My daughter has had a rough few days. For three days, she did not eat. Her shoulder blades are like fragile wings, folded ready for flight. Her legs have changed from coltish to spidery. The vertebrae are spiky down her back. So today, although she has finally ceased ejecting her stomach contents, Laura remains wan and lethargic. She is indecisive - unable to choose what she might attempt to eat, what she'd like to do, where she might lie.
I asked whether she felt able to take a short drive to the local DVD rental store. Laura pondered this, pale-faced and serious.
"Yes, that would be OK. It's not very far to walk from the car."
I pressed her further : "But sweetie, we'd be walking around inside a bit, choosing the DVD. Are you sure you have the energy?"
Laura looked at me steadily. "I could do anything with you to hold my hand."
I realise Laura didn't mean this in a sweeping, generalised sense. She's only five, and I guess she was being quite literal - she could go get a DVD if I helped her along, she could come for a short walk with the dog, if I helped her along...
I prefer to believe that Laura feels nothing is beyond the realms of possibility, if only I will be there with my hand in hers.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Sunday, September 24, 2006
woeful weekend
One of the many good things about becoming a parent was the way it helped me understand other parents. More specifically, it made me realise how stressful it is when a child is ill. These days, when a parent brings their child to see me at work, I completely grasp how worried they are; I can comprehend that a seemingly minor ailment or injury can cause untold anxiety for a mother or father. Before having children, I was aware that parents got very concerned about their children, and I tried to be kind and reassuring, but often, the concern seemed vastly out-of-proportion to the problem, and I didn't quite get it. I'm sure that came through in my demeanour.
I have been humbled by having my own kids. The distress I feel when they are sick or hurt engulfs me. I am a complete baby when it comes to my 'babies'. And the less they complain, the worse I feel for them. My daughter Laura has always been such a stoic little thing with illness. She doesn't cry, she lies quietly and doesn't call out. I'll hear a small sound in the night, and find her standing over the toilet, being sick, with no fuss. She is a real trooper.
This weekend, Laura Lou has been unwell. She has vomited 17 or 18 times (I've kind of lost count). She has not shed a tear, despite this. Right now, she is finally asleep for awhile. And here I sit, knowing she will be OK, knowing she just has a particularly nasty gastro bug, but worrying about her and feeling anxious just like any other parent (actually I suspect more fretful than is normal!). I want to fix things so she feels back to normal, straight away. I don't want to go to work tomorrow (even though Fatty - her perfectly capable father - will be home with her) because I know Laura slightly prefers her mother when she is sick. I want a cackling anti-vomit witch to come and make us a magic potion. And while she's here the witch could hang out all the sheets and towels and pyjamas I've had to wash.
So I just want to make it perfectly clear that I do now 'get' parental anxiety. I get it already, I got it with Laura's first cold almost 6 years ago. I don't want to know how much worse it would be if I had a seriously ill child. I am tired of just the regular worries. But I'm a parent, so I'm not allowed to get tired of it. Parents must just endure.
Enduring is only relieved by whining. Thank you for listening.
I have been humbled by having my own kids. The distress I feel when they are sick or hurt engulfs me. I am a complete baby when it comes to my 'babies'. And the less they complain, the worse I feel for them. My daughter Laura has always been such a stoic little thing with illness. She doesn't cry, she lies quietly and doesn't call out. I'll hear a small sound in the night, and find her standing over the toilet, being sick, with no fuss. She is a real trooper.
This weekend, Laura Lou has been unwell. She has vomited 17 or 18 times (I've kind of lost count). She has not shed a tear, despite this. Right now, she is finally asleep for awhile. And here I sit, knowing she will be OK, knowing she just has a particularly nasty gastro bug, but worrying about her and feeling anxious just like any other parent (actually I suspect more fretful than is normal!). I want to fix things so she feels back to normal, straight away. I don't want to go to work tomorrow (even though Fatty - her perfectly capable father - will be home with her) because I know Laura slightly prefers her mother when she is sick. I want a cackling anti-vomit witch to come and make us a magic potion. And while she's here the witch could hang out all the sheets and towels and pyjamas I've had to wash.
So I just want to make it perfectly clear that I do now 'get' parental anxiety. I get it already, I got it with Laura's first cold almost 6 years ago. I don't want to know how much worse it would be if I had a seriously ill child. I am tired of just the regular worries. But I'm a parent, so I'm not allowed to get tired of it. Parents must just endure.
Enduring is only relieved by whining. Thank you for listening.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
a happy postscript
My aunt phoned this morning. She'd read the post below, about Mama. Apparently I made my aunt cry, too. My Aunt 'Zany' (I'm sure she'll approve of that pseudonym and won't be offended..... I hope!) is the youngest daughter I mentioned, who visits Mama several times a week. Aunt Zany wanted me to add something to the post I'd written.
When Zany visited the day after I did, she saw in Mama's visitor book that I'd stopped by. She prompted Mama by saying, "So Jelly came to see you yesterday?". Mama looked unsure for a moment, then replied brightly, "and the little one!".
She remembered. Such a small thing means so much.
My Mama is not going down without one hell of a fight.
When Zany visited the day after I did, she saw in Mama's visitor book that I'd stopped by. She prompted Mama by saying, "So Jelly came to see you yesterday?". Mama looked unsure for a moment, then replied brightly, "and the little one!".
She remembered. Such a small thing means so much.
My Mama is not going down without one hell of a fight.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Mama
I've been avoiding visiting her. I tell myself it's because I'm so busy, but I know that's a half-truth. I defer spending time with Mama, my grandmother, because she is succumbing to dementia. She is no longer the woman I remember. Like a petulant child, I am avoiding unpleasantness - the sad discomfort of witnessing Mama's decline.
She once was an auburn-haired woman with sturdy arms and legs, capable of anything. My Mama raised seven children, and cared for her chronically-ill husband until his early death. Mama worked at a care facility for disabled children. She cooked a mean roast dinner and the best peanut biscuits ever. She chaired a women's writers group. Until the past year or two, she giggled like a schoolgirl at any mildly off-colour joke you could come up with. I went to see Mama today, in the nursing home where she now resides. My mother warned me beforehand that Mama's memory had deteriorated since I last saw visited. Mum wasn't sure if Mama knew who any of the family were any more.
As I walk in, I see her. Mama sits at table, snowy-haired and blue-eyed, looking so small. She is smiling in my direction. She looks pleased and surprised, though slightly perplexed. It must feel like when someone greets you at the shops, and for a moment you just can't place them. It must feel like that for Mama every day.
Mama knows her memory and language are failing. Over and over she starts to speak, then shakes her head in exasperation when she cannot finish. Tears fill her eyes, and she puts a hand to her forehead, "I'm going silly in the head". Her lips quiver as she tries to get a handle on her emotions. She repeats, " I'm so silly", and apologises. I touch her arm and tell her she's not; it's OK. I tell her I know she must feel so frustrated. I feel useless in the face of Mama's obvious pain.
Mama is touchingly concerned that my little son needs entertaining. She suggests a walk to a small sunroom.
"See the birds, they...."
"One of the other ladies put a ...."
