holiday happy-snaps

Hello! I've missed you all! (The occasional post from far away is just not the same)

We arrived home yesterday afternoon, and are all in pretty good shape today. I have phoned my friends, chatted to my mum, slept in my own bed (ahhhh), and patted the dog. All is right with the world!

I thought I would post some trip photos (Lake Louise, Butchart gardens in Victoria, sea otter from Vancouver aquarium)... hope you like them.

"You make me feel so young..."

Whenever I hear the smooth notes of a Frank Sinatra song, I am taken back, way back, transported to the time when I was six or seven, to when I was small and my parents were still happy together. Perhaps there were stirrings of dissatisfaction and dissent between my mother and father, but my six-year-old self had not noticed anything amiss. I knew I was loved, I knew my parents loved each other, and my world was composed of the three of us.

Every night, both parents would kiss me goodnight. I would lie in bed, with the golden light from the living room spilling down the hall and glowing softly in my room - not enough to keep me awake, but enough to chase away my fears. With my door ajar, I could hear the rise and fall of my parents voices as they talked. The words were indecipherable, but the murmur of their conversation was a sound that I loved. If my parents laughed about something together, I felt that my life, at that moment, was utterly perfect. It was one of my favourite times of the day.

Sometimes, Mum or Dad would ask me if I wanted some music to listen to as I fell asleep. They had given me a recording of 'The Nutcracker Suite', and I remember listening to its familiar refrains as I drifted off to sleep. But mostly, I would be serenaded into the Land of Nod by the music my father loved .... Ivan Rebroff, the music to Dr Zhivago, but mostly, more than any other, Frank Sinatra. And if you have to listen to the same man singing, night after night, I can assure you that Ol' Blue Eyes was an excellent choice. His honeyed voice, his perfect pitch, his corny songs of love - they still appeal to me now. It's not that I don't love many other types of music - rock, pop, blues, classical, country/rock. Yet Sinatra's music still draws me in, holds me, soothes me, reminds me of when my world was much smaller. It reminds me of the warm yellow walls in my room, the kiss of my mother, the chuckle of my father, and the simplicity of a six-year-old.

Though my life has changed a lot over the past 30-odd years, and though my parents' marriage did not survive, one thing has remained constant. I know that both my parents love me dearly. And that knowledge I have carried with me like a talisman throughout my life. That, and the uncanny ability to sing the lyrics of any Frank Sinatra song you may care to name .....


"You make me feel so young
You make me feel like spring has sprung!"

Mum, it's your birthday!!!

Now I know you don't all know my Mum, but take it from me - she is a divine creature. So please join with me in wishing the sweet Jellyma a very HAPPY BIRTHDAY !!!

Happy Birthday Mum. I'm sorry I'm not around to celebrate with you, but I will make it up to you when we return.

Hip hip....hooray!

Rocky Mountain Highway

Everyone, everyone, I am so excited! Just now, I was peacefully eating some dinner with my family, at a restaurant in the Rocky Mountains, when a large elk sauntered past our hotel!!! I kid you not! I asked the waitress if this was unusual, and she tucked her hair behind her ear and calmly replied, "Well, it happens. We are right in the middle of a National Park, so ya. They walk through here sometimes." Incredible!

Other things that have amazed or intrigued me:
- the majesty of the mountains (compared to these, Australian mountains are just hills. Bumps.)
- the ginormous portion sizes. I tell you, it's just as well we've been piggybacking our kids on trails and walks every day, or we'd be very FAT by now. Of course, I realise there is always the option of not eating everything on your plate. But that's hard if the food's good!
- cute squirrels which seem to be everywhere, leading me to suspect they could possibly be regarded as vermin here. I am sincerely hoping that is the case (or at least that they are as plentiful as they seem) because I unfortunately squashed one yesterday. Sorry squirrel.

I am having trouble getting time to comment on all your blogs, but I am still reading when I can. Best wishes to you all,

the travelling Jelly

At first I was afraid, I was petrified.....

but I survived!!

Hello everyone, and thank you for all your farewell messages. Unfortunately for you, I have not kept quiet long (just long enough to get over a spot of jetlag), and I'm back!

The plane trip was pretty good all told, and no-one got hysterical - not even the kids. We are now spending a few days with our friends on Vancouver Island, pottering about doing short trips here and there. It is all so beautiful, with warm, sunny weather (which I'm told is not quite usual for this time of year) and I can see snow-topped mountains almost everywhere we go!!!!! It's so good to be here.

