hurts

I don't often have to break bad news to patients. It happens much less often than you'd think. I give people advice that I know is unwelcome, I warn them of future lifestyle-related problems. I diagnose urine infections, chest infections, depression, panic attacks, high blood pressure and myriad rashes. But when it comes to giving the really bad news, when it comes to telling people that they have an imminently life-threatening disease, I am usually not involved. The patient most often has been referred to a specialist, or has ended up having tests done in hospital. I am rarely present for the 'moment of truth'.

I have needed to deliver awful news on occasion, though. Once, a patient 'Veronica' came to me rather than returning to the hospital clinic, for her head scan results. It was too much hassle to go all that way, she told me, and besides she needed to be on time to collect the kids from school. Her husband 'Phil' sat with her as I phoned the hospital. I spoke with the hospital doctor, as Veronica and Phil sat watching me.

"There are several presumed tumours - they're large, and they're deep. Looks like *GBM (*glioblastoma multiforme - a particularly nasty brain tumour). Don't think they'll be operable", reported the hospital registrar.

I thanked the doctor on the end of the phone. I carefully replaced the receiver. I slowly explained the findings to Veronica and her husband. I'll never forget the first words out of Veronica's mouth - she was in shock - 'How funny! I've just been to a charity lunch to raise funds for cancer patients!"

That was almost ten years ago, and Veronica has long since passed away. I was reminded of her, though, when I had to give some bad news to 'Rita' last week. I was reminded that there is no good way to give bad news. I also realised that I will always sag under the burden of carrying such a dire message. I wished I would not be forever recalled as the bearer of the terrible news. I wished most of all that there was no bad news at all to deliver.

As much as I try not to 'take my work home', some thoughts just follow me on the drive anyway, trailing insidiously behind me like some noxious vapour. When I reach home, and especially when I lie in bed at night, the gases swirl and mist around me, and I can't sleep for the fog.

What will happen to Rita? I don't know. It's out of my hands now.

bits and pieces

Yesterday I mistook my friend's son for a cat (c'mon, children and cats are very similar). I was talking to this friend, whom I am only just getting to know, via IM and webcam. She mentioned something about wanting me to see 'Jake', whom I vaguely knew to be her son. However, before I'd fully registered her statement, my attention was caught by the sight of something round, furry, and wriggling, which was fuzzily visible in her lap.

"Is that a cat?" I typed, and sent. As I pressed send, the webcam picture became clearer. The 'cat' lifted it's head up from its mother's lap, and morphed into the tousled head of Jake. Whoops! How do you recover from that? How do you take your ginormous foot out of your mouth to explain how you thought your friend's beloved child was a feline critter? I did my best.

With Laura at school, I have been spending more one-on-one time with Benjamin. Today we got out magazines and scissors and glue for him to do some collage (no, I'm not always such an interactive mother, but every now and then I do try!). I noticed, not for the first time, Ben's endearing habit of opening and closing his jaws in time with the scissor blades. Cut, cut, cut (chomp, chomp, chomp). It's awfully cute. Apparently Fatty used to stick his tongue out when cutting, as a kid. Sounds dangerous to me. The important thing here is - Ben's weird habit can be blamed on Fatty. Perfect.

Although it is Laura who is spreading her wings and going to school, Ben is also attempting to do more and more for himself. It's a relatively new thing, because for the past 4 years, Ben has spent his waking hours trying to get Fatty and I to run around madly fetching him things and dressing him and making him snacks. This kid was born to be served... but he really lucked out with us for parents!

As part of his newfound independence, Benjamin has been buckling himself into his carseat. Whoo-hoo! Yay Ben! Occasionally, though, he can't quite get the second 'prong' in. Today he was struggling, and the car was stinking hot, so I reached over to help. I was stopped in my tracks by his protest, "Mummy! Why do you have to be so helpful?"

Why indeed. Silly me.

That's pretty much it. Life goes on as usual, for which I am very thankful.

Happy Tuesday!

schoolgirl

My gangly gap-toothed girl begins Grade 1 tomorrow, and I thought I would be fine. I smirked when the teacher told us there would be tissues for the parents the first morning. Yet tonight, I find myself tearful and pensive.

Were I to search the world over, I don't think I could find a daughter I'd love more. My Laura-Lou, my oldest, tugs at my heartstrings in a particular way, because she is such a good and true little person. Not perfect, not insufferably and consciously good, just a wonderful, decent kid. A sweetheart. A treasure.

So tomorrow, out into the wide world goes my first-born. She will make new friends, and become more independent. As time passes, she will slowly grow away from her parents, and identify more with her peers. In years to come, there will be times when she hates me, or at least hates the way I talk/walk/act/dress. There may be times when she makes me yell with frustration or weep with hurt.

I hope there will always be this same bond of love between us, to carry us through. I hope Laura will overlook my funny habits, my annoying ways. I hope Laura will love me with all her heart, just as I love her.

Laura, my little Louey, you are brave, bright and beautiful. You're going to be the best little schoolgirl around!

absence makes the heart .... go to the movies!

I know maybe I should be pining more, but truthfully I am relishing the opportunity to be lazy, and to hang about with my beloved. Yes, it is true, Fatty and I are sans children. My mother has whisked them away. Part of me misses their sweet rosy cheeks, but another part of me can hardly believe our luck!

It started as a simple plea for childcare today for Laura (school doesn't resume here until this coming Monday, and both Fatty and I work Thursdays). Before I knew it, Mum had concocted an evil plan to spirit both my offspring away to the farm - leaving the night before and staying over the next night too. The oddest thing was, our home-loving Ben actually wanted to stay two nights, and has not changed his mind!!

Last night, Fatty was on call, so we didn't go out, but ordered child-unfriendly food (lots of sashimi) and ate it with chilled wine on the back deck. We then ate chocolate and watched a DVD.... without having to attend to kids at all. It was so relaxing to just flop onto couches and watch a movie together.