Mama's sentences go unfinished as she struggles to grasp the words, or is it the thought itself that slips away? Eventually, another resident in a wheelchair comes and speaks to us. She describes how she has bought a seed stick and wired it to the fence, to attract the crested pigeons. I can see a bird now, feasting on the sticky treat. Mama's face lights up, as her meaning is finally conveyed; as we stand together watching the bird peck and fluff up its' feathers.
We walk to Mama's room, and she excuses herself to use the shared ensuite bathroom. A few minutes later, Mama opens the door to leave the bathroom, then hesitates, and slowly manoeuvres back into the bathroom to wash her hands. She washes thoroughly. She places a piece of paper towel carefully under the soap dispenser, where there is a small amount of liquid soap pooled. She takes the paper towel she has dried her hands with, and meticulously wipes down the taps and basin top. I am fascinated by her deliberation and thoughtfulness. I feel guilty to be surprised that Mama's nature remains essentially unchanged by her dementia. I know some people are changed. That must intensify the distress for their loved ones. But my Mama is just as lovely now as she ever was - gentle but prepared to have her quiet say, always thinking of others, loving, quick to smile. Her sparkling intellect has been dulled, but I remember it clearly - so clearly that I sometimes believe it is still there.
A cleaner bustles in to the bathroom, chatting breezily about how fast the toilet paper gets used in the bathrooms. Mama quips, "They must eat it, hmm?". The bustling blond cleaner laughs out loud. "I reckon they must!". Mama pipes up again, " This is my grand-daughter. She's a.... she's a doh....". Mama's eyes well up again, and she shakes her head.
The cleaner is well-meaning, but she has that high-pitched and over-exaggerated manner of speaking, as if talking to a child. " Don't worry love, you're doing fine, you speak really well", she gushes to Mama. I feel a prickle of annoyance. I don't want her speaking to my grandmother in such a condescending tone, however kind the intention. Mama is still insightful, she still knows she is losing her mind to dementia. To deny her the right to express the hurt and confusion she feels seems wrong.
Mama lifts her head up, wipes her eyes, and tries again. "She's a doctor!", Mama blurts triumphantly. The cleaner looks suspiciously at me - I am wearing ponytail, running shoes and cargo pants. I nod, and confirm that I really am a GP. I grin at Mama and she grins back, all proud grandmother. I'm so proud of her.
When it's time to leave, Mama insists on walking us to the front door. As she begins on her wobbly walker way, I realise I will have to escort her safely back to the dining hall before I can depart. We will become locked into a repeating cycle of accompanying each other to the car park and back to the common area. I find a volunteer who offers to walk with us.
On the front path, I kiss Mama's papery cheek. Ever-polite, she thanks me for coming by. Morbidly, I wonder if this will be our last conversation. I tell Mama that I love her as I hug her goodbye.
My mother tells me that Mama doesn't remember when people come to see her. The very next day she has no memory of ever seeing a visitor. Sometimes she is forlorn, believing that no-one ever visits, yet her youngest daughter comes by almost daily.
I will remember the visit in her stead. I will remember her as she was, and as she is now. She is a woman of infinite grace. She is my beautiful Mama.
She once was an auburn-haired woman with sturdy arms and legs, capable of anything. My Mama raised seven children, and cared for her chronically-ill husband until his early death. Mama worked at a care facility for disabled children. She cooked a mean roast dinner and the best peanut biscuits ever. She chaired a women's writers group. Until the past year or two, she giggled like a schoolgirl at any mildly off-colour joke you could come up with. I went to see Mama today, in the nursing home where she now resides. My mother warned me beforehand that Mama's memory had deteriorated since I last saw visited. Mum wasn't sure if Mama knew who any of the family were any more.
As I walk in, I see her. Mama sits at table, snowy-haired and blue-eyed, looking so small. She is smiling in my direction. She looks pleased and surprised, though slightly perplexed. It must feel like when someone greets you at the shops, and for a moment you just can't place them. It must feel like that for Mama every day.
Mama knows her memory and language are failing. Over and over she starts to speak, then shakes her head in exasperation when she cannot finish. Tears fill her eyes, and she puts a hand to her forehead, "I'm going silly in the head". Her lips quiver as she tries to get a handle on her emotions. She repeats, " I'm so silly", and apologises. I touch her arm and tell her she's not; it's OK. I tell her I know she must feel so frustrated. I feel useless in the face of Mama's obvious pain.
Mama is touchingly concerned that my little son needs entertaining. She suggests a walk to a small sunroom.
"See the birds, they...."
"One of the other ladies put a ...."
Mama's sentences go unfinished as she struggles to grasp the words, or is it the thought itself that slips away? Eventually, another resident in a wheelchair comes and speaks to us. She describes how she has bought a seed stick and wired it to the fence, to attract the crested pigeons. I can see a bird now, feasting on the sticky treat. Mama's face lights up, as her meaning is finally conveyed; as we stand together watching the bird peck and fluff up its' feathers.
We walk to Mama's room, and she excuses herself to use the shared ensuite bathroom. A few minutes later, Mama opens the door to leave the bathroom, then hesitates, and slowly manoeuvres back into the bathroom to wash her hands. She washes thoroughly. She places a piece of paper towel carefully under the soap dispenser, where there is a small amount of liquid soap pooled. She takes the paper towel she has dried her hands with, and meticulously wipes down the taps and basin top. I am fascinated by her deliberation and thoughtfulness. I feel guilty to be surprised that Mama's nature remains essentially unchanged by her dementia. I know some people are changed. That must intensify the distress for their loved ones. But my Mama is just as lovely now as she ever was - gentle but prepared to have her quiet say, always thinking of others, loving, quick to smile. Her sparkling intellect has been dulled, but I remember it clearly - so clearly that I sometimes believe it is still there.
A cleaner bustles in to the bathroom, chatting breezily about how fast the toilet paper gets used in the bathrooms. Mama quips, "They must eat it, hmm?". The bustling blond cleaner laughs out loud. "I reckon they must!". Mama pipes up again, " This is my grand-daughter. She's a.... she's a doh....". Mama's eyes well up again, and she shakes her head.
The cleaner is well-meaning, but she has that high-pitched and over-exaggerated manner of speaking, as if talking to a child. " Don't worry love, you're doing fine, you speak really well", she gushes to Mama. I feel a prickle of annoyance. I don't want her speaking to my grandmother in such a condescending tone, however kind the intention. Mama is still insightful, she still knows she is losing her mind to dementia. To deny her the right to express the hurt and confusion she feels seems wrong.
Mama lifts her head up, wipes her eyes, and tries again. "She's a doctor!", Mama blurts triumphantly. The cleaner looks suspiciously at me - I am wearing ponytail, running shoes and cargo pants. I nod, and confirm that I really am a GP. I grin at Mama and she grins back, all proud grandmother. I'm so proud of her.
When it's time to leave, Mama insists on walking us to the front door. As she begins on her wobbly walker way, I realise I will have to escort her safely back to the dining hall before I can depart. We will become locked into a repeating cycle of accompanying each other to the car park and back to the common area. I find a volunteer who offers to walk with us.
