a post at long last

Well. It's been awhile. What have I been doing?

I've been having a birthday. For some reason, my newly allocated age grated on me at first. I kept peering in the mirror at the creases beside my mouth, at the softening of my eyelids. But then I had to acknowledge how thoroughly spoilt I was by my nearest and dearest, and that made me feel loved. Wrinkled, but loved. A friend who lives overseas sent me a package, and as much as I was thrilled by the book, and the chocolate, and the t-shirt she sent, I was most happy to think that she went to the trouble of sending me a gift; that her thoughtful hands had touched these items even though I can't reach out and touch her hands in person. My husband made me Eggs Benedict although he hates to cook. I received phone calls from 5 relatives and 5 friends, and that seemed like an awful lot of attention for one fully-grown person on their birthday. I don't like physically ageing but I adore the people who are keeping me company as I do so!

I've been splitting my nose open on the lid of the washing machine (I flung the lid back then leant in to retrieve the clothes, and it leapt back at me. Vicious piece of machinery!) and sporting a butterfly bandage and a purplish bruise across the bridge of my nose. You've no idea how silly this looks on a thirty-something woman. On a seven-year-old ..... utterly cute. On me...... just ridiculous. My sister snort-laughed. My husband smiled his fathomless smile. My half-brother Soccerboy grinned widely. I told them all I got in a street fight but no-one was buying it. Now I have to go to work looking stoopid.

I've been spending a day with my kids, my sister and my two half brothers. Yesterday it was one of those clear, crisp winter days with an eggshell-blue sky. Except instead of soaking up the view, we were eating a pancake breakfast, then bounding about from one school holiday kids' activity to another, with my sister or I occasionally yelling to a wayward child to return to the flock. Each child tried the bungee trampolining, and their faces lit up with an exhilirating mix of trepidation and delight as they rocketed up into mid-air and down again. It was a sight for sore eyes.

I've also been reading your blogs, post by post, but commenting only now & then. You all keep me amused, engrossed, and very much entertained.

Thank you, thisisme and Sandy, for checking in on me. All is well in the house of Jelly.

winter sun

It's been hectic in the House of Jelly lately, and blogging fell by the wayside. Then Fatty and the kids and I went away for a few days, to take a break from headaches (both literal and figurative, both ours and others'!). We chose to go to the same beach spot we go to every summer, to try a winter escape.

The first couple of days were cold (not cold-if-you're-from-Alaska cold, but definitely cold-if-you're-in-a-bikini cold). I wondered if perhaps the weekend would be disastrous, with children bored and mutinous and Fatty sighing over the cryptic crossword, having done all the suduko and regular crosswords to be found. After all, what do you do at the beach when you can't swim in the surf or loll about on the sand?

Apparently you:
-walk along the sand dunes, slowly (because the kids keep stopping to make imaginary castles from bits of shell and weed and scraps of plastic)
-put together a large jigsaw puzzle, with everyone helping, elbowing each other good-naturedly
-eat ice-cream (OK so this one seems a bit odd, but trust me we all found it to be a pivotal part of the holiday, cold weather and all)
-watch movies
-read fat novels (Fatty was reading a Bill Bryson book about Bryson's travels in Australia, and couldn't stop giggling. It was most disconcerting - Fatty chortling is a rare sound! -but it lifted my spirits to hear Fatty hysterical with laughter. I think he really needed to go to a unit at the beach and read silly books)
-take the path along the headlands, spotting fifty or more dolphins in the sea down below
-gaze out to sea until, heart thumping with happiness, you see a humpback whale wave hello with a huge dark flipper
-go out to dinner on the coldest night of the stay, shiver your way through the meal (alfresco dining in winter - what a crock!), then run home along the footpath, all somehow ending up holding hands, with Ben shouting 'Don't go too fast! Wait for me! I'm the runt of the family!', and the rest of us laughing at Ben and shuddering in the wind and me thinking I'll always remember this moment.

Our last day, the sun came out and the wind died away and it was balmy. We swam and jumped waves and the kids boogie-boarded in the shallows. And while that was a delight, I knew that we would have had fun even if the weather had remained steadfastly frigid.

Although my childhood was by no means awful, it was, for a number of reasons, nothing like the childhood that my own children are experiencing. Family holidays were rare. Family outings were not relaxing, for one reason or another. Many factors were beyond my parents' control. My point is simply this - I am glad to be able to create joyful memories with my children that I believe they will treasure. I want to remember it all, too, but failing that, I will write down here what I most want to recall forever.

