whistle for me, my love

In my marriage, there are a couple of 'issues' which crop up again, and again, and then once again, just in case we'd forgotten. I suspect other marriages also have their own recurring conflicts. (If not, we are in deep trouble!)

Sometimes I find it depressing how nothing seems to change. Sometimes I find it vaguely comforting....here we go again, where I say 'blah blah', and he says 'dum de dum'. Mostly, I just accept that two people can never live together in perfect harmony, and that we both do try to make each other happy. We may not get it right all the time, but mostly we do. Our arguments have become less frequent and less heated over time.

Something that has always driven me crazy is when Fatty doesn't listen to me. It wearies me even to tell you the details, so often have I tried to explain to this dear man what I would like from him. It is all rather like shouting into a gale-force wind! The fact is, I am fascinated by people, and love to hear their thoughts and feelings, whereas my beloved husband is fascinated by IPods, birds, football, and composting bins. Hence, my chosen topics of conversation often bore him silly.

One night, not so long ago, I spoke to Fatty about how I had realised how I had judged someone too quickly. (I had met the mother of one of Laura's school friends, found her to be a bit bossy and gossipy, and decided she was not someone I wanted to spend any time with. In time, I discovered she was an incredibly thoughtful and generous person, with a huge heart). I was amazed by the lesson I had learnt from being too quick to judge - I thought what I was discussing was terribly interesting. Fatty, on the other hand, was showing his ennui in no uncertain terms - yawning, lying staring up at the ceiling, making no response other than an occasional disinterested 'mmm' or 'uh-huh'.

When I finally snapped, and told Fatty how awful it made me feel to have him barely bothering to interact with me, he explained in not-so-many-words that what I was talking about bored him (my husband is nothing if not honest). He was not trying to make me feel bad, he continued, it was just that the subject matter left a lot to be desired. WELL. In my steeliest voice, I replied that not all conversation was for the sole purpose of entertaining him. I suggested that he would never treat a stranger in the street in that way.

We talked it through, and I admitted maybe I don't sound riveted, either, when he talks about who's been injured in his favourite football team. We are different, and that is part of the attraction. I conceded I would try to pick my moments - for example not chatting away merrily at bedtime (but why can't I? It's so much fun; just like a sleepover!). Fatty decided he would try to show more interest in my thoughts and feelings. He vowed to .... drum-roll..... start reading my blog! (yes, folks, my posts are eminently accessible to my life partner yet he NEVER reads them)

So now, my dearest Fatty, I am checking to see how you're going with that resolution of yours. The signal that you've read my words will be this - when we go to bed tonight, whistle the call of the magpie softly into my ear.

I can hardly wait.

Today at work....

.... I saw the radiant 'Kayla' who, after several months of failing to conceive, and a heartbreaking miscarriage, is halfway through a healthy pregnancy - a little brother or sister to her boy, 'Mikey'.

I spoke with a brave woman who is living with the fact that she and her husband have endured six unsuccessful IVF cycles thus far.

I congratulated a young woman who was rather startled, yet thrilled, to find herself pregnant after the first month of trying for a family.

A young pharmacist told me how she and her husband have only one child, by choice, because one child was 'more than enough!' for them to handle.

I discussed the treatment for a sexually-transmitted infection with a young woman who has recently has her second termination.

It's a funny old world. Life on this planet is glitter-good, brutish-bad, wonderful, awful, and all the shades in between.... but always, always fascinating. What a strange but enthralling day it's been.

I try never to forget what a magnificent gift I am given by those who entrust me with their confidences. Their stories I carry with me, often seared into my memory. I can't help but feel my life is so much richer for what these people have shared with me.

home alone

Here I sit, in a silent house. No husband, puttering and muttering around. No children, arguing over the plasticine. Even the dog has vacated the premises. It is quiet and still. You may be wondering how I got so lucky - is it my birthday, or perhaps have I taken a 'me' day? Am I taking a day off work to nurture my inner soul?

Well, no. No, negative, nup, uh-uh. I owe this day alone at home to the joys of...how can I put this delicately... gastrointestinal distress. Or I could use a good old Aussie term 'the collywobbles'. Let's just say my guts are crook. It's all fun, fun, fun here at the house of Jellyhead.

You know, I withheld some vital information from you all about our holiday last week. It's not that I wanted to be deceptive or anything - I just didn't want to be a moaner and a groaner, a whiner and a wailer. And let's face it - it's really not terribly interesting for people to read about diarrhoea and vomiting, is it? I tried to spare you, especially those with squeamish sensibilities. But the fact is, Laura got sick on the first Saturday of our week away, then Fatty and Ben followed on the Tuesday. They remained a bit under-the-weather for about 5 days each. So while we still had some fun, Fatty and the kids were below par, and I spent a lot of time getting up through the night, cleaning up and washing. (Now you know part of the reason I was soooo glad to get home)

I consoled myself with the fact that I was the un-chosen one. By the start of this week, I thought I was in the clear for sure! Well, you know now that I was sadly mistaken.

