Jack of all trades ...

Zaha Hadid 

Further to last post's contemplations on Clarity, I have discovered many things.

Post-post I went out in search of wisdom. The desire to have one crystal-clear image of what I was to do and be, was tightening my ribs like a concrete straightjacket.  The internal nego-mantra kept brain-circling in every quiet moment  "If I could just see what it looks like. If I could just get a picture of what it is, then it will all come together." (I have read A LOT of self-help and strategic planning shizz, so apparently envisioning your outcome is critical to success. Everybody says so.)

So I went to a psychic. Of course, I did.
She was brilliant.

Wisdom from the psychic-with-the-spiritual-name in no particular order:

• Bring your energy back in from all the people who are leeching it (I don't think she actually said leeching, but I like the dramatic effect of the word and its parasitical inferences) 
• Be grounded
• Listen to your own wisdom
• She had me imagine I was talking to my dad. 'He' told me to let go of fear and take a risk.
• She also commented that just because I am good at stuff doesn't mean it's my calling 
• And she clearly said to me "Let go of the desire to know what it's all going to be and go with the flow".

I can't say I give a tinkling toss whether she was genuinely psychic or not. I wafted out of there like the mother of a toddler leaving a day spa to have a coffee alone before heading back to motherhood. Like any good psychic or psychologist, she had made me feel better about the existential crisis I was experiencing and had offered the illusion of control.  And she gave me a big hug at the end.

So, there I was feeling a little less desperate and a bit happier to sit with my messy mind. But still, the desire for 'an answer' was limiting my breath. Like some religious revelation, I knew it was going to come at me, the big shazaam. Unfortunately, the universe had gone all tight ass with the revelations, and no vision was forthcoming.

Next, I went to a business coach, also with a spiritual name, who is nothing less than human spun-gold. 

She asked me lots of hard questions. Like "What do you want?" and "How does (insert various scenarios and ideas) make you feel". I squirmed around in my comfortable chair, shifting and itching, from sitting arms crossed and legs outstretched, to head in hands and elbows on knees. All the time doing lots of fast-talking without ever finishing a sentence or entirely forming an idea.  

"It's all so, so ... messy." I gacked out like a hairball from a cat. 

And that beautiful, gilded spirit-woman gently asked me this:

"So look at your mess", gesturing in big circles at the circular mat in an invitation to visualise it,  "How does it make you feel when you resist this mess when you just want to tidy its messiness." 

Then she looked up at me and laughed "Look at your body language."

I was as close to the foetal position as the comfortable chair would allow. 

Resisting the mess, I felt tight, thick on the chest. Short of breath. Panicked.  Like when the kids were small, and the housework got so rank you stopped people from visiting wanting no witness to your weet-bix-encrusted shame. 

"Now take a minute" she guides gently, "And see how you feel when you stop resisting the mess. When you can sit with it and accept it."

I tried it on. Squirmed. Exhaled and Answered:

"I feel ... relieved and excited, like the mess is where the gold is, and how it is full of possibilities."

Checking myself, I saw that my body had moved into power pose, hands together gently in between relaxed knees, shoulders soft, heart open.

My life is a messy scramble, just like the Secret Language of Birthdays predicted ( Th ebook tells me I was born on the 'day of the Scrambler'). In accepting the mess, I could drop the shame, stop fighting it and enjoy it. 

An insightful friend quizzed me late on Saturday night about my Clarity post, her bullshit-o-meter clearly registering high levels in the immediate area - "but wouldn't you just be bored doing the same thing forever?"

Yes, my wise and insightful friend, I bloody well would. 

As much as I fight it, I will always be far more Margaret Olley than Zaha Hadid.

So you see I actually have discovered many things. Like did you know that the full saying goes:

"Jack of all trades, master of none is oftentimes better than master of one".

 

To Dane.

Awake! For Morning in the Bowl of Night

Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight.

And Lo! The Hunter of the East has caught

The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.

Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky

I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,

"Awake, my little ones, and fill the Cup

Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry." 

- The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

Our beloved Dane, who filled Life's cup to the brim and drank deeply, passed away this morning, in peace and love surrounded by his family.

Here's to a wonderful man who lived fully, in love, faith and service. 

We love you.

To Dane. 

Catching Breath

The last few months have brought subtle shifts, big moves and epic events to us Smiths, as most 'few months' in a family seem to do.