'Sweet dreams are made of this'
(Eurythmics, 'Sweet Dreams')

in honour of Boomer

You could be forgiven for thinking I was a veterinarian, or a wildlife officer, or some other occupation of that ilk. Lately I seem to write about birds and bouncing critters and koalas and snakes, with the occasional post about the kids or my birdbrained - I mean birdobsessed - husband. In fact, I sound like a Gerald Durrell wannabe (Gerald Durrell being the author of "My Family and other Animals", one of my very favourite books ever)

I'm sorry if you're all growing weary of animal tails and tales, but when Mum sent this story to my kids, I loved it so much that I asked her if I could post it on this blog. It is a true story, which makes it so much better.

Remember Boomer? This is more of his story (in the simple, child-friendly words of my beloved Mum, 'Jellyma'):

*

BOOMER IS A BETTONG (not a person)

*

Boomer thought he was a person. Every night I took him outside. He just hopped behind me everywhere I went. I put him with the wild bettongs that feed under my jacaranda tree. He would eat the seed with them, but every morning he would be back in his basket. Would he ever learn that he was a bettong?

On Friday night, he went out to feed. I went to bed. On Saturday morning he was not in his basket. I was sad. I wondered, 'Is he safe?', 'Will he come back to visit?'. On Saturday night I watched the wild bettongs feeding, but I did not see Boomer.

On Sunday night, I saw three big bettongs and one little one feeding. I talked to them and walked towards them. The three big ones hopped away. The little one looked at me and sat still.

I went inside to get a grape. Boomer likes grapes. I crept slowly towards the little bettong and held out the grape. The little bettong took the grape and ate it. I patted him. Then he hopped away. It was Boomer.

I am happy now. Boomer knows he is a bettong.

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

Thanks Mum for letting me share the words you wrote to your grandchildren. You were the perfect foster mother for Boomer, and you are the best mother a daughter could ask for. XXOO

the return

He's been gone for several days. At first, it didn't bother me. The kids and I went on with our usual routine. Coffee for me to kickstart the day, the children bouncing and chatting; toast crusts left uneaten and dried cereal flakes caking onto bowls. Ironing at the last minute. Jumping into the car to go here and there. Laughing at Ben's dumb-but-funny jokes. Admiring Laura's fabulous, intricate drawings. Dinner a rowdy, happy affair - each child talking over the other, clamouring to tell their news. Bedtime cosy with cuddles and books. Life went on smoothly without him.

After a couple of days, though, I began to feel a little sad. Each morning I half-expected to see him, and was disappointed that he wasn't with us. I knew he lifted my spirits, but I hadn't realised just how much I'd begun to count on his presence to brighten each day. I wished fervently for his return. I knew all would be well with the world when I laid eyes on his sweet face again.

Today, he has returned, and the kids and I are overjoyed. He's back! We adore him!

Tony, the tawny frogmouth, is perched in our tree once more.

(Oh, and Fatty returns from a conference tomorrow!)

speechless

It's been a week between posts, and still I have nothing to say for myself. I'm in a reflective, rather than a talkative, frame of mind.

I have been reading all my your blogs assiduously, and enjoying the news, and funny tales, and sweet stories. I just haven't left a comment. For once, I have kept my mouth shut.

To prevent boredom at my blog, I am going to let some others do the talking here for me. By 'others', I mean my family.

ON IMPORTANT AND SERIOUS PASTIMES:

"This is not just stamp-collecting you know. I have one life to see as many Australian birds as I can." - Fatty

ON FRIENDSHIP:

"To be a good friend, you need a very good pair of ears" - Laura

ON HAPPINESS:

"It's not how rich you are, it's how good your day is." - Benjamin

I hope you all cherish this one life, enjoy your good ears, and have a day that is everything you wish for!

eight things

My esteemed blogfriend, John Cowart, asked me to do a meme. I was to tell 8 things about myself.

Here they are:

1) I have an unreasonable dread of vomiting. I would rather endure labour again than have to upchuck. Seriously.

2) I secretly enjoyed the challenge of going through labour, and felt like I'd run a marathon (and come first!) when my daughter was born

3) when I was six, I had a friend called Erin who used to kick me in the shins whenever I annoyed her. I thought this was fair enough and did not retaliate. My parents couldn't understand why my legs were purple with bruises.

