About Me

Perth, WA, Australia
Hi friends. To those I have met in person and the many I haven't - welcome to our nest. Thanks so much for stopping by. I am a mama of six baby birds and wife to one papa bird. Our nest is an intricately woven home, crafted over time, through the highs and lows of life, and many in-betweens. We are soon to leave our Australian nest to re-locate to our second home, the UK. This is our story, of our new life in a new country, the trials and tribulations, bidding goodbye to precious friends and embracing new. I know at times, our wings will be flapping so hard to keep us moving forward that we will tire, however, a little perseverence will bring effortless gliding amongst a soft breeze, and even stronger wings for the journey ahead. Welcome to our flight......

Sunday, 10 April 2011

Drive on Through


It has been a particularly trying week as we have all had coughs and colds, including the twins.

There has been a lot of extra cuddles, rocking and lullaby's (and that has just been for me). A fair amount of Vicks Vapour Rub has been used for congested chests, regular doses of baby Panadol, and a lot of coffee .. for me!

After one extra long and stressful morning (and it was only 9am!) of peeling off crying babies from my legs and wiping snot from nearly every pore of their little bodies, I bundled them in the car for the 'SOS drive'. Now, the 'SOS drive' is something that every parent should be aware of and have up their sleeves for those days when life in general is getting a teensy bit overwhelming. It consists of grabbing child/children (copious children in my case), strapping them into their car seats (excellent as they can't move), filling their chubby little hands with food (for a peaceful trip), and heading towards the nearest drive-through coffee venue. The whole idea of drive-through being that you don't have to lift a cheek (or anyone else's) to get out of the car in order for your caffeine hit. Smile and wave girls, smile and wave ...

Anyway, on this particular morning, by the time, I had reached the drive-through, the biscuits were gone (feeding a cold was obviously fore-front in twin number two's mind), and she started to wail, loudly. Being the super-quick, cool-chick of a mum I am, I reached into my bag to grab something to keep her entertained, whilst at the same time, ordering my triple strong, extra hot coffee. I should have twigged that something was amiss when the young girl serving me gave the twins an odd look. After following her quizzical gaze, I turned, and saw that twin two's 'distraction toy' was indeed my super-sized tampon, complete with applicator. Twin two was having a ball sucking on the big cotton wad with the string hanging out of the corner of her mouth like a cigar, whilst trying to piece together the two applicator bits. Blissful fun!

What can one say in these instances? I grabbed my coffee and did a little nervous laugh, 'It was all I could find to keep her quiet', I whispered.

I guess I won't win 'Mother of the Year', but on a good note, it wasn't used ...

Saturday, 26 March 2011

Making Friends


Our number four child, Miss four, is in the friend-making-business, and apparently there is set protocol for pre-school aged children to follow.

We were having a discussion as to what sort of birthday party Miss four would like to have for the big impending day (I must add she has not had a proper party before -dinner at Hungry Jack's doesn't count, nor does cupcakes shared with my girl-friends). When you turn five, you can't be fooled any longer and a girl needs a 'proper party' with candles and 'chocolate inside' (not quite sure what the 'chocolate inside' means, as opposed to 'chocolate outside', but this has been clearly emphasized by Miss four). It could have something to do with the fact that she is tired of applying greasy suncream lotion to her face whenever she steps out the front door, and on her special day, she would like to glow from her own specialness instead of oily cream.

So ... we want candles and chocolate and no suncream. What about the friends? She thought long and hard about that one and informed me she would let me know when she had some time to think. Wise choice. You can't rush into these commitments lightly.

Later on, the OBH heard her softly talking in the darkness of her room.
'Friend X and I, Friend x and I'.
'Is X your new friend', he asked?
'No', she replied.
'A pretend friend perhaps?'
'No' she answered.
'Does Friend X play with you at school?'
'No - but she does play with friend Y and Z, and, she is in the room next door to me'.
Right, so, the low-down is that friend X is in the pre-school class next door to Miss four. Friend X is a ring-in to Miss four's group, in-so-much that she sits with the group during play time but hasn't yet acquainted herself properly to our precious one. Friend X is not a proper friend yet. She is still an X.