A little home renovation that choked us with plaster dust and paint fumes, has now sent a breath of fresh air into our wee house. The clean,newly painted bedrooms and hallway, a luthier-made wardrobe and a new spot for our beloved art, has gifted some organisation, peace and ease into our sleep spaces. 

A 12 week transformation, meant planned meals and regular exercise and a commitment to self-care on a scale never before successfully carried through, by this master-excusemaker. I am not sure I can say that my body was 'transformed' exactly, but what it did for my spirit has been remarkable. Who knew self- love lay in the increasing kms on a treadmill or that extra weight on the bar in a pump class? That's not where I expected to find it, that's for sure. I though it only existed in the reducing number on the scales.  But as the fitness numbers went up, what had been the dreaded weekly weigh in mattered less and less.  But I do know that everyone likes to see the numbers, and if I helps to convince anyone to take such a programme on I'll tell you mine: 

I've lost 7.5 kilos, 48 cms, a minute from my 1km run time, I have gained the ability to do push ups on my toes and now I miss exercise when I don't do it and best of all, I like myself a lot more.) 

Shift again. This is the shift to working 5 days a week again. It's a good job working with nice people, but damn!-work sure gets in the way of an exercise program. However, needs must when you throw financial caution to the wind, and commit to sending your 3 kids to a private school. Mind you, its a commitment worth every hour of work and every penny, in my opinion, to have my kids in a school where they are known, recognised and cherished. And it is an easier burden to shoulder when you work for someone who thanks you every day. 

My beautiful J performed in his drama school's production of 'The Music Man' this week. I am constantly overwhelmed at the commitment of teachers and parents to make stuff happen for kids. All those sporting coaches, little athletics timekeepers, eisteddfod organisers etc who give their time and energy so that children can have opportunities - they are incredible. 'The Music Man' saw the kids involved in a gruelling rehearsal schedule, giving up entire weekends and late nights, but it was all worth the pre-teen grumbling, it was a hit! And J has made new friends for life. 

The smalls are chugging along with their usual mess, hilarity and bickering. Soph fell through the unzipped trampoline in the school holidays which left her with a greenstick fracture to her right wrist, a brother-assisted accident, which didn't slow her down much. Her writing from both hands is now impeccable. (She certainly doesn't get that from me. I take after my GP father in the illegible handwriting stakes.) 

The luthier's genius is becoming more widely recognised. His work schedule now extends well into next year and musicians from around the country are seeking out his work. It's a slow and steady business, the work of the violin maker and it is  so gratifying to see his efforts praised and loved. 

So now, here we are, lying in bed,healthy and strong, with a little less time but a bit more comfort, breathing in the cool winter air and wondering what shifts the Spring breezes are bringing us. 

Being the Mother of a Son

Being the mother of a son, or sons in my case, I have found, involves lots of dirt, action heroes, big collections of collectibles, a lot of video games, sports gear, food preparation and more Adam Sandler movies than I care to mention, 

It's a big job. Don't you think? To mother a son. To bring up a man. Hopefully a good man? 

Good. 'Good'. I am rolling the word around my tongue and brain. 'Good'... really? I am not sure that 'good' is my aspiration for my sons. What is 'good' anyway? 

Apparently, according to a random on WikiHow, being a 'good son' involves being nice to your siblings even though you hate them, doing all your homework, being loving towards your parents and not using bad language.

Bollocks!! 

Not 'good' then.  Particularly in view of that criteria, as I consider it an essential life lesson for my children to learn the art of contextual swearing, and am proud to say that their skills are coming along nicely.  

Anyway, my boys are better than good, my boys are gold. But they do know how to be good, which I think is very important. My boys do behave well ... at school.  At home things get a bit more loud, messy and swear-y obviously. 

It is, on one level, gratifying to know that my boys can behave well, can 'be good'.  My boys, they are not very boys-y boys. They are definitely boys, but they are quite gentle my lads, most of the time. And funny, they are really funny, by accident and on purpose. One is also intolerably messy and inclined to pick up dead animals with his bare hands and the other loves hockey and skateboards and cartooning and they dig music and dancing and are loving and kind. I think all that is good. 

We have brought our lads up to work hard and be kind, and to tread through life gently with consideration, but as we have seen all too much lately, the world, still a man's world, often doesn't play that way.  So have we really done our lads a disservice? We often watch our gentle boys railroaded by their alpha peers, particularly our eldest. He has been pushed around a bit by boys who have been encouraged 'to be boys', in that rough-and-tumble-wrestle-and-shout-playing-violent-video-games-and-calling-girls-'bitches'-kind of way. These boys leave my boys a little knocked around and a bit confused.