On the front path, I kiss Mama's papery cheek. Ever-polite, she thanks me for coming by. Morbidly, I wonder if this will be our last conversation. I tell Mama that I love her as I hug her goodbye.
My mother tells me that Mama doesn't remember when people come to see her. The very next day she has no memory of ever seeing a visitor. Sometimes she is forlorn, believing that no-one ever visits, yet her youngest daughter comes by almost daily.
I will remember the visit in her stead. I will remember her as she was, and as she is now. She is a woman of infinite grace. She is my beautiful Mama.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Sunday morning mooching
It's a sleepy Sunday morning, and even the early-waking son obliged by sleeping in til 6:30 am. Ah, the sheer bliss! Mind you, I had initially been woken at 5:36 am by the rustling and shuffling of my beloved Birdman, as he gathered his equipment and dressed to go 'birding'. You know what they say - the early worm gets the bird. Or something like that.
So now the non-bird-obsessed members of the family remain at home, munching peanut butter toast, resisting the pleading looks from the beagle. I can't seem to relinquish my Thumper pyjamas in favour of daytime attire. Flannelette is just so darn comfortable (not awfully attractive, I grant you, but just sooooo cosy!)
I'm contemplating some housework, but contemplation is all I've managed so far.
Maybe after another piece of toast......
Friday, September 15, 2006
reclaiming girlhood (just for a few hours)
Picture this if you will - a big yellow room with two comfy couches, and lots of pillows. There is not a Lego brick in sight. "Bette Davis Eyes" is playing softly in the background. Someone with a bad sense of humour has put up posters of Wham and Kim Wilde. On the coffee table are two empty dessert bowls - remnants of ice cream cake still smeared around the edges. A platter of crackers, cheese, dips and fruit sits waiting to be devoured.
Two thirty-something mothers (with 4 kids between them) are lounging languidly on the couches, discussing topics ranging from travel to teething.They have watched a DVD of a recent 'chick flick'. When they can stop giggling about Fatty's latest birdwatching quote ("The channel-billed cuckoo is what I really want to see") and Ocker's desire for daily sex (ha-ha! double HA!), they will switch the TV on again to watch "Pretty in Pink". Or perhaps "Sixteen Candles". It doesn't really matter what it is, although having Molly Ringwald in the movie is guaranteed to make these mothers feel teenaged again. Grey hairs, wrinkles and all.
I've been looking forward to this night with Belly all week. The very thought of this evening has kept me smiling through tantrums, tears and ferocious messes. I've been unusually serene at work (even the lady who presented me with an 11-page handout listing her daily symptoms over a 4 week period did not disturb my equanimity). And providing our children's good health prevails, Belly and I will be there, on those couches, in less than 12 hours.
'Celebrate good times.....c'mon!'
Two thirty-something mothers (with 4 kids between them) are lounging languidly on the couches, discussing topics ranging from travel to teething.They have watched a DVD of a recent 'chick flick'. When they can stop giggling about Fatty's latest birdwatching quote ("The channel-billed cuckoo is what I really want to see") and Ocker's desire for daily sex (ha-ha! double HA!), they will switch the TV on again to watch "Pretty in Pink". Or perhaps "Sixteen Candles". It doesn't really matter what it is, although having Molly Ringwald in the movie is guaranteed to make these mothers feel teenaged again. Grey hairs, wrinkles and all.
I've been looking forward to this night with Belly all week. The very thought of this evening has kept me smiling through tantrums, tears and ferocious messes. I've been unusually serene at work (even the lady who presented me with an 11-page handout listing her daily symptoms over a 4 week period did not disturb my equanimity). And providing our children's good health prevails, Belly and I will be there, on those couches, in less than 12 hours.
'Celebrate good times.....c'mon!'
Monday, September 11, 2006
the name game
I suppose many of you have pet names for lovers, spouses, friends, siblings? My friends and family do, too. I think Australians are particularly fond of nicknames and shortened monikers. Take my dearest friends - Belly, Chooky, KP, Tootie. Not a sensible name amongst them.
My father loved to call me anything but my Christian name. When I was small, he called me, depending on his mood, Chicken Pie, Toukie, Poobah (it's OK, I was a baby then so I didn't mind), and many other silly nicknames. If he called me my actual name, I knew things weren't looking good.
I hardly ever call my husband by his real name, either. I call him 'hon', 'lovie', 'darl' ..... and Fatty. Anyone who has read my blog a few times would have realised this: Fatty = Jelly's husband. I don't know why I began calling my beloved husband by this term of endearment. I suspect the word just popped out of my mouth. I could just as easily have called him Buckethead, or Tickle. But the other day, a blogger friend commented on the nickname. I realised I haven't made it clear that Fatty is not actually fat.
It's not that I worry you may all think I am married to a chubby man. Who cares what weight he is? However, I would hate you all to think that my husband struggles with his weight yet I choose to draw attention to it by calling him Fatty. The fact is, Fatty is not porky. Not even a little bit. He's pretty lean; always has been.
I remember going to a party, several years ago, where a drunken woman in a tie-dye dress plonked herself into Fatty's lap, and proceeded to berate me for daring to call him Fatty. She told me, with a serious face, that I was belittling Fatty, and sloshed her drink onto the grass as she gestured. I was astounded that she could take offence at a nickname that was so obviously NOT fitting. At the time, I was horrified at being so miscontrued. On reflection, I think the drunken hussy just wanted to get into Fatty's pants. And now I've completely lost track of what I wanted to say.
Oh, yes. That's right. I wanted to say this - Fatty is not fat. If he were, I would never call him Fatty. And one more thing - if you ever think of putting on a tie-dye dress, drinking way too much wine, and jumping onto Fatty's lap, well ..... just don't. Remiman and John Cowart - you've been warned.
My father loved to call me anything but my Christian name. When I was small, he called me, depending on his mood, Chicken Pie, Toukie, Poobah (it's OK, I was a baby then so I didn't mind), and many other silly nicknames. If he called me my actual name, I knew things weren't looking good.
I hardly ever call my husband by his real name, either. I call him 'hon', 'lovie', 'darl' ..... and Fatty. Anyone who has read my blog a few times would have realised this: Fatty = Jelly's husband. I don't know why I began calling my beloved husband by this term of endearment. I suspect the word just popped out of my mouth. I could just as easily have called him Buckethead, or Tickle. But the other day, a blogger friend commented on the nickname. I realised I haven't made it clear that Fatty is not actually fat.
It's not that I worry you may all think I am married to a chubby man. Who cares what weight he is? However, I would hate you all to think that my husband struggles with his weight yet I choose to draw attention to it by calling him Fatty. The fact is, Fatty is not porky. Not even a little bit. He's pretty lean; always has been.
I remember going to a party, several years ago, where a drunken woman in a tie-dye dress plonked herself into Fatty's lap, and proceeded to berate me for daring to call him Fatty. She told me, with a serious face, that I was belittling Fatty, and sloshed her drink onto the grass as she gestured. I was astounded that she could take offence at a nickname that was so obviously NOT fitting. At the time, I was horrified at being so miscontrued. On reflection, I think the drunken hussy just wanted to get into Fatty's pants. And now I've completely lost track of what I wanted to say.