Phew .. it is exhausting just writing about it. But it got me to thinking. As adults when does a friend become a friend? Is there a certain waiting period, when you morph from a stranger, to an acquaintance, or a friend-of-a-friend, to your own friend. And then when does one turn from a friend to a close friend to the coveted and highest-esteemed best friend. Let's face it, no matter what your age, every girl wants a special friend, and believe me folks, it starts in pre-school and should come with its own rule book, training DVD and bonus motivational speaker to boot. Just so everyone is on the same page and each party know what is required.

Well, I am happy to say that I have had many experiences of friends X, Y and Z, and a priviledged few make it to the inner-sanctum spot of 'very special besties'. I will just have to remember to include the candles and the 'chocolate inside', minus the oily suncream.

Making Friends

Our number four child is in the friend making business, and apparently there is set protocol to follow for pre school aged children.

After we put her to bed tonight we heard her softly chatting away to herself - 'Molly and I, Molly and I'. We asked her whether Molly was her friend to which she shook her head no.

Friday, 18 March 2011

Oh..No... Baby!


Our little girl, twin number two, has been trying to talk this week.

Her main stream of baby communication has been in the form of 'no'! As in, 'no, no, no, no, no'. Sometimes she accompanies the 'no' with a shake of her head.

When twin two is cruising the house, the 'no' word is prevalent in certain areas. Often when the dishwasher is open, her little hands are absolutely itching to get in there amongst the dirty dishes and tea-stained cups. The hand is sneakily outstretched, eyes look furtively around, body inches closer. Sometimes she crouches down, has a quick sweep of the inside of the machine, then the head starts to shake and we can hear her scolding herself. 'No, no, no!'

I can't for the life of me work out the attraction to a dirty dishwasher and why her soft, smooth, white little hands would want to get all mucky with scraps. But she does, every day. There is a permanent little spot allocated just for her.

Other times it is when she passes the coffee table and there is an array of delicious temptations for chubby little baby hands in the form of magazines, pens, diaries and empty coffee cups. Why would she want to play with blocks when you can suck on a pen and waddle about?

And then there are the couches, the nice, soft, leather couches that to a baby would seem like a giant marshmallow - soft and gooey in the centre with a bit of a spring.
She scrambles up and positions her little bot-bot right in the corner, sitting prettily. However, the moment we turn our heads, she is on her feet and throwing her body in multiple directions to achieve adrenalin charged, dizzying heights. Until, invariably she falls off and cracks her noggin and then screaming ensues.

In a way it is sad that her first lines of communication are 'no'.

Guess what Mummy says all day long?

Saturday, 12 March 2011

Skip, Skip, Skip to my Lou, my Darling


Our four year old daughter, and also fourth in line child, is learning to skip. She is also learning to charge, hop and gallop, as you do when you are four, going on five, but it was the skipping that made me smile.

She gave us an impromptu demo in the kitchen, her little legs slapping the floor, trying to co-ordinate all elements with the grace of a baby bull.

Little girls skip exceptionally well. It is in the DNA and generally goes hand in hand with learning how to swing themselves (which they inevitably can never remember to do when in the company of adults), control their bladders at night, wash their hands properly and try different foods (I am only talking roasted tomatoes here, not oysters killpatrick). I have never known my boys to skip - not once. I am positive. Not even a little secret skip from the toilet to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

So here's the thing .... when is skipping ok to learn, master and perform and when is it not? When does it cease being cute and girlie and turn into an anti-social, delayed behavior disorder? If teenagers skipped, they would be laughed at, ridiculed and teased. If adults skipped, they would be sent straight into an institution, don't pass 'Go', don't collect $200.

Now here is my secret ... I skipped the other day, just to see if I could still do it. The thighs wobbled a bit and my bottom took a while to bounce back to normal position but all in all, it was a good skip. A few furtive glances were taken and to my relief nobody was looking on in horror. I probably won't try it again as to be honest, the old/young pelvic floor took a bit of a beating with a single skip.