My first son has had to pick his way through a minefield of bullies and more alpha males in his classes and I am impressed to say he has started to figure it out. He has the gift of perseverance, my boy, dogged persistence, and he is using it to find his place in the world of boys. He is figuring out when to stand up for himself, when 'to hold 'em and when to fold 'em'.  (And did I tell you he is the lead in the school musical this year? Thought I'd just drop that in.) 

With the second son, just as if he was born with wings, he has fallen on his feet. He is in a class with lovely boys who, while they themselves are gung-ho crazy, give him no grief for sitting out of the lunchtime football tussle in favour of going to play with the Preps, as is his want.  There were a few issues with argy-bargy in the playground recently and I asked his teacher if my quiet little lad was ok, if he got caught up in the rough and tumble of his peer group? She assured me that he was very good at being clear when he didn't want to get involved in the other boys' shenanigans and that the other boys always accepted that. If only life always worked out that way. He is lucky, my lad. 

I love the gentleness of my boys and that they will review one of their little sister's drawings earnestly with  "That is beautiful, Sophie" and that Joshie has been known to brush her hair and read her a story at bedtime. I love that they get angry and scream and swear but rarely raise a hand to each other.  I love that they don't define feminine and masculine in the same way that tradition or society does. I love that they can run around, dig holes, hit balls, build stuff, be noisy and tell each other to 'get stuffed' (in the contextually appropriate moment, of course), and that they can be quiet and creative, affectionate, sweet and soft, at least some of the time. 

Sometimes, though, I wonder, should we have taught our two little men to wrestle and wrangle and be tough? Should I be concerned that my number two son, stands in the back of the soccer field during a match, ignoring the ball as he is too busy re-enacting the entire choreography from the Bellas "I Saw The Sign/Turn the Beat Around" mash up  routine from 'Pitch Perfect' while his team mates are hell bent on the ball and the goals? That in the school nursery rhyme play he wants to audition for the part of  "Jill"? Should we berate ourselves for not pushing our sons towards a more traditional masculinity so that they can mix it with the big boys when they are men? Naaaah.  I never held much respect for the 'boys wiill be boys' philosophy.  And, no matter what philosophy I hold, my boys can only be themselves. 

But its not easy for the gentle guys in a world where the alpha man (and woman) is still such a dominant force. So what have we set our sons up for? Happily, I have faith that our generation and the younger boys, like Sacha's friends, are much more accepting and comfortable with making room for difference than the generations that have gone before. But then again, I am not sure that most men aren't in fact just like my boys, pretty lovely: kind, committed men who love their families, friends and communities. Most of the men I know certainly are. But sheesh, the ones who aren't so kind sure make a lotta noise, don't they? 

There is nothing I can teach my sons about becoming a man. What I can teach them, I hope,  is how to look after themselves, how to live and love wholeheartedly and what it is to be loved wholeheartedly by their Mum, (and, of course, the right moment to use the words 'shit, bugger and douchebag'.)

My aspiration for my golden sons is not to be 'good', but to be themselves and to live their lives as they see fit. To be wholehearted men of joy, kindness, pride and passion. 

I wonder if my mother-in-law realises how lucky she is? 

Thank you to Lexi from Pottymouthmama for inviting me to join in on blogging about 'Being the mother of a son'. Other great blogs participating are:

PottyMouthMama <http://www.pottymouthmama.blogspot.com.au>

Checks and Spots <http://www.checksandspots.com/>  Kootoyoo <http://www.kootoyoo.com> Sadie and Lance http://sadieandlance.blogspot.com.au/

One Flew Over <http://www.oneflewover-oneflewover.com/> 

Pigeon Pair <http://www.pigeon-pair.com/> 

Mogantosh <http://www.mogantosh.blogspot.com.au/> 

Hugo and Elsa <http://www.hugoandelsa.com/> Gourmet Girlfriend <http://www.gourmetgirl-friend.blogspot.com.au/> 

Grand

This lovely lady arrived today. My beautiful Aunty Sue bequeathed to me my Grandmother's piano. She told me awhile ago that this was her intention. She thought we would most appreciate it, us Smiths, being a keen musical bunch. At the time, I had no idea that it would be arriving so soon.

