L'eggs Up And Laughing

Vernicious Knids

2011-11-10T22:34:00.002+11:00

Oh what?

Hello?

Is this thing on?

Testing testing...

I'm not really "posting" as such, I'm trying to de-nit my blog of a whole swag of horrible spambot type comments that seems to have colonised my legs. (So to speak.)

It's funny though. To weed out the comments you end up reading the posts. And you go "hey I remember that. That was fun."

But not at the moment. This moment is full. With moving house and moving city and getting TRICKY READY TO START SCHOOL.

Yes I did just shriek that.

I did.

I think I have turned off comments - not permanently but just while I get rid of all those fantastic global investment opportunities.

and then I'll be back...

Tiger Tales

2010-02-17T12:06:00.002+11:00

So it's Valentines Day and because C is away and I feel a little miserable about that, I decide I will take my little boy to a cafe so that Mummy can have a coffee and we can both have a special Valentine's treat.

And we do this and it's a hidious drizzly, sweaty, humid kind of day and just as the rain starts to ooze down I get a call from Helen, aka OperasingingMummy. Helen is the mother of Tricky's little friend Sebastian and as we know small boys must be exercised/exorcised frequently.

Otherwise they drive their mothers to drink.

I have an activity plan, she announces brightly. We can go to the Museum We Always Go To which is undercover, airconditioned, has coffee and snacks and comfy seating, free newspapers, an Hilarious 80's exhibition and loads of ramps for small boys to gallop up and down like wee, manic ponies.

OR... we can go to Chinese New Year! On the bus! In the sweaty humid rain! With the crowds! Carrying enormous umbrellas and pushing strollers!

And because it was Chinese New Year and because it is the Year Of The Tiger which calls for Courage and Energy and screwing up your face and making a small rahhh! noise, I said YES LET'S GO WITH THE SWEATY OPTION!

And lo we did.

And it was all those things but it was also fabulous and great fun. And full of adventure!

Getting two small boys onto the bus with two strollers, three bags and two enormous umbrellas, one of which refused to close? ADVENTURE!

Pushing stroller downstream through crowds of CNY revelers and managing to stop at stalls to purchase armfuls of dingly dangly decorative thingys without losing child, purse or sense of humour? ADVENTURE!

Taking Tricky to a portaloo, leaving stroller in mud, attempting to clean seat, pull down pants, lift him to wee wee height, have him glimpse the dark terrors that lay within and shriek NO NO I WANT TO WEE ON A TREE at top of his voice? ADVENTURE!

Eating stuff that reminded me of living in Malaysia, including the coveted peanut pancakes (much sweeter than I remember)? GOURMET ADVENTURE!

And the day went on; chinese opera, chinese dancing, elderly chinese ladies giving the boys good luck charms, many photographs taken of little boys with unknown Chinese artists, many small sweet tidbits devoured with never a hand being washed.

One of my favourite moments was seeing the two little boys running happily in the mud and drizzle. I wish I had taken photos but that would have necessitated growing at least one extra hand.

Helen and I sweated and pushed and sloshed through the mud and it was fifty sorts of jolly and we laughed and laughed. Because we were now addicted to our own adrenaline we upped the adventure quotient by entering a nearby MASSIVE SHOPPING CENTRE in Chinatown in search of a ventolin puffer and here too there was Chinese New Year and Tiger decorations akimbo and free red balloons which Tricky first accepted, and then felt worried that the balloon would burst and then handed to me to carry, along with all the rest of the cheap/free tat we had accumulated. Because god forbid I would say no to something that was FREE!

Finally we left the shopping centre of hell and since we were a hop and a skip and a run through another cloudburst away, we ended up at the Museum We Always Go To anyway. And after a brief educational glance at the exhibitions, we collapsed on comfy chairs in a quiet corner and our children, perhaps sensing even tigers need a cup of tea sometimes, played nicely until closing time and we, and all our Tiger stuff, were booted out.

Possibly the best Valentine's Day I have ever had.

Gong Hee Fat Choy!

Locked Out

2010-02-14T07:54:00.003+11:00

Wow, I have just had the most intense 48 hours trying to get back into my blog. I was locked out! Rude or what? I was going to have a short but moving blurb on friends who receive awards and how proud it makes you feel but, ergh, I'm drained. Between you Blogger and Google you have seriously worked my last good nerve.

Oh yeah, it's Valentines Day today. I shall celebrate this by feeding small amounts of processed sugar to my tiny brown Valentine with the long curly hair. Also kisses. There shall be kisses.

Imagine

2010-01-29T14:49:00.003+11:00

In actual fact I am meant to be hard at work on a scene breakdown (and I am, people connected to the tv show, I AM) but I pause (briefly) because the mail came in today (as indeed it does everyday, rain hail blah blah) and I discovered that amongst the bills and bank statements was an envelope from a notable face cream company containing a handful of product samples.

Ignoring the fact that the majority appeared to be skewed towards Wrinkly Skinned Old Mothers I felt pleased and rather special, as indeed I always do when I score free stuff.

When I Mrs Merino-ed for the Sydney Royal Easter Show way back in those carefree, childfree, jobfree days, both myself and Mr Merino, (My writerpal "George", not C who hated the Show and was only donning a full body sheep costume *gasp* for the money) lived for the opportunity to receive all manner of brightly coloured plastic crap purely because we were 'Show Royalty' and we were special.

In fact, not satisfied with being simply handed cheap gewgaws and useless brikabrack, "George" and I took to combing the empty seats at the free outdoor concerts in the hopes of finding showbag goodies that had either been forcibly discarded by sensible young people or simply left, by the lazy teens of today (a decade ago). Ah, the good old days. I still have, somewhere, a plastic ruler snatched up from the ground in the aftermath of a Silverchair concert. It's probably stained with vomit or at the very least illicit alchohol, but who cares, IT WAS FREE.

I'm glad to say this very very attractive attribute has not left me, even as the mother of a three and a half year old with an obvious need for heavy duty face creams. Towards the end of last year I even started entering online competitions with the full expectation of winning my entire stock of Christmas gift needs. Nephews, husband, child, parents in law, stepsister's boyfriend...all would be delighted with their unusual, handpicked presents, many of which would be emblazoned with advertising and probably still in envelopes still addressed to me, if I ran out of time to actually buy wrapping paper.

Ho ho ho. I'm afraid to say I did not win a single item. Very disappointing. Is it me, I wondered. Is it the fact that I'm a mature woman entering all these kids competitions and I include my real age? Perhaps, or perhaps I was not the only cheap bastard on the internet.

I did, however, enjoy the whole 25 words or less thing. It was a bit like Twitter but shorter and you might get rewarded for your creative efforts. Also, you could do it drunk.

Thus it was when I received my humble batch of hand and neck creams I assumed it was some sort of consolation prize for a long ago entry. I realised after a moment that it was not. It was the result of a complaint.

Some time back in December I had lashed out and bought one of this company's deodorants - not my usual choice (brand, not deodorant, of course I use deodorant, I may be lazy with actual showering but at least I try and disguise the evidence) and it had turned out to be utter crap. Usually I just bitch about this to my husband and friends until they're bored, but this time I decided that I would NOT let them get away with failing to cover my lack of personal hygiene and I fired off a complaint letter.

Obviously I was polite (I am a passive aggressive after all and we are known for our polite tones and sharpened knives) and I even included the line "Imagine my disappointment" which is my perennial fave line for official letters of complaint. (In fact I may try and work it into the script...I'm JOKING). This, impressively, led to a supermarket discount voucher of roughly twice the price of the original offensive item which I could choose to spend on, say, chocolate (and I did) and also a form letter where I could write more in detail. And so I did, and now I was witnessing the fruits of my labour. It was a grand grand moment.

Not all letters of complaint have been so wildly successful.

The one to the confectionery company outlining my disdain at the lack of sour worms in the so called 'Party Mix' ("imagine my disappointment!") was met with a polite note back thanking me for my suggestion and promising to pass said suggestion onto Marketing (!)

The long email composed by an after dinner group regarding the dubious quality of a box of chocolates ("imagine OUR disappointment!") was answered with a phone call from a company representative next morning. Note to readers: do not compose email of complaint and then send, when drunk. In the case of phone call you will be horribly hungover and have no idea what the problem was in the first place and since you were all drunk you ate all the chocolates anyway, dubious or not.

People often whinge about the decrease in letter writing in today's txt message age. Possibly they are referring to the quality of letter writing but I prefer to think that I, with my quaint little missives of disappointment and dismay, am heroically adding to the quantity.

In February I am planning to give up alcohol for the month, ("why does it have to be February Free," one Aquarian friend complained. "Why not Dry July, or Octsober?") and I plan to use any spare brain cells left over from scene breakdowns, first drafts, revisions and whiny emails begging for extensions to really get to grips with the products that fail to come up to my exacting standards.

I note that I have never received an envelope of hand cream sachets from the producers. Imagine my disappointment. Still, it's not impossible to foresee a time when, show being done and dusted and writers asked for feedback for next series I may, possibly, sit down with pen and paper and write a suggestion for perhaps a nice scented facial spray or maybe a really effective foot cream. Writers need all the help they can get.

Blood and shit and earwax.

2010-01-24T13:37:00.004+11:00

Erk, every time I leave it too long between posts there's always a scary moment of...lord just what was that password again? Also bloggergooglemachineofworlddomination.com is trying to open up my blog using my gmail account which is just wrong. Wrong! I think. I'm pretty sure. Actually I've got just enough internet knowledge to be dangerous I've realised.

Of course I could always PAY for the joys of blogging, there's a mad thought.

What's driven me to the keyboard is my discussion with my dad yesterday about dear old grumpy grandad. The last times I saw GG (still in the nursing home, still with one leg, still grumpy) I cleaned the suspicious grunge out from under his fingernails and trimmed them and I also scraped the wax out of his hearing aids.

WHEN YOU WERE A KIDDY, he boomed at me, YOU SAID YOU WOULD LOOK AFTER ME WHEN I WAS OLD.

This would lead again to the story of Grandad running after me on the beach with a bucket of water and me shouting "You're a naughty girl Dan Dan." Not a recent story.

SHE CALLED ME A NAUGHTY GIRL, Grandad remarked jovially to C who nodded and smiled back having heard the story many times and being currently occupied with preventing Tricky from lying on the floor and licking the linoleum.

We took Tricky to see him, it was just post Christmas, and an elaborate story was told about how A BIG FAT MAN (pot?Kettle?) IN A RED SUIT POPPED IN TO SAY HELLO AND TELL ME THAT YOU HAD BEEN A VERY GOOD BOY AND HE GAVE ME SOME MONEY TO GIVE TO YOU TO BUY SOME TRAINS.

Dutifully we popped down to Kmart and purchased some trains, two as it turned out. Tricky chose them and let me just insist that I tried to move him towards the more flashy, showy types but he was insistent on these two, identical except for some facial variation and the names printed underneath. We brought them back to show Grumpy Grandis and he was, I could see, a little disappointed.

IS THIS IT, TWO ENGINES THAT LOOK EXACTLY THE SAME?

Yes, I said, but look they're mischievous twins see, Bill and Ben, it's written underneath, and they go with all his other trains...

THERE ARE NO CARRIAGES...

No, that's right, but did I mention they're twins? Bill and Ben? Mischievous? Very cute...

DID YOU SPEND ALL OF SANTA'S MONEY?

Around this point I realised that I had screwed myself. Last time Grandad gave Tricky money was for his birthday. It was half the amount of the Christmas money and because TRAINS were the requested present on that occasion I had to 'top up' Grandad's contribution and ended up buying two carriages, the very popular CHICKEN carriage (which squawks when you slide open the door) and EGGS carriage (removeable via fingers or better yet, helicopter).

This time, I didn't top up. No wonder he saw the twin engine offering as a bit, well, crap.

I realised I had created in my grandfather's head an unreal expectation of the value of TRAINS; his lovely gesture, his intricate story, all rendered just that bit crap because he thought there was enough money for carriages too.

He's very happy with his engines, I pointed out to Grandad. It's a lovely present.

He seemed unconvinced so I cunningly brought up the one topic of conversation I knew he would get excited about.

How's your blood sugar levels?

Ten minutes later, after regaling us with blood sugar level tales (NURSE TOOK MY BLOOD SUGAR AND IT WAS 23! AND THEN SHE CAME BACK AFTER 5 MINTES, CLEANED MY FINGER WITH A SWAB AND IT WAS 9. SHE WAS JUST MAKING A POINT FOR THE STUDENTS. And scaring the shit out of you, I could have added. NEXT WEEK IF BLOOD SUGARS STAY GOOD I CAN GET MY NEW BIFOCALS)

I felt sad about all this of course, but the intricacies of scraping out the hearing aid soon had me focused. Having no suitable tools at hand, I used the wire ring on his bedside locker key, prying it off and then bending it straight and jabbing it down the little plastic tube till blobs of brown started oozing out the end.

I don't know about you but I always find it reassuring to handle someone else's earwax. Even after washing your hands your fingertips retain that greasy feeling.

And because nothing is simple, when I tried to wash my hands in the bathroom sink I found it was blocked with...dear god in heaven I have no idea. Matter. I tried to pick that out too but it was too disgustingly hopeless, it would be a Tell Nurse Job.

Grandad was happy when we left. His multi purpose remote control was working properly on his enormous flat screen tv, his hearing aid (freshly scraped and with a new battery inserted) was working 100 PERCENT BETTER NOW and he had the anticipation of next week's optometrist visit.

This is why, a week or so later, when asking Dad how Grandad was faring, I was unsurprised to hear that the bifocals had been created and were USELESS and the hearing aids similarly so, due to wax build up in his ears.

And I'm not scraping those out, I told Dad.

I couldn't bear asking about the sink. It seemed unfair that having got himself into a reasonable state of balance, not happiness exactly, just balance, Grumpy Grandad couldn't enjoy that for longer.

But perhaps it's relative and that is how everyone's life teeters and totters along. Find the balance. Struggle to keep it.

Life for my Grandad; once wife and house and son and plumbing business and caravan on weekends and galah in a cage and lolloping boxer dog running up and down the hallway.

Once running, laughing, in dapper hat and shorts, with a blue bucket of water after a little brown skinned granddaughter on a far away beach, is reduced to this; a bed, a leg, a huge flatscreen tv, whisky at night, coffee in the day.

Blood and shit and earwax.

Layers

2010-01-15T10:08:00.003+11:00

So that's it then.

That's Christmas done and New Year too and the last of the summer holidays uncurling before us. The weather is by turns spitefully hot and indifferently cold and we sneeze and sweat and fumble our way through the days and wonder when the work and the yoga classes and the preschool starts again, and there's all that gathering tax receipts and marking of new drinkbottles and delousing of still-long-curly-hair.

Tricky had a completely wonderful Christmas.

Two completely wonderful Christmases actually because C's parents were staying with us so he had a Big Boy Cousins/Gramma and Papa/uncleK/ auntyN type Christmas and then we went to my parents place and had a teeny girl cousin/many many aunts and uncles/aphwa and poppy type Christmas.

At the age of 3 and 5 months this was actually Tricky's 4th Christmas but for the other three he was asleep, screaming or perplexed.

Last year, to be fair, he did learn that the package wasn't just the exciting thing, you could actually remove the pretty coloured paper and discover something else inside. Like a large wooden structure and several bright metal cars. Last year some of his aunties and uncles got together to give him Uncle Paul's Garage Experience. This involved a plywood garage previously owned by, ahem, Uncle Paul, made for him many years ago by his dad, and now, repainted and fitted out with teeny tiny slightly suspicious looking garage attendants, and frequented by a great and impressive range of vehicles. As I type I can look out and see Uncle Paul's Garage, just by the farm and on the right side of the railway tracks. Cars and what appears to be a tiger are lined up for the superior handlings they know they will get from Slightly Suspicious Garage Attendant. This is a toy that gives and gives.

This year Tricky was given a great and wonderful array of items, some were things he asked for (cottoning on from his cousins that a time of bountiful goodness was on its way - depending on whether he was naughty or nice) and some were not.

I could bag on here about his favourites, the things that made his head spin and his eyeballs bulge (toy computer-like mummy and daddy, scooter and helmet - like Little Friend Sebastian) but why bother, Christmas is really for grownups since it's their money being spent and their livers being pounded by all that mulled wine and plum pudding vodka.

Here's what I loved best: the wooden chocolate set (because it's so cute when he takes the box around and chooses one for you) the wooden sushi set(because I think I have a thing for toy food and maybe I wanted all that when I was that age and didn't get it, not that sushi had been invented in Werribee at that time but come on what about a wooden smoked cod and mash potato set or a wooden devon and tomato sauce sandwich?), the button accordian - I love it! (Yes it was given to Tricky but I have hidden it from him while I try and work out how to play the theme from Amelie.) This funny wooden car that you pull apart and fit back together in different ways (it feels goooood), the Bugs Life special edition on dvd (those extras, wow! Comes with storyboard!) and on the cornucopia goes, a great swirling, gorging, mass of stuff.

There were other gifts too, things I also loved, probably even more than the wooden sushi set and they didn't come in a box.

I love that C for the first time in the history of our relationship wanted to get a Christmas tree and then bought one, one blazing hot afternoon, from KMart (a plastic tree being hallmark of both our childhoods) I loved that this would be our family tradition.

I loved that finally I could get out all the decorations I had been hoarding for years and put them on.

I loved that Tricky loved the Christmas tree.

I loved that he talked to it and he gently examined the decorations and was excited about the bells.

I loved that he called it a Kissmess Tree and he wished people a Huppy Kissmess.

I loved that he loved the lights and recognised that this was a special time where people come together and are 'huppy'.

And I loved that this was all enough, the tree and the lights and the stories - about Santa and about Baby Jesus and about the people who love him- and this was already enough Kissmess.

He was very happy and very excited and this was in the weeks before, he had no real idea about the morning, the Santa sack and the presents and the chocolates and the presents and the fizzy drinks and the presents...

That first present he actually opened (a wooden stiryfry set, yes alright, not nearly as successful)took ages, he savoured the paper and the way it felt beneath his fingertips and then he stared at the box and talked about the pictures and wanted to open it and play with it STRAIGHT AWAY and his father and I, beside him, in our pj's, hopping up and down in excitement saying "oh but what about that one, what about this one?"

"Christmas is NOT about the package," we try to tell him. "The paper, while pretty, is simply the exterior and it's what's on the inside that counts...oooh! Is that an accordian?!"

It's well into January now but there is still a weeny teeny touch of Christmas left in the house.

C in his frenzy of post yule cleanliness packed away, up under the roof, along with the plastic Kissmess Tree, the box that houses my collection of Baby Jesi. This year I had put them all out, all 23 of my Baby Jesus collection. Lining them up, seeing their chubby cheeks and rough looking robes, sorting the very ugly against the very pretty was a meditation of gratitude, a reminder that once, nearly four years ago, I had this collection out permanently, and the only baby I was likely to get would have to be nicked from a nativity set.

"Why did you pack that box away," I shouted at C. "IT WAS EMPTY."

"IT WAS NOT EMPTY," C countered, "I looked in it and there was stuff in there."

"Yes. Yes there was stuff, there was stuff to pack away the BABY JESI! Because they're fragile!"

I shriek this with the grace of a banshee and, oddly, C declines to get the box.

Cue much huffing and sulking and C feeling hard done by and me determined not to be the one to get into the roof and find that damn box.

Yes I can get tissue paper and yes I could use another box but that's the box I always used for the baby Jesi, the strikingly ugly red and gold present with garishly fake ribbon on top.

It's a box that says FESTIVE! and CELEBRATE! and FREAKY! but more than that it's a box I have used for over four years and in this day and age that's a tradition.

The contents may well be precious and meaningful, but in my heart I know, the package counts.

A very Christmas Christmas.

2009-12-21T12:42:00.002+11:00

The lady behind the camera at the Santa photo stop has it all sussed out.

“I don’t tell the kids to say cheese,” she explains, “it looks too fake and try-hard. Also, it’s not very Christmas.”

I’m impressed even though I always tell Tricky to say ‘cheese’ for the camera. It’s my way of signaling that I’ve had enough and I want it all to be finished. I have lots of try-hard pictures of my three and a half year old. The camera lady points out the range of photo packages I can choose from.

“So how do you get them to smile?” I ask, hoping for a useful tip.

“I tell them to say “presents”.

I have taken Tricky into the local shopping centre to have his photo taken with Santa. There is a very small window of opportunity for this. This window must coincide with afternoon tea so as to provide maximum bribe potential, yet prior to any need for toilet. While we, his parents, appear to have successfully toilet trained Tricky we have failed in basic Public Toilet Negotiation. He is terrified of the air dryer. As in, just the sight of one perched near a sink is enough to make him scream. Very very loudly. In vain do we point out the paper towels or agree that he need not wash his hands this once. He clings, and digs in his nails and attempts to climb our bodies, much like a cat ascending a tree at speed.

And the screaming. Very loud. Very unpleasant.

Not very Christmas.

“I don’t like the other Santa, the woman waiting in line beside me says. “He’s got a very unfriendly face. “

I know the Santa she means. We’ve already been given the Word that the general shopping centre Santa isn’t very Christmas. He sits on a full sized sleigh in a winter wonderland setting. His sleigh comes complete with silver reindeer and a built in fan to keep his beard fresh. This was where we had Tricky’s photo taken last year. Tricky didn’t cry or scream last year but he was deeply suspicious.

In the photo Santa is empty-lapped, and hunched at the far end of the sleigh seat. He is unsmiling, his face devoid of expression or indeed any inference of normal muscle tone. Perhaps he’s bitter, or relieved, or on medication.

On my lap, Tricky is glowering at the camera, also unsmiling, also slightly glassy-eyed. He was still in nappies at that stage so perhaps he was working something out.

The only person who looks like they’re actually enjoying themselves in the photo is me, grinning for all of us because I love Christmas so much and we’re making a precious precious memory here, goddamit.

I feel slightly disloyal to winter wonderland Santa, even though I can see at a glance that it’s an entirely different Santa. Last year’s Santa was very old, this year’s is very young. Too young perhaps. I think this is why the woman in the queue beside me perceives him as unfriendly. I wouldn’t call him unfriendly as such. Just bored shitless.

“He is quite slim,” I finally admit, which is probably one of the deadliest insults one could fling at a Santa. “His face is too thin and he doesn’t smile,” the woman hisses at me. I nod, and somewhere another elf falls down dead.

Later, we will pass by Winter Wonderland Santa again and I will try and hide our distinctive other Santa showbag. This will be totally unnecessary as a bevy of lean brown teenage girls will be waiting to have their picture taken with Winter Wonderland Santa and I will note that, with a teenager hooked closely under each arm, this year’s Santa actually seems very happy indeed.

The other day, Tricky asked me if Santa was a boy.

I knew where this was going. Gender is very much on the Tricky mind just now. Followed very closely by genitals. I’m hoping this is a phase but I suspect it may simply be the beginning of the rest of his life. As night follows day so too must the fact that if Santa is a boy, Santa must have a penis.

Yes, I hear myself saying, you’re right. Santa does have a penis.

There are actually three Santas in this shopping centre – Winter Wonderland Santa, Absent Santa who is never on his Santa chair when I pass by, instead purportedly out “feeding his reindeer,” and the Santa who my son and I are now queuing up to see.

This Santa, inside one of the big department stores, is seated on a throne in what might be described as Santa’s Hidden Toy Grotto or alternatively, Santa’s Secret Bondage Dungeon. It gives the whole picture a cosier, more ‘Christmas’ look.

The woman next to me has obviously come to the same conclusion.

“This Santa,” she says approvingly, “is more real.”

Secret Bondage Santa looks fat and old and wears spectacles. Also there is only a very tiny queue. This makes him very real indeed and ideal for our 2009 Christmas photo.

