Millie the dog

Our dog is not adorable. She looks sweet enough, but she is simply not one of those wonderful, trustworthy, loyal family hounds. Not in the least. She is snarky, she is greedy, and she snores like a truck. Yet somehow this annoying beagle has insinuated herself into our hearts. I can't explain why I love her, but I indisputably do.

It's not as if Millie tries to be endearing. Far from it. I can think of countless ways she unhinges me.

When no-one is paying attention, Millie sidles into the house and fossicks through the bedroom and bathroom bins. She sneaks away with tissues, and drags them out to the lawn for chewing. When our children were small, Millie would steal nappies and do unspeakable things to them. She once ate a whole packet of my birth control pills, the morning I was leaving on an overseas trip. One Easter, Millie found Laura's Easter eggs and ate the lot. This dog is a stomach on legs.

When we have guests over, and we escort them to the door as they leave, Millie quietly gets up on the table to eat the leftovers. She doesn't give a hoot if she gets caught. We can yell, smack her, lock her out, ignore her for hours or all of the above, but Millie doesn't mind. She is undeterred. She does the very same thing at her next opportunity.

Then Millie has some other quirky (read idiotic) habits. If we have visitors over and decide to lock Millie outside, she gets very upset. She whines and whimpers. She stations herself on the back deck, right outside the dining room, and periodically leaps up in the air so she can glimpse everyone inside. Our guests are treated to the sight of a beagle head, ears flying, appearing at the window at intervals.

I haven't ever owned another dog (or cat, or bird), but from talking to experienced pet-owners, it seems animals each have quite distinct personalities. Millie is no exception. She is gluttonous, obstinate, sneaky and grumpy. And yet, she also waits for me on the front deck when I go out - even when Fatty and the kids are home, and she could be lying inside in the warmth. She leans against me as I pat her soft caramel head. She waits, without sound, at the back door each morning, until we finally notice her sitting there. Sometimes it is an hour before we register her presence, yet Millie sits motionless, silent, as if she is The World's Best Dog.

The sweetest habit of Millie's is one I cannot explain. I have no idea what leads her to do this, but she does it every night.

Last thing at night I open the back door, and tell Millie to go outside. She obeys, albeit with a mournful sideways glance. Then she heads for her kennel on the back deck, and settles in as if she were sleeping there all night. But as soon as I walk down the hall to bed, Millie makes her way under the front of our house and sleeps on some old shelving directly under me. The lying down in the kennel is all a charade! Millie has never slept a single night there (I know this, in case you're wondering, because I have to endure Millie's nocturnal snoring, echoing up through the floorboards!). And yet each evening, as if trying to appease us, she pretends she is snuggling up in her doghouse for the night. And then instead of sleeping in her kennel, or on her dog bed under the house, Millie lies much less comfortably, for the sake of being nearer.

No matter how irritating, a dog always loves. And that, I suspect, is why we forgive them almost anything; why they worm their doggy way into our deepest affections.

Millie the weird, naughty beagle ...... we love you, nose to tail.

dinosaurs and diaries

This is the horrific scene that greeted me when I entered our side room the other day. I thought for sure this was the work of my bloodthirsty son, but no, 'twas my bloodthirsty daughter who created this attractive tableau.

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Last night I was tired and irritable and anxious about various things. I sighed as I plonked down on Laura's bed to read books to my little rugrats.

"C'mon guys - choose your books", I intoned drearily, as I sat mulling over this and that.

Ben came striding in confidently, carrying one of his favourite books - a journal-style story, written from a wombat's perspective.

"I've got one!", Ben announced. "I've got 'Diarrhoea of a Wombat' ", he crowed. (The actual book title is "Diary of a Wombat")

I began to laugh as I explained to Ben about diaries, and my worries receded into the distance.

Kids are good like that.

fowl play

This is a story involving two dear friends, 'Ocker' and 'Belly'.

Ocker was in my year at medical school. Ocker is a sunny, friendly sort of guy. He is knowledgeable, and a very good doctor, but in some ways he is just a little naive. And take it from me, I am very familiar with naivete. Being somewhat naive myself.

Belly, Ocker's wife, is pretty switched-on, but being of a quieter nature than Ocker, she tends to defer to his opinion, unless she is absolutely certain of her facts.

The other day, Belly, was around here having a cup of coffee with me. She was chatting about backyards and gardens, and she mentioned that she and Ocker had been toying with the idea of buying some chickens. Both Belly and Ocker thought that chickens might be nice pets for their young daughters, with the added benefit of providing fresh eggs. However, they had recently discussed things further, and the idea had been shelved.

"Oh?", I enquired politely. "What made you decide against it?".

Belly shifted uneasily. "Well", she explained sheepishly, "Ocker reckons that unless you keep a rooster with the chickens, the chickens won't lay. And we can't have a rooster in suburbia." Belly paused, then added sceptically, "Ocker says the only way to get chickens to lay without a rooster is to get a stick, and gently poke them in the backside every day. And no way am I going to go around poking chooks' bums."

"What?!" I fairly shrieked, grinning from ear to ear. "That's not true! Chickens lay eggs without a rooster. I can't believe he told you that! Belly, he's pulling your leg."

Belly chewed her lip thoughtfully. "No, I don't think so. He didn't have any sort of smirk when he told me. I can tell when he's teasing me."

"Well then someone's told him that, maybe even years ago, and being a city boy, he's never found out it was all a joke, " I decided.