I have even driven our rental car several times, and have managed OK (though I have been driving as if I am about 90 years old- shoulders hunched up, fingers gripping the wheel tightly, forehead furrowed). Fatty, on the other hand, tried to annihilate his entire family today by swinging onto a highway on the wrong side of the road. I yelled, 'Wrong side, wrong side!', and quick as a flash we were once more driving legally and safely again. Whew.

I hope all the rest of you are driving safely and on the correct side of the road this week. Take care everyone. I will write another update soon.

PS: I may also post the odd piece of writing that has nothing to do with our trip (you know, just me raving on about whatever), and there may even be a guest post or two. I do try to keep you al entertained!

O Canada!

Ever since our children (the dear little blighters) were born, Fatty and I have taken a week's holiday here and there with our kids - almost always at the beach. We have had bucketloads of fun, but at the same time it's always been so good to come home, too. So what on earth were we thinking planning a trip involving 3 weeks and 5 days away from home, with a 25 hours worth of travel just to arrive at our destination?? I'm a little nervous about how it will all go, to say the least!

I'm also relishing the idea of four whole weeks off work. And I'm looking forward to spending time with our two sets of family friends, and doing some slow, drive-a-little, stop-a-lot exploring in beautiful Canada with Fatty and our kids.

I won't be visiting T, Mackeydoodle, or Franny. (Try to look disappointed instead of relieved, people!) I would love to sit and have chocolate cake somewhere with each of you, but with two small children in tow, we won't be travelling extensively, and won't even make it into Alberta, or anywhere near Ontario. But I will think of all my Canadian blogfriends as I travel.

Bags are packed, tickets and passports are at the ready, I have a large packet of baby wipes readily accessible....now is there anything else I cannot depart without? (Maybe I should have packed sedatives. I can see how sedatives could be helpful. For me, of course. A valium or 4, and I just wouldn't care if Ben was screaming his lungs out. Pursed-lipped passengers could turn in their seats to frown, and I would smile beatifically and slur, "Peace, man. Feel the looooove!") We leave in the morning, so wish me luck!

I will try to post now and then, and will have access to the internet most places we're going, so say hello if you drop by. Take care everyone!

Jelly

Once upon a time....

.... there lived a tall, willowy young woman with remarkable green eyes. I should say that she was usually willowy, but in fact at the time this story took place, she was rather portly. Her legs and arms were still slender, but her belly was round and taut. She was not quite 25 years of age, and she was about to have her first child.

This particular day, Green Eyes was tired, and her back ached. She was a stoic type, though, and she carried on with her busy day regardless. Green Eyes was married, but her errant husband was away, doing study in another country. So she was on her own as she went to the doctor for a routine check-up.

The doctor examined Green Eyes, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You're going to have this baby tonight", he remarked. "Better go straight up to the hospital". Green Eyes was surprised, too - but she obediently did as she was told.

Up at the hospital, the midwife took one look at Green Eyes, standing calmly, bag in hand.

"Are you in labour? Why are you here?"

"Well, Dr Knowitall sent me here", Green Eyes murmured, feeling like an unwelcome guest.

"Well, come on then", the midwife bustled. "We'll get you settled in bed for the night."

An hour later, Green Eyes began to have contractions. The contractions became steadily stronger, and Green Eyes breathed heavily, bracing herself for each wave of gripping pain. Midwives appeared, and raised their eyebrows in surprise, just like Dr Knowitall had done. After an hour of pain, Green Eyes began to feel a compelling desire to push.

Half an hour later, on the evening of June 23rd, a baby girl was born. Green Eyes loved her instantly.

And Mum, I love you, too. Thank you for carrying me in your body, for labouring alone to have me, and for raising me to be a woman who tries to emulate you in mothering my own children.

shortest post ever

Hello and Happy Tuesday to you all! It's Franny's birthday today, so please wish her all the best if you get a chance.

I've run out of things to say already. But that's only because I've just been blabbing away in a guest post for my friend, Heather. Are you curious? Keen to visit Blog Blah Blah? I'll see you there then!

do as your Motherkitty tells you

Not so long ago, I was tagged by my friend Motherkitty. So here we go....