It’s our turn and I push Tricky forward into the arms of a costumed stranger, exhorting him to sit on his lap and musing to myself what a strange and creepy thing this is to do to a child. I see that I have hastily dressed Tricky in his brown plaid shorts with the cowboy on the pocket and a long sleeved green shirt printed with giraffes.

Against the uniform red of Santa’s trousers and with a group of red, white and green children waiting patiently behind us I can see how my son clashes rather horribly. I have no real excuse for this except that I was hurrying to make the toilet window and we hadn’t done the washing for a while. I dug in a drawer, I saw green, I saw “shirt bought by grandmother”, I even checked with Tricky’s father as we flew down the stairs: “Does your son look ok in this? Look at him, look at him please, we’re having a photo with Santa, tell me Does Your Your Son Look Ok In This?”

His father hesitated and then said: “He looks great!"

Now, having had a moment to collect my thoughts in the photo line, I can see that Tricky does not look great. He looks like a homeless person let loose in a handcraft market I think to myself as I straighten his shirt. I make a mental note to shout at his father when we get home.

I wonder again if it's time for a haircut. We have not been able to bring ourselves to cut Tricky’s hair yet and so it hangs in dark curls around his shoulders. Several curls fall rakishly over his eyes. Sitting on Santa’s lap he looks through his hair at me now. He is not scared but I can see he’s a little confused. He turns to stare at the strange man holding him firmly across one thigh.

“Is Santa a boy?” Tricky asks suddenly.

"Yes," I say.

“What a good little girl,” says Santa.

“It’s our photo with Santa, darling” I say encouragingly, “Say cheese!”

The camera lady waves a stuffed reindeer and gives me a look.

“Say presents!”

That would be a month

2009-11-19T12:56:00.003+11:00

Does anyone else find that, despite the fact you set up the blog to write and makes some sort of shape from the whoosh of all the stuff that is your life, when the whoosh is at it's most whooshy you can't write because you want your words to be pristine and perfect and so you try and process the whoosh in your head first but at the same time you're dealing with new whoosh and then, hello, four weeks has gone by and you've written sweet F.A.

Which is entirely as it should be because you also, hilarious little thing that you are, signed up to do nanowrimo which is, to sensible folk who know not of which I speak, this thing where you decide to write a novel in a month. In fact you endeavour to write about 1600 words per day on said novel. In November, because, it's so slow, November; so much the month where absolutely nothing happens. Unless you are nearly three-and-a-half in which case the month of November doesn't exist and actually won't until you are about 20.

So, not so much of the nanowrimo I am afraid.

Or blogging. A bit of tweeting. Some actual This Is Your Job writing.

I have been away on holiday, I have attended a school reunion, I have written a new play. Things have happened to my friends. In regards to the thing that happened to this friend, I met his mother, for the first time, a couple of weeks ago.

That was hard.

And that's a whole lot of whoosh.

Imaginary friends

2009-10-14T20:16:00.007+11:00

So I go to pick up Tricky from preschool and I'm delighted to find him running around, shouting and climbing just like all the other kids.

He's a bit of a shy one, our Tricky, it takes him a while to warm up in large gatherings and seeing him standing quietly off to one side watching all the other children have fun or clinging to one of the teacher's hands is a weeny bit heartbreaking. Especially for his wussbag of a mother.

Hence, everytime I walk through the gates, I find myself becoming a horrendous blend of Mary Poppins and Julie from the Loveboat.

I pick up his orange backpack and sign him out and then he pulls at my hand and says I want to say bye bye to Henry.

I nearly clap my hands together with glee. At last, I inwardly squeal. A little friend!

I scan the roll but there's no 'Henry' on the list. No matter, I think. Tricky has made friends with one of the big boys from the other class. Nice.

We go out to find Henry, I can't wait to meet him, and Tricky can't see him, but then again - yes he can, no he's gone no he's there, no he's not.

I start to ask the other small children: Where is Henry? Tricky wants to say bye bye, and they give me the blank rolling eye stare so beloved of the teen of their species.

There is no Henry, a very young ladyperson informs me with barely concealed contempt and I laugh this off because remember Soren Lorenson? Lola's imaginary friend? He's darling and she's delightful and she totally has a wonderful life even though no one else can see him.

Also, I have a friend who I recently learned was bff with an imaginary boy who lived in the gas meter box. He's now in his mid-forties with a lovely wife and children. (The friend, not the imaginary boy who was tragically abandoned when the family moved house and became fully electric.)

And anyway, Tricky has spied Henry now and is dragging me in for the kill. There he is!

I can't see Henry, I say, Is he wearing a blue hat? Has he got a green bag?

No, says Tricky, exercising his right to speak gibberish; he's gnafferguldrtymf

We're closing in on a pink moulded plastic cubby house and two small girls are squabbling over who should be allowed to ascend the moulded plastic staircase first.

There he is! Tricky's voice rings with triumph but I still can't see any boy, let alone a boy who's

gnafferguldrtymf .

Hello girls, I hear myself say in the ghastly faux-bright voice of the clueless adult; Is there a Henry here?

They look quizzically at each other and then glare ferociously at me. I hear Tricky murmur in my ear: There he is, there's Henry...

What's your name? I ask the girl closest to me and she tells me Mackenzie. Tricky is beaming away and nodding like yes, I said that all along, isn't she beautiful?

Tricky would really like to say bye bye to you I tell her and she nods. I get the distinct impression that small boys always want to say bye bye to her. Having got this far of course Tricky is completely tonguetied and nearly paralysed with shyness. He waves his eyelashes at her.

Oookay then! I smile like an idiot, Bye bye Mackenzie!

Byebyetricky she gives him a half wave and her friend takes the opportunity to nip past her and up the staircase.

I drag Tricky away, it's never nice to hear the object of your affections consumed with rage and things are starting to get very heated indeed at the moulded plastic cubby house. Instead we walk hand in hand back up to the car, with Tricky giving me all sorts of useful besotted trivia about 'Henry'. After a few seconds of non stop Henryisms I am about ready to ask Tricky just how serious all this is when the local cat swishes up and stops just long enough for a pat.

And when we continue on, all traces of 'Henry' seem to have gone and he doesn't mention her again.

Almost as if I'd imagined the whole thing.

Now Is The Winter, and it is cold in this tent.

2009-10-08T14:52:00.004+11:00

So it's not, actually, Winter, but man it is cold. And outside the wind is blowing a gale.

I'm so cold I've got the heater on and I'm wearing the stripy woollen jumper my sister AJ gave me from Noo Zillend, my sheepskin slippers I bought way back when C and I used to live with grumpy grandad (ooh yeah they were fun fun times) and my old black jeans with the hole in one knee.

Helen saw me wearing these jeans once and she told me, very firmly, that I Must Stop wearing them outside the house. Those jeans, she told me, are for Doing The Housework Only.

Since I rarely Do Housework they hardly ever get a good wearing.

Which means, on cold days when the washing has piled up, they're one of the few clean, ready to wear items in my wardrobe.

For a few weeks too, I've been feeling like the very Worst Parent In The World. Just about every parent feels that, I know, it gets passed around, that particular award - we hold it for a while, burn our fingers on the ice cold metal handles, engrave our name on it, and then one day it's gone.

I think I got my award not long after the day both C and I forgot to pick up our son from preschool and our nephews from primary school - each thinking the other was going to do it. And I think it went just before the day I took Tricky for an outing to the Powerhouse Museum, one of our favourite haunts. That was the day he threw up in the car, just as I pulled into the carpark. He was saying "Stop the car Mummy, I need a cuddle, I don't feel very well," and I was calling over my shoulder "yes darling, not long now, of course I will give you a cuddle..."

Luckily I had brought the bag he uses for preschool, and in that bag we had put a spare change of clothes. And although I was prepared to just clean him up and drive straight back home, once he had chucked up he became remarkably cheery and quite eager to see the trains and indeed we ended up having a rather marvelous day.

While at the museum we saw some 'children's theatre', not great writing but enthusiastic delivery. Tricky and I sat on the floor, or at least I sat and he was forcibly restrained by me. This was our first time at an event of this nature where he was old enough to express his displeasure (I WANT TO GOOOO!), some time earlier he came to see a production of one of my children's plays in Newcastle and was perfectly behaved. But then, he was also pre-verbal and probably breast feeding at the time.

Tricky knows that I (and his father) go to see movies or theatre which he calls "cin-a-tar" as in "Mummy, where are you going? Are you going to the cin-a-tar? Who is looking after me? Pease don't go, pease, pease...I don't want daddy/Aunty N/babysitter/grandmother I want you..." This kind of emotional manipulation also adds a bit of shine to that crap parenting award I mentioned earlier.

So it's cold and the wind is blowing something awful around the house and through the cracks in the airvents but also, I just feel really really down.

I think finding out about Emil, his sudden death, has really upset me, like not just made me upset but upset my balance, my sense of the way life has stacked up around me.

Losing a friend and an artist, those two things entwined.

Someone who started out when I did but who shot way ahead in his field and then fell.

And a few more things have happened since Emil, things that impact on the way I see myself as a writer and an artist and as an Australian writer and artist. It feels like the whole of my industry could fit into a tent and I stepped outside to take a pee and there's no room for me anymore. And it's frigging cold out here and the wind is blowing and blowing and friends are dying.

Tricky enjoyed the show in the end, luckily, he sang and waved his hands and clapped at the right moment and later at home when I found him setting up his train station as a theatre; with his trains and miniature people as the audience, I felt a great wave of satisfaction.

I had begun my offspring on that wonderful journey that is the arts; of appreciation, of story and spectacle and creativity, of self doubt and envy, of failure and almost success, of stress, not enough money, deadlines, messy desks and lost potential, opportunity and people.

It's the kind of thing I could get quite depressed about but now it's time to pick up Tricky (nephews on their holidays) and we stop in a park and slide on the slippery dip and play on the swings and the wobbly up down thing and we drive home and we look for strawberries and we find one that has survived the rain and the cold and then we go into the warm house and we eat cake and we drop crumbs all over the floor and I don't clean them up because we are far too busy building our new traintracks.

Emil Goh 1966 to 2009 is Too Frigging Short.

2009-09-10T15:04:00.007+10:00

On Monday, my friend Emil Goh died.

I found this out on Twitter, while I was scrolling down through the arts snippets and parental tips and clues for better compost. 140 characters is not very much but the words Vale Emil Goh pretty much caught my eye and stuck in my gut and quite quickly I found the links.

I have argued with people over Twitter before and been given various arguments against - mainly involving the words “stupid” and “narcissism”, but I have to say “you may discover a friend has died” is a fairly strong contender in the Reasons To Hate Twitter list.

There’s already a lot of stuff in the cybersphere about Emil, he created an extraordinary body of work over the past years. He exhibited in Australia and internationally, he curated, published, produced, photographed, documented,video-ed and basically lived a great life. He received an Australia Council residency for Seoul a few years back and he adored the place, there was no better place or time for making art and making friends- possibly his two biggest skills-and the one went with the other, hand in hand.

It is the making friends bit I want to celebrate here because everyone who knew Emil became a friend. Years ago I remember laughing that you couldn’t walk across Newcastle's Hunter Street Mall with Emil in under an hour – so many people would stop to chat with him. That was indeed years ago, before '94 when we still lived in Newcastle - but I bet people said the same thing about Emil in Seoul, London, Hong Kong, Melbourne, Sydney…

We met when we were both at Newcastle University, in the early 90's, and we clicked, apart from anything else because we had both lived in Malaysia (he was Malaysian and I was a RAAF brat) and we both loved the Nonya food. We could drool together over memories of makan cart banana fritters, peanut pancakes and char keoay teow although when it came to the shaved ice desserts, laced with coloured sugar syrup, evaporated milk and various beans, he was on his own. Emil loved these frozen confections, I loathed them.

It wasn’t specifically Malaysian food, we decided once to do a project together about the best cafes in Newcastle; I would write the articles, Em would do the portraits. We never finished, but we drank a lot of free coffee and Em took a lot of shots of me in my black and white REMO shirt. And that was another thing he loved back in the early 90s: the REMO store near Taylor’s Square. And Seinfeld. He loved Seinfeld.

In 1994, the year my mother died, Emil and I were very close. I was attending the NIDA playwrights studio in Sydney and used to bunk on his couch in Commonwealth Street, Surry Hills, once a week. When Emil and his girlfriend broke up and my marriage broke up we were kind to each other and solicitous in the way that good mates are, both concerned about the other without sounding too concerned. Two other friends going through sad, strange breakups of their own joined us and there was this period of caring, bitter, unhappy yet happy companionship that we shared. I seem to think we drank a lot at that time but then probably not, because I don’t really remember Emil drinking more than a glass at openings. But I do remember the food.

The food and the art.

And Emil was always making art. Different kinds of photographs, playing with lomography and those funny plastic split lens cameras that let you take 4 shots in one. More than that, hanging out with Em involved holding equipment, recording a script or posing for him. You could be asked to sing an aria or run on the spot in the half light while his camera clicked and whirred, or just 'be yourself'.

When I moved to Sydney with my new partner C, Emil was at art college and living in a share house in Glebe. And in quick succession I remember him taking us to a series of great food places we had never been before: Barbeque King in Chinatown, Vietnamese in Marrickville, Frank’s Pizza on Parramatta Road, Prasits on Crown Street, Sailors Thai in the Rocks, Singapore Gourmet in Newtown (authentic char keoay teow at last!) He took us and he took other friends and friends of friends, if you ate more than once with Emil you were pretty much a friend for life. These were all places we would return to again and again until finally we would forget that Emil had taken us there first, they would seem so ingrained in our Sydney lifestyles, we would bring new friends and enjoy their first-time enjoyment. We went with Emil to Tropfest for the first time, to night clubs in the Cross for the first time, to tiny galleries and night noodle markets and Sydney Festival events. It was all new, it was all exciting. Somehow Emil had discovered these things, these things to enjoy and now he was sharing them.

Singapore Gourmet was a tiny, grotty little place on King Street, unassuming, drab but inside such culinary delight! Emil became such a valued customer he had one of his birthday parties there; we had the place to ourselves. We arrived early so we could help him cover the window and tables with butchers paper and then the dishes began emerging from the kitchen… the tables were decorated with tea lights, glowing through simple lanterns of tracing paper with photocopied images of his childhood - his mother, his father, a tiny spiky haired toddler Emil on the sand. These were prototypes for creative works but until perfected they provided a beautiful, quirky and very Emil-like accompaniment to what was already a fabulously unusual birthday feast.

Then there was the infamous yum cha mornings. Enormous tables of people gathered under his instruction, to eat dumplings, to drink tea, to enjoy life. We would meet these people and then would see them again and again around the lazy susan, blinking the sleep from our eyes and clacking our chopsticks. Emil was strict, there were rules; be at the restaurant at 11am sharp or forget it, that’s when you have yum cha, it’s not lunch! Don’t poke at the food with your chopsticks! Turn the teapot lid over when the tea is gone… I got into big trouble from him when I confused the staff at our favourite restaurant, putting a fifty dollar bill on the table and then waiting for change. No, it wasn’t meant to be a massive tip! Cross waiters made Emil unhappy. It meant finding a new yum cha restaurant…

The yum cha/dim sum love wasn’t all about the food. He bought a dim sum trolley back to Australia with him…and made it into art, an enormous gleaming silver trolley with bamboo steamer baskets towering up to the ceiling.

We did an art piece with him when he was still living in Glebe. C and I recorded a telephone conversation and our friend Helen recorded an aria. The audience, each person clutching a portable radio to their ear, trooped after Emil as he led them along Bridge Road past his house. Along the way they stopped on a corner to watch and listen as C lurked in a phone box and attempted to lip synch his end of the conversation into the receiver. After some sort of dramatic gesture he sped from the box to become another character doing something else. I’m not sure what it was exactly because I was poised between a desklamp and the closed blinds, ready to throw open my arms and lipsynch to Helen’s aria as the audience trotted past, peering up at the window, their ears full of soprano magic.

It was fun, making art with Emil. It was always fun. And thinking back to those times it reminds me that making art should be fun. Should be joyous. Sometimes when I’m crushed down by deadlines or rejection letters or my own insecurities it doesn’t seem like very much fun at all. And that's not very Emil of me.

We didn’t drift apart it was more like, as the years went by, we were all working on our own stuff, Emil on video now and me writing. We visited him when he was at Goldsmiths College, staying in Goodenough House in London, we met more of his friends, had a barbeque in the beautiful fenced garden in the square. We saw some of the work he was exploring, more video work, the camera on the lazy susan balanced precariously on a window sill to record inside/outside. More friends. More yum cha (or dim sum).

He came and stayed with us in Sydney, he and his Melbourne artist girlfriend, sleeping on the loungeroom floor of our one bedroom flat.

He came to my family home in Newcastle for Christmas and swam in the pool with my younger sisters. They called him “Emil Emil Orange Peel!”

For a few years we emailed sporadically, somewhere in there he went to Hong Kong, he spent time in Europe. C and I were having our own dramas, I was diagnosed with MS and suddenly I was on a strict diet and then we struggled to have a baby and went on an even stricter one. The days of Peking Duck to celebrate Chinese New Year or Frank's gelato or any other food adventuring with Emil seemed a long, long way away.

Emil went to Seoul on his Australia Council residency and then he stayed and stayed.

Where’s Emil? We would meet former yum cha compadres in cafes and Chinese restaurants. What’s the latest? Have you heard?

I hadn't, no. There had been an argument, stupid. Rules had been broken and we both needed time to pass. C and I married in 2004 and I finally sent Emil a photo of my sisters and I in all our wedding finery. He was lovely, complimentary, happy and signed off Emmyxxx. Things were going well for both of us and we talked a bit about the art but mostly Emil sent me pictures of food and coffee and chairs and kisses and various very silly photographs “for your entertainment”.

And we talked about Seinfeld, again, which he was reabsorbing in Seoul. He found for me a set of badges emblazoned with classic lines; ‘These pretzels are making me thirsty’. And NO SOUP FOR YOU!

It was nice hearing from him, it helped get my mind off the sad realities of infertility and then, when I was finally pregnant I emailed him the good news at fourteen weeks and then included him in my bog-standard I HAVE BIRTHED!!! email announcing my new son, five months later. (Yes, he did come early.)

Emil met up with mutual friends in Hong Kong, he met new friends, friends of ours when they went to Seoul for the first time and he showed them a good time as he showed everyone a good time, because Emil almost always had a good time.

He loved life. He laughed lots. But we missed him when he was back in Sydney, I'm sorry!!!! he exclaimed in his email. And he never met up with us again.

I’m still processing this loss of this dear friend, this talented artist, this lovely lovely man who was always smiling and fun and who delighted in meeting people and showing people around.

I regret not staying more in touch with him, not making more of an effort to see him when he was in town. But we always say this whenever anyone we care about dies. I should have…

What I do take solace in is Emil’s ability to live life to the fullest, to find the art in everything. The fun in everything. More than anyone else I know Emil knew how to maintain his curiosity, his sense of humour, his generosity of spirit. He was a great host, either in his own kitchen or the streets of a new city, he would take you under his wing, he would show you things. He adored popular culture, kitch, retro – he always seemed ahead of the pack, he found things first, shared them and then moved onto the next discovery.

In the report I read of his death, he was with his girlfriend. And that made me happier. That he wasn’t alone, that he loved someone and that someone loved him back.

But then, we all loved Emil.

And the world seems darker, less fun, and certainly much less tasty without him.

Update: obit in Sydney Morning Herald here

Diary Of A Really Prissy Teenager

2009-09-03T13:44:00.003+10:00

For various reasons I have dug up my high school diary.

It is a truly frightening document that begins at age 12 with the words:

"A few days ago I met v down at the Hostie. She seemed delighted to see me and told me that I was invited to her party. It was to be from 7.30 to 11.30 and C was coming too.

Judging from V's past social experience, I'd say there were boys coming..."

and ends at 17, the night before the HSC exams, with:

"Who's afraid of V Woolf?"

and in between: sheer undiluted ghastliness.

I love it!

Anyone else want to share?

MOTHER'S LITTLE HELPER

2009-08-31T17:43:00.005+10:00

"You see my problem."

I was talking to my pal Annie about the forthcoming BOOK WEEK demands. Pick a character, any character, and then dress your child up like them. Or suffer the consequences. Preschools are notable for being cold and hard like that.

"It's not fair," I whined. "The girls can come as princesses. They'll in be pink. They'll wear frocks and maybe a plastic tiara. It's easy for those parents." I was generalising but I didn't care. I had a scant few days to whip up Tricky's cozzie and the pressure was wearing heavily on me and my feminist ideals.

Despite his love of Charlie & Lola, Tricky had decided to be neither Charlie nor Lola, plumping instead for that cuddly feline denizen of the Hairy McClary books: SCARFACE CLAW aka TOUGHEST TOM IN TOWN. It was an unusual choice because Tricky was actually scared of Scarface Claw, insisting we not read the relevant pages when he cropped up in the 'Hairy' books. It made it hard to maintain the tension when Hairy McC and his doggy mates encounter a strange pair of eyes in the undergrowth and then...with a clatter of claws and a scatter of paws... suddenly and inexplicably decide to bugger off home.

I had already scoured the Big House dress-up box which contained the evidence of many a fine Halloween for the Naughty Nephews, not to mention the ghosts of Book Week past, but there was nothing to conjure up a mangy tomcat with a Very Bad Attitude. Nothing except the remains of Naughty Nephew 1's hairy black and white teddy bear suit. A rather rustic looking jacket and trousers as whipped up by my designer friend MarkyQ, one balmy summer evening, many Book Weeks ago.

Now, I found myself (as I so often did) in my hometown Newcastle wandering the aisles of a rather depleted Spotlight with my old theatre pal Annie. And whining. Lots of whining.

I had hoped that I'd find a fully formed tomcat costume, Pret A Porter, with minimal fuss (and obviously maximum cost but I was prepared to give up sustenance for a few days in return for peace of mind). I was wrong.

There was nothing left on the shelves except a handful of 'Bubblebee' and 'Fifties Boy' outfits.

"This is like the Chernobyl Spotlight," I snarled. "I expect better from the city that gave us The Castanets and Yahoo Serious. All I want is a fecking cat. Where are all the decent costumes?"

As I spoke a harried looking woman marched past with three darling little girls in tow.

"It doesn't matter, I can make them," she was feebly insisting,"three princess dresses. In Pink. Easy."

"I have to be Belle," one of the darlings snapped.

"They must have full skirts and fitted bodice," trilled another.

"And a twain," lisped the third who didn't look as if she was old enough to be out of nappies let alone into the traditional salmon tinted garb of the female minor royale.

"What about the tiaras?" the eldest darling called mercilessly as her mother rushed weeping towards the home welding section.

Book Week, it seemed, was not limited to one solitary Sydney preschool. At every fabric display, at each shelf of water soluble paint I could hear the same two words hissed between gritted teeth.

Annie clicked her clickable glasses together and regarded me with the wisdom born of both long term friendship and being producer/director/writer/actor/stage manager and, crucially, wardrobe department of her own theatre company.

"I have three words to say to you," she said firmly. "Hot. Glue. Gun."

Several hours later, back at my parents' house, it was done.

Before us lay a cut-to-size hairy black and white coat, a long and satifyingly tomcatty tail and a pair of twitchily realistic Scarface Claw ears. These last were my own particular invention, cobbled up from triangles of the same faux fur fabric used to construct the tail and a "Sexy Red Devil" headband, snatched up from a Spotlight bargain bin, which featured demonic horns emerging, oddly enough, from a base of soft fuzzy black feathers.

Costume construction had taken less than half an hour, most of the intervening time between Chernobyl Spotlight and Scarface Claw Central pleasantly spent sipping coffee and eating macaroons amidst the gourmands of Darby Street.