So, what to do tonight, what to do? Will we eat out, will we see a movie? I think doing both sounds good!

*PS Mum, if you're reading this - wanna do this again next week? he he*

smiling through tears

Today I met 'Marcia'. Marcia used to come to see another doctor in the surgery where I work, until the other doctor recently moved away. Marcia wanted this and that checked; she wanted to ask a few questions. Everything checked out fine, and it seemed the consultation was drawing to a close. Then I noticed a few words in the history section of her chart

'son killed in MVA'

(for those not familiar with the acronym, 'MVA' is short for motor vehicle accident)

If there is one thing, above all else, that makes my heart sink in my chest, it is hearing of the death of a child. Losing a daughter or son is every parent's greatest fear. From the moment our first baby is born, we begin to understand the possibility of staggering loss; we know that with the loss of a child we would unravel, unravel, disintegrate. We know we would somehow have to put ourselves back together again, and we would always bear the scars. Some of you would probably say from personal experience that there is no greater pain. I cannot imagine a more enduring pain.

So when I saw these few words on the screen in front of me, I asked Marcia about her son. I asked how she was coping.

Marcia's eyes began to glisten, but no tears spilled out. She began to talk about her boy, the boy she lost six years ago. She told me that many days she remembered him fondly, and smiled at funny memories. Many days she worked and ate and slept without effort. But there were other days where her grief slapped her in the face and left her breathless, as if to remind her that she would never be free of it. Marcia's voice shook a little as she explained this all to me.

After a moment, Marcia sat up straighter, and smiled.

"I'm really lucky, though. My family and friends have been incredible".

"Oh yes?" I inquired.

"Yes. They still talk about Bobby, and they remember important dates. Like the anniversary of his death, they will send me an e-mail, a text message, or just pop their head into my office and say 'Crappy day, Marsh?' It helps to know they remember. He's not forgotten."

Marcia paused for a minute, thoughtfully. "I mean, obviously I'll never forget Bobby. But it helps to know that my friends and family won't either."

After Marcia left, I couldn't stop thinking about her story. I was impressed by her resilience, and her positive attitude. I couldn't begin to comprehend what she had suffered. But even more than this, I was amazed to think of the kindness and goodness of these people around Marcia - these wonderful souls who take care to remember her boy's birthday, the anniversary of his death, and the memories of him that his mother holds as dear to her as any living love. Six years after Bobby's death, they take the trouble to honour a boy who died, because they know how his mother loved him so.

I know this story is sad, but I think it's happy, too. Because although terrible things happen, there are some mighty fine people in this world. And that can make all the difference.

Remembrance

Fatty and I have just finished watching a movie about the battles fought by Australian troops against the Japanese, along the Kokoda trail, in Papua New Guinea. I am still reeling. I simply did not know the details of this almighty fight.

And oh, what a fight the Aussies fought - outnumbered 10 to 1, in heat and mud, with leeches and biting insects; battling dysentery and tropical ulcers as fearsome as the enemy. I am humbled by the fortitude of these Australian men. Not only did they mount a courageous defence, they forced the Japanese to retreat, and saved our country from almost certain Japanese invasion from the north.

I am reminded of the incredible debt my generation owes to these earlier generations - to the soldiers who were killed or wounded (in body or in mind), to their wives and sweethearts who lost partners, to the soldiers' mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers.

I hope that somehow they know that I am thinking of them tonight; that all they gave was not in vain; that they are remembered and revered.

At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them.

right here, right now

Those children of ours are playing doctor and patient. I would like to point out that it was my mother-in-law who gave our ratbags their medical kit. I myself would prefer they be given chef kits, so they can take over the cooking for me, or perhaps they could be gifted with mops or small vacuum cleaners. After all, I'm aiming to be like Redneck Mommy and have my kids earn their bed for the night!



Fatty is resolutely eating cereal and reading up on the Australian Open tennis. He is a pretty big sports fan and I suspect would read about ping pong if he found such an article.



I'm drinking coffee and reading the fashion section (because Fatty was hogging the news section when I started, and now I have got totally caught up in whether I should be wearing the mini dress or the sack dress this season. I'm thinking either would look fabulous on me. *small cough*)

That's our morning. Hello! from all of us!

news from the house of Jelly

I can't believe I haven't blogged for so long. Because there has been so much going on here. Groundbreaking stories every hour. Where shall I start?

Well, firstly -

1) the dog has been emitting such pungent aromas (all the while snoring innocently on her dog pillow) that I have been forced to issue denials to Fatty as we watch Seinfeld (e.g. "Just in case you were wondering ...that was NOT me!")

2) sweet Laura has lost a front tooth! Alert all media, release balloons, sound trumpets! She looks adorably gappy. The tooth fairy must have thought so, too, because she left behind five dollars. Kids today are so spoilt.

3) Benjamin the Invincible has picked up a new phrase (?from a movie) and has been trying it out-

"Get me some milk on the double!"

It's a damn fine try at parent-manipulation, but unfortunately instead of rushing to do Ben's bidding, I find myself laughing uncontrollably. I mean, as if!

(* skip this next section if squeamish*)

4) At work, I have been inundated with a plague of festy mucky ear canal infections, pus-filled sores, speckly heat rashes and scabbed-up eczema.

Didn't I just tell you my days were fascinating?

So, how fascinating has your day been so far?

being true to my name

There's nothing quite like a good old laugh at yourself. Or maybe it's only me who feels this way. After all, I have found myself, over the years, to be an endless source of pea-brained errors and social gaffes.

At any rate, I amuse myself regularly, but here's one of my better blunders.

Last week, I saw one of my regular patients, who confessed to me she'd become ill after taking some diet pills. She told me the name of the pills, which made me raise my eyebrows a little. "Really? Were they really called F** B******?", I asked 'Katrina'. She nodded, and I furrowed my brow. "Hmmm. Maybe they're aimed more at men?" I mused. I checked my medications database, but found nothing by the same name. I wondered if perhaps it was a new tablet.