4) I also had a friend called Alanadeen who I bossed around terribly. I used to order her to stand in a corner when she annoyed me (though I refrained from kicking her in the shins)

5) my Grade 8 English teacher told my mother I had no friends and was a social misfit.

6) although I have friends, and never believed that teacher, I do sometimes doubt my own 'likeability', and am never quite sure if my friends adore me or endure me

7) I know I should yearn for world peace, but inwardly I'm always dreaming of having taut thighs.

8) I have to concede that my life is rich and full and wondrous - wobbly thighs and all!

marriage and other animals

Tomorrow is the ninth anniversary of the day Fatty took a wild gamble and married yours truly. Ours is not exactly a lengthy marriage, yet, but we're nonetheless proud to still be together, and proud to still be on speaking terms (he he!). So, to celebrate, we dumped our kids with my mother last weekend (thanks again Mum!!), and headed off to a little B&B in a rainforest area not far from Mum's farm.

All the local animals seemed to know it was a special weekend, and came out to greet us. On the way there, Fatty spotted a koala in a tree just beside the road. Then, the first night at the B&B, I decided to ring our kidlets (who, may I just mention, were so not missing their parents that Ben, after about 1 minute of phone conversation, told us blithely, "You can hang up the phone now."). I stepped out onto the dimly-lit balcony only to find this snake lying in wait for me on the railing. Eeek!

The next day, we went walking in the rainforest, which was deserted - probably because it was overcast and raining, ever so lightly. Fatty and I joked and walked and saw all kinds of wildlife. If you look closely at this next picture, you can see the Wobbly-Headed Jellymonster. She is rarely seen out in the open like this, and the photo is a little blurry (funny that), but you can probably still tell that she is grinning and having a really good time.

This wild turkey was perched on a vine above the path, and fixed us with a beady eye, seeming completely unfazed by our presence. I found him rather creepy, actually, and ducked quickly past!

The canopy was so beautiful, I had to show you a photo.

This cute furry girl is a female pademelon - a hopping marsupial animal rather like a small kangaroo, except furrier and with a shorter and differently proportioned face. After we saw this female, we saw another one with a baby (everyone say awwww!) hopping its itty bitty baby hops along behind its mother.

Finally, we arrived back at Mum's farm, where we were able to watch this bettong (another native hopping creature - smaller again than a pademelon) drink its milk, and we even got to hold and pat the little guy. 'Boomer' was given to Mum via a wildlife rescue centre, where Boomer was rehabilitated, and soon Mum will begin the process of releasing him back into the wild. Mum has wild bettongs who visit her each night under the jacaranda tree, where Mum leaves special seeds out for them.

That was my weekend ....... furry friends and fun with fabulous Fatty.

What more could a Wobbly-Headed Jellymonster wish for?

rain and the joy of Tony

This is a sight for sore eyes - our street, wet with rain. This is such a rare and wonderful scene, I had to take a photo. Even though we had only a couple of millimetres of rain, it was lovely to see our neighbourhood all washed fresh, and to smell the clear morning air.

Where I live, as in most parts of Australia, we are stricken by the worst drought in a thousand years. It has been dry for days and days on end. Very occasionally, clouds gather, and it rains lightly for a few minutes. Mostly, it simply doesn't rain at all.

In my city, there are such severe water restrictions that we are forbidden to wash our cars (apart from the windscreens and mirrors); we can water plants only by bucket, and only 3 days a week, during set times. We desperately need rain to fill the water reservoirs, which are dangerously low. I heard a meteorologist talking about some upcoming predicted rain which may ease the drought, and he said, "The thing is - we need rain that measures in metres, not millimetres".

Fatty grumbles these days when it rains, because it never rains for long enough or hard enough. I know this to be true, but I'm still happy it's raining at all. Every little bit helps.

And then, there is Tony, who cheers us no end. 'Tony' is a tawny frogmouth - an owl-like bird (though not actually a member of the owl family) who has come to stay in a tree in our yard. We have seen tawny frogmouths off & on over the years since we have lived here, but this fella (gal?) has been spending his days snoozing just outside our dining room window for over a week now.

One day, my son Ben checked for Tony, and he wasn't there. We all sighed, "Oh, no", and wondered if he'd ever return. The next day, Tony was back, and we were thrilled to see his funny pointy fuzzy little face.

There is something inspiring about a creature that chooses to slumber in a tree overlooking noisy children and a barking dog, underneath roaring planes, beside a street where garbage trucks rumble loudly and hoons whizz by in their souped-up cars. Tony is a resilient dude. We like him a lot.