The piano is a grand old lady. The story goes that my grandmother, Dorothy, loved a singalong and was a star whistler. She would stand by the piano and whistle to entertain her family and guests. I never met my Grandmother and I really wish I had. It's only since becoming a parent that I have realised what I missed out on, growing up grandparent-less, and how hard that must have been for my parents of 7.

My Dad always loves a singalong too and would often burst into a little Al Jolson or Johnny Mercer in a deep, warm baritone, weird, ancient songs to a little girl of the 70s. I just opened the piano stool and there they all were, hits by Bing Crosby, an Al And Johnny and old time movie hits, ageing sheet music unearthed like treasure. And in the bottom of the stool, I found this beautiful sheet music that brought a smile and a tear. The music for 'Georgia On My Mind' ... my song. Men of Sue and Dad's vintage would often break into this one when they learnt my name. And Dad (and Ray Charles) would sing this one just for me, I am sure.

Thanks Sue. It's such an grand legacy. It's an honour to have the Sutton song and spirit in the house. A grand old lady passed on from two very grand old ladies.

Daring Greatly

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again,because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly.” - Teddy Roosevelt, 1910

My Auntie Sue died this morning. 

The dreaded cancer took her too soon, robbing her of the 80th birthday she would have celebrated this year. 

Sue was a woman of spirit, a woman who dared greatly. She always lived in the arena of life, always, and pulled others in there too, with her organisation and boldness, all the while telling stories and handing out faith and encouragement. 

She was a dedicated mother, grandmother, sister, aunt and friend, as her abundant loved ones will readily testify.

Her humour was wicked and  irreverent and she sometimes manifested a Dame Edna twang, adored and copied by my  sisters and me. She handed out whisky. dirty jokes and love in bucketfuls and her business acumen was undeniable. 

A woman who dared to divorce in the days when people didn't, to raise her sons proudly, to start a new life in a new town and build successful businesses, a woman who gave her later years to her island home, to worthy causes and as a mentor to fledglings at their beginnings. 

Her capacity for 'being there' was incredible. Throughout my father's continuing decline over the last decade, she was a rock for my mother and a regular and dependable hand to hold for my father. 

Her life story is extraordinary and ordinary . She was an Australian woman  of her time who dared to live life with gusto.

She  was full of joy and inspired joy in all of us.

Her life is to be honoured and celebrated. 

Goodbye, Auntie Sue. we will miss you. 

Casual

Today I cease to be a permanent employee and become a casual employee.
This decision feels so right, I can't even begin to tell you.

I went to visit my Dad last night and, while he struggles to articulate, he made the effort to say to me "You have a business brain."
Lets hope so Dad. lets hope so.

This last week has seen family arrive from interstate and overseas, coming to see Dad after his fall and support Mum and be together. That is good.

I look at my neice and nephews and think again how time is really speeding past. A nephew we met as a boy is now a handsome young man.  The twin small boys are now school boys and world class minecraft experts. And Sophie cried when they left.

And my brother taught me about these, he has purchased a few.

Laugh?

I nearly ...

Still, even if its buying ostrich pillows that floats your boat, it really is too short not to live it just exaclty as you mean to.

Wow

Here they are on their first day, ready for school, more or less. I may or may not have been altering the hem of Soph's dress at 7am that morning. But hey, ... who cares? We made it.

First day of Prep, Grade 2 and Grade 6.

Really?

Sheesh.

People tell you that their childhood goes so fast, and you nod and smile, but you don't really get it. Not when you are chasing toddlers and carrying babies, with a thin stream of posset over your left shoulder, fretting about feeds and nappies and insufficient tummy-time. Not when motherhood has run off with your mind and time moves like molasses and you haven't slept for half a decade.

Not then. Not me. I didn't get it.

But now?
Now I get it.


Sometimes I wish we could freeze frame it and that we could move through time in slow-mo, Matrix-style, eking the guts and glory out of their childhood years, out of every moment. And then reality hits fast forward and I'm gasping for breathing space and panicking. 'Holy Crap! Next year my baby will be in high school!'

They may be big and bolshy these three, but they are still big babies on the inside. But who would hold them back or slow them down?

I'm just going to try and hit the pause button on the 'busy crap' every now and then, when I can. The gotta, shoulda, woulda inane fuss and mind chatter that gets in the way of all good things. That'll give me a chance to soak them up and dance with them before they are all cringey, self-conscious and teenage and get all 'Holy Crap! I can't believe my Mum is krumping again ... so embarrassing.'