7 things to do before I die:

1) clean under the fridge
2) get a secret tattoo on my hip
3) have a fling with Liam Neeson (just jokes, Fatty...no, really...truly I wouldn't... not unless Liam begged, anyway)
4) train for and swim the swimming leg of a triathlon - my fleet-footed friend, Chooky, would do the running leg, and we would recruit someone else to do the cycling.... Val? You'll have time to train, being soon-to-be-retired and all!
5) travel around Australia with Fatty in a campervan, drinking cups of tea all around the country
6) go back to Uni to study languages (and then, with my brushed-up French, go stay in a cottage in France for a summer!)
7) become a weekend respite carer, once my own kids are grown and gone

7 things I cannot do:

1) get a tan
2) add up in my head
3) take criticism without getting defensive
4) throw a ball (I have been told I 'throw like a girl')
5) install or use most electronic devices
6) say no to dessert
7) survive without my female friends

7 things that attract me to my husband:

1) his ability to apologise mid-argument, if he believes he's in the wrong (it always takes me some 'cool-down' time before I can apologise)
2) his strong morals
3) his broad shoulders
4) the crinkles near his eyes when he smiles
5) his intelligence
6) his tolerance of my flaws and foibles
7) the fact he is a kind father who spends a lot of time with our children

7 books I love:

1) God of Small Things - Arundhati Roy
2) Cloudstreet - Tim Winton
3) My Family and other Animals- Gerald Durrell
4) Charlotte's Web - E. B. White
5) About a Boy - Nick Hornsby
6) Little House on the Prairie (and rest of series) - Laura Ingalls Wilder
7) The Great Fire - Shirley Hazzard

7 movies I'd watch over & over again:

1) A Fish Called Wanda
2) Gallipoli
3) When Harry Met Sally
4) Last Orders
5) Four Wedding and a Funeral
6) High Hopes
7) Muriel's Wedding

As for tagging 7 people.... I will simply ask anyone who feels inspired to consider themselves tagged!

Happy weekend everyone!

the pangs of parenting

I'm astounded by the reaction to my last post - not so much the number of comments (though there were quite a few), but the length of the responses you all wrote. Thank you. I so enjoyed hearing all the different perspectives, and I think I learnt something from each and every comment.

I also realised that one thing that weighs so heavily on me, as a parent, is a matter that some older bloggers still feel guilty over, and that bloggers with young children agonise over, too. (I am not alone - oh joy, oh joy!) It seems all parents worry that they are not spending enough time with their little darlings.

We all believe that all those other Marvellous Mothers and Fantastic Fathers are spending hours every day reading, painting, singing, and talking face-to-face with their kids. We all believe we are the only bad parents who read one book, then try to put a load of washing on; we fear we are the only evil mothers (or fathers) who put the paint and paper out for the kids, then sit down nearby with coffee and a magazine. Yet I suspect we're almost all harbouring this guilt.... so most of us aren't acting like non-stop entertainers/teachers/life coaches. We're just parents at home. Besides caring for children we're trying to get the kitchen clean, trying to pay the bills, trying to stay sane with the odd spot of blogging!

One of the most guilt-assuaging theories from the book I read ('Perfect Madness' by Judith Warner) was about this very issue. While giving our children time and affection is obviously important, Judith Warner discusses studies, and relates comments made by educators, which suggest that the modern concept of child care - of interacting for hours, providing numerous activities, directing their play by joining all their games - may not be ideal. Teachers are beginning to despair of children who are not only self-centred (after having non-stop parental attention), but who are also unable to play spontaneously, to create, to think for themselves. Who knew? It turns out talking to your kids every now and then as they play, maybe giving them a few props to play with (dress ups, Lego, even cardboard boxes!) and just letting them explore their world with our intermittent participation .... just doing what a lot of us do anyway.....turns out that is thought to be just fine.

Oh, what a relief. We're doing OK after all. Join with me now as I sigh happily.....ahhhhhhh!

perfect madness

I'm reading a book called 'Perfect Madness', and it is doing me the world of good! This book is about how our society has become SO child-centred, that we forget parents are not just parents, but people with needs such as time alone, exercise, intimacy with their partners, and intellectual challenge. We forget that nourishing our marriages is vital, not just for ourselves, but also for the sake of providing happy homes for our kids. We sometimes become so focused on the immediate demands of our children, that we forget part of our responsibility as parents is to provide good role models for our sons and daughters, who will one day be parents themselves. We need to show by example that most parents need some time away to pursue an outside interest, be it work or hobby or sport, and that this is normal; it is not bad or wrong. Being rejuvenated by time apart from our kids makes us better and happier parents all the rest of the time.