It's awfully peaceful here, though. And I don't feel THAT bad. I think the worst may have passed. I'm starting to feel guilty about not going to work which is SO dumb, even from the point of view of not infecting any of my poor patients with this bug. So here I sit, idly blogging, wondering what all the rest of you are up to.

I think I might proclaim this WHINING DAY. Now that I have whined, I want to hear some complaints from the lives of you, my blogpals. It will make me feel better, truly. They say misery loves company, so let's form a great big company of woe. Let's block out all happy, grateful, appreciative thoughts, and concentrate fully on all our frustrations! T, your hubby took your car keys to work, and you ended up locked out of the house to boot - let's hear an outraged diatribe from you, please. And Motherkitty, we know you still have plenty of knee pain and stiffness after your recent surgery - surely you can manage a small gripe? There must be more of you with something negative to say - help me out here.

I need your whingeing support, friends. Over to you.....

why did the emu cross the road?

I can't help myself - I have a pressing need to show you a few holiday snaps.

The animal pictures were from an outing to a nearby wildlife park.

The bird photo was taken by Birdman (of course!), while I snapped the photo of the bush cottage. If you look closely at the cottage, you can see the avian-lover out front, peering into the trees through binoculars. The spotter is spotted!

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Before I go, one last thing....

Haaaaaappy Biiiirthday to yoooooou, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Heather, HAPPY BIRTHDAY to YOU!!! Heather (aka Tootie, my recent guest poster) is another year older and wiser and lovelier today, so go congratulate her if you have a minute!

there's no place like home

I'm feeling just like Dorothy at the end of "The Wizard of Oz" - truly glad to be back home. They say home is where the heart is, but for me, home is where my house, computer, wardrobe, washing machine and dog are. Assuming my family is there, too, of course.

I firmly believe that one of the most important roles of The Holiday is to make you realise how you feel about your everyday life. I once took a vacation with Fatty (pre-children) and realised that I wasn't happy with my life. I was working way too many hours, and was getting burnt-out. On that holiday, I dreaded our return to 'normal life'.

This past week, we combined visiting Fatty's darling parents with a 2-night stay away in a country cottage (the photo is from just near the cottage). As much as I enjoyed the break, I also found myself looking forward to returning to our day-to-day routines. I wanted to come home and pat our beagle. I wanted to blog. I wanted to sit with Fatty on our comfy couch. I'm keen to take my kids to their swimming lessons, and to go to karate class. I want to see how everyone is going at work.

I am reminded that every part of life is precious, whether glorious or mundane.

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*THANK YOU Tootie my sweet friend, for keeping the home fires burning! For those of you who would like to read more from the very entertaining Tootie, go here. Some of you already visit her blog, and I'm sure many others will become new fans! *

What's in a nickname?

It's still me, Tootie.

A question was asked in the comment section of my last post. A reader wanted to know the story behind the name "Jellyhead."

Well, I do believe it's because Jelly can be a little bit of what we Americans like to call "airheaded." Despite her medical degree and her obvious intelligence, it would seem that she sometimes walks around with her head in the clouds. Aren't we all guilty of the same thing from time to time?

I, myself, went to my credit union the other day and asked them to call the branch across town because I was certain I had left my driver's license in the carrier there. The nice girl behind the counter was very sweet and courteous and she called the other branch, waited on hold for several minutes while they searched for my license, and then sadly informed me that my license was not at the other branch. I frowned slightly and wondered aloud, "Where could it possibly be?" Just then, I opened my billfold to place the cash I had withdrawn from my account, and the cashier exclaimed, "There it is!" Yes, folks, my license was staring out at me from my billfold. It was right where it belonged all that time. Imagine that! Even worse, I had been looking for it for a week! Yes, I think we can all be a jellyhead at times.

But I really must protest that some of you seem to think my nickname, Tootie, is self-explanatory. It really isn't. It has nothing at all to do with any flatulence on my part! Nor do I have a habit of tooting my own horn. Nor do I sound like a train whistle when I blow my nose. Honest. Cross my heart and hope to die. Here's how my nickname came about:

Apparently, nicknames are the norm in Australia. Jellyhead's real name is used in it's shortened form by her friends. She really does call her husband "Fatty" a lot of the time. She calls her daughter "Louey." She has nicknames for all of her good friends. She was recently lamenting that calling me by my real name seemed much too formal and asked if she might call me by a nickname. I had no problem with that except that I have never had a nickname. My name is impossible to shorten and no one has ever called me by anything else. I set Jelly to the task of coming up with a nickname. She tried "Nicki" but my grandmother stubbornly insisted on calling me by that name (which is a shortened form of my middle name) when I was born despite my mother's obvious irritation. So Jelly didn't want to be like a stubborn old lady. She begged and begged me to give her something to work with. I reluctantly admitted to her that my father's nickname for me has always been "Tootie Brown." Don't ask why. I have no idea. I mean, the "Brown" part is because I always had dark skin. The "Tootie" part was invented out of thin air. Jelly was bubbling over with happiness. "Oh, I LOVE Tootie! Can I call you Tootie, can I?" My husband was a witness to the conversation and he said, "Yeah, did you tell her she can call you Tootie only if she has a death wish?" See, I have always been reluctant to share my nickname with anyone. That's why my husband was so surprised when I sighed, "I guess." It is a testament to how much I adore Jellyhead that I have bestowed upon her the honor and privelege of calling me by my childhood nickname.