Later, I carefully documented the name of the pills in my notes. Katrina was well again, and I thought nothing of it until yesterday.

Our practice nurse 'Meg', sidled into my room, smirking. She'd been looking up some blood test results for Katrina, and had seen my notes.

"I think you may have misheard Katrina Fenton", she sniggered.

"What?", I asked, nose buried in paperwork.

"Those diet pills she took..." (more smirking)

"Yes?"

"I think they were called 'Fat Blaster'."

(small pause)

"As opposed to 'Fat Bastard'."

At this point we both lost our composure and began snort-laughing and clutching our bellies. I had tears. Meg had tears. I had to take several deep breaths before ushering in the next patient, and even then I think I may have smiled inappropriately. I am still grinning like a lunatic and chuckling to myself as I write this now.

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

Can't you just see a burly beer-bellied bloke ambling up to the pharmacist?

- 'Ray, I'm going to need another bottle of those Fat Bastards.'

It's 2007!

I've visited all your blogs, and it sounds like you've all had at least some fun over Christmas! Now it's time to welcome in the New Year. I reckon it has great potential! Happy New Year to all!!

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As you may know, I've been away the past week. I don't think I mentioned that the week was a week of travel - to Fatty's parents, to the family of his brother Newsreader (who has the head of a newsreader) where we were joined by Writer and his gorgeous wife Ten (she was nicknamed 10 at school - as in, 10 out of 10 - because she is so outlandishly pretty), then off to the land owned by another brother Goof (um, he's a goof) where we camped overnight. Then we retraced our steps, and arrived home two days ago. It was certainly busy, and there were no naps or reading of novels involved, but damn if I don't feel happy! And my eyelid has stopped twitching. How do you like that?!

I'd love to moan about having to visit Fatty's awful relatives, but in fact they are great people, and I must confess it was a lot of fun. Sure, I'd like to whack Writer over the head with the tea-towel at times (whilst explaining to him that meals don't make themselves, serve themselves and clear themselves away....geez!), but apart from that minor irritation it was a fabulous week.

Here are some photos....

All are photos from Goof's block of land, apart from the go-carting shot (Laura and me, at Newsreader's countryside home)

Happy 2007!!!!!!!!!!!!!

We Wish You a Merry Christmas!

While I'm away this coming week, please take care everyone, and have a wonderful Christmas!

somebody's a homebody

It seems I'm turning into my husband. Or, to clarify, I'm becoming more like him with each passing day.

I'm not growing chest hairs, and I'm not becoming unnaturally interested in the local weather website. I'm not forgetting upcoming social commitments, yet recalling the exact score of my football team's last winning game. I'm certainly not wearing shiny Wallace and Grommit boxer shorts to bed. And yet.... I think I've become a homebody.

Fatty likes to be at home. He likes to potter, to do jobs, to watch sport on TV, to read the paper. I, on the other hand, am somewhat more social (or at least I used to be). I look forward to seeing family and friends. If a weekend goes past without some kind of social event, I feel mildly disappointed.

But perhaps as I'm getting older, I'm changing. Because these endless rounds of Christmas gatherings are messing with my head. All these celebratory occasions should delight me. Instead I'm stressed about where I have to be when, and what salad/cake/gift I have to take to whom. My left upper eyelid keeps twitching. I'm afraid strange men will notice and think I'm winking at them.

I'd like nothing more than just to stay at home each day and night, right through until New Year's Day. If anyone wanted to visit, that would be fine. I have another fruit cake and some good coffee. But if I could just stay in the one place long enough, my mind might stop whirling and small body parts would stop flicking.

I can see now why they call it the Silly Season. I can also see the wisdom of my husband's ways.

Yuletide Yabbering

Writing Christmas cards is a tricky business. I had forgotten this, until just now when I sat down to write a few.

The thing is, there are some friends I only see every few years. The Christmas card from last year may be the last time we communicated. So although we may share a history, and have maintained a bond, I'm not completely relaxed about what I write in my message to them.

It's an odd thing, but somehow I find myself wildly rambling in greeting cards. It's as if, let loose on the blank page, my imagination knows no bounds, and I begin to write random thoughts. I end up sounding kind of frenetic, slightly manic. I'd be disturbed if I received one of my own cards (of course, that would also mean I had resorted to sending myself Christmas cards, which even I must admit doesn't seem healthy)

And then there are my clumsy attempts at humour. I can't understand, really, because as a child I was nothing if not earnest, and as an adult I don't get any requests to do stand-up routines. In fact, I have this amazing ability to take a joke that was stomach-clasping-funny when told to me, and render it inert, lifeless, completely un-funny. It's my special skill. Yet, whenever I write in cards I begin to crack jokes. Generally bad ones. Occasionally they are in poor taste. I joke about locking our respective children in a cupboard so we can drink champagne on the back deck, and then I wonder if the card recipient will think I am half-serious. Will they read my words and frown, their index finger poised to dial Childrens Services? I dribble on and on with the dumb wisecracks, and then after perusing the card, I wince and sigh. Why? Why can't I write a nice, sweet, heartfelt Christmas greeting? Is that so hard?

I can just see my old pals reading with furrowed brow, and passing the card to their spouses with concern. "She wasn't like that at school. I don't know what's wrong with her. Maybe she's not well?"

I'm well, really I am. I'm bouncing with wellness, and I just get a little silly. It's all that Christmas cheer.

Tomorrow night I'll try again with fresh cards. No jokes, no dumb remarks. Just 'hello, Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year to all!'. Safe, sensible. Sedately sending Seasons Greetings.

I hope you have more success writing all your cards. Best of luck!

Christmas, already?

My daughter had her birthday. I made her a cake, or rather - Dorothy from the bakery made the actual cake - I just cut it and decorated it.

We put up the Christmas tree.

I cleverly merely switched the Christmas lights on once again. Yes folks, I never managed to take them down after last Christmas. (It got to July this year, and I figured we were now closer to Christmas than not Christmas - if that makes any sense. Anyhow, it made perfect sense to me at the time) Oh, the joys of being slack are manyfold!