Once we set to it, Annie wielded the Hot Glue Gun (low temp) like a woman possessed.

Clicking her reading glasses together over her nose, she upended the Spotlight bag and rolled the faux fur like a pro. She sealed and glued and spot stuck the tail, she was a chick with a gun and she wasn't afraid to shoot. "I have put together whole productions with a Hot Glue Gun," she shouted happily, "Feathers, fur, braiding, leather...I've hot glued them all! I use it at home too! Soft furnishings! Decorative blinds! Whole sets of sequinned cushions! All made up without a single stitch! lord knows I can never wash the things!"

At this point she had spotted the disaster that was Mach#1 of the Scarface Ears. "You've cut that fur exactly the way the shopgirl told you not to," she tutted.

It was true and so they looked like a couple of neatly trimmed if slightly greying lady hedges, rather than a pair of scruffy feral cat ears.

"Start again," Annie demanded and ruthlessly ripped the hairy triangles free. Luckily I could no longer be trusted with fur cutting and so Annie did them herself. They looked magnificent.

Book Week came twice for Tricky this year, the Preschool had scheduled parades on Monday and Friday-both days he attends. Scarface Claw had two performances.

Each day he was shy and nervous, each day I had to hold his hand and walk alongside thirty knee high pirates and pink clad princesses with one little Miss Giggles, one Snow White and one Angelina Ballerina and two mermaids ("Because Ariel wears different clothes on different days".)

Each day his costume was stroked lovingly by Angelina, Belle, Snow or Ariel.

Each day his face crumpled as we started to leave and he had to be hastily handed over to a Teacher for cuddles and reassuring words as we skulked out the gate.

And each day he had a completely fantastic time

Where The Wild Things Buy Their Book Week Costumes

2009-08-17T15:07:00.004+10:00

Today, these words caused my heart to leap into my throat:

ON MONDAY AND FRIDAY THE CHILDREN CAN COME DRESSED UP AS THEIR FAVORITE BOOK CHARACTER

I am quoting above from Tricky's preschool newsletter which I will of course use in scrapbookish fashion or at very least keep shoved in memorial shoebox because it is our VERY FIRST PRESCHOOL NEWSLETTER EVER.

In years to come we will look back with warm hearts and moistened eyes to see that one of the teachers is having a holiday! Lucky her! And, soon it will be Father and Grandfather's morning! Welcome all old blokes related to students! And, A Very Special Thankyou to the Mother who donated two CDs! No one likes a smug miss.

But, it is the can come dressed as fave book character that has me tapping my fingers in an anxious fashion. This of course is merely the latest in a whole series of Preschool related anxiety-tapping moments. He has attended less than ten times and already I have worried about him 'having no friends', 'playing all alone', 'wearing distinctively weird trousers' and 'Suzie ate my cheese.' This last came directly from Young Master when I asked if he enjoyed his snack box. Despite the fact that there appears to be no Suzie in his class I still feel slightly anxious because what if he's being bullied by an imaginary friend?

We all know what happens to kids that are different, I told my husband.

They grow up to be leaders and artists and imaginative thinkers, he responded.

Perhaps, I nodded, and perhaps the other kids peck their eyes out.

Re Book Week and dressing as fave character, it seems obvious to me that firstly there is no "can" there is only "will". Tricky must go dressed as something bookish because otherwise he will be different and, as we know, different is dangerous.

Problem is, Tricky's fave books just now are The Gruffalo (orange eyes, black tongue, poisonous wart on end of his nose), The Waterhole (various non-extinct and extinct animals), The Very Hungry Caterpillar(two choices, caterpillar or butterfly) and various Charlie and Lola adventures.

I have a scant couple of weeks to solve this and while I am confident in the papier mache sphere I do not have stitching abilities. Butterfly wings for instance are probably right out.

If worst comes to worst, I told C, I could just write Charlie on a tee-shirt and he could go as "Charlie".

C was unimpressed. "He likes Where The Wild Things Are," he said "why doesn't he go as Max? All he needs to do is wear that hoodie."

I stared at him.

"Max wears a full body suit with hood and ears", I said. "We don't have anything that looks even vaguely like that."

"Yes we do", C insisted. "It's grey and sleeveless. There's a picture of a bear on the front."

"And...that looks nothing like Max in Where The Wild Things Are."

"He could have gone really wild," C insisted, "and cut off his sleeves."

I gave him the patented Mother Knows Best frown. "And screenprinted a design on the front?"

C turned back to his computer, slightly offended. "Well," he said, "that's who I always think of when he wears that shirt."

Father proving himself no help at all, I am left pondering butterfly wings and Charlie tee-shirts. Oh and poisonous warts. I'm pretty sure I could papier mache one of those up, no trouble.

An Australian Girl In Paris

2009-08-03T13:32:00.003+10:00

I need to write about Paris. I know that sort of comes from left field but it's always been in the back of my mind.

And I have a certain distance from it now.

I remembered this morning that I started a blog about it, years ago and it's still wheeling round the blogosphere. And sadly, I've forgotten the password so I can't change it or add to it or even delete it and start again. It's just...out there.

I need to write about Paris.

Soon.

The Sticking Point

2009-08-03T09:55:00.002+10:00

Tricky's third day of preschool today. C is taking him in and also doing the schoolrun with the Nephews and I've stayed behind to do exciting stuff like write and de-ant the sultanas.

I went along on the second day and basically had to be dragged away by C who is now able to ascertain when the right moment to exit has occurred. Boy, isn't that a skill and wouldn't you think after a year at daycare, I'd have acquired it too? No, because in preschools, everything is bigger and there are a billion more kids and there are so many more shiny, glittery, moving, colourful things to look at. It's distracting! And also alluring!

Me, I could have spent hours looking at the dinosaurs and the pirate ship and the plastic turtles and look there was a big couch with comfy cushions and some teeny tiny Ally McBeal toilets for everyone! Anytime! Gather round! Let's wee together! If they just put in an espresso machine I could be there all day.

Of course my biggest fear is that Tricky will be a lonely, grim faced child with no friends except for the plastic turtles and we will have ruined his life forever, because I'm neurotic like that.

Last night we put photos from his birthday party into a scrapbook and I realised he had gone quiet. It was not because he was overcome with delightful memories, nor was he stunned into silence by his mother's artful placement of pictures.

No.

He was eating the glue stick.

Ahhhh! I shrieked at him and wrenched it out of his hand. Stop that! YOU WILL NOT BE THE TYPE OF CHILD WHO EATS PASTE.

Tricky sucked on his fingers. I like it, he said thoughtfully.

At preschool, Day 2, Tricky already knew to put his bag into the locker marked with a koala and put his drinkbottle on the tray with all the other trays. His dad showed me where the fruit goes and where the lunchboxes go and where the Extra Snacks go. Tricky held my hand tightly until he saw his teacher and then he went and held hands with her. C gave me a nudge. There was a place for everything and everything has its place.

And now, for a few hours, my place wasn't with my baby boy anymore.

Now We Are Three (and on antibiotics)

2009-07-26T17:00:00.006+10:00

Last Sunday. Birthday Party. Lots of Nigella led cooking. Cupcakes. Number 3 Biscuits.

Buttermilk birthday cake. Home made sausage rolls are to be made in morning.

Night before: Eat entire bodyweight in smarties, clinkers, jelly babies and chocolate logs in bid to decorate Train Cake To End All Train Cakes.

Possibly all birthday cakes.

Possibly, when we are 4, he will get a birthday pikelet.

Drink copious amounts of wine with parents in law, husband and sister in law, all of whom are working and drinking steadily in effort to get cake decently iced and decorated.

Mission accomplished before midnight.

Day of party. Festivities start at 11am. Panic starts earlier. Suddenly list of tasks for morning seems enormous. In good news, the celeriac has been grated. But in bad news the thawing mince is revealed to be TOTALLY STINKING. Husband despatched to buy more mince. Note that even at this late stage he is not despatched to buy FROZEN SAUSAGE ROLLS.

Arriving guests. Luckily there are only a handful. Because this guest has gall to be on time she is given chores to do. Mince returns and through serious Kitchen Wizardry is mixed into puff pastry and tucked into oven. And we all know that if the sausage rolls are cooking then all will be right with the world. Sister in law whips out enormous platters of sandwiches all minus crusts.

Around this time things start getting slightly fuzzy for me. Yet I have not even cracked open one of the bottles of champagne. Hmmm.

Guests arrive. There seem to be hundreds of adults. There are 5 guest children.

Pass The Parcel is played. I have bowed to pressure from every other parent on earth and slipped a chocolate frog between every layer of paper so all participants will, bah humbug, win a prize.

Much shrieking, laughter, screaming and running up and down stairs. Meanwhile, children play on trampoline and assorted pedal car things and trampoline.

Food eaten. Cupcakes have pink icing eaten off top. Number three biscuits seemingly inhaled. Sausage rolls proclaimed great success. Adults manage to fight off anyone under two feet and scoff lot.

Children are as angels and play so nicely parents end up staying. Brother in law makes loaves and fishes type pasta and manages to feed entire group, despite fact he has just come off 3 weeks of shooting still photographs on film set.

Everyone collapses when last guest leaves at 8ish. I manage to finally recall that there are luckydips to go with the party bags as the last child leaves.

Think that he is three. Imagine many more birthdays to come. Imagine making number 4 biscuits and then number 5 etc etc. Remember woman in toyshop saying that we were "brave" having a birthday party at home. recall self scoffing at the very idea of having a party at a commercial venue. Feel very ordinary. Put self to bed.

Afterwards there is probably one or two day's grace before flu hits and what a corker it is too. Culminates with sad scene of Myself, Tricky and C at the local doctor's in "family" appointment. Not swine flu, something much less famous. We leave with various antibiotics for various secondary type lung and ear infections (having antibiotics for flu being, of course, pointless, as flu is a virus) and I get a delightfully quaint purple puffer to help knock over a horrible prolapse inducing (well that's what it feels like)spasmodic cough.

Purple puffer will work in a week maybe but on the other hand, can also cause mouth thrush. Hoorah. Only good thing is that I have had my alcohol free 'dry july' after all. Well for a week at least.

And Tricky had a simply marvelous party.

"When I am 3 I can go on the Monorail"

2009-07-14T13:01:00.005+10:00

Next Saturday is Tricky's birthday. His friend Sebastian is flying back into Sydney that day and so we are having our party on Sunday.

The plan is to play Pass the Parcel and to eat a cake shaped like a train. There are five days to make and assemble said train and so I am not without anxiety.

(I'm not without anxiety at the best of times really. The trip to Los Angeles I won as part of the playwriting comp, I still have not organised. Anxiety. Planes. Long distances. Meetings. Potential failures. When i get round to booking a seat I will need to have one extra just to accommodate my fears. One ticket with anxiety. Economy please.)

Luckily there will be enough time because this is not one of the weeks just gone, one of the incredible weeks of writing, listening and creating that have punctuated June and July so far.

I think it started with that weekend away, that weekend of not being woken every four hours and being able to pop in for a film or a spot of shoe shopping or a long browse in a bookshop.

And then there was this two weeks of astonishing brilliance; a workshop with theatre legend Edward Albee (Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf, Three Tall Women, Zoo Story etc etc etc) and (concurrently, curses) a workshop with the resident actors of the Sydney Theatre Company to explore and develop the written "shards" that playwrights gang 7ON had created.

I twittered some of this stuff, not blogged it because I was unable to string more than 140 characters together at a time, and frankly it's a bit gushy and embarrasing but since I've already written quite publicly and at length about IVF, birth, dildocams, my lala, breastfeeding and various ups and downs of Special Magical Grownups Time with poor old long suffering C, I think I can handle admitting to a playwright's crush on Mr Albee. At one point I offered (via Twitter) to cut the plot of my play AND do his laundry, such was the strength of my feeling.

And still is, frankly.

This is the second workshop i have done with Edward Albee, the first was nearly three years ago when i was heavily pregnant.

Last time was a much larger workshop. There were a lot more people involved, directors and and actors, it was hard for shy people to spend much time with Theatre Legends but this time, this year, it was just a small group of writers. Shy people could get a look in.

But here's the terrible thing, the really embarrassing thing; i told myself before the fortnight started that there was nothing I could learn from Edward Albee. That there wasn't anything he would say that I hadn't heard before and that it was all old school playwrighting anyway.

And it was, and it was and yet it so wasn't.

I had heard it before, but it was only now, still sleep deprived, amazed and grateful at the chance to have two weeks worth of time spent studying and writing and reading, not snatched hours between naps or other jobs but two real weeks of 8 hours a day, that I heard what he was saying.

And the Big Thing he said, that I grasped and held onto (and really this is what gave me my playwright's crush) was that we have lineage. Because I had always felt kind of alone, scribbling away, that's one of the things that brought 7ON together. And I reckon most playwrights do feel like that, especially when your work isn't being produced or performed. But what we were learning was that as a playwright, as a writer of story and character, we are all connected to a huge and ancient river of writing that goes back in time through (Albee's big four;) Brecht and Chekov and Pirandello and Beckett and back to the Greeks and back to whoever first told the first story by a fire.

So that I have a tiny but vital connection to playwrights like Caryl Churchill and Mark Ravenhill and Simon Stephens just as I do to the Australian playwrights I admire like Ross Mueller and Lally Katz and Suzie Miller and Caleb Lewis and the 7ON gang.

And, Edward Albee.

And that's why, even though the plan was a week with Albee and then a week at the STC, I had to keep going back. Even though the second week was all film scripts and I could only make the afternoon feedback sessions, I kept going back and I kept writing it down. And I wasn't the only one. We have a small small theatre industry and it can be very easy to become disheartened and jaded and hardened. And I can whinge with the best of them but this time when people started to complain about the usual gatekeeper tactics I wanted to say let it go, just write, if you have a story to tell then you need to write it down and if you listen you will learn more about ways of telling that story...

I asked if Albee would sign my copy of Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf. It's an old version, one of those beautiful Penguin Plays, and it belonged to my mother which made it already precious.

He wrote: From one playwright to another. Courage!

And because I wanted to give him something, I gave him a copy of my book, which made me laugh to myself, because, honestly, what was he going to make of that? Luckily it made him laugh too. I am enjoying your very funny book, he told me at the prize ceremony on the last night of the workshop.

The first thing Edward Albee said to me, three years ago, was you must be about eight months pregnant and I laughed nervously because of course i wasn't eight months pregnant, lordy if I was due to have a baby in four weeks I would not be at a writers/actors workshop doing all that improvising and carrying on, I would be at home getting ready.

As it turned out, I was due to have a baby in four weeks. Tricky came just under a month early. And I wasn't ready. And in some ways I have never really caught up. Nor do i expect to.

And now, he is about to turn three.

And I have just turned forty one.

And he is old enough to go on the monorail (with his Mummy and Daddy).

And I am old enough to listen and to learn about writing again.

And to go to Los Angeles.

With or without anxiety.

The Heaving Underbelly of the Perpetually Sleep Deprived.

2009-06-19T10:01:00.005+10:00

So the other day I was meeting another writer for a coffee in an area recently made even more famous by the Convincingly Fake Chk Chk Boom Girl.

It's an area that's been in my mind a bit of late because it also features in a lot of the research I'm doing with playwrights gang 7-ON on Sydney crime in the early 20th century. Kings Cross does celebrity crim very well, there's lots of seedy corners and shabby chic buildings and various spots of interest where you can almost see thirties Bordello Queen, Tilly Devine striding up to the corner shop to get her milk.

In short, it's a little distracting, all that crime history and myth and colourful racing identity stuff and one can, if one is a bit unsure of where one is going, end up...say...the wrong way up a one way street.

I'm not the best driver in the world, I think I may have mentioned before that reverse parks do not feature highly on my list of sensible grownup skills for instance. When I am trying to do a 180 degree turn in a small laneway squeezed between a refuge for the homeless and a delivery van for one of the million or so coffee shops nearby (none of which is the one I am trying to find) and I am being hassled by a feisty baglady, I do what Tilly wouldn't do, which is, I have a panic attack.

The previous weekend C and I had spent in The Rocks which is another area soaked in history, myth and colourful racing identity stuff. In this case The Rocks, being older had the first colourful racing identities, even though of course when the First Fleet sailed in there were no racecourses as such and it's debatable who those first criminals really were; the convicts or the military who sailed alongside them.

This was not a fact finding mission, this was A Break From The Screaming Tomato. Aunty N very generously offered to look after Tricky for the weekend and after some humming and ha-ing (about three seconds worth) we went. Initial pfaffing over where should we go, mountains? central coast? south coast? led to...let's just stay in posh hotel in city (wotif.com you rock) and sleep.

But C and I have both been reading John Birmingham's excellent Leviathan and so it was just a bit of gravy to dress in our posh clothes and head up to our posh restaurant and say...ooh look, that's where the previously pure and uncorrupted Tank Stream ended up a filthy cesshole of turd soup and dead goats, and hmmm I think these may be the houses that kept filling up with raw sewerage and...around here would be where those larrikin push gangs attacked innocent bystanders and hit them with socks stuffed with sand... and ook look what Brian Eno's done to the Opera House, talk about colourful racing identity...

The break was fantastic, of course, for all the reasons you may suspect, but equally good was being able to buy half price shoes in a shop you couldn't swing a toddler in and then going 'fuck it I'm going to buy two pairs'. Because, when was I going to get the time to shoe shop again before he starts school? The last time I bought a pair he was about five minutes old and strapped into a pram. Also asleep.

It was very nice to actually have time to talk to each other and to look at each other while we're talking, instead of shouting over one shoulder whilst buckling tiny shoes or changing tiny underpants or combing out tiny nits. It was nice to be reminded that, oh yes, it's you, my best friend, my biggest fan, my partner in crime. I remember you. I love you.

Returning to the real world we have taken on some of the Aunty N/Uncle K modifications in place and they seem to be working well. Star charts to reward Sitting In High Chair and Eating Food are going great guns but I fear the Speaking Quietly and Politely may need a little heavier artillery. The biggest change is to bath Tricky before his supper, not after as we used to do. It makes the transition to bedtime so much quicker and I think the 7.30 bedtime is doing a lot to head off some of Darth Toddler's more criminal behaviour.

Back in Kings Cross, stuck between a van and a hard place, I was attempting yet another billion point turn. The baglady was now informing me that my licence had come from a soap box (cornflakes box! I wanted to tell her, it was a fucking cornflakes box! but at that point I was beyond speech. I didn't dare look over at the wayside chapel residents gathered in the yard, I felt I was doing my bit providing the morning's street theatre.

At that point, a figure stepped out on the road, a little shabby, a little shady, brandishing a large broom. It was a guy who had been sweeping unmentionables from the road.

Thissa way! he beckoned me towards him and then reverse thatta way! And he pointed his broom in the right direction. It was as if pure beams of light were shining from the handle piercing the darkness of ohfuckfuckhowdoigetoutofhere. I turned the wheel and moved thissa way.

A car started driving up the lane towards me, the right way.

Oh dear, I said.

Don't worry! He can wait!

And up went the broom in the international signal for Stop And Wait For The Idiot Woman Who has Other Skills To Make Up For Crap Reversing.

Thank you, I said, and it was sincere and heartfelt and just a tad wobbly. Thank you for being so kind.

He waved.

And with a final swing I was out, past the van, past the appreciative Chapel chaps, past the baglady with the impeccable driving record and past the guy with the broom, the angel in the fluoro vest, who swept me and my unmentionable driving skills clean from the streets of King Cross.

lovely opera house pic from here smh.com.au

A galaxy far far away from Darth Toddler

2009-06-15T11:54:00.004+10:00

C and I have just returned from a weekend away.

It involved lots of sleeping, shoe shopping, spontaneous swimming in hotel pool and ducking into miniscule decidedly child unfriendly cafes for quick coffees. It also involved posh dinner eating, walking for miles about the city and harbour and champagne at 4pm.

It did not involve pushing strollers, changing mumpies, sitting on tiny stool and encouraging eating of porridge, marathon teeth brushing sessions or tantrums.

Friday was the first night I have ever had without Tricky sleeping more than one room away. I wish I could say on Saturday I slept in till ten but sadly, both mornings, I was awake by seven.

It was the first time ever I had gone out for coffee without a matchbox car in my handbag.

It was fantastic, once the bottom lip stopped wobbling. His and ours.

But I believe it was wobbling far longer on our side of the galaxy.

Crossing the streams

2009-06-04T09:59:00.004+10:00

Ack it's true there has been a significant amount of slackness in the House of Ova (sudden image, eek sorry) but that's because there has been a significant amount of tension.

I remember in the eighties, early eighties, when people used to talk about 'biorhythms' and there were three lines representing your health, your...god I don't know, two other Important Things, but these three lines went up and down like waves and it was something about when the three lines met then kachow!

Either that or I'm thinking of Ghostbusters and how you DON'T CROSS THE STREAMS!

Deadlines large and small to be met (or not), Stuff to be researched and written, conversations to be had, toddlers to be bathed. This last should have its own post except it's part of the Hellacious Triumvirate of dinner, bath and bed. I whined about just this to Screenwriting Mummy about this the other day and she said...yes I remember that phase, it goes for quite a while.

Cruel words but then her own toddler boy, previously an utter angel, is entering the shout and hurl phase himself. Great screaming tantrum in the bath can only be a few short weeks away. Surely. At least it's stopped me drinking wine at dinner. There is nothing more horrendous then winding down with a nice glass of crisp white to be almost immediately wound up again by a Screaming Tomato.

It has been a strangely disturbing time these past couple of weeks and I include swine flu and the horrific disappearance of that Air France plane. Maybe strangely disturbing things happen all the time, of course they do, I know they do, but for some reason my wobbly consciousness is stringing them all together.

So friends and loved ones have dropped their bundle or been under attack at work or had cancer scares and tasks seem difficult and stodgy and I feel fat and unhealthy.

And some of the writing and research I'm doing, murder scenes and mug shots from Sydney's inglorious past. Baddies, like the guy above. And page after page of broken bodies and bloodstains. It's disturbing and unsettling and slightly haunting. The playwrights' group I'm in (7-ON) is doing a 2 week workshop with the Sydney Theatre Company in a couple of weeks time and the photographs are prompting the writing which will in turn become a show.

And that's great, that's tops, but the other thing that's happened is that I've won a playwright's prize which will see me doing a two week workshop with Edward Albee here in Sydney and also at some point jetting (!) off to Los Angeles. (!!)

And that's great, that's tops but the two week STC workshop and the two week Edward Albee workshop are THE SAME TWO FUCKING WEEKS.

And that's a little, you know. Poor.

Anyway, that's how I've felt a bit this past couple of weeks. Ultimately I'm good, I'm happy. I'm lucky. But it's just all this Stuff swirling around that I'm noticing and collating and examining and feeling affected by. Which is not the same as feeling infected.

More like, someone, somewhere, crossed the streams.

Storytelling

2009-05-25T10:34:00.002+10:00

So I went to the theatre on Saturday evening with Screenwriting Mummy.

My playwatching quota has plummeted since Tricky was born and that's just pants really, what with me being a playwright and all.

Years ago I remember seeing a postcard that said: "Why are there no great women artists?"

The postcard had a drawing of a woman in a long medievally type frock standing in front of a canvas. She had a paintbrush in one hand which was outstretched towards the canvas and a soup ladle in the other. She also had two kids dragging at her skirt and was unable to see anything much because there was a whopping big saucepan over her head.

I guess, thanks to the Jolly Big Funshop that is infertility, I had plenty of time in the past to put brush to paper and be a 'great woman artist', if only I hadn't spent all that time rolling about on my bed crying because I couldn't get pregnant. And now, look! I've got the baby and I'm complaining that he takes up so much time. Sheesh. Ungrateful or what.

