respect

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

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

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

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

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

Hmmm. Might sleep on it!

touchy feely

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

Christmas comes early

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

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

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

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

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

(hic!)

things that go bump in the night

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

me: "You awake hon?"

Fatty: (drowsily) "Hmmm?"

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

pause while Fatty listens obligingly

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

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

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

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

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

an apology and a whinge

Dear Blogfriends,

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

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

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

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

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

Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day.

ring a ding ding!

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

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

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

pay it forward

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

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

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

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

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

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

gumboots and grass and galahs

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

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


Fatty photographed a new bird and was positively exuberant.

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

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

my little super-heroes

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

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

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

Parenting is hard work.

sunny funny holiday

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

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

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

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

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

It was a good holiday.

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



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

Friend, you are irreplaceable. Thank you!

My friend, my friend

Well hello.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

beach bums

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

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

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

what happened next

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

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

And he can still surprise me.

the note

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

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

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

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

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

The note read:

Have gone to find a Baillon's crake

Fatty

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

update

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

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

Jelly,

It's a terrific piece.

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

Love Writer.

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

the waiting game

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Fake it until you make it.

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

365 days of blogging ...give or take

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

my baby's no baby no more

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

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

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

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

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

my riveting weekend....

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

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

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