I have been braving the shops to search for those elusive magical gifts.

I have been finishing a scrapbook (my first ever) of our Canada trip for Benjamin, and starting one for Laura. I realise this project is progressing at a staggeringly sloooooow pace. My attitude can be summed up by this conversation I had in the arts & craft shop yesterday:

Cute blond teen salesgirl - "Oh, you're getting some cute colours. I just love scrapbooking!!"

Frazzled, headachey mother-of-two - "I hate it."

(short silence)

cute blond - "Oh! ha ha! Um, well, I haven't had much time for it lately..." (edges steadily away from frazzled mother)

I have been enjoying reading all your blogs, and hearing what everyone has been up to. I hope you're all beginning to feel that festive spirit stir within you ....

'It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!'

respect gained

*Those who didn't read my post about 'Steven', my karate instructor, would be best to stop reading now.... this will bore you silly*

If you're still reading now, I'll try to reward you by being succinct!

Remember how 'Steven' was being rude and aggressive in classes? What I didn't mention in my story was the fact that 'Lisa', Steven's sister, also trains at the same dojo. And after Steven's particularly foul-mouthed outburst early last week, Lisa cornered me in the changing room and asked me what I thought about how he was acting.

Keeping in mind that Lisa was Steven's sister, I merely remarked that I thought Steven was trying to ensure we all respected him as our teacher. I added that I understood it would be hard to instruct a class of such a diverse age range, but agreed Steven was being too aggressive in his manner. I told Lisa that I was considering speaking to Steven on another occasion, when he had calmed down a bit.

For two days, I thought and thought about what I might say, how exactly I might word what I wanted to convey, without causing offence. Then I turned up for training again, and Steven was standing right beside the sign-in book.

"Hi, Steven", I greeted him.

Without any preliminaries, Steven replied, "What you said to Lisa - I completely agree."

My mind spinning (wondering what on earth Lisa actually said!), I managed a "Huh?"

Steven reiterated, "What you said to Lisa - you're right. I agree".

Not one to think on my feet, I mumbled, "Oh....OK!". I smiled, bowed in to class and lined up with everyone.

The class went well. Steven was warmer, friendlier, but still ran a tight ship and made sure we all listened and trained hard.

I went home, still amazed at Steven's response. Because I don't know about you, but when faced with criticism, I don't think I have ever simply stated, "You're right, I agree completely." If I manage to swallow my pride enough to accept what's been said, I will agree and apologise - but always with at least one small justification. Like, " Yeah, I was grumpy, I'm sorry. It's just that.. (blah blah- insert excuse of any kind eg fatigue, worry, illness, headache)".

Steven made no excuses, didn't rationalise, didn't give explanations - he openly acknowledged an error, agreed with a criticism, and changed his approach.

My respect for Steven has grown immeasurably. I've also realised that it's all too easy to criticise (like I did), but much more difficult to accept criticism gracefully.

Ironic, isn't it - I started off all indignant, thinking Steven needed to 'learn a thing or two'. Yet really, I'm the one who has learnt something new.

Life is full of fascinating twists and turns.

about face

Every now and then, my children do or say things to atone for the stress they cause me, the lifeblood they suck out of me, the emotions they wring from me. This is not to say that my dear offspring do not also bring me joy, fascination and the deepest, most indestructible love. I'm just saying - there's also the vomit-bucket-holding, the dispute-negotiating, the endless cooking and cleaning and bathing and dressing and toothbrushing and ..... I think I've made my point. Kid-raising is no light task.

So when I am given one of Ben's ferocious hugs, or one of Laura's soft cheek-dusting kisses, it is always a delight - an oasis of pure happiness in the day.

Sometimes, it is an amusing statement that makes my day. Last week, when I insisted Ben go get dressed, he pouted, "You're wrecking my life!". It was the absolute highlight of my day. For what could be a better benchmark for success as a mother than to check whether or not you are ruining your child's life? Ruining their lives is our job. I take that role seriously.

Other times, my kids reduce me to a pool of melted mother. They say the sweetest things, and I am putty in their grubby little hands.

This morning, I made some remark about my face. I can't remember exactly what I said, (though I can reassure you that it was unlikely to have been, "Gosh but my face is looking terrific this morning!"). Laura, always wanting to make her mother happy, chimed in with, "Mummy your face is pretty".

Ben spoke clearly from the opposite side of the table, "Your face isn't pretty Mummy." I glanced over, and raised an eyebrow (because really, if you can't brainwash your children - who you have incubated, birthed and nurtured - to believe their mother is beautiful, then what hope have you got with the rest of the population?)

Ben grinned devilishly and finished with, "....it's adorable!"

Ah. Good save, my sweet son. Well done! Now excuse me while I find a corner to go melt in.

respect

Where I train in karate, the head instructor's son (aged in his mid-20's) has recently taken over most of the classes. This young man (I'll call him Steven) is knowledgeable and experienced. In the past, when he taught occasionally, I enjoyed his classes. He taught us new things, or taught us things we already knew from a different angle.

Since Steven became the main teacher, though, he has become very defensive. He is critical, with very little praise to offer. He bridles at any question regarding techniques, however innocent. With the older students (and there are quite a few of us in the 30-50 age group), he has been particularly curt.

I understand what is going on here. Steven wants to be sure we are all giving him the respect he deserves, as our teacher. The trouble is, he is aggressive, and somewhat disrespectful in his attitude towards the class members. Tonight, when he became annoyed by a 50-ish black belt student who Steven thought was defying him (when actually, the man had made a geniune error), Steven told the man to 'f*#k off' out of his class! To be completely fair, there has been some conflict brewing between Steven and this other man for some time (through misunderstandings, from what I can tell). However, I thought the swearing was extremely unprofessional. But then I guess I'm not 24, and I'm not trying to teach a class ranging in age from 15 to 55 (70 if our oldest member comes along!)