I think I will sit on the sidelines and watch my four year old skip her little heart out, twirl, dance, flick her hair about and generally embrace and enjoy her girlie loveliness. And I will look on and nurse my sagging pelvic floor.

Sunday, 6 March 2011

There'll be days like this ..


I'm far too emotional.
I'm way too fat.
I'm always this and seldom that.
But what do I care.
I don't give a fluff.
I'm totally fantastic and
believe none of that stuff!


I love this verse from the inspirational affirmations company, 'Twigseeds'. It brings a smile to my face and even a little chuckle if I am feeling really happy. Most often than not though, when I reach for my inspirational sayings, I am feeling blue, tired and/or weepy - usually all three.

This weekend has been one of those 'Twigseed' weekends, where everything feels off-kilter, and I would swear that I am lugging around a ten tonne millstone hanging from my neck. Every movement takes an enormous amount of effort as I struggle and strain to 'do life'.

In reality, the babies are choked with colds and oozing green snot. The teenager has lost her voice (small mercies really) and is pre-menstrual (quick - duck). I have a raging sinus infection and feel as though my facial bones are drumming to some sort of tribal bongo beat. My beloved Mum has been ill for nearly two months, with little reprieve, and two of my best friends have wound up in the ER with severe health problems.

When I am down and feeling sick on top of it, and attempting to carry all of the other stuff in life, all I want to do is shed my skin and slip into another - effortlessly, superbly, sublime. Like a 'Mission Impossible' movie, where Tom Cruise peels his pretend face off to reveal the actual character underneath, I want to go purchase the pretend mask for a bit and escape for a break. I have been scanning the Big-W catalogues, however, to my disappointment, such masks are not for sale, and a cheap, plastic Spiderman just won't do.

Being a mum, wife, daughter and friend is not an easy calling. In fact, I can't remember the exact moment I signed on for this task. It must be accumulative - the children certainly were. You see the soft, milk-sweet babies turn into stroppy toddlers who fling their arms and legs about and demand opinions of their own, which in turn morph into tweenies with attitudes and teenagers who are mini-adults with every correct and perfect answer to everything under the sun. Before you know it, your house is full to the brim with mass - aka people - individual, complex, precious and heart-breakingly scary - if you are the parent.

The wife, daughter, friend, bit is slightly easier but unfortunately gets tacked on at the end and they have to make do with left-overs, which lets face it, are often dry, taste slightly of tupperware and very mediocre.

So - as much as I would like to stop the treadmill for a bit - hit pause, shed my skin, down a few shooters and kick back (which for the record, I have never done - the shooters that is!), I really can't. I have been given the gift of motherhood six times over and blessed with children who adore me, despite my obvious flaws which are gapingly visual every single day. They forgive me, they forget my grumpiness, my outbursts, my tired emotions, and they tell me they love me still and that I am the best Mum ever - as far as they are concerned.

There is a dim light that I try to flame into fire on these 'shedding skin' days, whereby I hope that these attributes the children so graciously share with me, were learnt somewhere along the line through their parenting. All I can say is - thank goodness for their Father, because if they just relied on their Mother, then we would really be in trouble.

However, as the 'Twigseeds' verse says, 'I don't give a fluff, I am totally fantastic and believe none of that stuff!'

Tuesday, 22 February 2011

The Discipline Days


In our household there is a fair amount of teaching and correcting.

Some days, I fear, when the moon is in some sort of strange alignment, we seem to be giving the children time-outs, send-outs and all manner of other 'outs', usually in the form of 'out of the room' or 'out of his/her personal space' or 'out of the house and chase the monkey off your back'. My parents used to say that to me which used to make 'my back-pack monkey' even madder and instead of trying to dislodge the little critter I would encourage it's presence with all manner of forbidden words and naughtiness.

Other days, we have issues with noise - lots of it, all at once and all the time. I never thought that I would view silence as a golden gift, but when I experience it, I drink it in like my last breath. I have decided that noise breeds noise, and the higher octaves of one child, spures on the next to excel at all costs.