Hope your first week back at school has been frantic, lovely and bittersweet.

May your nutritionally balanced lunch boxes always return home empty, may you never forget plain clothes day and may you ever be blessed with matching pairs of proper school socks.

Merry and Bright

Stockings hung - a Santa, a Christmas tree and a hot pink high heel shoe, of course.
Ginger shortbread biscuits with lemon icing and mince pies baked for the big man are set on the table with a note of thanks and a glass of milk.
Carrots and water for Dasher and Vixen and all their prancing mates.

Each Smith takes a turn to blow out a wedding candle with a Christmas wish.

They rumble into bed with love and kisses and Mum and Dad's silent hope for swiftly sleeping babes.
Childrens' sleep means parents' action.
Presents wrapped and piled under the tree - an unfeasible mountain glittering in the fairy light

Early morning a blur of paper and squeals,
noise and construction.
Coffee, croissants and hand picked raspberries.
While the children revel in their loot, the cooking begins - ham is glazed, potatoes are roasted,

The family roll in laden down with booze and food - champagne, turkey Ballantine, quail and salads, and King George's own pudding.

The sun is shining on the new deck, so the tables are moved under tree shade,
leaving free the perfect stage for the Annual Christmas Concert.

Lunching in the late afternoon, commences with a toast
'Welcome all and Merry Christmas!'
Like Christmas itself, its over too fast after the hours of prep.

Wine is drunk.
The concert begins and tears are wiped as beautiful children sing beautiful songs, and more songs from mothers with daughters, fathers with sons, aunty and nieces, into the night.

We end with 'Christmas Bells' by Wadsworth and family love for our ageing Dane, whose hugs now speak so much louder than his whispered words.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.
May all our Christmases be so merry and bright.

40 is awesome!

Today I turn 40! Hurray!

I have never been so filled with the joys of love, life and the world.
I have fallen deeply in love with myself and it all. Blessed and in love.

This age, this 40,  has given me a little whiff of mortality.
An awareness of the ticking of that clock. And its a good thing, this new urgency.
The mind whispers "Time is there for the taking. Fill it up.  Overflow it. Do what you love and do it as much as you can. Sista,what are you waiting for? "

And, even though I am humming along to this refrain, I have not turned my life upside down,


In my new wise, mature and joy-filled head, I have decided instead, to be happy and wait. Everyone knows that good things are destined for waiters. I'll cast my eye around for opportunity and be ready to pounce.

In the meantime, there is fun to be had. Joy even. And please do remind me of this the next time I fall into the pit of depsair and frustration, as history would indicate I am bound to do. For now, I'll ride my 40-year old Pollyanna-wave for as long as it lasts.

My mind has trapped and tricked me into negativity, depression, fear and resistance for the last 40 years.  Too many life years spent locked into a tiny box of earnest, self-consciousness. 
A keep it small box. A keep it safe box.

This 40 has sprung the lock.

Fear of life is redundant. It is no more than an imaginary obstacle to living.

My brother just sent me this as his welcome-to-the forties-birthday wish
"You will be healthier, wealthier and wiser and probably braver than ever before."

What's not to love about that? And I want to spread the love.

Lots of love to you, my family and friends.
Thank you for your love.
I hope I am around to give you all back all the love for the next 40 and more.

And the biggest love to you, especially to you.

Pretty

A friend sent this to me today. I think its a treasure. I am putting it here because I want to save it. I want to keep it somewhere safe. Somewhere where I can stumble across it when my daughter is 13-ish, so that I can play it to her in the hope that maybe one day she will get it.

Balance

So my day started out like this.  (This post comes with a foul language warning. If offended by the 'f' word please don't read on.) 

At about 4.30am, Sophie was in our bed. That is not unusual.  But this time her chesty-coughing drove me out of the marital bed and into her flower-clad, second hand from the op-shop single mattress that supports her little frame a lot better than mine. Two thoughts passed through my head as I stumbled passed the clock. The first was "Good, still a couple of hours before I have to get up" and the second was a hopeful question sent out into the ether "Soph will be alright for school tomorrow, won't she?"

Out of bed at 7ish and the getting-ready-for school shenanigans went fairly smoothly. Except when the Luthier pulled Sacha's lunchbox out of his bag and realised that, once again, he hadn't eaten any of it. A fairly ugly scene of frustration and denial ensued.   Threats were made and notes written in diaries to bring the issue to the teacher's attention. Bloody kids.