I must say that, as much as I enjoy guest posting on Jelly's site, I am missing her so much! I am sure I am not alone. I know all of you are anxiously awaiting the day when Jelly brings her own honest, yet witty, style back to the blog.

Come home soon, Jelly! We miss you!

Blogger Trivia

G'day, mates! It's not Jelly. It's her American friend whom she affectionately (or laughingly?) refers to as Tootie. The reason she calls me Tootie is divulged on a need-to-know basis only. I could tell you but then I'd have to kill you. Or feed your children chocolate candy and espresso and send them back to you. Choose your poison.

When Jelly and I first started getting to know each other, we played a fun little game where we shared one mostly silly trivia fact about ourselves and one not-so-silly fact. It was a great way to get to know each other fairly well in a short period of time. We no longer play the game because now we know enough about each other that we can hold an animated conversation without difficulty.

One of my not-so-silly facts is that my parents divorced when I was six years old. It affected me greatly. One of my second grade teachers told my mother, "Your little girl is the saddest child I have ever seen." Because my parent's split was quite violent and they remained hostile toward one another throughout my childhood, I worried myself sick during our weekend visits with my father. I cried when I left my mother because I felt that my loyalty should be to her and that I was betraying her by leaving. I cried for the entire 30-45 minute drive back home to my mother's house at the end of the weekend because I feared that I might never see my father again since he had been in my life every day one moment and the next he was inexplicably absent. Not to mention the fact that he missed several of our weekend visitations and my brother and I sat on the front steps watching for his truck to pull around the curve and up to our house and finally, when the sun began to set, dejectedly shuffled back into my mother's house knowing that Daddy had forgotten about us once again.

I shared that fact with Jelly because it explains a lot of the issues I have had to tackle in my life as an adult. I have great difficulty trusting others and I fall apart when I feel invisible or forgotten by those I love. I panic to the point that I break into a cold sweat and feel nauseated when I place my trust in someone and then feel abandoned by them. It is an area in my life where it is easy to see that I was crippled by some aspects of my childhood. I always feel it is important to share such facts when I make close friends so that my neuroses don't come as such a surprise deeper into the friendship.

On a lighter note, one of my silly trivia facts I shared with Jelly is that I have to eat things on my plate in a certain order. I eat all of my meat, then my potatoes, then my salad, etc. You'd be surprised how many people pay attention to the way other people eat. It also just so happens to be my pet peeve for people to watch me eat. For that reason, I consciously try to eat more like a normal person; a bite of this and a bite of that. I am always secretly thrilled when I have the rare experience of observing someone else who eats the way I do. I used to think it meant I have a highly organized brain but one look in my hall closet dispels that theory.

In honor of mine and Jelly's friendship, I thought it would be nice to ask all of you to share a fact or facts about yourselves that you believe to be unique or silly or just plain weird! Jelly will be so entertained to read of your quirks upon her return!

~Tootie

you say hello, and I say goodbye

I once saw a card that so perfectly encapsulated my nature that I laughed out loud, standing by myself in front of the card rack. The card said, "I worry too much", and inside it read, "and that worries me."

I am about to go on a week's holiday. I am aiming to stop fretting about how much I fret, and even stop fretting altogether (at least as much as I am able!). There will most likely be a post or two from a VIP guest blogger (no, not JellyMa this time) while I'm gone. So there'll be no need for you, my blogpals, to fret at all.

I hope you all have a very happy week until I next visit your blogs!

Jelly

win or lose?

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

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

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

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

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

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

superwoman

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

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

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

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

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

Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnngh. Oooooff! Unnnngh. Uh!!

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

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

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

Jelly has wobbled back home again

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

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

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

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

To bed to bed my sleepy head...

Foto Fantasia

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


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








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















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





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

A Fulfilling Life

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

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

I have a simple but fulfilling life on the farm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm leaving on a`jet plane

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

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

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

Bye for now,
Jelly

Soccerboy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

camping capers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good." Silence.

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

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

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

my daughter at the dentist

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

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

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

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

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

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

the sound of my voice

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am blessed beyond my wildest dreams.

communing with cows and chooks

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

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

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

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

Spooked

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elementary, my dear Watson.