On Saturday just gone, we had one of our naughty and noisy days and at one stage every child was in time-out, including the dog, and the OBH, who hid in the toilet with a mag. Every so often someone would peep their head out of their bedroom door, like one in battle, to see if the coast was clear. Once spotted I promptly sent them back to their beds with their tails between their legs.
After a while they all slunk back to civilisation, very repentant and very worried that ice-cream was off the menu for the day.

Sometimes I line them all up and ask them to look me in the eye, to gain maximum impact, and lo and behold, even the dog is in the line, standing to attention. Impressive hey?

However, you know what? One day, I won't have little ones to correct and the small things such as picking one's nose and growing a 'booger farm' under one's bed, will give way to picking a tux for one's wedding day.

Tissues please?

Sunday, 20 February 2011

Fly to the Moon


'Oh that I had the wings of a dove!
I would fly away and be at rest -
I would flee far away
And stay in the desert.
I would hurry to my place of shelter
Far from the tempest and the storm'.
(Psalm 55: 6-8)


Children often speak of having wings to take flight.

For girls they are in the form of delicate, fairy wings, usually pink - most often sparkly. Our number four child can be seen flitting around the house, her feet sounding like a thousand horses hooves. 'Mummy', she pants, 'I am a fairy! My name is Susan and I am flying'. Susan the fairy has a lot of flying practice to do, particularly in grace and form.

Then there are the boys.
They fly too, but usually to their mother-ship, taking with them their captive agents to be destroyed and eliminated from the force.
At other times, it is a quick trip to the moon to check all is well with the universe and to clock up extra mileage on their rocket booster in order to avoid federal gains tax on their leased fleet. The jaunt usually includes partaking of sugary treats prior to take off. Don't you know that eating a muffin can be tricky whilst floating upside down?

Babies attempt flying too.
Ours have been having a go from the dizzying heights of our lounge onto the tiled floor. Over the back of the lounge is currently under negotiation. Fatty twin two having reservations about the impact from drop to cold hard floor on her limbs.
Beds are also fair go with the much softer carpet landing. Great squeals of delight can be heard from our bedroom as the twins bungee jump over the edge, only to be caught by their feet right before carpet meets skull.

Then there is the teenager.
She is also attracted to air-borne activity. Ours enjoys the trampoline with the protective mesh around the perimeter, thank goodness, otherwise I am sure she would end up on the neighbor's roof or crashing into their living room. 'Oops, sorry, was that a bit high'?

Now to adults. Some of us like to fly in real terms - planes, parachuting, helicopters and the like. But women, mostly, seem to want to fly away - as in escape. To remove themselves from their current routines, their over-scheduled days and pressing responsibilities. What busy mother has not passed by a travel agent's window and cast her eyes on a calm and peaceful tropical beach scene, sighing inwardly and wishing she could mould herself onto that paper right there and then? She can imagine bathing in the soft, warm rays, cock-tail in hand, feet massaged, eyes closed.
Or alternatively, who hasn't glanced at the opportunity of winning an all-expenses-paid holiday, flying first-class, with five star accommodation, with no cooking or cleaning thrown in, and experienced a pang of longing?
And, why do we sit in a darkened movie theatre and watch scenes of someone else's life unfold before our eyes? Escapism.

Just like the Psalmist wrote, 'Oh that I had the wings of a dove!' Yes, indeed, I quite fancy a bit of soaring above the clouds today and should I land on a tropical, deserted beach, not to worry, I will indeed cope. I love coconuts!

Saturday, 12 February 2011

The Basics ... Part two!

Further to my post on the strange antics and habits of children ... Here are a few more for reflection:
1.