Anyway, it was great seeing this play, Inside Out which was about a mother and a son. The son is funny, witty, arty and has a great relationship with his mother. Except, early in the play we realise there's something wrong. That something turns out to be him having schizophrenia and the play moves through a horrific nine month period with, thankfully for the audience, a glimmer of hope at the end. The writer (Mary Rachel Brown) interviewed carers, health professionals and people living with mental illness and you could hear that in the work, it rang frighteningly true.

I looked around the audience at times and I could see shoulders shaking and hands rubbing at faces and I realised that these were those people, not necessarily the ones the writer interviewed but others, parents and friends who had lost people, and even here and there the lost ones themselves. They were seeing their story, and the story of those they loved.

And for me watching, with my tiny boy tucked up in bed, and for my friend with her even tinier boy, it was also like seeing One Of Your Greatest Maternal Fears playing out on stage, not just the illness but the way it affected the relationship between mother and son, the heartbreaking accusations and abuse, the enormity of patience, the depths of fear.

In this story, this story made up of lots of stories, the mother got her son back. A woman I met a couple of years ago was not nearly so lucky and I will never forget her description of walking the backstreets of the city and finding the sad little corners and nooks where he had sheltered for a few days before moving on. Her only son. Her only child.

After the play we went out and had dinner in a noisy Thai restaurant where we ate squid and betal leaves and drank wine and shouted over the table at each other. It was a good night with lots of talk, not just about the play and what it meant to us, but about writing and mothering and finding a way to bridge the two without being a shitty writer and/or a shitty mother.

It could be an attitude, I decided later. It could be that the word "great" is too much baggage anyway and once you get rid of that baggage, the job's so much easier.

And maybe we just do what we can, and take time off where we can and meet friends where we can and watch as many plays as we can and that will be enough.

But also I thought I might get rid of that big heavy saucepan, replace it with a colander maybe.

Then at least I can peer through the holes.

boys things

2009-05-21T11:02:00.002+10:00

C and I are at the local council getting a directory on kindergartens in our area and I see a poster for a kids' writing competition.

It's for 12 to 18 years and you can win an iPod and so i think Naughty Nephew 1st might like to have a crack. Also you have to write about Inspirational Women and I approve of that, I think that's rather good.

So then I pick up an entry form and I see that it's for GIRLS ONLY and I'm a little torn here.

On the one hand I think it's good for girls to be given opportunities and special events.

I think if I was a 12 to 18 year old girl again, I might feel a bit shy and lack the confidence to enter something like a writing competition. I might also appreciate that fifty percent of the competition has just been knocked out of the ring and I might say that after all there are plenty of activities dominated by boys.

But why is it only girls who get to write about inspirational women? Boys can be inspired by women too. God knows we get to hear about a helluva lot of male heroes that both boys and girls can be inspired by.

And actually i think it rather good if boys in particular are encouraged to think more about the inspiring qualities of women.

Thanks to some rather ghastly Australian football player shenanigans, there has been a lot of discussion recently about respect and attitudes towards women, but this is an old argument, an old discussion. I just think this competition missed an opportunity to encourage respect and positive attitudes.

The entry form says things like: Have you ever read a story about a woman's bravery and thought: "What an inspiration."?

and

Is there someone in your family who has had a profound impact on your life?

And these are good things for all kids to think about, genitals aside.

But in the end I think what really threw me was the literary quote on the front of the brochure.

Sadly, competition organisers had chosen a quote from a male writer which seemed contrary to the whole girlpower thing.

And bizarrely that quote was this:

"The pen is the tongue of the mind."

And agreed at first i just glanced at it, and also I am one of two sleep deprived, overworked parents, but i cannot be the only person who looked at the quote on that page and read dick.

Scurry faster Bloody Mary elves. Faster!

2009-05-20T07:49:00.002+10:00

I feel I have to add this because otherwise it may appear to the untrained eye that events described in my last post, written just after Tricky had finally fallen asleep, may have ended peacefully.

No, they did not.

Asleep, maybe an hour tops.

And then...sweet mother of god... the crying started. But not crying as we know it. Whining moaning crying with eyes firmly shut. The kind of crying that cannot be shushed or cuddled or comforted in any way.

What is the matter little boy? I would ask him and he just cried and cried and seemed to be trying to say something important but was impossible to decipher. Is it your ear? Is it your tummy? Do you have a sore tummy?

Sore tummy he mumbled back but then he also mumbled sore ear...

Should we go to the hospital? C and I looked at each other, worried, tired and then... Tricky seemed to settle.

For about ten minutes.

And repeat until 4am.

There were slight variations on the theme. At one point he really did need to poo and this was done (in his nappy) standing up, clinging to my head and crying in my ear. When C changed him Tricky shouted THE LIGHTS ARE TOO BRIGHT. There was slight relief here, I understood this kind of shouting/crying.

DOONA ON... TAKE DOONA OFF...I WANT A SHEET...SHEET OFF... eventually I was too slow to respond and he just lay in his bed shouting DOONA ON DOONA OFF. For the sake of the rest of the house I tried to calm him and quiet him and interestingly, despite the horror, I never lost my cool. Yay me.

Around 4 he was crying for milk and saying he was cold. I put him into our bed and told him to stay there while I got his milk and when I came back in he was asleep. Asleep and outstretched over my side of the bed. So then, the constant gentle shove routine so I could claim a few inches for myself and...we all slept. Till 7 when C and I woke because my car had to be taken to the garage (massive 4 wheel drive ute backed up on my bonnet, all ok but man that was some crap day yesterday.)

This morning, I stumbled downstairs to talk about the night with my sister in law. She said that Naughty Nephew 2 displayed similar strange sleeping-crying behavior that could go on for hour. What worked for them was taking him into the bathroom with the lights on and giving him drinks of water until he woke, often with a start and the grumpy demand: "Bed!"

Hand me my Bloody Mary pronto.

2009-05-19T20:42:00.003+10:00

It is bed time. Past bed time.

The Screaming Tomato is back.

The Screaming Tomato is angry.

The Screaming Tomato wants his DIZZZZORT NOW. This should be YOGHURT or ICECREAAAAAAAM.

The Screaming Tomato wants his mother to GET AWAY FROM ME. Hang on, wait, are you actually leaving the room? Then in that case I WANT MY MUMMEEEEEEEEEEE. And also WHERE IS MY DADDDEEEEEE? Here he is making the shushing noises and trying to give me cuddles and saying in a soothing manly tone: here's your daddy. In which case DON'T TOUCH ME DADDY, JUST GO AWAY.

The Screaming Tomato does not want his bath.

The Screaming Tomato does not care to be placed in the bath when he has made his displeasure known.

The Screaming Tomato shall make his parents rue the day that ears were invented.

Cunningly, the Screaming Tomato suddenly transforms into smiling curly headed infant and bat eyes in fetching fashion. This shall be called: Story Time.

Story Time ends after a selection of fine toddler literature.

Screaming Tomato promptly returns.

Parents attempt to wrest Screaming Tomato into bed.

Screaming Tomato plays Trump Card. This shall be I NEED TO DO POO POO.

Parents have already caught themselves on previous nights crying wearily; "But it's so late. Can't you just do it in your nappy?" This makes them feel like Crap Parents.

So once again Screaming Tomato is perched on potty. Pyjama trousers must be completely removed and preferably placed in another room, or state. More stories must be read to hypnotise the Screaming Tomato digestive system into, the much shouted about, motion.

NO POO POO. MORE STORY. GIVE ME MAISY.

Mummy of Screaming Tomato tells Daddy of Screaming Tomato that "that's it."

Mummy then does something nasty to her back.

Daddy attempts to re-clothe infant son and must suffer indignity of being told at top of voice: NO DADDY, GO BACK TO WORK.

And later, when he falls asleep, I think about different things we could have done; fed him earlier, bathed him earlier. I didn't smack him but maybe I should have, I didn't insist that he brush his teeth but maybe I should have. I wonder if we're spoiling him or if we're giving him confusing signals, or if he's going through a stage of temper tantrums that are only worse because he's bigger

And I think about his curls and his eyes filled with tears and his red straining face, and his soft kisses when finally finally he relaxes into his bed.

This just in (or out)

2009-05-12T17:52:00.003+10:00

Potty Drought Officially Broken!

Thanks go to: fibrous diets, big boy underpants, Charlie&Lola stickers which enliven any small person's toileting and chocolate frogs- the official bribe for Number Twos.

I waited all those years for a day like this...

2009-05-10T20:15:00.005+10:00

...cuddles in bed and appy muzzahs day mumma and what would you like for bekkfuss mumma and daddy pancakes and oh oh change of picnic plans cos its pouring outside and more cuddles proper ones with arms around necks and one thousand proper kisses or at least five with love and real coffee with frothy milk and hallo misselle appy muzzahs day hallo cordia hallo morgin hallo hallo and muffins and sandwiches eaten on the carpet and running up and down and up and down and up and down the hall and a break in the weather sends us scurrying to the playground and running up and down and up and down and up and down the playground and oh dear that little boy is drinking tricky's drink and home for dumping on da tampoleen and champagne for mummies and dadda and babycakes for small people and more dumping and dinner with nephews and more running up the hallway but with nephews this time and all in the bath and all out of the bath and bye bye and I DON'T WANT TO GO TO BEEEEEEEED and mummy use her firm voice and no more stories bedtime now and oh all right just one I mean just six and the gruffalo is the very very very last one cuddle cuddle night night kiss kiss...

...and lucky and lucky and lucky and happy and glad and love.

Tricky and Smeagol in Conversation.

2009-05-08T08:57:00.006+10:00

(Tricky playing nicely on mattress with armful of stuffed toys. Mother spies him and hearing delightful chatter thinks it might be nice to write down what he says and does.)

It goes...

Which way it goes?

(Leaps to his feet and waves fetchingly. Mother smiles at gobsmacking cuteness. Assured career as actor in the hugh jackman style)

That way it goes.

On top of hill.

(Heaps doona into hill shaped lump. Mother impressed at improvisation skills and also potential engineering career.)

Go top of hill.

You push this one here.

(Picks up Snoopy, abruptly bites his face and then flings him away. Mother deeply shocked.)

Which way did that go?

Hmmm...

(Tenderly retrieves Snoopy. Mother relieved.)

...doggy.

(Flings Snoopy away again. Mother concerned)

Which way did that go?

Off a bed?

Why did we throw it off bed?

We didn't throw it.

(Much effort as he tries to wedge himself in corner between mattress and wall and arrange stuffed toys around him. Mother feels faint hope, perhaps he will be a social worker.)

This one here... (selects small sad looking toy.)

(Throws it)

...is having long long...

(retrieves toy, returns to position, throws toy. Mother trying not to make eyecontact. Wondering if she stopped breastfeeding too early.)

It falls off again.

But we did...too...much.

(Sits Snoopy tenderly in his lap as he speaks. Throws him away. Gets up to retrieve him. Back to first position. Throw. Repeat. Mother sees dreams of child joining Medicine Sans Frontiers as music therapist go up in smoke)

Throw it too much.

(Puts pyjama pants on knees.

Sits Snoopy on knees.

Bites Snoopy's face. Gives it a considerable gnawing with accompanying noises.

Throws Snoopy.

Retrieves Snoopy.

Mother creeps out of room, muttering my precioussss and clutching at notebook.)

I found my scroll bar!!!

2009-05-05T11:15:00.003+10:00

It's back because Anna suggested I look in my Word Preferences!

And I did!

And lo, there it was.

Hoorah!

Also I am back online.

Also I now have a gmail account so i shall never have to rely on server again.

Now I shall go write.

And...anyone remember the last line of the book above?

oh i am so embarrassed

Home is where the heart is

2009-05-04T20:53:00.003+10:00

This is going to be one of those dull, whining, self indulgent posts that various non-blogging people will think is proof that bloggers really are dull, whining, self indulgent...I was going to say "fucknuckles" here but then i remembered some of the people I know who read this post (but never comment, thanks lurkers) and I know at least one of them will think this language a little, well, strong, so tonight...for you...I'm just going to ask you to replace the f-k word with the word "plonkers."

To start with...my new computer. I don't understand how it works, I am ignorant and therefore I hate it with a cold, intolerant, irrational hate. It has infiltrated every part of my writing life - take this blog for instance: I don't know why for no apparent reason, a brush of my hand against the mouse pad will suddenly shoot the font size up like swine flu stats on a cold day. Or why I can't put more than one picture on a post. I hate that I can't just cut and paste a document straight into the template like I used to and also I hate that there seem to be way less commenters. Yes, I shall blame that on the computer. It's what we rednecks do.

I also hate that the spanking new cord on the new computer packed it in almost from day one. No reason, although the people at the computer shop bagged on about the incorrect winding of the cord. What sort of bollocks is that, computer shop people? I have have had several variations of computer over much of my adult life and wound cords merrily as required and never had one just flake out like this one did.

Now I move on to briefly mention the way that the new computers Word program creates documents that don't have a sidebar. No sidebar, sidebars are so last computer. Thus when I create a seventy page script for instance I have to tippy tap through the document if i want to go back to the beginning say, or skip to the end. And for some reason this keyboard has no Home button. Even tho pressing the Home button (plus some other shitey little buttons) is meant to take me Home. So this makes me grind my teeth and froth and STOPS ME WRITING and yes of course it's all in the Set Up or other folder or drawer or pigeon hole BUT WHO HAS THE FUCKING TIME?

(Replace the f-word with "jolly". You know who you are.)

But finally, tonight, what made me completely sully my pretty toddler worship blog is OUR SODDING SERVICE PROVIDER. Our new service provider has not provided service. Our old one has dutifully cut us off. I have about ten scripts that are supposedly emailed to me today. I have one script, written by me, that I am meant to be emailing to others. I am using C's wireless modem and racking up his bill just to type this post and alleviate some frustration but cannot get my emails out of the black limbo they have been banished to.

Also, we can't call so called "service providers", because it's night.

I have run out of words to describe my fury. I blame that on them too.

Apple, Iprimus, Telstra - you're a pack of CUNTS.

(You, replace the C-Word with "fucking cunts".)

feeling much better...

2009-05-01T08:57:00.003+10:00

Tricky has moved through the vomiting stage, and the floppy stage with lots of cuddles and sleeping and has now moved into what I like to call the "Camille stage" where he lolls back on his bed and demands servants to adjust his doona or bring his sippy cup to his mouth or carry him to the couch so he can better see Charlie&Lola.

Also he makes small groaning noises in between begging for jelly dinosaurs.

Also every one of his toys must be brought to his bed for his viewing pleasure and then no no what are you doing mummy take them away take them away and YOU GO AWAY TOO.

I can't continue this post, young master is waving one lily white hand and calling for pancakes.

best laid plans

2009-04-29T20:47:00.002+10:00

Yes well see that's the problem with leaving a sizeable gap between posts.

I was planning to write about all manner of cheersome frolics and mad capers but instead I shall be spending tonight wiping the spew off Tricky's face (and surrounding soft furnishings as well as myself) every...oh... hour on the hour it's been so far. Brand new tummy bug, gotta love 'em.

Of course my last post was a big whinge about ill health too so now I just sound pathetic.

Yup. Lesson learned Mr Blogger, lesson learned.

The Cough Of The Just

2009-04-22T10:32:00.002+10:00

So we've been sick, both Tricky and I, and I really don't want to point a finger at anyone in particular but YOU C, YOU WITH YOUR TRIPS TO FREEZING COLD TASMANIA AND YOUR INSOUCIANT ATTITUDE TOWARDS VITAMIN C AND ECHINACEA, YOU BROUGHT THIS SICKNESS HOME AND SCATTERED YOUR MICROBES UNTO US AND YOU NEED TO PAY.

Sorry where was I?

Yes, that's right, the VIRUS OF HACKING HORROR.

Night times have been the worst of course, one minute I am comfortably settling down to read the most boring novel in the world (a direct result of writers' block) and the next I am threatening to cough up my small intestine except I'm pretty sure I lost that the last time C brought a hacking virus home. (Although to be fair he also brought home a very nice necklace for me, so...you know, swings and roundabouts.)

For a while I lie in bed with my face jammed amongst the pillows, trying to muffle the sounds of misery, but eventually I drag myself out and gargle something or swig something and sit upright until the coughing fit stops and I can crawl back beneath the doona.

I'm not sure if this is a male habit or even a 40plus male habit or just one of C's own adorable pecadillos but whereas I, at the first hint of a sneeze, will start mainlining garlic and horseradish and drink gallons of water, C seems perfectly comfortable hurling his phlegm around the room and would not even think of sucking on a Vitamin C.

Wouldn't cross his mind.

So then I have to drag myself out to the shops, knowing all the time those microbe things are festering in my system and I am a marked woman and it's all just a matter of time, and buy bags of vitamins and zinc things and chesty cough mixtures.

Even then it's not enough to clink them on the kitchen table and heave a great sigh of martyrdom and mutter about if only he'd thought to take this stuff before he came home and passed his lurgy amongst the family.

I have to make up little bowls of tablets and vitamins and actually hand them to C with a frigging glass of water before he will actually take them.

Tricky has also been coughing like a fiend, albeit a tinier version, and initially there was also a bit of fever and general sickiness. The last time he had this sort of coughing virus the doctor prescribed him a puffer which came with an elaborate mask and spacer type thing.

He wouldn't have a bar of it and the only way I could get him to use it was when he was asleep. I would hold the mask over his face and press the ventolin and count to ten. It felt vaguely creepy and wrong and so I was glad that this time, a few months after the last virus, Tricky was keen as mustard to use the mask. He presses the button himself and counts to ten - I think it's the echoey booming way his voice sounds in the spacer that holds all the appeal. That and the button of course. Kid loves a good button.

But all this night coughing and palaver has caused a bit of havoc in the sleep stakes. All the mummy attention at night during the early stages has registered with Tricky and now, as his coughing subsides, the demands, and the volume with which the demands are made, have increased.

Last night we were woken by shouts for water, mummy, doona and Charlie&Lola. Since I had done several of the earlier night calls, I nudged C into action and started drifting back to sleep.

Moments later I was woken more decisively by the sound of Tricky kicking his feet against the back of the bookshelf that makes up one wall of his "bedroom".

DOONA! Thump thump thump. MUMMA! Thump thump thump. NO WATER, I DON'T NEEEEEEED IT. Thump thump thump. I WANT MY MUMMY.

Somewhere in the darkness C, half asleep, was lumbering about with a sippy cup of water in hand, feebly muttering shhhh shhhh.

At some point he must have made actual physical contact with our child because then Tricky sternly and quite cruelly shouted:

NO DADDY, GO AWAY, GO BACK TO BED.

It was terribly harsh, this rejection by one's child, I thought.

I settled myself comfortably upright against the mountain of pillows I had built in a bid to stave off coughing.

But frankly, terribly fair.

hunting stories

2009-04-15T20:26:00.006+10:00

It is time once again for the Hunting Of The Chocolate Eggs or at least it was last Saturday which coincided nicely with yet another visit north to see my family.

This time my second sister T, the surfing hippie doing a Masters in Acupuncture joined us, as did my third sister Nurse K.

K brought her husband with her which was jolly, not just because we don't get to see him that often but because a few days prior to that he managed to save one of his fishing mates with a bucket.

When I say 'fishing' I mean 'rock fishing' which started at dawn and finished abruptly an hour later when a freak wave washed over the rock and washed said fellow down into the water, and when I say 'mate' I mean 'friend who had never been rock fishing before and wasn't a great swimmer and indeed had only been in Australia a short wee while (Scotsman)' but when I say 'bucket' I think we can leave it at that.

Although, sister's hubby hastened to add, it did have a lid on it the bucket, which made it a flotation aid. Also there was a rope tied to one end which didn't seem too useful since Scotsman was washed out to sea.

Sister's hubby points out that in fact this is the safest option, the swimming out to sea bit, most deaths happening because washed off fishermen tried to climb back up the rocks where crashing waves did them in. And Scotsman did not manage the bucket first go and bucket had to be thrown to him again and when it landed nearby and he called that he couldn't reach it and he was done for, they had to shout that yes he could, yes he could SWIM FOR THE BUCKET.

Scotsman swam and held on for dear life and floated (despite his steel capped boots, inappropriate for being washed off a rock yet paradoxically quite sensible for standing about in one spot on craggy rocks for the previously planned several hours). In the meantime sister's hubby ran up to the highest ground he could find (naturally they were in some remote place that required an hour walking out in the dark through the bush carrying extensive tuna fishing gear which would be washed away in aforementioned freak wave) and rang emergency assistance. Luckily the local surf life saving club was contacted and an intrepid soul dashed out on a jet ski to haul in Scotsman And Bucket.

Sister's hubby who fishes from a boat on the lake most weeks and has done since he was a little tacker has married into a family of landlubbers who love eating fish and many a time have partaken of his catch. We listen to his story and grimace and wince at the right bits and some of us scream when we hear the additional information that the last time they fished in that spot a whopping great big tiger shark had been prowling around after the bait fish.

It gives the whole easter egg hunt a little extra frisson of excitement which is probably good since there's not much in the way of tension or real competition. There are after all only two children who participate and one is a six month old who has just started on solid foods.

Tricky solemnly carries his basket from potplant to potplant and collects his righteous bounty while his mother, father, two aunts, two uncles and grandparents troop after him, crowding to watch him earnestly gather his eggs or hissing that he missed one, over there, over there.

Last year he collected eggs with his cousins and had no idea they were there to be eaten, preferring to roll them like marbles and throw them about the yard, marveling at the shiny papers and bright colours. I was happy to forgo the chocolate experience and redistributed them among the naughty nephews. But this year, Tricky knows about easter eggs, he knows about chocolate and by george those eggs aint going anywhere else.

Baby L, meanwhile, lifted up to find one egg after another simply laughs and pats at them and then turns away for a glimpse of her doting parents.

Sister's hubby is a quietly spoken fella, he loves fishing and he loves my sister and their baby. He says he'll never fish at that point again and he won't be rock fishing for a long time if at all. Hippie sister later suggests we all chip in to buy him a lightweight flotation vest, just in case.

When he brought his mate home from the hospital, the media were waiting outside his home, for comments, for interviews, for pictures of the bucket. Sister's hubby wasn't keen, he's a shy man, the quiet sort.

They kept after him though, during the day and eventually he had his photo taken and his words recorded. As we watched the babies, he added in a surprised tone, the reporter kept asking him if he was planning another fishing trip and he kept saying no until eventually he clarified - not rock fishing no, but beach fishing, sure. His comment didn't make the television interview but hers ended the report...and he's already planning another fishing trip!

My sister's face is set as she listens to him tell his story again and again. Relief, pride, love and resignation play out across her features. Most dangerous sport in Australia, she mutters. He squeezes her hand.

And baby daughter, safe in her mother's arms, dimples and laughs and reaches for her daddy's face. All smiles and gurgles and love.

in the family

2009-04-07T15:55:00.003+10:00

My grandfather is back in hospital.

A couple of days ago when I intended to write this I was going to say I thought it was the end. Let the record state that I think it is grossly unfair and seven sorts of complete shit that having gone through the diabetic horrors of having his leg amputation it has just been one ghastly ailment after another, from infected testicles to phantom leg pain to catheter issues and now to enormous mystery weeping blisters. The man should be able to perch atop his enormous wheeled chair shouting orders to lackeys, arguing over what sport gets watched on the communal plasma screen and swigging back plastic tumblers of his semi illicit rum. He's probably only got a few years at best why can the man not be comfortable?

Instead, he looked horribly bloated and was covered from neck to toes in this god-awful rash, we're talking bubbling blisters some of which were the size of my palm. Skin samples had been taken from one arm and so in addition to the blisters the skin was bright purple. And he was wheezing and gasping for breath and slumped to one side and so very very uncomfortable.