"I'm googling 'chickens laying' and there's absolutely nothing here about sticks", my husband called from the dining room.

At this unusual interjection, I collapsed into laughter, and Belly joined me as it dawned on her that her wise husband was not always as wise as he seemed.

So which came first - the chicken, the egg, or the stick up the chicken's bottom? Only you can decide. Vote here. Vote now.

these happy golden years

The little blighters are bound to cause me untold headaches and heartaches through the years, but just now my children are still innocents. They are sweet-natured. They say adorable things. They haven't yet learnt to hate their parents.

Laura is prone to leave me notes on the bedside table when she's done something wrong. The words fill me with sorrow and remorse, as I read her plaintive,"Mummy I'm sorei wehn I was beeing bad". The experienced parents reading this will now be nodding sagely and intoning, "Ah! She's got you!". I fully admit the cute apology note sucks me in every time. I am reeled in - regretful, and forgiving, and vowing never to be such a crabby mother again. Until the next time those kids annoy me.

Benjamin doesn't bother much with apologies. His tactic is to charm the pants off me, as a sort of a preemptive strike. He schmoozes and compliments. He snuggles and kisses. Yesterday, he hugged my back energetically as I bent over to help him with his shoes, telling me, "Oh, I love you Mummy. Why would I ever love anyone more than you?". You've got to admire this kid. He's got the smarmy lines. He'll tell his girlfriends that they have hair like silk, and lips like rose petals and eyes like shining stars. It's all becoming clear.

I am trying to savour every embrace and enjoy every crayon-adorned message. I know teenagers don't touch or talk nearly as much as little ones do. If I get more than the odd grunt and occasional pat from my adolescent children, I'll count myself lucky.

So today, and every day, I am thankful for these small children - my kind, soft-cheeked Laura, and my loving, grinning Ben. They bring so much laughter and new light to my life. And I don't care if they have me in the palms of their sweaty little hands. Wrapped around their sticky little fingers. I'm a willing victim, I'm a captive audience, and, above all, I'm their besotted mother.

my friend and I

I was twelve. I was scared about starting at the large inner city high school, but I was excited as well.

Every day I caught the dusty, smoke-belching bus to school. I knew none of the other kids on the bus, but they seemed to know each other. There was Desiree, of the tanned skin and trendy feathered haircut (yes, yes, we're talking back when Farrah Fawcett hair was oh-so-cool!). Desiree had a husky voice and a knowing laugh and I was way too frightened of her to attempt conversation with this high school diva. There was the tall, tall Year 12 boy who was a swimmer and sat at the back with his friends. He would smile at me as he made his long-limbed way down the aisle and I would almost pass out from the thrill. Then there was a petite dark-haired girl in my grade, with the longest, thickest plait I'd ever seen. Her hair may have been old-fashioned, but she chatted breezily with everyone and was obviously popular.

One day, the gods of fortune smiled upon me, and this pint-sized girl, 'Chooky', sat beside me. I managed to convince her that, although I had a nasty haircut and no bus-friends, I was worth getting to know. We became best friends. We have remained friends, despite never being in the same class (well, apart from one geography class, during which I distinguished myself by having a confiscated letter to Chooky read out to the class by the stern elderly teacher .... "Dear Poo-Head, This class is making me fall asleep zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...hey, do you still like Michael? I think he likes you, anyway..."), not attending the same university, and working different jobs.

Chooky has had an incredibly tough life. Her father left when she was three, and has shown minimal enthusiasm for his role in Chooky's life ever since. Chooky's mother was a frightening woman who was in and out of psychiatric hospitals during Chooky's childhood, and rarely had a kind word to say to my lovely friend. And yet, Chooky is a phenomenal woman - a loving and loyal friend, a sought-after manager with a large company, partner to Goodguy. I don't know how she has done it, but she fills me with awe. My Chooky is an inspiration and a wonder.

This weekend just passed, Chooky whisked me away on a 'girls weekend'. It was my surprise birthday present from Chooky. And what an elaborate gift it was. We flew (yes, flew in a plane!) to a tropical locale. We stayed in a fancy hotel. We ate lazy lunches and drank a mango daiquiri while sitting by the pool. It was the most luxurious weekend I've ever had.

And yet.... the best part of the weekend was simply talking with Chooky. We caught up on news, we teased each other. We also reminisced about the beginnings of our friendship, and spoke about what we mean to each other now. Chooky told me that she believes she would not be the same happy person she is now were it not for her friendship with me. It brings tears to my eyes here and now just to write these words. It is the greatest compliment to me to be credited in such a way, whether true or not. I told Chooky that I consider her part of my family, and I do. Chooky is my lifelong friend and my soul sister.

She may be a dear friend, but she didn't love me enough to let me photograph her in her stripey pyjama pants. Humph.

You can't see her face, but you don't need to see it to know she is beautiful.

a post at long last

Well. It's been awhile. What have I been doing?

I've been having a birthday. For some reason, my newly allocated age grated on me at first. I kept peering in the mirror at the creases beside my mouth, at the softening of my eyelids. But then I had to acknowledge how thoroughly spoilt I was by my nearest and dearest, and that made me feel loved. Wrinkled, but loved. A friend who lives overseas sent me a package, and as much as I was thrilled by the book, and the chocolate, and the t-shirt she sent, I was most happy to think that she went to the trouble of sending me a gift; that her thoughtful hands had touched these items even though I can't reach out and touch her hands in person. My husband made me Eggs Benedict although he hates to cook. I received phone calls from 5 relatives and 5 friends, and that seemed like an awful lot of attention for one fully-grown person on their birthday. I don't like physically ageing but I adore the people who are keeping me company as I do so!