Wednesday, 9 February 2011

The Basics


There are a few facts I have learnt along the way of my parenting journey. Here are some of my musings:

1. Children who unstack the dish washer always need to go to the toilet half way through.
2. Green vegetables cause gagging in small children.
3. It is impossible for a child to keep their toothbrush in one place, even more impossible to keep the toothpaste on the brush. It sits much easier on the taps and the front of bathroom cupboards.
4. It is too much of an imposition for growing children to remember to turn off bedroom lights. Didn't you know that the constant stretching upwards to flick the switch causes repetitive strain on tendons?
5. Breakfast cereal must be coated in sugar prior to consuming and then re-applied in layers until the bowl is finished. The job has not been executed successfully unless there is a syrupy glob at the bottom upon completion.
6. Getting out of bed on a school day is a near impossible task,however weekends are for heralding the dawn.
7. All spiders inside the house are so enormous they are called mega-spiders and require two adults, a can of spray and a whole load of screaming to remove. The fact that one needs binoculars to locate them is irrelevant. Nearly always they are red backs, deadly and their names are John or Robert.
8. Children's clothes worn for five minutes always need to be washed as it prolongs the necessity to actually fold and put them back in their drawer.
9. Children love to help to cook as long as it involves licking anything sweet or anything to do with mess.
10. In comparison, washing salad leaves is boring and does not quantify cooking.
11. Helping Mummy tidy up has a very short life span - about 60 seconds.
12. Children respond very well to bribery - as a parent use it with caution, but treat it like pure gold when you are tired and desperate. Warning - you can become financially unstable if you over-use this process.
13. boys like to read books which have the words bang, thump, pow and bum on a few of the pages.
14. Dogs which need to be exercised every day are apparently able to communicate to their owners that they don't feel up to a walk, a treat or to play. They much prefer to ponder all day and write in their diaries. They have days of being anti-social and need to have plenty of 'me-time', which co-incidently coincides with said owners lack of motivation.
15. Children's teeth have an innate ability to clean themselves which so far has baffled dentists and experts world wide. Despite the fact that there is a green tinge and a suspicious smell oozing from the open mouth, said children will swear this self cleaning ability is a work in progress.

Ok... I could continue, but enough said in one lash, after all I have six precious off-spring and I have barely scratched the surface on one of them. I think I will go clean my teeth as apparently being an adult disqualifies me from self-cleaning!

Monday, 7 February 2011

Back to the Office


I started full time work last week. No let me clarify - of course - my current occupation is full-time, with so much overtime unpaid that the unions can't deal with my paperwork and have placed me in the pending file for the past 13 years. This is also not to mention the sick leave I am owed as well as extra holiday loading pay. I won't go down that road though, as all stay-at-home mum's know the deal pretty soon after conception of their first child, and if they don't, it doesn't take long for that elusive contract to expand and lengthen as our bellies do the same.

So now I have that off my chest, apart from the above constant duties, I did indeed embark on paid work in an office with grown ups (!) and surrounded by tailored clothing and dress shoes. There was not a flip-flop in sight or a pair of daggy trackies or unwashed hair. It was impressive, not the least of it being me, as I endeavoured to actually arrive at my stated time of 8.15am, with my hair washed and styled, my heels on and my makeup (including eye makeup) well applied. I kept wanting to give myself a little pat on the arm and whisper congratulations. You are awesome girl. Look at you all grown up now at 37 years of age, Mum of six and working!

I answered the phone with a perky voice and there was no babies crawling up my legs to grab the receiver. I had a whole half and hour to eat my lunch (!) and I could go to the toilet without company. I rediscovered my love of organization and administration and was constantly in awe of the fact that I was actually being paid to do that by the hour! I spoke in full sentences in adult language, not baby talk. I never once said 'Ta' or 'Bubba' or 'Don't Touch'. For eight whole hours I never changed a pooey nappy. I remembered that I do actually like to be sociable and chat instead of tearing around the house like a mad-woman. I could go on but that would make me sound ecstatic about being out of the house.

My incredibly devoted parents took shifts to help care for the children. It was a small military operation just to enable me to leave the house by 8am. Shift one started at 7.30am when my Dad would stagger in, who took over baby duties (but not nappies) and shift two at 9am when Mum would come and assist Dad with the rest of the day. Everybody was happy and fed and beautifully cared for and loved, probably a lot better than I have been doing it all lately. I came home to a clean and tidy house, with dinner made and babies napping. True working-girl bliss! Poor Mum and Dad were a bit bleary eyed by the end of the day but they looked happy and contended at days end (probably because they had their leave pass to go home!).