Right. Breakfast had and boys dressed, but where's Sophie? Dad went in to persuade her out of bed. A pale and coughing small person appeared. "Mum, I don't wanna go to school."

"She'll be alright, won't she?" I whisper to the ether again. And continue in internal monologue, "I wonder if I have any leave left? Jesus, work already thinks I'm a dodgy option from all the time I've had off with illness, the kids and my own. And Phil can't lose any more work time. His jobs are piling up and we are going to go broke if he doesn't get some work finished soon. But the poor little mite, she's only just five and she shouldn't have to go to school when she's sick.  I hate it when other parents send their kids to school coughing and snotty. She looks ok. She's just tired."

Sophie:"Mummy, I have a sore tummy."

Luthier: "No, you haven't."

Me, using the approach my father always used with me and I always loathed:"You'll be right once you get to school."


We are all in the car. Dressed in uniform. Bags packed with lunches and homework. I've remembered to put makeup and lipstick on and make my lunch. Yay!

We arrive. Fuck.
It's Grandparents day, I forgot to organise that with Mum and I bet she wanted to go.
Shit. Fuck. Shit.

Oh, well.
Me:"Out you get you lot, have a good day."
To myself, "She'll be fine."

Sophie in tears: "Mum, my tummy is really sore."

Shit. Alright then, she'll have to go and sit at the shop with Phil.  I drop her off and head to work.

I walk into work, feeling pleased that I had made it and hating it for making me compromise my family at the same time.

The phone rings and its the Junior School,
"Hey George, Josh has split his pants and is mortified. Its Grandparents' Day. What's Phil's mobile? We'll call him to come and sort him out."
 "Oh bugger." I say, keeping myself nice. "No, I'll have to come because I have the car and Phil has the motorbike and he has Sophie at the shop with him and she's sick. I'll be there in 15 minutes."

Shit. Shit. Shit.

My apologies are made at work and off I rush. Its always chaos in the morning, my job. Morning is my busiest time and they hate having to cover it when I am not there. What else can I do? Push that thought to one side and head to the Junior School. Pick up J, take him home for a quick pants change and back to school.

J: "Sorry, Mum. Sorry you had to leave work. Thanks Mum, you are the best Mum ever!"
Me: "That's alright, J. It's my job."

As I get back in the car I get a phone call from a friend, a mother, who is in tears as she has been offered full-time work and has little ones and doesn't know what to do. I want to scream into the phone "Don't fucking do it. Working any more than a couple of days a week in a very flexible job when you have small kids has big fat hairy knobs on it."  But I refrain.  I try and be reasonable. I hope I was reasonable.

Call from Phil. Sophie has toilet issues.

As said by Hugh Grant in the first line of one of my favourite movies, 'Four Weddings and A Funeral'

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity-Fuck."

I give up. I send the text to work that I won't be in after all, to which I get a very kind response but suspect I will pay for later. I really don't think I have any leave left.

Shitcakes.

I collect my daughter from her father who has a tiny shop full of 5 people and is trying to juggle the questions and the sick offspring.

"Come on Soph. " I say and hug her, bring her home and give her a bath.

Now that she is set up in front of ABC Kids, I am desperately racking my brains to magic up a more flexible way of earning money that does not involve sending sick smalls to school and being such an unreliable employee.  All offers or ideas will be most gratefully received.

And I am one of the lucky ones. I get most of the school holidays off work.

Work/life balance, my arse.

Myths

I am the youngest of seven children. Seven little Australians we were, our childhoods spanning the 60's and 70's, we lived in a small city on an island at the end of the Earth. We were Catholic by religion and culture. (Not now of course, now we range from atheist to mildly interested.) My father, Dane, having converted at 19, was devout. He was a surgeon and general practitioner working in a huge practice, healing and birthing the Catholic community of Launceston for 40 years. Family myth has it that at one stage it was the biggest single doctor practice in the southern hemisphere. This is one of many family myths whose truth remains untested, in favour of maintaining a good story. Every now and then the family stories come back to me, so I've decided to write them down here, for posterity and the kids' amusement.