I've been splitting my nose open on the lid of the washing machine (I flung the lid back then leant in to retrieve the clothes, and it leapt back at me. Vicious piece of machinery!) and sporting a butterfly bandage and a purplish bruise across the bridge of my nose. You've no idea how silly this looks on a thirty-something woman. On a seven-year-old ..... utterly cute. On me...... just ridiculous. My sister snort-laughed. My husband smiled his fathomless smile. My half-brother Soccerboy grinned widely. I told them all I got in a street fight but no-one was buying it. Now I have to go to work looking stoopid.

I've been spending a day with my kids, my sister and my two half brothers. Yesterday it was one of those clear, crisp winter days with an eggshell-blue sky. Except instead of soaking up the view, we were eating a pancake breakfast, then bounding about from one school holiday kids' activity to another, with my sister or I occasionally yelling to a wayward child to return to the flock. Each child tried the bungee trampolining, and their faces lit up with an exhilirating mix of trepidation and delight as they rocketed up into mid-air and down again. It was a sight for sore eyes.

I've also been reading your blogs, post by post, but commenting only now & then. You all keep me amused, engrossed, and very much entertained.

Thank you, thisisme and Sandy, for checking in on me. All is well in the house of Jelly.

winter sun

It's been hectic in the House of Jelly lately, and blogging fell by the wayside. Then Fatty and the kids and I went away for a few days, to take a break from headaches (both literal and figurative, both ours and others'!). We chose to go to the same beach spot we go to every summer, to try a winter escape.

The first couple of days were cold (not cold-if-you're-from-Alaska cold, but definitely cold-if-you're-in-a-bikini cold). I wondered if perhaps the weekend would be disastrous, with children bored and mutinous and Fatty sighing over the cryptic crossword, having done all the suduko and regular crosswords to be found. After all, what do you do at the beach when you can't swim in the surf or loll about on the sand?

Apparently you:
-walk along the sand dunes, slowly (because the kids keep stopping to make imaginary castles from bits of shell and weed and scraps of plastic)
-put together a large jigsaw puzzle, with everyone helping, elbowing each other good-naturedly
-eat ice-cream (OK so this one seems a bit odd, but trust me we all found it to be a pivotal part of the holiday, cold weather and all)
-watch movies
-read fat novels (Fatty was reading a Bill Bryson book about Bryson's travels in Australia, and couldn't stop giggling. It was most disconcerting - Fatty chortling is a rare sound! -but it lifted my spirits to hear Fatty hysterical with laughter. I think he really needed to go to a unit at the beach and read silly books)
-take the path along the headlands, spotting fifty or more dolphins in the sea down below
-gaze out to sea until, heart thumping with happiness, you see a humpback whale wave hello with a huge dark flipper
-go out to dinner on the coldest night of the stay, shiver your way through the meal (alfresco dining in winter - what a crock!), then run home along the footpath, all somehow ending up holding hands, with Ben shouting 'Don't go too fast! Wait for me! I'm the runt of the family!', and the rest of us laughing at Ben and shuddering in the wind and me thinking I'll always remember this moment.

Our last day, the sun came out and the wind died away and it was balmy. We swam and jumped waves and the kids boogie-boarded in the shallows. And while that was a delight, I knew that we would have had fun even if the weather had remained steadfastly frigid.

Although my childhood was by no means awful, it was, for a number of reasons, nothing like the childhood that my own children are experiencing. Family holidays were rare. Family outings were not relaxing, for one reason or another. Many factors were beyond my parents' control. My point is simply this - I am glad to be able to create joyful memories with my children that I believe they will treasure. I want to remember it all, too, but failing that, I will write down here what I most want to recall forever.

'Sweet dreams are made of this'
(Eurythmics, 'Sweet Dreams')

in honour of Boomer

You could be forgiven for thinking I was a veterinarian, or a wildlife officer, or some other occupation of that ilk. Lately I seem to write about birds and bouncing critters and koalas and snakes, with the occasional post about the kids or my birdbrained - I mean birdobsessed - husband. In fact, I sound like a Gerald Durrell wannabe (Gerald Durrell being the author of "My Family and other Animals", one of my very favourite books ever)

I'm sorry if you're all growing weary of animal tails and tales, but when Mum sent this story to my kids, I loved it so much that I asked her if I could post it on this blog. It is a true story, which makes it so much better.

Remember Boomer? This is more of his story (in the simple, child-friendly words of my beloved Mum, 'Jellyma'):

*

BOOMER IS A BETTONG (not a person)

*

Boomer thought he was a person. Every night I took him outside. He just hopped behind me everywhere I went. I put him with the wild bettongs that feed under my jacaranda tree. He would eat the seed with them, but every morning he would be back in his basket. Would he ever learn that he was a bettong?

On Friday night, he went out to feed. I went to bed. On Saturday morning he was not in his basket. I was sad. I wondered, 'Is he safe?', 'Will he come back to visit?'. On Saturday night I watched the wild bettongs feeding, but I did not see Boomer.