My youngest sister K, the nurse, was with me. We stood by the side of the bed, rubbing the hospital disinfectant into our hands. Then my sister swung into action.

There are moments when it's a bit shitty having a nurse in the family, like the time my sister AJ stepped on a pin that broke off in her foot and my mother attempted to excavate it herself with a home scalpel and a pair of tweezers, because she was a nurse and so she could.

But there are excellent times too - and this was one of them. K snatched up a pair of bright blue latex gloves from the box on the sidetable and whipped them on. HOW ARE YOU GRANDIS? She shouted at his ear as she peered beneath the sheets. This was not cruel, this was sort of comforting, Grandad's hearing aid, like the Tasmanian tiger - much discussed but never reappearing, had disappeared "in the move" and he had reverted to his customary shouting.

He rallied a little and yelled his hellos back to us. I leaned in to kiss his face. DO THEY HURT GRANDIS? I asked him and he shrugged his cheeks a little. THEY ITCH and as if to illustrate he suddenly swatted at his chest and underarms.

WE'RE GOING TO MAKE YOU MORE COMFORTABLE GRANDIS, my sister announced and in a few seconds the pillows had been readjusted, the bed lifted and my grandfather hoisted into position. My sister is a small girl, my grandfather is a big man and I was no help at all really but it was done.

AHHH CAN YOU JUST, OW UNDER MY ARM...

I reached across for the buzzer but K scooped up a handful of some sort of ointment from the table by his bed and matter of factly rubbed it into his torso.

THAT'S BETTER, THANKYOU LOVE...

Next my sister snooped at the drip, scanned his notes - showing me the photocopied pages describing various horrible blistering ailments and their possible remedies (boil ye a toad and stir it thrice widdershins under a cresent moon) and examined the canula in the back of his hand.

A couple of nurses came in and my sister drifted into the background as they checked his blood sugar levels and made reassuring noises. There was some small talk with my sister, she works at this hospital too although currently on maternity leave.

Have you had a good look at these, one of the nurses said, I've never seen anything like it, and she whipped off the sheet to expose the raw weeping groin and thighs. My sister's face was a tight, professional mask. She nodded shortly and made little mmm hmmm noises, then she said in a seemingly casual manner: I was thinking, he sounded a bit...overloaded.

Yes, the nurse nodded back, I was just thinking that myself...we'll have a look at that drip, because he is drinking fluids after all...

...and with his cardio problems, K said, and I was just wondering how those bedsores were going...

They're so busy, my sister told me afterwards when we had said our goodbyes and re-disinfected our hands and headed toward the lift. And he's such a big man...it takes 2 or 3 people just to move him, and things get missed or get postponed because other stuff happens on the ward, but I did think they needed to do something about the overloading, that's way too much fluid...

That afternoon the dermatologist called our father and told him that they were pursuing an aggressive treatment for these mysterious blisters and rash. There could be sudden reactions. And then later the doctor in charge of the second team, monitoring the diabetes and heart and kidneys and bladder infection rang too and they both asked about the same thing. The NFR sign, Not For Resuscitation. K took the second phone call, our parents were out and she was still at the house with me watching vampire movies.

We haven't broached that conversation yet, I heard her say and then the hmm mmm noise again. She asked about the medications he was on and then replied that yes she was a nurse too, at the hospital. And then I heard her say...well of course he's surprised everyone before...quite a few times actually.

The next day, after nearly 24 hours of the treatment we saw Grandis again and he was like a new person. The swelling was down, the wheezing was gone, the blisters were still there but less angry and he was much more animated, flinging his arms about and grilling C, and K's husband T, about football results and the view from his window. In fact he was almost a little too animated, I felt, like he was over compensating for my tears of relief or... maybe even...high. But whether it was the sensitivity to blubbering granddaughters or the heavy duty drugs coursing through his bloodstream, he seemed much more comfortable.

The new regime involved heavy duty antibiotics and steroids and cortizone creams rubbed into his body three times a day, being wrapped in dressings and warm wet sheeting and then covered in space blankets. That's three nurses three times a day. Extra staff were put on to the ward to ensure the treatment took place.

Extra staff? I exclaimed when my sister told me this later.

Yup, she said. The doctor told me she was very impressed with the care of nursing and I have to say...I am too.

Was it because he was your grandad?

Well in theory, she said, everyone should get that level of care, but I don't see it happen all that often. Maybe him being Grandis was just icing on the cake.

He's very lucky, I said. And I meant it in so many ways.

Mmmm hmmm my sister agreed.

Crushed Beneath My Mental Block

2009-04-01T21:48:00.006+11:00

Ack. It's a new month and so many many days since i last posted. I have no actual excuse except I am so blocked up at the moment. It's the mental equivalent of that hideous two week period after Tricky was born when i became the constipation queen and found myself crying to my father-in-law for his stash of laxatives.

I'm hoping there's some new significant work on its way because I have been huffing and straining over my laptop for the past few weeks and it's not a pretty sight. I keep pathetically googling such things as "How to write my book" and "great new play idea".

And it's not even like I've got bulk eons of time to do stupid googling and idle research. I have three days of childcare a week and when C is away working like he has been on and off over the past few weeks, those three days are it.

Except of course as soon as Tricky is whisked away (either by myself or his live in uncle or aunt) then I start to do laundry, or perhaps clean the bathroom which is so festy a colony of sea monkeys has taken up residency. Then I must have a coffee, do some stupid googling, phone another writer friend about procrastinating and mental blockage, make lunch... ok, I do actually manage to scratch a few feeble words onto a slate each day but basically I am an idiot and I should have got a proper job all those years ago when my father told me to.

Also i have just this minute given up wine and sugar. This is based on me reading a newspaper article that said two glasses of wine a night were enough to increase a woman's chances of contracting breast cancer. Nice one, science heads. Those two glasses got me through the day. I'm sure you're right but God, is there no fucking fun to be had?

The sugar thing was even more indisputable. I overheard a shelf packer at Coles supermarket talking to another shelf packer and saying that the weight just fell off her when she stopped eating sugar. I couldn't see these people, i just heard their voices floating vaguely from the next aisle while I was perusing tins of baked beans.

Unfortunately it took about five minutes of anecdotal evidence about Shelfpacker One's horrid blimpishness and her nasty unsympathetic relatives who had been trying to tell her for months that she had to give it up (what? what? Just say it you cow).

But then, miracle, the new fabulous svelteness, the putting on of clothes that previously no longer fitted (here I nearly fell face first into the tinned Heinz spaghetti shapes, so sharp was the prick of recognition that accompanied these words) and so i was forced to examine in minute detail those baked beans; the ham flavour, the reduced salt, the generic brands, before I finally heard the culprit named...evil evil fat-inducing sugar.

Two and a half years ago, it took me half a box of medically prescribed laxatives, gallons of water, a coffee meringue and a brisk promenade along Bondi Beach before I could get any kind of movement at the station. I'm not in need of the first (yet), I've just ruled out the second and I don't have the time to do the third. Interestingly, and quite unconsciously, the last few mornings i have found myself drinking loads of water and dosing my breakfast cereal with extra fibre. Almost as if, instinctively, I'm making the connection between brain and bum (most of my friends would of course point out that in my case this was patently obvious).

Letter To A 32 Month Old Wanted Man

2009-03-19T12:23:00.006+11:00

Darling Tricky

It's March already which means I have completely missed over February in my efforts to record your own fabulous self in its ever changing, ever growing real life drama. Never mind, sometimes I also forget to put a banana in your daycare bag. And while we're on true confessions here's another little something that I need to get off my chest:

There are no "Broccoli Police".

This all sort of started last month around the time you loudly insisted that the big orange highchair was for wuss pussies and also that icecream was your birthright.

Broccoli, which you had previously loved and devoured had suddenly become hated and loathsome and no matter how many colourful little side bowls I use to decant the poor rejected vegetable you were adamant that no no no pankyou none of its little green trees would enter your lips. Once again you reckoned without Aunty N who lifted you up and plopped you in your chair mid protest and then told you that indeed you must not eat your broccoli trees because if you did, the Broccoli Police Would Come.

Cut to Naughty Nephews around the table all nodding solemnly at this surprising news and to me, mouth open, at this obviously ridiculous bit of reverse psychology, and then to you reaching out slyly for a broccoli tree, waving it about in the air and then shoving it in your mouth.

Mine eat bockli tee, you confessed smugly.

Oh no! The Nephews were aghast. You ate your broccoli tree! Now the broccoli police will come!

You nodded, laughing dangerously, and then without anymore fuss finished the contents of the little pink plastic bowl.

Honestly. Strap me to a pack rat and call me squeaky, I have never seen such a blatant yet effective lie (although there was that weapons of mass destruction porky a while back).

Aunty N then told me (under cover of icecream) that this lie had been passed down from some wise and obviously highly creative friends and used very effectively on all the nephews...at least for a short window. We're well in that short window now and I'm clinging to the teeny weeny flyscreen for as long as I can.

Because you can be, there's no denying it, a little picky with your food. If you notice something suspicious in your bowl (and it's pointless to really list these things because this list will change like the wind and also they call the wind Mariah and how confusing is that?) you will peer at said object, then carefully extricate it from surrounding, and acceptable, baked beans or rice, and then you will fling said object over the table or perhaps, if you're feeling particularly revolted, over the side of the verandah.

If by some chance you are distracted, by your cousins practising the Tumpit or surreptitiously sliding their bowls of pudding onto the table because as well as being picky you are slooow, and Said Object finds it way into your mouth you will suddenly stop chewing and then, expressionless, you will delicately tilt your head and let the previous, now horribly tainted, mouthful plop back into your bowl. It is a gesture as graceful as it is contemptuous.

These past two months have seen your language skills go skipping and leaping forward, no broccoli police needed here to encourage your chit chat.

There you go Mummy, you say as you hand me a train or your Charlie & Lola dvd or the slipper I asked you to pick up. And you tell us about your friends and family; We are driving Mummy's car and Daddy is having a shower and Papa has a beard but Grandma has a chin. Toby was a bit rough, Ruby went to Sweden...

And you love to run and shout and whoop and dump dump dump on the trampoline. You rough and tumble with your cousins. And you sing. In the bath, at the dinner table, in the car, even in the aeroplane as we began to land in Perth and you let rip with Tinkle Tinkle Little Stah.

(Compared to our last plane trip this is a joyride - another development)

But for all that I realise, you're a shy child.

In the park at Fremantle you rush to climb the slippery slide but you pull up short when you see another child loitering at the top of the slide. I watch your face as the gleam of excitement suddenly melds into a polite, expressionless mask of sudden indifference.

Iss another little boy, you run back to tell me and I nod and smile and say yes that's ok, just say Hello my Name Is Tricky and ask if you can have a turn on the slide.

But I feel like a hypocrite telling you this because the truth is, I was a shy child too and a shy adult and it is only in the past few years of my life that I have felt more confident, more able to strike up a conversation with a stranger. There have been times I have hung back or turned away because I was unable to say hello. And this is not something I wish upon you.

I had younger sisters, much more feisty, much more confident than me. And at school they dealt with bullies and meanies on my behalf. They did the shouting and the loud negotiating. And you have your older cousins who are all like brothers to you and if you go to school with the youngest he will still be in Grade Six when you are in Grade One. But you have something more valuable still and that is your father's side; optimistic, gregarious, confident and sociable - all things I can be when I try really hard or, alternatively, drink.

You go back to the slide and you say, wavering a little, hello... and I hover nervously on your behalf and suddenly you are laughing and sliding and climbing up again. And later when we are back in the same park and your father takes you over to the slide the same thing happens again. But this time you know what to do and it's all a bit easier but also this time you suddenly know all the kids names and their mothers and where we can contact a babysitter last minute - and that's your dad in action.

As we leave the park you pick up feathers, soft and white. They've been shed by the huge flock of noisy corellas that perch in the magnificent Norfolk pine trees. You catch these feathers, skimming the grass, with glee and wave them triumphantly and I make an effort to supress my immediate response - drop them, they're dirty/covered in lice/allergenic blah blah blah and instead watch as you delight in the texture, the light flimsy fly away essence that is feather.

You are growing so quickly our darling little boy. And your silly, loving, fallible parents watch you grow and we wonder and we marvel and we fear and we hope. And we love.

So forgive us our games and our falsehoods. We so want you to have all the things that we know are good for you, the exploration and courage, the sensitivity and compassion, the confidence and the optimism.

And the broccoli.

Your very own

OvaGirl

xxxxxx

We're Not In Kansas Anymore

2009-03-12T21:58:00.002+11:00

In fact we're over on the other side of the country because I have a play opening tomorrow night. When I say "a play" it is basically "the play" and if you casually peruse the photos on my side bar of various productions it's the name that comes up a few times. Just to add to the excitement I am typing this on someone's computer in the theatre office while the director gives the actors their notes. This is cutting edge, seat of your pants blogging my friends because I told the administrator I was just going to check my emails. Not only that, i wasn't in Kansas to begin with.
We're like that, us Sydney blogging theatre types. Dirty liars.

This scalp's not big enough for the thirty billion of us

2009-03-09T12:42:00.004+11:00

It seems that for now, Tricky is nit free.

His Aunty N is quite the Headlouse Wrangler and armed with a fine tooth comb and a bottle of tea tree oil conditioner she let loose a flurry of splodging and combing that wreaked havoc and dismay in the follicle settlements.

As she combed she wiped the residue conditioner upon a neatly folded paper towel and showed me the body count.

I saw adults, nymphettes(which I believe are the 'sullen teen' variety), eggs and assorted scalp debris that was left from Tricky's babyhood. The adults were the real problem (as ever), eggs and nymphettes never done no one no harm but those dirty big adults were whooping it up; leaping from head to head, sucking blood, fornicatin', and spittin' eggs aplenty.

Just another day in Deadwood really.

The Naughty Nephews also went under the comb and a pleasant and jolly sight it was to have them lined neatly up on their barstools, hair slicked back, eyes bright and fixed on the mini-dvd player where Charlie and Lola were up to usual hijinks.

Memo to BBC: Charlie and Lola. Possible episode (with book, plush toy and plastic lunchbox tie in) where Lola gets nits from her friend Lotta and passes them onto her big brother. "I have this little sister Lola. She is small and constantly scratches her head. My friend Marv says she's doing a lot of hard thinking but I say she has been possessed by Beelzebub...." etc etc)

Mini dvd player/C&L combination worked a treat for all of them, ensuring stillness and quietness with little to no whinging that the comb huuuuurts.

But this was Thursday and the lifecycle of the nit rolls merrily on.

On Sunday they were all back up on the stools for further inspection.

This time, they also underwent a herbal treatment, a sort of natural napalm for headlice, except it was foam not flame and also had a pleasant aniseed-y scent.

Amongst the Nephews a couple of adult headlice were retrieved, unsurprising since the Nephews had been back at school- that great big headlice melting pot- since Thursday's teatree conditioner massacre. Tricky who did not have daycare on Friday, boasted little more in his coiffure than a couple of eggs and a swaggering nymphette.

Following this treatment and more pitiless combing, they are all now pronounced CLEAN.

At least, until the next time a child has head to head contact with another child and a high leapin', gun totin', baccy chewin' louse rides into town. Which will probably be... today.

In our suburb there exists a person whom I like to think of as The Secret Nit Lady. I have never seen her advertised, nor her name spoken aloud but she is whispered about amongst tidy people who don't like to talk about nits. (Which is not me, obviously.) The Secret Nit Lady comes to your house and de-nits your entire family. She carries her own comb. She drives an unmarked car. She charges seventy bucks an hour.

I realise how lucky I am to share a house with my comb wielding sister-in-law when two of my friends try to tell me that they think the Secret Nit Lady is good value for money. That's ridiculous I tell them, it's just headlice. It's not a disease. You just have to accept that you can't truly get rid of them because it's too easy to catch them and buy yourself a heavy duty comb.

One of my friends made the universal wincing gesture for Can't No Yuck. Would rather pay someone else to do it than eat.

The other shook her head sadly.

It wasn't the nits, she explained. It wasn't the kids squirming when she tried to do their hair. It wasn't even the endless washing. It was trying to get her husband to comb nit treatment through her own hair.

As soon as he runs his fingers through my hair he wants to have sex.

I'll see if I can get hold of that number I told her promptly.

Even by Deadwood standards, that's just plain wrong.

A Milestone

2009-03-05T11:30:00.003+11:00

When I was in Year Six my best friend's name was Julie. She had beautiful long blonde hair and I remember one day combing it with her little red plastic comb as we sat in the classroom. Her hair looked so pretty, shining under the fluorescent lights, almost hypnotic, and I absent mindedly twirled it round and round the comb, as one does with spaghetti on a fork, say.

Later, as I watched my teacher doggedly sawing through the little red plastic comb with a hacksaw and Julie wincing and holding onto her scalp in a vain attempt to stop the pulling, I realised that long hair, although pretty, was at times, also a heavy burden.

Tricky's hair is long and bouncy with soft baby curls framing his face. I love it and although I have trimmed a couple of wispy straight bits from the back that detracted from the general curly goodness, there has been no actual "haircut". This, despite the subtle encouragement of grandmother and even carer, who make comments like...ooh your hair's getting a bit long isn't it?

When Tricky ran his fingers through his locks one day and said to me: My hair Too Long, mine need hair cut, I had to fight fire with fire. After a little coaching he was able to shake his head fetchingly and shoot back Mine have bootiful curls.

Last month we went to a birthday party for twin three year olds and as part of those celebrations the little boy had his hair ritually cut. They are a Jewish family and it was beautiful to be there at this important milestone for their child and to be invited by the rabbi to join in and bless our own children.

I can't help but think it must have been an odd moment for the three year old, with his huge mob of abundant blonde curls, when first his parents and then friends and family in the crowd grabbed the scissors and snipped away but then, life for the toddler is full of odd moments.

In fact life for the forty year old is full of odd moments too.

This morning I ran a fine toothed comb through Tricky's hair. I was pretty sure of what I would find. He's been scratching at his head for a couple of weeks, not manically, just every now and then. Just enough for me to shrug it off as being a debilitating scalp disease or a mild case of galloping shingles. But finally, I could put it off no longer and I reached for the 'Nad's Nit Comb' (with bonus magnifying glass) that I had thrown into the shopping trolley the week before.

As Tricky flicked his Thomas Tank Engine snap cards (there's Gordon! There's james, ooh there's two Jameses) I methodically combed and wiped the debris onto a piece of paper towelling - just as I had seen my sister in law do with the Naughty Nephews time after time.

Outside, the sun was rising, the garbage trucks were rumbling. Black cockatoos swooped and dived. It was not an entirely unpleasant way to spend an early morning.

Just me, my son and the small six legged friends who have taken up residence amongst his follicles.

trying to see the world another way

2009-02-26T15:32:00.003+11:00

and now I understand why we see the grace in small things...

in my toddler's weetbix smeared grin

in the exotic flavour of crushed coriander seeds mixed with dry roasted macadamia nuts

in the way my body feels grateful and virtuous after yoga

in the satisfaction that comes from giving a birthday present I bought in plenty of time

in the giddy sensation of nausea mixed with anticipation that permeates a spanking new Word doc.

sift the ashes

2009-02-17T09:49:00.004+11:00

I had a meeting with a director last week and when he asked how I was, I said; well, you know...these fires, I'm really disturbed by them. He looked at me strangely and I said, trying to explain, well you know...it's throwing me off kilter, I'm out of whack.

And then he laughed, but kind of to himself. And the thing is, I wasn't making a joke.

The news of those Victorian bushfires has completely whipped my ass.

Thankfully our tv reception is up the shit so I couldn't watch the news but I sure as hell surfed the net every chance I got. I couldn't read anything except about the fires and God knows I couldn't write, except stuff about the fires or emails to friends who were involved in the fires or emails to other friends about what they thought about the fires.

And every night I would lie in bed thinking about my family and I dying in a burning car or house.

And then, mid week, a shark attacked a navy diver in Sydney harbour (last shark attack five billion centuries previously or similar) and he lost a hand, and another shark attacked a surfer on BONDI BEACH for fuck's sake, leapt from the water and tried to knock him off his board I heard, whereas everyone knows you're more likely to be knocked over by some dickhead in a hoon car racing up Campbell parade. Bondi is like two beaches around from where C takes Tricky swimming every morning, so now those half sleep burning dreams were alternating with seeing my husband and baby mauled by sharks, and then there was the plane crash in Buffalo killing everyone including the widow of a guy who died in 9/11 and we're back to the burning again.

I don't know what it is, I emailed one friend, but it's really bad. i can't do anything, I can't write anything, I'm incapable of cleaning or doing anything practical and I'm eating heaps and heaps of sugar.

And then she reminded me how after the Bali Bombings I was afraid to drive through the Sydney Harbour Tunnel (not the bridge for some reason, bridge was ok) but I had a tv writing job at the time which meant I had to drive through that damn tunnel twice a day and the stress it caused me...

And also after 9/11, glued to the tv (we had reception at that house), existing in this sort of suspended horror, permanent hand clasped to face, but even beyond that natural and widespread reaction there was the same post trauma-from-afar paralysis, the same but what is the point in doing anything?

Another writer friend, embroiled in Producer Shit, has friends in Victoria who were among the lucky - who felt the wind change and saw the fire front, their certain death, turn away from their house. My friend shrugged when I asked How The Writing's Going, meaning How's The Shit Fight Going and simply said: It makes all that seem fairly meaningless.

It's the random violence I tried to work it out with my friend who reminded me of the Bali Bombing reaction, I think I'm freaked by how Bad Shit Happens and there's nothing you can do to stop it happening to you.

There's no real ending to this because the way I respond to what happens around me is part of who I am. I remember kids (boys, two) in my English class used to tease me about the overly emotional in my Creative Writing assignments, quoting back to me innumerable ghastly sentences that i had written, inevitably involving a tear making its way down some child's grimy face. Maybe even then the Empathy Glands were secreting overtime. I dunno, thinking back, it didn't seem such a fearful time but I guess I was only about 14 and my mother was still alive.

Is it realising how much you have to lose? Life? Those you love most?

With Tricky, having wanted and wished and hungered for a baby so long, is it fear that he could be taken, as randomly or as seemingly capriciously as he (and any other potential sibling) was withheld?

Is it knowing grief; deep scarring, heart breaking, gut wrenching, for one person and then imagining that multiplied again and again and again, hearing not just the cries of the dying but those of the people they leave behind?

And is it all that, and the fact that last week and then again this morning I had the first of the pre IVF screenings, my forty first birthday on the horizon, my clock ticking again but my mind not made up properly, not sure that this truly is what I want..to be trying again, am i only doing this because i feel time running away from me, and i don't want to be left without a choice?

and am i not properly appreciating what i actually do have?

when so many others have nothing?

when all that Random Violence roams the universe?

me, rubbed raw, stilled by other people's pain

and

still

eating way too much sugar.

and then there's this

2009-02-12T12:50:00.004+11:00

Alongside the terrible loss of human life has been the devastating effects on the animals - livestock and especially native animals like the slow moving koala. Friends have forwarded on emails describing the harrowing sight of koalas falling from the trees, as they drove through the fires.

This photograph, of the firefighter and the koala, was sent to me today.

Click here for the clip.

burning and drowning

2009-02-10T15:14:00.006+11:00

We went to Newcastle on the weekend to escape the heat.

Just writing that makes me feel sick.

The death toll for the fires in Victoria has passed 170, they're expecting it to top 200.

I can't stop thinking about it, people dying in cars trying to get away, people dying in their houses trying to shelter from the flames, people dying with hoses in their hand trying to fight the fires.

What happened to the preparations?

How could so many people get it wrong?

What about building bunkers or cellars to shelter in?

We talk about it, shocked, unable to comprehend.