Oh, yes. That's right. I wanted to say this - Fatty is not fat. If he were, I would never call him Fatty. And one more thing - if you ever think of putting on a tie-dye dress, drinking way too much wine, and jumping onto Fatty's lap, well ..... just don't. Remiman and John Cowart - you've been warned.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
So, wha'd I miss?
Has it been a week already? My life is spinning by crazily. I want to slow down, but then I also want to do all these things that I do.
Just to make life more tricky, we went camping this weekend. And as much as there was a fair bit of work involved, it was just brilliant! There are very few thoughts that thrill me as much as the idea that Fatty and I are building a strong family unit, and giving our children happy childhood memories. So whether it was Laura running half-exhilirated, half-terrified into the waves, or Ben (the city slicker) enthralled by the stars ("Look at all the lights in the sky!") - I found each moment golden.
I hope you've all had plenty of happy times over the past week... I'll be stopping by to hear your news very soon!
Just to make life more tricky, we went camping this weekend. And as much as there was a fair bit of work involved, it was just brilliant! There are very few thoughts that thrill me as much as the idea that Fatty and I are building a strong family unit, and giving our children happy childhood memories. So whether it was Laura running half-exhilirated, half-terrified into the waves, or Ben (the city slicker) enthralled by the stars ("Look at all the lights in the sky!") - I found each moment golden.
I hope you've all had plenty of happy times over the past week... I'll be stopping by to hear your news very soon!
Sunday, September 03, 2006
blogging blues
Lately, it seems there is never enough time. I feel like I rush from one place to another, and when I do have a spare moment, there are so many jobs I should be attending to. I feel that I'm letting some things slide that really should be done.
I love blogging, I really do, but sometimes, before I realise, I've been reading blogs for an hour. While that's OK now & then, I probably can't afford to do that every day. And the fact is - I often do.
I was really sad when I went to manababies site yesterday, and saw that she has shut down her blog. I will miss her sweetness and humour. Yet I could understand why, with her currently extra-busy life, the blogging had to go. As she said herself, 'it's time'.
I'm not planning to stop blogging altogether - I don't think I physically could! But I think I'll take a leaf out of John Cowart's book and take a short break. I think a week should do it.
I hope you all have a happy, healthy week. See you next Sunday :)
I love blogging, I really do, but sometimes, before I realise, I've been reading blogs for an hour. While that's OK now & then, I probably can't afford to do that every day. And the fact is - I often do.
I was really sad when I went to manababies site yesterday, and saw that she has shut down her blog. I will miss her sweetness and humour. Yet I could understand why, with her currently extra-busy life, the blogging had to go. As she said herself, 'it's time'.
I'm not planning to stop blogging altogether - I don't think I physically could! But I think I'll take a leaf out of John Cowart's book and take a short break. I think a week should do it.
I hope you all have a happy, healthy week. See you next Sunday :)
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
when three's company
I think blog world has gone to sleep. It seems everyone has closed their laptops and gone off to defrost their fridges, trim their nose hairs or do their tax. All vital tasks, of course, but still. I feel that I need to stir things up a bit.
I was over visiting John Cowart's blog, and read his excellent post about the bad choices made by supposedly smart people. It reminded me of a particular situation that I know to exist between three people in this very city. I know this because two of the people in this story were dear friends of my pal Chooky. I'm going to have to change names and occupations, but otherwise the story will be true to life. Here it is:
Sarah and Craig met at school. Their relationship began when Sarah was still half in love with another boy she'd been dating. Eventually Craig won her over, and in their early twenties, they married. They seemed very close and loving. They were affectionate together, they laughed and teased often, and whenever they were apart, they missed each other terribly. Sarah was clever, and completed her studies to become a social worker. Craig wasn't a natural at his studies, but did very well for himself, going into business.
A few years later, they had a gorgeous little boy. Sarah and Craig were doting parents, and continued to radiate happiness - they seemed a beautiful family.
There came a time when Sarah and Craig decided they both wanted to learn a sport - for fitness and for fun. They began having tennis lessons with Crystal - a stunning redhead in her early twenties (can you hear that alarm bell ringing?.... brrrrrring brrrrrring!). Crystal was a self-proclaimed lesbian, who was in a relationship with an older woman. Sarah and Crystal became friends as well as being instructor and student. Crystal confided in Sarah when her relationship fell apart, tearfully admitting she felt lost and hopeless. She had to leave her lover's house. Where, oh where would she stay? (brrrrring!)
Sarah and Craig offered Crystal the downstairs area in their house; told her she was welcome to stay as long as she liked. Things were looking rosy for Sarah and Craig - they could afford to be magnanimous. They had just found out they were going to have another baby.
After that, the details are hazy. Chooky was told by Sarah and Craig that they both admitted to each other one day that they each 'had feelings' for Crystal. Crystal apparently felt the same. So yee-haw! they became a threesome and have remained so for the past year. When their second son was born, they named him Crystal's surname.
My friend Chooky was shattered by all this, because she'd always thought that if anyone had a rock-solid relationship, it was Sarah and Craig. They'd always seen Chooky through any emotional crises with compassion and wise words. Chooky had always counted on Sarah's sensible and practical advice. And now, this 'golden couple' were no longer an exclusive pair, and all their marriage vows were broken. It was not the morality or sexual choices that Chooky struggled with (although she did find the whole situation quite confronting) - it was the shock of realising that you may never truly know a person - you may never really know what a person is capable of - even someone who is a close and treasured friend. That takes some getting over.
Chooky has tried to maintain a friendship, of sorts, with Sarah and Craig. She doesn't ask how things are going between the 'threesome', but Sarah often sounds exhausted by caring for the baby, and Craig seems to spend a great deal of time away from the house, letting the two woman do the child-rearing. It's a bizarre set-up. It's like something from a sordid midday soapie, only more sordid.
I have met Sarah and Craig on several occasions, and they seem perfectly friendly, intelligent and interesting people. I just don't know if they're ever going to manage to be happy again.... if they ever were.
I was over visiting John Cowart's blog, and read his excellent post about the bad choices made by supposedly smart people. It reminded me of a particular situation that I know to exist between three people in this very city. I know this because two of the people in this story were dear friends of my pal Chooky. I'm going to have to change names and occupations, but otherwise the story will be true to life. Here it is:
Sarah and Craig met at school. Their relationship began when Sarah was still half in love with another boy she'd been dating. Eventually Craig won her over, and in their early twenties, they married. They seemed very close and loving. They were affectionate together, they laughed and teased often, and whenever they were apart, they missed each other terribly. Sarah was clever, and completed her studies to become a social worker. Craig wasn't a natural at his studies, but did very well for himself, going into business.
A few years later, they had a gorgeous little boy. Sarah and Craig were doting parents, and continued to radiate happiness - they seemed a beautiful family.