On Sunday night, I saw three big bettongs and one little one feeding. I talked to them and walked towards them. The three big ones hopped away. The little one looked at me and sat still.

I went inside to get a grape. Boomer likes grapes. I crept slowly towards the little bettong and held out the grape. The little bettong took the grape and ate it. I patted him. Then he hopped away. It was Boomer.

I am happy now. Boomer knows he is a bettong.

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Thanks Mum for letting me share the words you wrote to your grandchildren. You were the perfect foster mother for Boomer, and you are the best mother a daughter could ask for. XXOO

the return

He's been gone for several days. At first, it didn't bother me. The kids and I went on with our usual routine. Coffee for me to kickstart the day, the children bouncing and chatting; toast crusts left uneaten and dried cereal flakes caking onto bowls. Ironing at the last minute. Jumping into the car to go here and there. Laughing at Ben's dumb-but-funny jokes. Admiring Laura's fabulous, intricate drawings. Dinner a rowdy, happy affair - each child talking over the other, clamouring to tell their news. Bedtime cosy with cuddles and books. Life went on smoothly without him.

After a couple of days, though, I began to feel a little sad. Each morning I half-expected to see him, and was disappointed that he wasn't with us. I knew he lifted my spirits, but I hadn't realised just how much I'd begun to count on his presence to brighten each day. I wished fervently for his return. I knew all would be well with the world when I laid eyes on his sweet face again.

Today, he has returned, and the kids and I are overjoyed. He's back! We adore him!

Tony, the tawny frogmouth, is perched in our tree once more.

(Oh, and Fatty returns from a conference tomorrow!)

speechless

It's been a week between posts, and still I have nothing to say for myself. I'm in a reflective, rather than a talkative, frame of mind.

I have been reading all my your blogs assiduously, and enjoying the news, and funny tales, and sweet stories. I just haven't left a comment. For once, I have kept my mouth shut.

To prevent boredom at my blog, I am going to let some others do the talking here for me. By 'others', I mean my family.

ON IMPORTANT AND SERIOUS PASTIMES:

"This is not just stamp-collecting you know. I have one life to see as many Australian birds as I can." - Fatty

ON FRIENDSHIP:

"To be a good friend, you need a very good pair of ears" - Laura

ON HAPPINESS:

"It's not how rich you are, it's how good your day is." - Benjamin

I hope you all cherish this one life, enjoy your good ears, and have a day that is everything you wish for!

eight things

My esteemed blogfriend, John Cowart, asked me to do a meme. I was to tell 8 things about myself.

Here they are:

1) I have an unreasonable dread of vomiting. I would rather endure labour again than have to upchuck. Seriously.

2) I secretly enjoyed the challenge of going through labour, and felt like I'd run a marathon (and come first!) when my daughter was born

3) when I was six, I had a friend called Erin who used to kick me in the shins whenever I annoyed her. I thought this was fair enough and did not retaliate. My parents couldn't understand why my legs were purple with bruises.

4) I also had a friend called Alanadeen who I bossed around terribly. I used to order her to stand in a corner when she annoyed me (though I refrained from kicking her in the shins)

5) my Grade 8 English teacher told my mother I had no friends and was a social misfit.

6) although I have friends, and never believed that teacher, I do sometimes doubt my own 'likeability', and am never quite sure if my friends adore me or endure me

7) I know I should yearn for world peace, but inwardly I'm always dreaming of having taut thighs.

8) I have to concede that my life is rich and full and wondrous - wobbly thighs and all!

marriage and other animals

Tomorrow is the ninth anniversary of the day Fatty took a wild gamble and married yours truly. Ours is not exactly a lengthy marriage, yet, but we're nonetheless proud to still be together, and proud to still be on speaking terms (he he!). So, to celebrate, we dumped our kids with my mother last weekend (thanks again Mum!!), and headed off to a little B&B in a rainforest area not far from Mum's farm.

All the local animals seemed to know it was a special weekend, and came out to greet us. On the way there, Fatty spotted a koala in a tree just beside the road. Then, the first night at the B&B, I decided to ring our kidlets (who, may I just mention, were so not missing their parents that Ben, after about 1 minute of phone conversation, told us blithely, "You can hang up the phone now."). I stepped out onto the dimly-lit balcony only to find this snake lying in wait for me on the railing. Eeek!

The next day, we went walking in the rainforest, which was deserted - probably because it was overcast and raining, ever so lightly. Fatty and I joked and walked and saw all kinds of wildlife. If you look closely at this next picture, you can see the Wobbly-Headed Jellymonster. She is rarely seen out in the open like this, and the photo is a little blurry (funny that), but you can probably still tell that she is grinning and having a really good time.

This wild turkey was perched on a vine above the path, and fixed us with a beady eye, seeming completely unfazed by our presence. I found him rather creepy, actually, and ducked quickly past!

The canopy was so beautiful, I had to show you a photo.

This cute furry girl is a female pademelon - a hopping marsupial animal rather like a small kangaroo, except furrier and with a shorter and differently proportioned face. After we saw this female, we saw another one with a baby (everyone say awwww!) hopping its itty bitty baby hops along behind its mother.

Finally, we arrived back at Mum's farm, where we were able to watch this bettong (another native hopping creature - smaller again than a pademelon) drink its milk, and we even got to hold and pat the little guy. 'Boomer' was given to Mum via a wildlife rescue centre, where Boomer was rehabilitated, and soon Mum will begin the process of releasing him back into the wild. Mum has wild bettongs who visit her each night under the jacaranda tree, where Mum leaves special seeds out for them.