I hope you are all having a happy week. May you be filled with gladness for the funny creatures and the rain (or the sun) in your life!

bugger!

Can you hear that crunching, munching, gulping sound?

It's me.

Eating humble pie.

wanna bet?

While other hip young couples make bets involving juicy prizes such as naked internet photos, Fatty and I bet for prizes such as a week's worth of him cooking (in the event that I win) or a week's worth of me loading the dishwasher and washing up pots (if he wins). Personally I am happy in the knowledge that even if I lose, I will only suffer for about ten minutes each evening. If Fatty loses, he will labour for at least an hour to complete his chosen task. (*wicked, cackling laughter*)

I can't say we make bets often. It's not something we do to pass the time or anything. It's more that occasionally we are each so convinced that the other is terribly, horribly mistaken. We look at each other incredulously. We roll our eyes in synchrony. We splutter, "No WAY!". We each say, "I'm sure ......."

What usually clinches it for me is when Fatty laughs at me. He becomes so utterly certain of his Total Rightness that he laughs like a tolerant parent. And that is when I offer to bet. Because I need him to pay for that patronising laugh, and I need him to pay up bigtime. He, of course, is only too willing to participate, because he knows he is right and has nothing to lose.

Last night, we had a bet. It was a very nerdy bet, but it had to be made.

Fatty and I were watching a DVD together, and I was eating a lot of chocolate - single piece by single piece so as to kid myself I wasn't eating much at all. The back door was open, and through it came the faint sound of tortured musical notes. "What is that?", I asked no-one in particular, and wandered out onto the back deck. I listened intently, as again the strangled notes of a badly-played violin came wafting our way.

"It's a kid, playing violin", I muttered, as I resumed my place on our lumpy old couch. Fatty looked at me, alarmed.

"A violin? Noooooo. No, it's some sort of woodwind instument. It's an oboe or something."

"An oboe? Are you kidding? I can hear the bowing! Go listen out back."

(Fatty stomps to the back deck purposefully, stand for a few seconds, and strides back to the couch decisively)

"It's an oboe. Can't you hear all the notes are precise? Can't you hear there are no 'bum' notes?"

*Now may be the time to mention here that Fatty is a talented pianist who plays beautifully. However, I played violin as a child and teen, and consider myself to be fairly musical, too. I may be totally crap as a violinist now, but I still consider myself able to recognise the sound of the damn instrument!*

Just as Fatty declared our child neighbour to have perfect pitch, a series of flat, howling notes issued forth from the house over the back.

"What do you mean there are no bum notes? Listen to that! They're playing flat! It's just one flat note after another!"

Fatty shook his head emphatically. "No, no. That's just from over-blowing. They're missing the notes by over-blowing." (Hello? Since when did you become a woodwind expert, Mr Pianist?!)

And then Fatty said something that sounded the death knell for any sort of sensible, non-betting behaviour. He said (and I quote directly): "Come back to the couch. And I don't want you to talk about it again".

My eyes bugged out. I grinned maniacally.

"Are you serious?", I spluttered, laughing at his daring, but outraged nonetheless. Fatty is usually a gentle man, but the dispute had brought out his alter ego, Fatty-the-Dictator (oh, and Mr Pianist, who I introduced to you earlier). " You can't tell me what to do like that!!"

Fatty smiled serenely from the couch, the dictator turned benign. I'm sure he just likes to test me now and then, to see if I'm still the feisty woman he married. To make sure I haven't turned into some sort of obedient banana-loaf-maker.

"Let's bet. Wanna bet?", I offered. I extended my hand.

"Sure!" Fatty agreed, eager to complete the topic neatly with a well-defined bet. "It's definitely an oboe. But how are you going to find out the truth?"

"I'll go over tomorrow and ask."

"You won't. I bet you won't!"



Who will win and who will lose? I truthfully don't know. I'm nervous, now, and less confident than I was last night - especially in the face of Fatty's complete certainty! But as my mother's partner likes to say......

All will be revealed in the fullness of time.

speak no evil

I have found myself with not much to say lately. Astonishing, really. My report cards were always peppered with comments such as, "Jellyhead needs to remember not to talk during class". Not that the teachers actually called me Jellyhead - which, come to think of it, might have been nice. A sort of fond nickname. But I digress.