There are always bushfires, everyone knows that, everyone knows...so how could this happen?

And then we hear

about the ferocity of the flames, the speed, some people had ninety seconds warning, the black smoke that engulfed the roads everything went pitchblack, you couldn't see and people were panicking, the car crashes and the ember attacks - showers of sparks and embers blowing against the house and windows, blown into every crack and crevice and then the windows exploded and the dying pets the children listening to their cats dying and the family who were well prepared who did everything right and built a cellar and everything

and the fire came right over the top

and the neighbour watched as the house exploded

and we found them all dead in the cellar

and the couple who took their kids to the grandparents place and went back to their house to try and save it - and were killed, and the man who took his kids to their grandparents and lost them all...

we learn of escapes, the brother who went on his tractor to get his sister and seven kids and how it took two trips to race them back to safety, a family who sheltered in a wombat hole, a mother and her kids who stayed until the house was on fire then ran through the flames wrapped in wet towels and jumped into their dam, the people who ran from house to hose as one after another caught fire, a man and a woman losing everything and everything around them but their two children and they hold each other and stroke each other and smile

and we hold onto these stories, we cling to them, these bright spots of hope, these lucky escapes, because the dreadful finality of the other is incomprehensible

and one state above, the floodwaters are starting to recede and people there are saying but we're lucky because we're not in Victoria, we're lucky

we're lucky

Mummy Is A Work In Progress

2009-02-05T13:10:00.002+11:00

Yeah, so apparantly something else I need to add to the list of Things I Shouldn't Say To My Child is:

Everytime you run away from me like that another fairy falls down dead.

Letter to a 30 Month Old Yes You Can Man

2009-02-03T20:39:00.007+11:00

My darling Tricky

This month you have managed to get quite an impressive handle on politely passive negatives (inherited from your mother I would guess)…

I don’t pink so…instead of: No.

Let’s see how we go…instead of: Not Now

Mine don’t need it…instead of: actually I don’t want to do it at all, not one bit.

Rather more worrying is another phrase you picked up this month, much worse than Daddy Is A Plonker and far less amusing. I don’t know where you first learned I can’t but it’s appearing quite frequently, delivered in a sort of frustrated whine, es

pecially when attempting to do something vaguely challenging like threading buttons or pushing playdough through the noodle extruder. Yes you can, I chant back like some deranged Bob the Builder worshipper, and I help your little fingers to thread the button or extrude the noodles. I try to respond quickly to this because your next action is usually to fling to the floor whatever it is you can’t do. Yet another genetic trait inherited from your father along with hobbit feet and cheeky grins.

Most of all, we hear it in the bathroom because January has not only been the month of Ridiculous Heat it has also been the month of Big Boy Underpants.

Yes, for the record, toilet training has properly begun, with lots of urgent calls of Mumma Wee Wee! interrupting a game of trains or cars and ending, mostly, quite happily. The potty has been reinstated as an alternative to the toilet, the garden and the shower (when in tearing hurry). You are the king of Number Ones but so far Number Twos have whipped your butt so to speak, hence your polite refusals to perform on the toilet I can’t, no, no pank you, mine don’t need to do poos…

How it makes me chuckle to think back to a conversation I had last year with another mother of a toddler, where I told her I thought we would “get the toilet training done in the week before Christmas.” Haw Haw. Your mother is a prat.

This morning you started daycare again after several weeks of being with either Mummy or Daddy or some other close family member like Aphwa or Aunty N. And so perhaps it should not have come as such a surprise when, after dawdling over your Weet-bix, you said rather nonchalantly: Mine don’t need to go to daycare today.

Yes, we said, smiling at each other, but we need you to go.

Mine don’t need to go to daycare, you said again, a little louder this time in case we’d failed to understand and then in a cheerful tone: where we go today Mumma? Mooseum?

We go to daycare today, I told you but there were no mor

e smiles. We buckled on your new sandals, we packed a spare pair of big boy undies and we bundled you and the two youngest Naughty Nephews into the car.

Off we go, we chirped in that maddening We Grown Ups Always Know Best tone as you frowned and tugged at your hair and refused to sing the National Anthem with me. (Have discovered it to be excellent lullaby and quite successful in sending you off to sleepy bobos.) And then, once at daycare, the waterworks began in earnest, the pouting lips and the angry screwed up eyes and buckets of tears cascading down from your cheeks and onto mine. Your carer very sensibly took you by the hand and sent us packing, although I do admit to hovering outside the gate and peering through the slats of the fence to make sure you were ok. The tears had gone before we managed to close the gate but to be fair that gate has a very fiddly latching mechanism that takes all of …oh…ten seconds to complete.

January has seen you swimming at the beach with your Dadda, often beyond the waves much to your mother’s discomfort, suspended on your Noodle (not the play dough variety.) You kickaboo your legs and do your paddle hands and push the water away and you could do that all day, so much do you love the water and your dada and the sensation of floating self propulsion. You never say I can’t in the water. Although you do protest It’s Cold at times.

You say: lie on my tummy Mumma and you giggle to yourself as I nod and yawn and say: ooh I’m so tired, is there a nice soft pillow somewhere? I position myself on your tummy and start to snore very loudly but before I can do the raspberry exhalation you laugh and squirm and bat at my head and then we laugh together for a while until I slyly manage to sneak the raspberry onto a bare patch of soft brown skin.

We go to the supermarket and you sit in the trolley with sultana bribes and help lob potatoes and miniature tins of baked beans over your shoulder. Once, you promised you would just walk…and instead you bolted from one aisle to the next with me in hot, embarrassed pursuit. And another time, carrying you against my chest, you wrapped your arms about my neck and held your cheek to my mouth and I whispered in your ear. And no actual shopping was done that day but the kisses were nourishing.

He’s still a baby, one of my friends gently noted the other day and I opened my mouth to protest, oh no he’s a big boy , to say how much you’ve grown and changed over the past months, but instead, seeing at your soft round cheeks and your wispy curling hair, I just nodded and smiled.

This afternoon, after daycare, all smiles again, we went to the beach and I looked with a sort of wonder at your footprints in the sand as you shrieked and ran to and fro from the waves.

Mine can run Mummy, round and round, mine can run!

And I thought yes you can, my big boy baby, running round and round, yes you can.

Love love love to infinity

Your very own

OvaGirl

Cool Change

2009-01-25T09:17:00.004+11:00

Sometimes, being a writer is the coolest job in the world but lots of times it's just hard slog. Writing under commission is one thing but writing on spec, just to have something on paper, to practise your craft, to tell a story that needs to be told, is challenging. I'm trying to write a new play, I'm trying to keep a journal, I'm trying to blog and I'm trying to write a new tv show and I'm not doing any of it very well just now.

Particularly this month, with Tricky not back at daycare and C face to the grindstone on reports and presentations. I am scratching for time. Everyday is another outing, another trip to the park or museum. These outings must be finely calibrated to ensure that an afternoon nap is also to be had, thus ensuring the chance of two hours of work.

But this must also be juggled with the heat. And in the loft apartment of The Big House the heat has been aggressively anti-inspiration. Temperatures have been soaring, along with tempers. If i don't write, I don't feel like a writer. Instead I feel like a bit of a failure.

Last week boasted weather so hot and stinky even the beach was rancid.

We have had horrendous nights of unbeatable heat, nights where the air never becomes cool, the much anticipated sea breeze never eventuates and I have to get up in the middle of the night to have a cold shower.

On one delightful day we decided to overcome the heat by picnicking with friends and accompanying toddler in a park overlooking a beach. To reach said beach/park combo we thought it would be a marvelous idea to drive miles through traffic, crawl slowly the last mile or so, cruising for a car space, and then park the car several suburbs away because every man and his dog had come up with the same idea.

As soon as we got out of the car Tricky started to whine. He did not want to swim, no, what made us think that was a good idea? No he did not want to put on his swimmers 'just in case'. He did not want to see his little friend swimming, no, yet another stupid parents' idea. He did not want a sandwich, or a drink, he did not want to sit quietly with Mumma under a tree, AND HE CERTAINLY DID NOT WANT TO LOWER HIS VOICE.

In the end, and in the classic tradition of We Are The Parents And Hence You Will Love This, C and I struggled to peel his clothing from his screaming, writhing little body and slide on his swimmers (Too hot! Too tight!) and then wrestle him three metres down to the water (NOOOOOOO!) where....miracle....he was instantly transformed into Perfect Baby, all smiles and giggles and kickaboo feet.

Greatly refreshed we all stepped forth from the ocean and within ten steps were overheating again. It was now the turn of the four adults to start bickering and whining.

We have to go, we wailed to ourselves.

This is horrible. It's too hot!

This was a stupid idea! There's too many people. There's not enough space for our towels. We'll get dirt in our chicken.

We glared, we spat, we mumbled and Sighed Heavily. It was H's idea to come to the beach but it was my idea to move the towels into this loathsome site. I had thought it better situated to catch a cool breeze. This was proved to be faulty reasoning. There was no cool breeze, only baking hot wafts of other cranky parents' B.O.

C had left the stroller at the previous less-loathsome site because the hot wind had made him shitty, and blind apparently, and he had to stomp back to retrieve it. B had chosen the first site, on the far side of the beach, out of boring predictable habit, which had started the whole chain of item movement and exacerbated stress levels.

And another thing, how dare you call me a martyr?

Why did you only tell me those pants made me look fat after I'd been wearing them for a week?

When are you going to stop biting your nails?

Recriminations flew.

What saved our marriages was the enormous old fashioned shower blocks, set back from the beach; heritage listed pavilions, cool and sheltered from the gritty dry wind that was biting at our bodies and faces. If we could have picnicked right there on the tiles under a shower head, we would have. Instead we decamped to the grass on the opposite side.

There under a fig tree we could at least pretend to be cool, we were walking on grass instead of boiling dirt and sand. We could be adults again, and speak cordially to each other and the children could frolic in the nicky noo-nah. How I wished we could frolic in the nicky noo-nah too but frankly it wasn't really the suburb for those sort of hijinks.

It got hotter and hotter. H started hallucinating about us all pitching in and getting a suite at the Sheridan. Room service, she moaned. And cable tv. And...air conditioning. There would be room for all of us... it's a good idea isn't it? Isn't it?

Once we had managed to slap down her hysteria we drove to the shopping centre, still in our swimmers and beach wraps, where, in the air con, the toddlers fell asleep in their strollers.

And now we will go to Borders, announced H. And the kids will sleep and we will read books and have coffees if we want and it will be cool.

She was right.

For the first time ever, I actually managed to see the top floor of Borders. Usually Tricky is with us when we duck in to buy a card or a birthday present, and he ensures that there is no extraneous browsing.

Now, with him gently snoring in his stroller, there was browsing akimbo. There was skimming of magazines, there was perusal of pages.

C selected a photography book and H collected a small pile of chick-lit and sat down in the comfy chair beside her equally zonked out toddler with an audible sigh. Her husband was running riot in the History section. We smiled gently at each other, waved, nodded our approval at each other's reading material.

The drop in temperature was restoring our humanity.

Next picnic, H muttered, is either the library or the freezer section of Coles.

As I rounded one of the aisles, I had a quick peek and caught sight of...my book, Legs Up & Laughing. It was sitting up properly, amongst all the other books. I hadn't checked a bookshop in months and was scared that maybe all copies had disappeared and gone to the Bookclub In The Sky.

But there it was in Borders.

And as I picked it up and ran my hand over the cover I realised it was not just the heat that had been bothering me.

And sometimes, you can write something, on spec, because you have a story that has to be told. And it is hard, and it is a leap of faith, and it is scary but it can be done. And it's worth the juggle and the struggle and the heat...

Because one day it could be sitting on someone's shelf.

And that was very, very cool.

Scraps

2009-01-20T17:30:00.002+11:00

In the interests of mentally stimulated toddlers and sane mothers, OperaSingingMummy and I take our kids to the museum.

Here we can ooh and ahhh and marvel at the trains and cars - and that's just on the walk from the parking station, we're not even in the building yet.

Obviously if i am taking my toddler on a four hour outing i must pack as if I am a normal person spending a weekend in the wilderness.

Into the faithful Kapoochi bag go the nappies and wipes and hand sanitizer (in case, i don't know, there is a display of cholera at the museum and Tricky tries to stick a petri dish in his mouth) and hat with strings and two kinds of sunscreen because I have forgotten there's already one in there. I will also have to throw in a variety of toys (why? We're going to the frigging museum you idiot, the place is full of toys) and a drink bottle and then several little plastic boxes that contain his sandwiches, two baby cheeses, two boxes of sultanas, two pieces of fruit etc etc.

Obviously I must take two of every conceivable treat just in case the other toddler wants one too. This is a strict rule of joint outings with other toddlers. There are also extra trousers, shirt and jacket just in case he a) falls into the bubbler and b)there is a sudden cold snap (true, we're in the middle of a near heat wave BUT YOU NEVER KNOW.)

OperaSinging Mummy packs in a similar manner and thus, laden with snacks and spare clothes, we lumber about the museum with our tiny, tyrannical offspring baying at our heels. Obviously ten minutes after arrival we must break for snacks ( two boxes of sultanas, two lollipops, two cookies) before spending another twenty minutes riding up and down in the glass lifts and waving to the people on each floor.

When proper lunch time occurs we make our way to the lounge area and in a piece of excellent timing, manage to snaffle a set of comfy chairs. We gratefully collapse as the children sit down to their three course sandwiches/fruit/more cookies lunch which is when we realise that neither OperaSinging Mummy nor I have actually prepared lunch for ourselves.

We could go outside and buy a sandwich, OperaSinging Mummy muses but I say no because it will take us a week to pack everyone up again and it's really hot outside and we shall have to fight the midgets to make them keep their hats on. And i'm tiiiiiiired.

So we slump in our seats and eye off Tricky and Sebastian's lunchboxes until finally they are done with gnawing out the soft centres of their cream cheese sandwiches and we are thrown a few crusts.

Crusts, i say to OperaSinging Mummy. Look at how low we have fallen. We are having crusts for lunch.

Yes, she says. And the great tragedy is...I had crusts for breakfast too.

Summer Pudding The Second

2009-01-17T19:42:00.003+11:00

In Newcastle I catch up with Blob of the Summer Pudding.

Although now living on the opposite side of the country in Perth, he, his partner and their smiling baby with the (oddly enough) pudding bowl haircut, are spending the uni holidays on the east coast. We exchange post New Year greetings and I hold up my forearm and show him the brown peeling patch where I scalded myself with the Exploding Coffee Plunger on New Year's day.

Blob instantly counters with his third degree burn scar, also on the forearm, a small neat scar exactly the shape and thickness of the grill bar at the top of his oven. The flesh was perfectly cooked, he tells me. It even smelled good.

He goes on to applaud my meagre summer pudding efforts but hastens to amend my mental recipe.

After poaching the fruit you dip the spongy biscuits into the juice, he tells me. And that makes it easier to fit in the bowl. How did you make the dry biscuits fit together?

I tell him that I laboured for many moments, trimming them neatly into shape. This makes him chortle.

I ask him to clarify his stance on the sugar syrup. Could it really be a whole cup of sugar to a cup of water?

Blob waves his hand airily at me. His scar flashes in the air.
It could and it is.

We are staying at my parents’ new house. It is smart and modern. It reflects their changing lifestyle, as older people who are looking to their twilight years and so forth and so on.

This means they have basically moved from a sleepy university suburb to the one where the prostitutes and bikies live. Here, they are closer to the beach, they can walk to their favourite café, and they know where to get their amphetamines. They have a white tile floor downstairs and a shiny red glass splashback in kitchen. In their tiny back yard they have eschewed lawn for paved courtyard and a spa - or at least the hole which will accomodate a spa.

Also, they have a kickarse big fence so they can hang out their washing in the nicky noo-nah.
It is quite jolly and feels very cool and modern and all my friends whish they had one the same. The upstairs bit has a little sewing room and computer room but also two whopping big bedrooms for guests, and a lounge area too so that if we all have an argument we can separate and cool off, or alternatively one group of people can have scintillating conversation downstairs and other group can loll upstairs and eat chocolates and play Wii sport.

In Newcastle, I also catch up with grumpy granddad.

After leaving the main hospital he spent a couple of weeks just before Christmas in a sort of hospital holding pattern. He was transferred to a hospital out in the sticks; along with various other old, disabled and chronically ill people who have to hang around and wait until someone dies so that they can get their room. We were warned that he could be transferred around the region, from ward to ward until a room in the aged care facility he had requested (ie. paid for) became available. He was lucky. The Someone died fairly swiftly. This room is just across the car park from where Grandis was living before his leg was amputated.

At Christmas the family gather in his new room with gifts and babies and photos. We perch on chairs and on his bed and loiter about in doorways. We nibble on platters of dried fruit and cheese and nuts brought from home and my stepmum gives Grandis a container of diabetic friendly fruit cake.

Grandis accepts his gifts and hugs and kisses graciously. He has a chair to sit in but it is huge, an enormous high armchair on wheels, too heavy and bulky for him to push himself around. It is as if he is riding on a cargo ship.

How are you finding it? We ask him, hoping it’s all fabulous.
He nods, ok ok. BUT THEY DON’T KNOW ABOUT THE GLOVE OF WATER.

Story of glove and errant testicles has to be explained to newly visiting relatives and also stepsister’s brand new boyfriend who refuses to be alarmed at the image.

THE NURSES HERE ARE VERY RELUCTANT, Grandis concludes.

I pour Grandis a whiskey in his plastic sippy mug. My sister T and I give him our matching presents. We both bought books for him, bought them together, both squabbling in the bookshop over the best looking crime/spy thriller in the largest possible print.

My younger sister Nurse K, ever practical, gives him what he really wants; a large bottle of whiskey. This we tuck away in a drawer. When Grandis lived across the carpark, he was allowed to have his night time cup of whiskey, they overlooked it as long as he didn’t burst out of his room trouserless and singing I Did It My Way. But here, where the patients are wheeled around a massive plasma screen to watch Mary Poppins of an afternoon, we realise we are not entirely sure of the new rules.

And indeed, the next time I visit, his fruitcake has been thrown out and his whiskey confiscated.

My stepmother is greatly annoyed. That fruitcake was for diabetics! Grandis shrugs a little. I suspect the fruitcake is secondary to the loss of his whiskey. Not all of it, he hastens to tell me. The other bottle is in his wardrobe. The problem is, he can’t get out of bed on his own. My stepmother has Words with the management. Confiscate! Can they really just take away his food and alcohol like that?

Management is slightly contrite about the fruitcake but can only allow the whiskey if the doctor agrees. They will hold the bottle and return it when doctor gives the ok.

This time when C and Tricky and I visit, I bring along a bottle of medically approved whiskey which my dad has given to me. There is a little sticker on the side, stamped and dated.

Except, it’s actually rum which was another of his Christmas presents, the original bottle of whiskey having been emptied. Grandis has requested this decanting just in case he is only allowed to drink whiskey. Such is the life of the rebel Aged care patient.

When I show him the dodgy bottle he nods his head slightly and slides his eyes from side to side in case anyone is watching. There are twenty people around us in chairs and wheelchairs. They are all, to a man, either asleep or glued to the screen watching Chitty Chitty Bang Bang…

THINGS ARE OK, Grandis tells me as we watch Tricky wind his way through the room, gazing from one crumpled old face to another. One or two gaze back, soft smiles, sad eyes.

Grandis has ordered some custom made shirts that are easier to slide over his head, and they come in a range of colours. He has ordered “pillar box red, royal blue, bottle green, and a champagne or beige colour”. It makes him cheerful, buying clothes. The lady who makes them comes in nearly every day.

Oh, does she work here?
HER MUM'S IN THE DEMENTIA WARD.

He tells me that the problem “down below”, the one that needed the glove of water to begin with isn’t getting better. And it seems to have fascinated the nurses.
THE OTHER DAY I HAD FIVE OF THEM DOWN THERE, ALL HAVING A LOOK, he booms.
I glance around but frankly nothing can distract these people from Truly Scrumptious.
I SAID TO THEM: IF WE GET ANY MORE COMING I’LL BE CHARGING ADMISSION.
I snort at this but Grandis shakes his head in sorrow.
WENT RIGHT OVER THEIR HEADS. NO ONE SAID A WORD.

I realize he misses the main hospital. Even though he lost his leg and almost died there he had an appreciative audience.

You’d have got a laugh at the ‘John, I say sympathetically.

When we leave I ask Tricky to say goodbye. Grandis is high up in his chair and unable to lean himself forward very far. I hold Tricky up and he obligingly makes himself as stiff as a board so that he can reach him. Grandis says: KISS GOODBYE? and Tricky turns his face a little so that his cheek is suddenly mashed against Grandis’s mouth.

Back at my parents place I make Summer Pudding the 2nd. With Blob’s words ringing in my ears, I soak my spongy fingers in the juice. Having learned from my last attempt I have found the bowl and appropriate squashing plate well ahead of time. With my sister K jiggling Baby L in her arms I swiftly assemble the pudding. We discuss perhaps using such things as chocolate custard. K says she dreams about making deserts with sponges and chocolate custard – the kind you buy from a supermarket.

Yum yum I say. Supermarket chocolate custard.

K suddenly beams at this. Her husband says it sounds horrible and won’t let her make it.
I secretly agree with him but I am trying to be supportive here – I remember what it was like having a 10 week baby, so if she thinks supermarket chocolate custard works, I'm with you sweetie.

Several hours later, SP2 plops easily from the basin. Like some swollen internal organ. Something vulnerable about it.

It sits, gleaming darkly under the kitchen lights. The berries I suppose. Not an attractive colour but it might be the reflection from the red splashback.

I cut quickly.

...two dawns later...

2009-01-10T22:29:00.002+11:00

7.15 the next morning, 7.45 today.

Em's right, it's a combination of the lower temperature and the white noise. Bedtime is later generally because it's holidays here but even with a late bedtime Tricky was still waking at 5.30 to 6 every morning.

Tomorrow we're going to visit Poppy and Aphwa again, for a few days, and we'll see if I can keep the system going.

He still wakes in the middle of the night at times. It's like sleep talking or to be more accurate - sleep screaming.

The other night I woke with a start when he yelled at the top of his voice: CUDDLE ME!

Still half asleep myself, I sprang out of bed and leapt to his side. I knelt down on the floor, leaned over and put my arms about him, gently whispering shhh shhh...

He did not shhhh.

Instead he shrieked into my ear: TOO MANY HANDS!

New dawn breaking...?

2009-01-08T21:13:00.005+11:00

We are on the brink of an outstanding scientific breakthrough.

For the last two mornings, that's 2, count 'em, one for each weary parent, Tricky has slept in until 8.00am. The first morning i woke like a good little Pavlov's dog at 6.30am and wondered why everything was so quiet. On the second morning I slept till 7.30 and still managed to leap up, make the tea, eat my cereal, check the emails and make the bed before Tricky had even stirred.

It could be...I don't know, the sleep-in fairy, but I think more likely it's the portable fan we've had whirring away in our bedroom for the last two stinking hot nights.

Tonight the temperature's dropped but the fan's going on regardless...

Cooking With OvaGirl

2009-01-06T15:44:00.005+11:00

And so the lazy days of summer continue. Here we are, home again, in the Big House. It was with heavy hearts we bid farewell to my dad and stepmum in Newcastle after a wonderful 12 days and 11 nights at their new house.

12 days of lounging about, eating chocolate, visiting friends and inadvertently boiling ourselves over the coffee plunger. 12 days of babysitting - not continuously mind - we're not complete sponges, it's just that we know how much Tricky adores his grandparents, and they him.

From the moment he woke at 6 am it was their names on his lips (more so Aphwa than Poppy it has to be admitted) and many times during the night it was their names he shrieked as he thrashed and rolled about on his mattress by our bed.