That was my weekend ....... furry friends and fun with fabulous Fatty.

What more could a Wobbly-Headed Jellymonster wish for?

rain and the joy of Tony

This is a sight for sore eyes - our street, wet with rain. This is such a rare and wonderful scene, I had to take a photo. Even though we had only a couple of millimetres of rain, it was lovely to see our neighbourhood all washed fresh, and to smell the clear morning air.

Where I live, as in most parts of Australia, we are stricken by the worst drought in a thousand years. It has been dry for days and days on end. Very occasionally, clouds gather, and it rains lightly for a few minutes. Mostly, it simply doesn't rain at all.

In my city, there are such severe water restrictions that we are forbidden to wash our cars (apart from the windscreens and mirrors); we can water plants only by bucket, and only 3 days a week, during set times. We desperately need rain to fill the water reservoirs, which are dangerously low. I heard a meteorologist talking about some upcoming predicted rain which may ease the drought, and he said, "The thing is - we need rain that measures in metres, not millimetres".

Fatty grumbles these days when it rains, because it never rains for long enough or hard enough. I know this to be true, but I'm still happy it's raining at all. Every little bit helps.

And then, there is Tony, who cheers us no end. 'Tony' is a tawny frogmouth - an owl-like bird (though not actually a member of the owl family) who has come to stay in a tree in our yard. We have seen tawny frogmouths off & on over the years since we have lived here, but this fella (gal?) has been spending his days snoozing just outside our dining room window for over a week now.

One day, my son Ben checked for Tony, and he wasn't there. We all sighed, "Oh, no", and wondered if he'd ever return. The next day, Tony was back, and we were thrilled to see his funny pointy fuzzy little face.

There is something inspiring about a creature that chooses to slumber in a tree overlooking noisy children and a barking dog, underneath roaring planes, beside a street where garbage trucks rumble loudly and hoons whizz by in their souped-up cars. Tony is a resilient dude. We like him a lot.



I hope you are all having a happy week. May you be filled with gladness for the funny creatures and the rain (or the sun) in your life!

bugger!

Can you hear that crunching, munching, gulping sound?

It's me.

Eating humble pie.

wanna bet?

While other hip young couples make bets involving juicy prizes such as naked internet photos, Fatty and I bet for prizes such as a week's worth of him cooking (in the event that I win) or a week's worth of me loading the dishwasher and washing up pots (if he wins). Personally I am happy in the knowledge that even if I lose, I will only suffer for about ten minutes each evening. If Fatty loses, he will labour for at least an hour to complete his chosen task. (*wicked, cackling laughter*)

I can't say we make bets often. It's not something we do to pass the time or anything. It's more that occasionally we are each so convinced that the other is terribly, horribly mistaken. We look at each other incredulously. We roll our eyes in synchrony. We splutter, "No WAY!". We each say, "I'm sure ......."

What usually clinches it for me is when Fatty laughs at me. He becomes so utterly certain of his Total Rightness that he laughs like a tolerant parent. And that is when I offer to bet. Because I need him to pay for that patronising laugh, and I need him to pay up bigtime. He, of course, is only too willing to participate, because he knows he is right and has nothing to lose.

Last night, we had a bet. It was a very nerdy bet, but it had to be made.

Fatty and I were watching a DVD together, and I was eating a lot of chocolate - single piece by single piece so as to kid myself I wasn't eating much at all. The back door was open, and through it came the faint sound of tortured musical notes. "What is that?", I asked no-one in particular, and wandered out onto the back deck. I listened intently, as again the strangled notes of a badly-played violin came wafting our way.

"It's a kid, playing violin", I muttered, as I resumed my place on our lumpy old couch. Fatty looked at me, alarmed.

"A violin? Noooooo. No, it's some sort of woodwind instument. It's an oboe or something."

"An oboe? Are you kidding? I can hear the bowing! Go listen out back."

(Fatty stomps to the back deck purposefully, stand for a few seconds, and strides back to the couch decisively)

"It's an oboe. Can't you hear all the notes are precise? Can't you hear there are no 'bum' notes?"

*Now may be the time to mention here that Fatty is a talented pianist who plays beautifully. However, I played violin as a child and teen, and consider myself to be fairly musical, too. I may be totally crap as a violinist now, but I still consider myself able to recognise the sound of the damn instrument!*

Just as Fatty declared our child neighbour to have perfect pitch, a series of flat, howling notes issued forth from the house over the back.

"What do you mean there are no bum notes? Listen to that! They're playing flat! It's just one flat note after another!"

Fatty shook his head emphatically. "No, no. That's just from over-blowing. They're missing the notes by over-blowing." (Hello? Since when did you become a woodwind expert, Mr Pianist?!)

And then Fatty said something that sounded the death knell for any sort of sensible, non-betting behaviour. He said (and I quote directly): "Come back to the couch. And I don't want you to talk about it again".

My eyes bugged out. I grinned maniacally.

"Are you serious?", I spluttered, laughing at his daring, but outraged nonetheless. Fatty is usually a gentle man, but the dispute had brought out his alter ego, Fatty-the-Dictator (oh, and Mr Pianist, who I introduced to you earlier). " You can't tell me what to do like that!!"