In our family of 9 there are 5 sisters and two brothers. The first 4 offspring arrived in an orderly row, each a year apart from 1959 to 1962. Us remaning three arrived sporadically into the 70's.  . We careered through childhood in those decades of freedom and no seat belts. TV was black and white and we only had 2 channels. The ABC was the only parentally sanctioned option and only then until after Dr Who.  It was an era when 2 bucks worth of fish and chips from Basil's (our local chippy) would more than feed all 9 of us, the only coffee was instant, you could still call cigarette lollies 'Fags' and the rolls were Chiko.

Dane, is said to have bought the first combi van on the island. Dane is like that. An ideas man. He bought crazy cars - a mustard jag in the 70s, a Daihatsu van in the 80's, even a Bentley once and people would wave to us on the road (us grotty kids mucking up the grey leather interior) because they thought we were the governor. He was a Liberal-voting Catholic doctor who hobby farmed, got into organic gardening and taught himself acupuncture. He was interested in things, our Dane. After a medical conference once, some guy in the domestic lounge imparted to him the skill of transcendental meditation while they waited for their plane. When we were small, Dane decided that the perfect opportunity to 'transcend' should be taken every day after work, behind the closed door of his study. You know the time, it is exactly at the witching hour, when he left Mum to the work of wrangling 7 unruly kids, homework, dirty boots and fights over the Milo tin, while cooking 20-odd lamb shanks with mashed potato mountains and smoking Alpine menthols, or so the story goes.

Like many good Catholics, my folks didn't mind a tipple. As we grew older and his urge to meditate abated, cocktail hour began when Dane would return from "saving lives" as he would have it. We'd sit around the kitchen table, Dane drinking his scotch and soda and Granny her gin, discussing the days events, solving the problems of the world. 

After a couple of scotches, Dane would generously impart tidbits of wisdom to his offspring.

Once, I think I was in my mid-teens and my elder sister was in her early twenties, the kitchen table topic turned to 'boys and how to 'catch one'' so to speak.  Dane decided to bestow on his daughters a glorious pearl of advice. He looked at us over his highball glass and said, in all seriousness,

"What you need to do to get a man, girls, is show them a bit of what they can have and then tell them, they can't have it."

A loud "Pah!" involuntarily burst from my sister, she threw her head onto her hands crying out

"But I want them to have it!!!!"

Superb. Spoken like a true good Catholic girl.

Idle parenting

I just read this and am now converted.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/family/familyadvice/3355719/Idle-parenting-means-happy-children.html

When I became a parent I became so bloody uptight and anxious and earnest and so, so boring. I know that it wasn't compulsory but nice and earnest and martyr-y just seemed to go with the territory, with the role of 'the good mother'.

It hasn't done me or the kids many favours, I'm generally irritable and my kids are not confident and secure and living their own lives, but spend half the time stuck to me like 'shit on a blanket' as my potty-mouthed aunt would say.

It's time to chill the fuck out and have a good time. Leave the kids alone to become themselves. Who's with me?

Spring Break

Finally the lurgies are lifting.
Its the first day of school holidays and I am at work,
which is bad news.
The good news is that tomorrow I will not be at work.
I will be on a week's Spring Break.

Number two son has already kicked off the holiday festivities by departing for the beach with a buddy. You have to be happy with, not only having lovely friends who will play chess with you on your brand new Super Mario chess set, but lovely friends who will take you to their beach house is pure gold.

He turned 7 last week, my number 2, and his request was to celebrate with an outing for potsticker dumplings for dinner and a grape slushy from the dreaded Maccas on the way home. For such is the way his mind works. He is a young man of contradictions.  The dumplings were delish but the slushy ... Eeeyuew! He loves anything sugary does this boy. "Sweet, sweet crap" he calls it and it is his regular dinner request. Fanta spiders are usually his favourite thing.

I am missing him while he is away. His birthday always reminds me of how sick he was when a baby. What a crazy time that was for us! I tell you, there is nothing quite like hearing the words "Your baby has cancer" to shock you right out of your shoes. He kicked it though and never looked back. It changed our lives for the better in a million different ways, as difficult thngs with a happy ending can sometimes do. Our priorites crystallised in that instant.  His birthday always makes me hold him tighter.

Sacha away from home is making me a little sadder than I expected.  Sophie isn't too happy about it either. She was asking me if we had given him away last night.

However, I am pretty sure that his beach adventure is making my wonderboy nothing but ecstatic.

For the rest of us their are beach and movie trips planned and maybe even a fairy penguins adventure.
The sun is out. Fun times and adventures are there for the taking.

