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.

bits and pieces

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

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

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

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

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

Why indeed. Silly me.

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

Happy Tuesday!

schoolgirl

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

smiling through tears

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

'son killed in MVA'

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh yes?" I inquired.

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

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

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

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

Remembrance

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

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

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

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

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

right here, right now

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



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



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

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

news from the house of Jelly

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

Well, firstly -

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

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

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

"Get me some milk on the double!"

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

(* skip this next section if squeamish*)

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

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

So, how fascinating has your day been so far?

being true to my name

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes?"

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

(small pause)

"As opposed to 'Fat Bastard'."

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

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

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

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

It's 2007!

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

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











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

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

Here are some photos....

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

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

We Wish You a Merry Christmas!

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

somebody's a homebody

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yuletide Yabbering

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas, already?

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

We put up the Christmas tree.

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

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

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

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

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

(short silence)

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

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

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

respect gained

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

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

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

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

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

"Hi, Steven", I greeted him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life is full of fascinating twists and turns.

about face

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

respect

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

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

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

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

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

Hmmm. Might sleep on it!

touchy feely

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

Christmas comes early

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

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

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

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

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

(hic!)

things that go bump in the night

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

me: "You awake hon?"

Fatty: (drowsily) "Hmmm?"

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

pause while Fatty listens obligingly

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

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

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

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

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

an apology and a whinge

Dear Blogfriends,

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

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

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

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

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

Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day.

ring a ding ding!

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

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

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

pay it forward

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

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

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

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

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

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

gumboots and grass and galahs

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

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


Fatty photographed a new bird and was positively exuberant.

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

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

my little super-heroes

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

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

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

Parenting is hard work.