Fatty smiled serenely from the couch, the dictator turned benign. I'm sure he just likes to test me now and then, to see if I'm still the feisty woman he married. To make sure I haven't turned into some sort of obedient banana-loaf-maker.

"Let's bet. Wanna bet?", I offered. I extended my hand.

"Sure!" Fatty agreed, eager to complete the topic neatly with a well-defined bet. "It's definitely an oboe. But how are you going to find out the truth?"

"I'll go over tomorrow and ask."

"You won't. I bet you won't!"



Who will win and who will lose? I truthfully don't know. I'm nervous, now, and less confident than I was last night - especially in the face of Fatty's complete certainty! But as my mother's partner likes to say......

All will be revealed in the fullness of time.

speak no evil

I have found myself with not much to say lately. Astonishing, really. My report cards were always peppered with comments such as, "Jellyhead needs to remember not to talk during class". Not that the teachers actually called me Jellyhead - which, come to think of it, might have been nice. A sort of fond nickname. But I digress.

One of my closest friends suffers with depression. She takes medication for it, and has been stable for a few years now. I haven't spent much time with her lately - our busy lives intervene - but we spoke openly yesterday, and she admitted she has been backsliding. She is sleeping poorly again, feeling sad all the time, feeling hopeless about life.

Another close friend sent me an e-mail recently. She finds herself lying in bed at night with racing heart, she is jumpy, and irritable, and wound up like a coil. Her anxiety disorder has rebounded back on her, when she'd thought she had it beat.

I am worried about both these friends. And when I am worried, I am incapable of happy, upbeat posts. In fact, I am incapable of posting about anything, really, except what's on mind. Hence I've been keeping quiet.

To tell the truth, it's not just my friends I'm concerned about. It's my friendships as well.

I talk to both these friends by phone at least weekly. I went out with one of these friends for a whole day about two weeks ago. Yet I did not know either of them was struggling - not in any major way. I don't know if I have been unobservant, or unapproachable, or both.

I don't know how it can be that life gets so busy that I have hardly any time to be with my friends, or even to just talk at length with my friends. I want to lead a balanced life, and I try to do so, but sometimes I feel that I'd be better just being a mother only, a doctor only, a wife only, or a friend only. I am slicing this pie into so many pieces that the pastry is crumbling and no-one ever gets enough.

That's where my head's at today.

Seems I managed to live up to my reputation of talking a lot, after all.

bad words

My six-year-old daughter drew me aside the other day.

"Mummy, I know I shouldn't have but I taught Ben some bad words. I told Ben about the 's' word and the 'h' word."

I was perplexed. The 's' word I could figure out, although I was a little surprised to realise Laura was familiar with it (I'm no saint, but I try to curtail my swearing when my kids are around. Dammit! Bother! and Bugger! - if I'm really upset - are my catchcries these days). But what was the 'h' word? What new swear-word was this?

I asked Laura what these words were. She squirmed, she wiggled, she beseeched me, "Don't make me say them Mummy. They're bad words."

"C'mon", I coaxed. "Just whisper them in my ear then."

Laura eyed me warily for a moment. Suddenly deciding in my favour, she nodded, and leant towards me as I bent down to her pigtailed head. In a rush of warm little girl breath, she murmured damply in my ear,

"Shush up and hush up!"

ANZAC Day

It is ANZAC day today. Today, Australians and New Zealanders remember and honour the fallen soldiers who died at Gallipoli (in Turkey) in 1915.

Due to unfortunate military errors, the soldiers were landed on a beach faced by small cliffs. The soldiers valiantly clambered up and over these cliffs, only to be mown down by waiting Turkish soldiers. Thousands of soldiers were slaughtered in this manner.

In 1997, I visited Gallipoli - a pilgrimage made my many young Australians. I saw the inhospitable landing site. I stood in the cold dawn, thinking of all the young Australians who died at that very site, eighty-two years before me. I couldn't help but be deeply moved and eternally grateful.

Strange, though, that what brought me to tears were these words of a Turkish commander (Ataturk, 1934), written on a wall ...........

"Those heroes that shed their blood
and lost their lives....
you are now lying in the soil of a friendly country
therefore rest in peace.
There is no difference between the Johnnies
and the Mehmets where they lie side by side
here in this country of ours...
You, the mothers,
who sent their sons from far away countries
wipe away your tears;
Your sons are in our bosom
and are in peace.
After having lost their lives on this land they have
become our sons as well."

love story

I watched Pride and Prejudice (the 2006 movie) the other night on DVD. Others have told me that the movie is far inferior to the TV series, but, having never seen the series, I can only discuss the movie. Which I loved (romantic fool that I am!).

Fatty watched with me, and in fact it was he who bought the DVD for us to watch. Fatty is a blokey bloke who loves football, doesn't listen well, and forgets his friends' birthdays. Yet he has another side to him - he enjoys a good drama, especially poignant ones. Like me, he finds human relationships interesting to observe on screen.

There we sat on our smallish couch, glued to the scenes of love torn asunder and of unrequited love. We were riveted. It was all so windswept, so passionate, so .... utterly romantic. I kept glancing across at my kind, crinkly-eyed, handsome husband and thinking how glad I am that he asked me out, that he fell in love with me, too; how happy I am that he wanted to marry me.

I like to think that most people have their own love story - even if was a love that eventually died. Even if the memories have faded, or the love has become a little stale, the embers remain. I believe that almost everyone has felt that deep and overwhelming emotion at some time in their life.