But then, of course, all good things must come to an end, and the kids got the vomits - badly. Like flies they fell to the dreaded gastro bug and the OBH and I found ourselves emptying more sick bowls and changing more bed sheets than we could ever have possibly imagined. Now what to do? I didn't account for the 'chucking-up- your-guts factor', and really, there is only so much your parents want to take on, and cleaning sick was not in their job description (can't remember it being in mine though either). So I called in sick on account of poorly children and necessary mothering duties taking precedence, and I have temporarily said goodbye to my cushy, grown-up-girl day job.

However, after all, I am a Mum first, foremost and forever and only a pretend-career- girl a very poor second!

Tuesday, 25 January 2011

Parades of People


So when I was away on my super, fab holiday, I noticed a few things about human behaviour. And since I had all the time in the world on my hands, I did quite a lot of people observing.

This is what I discovered:
In some cultures it is acceptable to expel wind in public, indeed it is a sign of gratitude for the meal that has just been partaken of. A good pick of the nose after said meal is also completely understandable and the clearing of ones throat, hawking excess mucus, is both refreshing and healthy. Burping loudly is a sign of clearing the pipes and aiding in digestion. Indeed, the louder the better and if in front of another's face, not to worry because re-digested burp gas can be quite benefficial.

Then there is food, which was a constant source of amusement at the buffet breakfast table. Some enjoyed salad and fish and noodles which to me, smelt like my babies bottoms in the morning. However, judging from the way they devoured their plates, I can assure you it wasn't the case for them. Others would eat only sweet treats in the form of muffins, pastries, sweet breads etc, piling their plates as high as the Eiffel Tower, only to be seen later surreptitiously shoving them into bags, up shirts or down their short pockets, for a bit of noshing later in the day.

Now the 'egg station' as it is called, is very popular. And the cooks do a great job with the humble cracker. Poached, fried, omletted, in it's shell, sunny-side, well-done, you name it, you got it. I stopped myself asking whether the producers of the eggs were forced to lay under lights and batteries or free to roam in the lush greenery of the country. I suspect the former, but didn't dwell on it. They still tasted great.

And then there is all the different ways people dress, how they fix their hair, what shoes they put with their clothes. Some looked as though they should have a big 'indecent sign' on their backs. Seriously, a sheer flowing top, just touching the butt line, teamed with a black bra and black g-string whilst walking through a shopping centre, is well, kind of gross.

All shades and manner of hair was noted as well. Some great blonde's and some truly bad and awful colours as well. And apparently, to mix streaks of red, blonde and brunette all on the one head is 'the bomb'. Kind of looked like a bomb to me but enough people paraded this style about, so maybe there is something in it.

And of course, there is the difference in all of the world's languages. I patriotically expect every word to be spoken in English which of course is not the case, but I am always surprised when other foreign words are spoken so fluently from mouths where I expect Enlgish to be shared. I would so love to be able to converse in their native language but I could only sit and listen and try to guess what the conversation was all about. A lot of hand flapping and stamping of feet plus raised voices usually signalled to me that there was a slight bit of tension and maybe I should religate my position and move on.

The most surprising watch take would have to be around the pool. All manner of shapes and sizes were squeezed into itty-bitty swimming costumes. There were some buffed and polished bodies - tanned and toned. Others were more the colour of jelly-fish with the same sort of bodily wibbles and wobbles. Some took up only inches of the pool seat whilst others spilt out all over the seat and some of the ground. Fascinating stuff.

Still, now I am home and my 'holiday hobby' has come to an end. Most speak English in our neighbourhood and I am not privy to poolside attire or share my breakfast with a crush of others.

I think I will have to brush up on my German or French and have a go at talking to these mysterious, fascinating other races. I am sure I could learn a lot.

One thing I can assure you of though, you will never see me walking around Myer in a sheer caftan and black g-string. Promise!