Happy Spring Break!

Rewards

Despite some nasty coughs continuing to play havoc chez Smith and a very ordinary Father's day that saw the luthier and I take it in turns to retreat our sorry sick selves to the bed all day, this week has been full of rewards.

The sun came out.

The magnolia in our front yard is in full bloom.

The fairy magnolias we planted last year have finally blossomed.

Sacha made this awesome Father's day card complete with Dali-esque mo for the luthier.

And on Sunday morning I watched my 11 year old son gently and patiently brush his truculent 4 year old sister's wild mop of hair.

Same, same but different

Two similar-but-different six year old boys sitting side by side, playing computer games which they similarly love. Both have long fringes hanging in their eyes and both are partial to a wee game of chess.

Six year old number one decides to enact a random face pull and whacky dance move.

The second 6 year old rolls his eyes and sighs,
'Oh Sacha, you'll never get a girlfriend.'

To which Sacha accusingly scoffs
'YOU will'.

And therein lies the difference.

Love and Lemon Cake

Last Monday evening I raced home to bake a cake for the staff lunch on Tuesday. It was my debut baking contribution at work so I was hoping to pull off something good, something maybe even a little impressive? One could only hope. It was going to be the pear upside down cake. I'd made it a few times before and it always worked. A nice spongey cake topped with a lemony caramel syrup and thin pear slices.

I had a two hour window of baking opportunity before French class so went to work. I knew the danger of baking to a deadline. Cakes often don't take kindly to it. I knew that the best baking is always the result of entering a weird baking zen mode, with no pressure or performance anxiety. Unfortunately these conditions could not be manifested on this occasion, but bake I must.

All went reasonably well, although the cake batter looked a bit curdled and runny, but in the oven it went, while I made, served and ate dinner with the Smiths. At the halfway check, the bottom looked a little black - the oven was too hot.
Damn!

I was getting a bit antsy by this stage. I had no more time to make anything else so this had to work. Oh well, a little extra 'caramelisation' on the bottom wasn't the end of the world. I turned the oven down and hoped for the best.

With five minutes to go till I had to leave to parle francais avec mes amis, the oven timer rang and the cake came out of the oven. It looked ok.

'Thank God.

Now you have to turn these cakes out while they're still warm, don't you?

Here's my fancy cake plate. Its a nice big,flat, white one. A bit slippery on the top, but she'll be right. I'll just put it over the cake tin and flip ...

Fuck.'

That was the moment that the tin slipped off the edge of the cake plate and half the cake splatted onto the kitchen bench.

I removed the tin quietly, lay down my tea towel, walked to the armchair and sat down.

Not only would I NOT be impressing the staff with my baking skills, but I would be that knobber who promised to bake and didn't deliver.
The baking-under-pressure curse strikes again.

It was time to go to French.
I picked up my books, despondently hugged the luthier and smalls and left the ugly cake scene behind.

Halfway through French class I received a text with this photo and the message 'lemon cake'.

The luthier, known for his superb craftsmanship of stringed instruments and the occasional maker of an excellent custard, who has not often before made a cake, had come to my rescue. Covered with lemon butter icing, it was the toast of the staff lunch.


My hero
It must be love.

 

Oh What a Beautiful Morning!

After a full, yes, I said it, a FULL night's sleep, this morning is looking pretty darn rosie! I'm not saying its the first in 11 and a half years, but damn, it feels like it.

Not only a full night of sleep was had, but when I woke up I was in bed alone. Luxury! I lay in the grey light listening to living room rumbles and the 'Yo Gabba Gabba' theme tune, meditating and recalling my whacky dream.

I dreamt that we lived at work and my computer and phone had been stolen. We raced off to find them and as we drove the environment changed from suburban Launceston to a tropical coastline with us riding scooters on roads curving between jungle and the turquoise sea. I was a bit sad to have lost the photos of the kids on the computer, but apart from that, in the tropical sunshine, I couldn't care less.

Hmmm, there something in that for all of us.

Happy Saturday to you!!!

Even in Timbuktu

I think the most difficult thing to deal with, being a working mother, is these moments when you feel like you are not good at any of your jobs. The lack of sleep impacts on your work performance and the work performance impacts on your capacity to mother in the way that you want to. And so you are left feeling like you are only catching a tiny number of the balls that are being thrown at you.

Oh well, some days are like that, even in Timbuktu.