I'm frustrated by karate classes these days. I can feel Steven's defensiveness and aggression. I want to tell him, 'You can't force people to respect you. You must inspire respect. Be a teacher who is firm but patient, who corrects but also encourages." Of course, this would go down like a lead balloon!

Still, I might try speaking to Steven in private. I might tell him how much I've enjoyed his classes, but how I would enjoy some positive feedback as well as correction. I might let him know that I respect him as a teacher but that I sometimes don't feel respected as a diligent student (which I am). Because really, if there is no change, I won't want to continue training. And to leave without at least trying to discuss the issues seems like a cop-out, and a waste of all my years training at that club.

Hmmm. Might sleep on it!

touchy feely

As blogfriends, we have no real way of knowing what each other would be like in person. Many of us never show our faces on our blogs. We don't hear how other bloggers sound. We can't see our blogpals' gestures, mannerisms. And we have no idea whether, were we ever to meet, a particular blogger buddy might smother us in a breathquashing hug, kiss on the cheek whilst performing a small shoulder pat, extend a stiff hand, or nod shyly.

When it comes to how affectionate a person is, I reckon most people fall into categories 1 to 4:

Category 1: kisses and/or hugs everyone except the garbage man. Takes any social greeting as an opportunity to grab a hug, and lay a smacker on the other person's cheek (people belonging to subcategory 1b will actually plant a kiss on the mouth of any stray relative, no matter how distant. Whiskery Great Aunt Joys are often to be found in subcategory 1b). Touches others readily, and without self-consciousness. Category 1 people are known to rub the pregnant bellies of complete strangers.

Category 2: greets close friends and close family with hugs and/or kisses, but is a little more discerning with casual friends or extended family members. Especially loving and affectionate with children and partners, Category 2 people are very cuddly within their select circle. Will often touch an acquaintance on the shoulder or hand if the acquaintance is upset or ill, but will otherwise keep their hands to themselves.

Category 3: more guarded, Category 3 people will generally regularly embrace close family only. Even then, they may receive complaints that they don't show enough affection.They will make an exception for friends or other family members in distress. They may even learn to accept hugs from friends who belong to category 1 or 2, but category 3-ers will rarely initiate this physical intimacy. Category 3 people are not naturally 'touchy'.

Category 4: these people are extremely self-contained, and rarely touch others. Category 4 members will only offer another person a hug at funerals, and only immediate family. They may stiffen if embraced by others, and leave their arms like planks of wood by their sides. Although some category 4-ers have blood-stained axes under their beds, many more were simply never shown physical affection as children.



Personally, I think I'm a category 2. Some of my husband's friends are category 1, and I enjoy their vivacity and warmth. Fatty is more of a Category 3, but lucky for me, I'm in his 'inner circle'! I hope my children grow up to be affectionate, too. I want to receive hugs from them all my life.

So, are any of you prepared to reveal your category?!

Christmas comes early

I blame it on Alice. I'm sure it was her talk of Christmas baking that had me daydreaming of a dark, damp, drunken fruit cake.

I've never baked a Christmas cake before. I'm not entirely sure why, but I think the reasons may have been work, work and too much bloody work, followed a few years later by two small children and even more work. Christmas cakes are quite labour-intensive. And frankly, when my kids were younger, given a choice of:
1) bake for 3 hours , or
2) read a little then go to bed early....well, the reading/sleeping option was always going to win out.

This weekend, though, I had energy to burn. I was riding high on a post-sick-kid wave of euphoria (no vomit! what a glorious day!). I followed my recipe, which was called 'The Perfect Fruit Cake'. I dutifully chopped, boiled, beat, stirred, sifted, combined. And LO unto my stove top a Christmas cake was born. And it was good.

I hate to blow my own trumpet, but someone has to toot my horn. This cake is seriously delicious. I could polish off the entire cake in a matter of days. Today I've eaten a piece after lunch and a piece at dinnertime. I may have to hide the cake from myself.

Of course, it's not really Christmas cake, it's November cake. Because truthfully, the only trace left by Christmas will be the scatter of crumbs beneath this table.

(hic!)

things that go bump in the night

Ever been awake in the dead of the night? Surely everyone has, at one time or another.

Lately, I've been awake at odd hours, looking after my son (see previous post). Even when he's settled again, and I've returned to my bed, I lie there listening, alert to any sound that could indicate I'm needed. Last night- lying, listening - I realised that there are all kinds of weird noises in the wee hours in our house.

Some of these night noises are comforting and well-known.

Each evening around midnight, there is the mournful screeching of a faraway goods train as it rounds a sharp bend. When we first moved here, I thought it was a solitary, sad cry. Often I heard the train as I was sitting alone, feeding an infant in the half-dark. It seemed the train was calling out in both pain and resignation, as it rounded the corner on its track. With time and familiarity, though, the goods train has become like a reliable old friend. The sound is a happy one - a tireless train forging ahead. I hear it as I head for bed late sometimes and think - Ah, there's the goods train ..... all is right with the world.

Another routine sound is the thumping, crashing, romping of possums across our tin roof. Although initially this can be startling (because it really, truly does sound like three fully-grown men are having rooftop races), I soon relax and smile to myself. Our possums must be the boldest, bounciest possums in Australia.

I'm used to the fruit bats, who squeak now and then through the night. I barely notice the dog's whinnying snoring. I'm reassured by the soft thud as the newspaper hits the front lawn.

But last night there were mysterious sounds, as well. First there came a soft rhythmic hiccuping. I was intrigued, and after a moment I shook back the covers to go check the children. Laura slept, motionless, with one irresistable peachy cheek uppermost. Even my soft kiss didn't wake her. She was not the secret hiccup culprit.

Benjamin was pale but breathing quietly, and still. The hiccuping could not be blamed on the little guy.

Fatty woke when I asked him if he could hear the noise...

me: "You awake hon?"