This book also deplores how crazy we let our lives become.... taking our children to endless rounds of play-dates and birthday parties.... driving around to soccer, ballet, swimming, piano lessons... baking chocolate fudge at 11 pm for school bake stalls...attending P&C meetings...working (in the home or in paid work)...organising (library books, school forms, lunch money, packed lunches...the list never ends)...shopping for food, clothes, and birthday presents for all those birthday parties our kids attend!.....and that's without even mentioning all the feeding, bathing, dressing, entertaining, soothing and settling of our kids!! I know I am guilty of taking on too much, and then becoming stressed and cranky and tired. I think we need to draw the line sometimes. We need to say 'No, sorry - I won't be able to, this time' more often. Because although we might like to think we are superhumans, we are not, and we and our children suffer when we overextend ourselves.

Now any parent out there who is reading this, and who loves the frenetic whirl of activity, who thrives on each parenting challenge and never tires, never needs a break.... please don't comment!! You will only make me feel inadequate. For those of you who can relate to anything I've said... be kind to yourself this weekend. And don't feel guilty if you take a moment (or preferably at least an hour!) for yourself. You deserve it!

For those of you whose children have grown and left home - I congratulate you for the job you have done in raising your children. Enjoy your weekend, too!

dreaming of a nap

You know the saying short-term pain, long-term gain? Well, it is just as true when you turn it around to be 'short-term gain, long-term pain'. In my parenting life, it is always exactly like that. Whenever I try to cut corners with my kid-wrangling, there is always the price to be paid.

Last night, my three-year-old son woke and summonsed me. He was sitting up, wide awake. Cheerily, he informed me that the bed felt wet. I pulled back the covers. Yep. Feels wet, looks wet, is wet. Funny that.

For some reason, I had been silly enough to stay up until half past 11 the night before. It was just so peaceful. I was reading a great book by Kate Grenville. I was relaxing. Manababies will understand. So in the wee hours of the morning, with the cold floorboards chilling my soles, and my soft bed begging me to hurry back, I chose to ignore the wet sheets. I wiped down and re-dressed Ben in dry clothing, and scurried to The Big Bed (as it is called in our house) with child in tow.

I should explain that our bed is a smallish Big Bed, as Big Beds go. Fatty and I fit well in said bed, but add a squirmy child, and I, Princess Sleeper, can only achieve fitful slumber. I knew this, but I thought ..... I'm not sure what I thought actually. Perhaps something like cold, cold, sleepy, find bed again. So in hopped Ben and I, and we were certainly all warm. Warm, but awake. Or rather, Ben and I were awake, tossing and turning as we bumped knees and hands and feet and the mattress bumped with each movement. Fatty was fast asleep. He could sleep with a bugle playing in his ear. Or in a bed full of caterpillars (which I suppose is a more appropriate analogy for last night).

An hour later, I had to admit defeat. I stripped Ben's sodden sheets, I remade the bed, I reinstalled Ben with cuddle sheet and toy puppy. I answered a few more questions about the habitat of crocodiles. I refused to answer any more questions about crocodiles. An hour and a half later, we both got back to sleep. It could have been 15 minutes, if only I'd remembered the short-term gain rule.

Ben slept in so late that I had to wake him to take Laura to school. He's fine, he's bright as a button. Now, do you think he'll notice if I just rest my eyes for a minute......

the useless doctor (um, that's me)

One of the things it's taken me a long time to accept in my work is that I can't fix everybody. I can't cure all ills, and I can't ease all ailments. Were I to be the smartest, most innovative GP that ever walked the earth, I still could not eradicate all disease and suffering in my patients.

It may sound silly that this should be such a revelation to me, but such is the ethos of doctoring - we are taught to investigate, diagnose and treat. Textbooks are even written with diseases described under these very headings. Medical students are led to believe that they will save countless peoples' lives, riding in on their high horses to rescue the sick and the injured, then galloping away again (preferably with some very shiny medals pinned to their chests). No-one talks about the many, many patients for whom the medical profession can do very little.

Take the most common of illnesses...a 'cold'. What does the doctor say? "Rest, take some decongestant, maybe some paracetomol, rest, and ah, rest. Yes. Hope you feel better soon. Plenty of rest now. Bye!". I said just that today to someone. Maybe not as perkily, but conveying a similar message.