One of my closest friends suffers with depression. She takes medication for it, and has been stable for a few years now. I haven't spent much time with her lately - our busy lives intervene - but we spoke openly yesterday, and she admitted she has been backsliding. She is sleeping poorly again, feeling sad all the time, feeling hopeless about life.

Another close friend sent me an e-mail recently. She finds herself lying in bed at night with racing heart, she is jumpy, and irritable, and wound up like a coil. Her anxiety disorder has rebounded back on her, when she'd thought she had it beat.

I am worried about both these friends. And when I am worried, I am incapable of happy, upbeat posts. In fact, I am incapable of posting about anything, really, except what's on mind. Hence I've been keeping quiet.

To tell the truth, it's not just my friends I'm concerned about. It's my friendships as well.

I talk to both these friends by phone at least weekly. I went out with one of these friends for a whole day about two weeks ago. Yet I did not know either of them was struggling - not in any major way. I don't know if I have been unobservant, or unapproachable, or both.

I don't know how it can be that life gets so busy that I have hardly any time to be with my friends, or even to just talk at length with my friends. I want to lead a balanced life, and I try to do so, but sometimes I feel that I'd be better just being a mother only, a doctor only, a wife only, or a friend only. I am slicing this pie into so many pieces that the pastry is crumbling and no-one ever gets enough.

That's where my head's at today.

Seems I managed to live up to my reputation of talking a lot, after all.

bad words

My six-year-old daughter drew me aside the other day.

"Mummy, I know I shouldn't have but I taught Ben some bad words. I told Ben about the 's' word and the 'h' word."

I was perplexed. The 's' word I could figure out, although I was a little surprised to realise Laura was familiar with it (I'm no saint, but I try to curtail my swearing when my kids are around. Dammit! Bother! and Bugger! - if I'm really upset - are my catchcries these days). But what was the 'h' word? What new swear-word was this?

I asked Laura what these words were. She squirmed, she wiggled, she beseeched me, "Don't make me say them Mummy. They're bad words."

"C'mon", I coaxed. "Just whisper them in my ear then."

Laura eyed me warily for a moment. Suddenly deciding in my favour, she nodded, and leant towards me as I bent down to her pigtailed head. In a rush of warm little girl breath, she murmured damply in my ear,

"Shush up and hush up!"

ANZAC Day

It is ANZAC day today. Today, Australians and New Zealanders remember and honour the fallen soldiers who died at Gallipoli (in Turkey) in 1915.

Due to unfortunate military errors, the soldiers were landed on a beach faced by small cliffs. The soldiers valiantly clambered up and over these cliffs, only to be mown down by waiting Turkish soldiers. Thousands of soldiers were slaughtered in this manner.

In 1997, I visited Gallipoli - a pilgrimage made my many young Australians. I saw the inhospitable landing site. I stood in the cold dawn, thinking of all the young Australians who died at that very site, eighty-two years before me. I couldn't help but be deeply moved and eternally grateful.

Strange, though, that what brought me to tears were these words of a Turkish commander (Ataturk, 1934), written on a wall ...........

"Those heroes that shed their blood
and lost their lives....
you are now lying in the soil of a friendly country
therefore rest in peace.
There is no difference between the Johnnies
and the Mehmets where they lie side by side
here in this country of ours...
You, the mothers,
who sent their sons from far away countries
wipe away your tears;
Your sons are in our bosom
and are in peace.
After having lost their lives on this land they have
become our sons as well."

love story

I watched Pride and Prejudice (the 2006 movie) the other night on DVD. Others have told me that the movie is far inferior to the TV series, but, having never seen the series, I can only discuss the movie. Which I loved (romantic fool that I am!).

Fatty watched with me, and in fact it was he who bought the DVD for us to watch. Fatty is a blokey bloke who loves football, doesn't listen well, and forgets his friends' birthdays. Yet he has another side to him - he enjoys a good drama, especially poignant ones. Like me, he finds human relationships interesting to observe on screen.

There we sat on our smallish couch, glued to the scenes of love torn asunder and of unrequited love. We were riveted. It was all so windswept, so passionate, so .... utterly romantic. I kept glancing across at my kind, crinkly-eyed, handsome husband and thinking how glad I am that he asked me out, that he fell in love with me, too; how happy I am that he wanted to marry me.

I like to think that most people have their own love story - even if was a love that eventually died. Even if the memories have faded, or the love has become a little stale, the embers remain. I believe that almost everyone has felt that deep and overwhelming emotion at some time in their life.