Fatty: (drowsily) "Hmmm?"

me: "Oh, you're awake! Can you hear that noise?"

pause while Fatty listens obligingly

Fatty: (slurring a little) "Sounds like someone hiccuping."

me: "Yes! It does! Except no-one is hiccuping!!"

Before we could conclusively solve the mystery of the hiccup (Fatty decided ' It must be a bird'. Of course, Birdman would think that), there came another noise. This one was a pathetic whimpering. And no, it wasn't Fatty begging me to let him get back to sleep.

I got up again, this time with a heavy sigh. Which child wanted me? Was Laura sick, too? But again, I found both children slumbering. I stayed awhile in each bedroom, to be sure. Not a sound. I returned to bed, and the noise came again. Fatty began to snore softly.

I lay listening to the whimpering come and go. I knew Fatty, the dog, and my children were safe. I had no energy to spare for investigating further. Eventually, the noise stopped, and I fell asleep, pondering the strangeness of noises of the night.

an apology and a whinge

Dear Blogfriends,

I'm posting briefly to apologise for my temporary absence, and particularly for my lack of commenting on your blogs. I have been a little haphazard with my reading, and a bit reticent with commenting, even when I have been reading. So please don't think I have abandoned you all.

My son has been sick over the past three days (and right now is lying in a feverish sleep nearby), so looking after him has consumed most of my time.

This is the 7th stomach bug our family has encountered over the past 12 months. I am just a tad fed up. And in case you were wondering - no, I do not prepare food un-hygienically, and yes, I do make sure my kids wash their hands before eating! Before this past year, neither of my children had ever been ill with a vomiting illness. I suppose they are simply making up for lost time! I'm not impressed.

Today I am feeling particularly isolated. No-one has phoned to see how Ben is - not my close friend Chooky, who knows Ben is ill, not my Mum (who is probably working, to be fair), not Fatty (who is also at work), not my sister-in-law, who was here the day it all started. What are these people thinking - do they not realise the world revolves around me and my children??? Gee whiz.

Ben whimpered to me today, with waxy face, "I wish I was you, Mummy. Then I wouldn't be vomiting."

Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day.

ring a ding ding!

Look what my wee daughter found
by the sandpit, on the ground -
something shiny, something bright
that made me grin with pure delight -

Fatty's long-lost ring is home!
and no more shall I let it roam.
(I have a plan that's sound and true
involving tubes of superglue)

Welcome old ring, back to the fold
Sorry new ring - make way for the old...
I thank my lucky stars above
For old rings, old friends, and longlasting love.

pay it forward

Sometimes I get to feeling a bit maudlin. Often there is no clear reason for this. It may be merely that a friend has been a bit offhand with me. I may be worrying about a patient. Other times I absorb the mood of those around me - feeling unsettled and sad because a friend or colleague is unhappy. Sometimes the feeling I have is most like loneliness. I miss spending time with my friends - time that is just no longer available now that we have children.

When I get in a funk, I wallow for awhile. I soak up cuddles from my kids, and have to resist the urge to cling to them. I go over events in my mind, I think about everything that I dislike about myself. I fantasise about quitting work. I whine to Fatty and my friends. I wallow.

Inevitably, because this is just a crappy mood and not depression - (so no comments suggesting drugs or therapy, please!), I stop navel-gazing. I lift my gaze and see the real problems in the world. I try to think of what I can do for someone else, to make someone else's day easier, happier.

I'd love to say I do things for others because I am such a good person, but the truth is I try to make small gestures (make a cake, send a card, deliver dinner to a sick friend) because it gives me a sense of purpose, and makes me feel good. Of course I want to help out, but I'm also getting high on this sense of purpose - filled with joy at doing something for someone besides myself. I can highly recommend it as a cure for those transitory blues.

So today, instead of considering how I feel, I am going to consider how everyone else around me feels. I'm going to try to make a difference to someone else's day, no matter how small.

Yesterday, a close friend listened to me, empathised, and restrained from telling me I was a silly selfish cow. Now it's time to pay it forward.

gumboots and grass and galahs

We had planned to go camping, but inclement weather and the lure of an orphan calf that Mum is bottle-feeding found us spending a couple of days at Mum's farm.

I expected the calf to be sweet and cuddly, but he alternated between skittish and outright rude - butting unsuspecting adults between the legs with his head, as if we all had suddenly grown udders. The kids enjoyed feeding him, though, and he does look quite appealing.


Fatty photographed a new bird and was positively exuberant.

I walked around, snapping farm photos and soaking up the sights and sounds I love so much.

I hope you've all managed to find some time to soak up some beauty in your weekends, too. Happy Sunday!

my little super-heroes

Do you suppose they were contemplating trying to fly? That could have been really messy.

As it happens, no one flew or fell. Ben informed me that I was Super-Mum, which I chose to take as an affirmation of my super parenting skills (cough). I realise Ben would be unlikely to come up with the concept of Doing-The-Best-I-Can-And-Sometimes-Stuffing-It-Up-Anyway-Mum. But Super-Mum sounds so.... strong and powerful. It has a great ring to it!

Yesterday I was an inattentive mother. I didn't spend much time with my kids - I wanted to read, to talk to my friends, to get certain jobs done. I was being selfish, and I don't like myself much like that. I know it's forgivable to be a dodgy mother for one day, but today I want to do better.

Parenting is hard work.

sunny funny holiday

If you measure a successful holiday by seeing jellyfish bobbing, a snake dozing, a sea anemone wafting, sea turtles drifting, dolphins surfing, and a whale spouting.... then this holiday was a cracker.

If you measure a happy holiday by the running on the beach, the leaping over waves, the poking in rock pools, the swinging on the playground monkey bars, the camerastalking of water birds, the leaning together watching wet sandy children and the strolling aimlessly, just thinking.... then we are all happy as clams.

If you measure a satisfying vacation by the number of gelato ice-creams eaten, the glasses of cold white wine sipped on the balcony, the cheese and crackers nibbled upon whilst chatting lazily, and the barbecued prawns and fresh salads devoured......we've definitely had our fill.