There came a time when Sarah and Craig decided they both wanted to learn a sport - for fitness and for fun. They began having tennis lessons with Crystal - a stunning redhead in her early twenties (can you hear that alarm bell ringing?.... brrrrrring brrrrrring!). Crystal was a self-proclaimed lesbian, who was in a relationship with an older woman. Sarah and Crystal became friends as well as being instructor and student. Crystal confided in Sarah when her relationship fell apart, tearfully admitting she felt lost and hopeless. She had to leave her lover's house. Where, oh where would she stay? (brrrrring!)
Sarah and Craig offered Crystal the downstairs area in their house; told her she was welcome to stay as long as she liked. Things were looking rosy for Sarah and Craig - they could afford to be magnanimous. They had just found out they were going to have another baby.
After that, the details are hazy. Chooky was told by Sarah and Craig that they both admitted to each other one day that they each 'had feelings' for Crystal. Crystal apparently felt the same. So yee-haw! they became a threesome and have remained so for the past year. When their second son was born, they named him Crystal's surname.
My friend Chooky was shattered by all this, because she'd always thought that if anyone had a rock-solid relationship, it was Sarah and Craig. They'd always seen Chooky through any emotional crises with compassion and wise words. Chooky had always counted on Sarah's sensible and practical advice. And now, this 'golden couple' were no longer an exclusive pair, and all their marriage vows were broken. It was not the morality or sexual choices that Chooky struggled with (although she did find the whole situation quite confronting) - it was the shock of realising that you may never truly know a person - you may never really know what a person is capable of - even someone who is a close and treasured friend. That takes some getting over.
Chooky has tried to maintain a friendship, of sorts, with Sarah and Craig. She doesn't ask how things are going between the 'threesome', but Sarah often sounds exhausted by caring for the baby, and Craig seems to spend a great deal of time away from the house, letting the two woman do the child-rearing. It's a bizarre set-up. It's like something from a sordid midday soapie, only more sordid.
I have met Sarah and Craig on several occasions, and they seem perfectly friendly, intelligent and interesting people. I just don't know if they're ever going to manage to be happy again.... if they ever were.
Monday, August 28, 2006
geeky li'l ol' me
Have you ever found yourself feeling about 12 years old again, and just as awkward? Have you ever been in a social situation that should have been easy, and yet struggled to find your way? This happened to me last week, and it made me feel such a nong. To be more precise, the whole interaction made me feel faintly silly and staggeringly dull. How does this happen to an otherwise reasonably well-adjusted woman in her thirties? I thought I was past these kinds of feelings - where you doubt yourself socially, and wonder if anyone truly enjoys conversing with you (or is everyone secretly mouthing 'Help! She is SO boring!!' behind my back?!)
Weird. A few hours with someone who:
a) seemed to be in a ho-hum sort of mood
b) is naturally slightly reserved
c) yet is normally interesting to talk to and likeable, hence I actually care whether or not we get on together ....
.....a few hours of stilted conversation with this person, and I felt so small and pointless. And that is exactly how I felt a lot as a kid. At least, I felt like that whenever I had to interact with the 'cool' kids - you know, the ones who could talk to adults with ease, speak in public without blushing/shaking/stammering, the ones who seemed to brim with self-confidence. (Looking back, I realise a lot of their 'confidence' may have been an act, sheer bravado. But at least they had an act!)
I've been trying to shake off those old feelings of inadequacy ever since. Because although I was a self-conscious, uncertain child, I have grown into a woman who believes herself to be friendly, genuine, occasionally funny and no more boring than anyone else. Or perhaps I should clarify that most of the time, I believe this. Some days I just have to re-convince myself!
So, is it just me? Or is someone else prepared to admit to sometimes feeling nong-ish too?!
Weird. A few hours with someone who:
a) seemed to be in a ho-hum sort of mood
b) is naturally slightly reserved
c) yet is normally interesting to talk to and likeable, hence I actually care whether or not we get on together ....
.....a few hours of stilted conversation with this person, and I felt so small and pointless. And that is exactly how I felt a lot as a kid. At least, I felt like that whenever I had to interact with the 'cool' kids - you know, the ones who could talk to adults with ease, speak in public without blushing/shaking/stammering, the ones who seemed to brim with self-confidence. (Looking back, I realise a lot of their 'confidence' may have been an act, sheer bravado. But at least they had an act!)
I've been trying to shake off those old feelings of inadequacy ever since. Because although I was a self-conscious, uncertain child, I have grown into a woman who believes herself to be friendly, genuine, occasionally funny and no more boring than anyone else. Or perhaps I should clarify that most of the time, I believe this. Some days I just have to re-convince myself!
So, is it just me? Or is someone else prepared to admit to sometimes feeling nong-ish too?!
Friday, August 25, 2006
Fatty and Jelly twitter together
An honest-to-goodness conversation I had with my husband late last night:
Fatty: "I'm really excited about my Latham's Snipe." (he had gone out bird-watching earlier that day)
me: "Yeah?"
Fatty: "Yeah." (thoughtful pause) " I actually was hoping to see a Buff-Banded Rail, or even a Spotless Crake. But I ended up seeing the Latham's Snipe."
me: (unsure how to respond to this suddenly frighteningly nerdy man lying next to me) "Mmm. That's good, hon."
Silence. Fatty undoubtedly planning his next birding adventure in his head. I'm still in shock at the oddity of the conversation we just had. I wonder if Fatty might end up being a trainspotter one day. I kiss my funny husband goodnight, and lie on my back, soundlessly memorising the bird names Fatty just mentioned, so I can write about it the next day.
Fatty: "I'm really excited about my Latham's Snipe." (he had gone out bird-watching earlier that day)
me: "Yeah?"
Fatty: "Yeah." (thoughtful pause) " I actually was hoping to see a Buff-Banded Rail, or even a Spotless Crake. But I ended up seeing the Latham's Snipe."
me: (unsure how to respond to this suddenly frighteningly nerdy man lying next to me) "Mmm. That's good, hon."
Silence. Fatty undoubtedly planning his next birding adventure in his head. I'm still in shock at the oddity of the conversation we just had. I wonder if Fatty might end up being a trainspotter one day. I kiss my funny husband goodnight, and lie on my back, soundlessly memorising the bird names Fatty just mentioned, so I can write about it the next day.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
worst case scenario
At the dinner table tonight:
Benjamin - "Do you know what the worst thing in the world is?" (pauses briefly) " Being dead."
Laura - "No! Mummy said that sometimes people are really, really sad. That could be worser."
I guess that could well be 'worser'. Severe depression must feel like the deepest crevasse, the blackest night, the loneliest place on earth. How strange that my five-year-old daughter was able to remind me of that fact this evening. Children sometimes have the keenest sense of the truth.
Major depression affects approximately 6% of the Australian population. Too often it goes undiagnosed and untreated - especially when sufferers hide their distress, or complain more of the physical symptoms, such as fatigue, insomnia or problems with memory or concentration. I suppose we all need to be vigilant in watching our nearest and dearest for warning signs. And that includes ourselves.
Of course, for those transitory blues or momentary stress-outs, there's always chocolate. It has proven mood-elevating benefits (I'm sure I read that in the New England Journal of Medicine, or was it Who Weekly?). With the amount of Old Jamaican Rum dark chocolate I ate tonight, I should be cruising through the rest of the week, happy as a clam!