Sometimes, being married becomes a habit, becomes humdrum and routine. I forget to thank my lucky stars that not only did I meet a caring, cute and clever man - he also (woo-hoo!) thought I was not so bad either. Watching the tortured agony of thwarted love onscreen reminded me to be grateful. I hugged Fatty tight and held his hand. I remembered that our little love story began with fireworks but goes on with daily affection and constancy. I remembered that the spark is still there, and merely needs fanning from time to time.

Thank goodness for Fatty. He is my one and only.

when a stranger calls

I swear this story is only going to fuel the myths that abound about Australia. I know my regular overseas readers are informed enough to know that kangaroos don't bounce along the inner city freeways, and that koalas don't live in trees in everyone's backyard. But any innocent blog-surfer who happened along would be at risk of believing these things. I often write about Mum's farm, which is teeming with wildlife - judging by the tales Mum is forever telling me . There was the snake above the front door. The native hopping mouse nesting in Mum's chest of drawers (complete with pink, newborn babies). A dingo attacking a defenceless calf. The frog living in Mum's bathroom. And now, a mysterious visitor at the back door......

A few nights ago, Mum was spending a quiet evening at her farm. Mum's sister, my Aunt Zany, was staying over, so the two of them were peacefully talking.

"Bang! Thump!" came a sound from the back door.

Mum and Aunt Zany exchanged mystified glances. Cautiously, they approached the door. Slowly, carefully and somewhat fearfully, Mum opened the back door and peered out. There, immediately beside the door, clinging on to the log wall of Mum's hogbacked home, was a koala.

Mum and Aunt Zany stood and spoke softly to the koala. I don't have it from the horse's mouth (sorry Mum, you are in fact the horse in this scenario), but I bet Mum was saying things like, "Hello little fella! Whatchyou doing here, hmm? Did you think this wall was a tree, hey?". The koala eyed them warily and declined to comment. Eventually, Mum and Aunt Zany went back inside, and came around from the front to the side of the house, to spy on the disorientated marsupial.

They watched as the koala slowly clambered down, and then sat lazily on Mum's back porch awhile. A few minutes later, the furry creature headed off towards Mum's nearby Jacaranda tree (see photo). Two feet up the Jacaranda tree, the koala stopped, and gazed about. Obviously having some sort of an epiphany, (doesn't FEEL like a gum tree....hmmmm....doesn't SMELL like a gum tree....errrrr.....doesn't LOOK like gum tree either. Back up, back up, I'm comin' down!) the confused critter shunted down the trunk. Mum watched as the koala trundled off into the night, finally reached a blue gum tree, and climbed up safely.

I'm not sure what was going on in the brain of this fuzzball. My friend Heather suggested the animal was inebriated (gum leaf shooters, anyone?). I'm thinking this koala was a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

I wonder what the poor little tyke must have thought of the night's events. I'm guessing the koala was traumatised by all the kerfuffle - mistaking a house for a tree, being spoken to by Scary Humans, then climbing another tree that wasn't quite right. Did it shake its grey head in shame, muttering 'How embarrassing! ' to itself? Was it shivering, quaking, and exhausted, up high in the Blue gum?

After all, how much can a koala bear?

(smirk)

on being alone

Yesterday morning I went out early to buy bread. It was a perfectly ordinary morning - clear, cool and the sun just easing its pale light above the horizon. I strode along the deserted streets, and wondered why I felt so odd.

I felt light, airy, and bouncy. There was something new afoot, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. My thoughts ran free, uninterrupted. I crossed a road unimpeded. I hummed to myself, unheard by others. Suddenly it dawned on me - the reason for this queer high I was experiencing. I was alone! Not even the damn beagle was there to drag on her lead and trip me over.

I'm the first to say how grateful I am for the opportunities I have in my life. I know I am very lucky to be able to spend time at home, to work, to exercise, to see my friends and to go out with my husband every now and then. Really, I have it much better than many of the other mothers I know. And yet, how amazing it was for me to realise that I am hardly ever on my own. All my 'time away' from home and hearth involves being with other people - husband, friends, fellow karate students, gym class pals. I loved my morning walk by myself, just tripping along and admiring the dawn skies. It was heavenly. I told myself I'm going to do the 'bread run' more often!

Then all this merry morning meandering was tempered by a rather sobering thought. I remembered what my grandfather had said to me a day earlier.

Grandpa had been reminding me that I should only visit when I have the time, and that I must never feel guilty when I have to leave. He is horrified by the thought of detaining a visitor through their sense of duty; he never wants to feel like an obligation. Then he'd added quietly, "I never thought it would be like this. I thought I'd always be hale and hearty - driving, working in the yard, and making things." And although he stopped there, and didn't elaborate, I knew what he'd left unspoken. I know that Grandpa is mostly alone, and I know that he gets lonely.

I asked Grandpa how he spends his days at home, and he told me, hour by hour. One hour getting showered and dressed. Half an hour preparing and eating breakfast. An hour of radio news here. A nap for an hour there. Then he lowered his voice, looked me in the eye, and told me huskily, "From two o'clock to four o'clock in the afternoon - that's the time I struggle to fill. They're the hours that seem to drag." It was fairly unemotive statement on one level. On another level, the pathos in those words could fill a room, a house even.