I don't think I've ever had such a relaxing holiday. My kids had so much fun that they fell into slumber within minutes each night, and didn't wake until morning. Fatty laughed more than he normally would in a month. I sat on the balcony mesmerised by the the endless procession of white-crested waves. At night I lay listening to the surf.

The second-last morning, I jogged alone along an empty stretch of beach, before turning to walk back home. The clouds were studded in a threadbare blanket across the sky - except for one round window of cobalt blue. As I strode along the tide line, my eyes were drawn to that portal in the sky; I felt so buoyant that I imagined myself simply stepping into the air and rising up through that space. I felt all things were possible.

It was a good holiday.

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I want to add a special thank-you to my secret post-writing friend, who wrote a pack of sweet lies about me and made me sound much nicer than I really am.

Friend, you are irreplaceable. Thank you!

My friend, my friend

Well hello.

It's not Jellyhead. She's still enjoying fun, family and friends at the beach, the lucky . . . *ahem*

Jellyhead is a very good friend of mine and I am here to tell you about her.

First, Jellyhead is a very pretty woman who exudes health and happiness. She wears her hair up almost all the time. When she wears it down, I always tell her how pretty she looks and she always protests and says things like, "No, no. I am messy and unkempt." I beg her to wear her hair down and she refuses, saying it gets in the way. I've seen her dressed in her work clothes and I've seen her in her pajamas just after waking and she is pretty, either way.

Jellyhead is almost always smiling and even her frowns somehow seem good-natured, like her mouth is just waiting for the next opportunity to smile. When she is worried she furrows her brow and leans forward on her elbow. When she is really troubled, she rakes her fingers through her hair and sighs heavily. When she laughs, she leans back in her chair and sometimes shakes her head at me as if to say, "I don't know what I am going to do with you." When she is embarrassed and amused at the same time, she giggles so hard that she shakes and covers her face with her hands.

Jellyhead is freakishly perceptive. I've yet to successfully hide my feelings from her. She always guesses what is on my mind even when I could swear I have done nothing to give it away. I always tell her I am going to have to work harder on my poker face because, at least to her, I am completely transparent --an open book.

I'd be hard pressed to find anyone that I'd rather share my thoughts with, though. Jellyhead is open-minded and kind. She is rational and tolerant. She takes things in stride in a way that I only wish I could.

I often stand in awe of Jellyhead, to tell you the truth. She is adored by her children and is such a loving and careful mother. She goes to work and takes care of patients and then calls to check on them on her days off. She and Fatty enjoy romance and friendship in a seemingly perfect balance. She is a black belt in karate and just laughs at the suggestion that she is capable of kicking some serious butt! Not long ago, her finger was broken during sparring and she just laughed it off. (It was broken when she kept beating a young girl in the sparring matches. After losing a few times, the girl jokingly declared, "Oh, you are going DOWN!" and, the next thing she knew, Jelly's finger was broken)

I could go on telling you how wonderful Jelly is for hours. (But I won't. I heard that collective sigh of relief!)

But really and truly, what I want you to know after reading this post is that Jellyhead is my friend and I just feel so lucky to know her!

Here's hoping that Jelly is having a fantastic holiday at the beach.

beach bums

Tomorrow we're heading off to the beach for a week. It will be our fourth year at the same spot, with the same friends staying next door, in the same block of units. Just call me the Routine Queen.

Last year, although we still had some fun, we had both children sick at various times over the week. So this year, I will consider us eternally blessed if everyone remains hale and hearty for the week!

Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, I hope you enjoy your week. See you soon!

what happened next

Was it the post I wrote? He doesn't usually read my blog (see previous post regarding Fatty's general lack of interest in my fascinating thoughts). Yet it seems too coincidental to be simply luck.

Whatever may have prompted Fatty (he said, "I saw them and they looked pretty"), I am adoring these blooms and feeling guilty for implying that my husband is not romantic. I take it back. I eat my words. He is simply a romantic with erratic timing.

And he can still surprise me.

the note

Do you have one of those marriages or relationships in which your significant other leaves you sweet notes tucked under your pillow? Does your spouse write you soppy cards for no reason except to tell you how incredible you are? Pah! Humph! Be gone with you! Or stay, but just don't tell me the sordid romantic details.

My husband is a gorgeous bloke, who does the dishes every night, plays games with our children for hours, and encourages me in all I do. He is just not terribly spontaneous. Flowers are a rarity. Love notes are almost unheard of. Cards are given, but only on birthdays. He shows his love in more practical ways.

So I should really know better than this, but when Fatty was late coming home from playing sport yesterday afternoon, I began to toy idly with the pleasant idea that perhaps he had stopped off to buy me flowers. It was a lovely daydream.

Six o'clock came, and I realised there would be no flowers. The shops were long closed. I began to imagine sports-related injuries, because that's the kind of freaky worrier I am. To be fair to me, I do often think in worst case scenarios, but I also began to fret because Fatty once rang me, en route from squash court to hospital, to say he had busted his Achilles tendon. So that got fixed but, you know, he hasn't done the other side yet.

So while I grated zucchini into the bolognaise sauce (hiding vegetables from children is my special talent), I wondered where my husband had gotten to. I started to clear the kitchen table for dinner, and there it was.... a note! A note for me! I hadn't noticed it because it was written on an envelope the kids had decorated in felt pen swirls.

The note read:

Have gone to find a Baillon's crake

Fatty

I was swept away by the utter devotion and desperate romanticism of his words. If you read between the lines, it is quite clear that Fatty meant, "Jelly, my love for you is so expansive and vast that I feel I could soar on its breezes like a Baillon's crake". Don't you think?

update

I'm not signed up for twanging instument lessons. Yet.

I received an e-mail from Writer the same day I last posted. He wrote:

Jelly,

It's a terrific piece.

The marked copy will arrive at your place tomorrow. There are a few (minor) suggestions.