They didn't need us to tell them of his great, megavolume love - in this new house their bedroom is situated almost directly underneath.

As we kissed them goodbye on the street outside their house my stepmother hugged me and insisted loudly that Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without family and also that it was a wonderful thing to have family as the first guests in the new house. My father also hugged me and told us to mind how we go on the freeway that led us home.

Because I knew how much PLEASURE it would give them, I made a Summer Pudding on our final evening. And since readers have asked, this is how i did it, as recalled from that rather hazy New Year's Eve where I bullied Blob(pudding maker) into explaining the recipe.

Obviously there are no measurements or actual amounts called for, you just sort of make it up as you go.

BLOB'S SUMMER PUDDING

Ingredients:

Italian Sponge Finger Biscuits.

They have got a name, it's pretty common but buggered if I can recall just at this moment. They come in small packs and large packs. I used a large one for 8 adults and had a few broken bits left over. Some use "stale white bread" instead of spongy fingers and I cannot think of anything more disgusting.

Berries.

A pack of frozen mixed berries was my choice but i think in Blob's Boxing Day Picnic extravaganza he used real ie. unfrozen ones. He's such a showoff.

A Sugar Syrup.

I vaguely recall Blob saying half sugar, half water. Well how does that help anyone I ask you? I put a mug of water in a saucepan to boil and added nearly a mug of sugar and hoped for the best.

Cream

Whipped to billy-o

Method.

Get puddingy shaped bowl and pretending the Spongy Fingers are a curious 3D jigsaw, lay them in and around the bowl.

Trim where necessary and eat some of the trimmed bits before you click that you can use them to wedge into gaps. I actually dipped the first few biscuits in orange juice so that they were a bit soft so that I could make them fit together perfectly. This was a bit unnecessary frankly, it was an instinct born of panic, and it meant that the very top of my pudding was an unsightly orange colour. This step will take longer than you think it will.

Add your berries to your boiling sugar water.

Move around berries indolently with spoon, make pouty lips face and feel vaguely Nigella-like. Turn off heat immediately. Berries are officially poached. At this point you may feel moved to add splash of appropriate alcohol. I felt thusly moved but then realised that Tricky may get to eat some so instead I poured it into a glass and drank it.

Pour berries into charmingly arranged spongy finger pudding bowl.

Add last lot of Spongy Fingers to make lid.

Hunt up heavy plate to weigh pudding down.

Hint: do this first, otherwise you will be running round like blue arsed fly calling out "ooh ah! Is there a plate that fits this bowl?" Also you will find yourself using plate after plate and flattish bowl after flattish bowl, trying them on the pudding for size (it has to fit inside the bowl) and leaving a great trail of washing up in your wake since the pudding will leave a small smear of berry juice on each attempt. You will also, at one point, desperately reach for the dog's dish and try to fit that into place only to find once again that it is that bit too big. Half an hour later your father will work himself up to Full Mutter as he searches in vain for the missing dog's dish. God knows where you have put it.

Put weights on top of heavy plate and place in fridge...

Cans work well for this. Try and make the weight even else you might skew the pudding and gobs of berry juice may come streaming out the side and drip over your dad's bottles of wine and the rest of the holiday drinkies that are stacked beneath. This will take some time to wipe off. And because you move the cans to redistribute the weight, the same thing will happen on the opposite side. More muttering and some heavy sighs, but no harsh words because this is the holidays afterall and also you and your toddler are leaving the following morning.

...for quite a while.

My pudding was refrigerated for nearly 4 hours and I think this would be the minimum time to ensure good berry saturation. Overnight would be better.

Serve with whipped cream.

Turn out onto plate. Get brother in law to whip cream because frankly by then you are knackered and just want to enjoy effect. Make husband serve up pudding and cream and also lead hearty chorus of approval.

The Way To Pleasure

2009-01-03T09:01:00.004+11:00

The New Year has started very promisingly indeed.

A major achievement was the survival of all the toddlers who celebrated New Year at the lake house. We knew this because written in large letters on a piece of paper attached to the fridge were the words THE WAY TO ENJOY YOUR NEW YEAR'S EVE IS TO WATCH YOUR CHILDREN.

I asked my friend whose family owned the lake house, if her mother had written this message specially for us, a group of 40 to 50 year old professionals, and she nodded.

Despite the close proximity of house to water, despite the sheer drop from lake edge down to actual water, no child was lost, although some parents did lose years off their life as they caught a glimpse of a wandering midget, choked on their champagne and swiftly ran to tackle the little darling who was meandering towards the concrete edge.

As the children fell asleep or were sedated or restrained as appropriate, we adults gathered around the table and remarked on the beauty of the lake and the serenity of the sunset and the brilliance of the assembled company. We ate extremely nice things culminating in a Summer Pudding, and ended just before midnight with the drawing of a 'destiny card' for the new year, which would perhaps give us a focus and direction as we considered what was to come.

C selected DETAILS which made him frown as it reminded him that we need to do our tax almost immediately. I drew PLEASURE which made me very pleased indeed and reminded me that I still have Lucy's voucher for a pedicure and massage waiting for me.

I decided to increase my capacity for PLEASURE by forcing the friend who had made the Summer Pudding tell me the recipe, exactly.

He had made the same pudding a few days earlier for our traditional Boxing Day picnic. At the time of eating he had briefly left the picnic rug to attend to his toddler's needs. Someone, I'm not pointing fingers here, had said "Let's eat the Summer Pudding." Someone Else made the first incision and, adding freshly whipped cream to their bowl, tasted the pudding and gave their response which was favourable.

What followed, on that hot Boxing Day afternoon, was a frenzy of Summer Pudding gorging that could only be compared to a scene from Lord Of The Flies. The pudding maker returned soon after and feasted on the few scraps remaining. For days after I had been dwelling on that pudding. Even on New Year's Eve, in the car on the way to the Lake I had talked to C about the pudding, remarking yet again, on the frightening mob mentality that had overtaken seemingly civilised people. Some cream, some berries, a little sugar syrup and those chunky Italian sponge finger biscuits, that's all it took. Maybe some sherry.

"There's no way, he'll make that pudding again for us," I gloomily muttered to C as we parked under the trees by the house. "We just don't deserve it."

So imagine my delight, when dessert time had come and out rolled the familiar rounded pile of purple soaked sponge with accompanying basin of cream.

"Tell me how you do it", I slurred at the pudding maker. "Just tell me, and don't leave anything out." He did so, quite jovially, and then again, a little less so when i told him I didn't hear the first time because I was guzzling my champagne. And then I loudly told it back to him just to make sure I had it right.

The next morning, bleary eyed and desperate for caffeine, I decided to extend the PLEASURE by making everyone coffee. As I leaned hard on the coffee plunger I thought a little ruefully of all the chocolate and alcohol and fat filled products I have consumed this festive season. And how much I enjoyed them.

There is a fine line between PLEASURE and PAIN as I discovered when boiling coffee suddenly exploded out of the pot burning my left wrist, my right underarm and various spots on my torso.

I decided bugger the coffee, what I actually wanted was a cold shower and some ice.

Some may see this as an ominous start to the year but I prefer to think of it as a 'wake up call' or perhaps even an encouragement to take up my idle notion of giving up coffee and alcohol. Also it reminded me that cold showers are refreshing and invigorating, and that coffee plungers should not be pushed dow hard when there is resistance.

However, I have made one definite resolution, apart from that one of destroying all coffee plungers in the known world.

I have decided that THE WAY TO ENJOY 2009 IS TO MAKE THIS THE YEAR OF THE SUMMER PUDDING.

Even in Winter.

Letter To A 29 Month Old Barista

2008-12-31T19:06:00.009+11:00

My darling Tricky

As I type this you are struggling with your father who is trying in vain to give you dinner.

You are kicking him and shouting NO I WANT STORY! There is something very poetic in this scene, something about art before bread or somesuch and being your mother and a feckless artiste herself I, of course, understand your passion, but also it's a wee tad annoying because we are actually at a friend's house on Lake Macquarie for NYE and all the other kids are eating outside and I'm trying to blog my last post for the year, as well as your monthly newsletter which is a trillion days late.

It's bad enough that I've abandoned our friends for the computer without having you loudly drawing attention to the fact. And frankly, i thought you loved tortelini (I know the tomatoes are a stretch), or at least you did at lunch.

Also Mummy's a bit pissed, can you tell? Nothing serious, two glasses of champagne, that's all. Since having you I've become the proverbial two pot screamer and whether that's due to the sleep deprivation or some hormonal biz I couldn't tell you. Also my feet are bigger. How wierd is that?

As are your feet. And your legs. And your lovely mop of curly hair. You seem so tall when you stand beside me, at hip level, with your arm wrapped around my thigh. When we arrived at the house today you stood like that for a long time, even though you know all the kids here and all the adults, coyly gazing at the floor. It's such a far cry from your loud shouting, specific demands, intricate songs and secret language raves. Like your mother you take a while to warm up.

For posterity I shall record your latest song which i'm pretty sure is completely made up and not a bastardisation of some daycare melody:

Oinka boinka oinka boinka

da da da

Hairy Scary Hairy Scary

da da da

What does it mean? No idea, but the other day I casually started singing Oinka Boinka and the grin on your face was fabulous. It was like you'd cracked a joke a while ago and I'd brought it up again and then we sort of sang it together, chuckling. My how we laughed and I'm hoping that it's a clean joke and not for instance a reference to that day you got into the shower with me and loudly pointed out my missing appendage.

You adore trains and the whole ritual of boomgates and cars stopping and the ding ding ding. When we go out to coffee in the mornings you ask if we can go to the 'train cafe', a groovy little place in the carpark of Hamilton railway station. We sit so we can see the track and the boomgates and as soon as we see the red lights flash Some Convenient Adult must whisk you up and rush you out to stand on the bridge. It's a complete bugger and hell on the thighs as we run up the steps with you in our arms and thank god the coffee is good.

This Christmas was lovely lovely lovely and yet there was a lot that could have gone wrong wrong wrong, your grandparents having moved into their new place and nearly killing themselves in the process. Your favourite present, hands down, was the wooden garage your Uncle P gave you. His dad gave it to him when he was a little tacker and he still had it some 20 or so years later. He found it shoved in the back of the cupboard of his old bedroom during the move and decided to repaint it for you. Your Aunty R and Aunty T gave you cars to match and the result was nothing short of sublime. You moved cars and drove cars and fixed cars and had tiny wee roadrage episodes.

It was all very typical boy stuff which is fair enough. You played and played and then... you got out your pink teaset and utilising a firetruck with extendable ladder as a moveable boomgate you suddenly were running your own 'train cafe'.

This morning you gave me a cup of coffee which you 'spilled' and 'wiped up'. When I complained and asked for a caffe latte you gave me a plastic knife. You also offered me banana bread but failed to deliver. I'm giving you one more go and then i'm writing a letter to management.

We are having a bit of a session with rules at the moment. As in: No Screaming In The House. My parents new house is quite sturdy but it's a little small and the sound travels like nobody's business especially at 5.30 in the morning. Other rules include: We Don't Push and We Don't Pull Hair. One rule I haven't activated is We Only Do That When We are Alone And In Our Bedroom but it may well be on the horizon.

At the beach today you said to me sternly; We Don't Eat Sand.

That's right, i nodded as I towelled him dry.

And We Don't Eat Dirt.

Neither we do, I agreed.

And...We Don't Eat People.

Quite true. Although exceptions are made for footballers who crash land in the Andes.

We were at Newcastle beach and for a few moments we stood together, the three of us, by the large round kiddy pool, carved from rock. I wrote about this pool once before, long ago, here, Your father and your mother, standing together, kissing in the moonlight at the start of their relationship. I wrote about fear and about wishing for a child and and about despair and how maybe it would only ever be the two of us.

But today, on the last day of the year, we were three.

We saw a pelican and seagulls and you held a tiny starfish in the palm of your hand and we were immeasurably happy.

It's a new year coming and so your parents are reflective and regretful and hopeful and appreciative.

But it's just another day for you and so you shout and laugh and ask for dinner when it's been cleared away and run away from putting on your mumpy and you sing and smile and love, just like any other day. You have no idea why we're here, all these shrieking pint sized kids, your little friends Claudia and Sebastian, Morgan and Jack.

And their mothers and fathers, watching with loving smiles, all made parents in their late 30s and 40s. Grateful. Tired. Happy. And much to celebrate.

Worth another glass of champagne at least.

Your very own

OvaGirlxxxxxx

Book Review: Emily Waits For Her Family

2008-12-23T10:58:00.003+11:00

The literary world of Tricky is a turbulent place, full of fast paced action and lurid colour. Here oceans are in commotion and rumbles occur in jungles. Yes Bobo gets his hug and Hannah gets taken to the zoo to see her gorilla but not before much adventure and emotional upheaval.

If Lola is allowed to look after Marv’s dog Sizzles, it’s dollars to doughnuts that Sizzles will not only be lost he’ll be mixed up with another dog that looks exactly like Sizzles.

It’s a crazy, green eggs and ham eating world.

And it is here, amongst all the noise and chaos I find myself reading out loud a small mint coloured book. A quiet gentle book. That rhymes.

Emily Waits For Her Family is the first in the Emily The Chickadee series. I’m a little behind the 8Ball here in Australia, I’m pretty sure we have no chickadees here (not in Sydney anyway) but there are any number of delicate pretty little birds all at various stages of extinction so I get the gist.

In this book, a little girl spies a chickadee who builds a nest in a window box and there, nestled amongst the flowers, lays three eggs that eventually hatch into the ugliest boggly eyed chicks you’ve ever seen. That’s not really part of the story but it certainly made me laugh when I got to the picture. Time is a great beautician for the chickadee brood and quite soon they are just as attractive as their mother. And now all four can flap above the head of the little girl who spends her time lounging about in flower beds and gazing up at her feathered friends. End story.

I have to admit I did not hold out high hopes for Emily et al on my first read through. Where were the lost dogs? The gorillas wearing hats? There were eggs yes but they weren’t green and no one was being exhorted to Eat Them.

And also the rhyming. I am not a natural fan of the rhyming children’s book. I often find the rhyme overtakes the story and it happens a bit here too with a lot of enforced rhyming with “chickadee”.

Gentle, charming, delightful. These are the words that spring to mind to describe Carol Zelya’s book with illustrations by Kristin Metcalf. The author’s note indicates her aim of “educating children about nature’s precious gifts all around us when we take the time to notice” an intention I would applaud but perhaps not necessarily feel the need to mention since it seems a tad preachy. Luckily this is in the back of the book, not the front.

I did very excited by the bonus chickadee checklist for readers to log the movements of the chickadee in their own back yard (we scored a fat zero sadly).

Finally I have to put up my hand and admit, to my surprise, Tricky enjoyed this book – to the point of throwing aside Lola and her search for Sizzles the dog, and asking for “the birdy book.”

He listened, he counted the eggs and the birds, and he asked me to read it again when I was finished. Which was a gentle reminder to this book reading mother that stories do not always have to be high concept or fast paced to be engaging for children.

Emily Waits For Her Family

By Carol Zelaya

Illustrated by Kristin Metcalf

Richlee Publishing

www.emilythechickadee.com

Say so

2008-12-16T10:54:00.003+11:00

Tricky's vocabulary has been increasing in leaps and bounds.

Many's the time we sit and chat, he and I, perhaps over a chilled sippy cup of milo milk and a zucchini muffin.

Early in the morning we might discuss a passing garbage truck ( iss got fashing lights!) or ponder the mysterious opening and shutting of a neighbour's garage door (door go up and car comes out. Now door go down!).

We might lightly debate the pros and cons of watching Charlie & Lola before we have our weetbix (YES! Mine watch NOW!) , or playfully spar over whether or not we really need to wear trousers. (NOOOOOOOOOOO!)

Of course I am not particularly essential to his conversation skills, he'll happily yarn with his teddy bears or his dinosaurs, and often in the bath he likes to have an indepth chat with his penis.

Every now and then he will come up with something unexpected. For the past week he has been shouting at me, apropros of nothing, Jinx! and then, even more intently, Personal Jinx!

In the car, if he spies a telephone box, he will call out Red Fox!

The other day I put Tricky on the phone to speak to his father who has been working for the past few days back in Country Town.

Say hello to Daddy, I said. Tricky did not say hello.

What he did say was: DADDY IS A PLONKER.

It seems Tricky has also been been doing a lot of vocabulary practise with his cousins, the Naughty Nephews. Three days a week they travel together to and from school/daycare. It's a fifteen minute car ride but this is ample time to teach your baby cousin about spotting red foxes and casting jinxes and personal jinxes, not to mention plonkers. I have asked the NNs not to say this anymore, with particular emphasis aimed at Naughty Nephew 2.
("Even if you do change it to John Howard, I don't care, no more plonkers.")

This morning it was my turn to drive them and after an obligatory round of Twinkle Twinkle and a few Red Fox! spottings, Naughty Nephews 2 and 3 got down to brass tacks.

Say Ferrari, says NN3

Say Honda Odyssey, says NN2

Fahwee. Ondassee

Say Father Christmas... say Al Qaida... say Plonker... HEY! I call over my shoulder.

Ok, just say Father Christmas.

Lessons halt as we park the car and everyone gets out. Tricky is fascinated by school and loves walking in the gate with the Naughty Nephews. He is facinated by all the big kids in their matching clothes.

It makes me a little moist-eyed to see him, hand in hand with his cousins. In his big hat and shorts he almost looks like a junior version of them, except instead of school colours he has on his stripey shirt with the robot and his hat is lime green, not institution blue.

Bye boys, I call after them, come on Tricky - time to go to daycare. Say goodbye.

Say goodbye, says Naughty Nephew 3.

Say mustard gas, says Naughty Nephew 2.

But Tricky, all big eyes and stripey robot shirt, says nothing at all.

I won't have what he's having

2008-12-14T18:22:00.002+11:00

It was lunchtime when I went in to visit Grandis again. He was sitting upright in the chair beside his bed. As I entered the door I smiled hello to the three other elderly women patients sharing his room, pausing by one woman who had been bedridden almost as long as him.

HELLO THERE. HAVE YOU SEEN MY STUMP YET?

Grandis waved me over impatiently to sit in the chair beside him and started twitching at his hospital gown.

Actually I have, I hastily replied, when you were doing your physio. How are you today?

NOT BAD, he shrugged.

The lunch trays arrived and I busied myself with releasing his salmon sandwich from its packaging and fixing the spouty lid to his Vanilla Sustagen.

As he ate, we made a little small talk about the earthworks going on outside ths window (SOME SORT OF TRENCH I’D SAY), the weather (I HEAR IT’S REAL SWEATY) and the fact that the clock on the wall facing his bed had finally been fixed. (ABOUT BLOODY TIME I SAY!)

With Grandis it's often a case of the louder the voice the higher the spirits and I was pleased to see how well he was obviously feeling. So well in fact, he was going to be moved out of the hospital bed to a high care facility as soon as possible. Further enquiry about why he was not suitable for rehabilitation had been explained as only available if he was going to return to his own home (no) or to the same low grade care facility he had occupied before (no, needs help showering and toileting). There didn’t seem to be another alternative but Grandis was quite cheerfully matter of fact about what would come next.

You look so much better, I smiled at him.

He gestured to me to sit closer and, looking furtively about the room, lowered his voice to a bellowing whisper.

LOOKS LIKE I’VE DEVELOPED A BEDSORE ON MY TESTICLES.

Oh dear, I muttered. Is that… painful?

I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW. IT WAS ONE OF THE NURSES WHO DISCOVERED IT.

I nodded, hoping that might be the end of the report. It was not.

SHE WAS WORRIED ABOUT HOW IT SHOULD BE TREATED.

Bit of cream? I suggested helpfully.

NOPE. SHE HAD A CHAT WITH SOME OF THE OTHER NURSES AND CAME BACK WITH SOMETHING THAT LOOKED LIKE A RUBBER GLOVE FILLED WITH WATER. I SAID “WHAT ARE YOU PLANNING TO TIE THAT TO?”

I glanced around the room where the other three patients, all with perfect hearing, were staring fixedly at their lunch trays.

BUT SHE JUST SLID IT UNDER THE AFFLICTED AREA. YOU SEE, THAT WAY WHEN I MOVE, THEY MOVE TOO.

I did see, and I smiled and shook my head a little, as if in wonder, at the clever ideas of these nurses.

Well hopefully that’ll do the trick, I said.

Grandis nodded and we sat in companionable silence as he knocked back his Sustagen.

He stopped mid swig, a sudden thought having come to mind.

BUT IT WASN’T ONE OF THOSE BLUE GLOVES THEY WEAR, IT WAS ONE OF THOSE FLESH COLOURED ONES, YOU KNOW THE ONES?

I did indeed.

The Screaming Tomato Fights Back

2008-12-11T10:09:00.002+11:00

It started with a plug.

Just an ordinary bath plug, black rubber and some sort of metallic bit on top plus that ring thing you pull to remove the plug from the bath.

All part of the night time ritual - lovely warm bath, hijinks with bath toys, hijinks with peeeeenussss, too much splashing, sodden bath mat, wrapped in big coloured towel, mumpy, pyjamas, story, bed. However the crucial step missing from this list is the one where Tricky pulls the plug out of the bath. By himself.

This step was passed over because, stupidly as it turns out, I decided that the whole getting out of bath routine was taking way too long, it was late, last episode of The Wire (series 3) was waiting to be viewed on dvd, there had already been a fairly unpleasant experience the night before which was put down to toddler spending three nights in three different beds, I was tired blah blah blah...

So I pulled the plug myself and said...Right that's it, out you get, we've got time before bed for one quick...

...story was the word I was about to use but Tricky, indignant beyond belief that I had usurped his plug pulling duties, obviously assumed I was about to say nuclear meltdown.

So he did.

Sweet mother of god.

It was the return of the Screaming Tomato but a louder, heavier, screamier Screaming Tomato. One with teeth. And pummelling fists. And tactics.

My god, look at it! It's thinking! It can actually think!

As fast as we formulate a strategy, the Screaming Tomato formulates one back. A better one! With laser beams and rockets!

Throughout the screaming he kept up a running tirade of immediate demands and loudly disappointed observations of our parental methods.

I want water, give me water. WATER PEEEEASE (parent hastily fetches orange sippy cup of water) No, not water, no no no water. (parent quickly takes loathsome cup away) GIVE ME WATER! (parent rushes back with cup) Mummy hold! No, Tricky hold, NO, MUMMY HOLD WATER, HOLD WATER MUMMY! (parent holds cup to Screaming Tomato's lips, Screaming Tomato snatches at cup and flings it to ground.) Where is water?! Mine want water! WATER PEEEASE! MINE WANT ORANGE CUP. MINE NOT WANT ORANGE CUP. (Repeat several times until other parent appears to find toddler and mother on floor surrounded by several sippy cups in varying hues, none of which seem to be wanted. Action now moves to bedroom.)

We tried to ignore him, he screamed louder. We tried to calm him, it seemed to enrage him. We cuddled him, he slapped our faces. We put him in his bed and he stood up and jumped on the spot, all the while howling at the top of his voice.

At one stage, bizarrely, he told us he wanted to wee on the toilet. Alright, I said, thinking this change of strategy might break the circuit.

This has been a slow process, the toilet training, we have had success with wees for instance but not with poos. And suddenly, the tears stopped and Screaming Tomato suddenly turned into Angelic Aubergine, all winning smiles and shining eyes.

Mine not crying now, mine happy. Mine do wee wees and mine also do poo poos. They go plop.

C and I cowered on the tiles by his feet, almost weeping with gratitude.

Oh they do go plop! Yes darling, you're so clever! Good boy. Are you finished? You can push the button on the toilet, now. Wow. Clever clever boy.