Sometimes, being married becomes a habit, becomes humdrum and routine. I forget to thank my lucky stars that not only did I meet a caring, cute and clever man - he also (woo-hoo!) thought I was not so bad either. Watching the tortured agony of thwarted love onscreen reminded me to be grateful. I hugged Fatty tight and held his hand. I remembered that our little love story began with fireworks but goes on with daily affection and constancy. I remembered that the spark is still there, and merely needs fanning from time to time.

Thank goodness for Fatty. He is my one and only.

when a stranger calls

I swear this story is only going to fuel the myths that abound about Australia. I know my regular overseas readers are informed enough to know that kangaroos don't bounce along the inner city freeways, and that koalas don't live in trees in everyone's backyard. But any innocent blog-surfer who happened along would be at risk of believing these things. I often write about Mum's farm, which is teeming with wildlife - judging by the tales Mum is forever telling me . There was the snake above the front door. The native hopping mouse nesting in Mum's chest of drawers (complete with pink, newborn babies). A dingo attacking a defenceless calf. The frog living in Mum's bathroom. And now, a mysterious visitor at the back door......

A few nights ago, Mum was spending a quiet evening at her farm. Mum's sister, my Aunt Zany, was staying over, so the two of them were peacefully talking.

"Bang! Thump!" came a sound from the back door.

Mum and Aunt Zany exchanged mystified glances. Cautiously, they approached the door. Slowly, carefully and somewhat fearfully, Mum opened the back door and peered out. There, immediately beside the door, clinging on to the log wall of Mum's hogbacked home, was a koala.

Mum and Aunt Zany stood and spoke softly to the koala. I don't have it from the horse's mouth (sorry Mum, you are in fact the horse in this scenario), but I bet Mum was saying things like, "Hello little fella! Whatchyou doing here, hmm? Did you think this wall was a tree, hey?". The koala eyed them warily and declined to comment. Eventually, Mum and Aunt Zany went back inside, and came around from the front to the side of the house, to spy on the disorientated marsupial.

They watched as the koala slowly clambered down, and then sat lazily on Mum's back porch awhile. A few minutes later, the furry creature headed off towards Mum's nearby Jacaranda tree (see photo). Two feet up the Jacaranda tree, the koala stopped, and gazed about. Obviously having some sort of an epiphany, (doesn't FEEL like a gum tree....hmmmm....doesn't SMELL like a gum tree....errrrr.....doesn't LOOK like gum tree either. Back up, back up, I'm comin' down!) the confused critter shunted down the trunk. Mum watched as the koala trundled off into the night, finally reached a blue gum tree, and climbed up safely.

I'm not sure what was going on in the brain of this fuzzball. My friend Heather suggested the animal was inebriated (gum leaf shooters, anyone?). I'm thinking this koala was a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

I wonder what the poor little tyke must have thought of the night's events. I'm guessing the koala was traumatised by all the kerfuffle - mistaking a house for a tree, being spoken to by Scary Humans, then climbing another tree that wasn't quite right. Did it shake its grey head in shame, muttering 'How embarrassing! ' to itself? Was it shivering, quaking, and exhausted, up high in the Blue gum?

After all, how much can a koala bear?

(smirk)

on being alone

Yesterday morning I went out early to buy bread. It was a perfectly ordinary morning - clear, cool and the sun just easing its pale light above the horizon. I strode along the deserted streets, and wondered why I felt so odd.

I felt light, airy, and bouncy. There was something new afoot, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. My thoughts ran free, uninterrupted. I crossed a road unimpeded. I hummed to myself, unheard by others. Suddenly it dawned on me - the reason for this queer high I was experiencing. I was alone! Not even the damn beagle was there to drag on her lead and trip me over.

I'm the first to say how grateful I am for the opportunities I have in my life. I know I am very lucky to be able to spend time at home, to work, to exercise, to see my friends and to go out with my husband every now and then. Really, I have it much better than many of the other mothers I know. And yet, how amazing it was for me to realise that I am hardly ever on my own. All my 'time away' from home and hearth involves being with other people - husband, friends, fellow karate students, gym class pals. I loved my morning walk by myself, just tripping along and admiring the dawn skies. It was heavenly. I told myself I'm going to do the 'bread run' more often!

Then all this merry morning meandering was tempered by a rather sobering thought. I remembered what my grandfather had said to me a day earlier.