What about stomach wogs? "Ah, yes...rest, take fluids, and above all rest. Get better quickly. Did I remind you to rest? O-kay then! Bye!"

In actual fact, it has been quite awhile now that I have been comfortable with the futility of my advice when it comes to these minor illnesses. I quickly realised that time healed these diseases, while my role was merely to reassure. It has taken me a bit longer to discern that for other, more serious conditions, I must also accept that my role is supportive not curative.

Mrs I, a thin, worried-looking lady in her 60's came to see me today. When Mrs I first started coming to see me about a year ago, my heart used to sink just at the sight of her name on my schedule. YES, I know that is not very nice of me, but I'm trying to be honest here. The woman's very name was enough to give me a migraine. I dreaded the consultations. Mrs I always had about 7 complaints for me. Many of these complaints had been extensively investigated, and multiple treatments had been tried. Mrs I was now coming to see me, she explained at the time, because Dr 'Bloggs' (another doctor at my practice) 'doesn't listen to me anymore'. Poor Dr Bloggs. I think his well of empathy had run dry. I, on the other hand, had the deepest empathy- for Dr Bloggs.

Every time I saw Mrs I, I tried my darnedest to sort out some of her problems. I had to page back through her computer file; I had to retrieve her paper file. I detailed all her symptoms. I organised some more investigations, where I felt it was appropriate. I suggested a few treatment options. I suspect I sighed a lot.

Nothing I did made a scrap of difference. Every test I ordered found nothing useful. Everything I advised caused Mrs I to retort, "Yeah, I've tried that doctor - it didn't help at all". Eventually, I simply said to Mrs I, "It must be so hard to put up with all these problems. You must get very frustrated."

Every time I see Mrs I, I check her over, and I listen to her telling me what is bothering her. I do nothing to fix her ailments ...... not because I am unwilling, but because I do not know how. And yet - Mrs I treats me as if I am someone special to her. She is always thanking me, though I can never figure out what for.

I went through 6 years of medical school and 3 years of family physician training, and no-one ever told me that I would do so little, for so many people. I'm slowly getting used to it.

And Mrs I, I'm sorry. You have had a hard life, and you deserve all the kindness in the world. I'm learning. Thank you for teaching me.

hark! do I hear whistling?

They say hope springs eternal, and that's surely a useful concept to embrace. So, although in my heart of hearts I felt sure Fatty had not been perusing my blog, I asked a tentative question:

"So, are you planning on doing any whistling later today?"

Now you would think this was a rather odd question, wouldn't you? You are probably thinking right now Why did she ask THAT? Fatty MUST have queried why she would say such a thing! But, no, no, you ignorant-of-the-ways-of-Fatty people. You forget he is NOT a curious man. You forget he is NOT fascinated by his utterly fascinating wife (outrageous!). So his reply went something like this:

"Whistling? No, no whistling. You know, I've never been able to whistle very well." (begins to demonstrate.....various hissing/faint whistling noises emanate from Fatty's pursed lips) "I can't hold a tune for some reason." (warbling whistling starts up again)

I smile with my back to Fatty, as I stand at the kitchen counter. He may be somewhat less intrigued by my thoughts than I'd like, but I am amazed at how he has reacted to my opening conversational gambit. I'm sure anyone else would have snorted, "Whistle? Later this evening? What the hell are you talking about, woman?". Dear Fatty must be so used to the weird workings of my mind that he simply 'goes with the flow'. Possibly it would be exhausting to be too curious about how my mind works.

I turn back to my gorgeous, bad-whistling, accepting husband. "I can whistle pretty well, actually." I launch into a lilting rendition of 'How Much Is That Doggy in the Window?'. Fatty laughs. I bring our coffees over to the couch.

And there was no more whistling of any kind.

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ADDED NOTE: I can see from the comments so far that I need to clarify something. Fatty and I had coffee on the couch. You know, made from beans, a hot beverage. Coffee! So stop with the sniggering and giggling.
And, no, whistling isn't some sort of a prelude to intimacy in Australia, unless you count the wolf whistle. And frankly I don't think wolf-whistlers quite have romance in mind!

That said, I think whistling to indicate interest in a romantic interlude is a mighty fine idea - thanks Susan! Perhaps, 'How Much is my Doggy...' was just not the right song choice! Now, how would I whistle, 'Sea of Love'?.......

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!