I'll let you know how it goes.
Benjamin - "Do you know what the worst thing in the world is?" (pauses briefly) " Being dead."
Laura - "No! Mummy said that sometimes people are really, really sad. That could be worser."
I guess that could well be 'worser'. Severe depression must feel like the deepest crevasse, the blackest night, the loneliest place on earth. How strange that my five-year-old daughter was able to remind me of that fact this evening. Children sometimes have the keenest sense of the truth.
Major depression affects approximately 6% of the Australian population. Too often it goes undiagnosed and untreated - especially when sufferers hide their distress, or complain more of the physical symptoms, such as fatigue, insomnia or problems with memory or concentration. I suppose we all need to be vigilant in watching our nearest and dearest for warning signs. And that includes ourselves.
Of course, for those transitory blues or momentary stress-outs, there's always chocolate. It has proven mood-elevating benefits (I'm sure I read that in the New England Journal of Medicine, or was it Who Weekly?). With the amount of Old Jamaican Rum dark chocolate I ate tonight, I should be cruising through the rest of the week, happy as a clam!
I'll let you know how it goes.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
small humans go feral
Over the past 24 hours, my children have morphed into evil creatures. I want to make a list of their misdemeanours. One day when I am driving them crazy (dribbling, muttering spitefully about their spouses, getting lost in the grocery store), this list may soften their hearts towards me.
In the past day, my angels have:
1) foraged wildly in our store-room, tipping out the contents of several boxes of carefully-sorted old toys onto the floor
2) decided to refill the paint pots in the easel downstairs - in the process, spilling paint onto themselves, the floor, the couch (eeek, not the couch!), the hallway (from their feet, as they trotted down to the bathroom to get a cloth to 'clean up'), the bathroom sink, counter, floor, and the shower recess. I'm not sure WHY there was paint in the shower recess. It was one helluva mess.
3) brazenly ripped some plants out of the ground when we visited friends yesterday evening (causing me to have to send one child to the laundry and one to the spare room, where they sat, wailing mournfully, as if I was an unnaturally mean mother)
4) shoved the other, violently (Laura did this to Ben)
5) bitten, in retaliation (Ben did this to Laura)
There were other more minor incidents, (such as sneaking peanut butter from the jar with grubby fingers, when my back was turned), but the crimes I've listed were the major ones. I figure if I have to put up with another 365 days X 15 years of this, I'll be well within my rights to become a truly crotchety old lady. I'm going to start right now with the muttering.....
In the past day, my angels have:
1) foraged wildly in our store-room, tipping out the contents of several boxes of carefully-sorted old toys onto the floor
2) decided to refill the paint pots in the easel downstairs - in the process, spilling paint onto themselves, the floor, the couch (eeek, not the couch!), the hallway (from their feet, as they trotted down to the bathroom to get a cloth to 'clean up'), the bathroom sink, counter, floor, and the shower recess. I'm not sure WHY there was paint in the shower recess. It was one helluva mess.
3) brazenly ripped some plants out of the ground when we visited friends yesterday evening (causing me to have to send one child to the laundry and one to the spare room, where they sat, wailing mournfully, as if I was an unnaturally mean mother)
4) shoved the other, violently (Laura did this to Ben)
5) bitten, in retaliation (Ben did this to Laura)
There were other more minor incidents, (such as sneaking peanut butter from the jar with grubby fingers, when my back was turned), but the crimes I've listed were the major ones. I figure if I have to put up with another 365 days X 15 years of this, I'll be well within my rights to become a truly crotchety old lady. I'm going to start right now with the muttering.....
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
thinking, thinking
I've been quiet lately, I've realised. No post for almost a week. The fact is, I've been thinking (which could be a dangerous thing - but here I am, bravely thinking away regardless)
One of the medical magazines I read is running a writing competition. The prize is a trip away, a flashy dinner, a laptop computer, and being published (published in the magazine, that is). And seeing as I once got a poem published in the local Sunday newspaper when I was ten, I figure I'm ably equipped to win this competition. Easy as pie.
Actually, I'm interested in the laptop and the trip away, and I'd like to give the writing a go, but I'm extremely daunted by the idea of trying. The requisite is: 1000-3000 words, theme is 'Time'. What would I write about? Could I even write that many words? (without writing things over & over like, 'I must not pull grey hairs out with the tweezers'). Could I manage a work of fiction, or should I write something from real life? The task seems fraught with difficulty. I feel silly even discussing this, because I doubt I would be able to concoct any kind of competition entry. Even if I could, what would be the chances of winning an Australia-wide competition?! The whole idea is just ridiculous. And yet, maybe if I start to enter writing competitions now, I will start to write better prose. Then one day, when I'm as old as the hills, I might just win something. I could peer with rheumy eyes at my new laptop and smile a crooked smile at the achievement.
With that image in mind, I'm going to return to thinking. Time...... what could I write about on the topic of time? (reader input is beseechingly requested!)
One of the medical magazines I read is running a writing competition. The prize is a trip away, a flashy dinner, a laptop computer, and being published (published in the magazine, that is). And seeing as I once got a poem published in the local Sunday newspaper when I was ten, I figure I'm ably equipped to win this competition. Easy as pie.
Actually, I'm interested in the laptop and the trip away, and I'd like to give the writing a go, but I'm extremely daunted by the idea of trying. The requisite is: 1000-3000 words, theme is 'Time'. What would I write about? Could I even write that many words? (without writing things over & over like, 'I must not pull grey hairs out with the tweezers'). Could I manage a work of fiction, or should I write something from real life? The task seems fraught with difficulty. I feel silly even discussing this, because I doubt I would be able to concoct any kind of competition entry. Even if I could, what would be the chances of winning an Australia-wide competition?! The whole idea is just ridiculous. And yet, maybe if I start to enter writing competitions now, I will start to write better prose. Then one day, when I'm as old as the hills, I might just win something. I could peer with rheumy eyes at my new laptop and smile a crooked smile at the achievement.
With that image in mind, I'm going to return to thinking. Time...... what could I write about on the topic of time? (reader input is beseechingly requested!)
Friday, August 11, 2006
conversation, child to great-grandfather
We went to a Chinese restaurant with my grandfather last night. Grandpa is 92, and though his eyes are watery and his back is hunched, his mind is sharp. He's a living wonder, and a truly good man.
As we ate, Ben decided to speak with his great-grandfather.
"Grandpa?"
Grandpa, being slightly hard of hearing, continued to munch his stir-fry vegetables and rice.
"GRANDPA!", Ben shouted.
Grandpa looked up, and turned his head slowly, to see who was bellowing his name.
"Yes, Ben?"
"I can't see your smile", Ben explained.
Grandpa looked puzzled, and turned to me. I reiterated what Ben had said, unsure if Grandpa had failed to hear Ben's comment, or if Grandpa had heard and was understandably perplexed.
"Can't see it for the rice, hey?" Grandpa grinned, as he chewed and chewed.
"It's because you're so old", Ben pronounced, and resumed his meal. I widened my eyes across the table at my half-brother, and we smirked, embarrassed. Grandpa either failed to hear the comment, or wisely chose to ignore it.