Grandpa had been reminding me that I should only visit when I have the time, and that I must never feel guilty when I have to leave. He is horrified by the thought of detaining a visitor through their sense of duty; he never wants to feel like an obligation. Then he'd added quietly, "I never thought it would be like this. I thought I'd always be hale and hearty - driving, working in the yard, and making things." And although he stopped there, and didn't elaborate, I knew what he'd left unspoken. I know that Grandpa is mostly alone, and I know that he gets lonely.

I asked Grandpa how he spends his days at home, and he told me, hour by hour. One hour getting showered and dressed. Half an hour preparing and eating breakfast. An hour of radio news here. A nap for an hour there. Then he lowered his voice, looked me in the eye, and told me huskily, "From two o'clock to four o'clock in the afternoon - that's the time I struggle to fill. They're the hours that seem to drag." It was fairly unemotive statement on one level. On another level, the pathos in those words could fill a room, a house even.

As I recalled this conversation with Grandpa, I imagined myself older and spending more time on my own. I imagined my children grown and gone. I imagined the house quiet and neat. My imaginings filled me with the anticipation of freedom but also with a tinge of sadness. I began to grasp the lingering loss I will feel when I am no longer indispensible to my children; when I am free to walk alone to fetch bread every hour of every day.

In the end, I guess we make the best of whatever life brings. When our children are small - dependant and needy - we love them and care for them day in day out, savouring our rare moments of freedom and solitude. When we are older, we adjust to spending more time alone, and look forward to the company of family and friends.

I'm going to go walking at dawn every now and then. I'm also going to hug my kids and kiss their damp foreheads in gladness when I return.

winding down

Sometimes I can shed my workday worries and leave them outside the house - discarded, paper-thin, ready to drift away with the very next zephyr. I know those worries are there. I carry on as if they're not. Next time I peer outside, there's nothing but small balls of dog hair and a few dead leaves.

Other times, I come home from work and feel uneasy. Mostly, I'm not even sure why.

Today, I wonder - is it the melancholy of seeing Polly, a sweet octogenarian, who is lonely but won't admit it, who is losing weight before my eyes, who always looks stylish, and who has a smile that is equal parts bravado and happiness?

Or am I worried about Ned, who has incurable bladder cancer, and who talks and talks and talks and talks, and who looked much older than his 70-odd years today?

I know I keep wondering about about Leah, who I referred to a specialist with a puzzling lab result that could indicate anything from cancer to Cumquat disease (you're right, I made up the cumquat disease)

Maybe it wasn't Ned, or Polly or Leah, or any one person. Maybe it is just my mind whirling, my thoughts spinning, my anxiety levels skyrocketing irrationally too high. Because in case you haven't figured it out yet - I can be a bit like that. Neurotic. Anxious. Wired too tightly.

I tried a glass of Kahlua and Frangelico and milk. (Don't try this at home folks. Alcohol should NOT be used to self-medicate...... he he) But what would cure me for certain would be a run, a gym class, even a long sweaty ride on the exercise bike. So why am I not pedalling this very minute, instead of whining to you?

I'm too lazy. It's dark, it's night-time, my kids are asleep and my husband is off sweating with his friends (playing squash, in case you were visualising some male-bonding towel-waisted sauna session). I don't want to go jump on the exercise bike and pedal like a mad thing. I'd rather just stay a non-perspiring mad thing, thanks very much.

Of course, blogging is another cure for those unsettled emotions. And I'm feeling better by the minute as I tap away here in my stunted 2-fingered fashion. (Veering off the topic for a moment - a question ...... If your doctor typed with two fingers, at a moderate speed but with a moderate error rate to boot, would you hold it against her? Or him? Or would you - she says, leading, leading, coaxing, coaxing - would you find it endearing and forgivable rather than regarding her as an inept idiot? Please reply frankly. But not too frankly. In fact, brutally honest answers will be deleted)

So where was I ? Oh yes, feeling strung-out. Except, I'm no longer feeling so strung-out. It's a miracle! I am cured!

No snarky comments about the alcohol finally kicking in, people. I only had 1 drink. I am not an alcoholic. Hi, my name's Jelly, and I am not an alcoholic.

Life can be anxiety-provoking. But I hate to waste the quiet times; the peaceful moments that could be spent reading, laughing, cuddling. Sometimes, like everyone else at one time or another, I have to shake my silly self and give myself a stern talking-to. But tonight my ill-feeling seems to have evaporated on expression. No need to chastise myself further. All I need now is a cup of hot chocolate, a piece of banana cake, and my big, fat book.