Love Writer.

The copy didn't arrive yesterday, so I am still waiting with some trepidation. I'm encouraged, though, because Writer is not a gushy person. I've never heard him say one thing and mean another. So those few words of praise mean a lot to me.

the waiting game

Some of my longer-term readers may recall that Fatty's brother is a writer. He has written four books, all of which were sold in mainstream bookstores. He regularly writes for several newspapers and magazines, is also on radio and occasionally does interviews on TV. He is our family's only claim to fame! So it seemed to make sense for me to seek his advice about an entry I have been working on for a medical writing competition.

I say it seemed to make sense, because now I am obsessively checking my e-mail every 3 minutes, looking to see if Writer has sent back his critique of my prose. I'm nervous, I'm antsy, oh my goodness, what was I THINKING??!

I asked Writer to help me with some awkward phrasing, and to tell me what might be better cut out; what might be best more padded-out. I told him I wouldn't take offence, and that part is certainly true. I won't be snooty or miffed by any suggestions for improvement. I can't promise I won't be hurt, though, if he tells me that what I have written is beyond salvaging, for instance. Or if he kindly suggests I might be better learning the ukelele. I can't believe I have shown a published writer my half-baked, half-assed short story. What was I thinking?!

I dreamt last night that Writer told me my piece was offensive to Canadians. There is not a single mention of Canadians in the story. Perhaps the dream ended before Writer was able to list all the other nationalities in the world as well.

I hope you are all enjoying your day. I'm going now, to check my e-mail......

It seems to be Monday morning already. The weekend has vanished into thin air.

I am feeling off-kilter today. Fatty has lost his wedding ring somewhere at our friends' place, I don't want to face work today, and I have discovered that I have wrinkles at the very corners of my mouth! All silly little things that are not important. I've got to snap out of this.

So, instead of writing any more whilst in this self-indulgent mood, I will show you some spring flowers from our garden. I'll think back to the weekend, when Fatty mowed the lawn under a vivid blue sky, I went swimming with my slippery giggling children, and we ate a seafood lunch on our friends' back deck while the kids ran crazily around the yard.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Fake it until you make it.

"Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work I go!"

365 days of blogging ...give or take

It's hard to believe it's been an entire year (plus 2 days) since I tentatively entered the blog world.

It all began with an article I read in a medical magazine. The author mentioned how he enjoyed reading The Underwear Drawer, a blog written by a young New York doctor called Michelle. I started reading her blog, and was fascinated. I blogsurfed a bit. After awhile, my Google page began to display an ad line- 'get your own blog for free'. I found this a little spooky. I was also tempted. I began to write lame posts, and absolutely no-one knew me or commented for awhile.

One of my first ever comments was from Mackeydoodle. I was writing about the stress of trying to run to time at work, and she wrote a supportive and kind comment. I was astonished that a complete stranger would be so friendly. And then and there I was hooked on blogging.

Since I began blogging, I have come to 'know' so many fascinating people. I have opened my mind to many differing points of view. I have realised the untold power of compassion and humility. I have laughed out loud as I sit reading the words of my fellow bloggers. I have shed tears over poignant posts. I have made friends I hope to keep for life.

I also have rediscovered my love of writing. As a child and adolescent, it was a habit of mine to express my thoughts on paper, but somewhere in the pursuit of my very science-based career, I had stopped writing. Medicine seemed to have wrung all the creativity out of me. I sporadically tried to put pen to paper, but the sheer awfulness (don't tell me that's not a word) of what I wrote stopped me continuing.

So now, I may not be a brilliant writer, and I may use dubious words and awkward phrases, but damn I'm having fun! Words flow more readily, and I am able to convey all those thoughts that used to clog up my head. I'm happier, my mind is clearer. And best of all, I have all you lovely blog readers to 'talk' to!

It's been a year already. How about that.

my baby's no baby no more

It is four years now since I was handed a round fat ball of wrapped-up baby Benjamin. His face was chubby, and his brow was creased as if he was deeply concerned. Fatty and I looked at each other and grinned. "He looks like a front-rower!", Fatty murmured proudly.

Our infant son has grown to be a nuggety little fellow, who today celebrates his birthday with the aid of his new Superman outfit and a set of walkie-talkies. Ben is a fiercely loving, chatty, vigorous kid who never ceases to amaze us with his humour and his inquiring mind.

He greets us in the morning by shouting "Cock-a-doodle-doooooooo!" from his bedroom (not so cute at 6am, but tolerably cute as I recall this now). He farewells me before work with, "Bye Mum. Love you. Drive carefully. Don't crash!". At night, he delays sleep by getting up to ask us intriguing questions:
"Were ankylosauruses plant-eaters?", or "When Holly (his kindy teacher) is old, how will we know which nursing home she's in?". When he falls asleep at last, he looks much younger - clutching an old cot sheet, thumb in mouth.

Before Ben came along, I worried that I could never love a child the way I love his sister, our beloved Laura-girl. And yet, here is proof that the heart has an infinite capacity for love - I love my son deeply, powerfully, utterly.

Happy Birthday, Ben. May you have a life full of the happiness you bring to us each day.

my riveting weekend....

As I posted these pictures, I was thinking what an uneventful weekend it has been, and how good that was. Funny - when Fatty and I first were married, I was always keen to go somewhere, do something on Saturdays and Sundays. It was a 'wasted' weekend if we simply poked about the house and yard.

Having children alters your perspective enormously. Suddenly it is an unexpected delight if the little ratbags play happily long enough for me to read the papers. I enjoy the peaceful rhythm of making my favourite carrot cake, and giving the kids a spoon each to lick when I'm finished. I even get some warped satisfaction from bringing in sunshiney sheets from the washing line, and making up the beds with fresh-smelling linen. And of course, after last weekend, I consider our family truly blessed simply because no-one is losing digestive by-products from any orifice. The flowers are showing their faces all around the garden, and it's perfect spring weather.

All in all, it's been a grand old weekend!