Grandpa and Ben sat chewing together. I pulled out a scrap of paper and wrote down their conversation, verbatim. It seemed important to remember.
As we ate, Ben decided to speak with his great-grandfather.
"Grandpa?"
Grandpa, being slightly hard of hearing, continued to munch his stir-fry vegetables and rice.
"GRANDPA!", Ben shouted.
Grandpa looked up, and turned his head slowly, to see who was bellowing his name.
"Yes, Ben?"
"I can't see your smile", Ben explained.
Grandpa looked puzzled, and turned to me. I reiterated what Ben had said, unsure if Grandpa had failed to hear Ben's comment, or if Grandpa had heard and was understandably perplexed.
"Can't see it for the rice, hey?" Grandpa grinned, as he chewed and chewed.
"It's because you're so old", Ben pronounced, and resumed his meal. I widened my eyes across the table at my half-brother, and we smirked, embarrassed. Grandpa either failed to hear the comment, or wisely chose to ignore it.
Grandpa and Ben sat chewing together. I pulled out a scrap of paper and wrote down their conversation, verbatim. It seemed important to remember.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
morning march
I started today by going walking with my pal, Chooky. She is a bitingly-funny, clever and gorgeous woman, who is paradoxically prone to sadness and self-doubt. Whatever her mood, however we spend time together, I love to be with Chooky. We've known each other since we were twelve.
We walked in the chilly dawn, with a pale moon still hanging low in the sky, like a drunken dinner guest who had lingered too long. The sun was already rising, though it wasn't warming us up much! We strode along the streets at a cracking pace, dragging the beagle reluctantly behind us (What's wrong with you, oh my hurrisome owner? You don't want to sniff the gutters?! But there's a DEAD BIRD to snuffle!).
For awhile I felt slightly queasy. I think it may have been the mountainous terrain we were traversing (or at least the small hill we started our walk by climbing). Or maybe my body was in shock that I was denying it coffee. Whatever the cause, I soon felt good again, as Chooky and I walked and talked. We talked of friends, we talked about men and love, we spoke of children, we discussed body image. We listened to each other. We teased each other.
It was cold, it was ridiculously early, but it was a sparkling way to start the day..... just Chooky, the beagle and me.
We walked in the chilly dawn, with a pale moon still hanging low in the sky, like a drunken dinner guest who had lingered too long. The sun was already rising, though it wasn't warming us up much! We strode along the streets at a cracking pace, dragging the beagle reluctantly behind us (What's wrong with you, oh my hurrisome owner? You don't want to sniff the gutters?! But there's a DEAD BIRD to snuffle!).
For awhile I felt slightly queasy. I think it may have been the mountainous terrain we were traversing (or at least the small hill we started our walk by climbing). Or maybe my body was in shock that I was denying it coffee. Whatever the cause, I soon felt good again, as Chooky and I walked and talked. We talked of friends, we talked about men and love, we spoke of children, we discussed body image. We listened to each other. We teased each other.
It was cold, it was ridiculously early, but it was a sparkling way to start the day..... just Chooky, the beagle and me.
Monday, August 07, 2006
"No one listens to me!"
......These are the words that I wailed, as I finally left my consulting room this evening. The receptionist laughed her throaty laugh, and didn't try to console me with platitudes. She knows I'm telling the truth... or at least a partial truth. The fact is, as much as you might think that patients come to see a doctor to get medical advice, this is often far from the reality. Why seek advice from Dr Jellyhead, when you can consult the latest issue of Woman's Day? Why ask my humble opinion about a symptom when you can google 'sore throat' and conclude that you have acute thyroiditis? Why bother to ask the GP what they think, when your neighbour can tell you across the fence that you definitely have what she had last week? (which needed that particular medication to clear it up). Just figure out your own diagnosis, then come to the GP to demand the appropriate tests/medication/referral to a specialist. (Am I sounding a little bit *TETCHY* here?!!!!)
Today, a young man of 16 came to see me with his mother. The boy, 'Nate', walked in with a slight limp, and his ankle was mildly swollen. He explained he'd played a game of football the previous day, and noticed his ankle to be sore as he came off the field. He couldn't recall noticing anything amiss before that moment. No pain, no' snaps' or 'cracks'. This morning he found the ankle was more sore, and had swelled up.
Now this boy's mother was a nurse, and as much as I have great respect for nurses in a medical sense, they are often terrible patients, and terrible patients' mothers (Heather, don't hate me for saying this! I'm not referring to you! And I'm sure doctors as patients must be the all-time worst!). Nurses have seen too many dodgy doctors, they have seen too many serious illnesses and complications. The nurse patients that drive me crazy have reached the stage of distrusting everything a doctor says, and fearing every illness or injury is their (or their child's) last. I understand this, but nevertheless it drives me nuts.
So I see Nate, and check him over thoroughly. His ankle is minimally swollen, not at all bruised, stable, and he was able to bear weight easily. It is not broken. I'll run up & down my street naked tomorrow if that ankle is broken. ANYWAY. I tell the mother why I think it is a sprain. I tell her that it would be extremely unlikely that someone could break their ankle and not notice it. I ask her to continue with the treatment she's given Nate so far. And, to appease her(because I know she's worried), I give her an X-ray form, to use if the ankle gets worse, or doesn't improve over a few days.
Sound like sensible advice? Well of course it was - I'm full of sensible advice. Ask me any question, I'll give you the sensibullest advice you could ever imagine. But did the bad bad Nate's mother take any notice of what I said? Nooooooooooooooo she did not. Later this afternoon, we got a from call from the local X-ray facility, asking a question about Nate's X-ray form. Nate and his mother were there, getting the X-ray already! HMMPH! Pah! Stomp! *Various other noises of the temper tantrum variety*
I'm nothing but a writer of slips, a paper pusher! I am a referral service!
Also, I'm a whiny baby. Whining in my blog, over and over...... nooooo-one listens to meee!!!!
Today, a young man of 16 came to see me with his mother. The boy, 'Nate', walked in with a slight limp, and his ankle was mildly swollen. He explained he'd played a game of football the previous day, and noticed his ankle to be sore as he came off the field. He couldn't recall noticing anything amiss before that moment. No pain, no' snaps' or 'cracks'. This morning he found the ankle was more sore, and had swelled up.
Now this boy's mother was a nurse, and as much as I have great respect for nurses in a medical sense, they are often terrible patients, and terrible patients' mothers (Heather, don't hate me for saying this! I'm not referring to you! And I'm sure doctors as patients must be the all-time worst!). Nurses have seen too many dodgy doctors, they have seen too many serious illnesses and complications. The nurse patients that drive me crazy have reached the stage of distrusting everything a doctor says, and fearing every illness or injury is their (or their child's) last. I understand this, but nevertheless it drives me nuts.