Monday, 24 January 2011

Holiday Heaven


I have been on holiday. A proper, good, old-fashioned break. Not a family holiday, a kid-holiday or a squeeze-in-a-few-days-at-an-over-priced-resort type of holiday. It was an adult holiday - no children - at all - for ten days. Wow. And it was overseas - a good seven hours flying time.

I actually slept in, which is such a foreign concept. I napped and watched tv in bed. I drank wine as the pool water lapped at my feet. I ate my meals uninterrupted, chewing and swallowing slowly, instead of throwing it down my throat to wipe little faces or clear snot from dripping into food.

I conversed with adults and strangers and hid from children like the plague.

The only bottom I wiped was my own (big deal with twin babies!)and the only body I washed was my own. I dressed just me and was responsible for just me. No lunches, no drink bottles, no changes of clothes, hat, sunscreen or shoes, other than for moi!

I sat on my balcony and talked to no one. The silence was a unique and priceless gift and I soaked those times of nothingness up like a sponge.

I did not exercise (running) at all, apart from strolling from the buffet to my table and pottering around the markets.

I sent my mind to a day spa for ten days and my body to a beauty spa. I was scrubbed, massaged, oiled, moisturized, pummelled, cracked (toes eek) and beautified.

I wore eye makeup for the first time in ten years, experimenting with colours and new techniques.

I pretended I was young again and in my 20's, where time, age, stress and six babies had not taken their toll.

I flossed my teeth every night, brushed my hair until it shone, wore pretty knickers, painted my toe-nails and read four whole books (with no pictures or sound effects).

I shopped a little (well ok, every day), taking the time to browse instead of charging around the isles in an anxious storm. I discovered the art of bartering and loved it. Actually I was quite good at it, to my surprise. The thrill of the chase and all. I have kept the Billabong brand and fake designer watches going for the next financial year on my purchases alone.

I drank loads of great coffee and ate whenever I felt like it, sometimes in bed in my jammies at 3am in the morning.

I laughed a lot and smiled often and I had the priviledge of falling in love with my precious Mother all over again. I lapped up her company, presence and her unique love for me, her daughter.

In all of this, I met myself again. She had been sitting exhausted on a cold park bench, her eyes tired and her body weak. Her mind had long ceased to operate efficiently despite all the demands she placed on it to be 'on top of it all'. I took her hand gently and spoke to her with kindness and respect and in return she gave me back the gift of herself - her true self, and I am so pleased to see her this way again.

I highly recommend it - much cheaper than therapy.

Wednesday, 5 January 2011

Gosh, golly, gee ... where have you been?


Oh Gosh, golly, gee. Long time between blogging, folks. Anybody still out there?

Hands down, I have been incredibly remiss throughout cyber-world, but let me explain ... Where have I been and what have I been doing? Well, basically, it all comes down to this - before school break-up things, ie school plays, concerts, awards, busy bees, busy bakes, busy byes to friends. Lots of let's catch ups, let's drop in, drop by, drop everything. Even more, clearing and cleaning for the big day, not to mention shopping and shipping to distant loved ones.

Then the big day actually arrives and there is the chorus of excited children at 5am, the giving, receiving, unwrapping, clearing, eating, rushing, smiles, tears, having fun, having tantrums, being thankful, being grumpy, taking a Panadol, feeling blessed, feeling tired.

Nearly close to dropping my bundle after said big day, there were copius amounts of public holidays to follow. I didn't know where I was. It felt like we were in a void and I lost track of time, days, dates, possibly years.

Boxing Day was a blur, both the day after Christmas and the get-one-free day on the Monday. And then, lo and behold, it was my birthday. Yippee! Except most were a bit done with the celebrations and what little they had left they were putting in storage for New Year.

I am pretty sure we are in the New Year. I know it has something to do with changing ten to eleven and time marching forward.

I think I have heat fever, I think I need more tea. My hair needs a trim and my washing is in piles all over the house. I am waiting for my groove to come back, for my New Year's resolutions to appear and stimulate my mind to move but actually I think I need to lie down first.

Maybe tomorrow. What year is it again?