As I recalled this conversation with Grandpa, I imagined myself older and spending more time on my own. I imagined my children grown and gone. I imagined the house quiet and neat. My imaginings filled me with the anticipation of freedom but also with a tinge of sadness. I began to grasp the lingering loss I will feel when I am no longer indispensible to my children; when I am free to walk alone to fetch bread every hour of every day.

In the end, I guess we make the best of whatever life brings. When our children are small - dependant and needy - we love them and care for them day in day out, savouring our rare moments of freedom and solitude. When we are older, we adjust to spending more time alone, and look forward to the company of family and friends.

I'm going to go walking at dawn every now and then. I'm also going to hug my kids and kiss their damp foreheads in gladness when I return.

winding down

Sometimes I can shed my workday worries and leave them outside the house - discarded, paper-thin, ready to drift away with the very next zephyr. I know those worries are there. I carry on as if they're not. Next time I peer outside, there's nothing but small balls of dog hair and a few dead leaves.

Other times, I come home from work and feel uneasy. Mostly, I'm not even sure why.

Today, I wonder - is it the melancholy of seeing Polly, a sweet octogenarian, who is lonely but won't admit it, who is losing weight before my eyes, who always looks stylish, and who has a smile that is equal parts bravado and happiness?

Or am I worried about Ned, who has incurable bladder cancer, and who talks and talks and talks and talks, and who looked much older than his 70-odd years today?

I know I keep wondering about about Leah, who I referred to a specialist with a puzzling lab result that could indicate anything from cancer to Cumquat disease (you're right, I made up the cumquat disease)

Maybe it wasn't Ned, or Polly or Leah, or any one person. Maybe it is just my mind whirling, my thoughts spinning, my anxiety levels skyrocketing irrationally too high. Because in case you haven't figured it out yet - I can be a bit like that. Neurotic. Anxious. Wired too tightly.

I tried a glass of Kahlua and Frangelico and milk. (Don't try this at home folks. Alcohol should NOT be used to self-medicate...... he he) But what would cure me for certain would be a run, a gym class, even a long sweaty ride on the exercise bike. So why am I not pedalling this very minute, instead of whining to you?

I'm too lazy. It's dark, it's night-time, my kids are asleep and my husband is off sweating with his friends (playing squash, in case you were visualising some male-bonding towel-waisted sauna session). I don't want to go jump on the exercise bike and pedal like a mad thing. I'd rather just stay a non-perspiring mad thing, thanks very much.

Of course, blogging is another cure for those unsettled emotions. And I'm feeling better by the minute as I tap away here in my stunted 2-fingered fashion. (Veering off the topic for a moment - a question ...... If your doctor typed with two fingers, at a moderate speed but with a moderate error rate to boot, would you hold it against her? Or him? Or would you - she says, leading, leading, coaxing, coaxing - would you find it endearing and forgivable rather than regarding her as an inept idiot? Please reply frankly. But not too frankly. In fact, brutally honest answers will be deleted)

So where was I ? Oh yes, feeling strung-out. Except, I'm no longer feeling so strung-out. It's a miracle! I am cured!

No snarky comments about the alcohol finally kicking in, people. I only had 1 drink. I am not an alcoholic. Hi, my name's Jelly, and I am not an alcoholic.

Life can be anxiety-provoking. But I hate to waste the quiet times; the peaceful moments that could be spent reading, laughing, cuddling. Sometimes, like everyone else at one time or another, I have to shake my silly self and give myself a stern talking-to. But tonight my ill-feeling seems to have evaporated on expression. No need to chastise myself further. All I need now is a cup of hot chocolate, a piece of banana cake, and my big, fat book.

It's turning out to be a wonderful evening after all.

candles on a cake

Today, we celebrated my grandfather's 93rd birthday.

The family assembled for lunch at a cheap restaurant, taking over several tables, all joined together to form one long table. My Grandpa sat at the head of the table, looking regal despite his stoop; handsome in his gold silky shirt and tie. He seemed proud as he gazed down the table at his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I think he smiled almost the entire time.

I sat for awhile by Grandpa's side. He may be elderly, but nothing gets past him. He asked me about work, and enquired after Laura and Ben. He told me a joke about an Scotsman and and Irishman (it was quite funny, but due to my joke-telling ineptitude, I cannot - will not - inflict this joke upon you). We spoke about this and that.

Grandpa talked about his mother, who wore her hair so long she could sit on it. Grandpa remembered when he was four, and his own fair hair fell in curls to well below his shoulders. Apparently that was the done thing in those days - to leave a boy child's hair uncut until the age of about four years, when the locks were finally cut short.

Grandpa spoke of a picture of a prince and princess that he once bought for Grandma - a picture Grandma spotted in a hotel not far from their home. I'm not sure what Grandpa and Grandma were actually doing in the hotel, since Grandma was, and Grandpa remains, a teetotaller. Grandpa explained to me that he never normally went into hotels, referring to them as 'dens of iniquity'. I wanted to smile at that, but didn't.

Grandpa lifted his arm slowly to place it around my shoulders. I cuddled up to him and counted my lucky stars to still have him in my life.

Every time Grandpa has a birthday, I wonder if he will make it to the next. I know he misses his sweetheart, my Grandma, as keenly as ever. I sometimes wonder if he longs to join her. I wonder if Grandpa stays around through sheer willpower - knowing how much we love him and want him on this earth.

My grandpa is ninety-three. I think he's the bomb.

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.