So I see Nate, and check him over thoroughly. His ankle is minimally swollen, not at all bruised, stable, and he was able to bear weight easily. It is not broken. I'll run up & down my street naked tomorrow if that ankle is broken. ANYWAY. I tell the mother why I think it is a sprain. I tell her that it would be extremely unlikely that someone could break their ankle and not notice it. I ask her to continue with the treatment she's given Nate so far. And, to appease her(because I know she's worried), I give her an X-ray form, to use if the ankle gets worse, or doesn't improve over a few days.
Sound like sensible advice? Well of course it was - I'm full of sensible advice. Ask me any question, I'll give you the sensibullest advice you could ever imagine. But did the bad bad Nate's mother take any notice of what I said? Nooooooooooooooo she did not. Later this afternoon, we got a from call from the local X-ray facility, asking a question about Nate's X-ray form. Nate and his mother were there, getting the X-ray already! HMMPH! Pah! Stomp! *Various other noises of the temper tantrum variety*
I'm nothing but a writer of slips, a paper pusher! I am a referral service!
Also, I'm a whiny baby. Whining in my blog, over and over...... nooooo-one listens to meee!!!!
Saturday, August 05, 2006
truth is stranger than fiction
Yesterday morning, I went to my usual Friday morning gym class. I think I have mentioned before how I go to an energetic class involving boxing and running and a muscly instructor. Although, being married, I never notice the instructor's muscles. Much.
So yesterday I breezed into the gym, only to notice a distinct acrid smell in the air. There was a smoky scent, and another woman asked the instructor, "What is that awful smell?" It turns out there had been a fire the previous day. This fire started when some towels in the cupboard spontaneously combusted!
The towels had been used by the massage therapist who comes to the gym, and although they had been washed, apparently there was some residual oil in them. The towels had then been tumble dried, and stacked in the cupboard while still slightly warm. They began to smoulder. Smoke was eventually seen coming from the cupboard, and as soon as the doors were opened, the fire took hold in earnest. The owner, who was either incredibly foolish or incredibly brave (depending on how you look at it), picked up the stack of burning towels, which was not yet ablaze top and bottom, and ran outside. As he threw the towels onto the footpath, the extra oxygen to the now separated towels caused them to burn up in a WHOOSH of flames. It was a Towelling Inferno.
There's a lesson in this story somewhere...... maybe - if you see smoke coming from a cupboard, tell someone else, then leave the building quickly? No, that's not it. I'm not quite sure what it is, but someone's bound to know. John Cowart?
So yesterday I breezed into the gym, only to notice a distinct acrid smell in the air. There was a smoky scent, and another woman asked the instructor, "What is that awful smell?" It turns out there had been a fire the previous day. This fire started when some towels in the cupboard spontaneously combusted!
The towels had been used by the massage therapist who comes to the gym, and although they had been washed, apparently there was some residual oil in them. The towels had then been tumble dried, and stacked in the cupboard while still slightly warm. They began to smoulder. Smoke was eventually seen coming from the cupboard, and as soon as the doors were opened, the fire took hold in earnest. The owner, who was either incredibly foolish or incredibly brave (depending on how you look at it), picked up the stack of burning towels, which was not yet ablaze top and bottom, and ran outside. As he threw the towels onto the footpath, the extra oxygen to the now separated towels caused them to burn up in a WHOOSH of flames. It was a Towelling Inferno.
There's a lesson in this story somewhere...... maybe - if you see smoke coming from a cupboard, tell someone else, then leave the building quickly? No, that's not it. I'm not quite sure what it is, but someone's bound to know. John Cowart?
Thursday, August 03, 2006
future women
My daughter went to a jazz ballet class today. She's never been before, but her friend goes to this class, and Laura wanted to try it out. I sat in the foyer, spying on these miniature dancers, as they hopped and stumbled and skipped around the room. It was amazing to see that these little girls are showing already who they will be when they grow up.
One little blond looked haughty and ambitious, at the tender age of 6 or 7. She held her chin in the air, she spoke only to one or two others, and she her face was china-doll beautiful. This girl is bound to be a school prefect, and she'll probably be the Queen Bee in the 'in' group of girls. Of course, I could just have a wildly overactive imagination.
One little girl was unlikely to be the Queen Bee at school. She clumped when the others tippy-toed. She landed with a thud when the others sprang lightly. Her timing was all wrong, and her movements were awkward. She yawned and looked over at me with huge, limpid brown eyes. This doe-eyed child had thicker limbs than all the other girls, and her body was stocky. She will probably never be skinny; she may never be graceful. Her eyes were arresting. I hope someone tells her she is lovely, often.
I remember being a little girl, and I don't think I have changed much since then, in essence. At the dance class, I would have been scared, without visibly quailing. I would have been frightened of any criticism from the teacher, trying my hardest to get the moves right. If another girl had been dismissive, or mean, I would have chewed my lip, hard, trying to quell the tears. In time, I would have started to chat, getting more & more animated if anyone responded. I would have been just like the little girl yesterday with a fraying ponytail of mousy-brown hair - not outstanding, and just a little more fearful than the rest.
Yesterday, watching my daughter, I was glad for her. Because, like I would have done, she was concentrating hard, focusing on the dance steps. But between dancing, she never so much as looked like chewing her lip. She smiled, she twirled, she giggled with some of the others. Her confidence was a joy to behold. As she stepped in time to the music, and flicked her little hips side-to-side like she'd been born to wiggle (1-2, 1-2-3!), I felt my heart grow huge with pride. What a wondrous creature my daughter is! She is like me in some ways, but in many ways she is un-like me. And I couldn't be happier to know this.
One little blond looked haughty and ambitious, at the tender age of 6 or 7. She held her chin in the air, she spoke only to one or two others, and she her face was china-doll beautiful. This girl is bound to be a school prefect, and she'll probably be the Queen Bee in the 'in' group of girls. Of course, I could just have a wildly overactive imagination.
One little girl was unlikely to be the Queen Bee at school. She clumped when the others tippy-toed. She landed with a thud when the others sprang lightly. Her timing was all wrong, and her movements were awkward. She yawned and looked over at me with huge, limpid brown eyes. This doe-eyed child had thicker limbs than all the other girls, and her body was stocky. She will probably never be skinny; she may never be graceful. Her eyes were arresting. I hope someone tells her she is lovely, often.
I remember being a little girl, and I don't think I have changed much since then, in essence. At the dance class, I would have been scared, without visibly quailing. I would have been frightened of any criticism from the teacher, trying my hardest to get the moves right. If another girl had been dismissive, or mean, I would have chewed my lip, hard, trying to quell the tears. In time, I would have started to chat, getting more & more animated if anyone responded. I would have been just like the little girl yesterday with a fraying ponytail of mousy-brown hair - not outstanding, and just a little more fearful than the rest.
Yesterday, watching my daughter, I was glad for her. Because, like I would have done, she was concentrating hard, focusing on the dance steps. But between dancing, she never so much as looked like chewing her lip. She smiled, she twirled, she giggled with some of the others. Her confidence was a joy to behold. As she stepped in time to the music, and flicked her little hips side-to-side like she'd been born to wiggle (1-2, 1-2-3!), I felt my heart grow huge with pride. What a wondrous creature my daughter is! She is like me in some ways, but in many ways she is un-like me. And I couldn't be happier to know this.
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