It's turning out to be a wonderful evening after all.

candles on a cake

Today, we celebrated my grandfather's 93rd birthday.

The family assembled for lunch at a cheap restaurant, taking over several tables, all joined together to form one long table. My Grandpa sat at the head of the table, looking regal despite his stoop; handsome in his gold silky shirt and tie. He seemed proud as he gazed down the table at his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I think he smiled almost the entire time.

I sat for awhile by Grandpa's side. He may be elderly, but nothing gets past him. He asked me about work, and enquired after Laura and Ben. He told me a joke about an Scotsman and and Irishman (it was quite funny, but due to my joke-telling ineptitude, I cannot - will not - inflict this joke upon you). We spoke about this and that.

Grandpa talked about his mother, who wore her hair so long she could sit on it. Grandpa remembered when he was four, and his own fair hair fell in curls to well below his shoulders. Apparently that was the done thing in those days - to leave a boy child's hair uncut until the age of about four years, when the locks were finally cut short.

Grandpa spoke of a picture of a prince and princess that he once bought for Grandma - a picture Grandma spotted in a hotel not far from their home. I'm not sure what Grandpa and Grandma were actually doing in the hotel, since Grandma was, and Grandpa remains, a teetotaller. Grandpa explained to me that he never normally went into hotels, referring to them as 'dens of iniquity'. I wanted to smile at that, but didn't.

Grandpa lifted his arm slowly to place it around my shoulders. I cuddled up to him and counted my lucky stars to still have him in my life.

Every time Grandpa has a birthday, I wonder if he will make it to the next. I know he misses his sweetheart, my Grandma, as keenly as ever. I sometimes wonder if he longs to join her. I wonder if Grandpa stays around through sheer willpower - knowing how much we love him and want him on this earth.

My grandpa is ninety-three. I think he's the bomb.

Real Mums.....

Ouch! She's gone and tagged me, the effervescent Shelly from Shells and Beans. The task was, to finish the sentence starting with 'Real Mums......' A photo was also required to go with the sentence. Go take a look at Shelly's photo and caption - both are brilliant and the caption is so, so true.

Here is my version of the meme:

Real Mums are making it up as they go along!

Now, just because I am a sharing type, I am going to tag Franny, Heather and Kerri (and of course you strange North Americans will have to say 'Real Moms.....'. Except for Kerri, who, being Aussie born but living in the US for many years, may be torn and confused!) I am looking forward to some great Mommy photos and mothering wisdom!

as it is in heaven

In this household - the Fatty/Jelly household - there are differing views as to the existence or otherwise of heaven. It is a topic we generally leave alone; Fatty and I agree to differ. In fact, neither of us are entirely sure of our beliefs and thoughts on the matter, so it is easy to not only respect, but even understand, the other's point of view.

The arrival of children, who are now old enough to ask questions about God/heaven/hell and the like, has made things a little trickier. A little trickier, but not too tricky. We answer the questions by saying, "Well, Mummy believes that......., but Daddy believes that...........". We inform them, "Some religions believe .............., and some believe........". Our children seem to accept this. I sometimes think it could even be a good thing. Laura and Benjamin will never be told didactically, This is how it is. They will form their own opinions over time.

It amuses me to hear how these two children have then taken this mish-mash of parental instruction, and come up with some concepts of their own. Laura thinks heaven has invisible gates, and that people sit around on clouds. Ben thinks heaven involves dessert for every meal. Both kids are quite keen on the concept as a whole.

Last night, Laura, who tends to be more contemplative on the subject, commented, "I wish I would nearly die - then I could see heaven, but I'd still be alive." My throat felt tight for a moment. I wished fervently and silently that Laura's wish would remain unfilled for many years to come. Laura burbled on, adding, "You know - how some people who get very, very sick get to see heaven, then come back? I heard that it can happen". Fatty was answered that yes, there were people who believed they had seen heaven, who had almost died but then been revived. Laura nodded. "Yes, that's what I'd like to do". I resisted the urge to say, "No, no, no, NO you don't". Fatty and I met each others' gaze. The mood at the kitchen table was a tad sombre, to say the least.

Thankfully, our other child is less interested in the spiritual significance of heaven, and more interested in toilet humour. Just when I couldn't stand another minute of 'heaven talk', Benjamin came to my rescue, offering this thought on the matter:

"Laura, you have to do lots of farts to take off to heaven".

I'd just like to clarify that this is a belief held solely by my son.