But minutes later when he wanted to come off the toilet, there was no poo and within a minute there were no more smiles and we were tomato agogo and back to the MINE WANT WATER refrain.

At which point, in true B-Grade horror movie style, our brains exploded through our skulls.

Sheer exhaustion saw him finally fall asleep in his bed, we got to watch our episode (everything they say about this show is true) and then, a few hours later, it all began again.

Except now it was some ungodly hour in the early early morning.

And now it was time for the big guns, the MINE WANT CUDDLES routine. This is not toddler asking for the quick comfort of a loving hug. This is a demand for Mummy to squat on the floor by his bed and drape herself on him so that he can cling to Mummy's wrist or, even better, Mummy's hair, and Mummy shall stay like that until Screaming Tomato has dropped off to sleep, or better, ALL FRIGGING NIGHT.

I did resort to some stern speaking through gritted teeth, i did try and smack his bum at one point. I managed to not lose it completely because I kept saying, in my head, i will win this, I will, as I put him to bed yet again.

But man he was good. He was, as Omar himself would acknowledge, fierce.

And I tried to call SHHHHH from my bed and say in a quiet but firm voice SLEEPYTIME and eventually he wore me down to going over to his bed and patting him, and from there he got me down to the "cuddle" (but with intention of returning to bed) and then it was a slippery slope to allowing him into our bed until he fell asleep and carrying him back to his bed, and half an hour later when he woke screaming again it was game over, and he slept in our bed until eight oclock in the morning.

I know he's not posessed, I told Screenwriting Mummy, on the phone this morning after he was removed to daycare by his uncle.

At least I think I know that. But could it be autism? Or bipolar?

And I feel terrible just writing those words, but the truth is, last night and this morning that's how I felt.

Who was that angry toddler? What was going on? He was completely out of control. And what about the wierd Smiling On The Toilet routine. In retrospect that was what freaked me out the most because he seemed so happy. But I guess it did seem over the top at the time, happiness of the wound up, gleaming teeth, glittering eyes sort.

Screenwriting Mummy also has an angry toddler, slightly older, of the female variety, and she swapped back some of her own tales of Notorious Meltdowns. And we talked about all the changes in Tricky's life at the moment and also that maybe some sort of rapid development was happening. And then we also talked about how losing control of your toddler makes you feel like you also have no control over yourself.

He may be a screaming tomato, but he's my screaming tomato.

The thing is, I only get one go at this.

And I really hope I'm not screwing it up.

I'm baaaaack

2008-12-10T14:39:00.002+11:00

I am back from the holiday in the country.

I would love to wax lyrical about the darling little house, the tranquil open fields, the nippy little horses, the cunning electric fences and the frigging flies, but sadly I have left my homage to pastoral living just that tad too late. It is now more than 48 hours since our holiday concluded and hence all residual created calm has been officially leached from my system.

Since our return I have managed to lose a book, a set of keys, a vital phone number, and my wallet. These were all found, eventually, but geez the stress.

I could be wrong but I think I can pinpoint the exact moment I lost the very last vestiges of calm.

It was this morning at 3.10 am when Tricky started kicking hard at the wooden bookshelf between his bed and ours and shrieking at the top of his voice: MUMMY! GIVE ME A CUDDLE!

seeing stars

2008-12-03T14:01:00.003+11:00

Yes it is a holiday but it is only about an hour from grumpy grandad's hospital and so i decide to visit him, because i am feeling a lot better.

His hospitalisation and subsequent amputation was probably the last bowl of emotional spaghetti on my great big mental tray. i talk to my stepmum about this and I find myself saying that seeing him in bed so helpless and so sick and thinking early on that he was trick or treating on death's doorstep has probably brought up old scary stuff about mum dying, and the looking after, and the waiting for, and the watching her die, day by day by day.

And also, also...the future fear, the ms stuff, the fear of one day being bedridden and helpless and dependent and maybe that's why suddenly i was all gungho about seeing grumpy grandad daily, being not just independent but indispensible.

And these are heavy meals i'm trying to balance on my tray, stodgy, sloppy, carb-laden unpalatable bowls.

Which may explain why, on this holiday, i'm eating a lot of salad.

And meanwhile, i note these things about my grandfather:

Dad has shaved his head with clippers (at grandis's request) and now he looks like more of a pirate than ever. My sister K takes a photo and sends it to me via her mobile phone; shaven headed grandis with K's 8 week old baby on the pillow beside him.

i knew this was happening (the shaving of the head) but even so, i receive the photo in sydney while i am in mid-conversation and it is so startling I exclaim oh fuck mid sentence and then have to explain myself.

I am with my grandfather when the young spunky physio comes in to give him some exercises. Suddenly i am privvy to his stumpleg waving about, out, in, out, in. It is not quite as startling as the photo of his shaved head but it looks like an escaping lamb roast, uncooked.

I note that he is quite jolly with cute sassy physio whereas he is quite rude to the male nurse whom he refers to as a WASTE OF SPACE, I say shhhh Grandis and so he lowers the volume to a gentle roar . He instructs me to write down the exercises that cute sassy physio gives him to do. I do so, in large letters, and then he gets me to borrow some surgical tape from one of the other nurses (one of the ones that he likes) so i can tape the exercises up next to his bed.

The blonde doctor with beautiful skin and flawless pores comes into the room. She tells me that Grandis is her star pupil. He pretends he can't hear what she is saying so that she has to say it again, louder and closer to his ear. His eyes are twinkling. I begin to tell her about how well he did with his exercises but he bellows over the top of me. It's almost like the Grandis of old, before the falls and the nursing lodge.

STAR PUPIL HMMM? WELL EVERYONE NEEDS A STAR, WHETHER IT'S A RISING STAR OR A FALLING STAR...

I glance across at Dr Flawless Pores and she actually giggles and says...mmm very wise.

Good lord, i think. My grandfather is flirting with his doctor.

Today i come in to visit him again and he tells me all about his day, the staff who have been visiting, the doctors, the specialists. I tell him about the wonderful holiday and the horses and paddocks and we talk about my parents and how they are moving soon into their new house.

IT WILL BE CHRISTMAS AND HOUSEWARMING ALL IN ONE he observes.

We talk about his options, the future, he wants to just focus on getting from POINT A TO B THAT'S MY FIRST PRIORITY and I nod, yes that sounds a good plan. We talk about false legs and wheelchairs. we talk about him needing help to shower and toilet .

And we talk about christmas, how that may work, where he might be. I can't help thinking how sharp he is, his mind whirring and clicking, he's bored but he's still here. Mentally he's better than i've seen him for months, even before the operation, and the falls.

As I leave the hospital i talk to the discharge nurse and she tells me that he's been rejected for rehab. Not an appropriate candidate. Bed and chair only. Next stop will be the nursing home.

I stare at her and my face must crumple a little. i tell her that he is focusing on getting up, getting from point a to point b. She nods and repeats to me, not unkindly, (she's one of the nice ones after all) he's only suitable for bed and chair.

And i nod and thank her and leave.

One thing about being in the country. You do see a lot of stars. Tricky likes to be held up at night so he can point them out.

Tonight, back at the holiday house, i will be watching stars alongside my toddler.

Both the rising and the falling.

gone country

2008-12-01T14:28:00.003+11:00

C, Tricky and I are having a wee little holiday in the country. We have a cottage for a week and it is surrounded by paddocks and horses and trees and other such oddities.
Also vineyards and although this was not a pre-requisite for holidaying it certainly adds a little flavour to the resting and relaxing.

I am feeling very in need of the resting and relaxing and despite my brave post about putting down the tray blah blah don't put the seventh bowl on top or you risk losing the lot blah blah the truth is, my tray had crashed about two weeks ago and how I get that spaghetti sauce out is anyone's guess.

Luckily I won a holiday in August. This is a bit like winning a chicken in that I won it in a raffle and also in that my chicken is coming home to roost ie. holiday now being had.

We have packed up our toddler and all our stuff and our computers although we have solemnly sworn not to do work on them (what?) and I have included my special foot massage rub and quite a lot of vitamins and so forth as I am still yes still hacking and spluttering away.

But we have left our worries behind. Mostly. And although i sometimes hear them tippy tap on the window at night I think they're a wee tad scared of horses. And chickens.

and that's good.

Letter to a 28 Month Old Mover and Shaker

2008-11-25T13:03:00.008+11:00

My darling Tricky

As I write this I am hacking and spluttering away like some plague ridden feudal serf.

Most unpleasant.

The source of this latest bout of nastiness I am afraid to say is…you. Last Monday after we got back from visiting One Legged Grandis in Newcastle you had a blazing fever and then the coughing started. Soon after that my coughing started too. We have been a vicious circular Petri dish for at least the last six months and I estimate we get about three weeks break between bouts. Every one of which is of course different and special and it’s Own Thing.

Not unlike you, my darling boy.

As well as our Virus Du Jour you have also picked up from somewhere an alternative to your previous yes and no answers. This alternative is ‘maybe’ and it is usually in response to an adult like me asking a sensible question like “Would you like breakfast?” or “Have you done a poo?”

Maybe. Not particularly helpful but quite amusing, this month anyway.

I think one of your big achievements over the past two months has been sleeping in your big boy bed through the night. This is a shared achievement of course, many people are involved, many books consulted, many sacrifices made, and it is ultimately an ongoing project.

So when I say ‘through the night’ I mean give or take the mandatory curtain calls at the start of proceedings. Last night it took several returns by both the motherperson and the fatherperson and finally a fakely stern Uncle K to put you back and keep you there – it seems he told you that we had “popped out” for a few minutes and so there was no use getting up anymore.

Horrifying, yet effective.

Over the last few weeks since your introduction to Big Boy Bed-dom we have experienced the soliloquies, monologues, ballads, confessions and loud agonised calls for water/back stroking/doona adjustment. Over the weeks, as your vocabulary has grown, so too have your demands become more sophisticated.

MUMMY! MUMMY! MINE WANT A CUDDLE! PEEEEEEASE! AND KISSES! MINE WANT KISSES PEEEEEASE!

Very hard to resist but resist I must if we are to get any sleep at all.

It seems however that once you are asleep there is no more waking in the night and making your way to our bed.

I combined a number of sensible strategies to achieve this small miracle, but the one that stands out is bribery.

Some weeks ago I identified that you have a great love for ‘little people’. Not the dwarven variety per se, but the toy or ornamental variety. I have some of these “little people,” Chinese thimble like figures made out of clay.

When you asked to hold the little people I gave you a couple, thinking they would be a good distraction while I changed your nappy (still known as a ‘mumpy’ most days).

When you gaily flung them to the floor and smashed them I twigged that a plastic version of little people was a damn good idea, but where to find them?

And when, one morning, bleary eyed, sick with lack of sleep after yet another officially Worst Night Ever I piled you and your cousins into the car, got shat on by a bird as I was arguing with the Naughty Nephews about who got to sit in the passenger seat, took them to school and you to daycare, stopped for a coffee on the way home and then wandered, still bleary eyed, still shat upon, into a local toyshop and saw gasp! A Box of Little People! I knew then that the Sleep Goddess had willed it to be so.

If you can sleep in bed ALL NIGHT I told you that evening, I will give you ONE of these Special Little People in the morning.
Your eyes grew wide.
Mine people, you intoned, MINE SPECIAL PEOPLE.
Only if you stay in your bed ALL NIGHT, I insisted. Will you stay in bed?
Maybe.

And lo the first of several all night miracles occurred. Will it last? Maybe…

I now have a ziplock bag of additional Little People I bought for five bucks at a market in Newcastle. They are not as shiny, nor special as the original Little People, some of them are actually animals, not people, but they seem to do the job.

Your tendency to covetousness would not be complete if I didn’t mention the other Special Little Person in your life. Well alright yes, there is new cousin baby L who is 8 weeks old now and whose feet you love to stroke but I don't mean her.

Instead, I am talking about that eternal friend to all mankind, the one you refer to as MINE PEEEEEENISSSSS.

Indeed you are such great friends that mumpy changetime has become a great feat of strength and control often needing two parents, because you don’t want your little friend to be locked away under your nappy. You want him to have the freedom to watch tv, play with your Lego and, as you told me this morning, have breakfast. You want to run and skip and jump, unhindered, calling loudly as you go: peeeeenisss, peeeeenisss, peeeeenisss...

As you escaped from me yet again this morning and went racing across the floor and into your cowboy tent I said to your father, I will check this but I am pretty sure that neither I not my sisters ever used to run around at this age shouting vagiiiiina, vagiiiiina, vagiiiiina at the top of our voices.

Your father smiled quietly to himself. My boy.

And you are a boy. A loud, joyous, shouting little boy who loves building towers at 6.30 in the morning with his blocks. Who adores ‘dumping’ on the trampoline with his cousins and little friend S. Who eats his porridge each morning accompanied by yet another rendition of Goldilocks by one or t’other of his clueless parents. You remember things, we drive down a street and you tell us your friend Dood lives nearby, we pass your friend S’s flat and you point it out and then excitedly reminise about the cake you had there on his birthday. You like to go into tunnels and luckily on the way to Newcastle there are several.

But you are still my baby and you still insist on certain baby habits I haven’t the heart to break. Like your milk in the mornings. We heat it in the microwave and sit on the couch and you insist on curling on my lap (or your father’s if he is doing the first shift) and you get me to hold the sippy cup to your mouth like a bottle and we sit there watching early morning birds and clouds and trees through the big windows and I watch your beautiful eyes and stroke your soft curls and feel you gulping down your milk, “nice and warm Mummy” and it is just lovely lovely lovely.

No maybes about it.

I love you.

Your very own

OvaGirl

xxxxxxx

Just one more thing about my feet...

2008-11-21T12:00:00.003+11:00

My darling friend Lucy(amusingly i had a little typo then and wrote 'fiend', also apt) in London has sent me a late birthday/early xmas present.

It is a voucher for a massage, manicure and (lovely feet ahoy!)pedicure.

Which, i think to myself as I drool over the beribboned certificate and brochure, is exactly what I need in present circumstance.

Then I get a grip on myself, because who am I kidding , isn't this exactly what everyone needs in any circumstance? Unless perhaps you hate this sort of thing and shy away from the thought of getting your tense muscles kneaded smooth and your horrid dry feet pummelled and polished and your nasty misshapen fingernails filed and painted.

In which case, I suggest chocolates.

But the thing is, another friend lent me a copy of Elizabeth Gilbert's much lauded Eat Pray Love and I have spent a few enjoyable hours lolling on my bed and massaging my feet and reading while the emails pile up and up and up... and in this book, 'Liz' goes through much to recover from what sounds like The Most Horrible Divorce In The World (with bonus new relationship breakup) and travels to Italy, India and Bali to...well...to basically fulfil her book title.

And the universe works for her in mysterious ways, perhaps due to her insanely rigorous chanting and meditating, perhaps because this is after all a book, that she has written, and so in this story she actually is her universe, as it were.

But let's say it's because she has opened her channels etc and allowed the right things to happen/manifest and money, jobs, people, gelato and other necessities for healing fall into her lap when needed.

And so yesterday when out of the blue Lucy's voucher with the word PEDICURE standing out like a beacon appeared in my letterbox, I was shocked and delighted but also quite pleased that I was managing to manifest the things I need for myself and the universe was coming to the party.

Either that, i decided, or Lucy read my blog.

Just in case it was the first, I tucked the voucher into my bag and ducked down to the corner newsagent for a lotto ticket.

I'm thinking, ok universe...today pedicure, tomorrow three million bucks.

And though I haven't written about wanting three million bucks or needing three million bucks, i reckon it's just like that everyone, any circumstance voucher.

And/or chocolates.

two feet under

2008-11-15T09:04:00.002+11:00

It was Grumpy Grandad's birthday yesterday.

Only my youngest sister, K, was there to visit him. I feel bad about this but a couple of days earlier he had told me that he was sick of people reminding him about his birthday. Funny, I remembered him asking my father a few days previously if he thought he would make it to his next birthday. It was important then, when he was scared that he was not going to survive the amputation.

K told me that he mostly dozed through her visit except when he woke to grouchily accuse her husband, a sensitive and gentle man, of 'wanting something' because he had the audacity to say earnestly "Pat you're looking so much better, it's really good."

This is a young man who came in alone to the hospital on the night of Grandad's operation, after he finished work, to sit quietly by his grandfather-in-law and hold his hand.

Good God, I said to K. Did Grandad really say that?
Yep, said K. And in a really loud voice too so everyone in the ward heard and T went bright red and felt humiliated.

So... Grumpy Grandad in fine form, really.

A director I worked with once told me that the human brain is like a waiter carrying six bowls of spaghetti on a tray.

He can only balance six at a time and if he tries to load on a seventh the whole thing tips and crashes. Pasta disaster, as it were.

And so this week, juggling my six bowls plus the salt and pepper and a wedge of parmesan and one of those microplane grater things and a bottle of very rough red on my emotional tray, I decided to quit. Grandad was in a short term better place, my surfie-traditional-chinese-medicine-masters-student sister had flown back north, my dad resumed his holiday down south and that left me and my youngest sister K holding the babies.

And I felt exhausted and sick and on the edge of tears constantly and so it seemed a good time to head back to Sydney and the warmth and noise and exuberant energy of the Big House and the (not so) Naughty Nephews. But also I decided that I can't actually work during this time, that I had to let go of the Monday new play deadline and the eleven script assessments and the meetings for next year's productions and just sleep and rest and mother my son.

And to see my friends and their children.

And eat better.

And look after your feet, T the surfie TCM sister told me sternly. We die from the feet up.

She is not speaking literally, I don't think, although for diabetic one-legged Grumpy Grandad, it is almost true. These latest events began with an evil little ulcer on one toe, unseen, unfelt, untreated.

But the real beginnings, the diabetes, the lifestyle choices, the crappy diet that lays the foundations and points the way for our life journeys... he was a slum kid from Elephant and Castle in London, he was a soldier in the army in WW2, he moved to Australia in the fifties with his wife and kid. My sister-in-law N tells me that the first generation of children born to settlers and convicts alike in this country were significantly taller and larger and healthier than the equivalent aged children back in the mother country. And that was despite being malnourished.
Sadly for Grandad he was already too old at thirty-something to benefit from the miraculous air and sun and water of his new country.

Yesterday when I caught up with Operasinging Mummy and Screenwriting Mummy I saw how they had lovely neat feet with polished toenails. Whereas mine, with their split nails and hairy toes just looked uncared for and unhealthy.

You should massage your feet every night before you sleep, said T. And even pedicures are good, she added, because it draws your attention to your feet and makes you mindful.

And so I mindfully defuzz my toes and massage in the L'Occitane cream and think very seriously about booking a pedicure as a little Christmas present to myself.

And I laugh to myself as I hear Tricky playing hide and seek downstairs with his cousins and shouting wuntoofee coming weddy o nott!

Tricky and I go back to Newcastle today, refreshed and rested and with much nicer feet. Hopefully C will be able to meet us there after a big week in Country Town. I will be encouraging him to massage his feet too. And to briefly just...stop.

Sometimes it is very good to put down the tray, and maybe just dance around the tables a little and juggle the cutlery.

good bad good

2008-11-12T14:19:00.003+11:00

My dad arrives in the middle of the night and then the next morning he heads off to the hospital with my sister T.

I stay at home doing various toddler related duties. The last time I took Tricky to hospital, the last time I saw Grandad conscious and sporting both legs, I had to bribe him with half a bag of jelly snakes to sit nicely and be quiet. Toddler, not grandfather.

When they get back they tell me that there's no need to override the full active care decision at this point because, actually, he's um...better.

What are you talking about, I say? How can he be better?

But later, when Tricky is having a nap, I go into the hospital and the young intern pulls me aside. He is doing really well, she tells me. We had a horrible night but now he is having two other painkillers as well as the morphine and so the pain is much better managed, he's less yellow and we think that we have got all the infection.

She is an extremely beautiful woman with quite delicate features and as she smiles at me, delighted, I think that she could easily have been a very successful actor. Film even.

You know how they have that flawless skin?

She seems to be waiting for me to respond and so I say..."oh, isn't that great?" And I think she sees my confusion or my cynicism or maybe my close scrutiny of her perfect tiny pores and so she adds...but he is still a sick man. A very sick man. And I still don't think he will necessarily leave the hospital. But for now he is doing well.

And my face twists to register this good bad good news.

I like him, she tells me. He's feisty. And he gives us a hard time. but then...he's been through a lot, allowed to.

And so when I finally go in to see grandad and he reaches for my hands and asks if they are going to chop any more of him off I can say without a lie that they think they have all the infection so there will be no need to chop other bits off and that he has made the doctor smile because she thinks he is doing very well.

And that makes him happy, for now.

I am typing this on one of the pay internet computer thingies at the hospital. For some reason the wireless at dad's place is up the shit and I can't get online without extreme effort on my part. Everything seems to be so hard. Driving from Sydney to Newcastle I got round the corner to discover that some arsehole had smashed in part of the front of my car while it was parked on the road and the wheel was rubbing against metal. My car that was once my grandad's car, I add. And I'm tired and it's so hard doing this with Tricky.

This afternoon my grandad told me with annoyed surprise that he has been informed he will no longer be allowed to use his walker. I nod and raise my eyebrows as if the thought had never occurred to me.

And...he told me, it took four blokes and a woman to wash me today. So...how they expect me to do it, I don't know.

Hmmm, I nod.

They couldn't take my blood, he tells me, so I told them what to do and now it's good.

That's good, I say.

He grimaces and I wipe his face free of some orange liquid and then clean out his nose, by request.

Is that good? I ask.

That's good, he grunts. Now what I really want is for somone to cut my hair. With the clippers, so that I don't have to bother combing it.

There are no black and whites in this dying malarky are there? I remember with mum it changed hour by hour, good news, bad news, good news, fucked news.

He's not in pain so that's good and the tube is out of his nose and now he will be able to eat slowly and that's good too. But then, he's got bedsores and that's bad, and the boss from his retirement lodge is coming to see him this afternoon and tell him what happens next. And that's going to be bad because it will be the nursing home. But then that's only if he makes it out of hospital and no one can tell us how long he has to stay before then. They don't think his body has what it takes to properly heal after the operation and so that's bad isn't it? Isn't it?

What is good? What is bad? What is hope? What is best?

He is talking and complaining and shouting and being "feisty".

His nose is clean.

His hair needs cutting.

He made the intern smile and there is no more chopping and so, for now, he's happy and that's enough.

Last legs

2008-11-11T12:11:00.001+11:00

Poor old man. These are the words that flash into my mind when I walk into the ward this afternoon.

Poor old one legged grandad, draped in his crisp white sheets, mouth open, tongue cracked and dry. Up his left nostril is a tube that will provide all nutrition from now on, above his bed is a new green sign announcing NBM.

Within the tube I see greenish liquid floating in and out his body like the tide.

Morphine is his friend. Morphine could be a much better friend but we discover this evening that “his family” and indeed himself have said they would like “full active care” meaning that he will have to endure a considerable amount of pain as various obstacles and setbacks present themselves.

My sisters and I flutter like angry sparrows. Who was the “family” who said they wanted full active care? It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It must have been dad and grandad, that first night when the doctor said his leg should be amputated.

But we realize that the only person who would know what that actually means, minimum pain killers, intrusive procedures in response to the litany of organ failings, would be youngest sister K, the nurse.

Grandad’s eyes flutter open and shut. The whites are still yellowish but the centres are clear pale blue.

Last night I dreamt that I was trapped in a room and my big toes were bitten off and I tried to run through a shopping centre with blood splashing underfoot.

He said he wanted to be alive for his birthday which is in a few days. I don’t think he will be. Or maybe he will but he will wish he wasn’t.

My dad is six hours away. He is driving back to Newcastle as I type.

I ask them to correct the name on the whiteboard above his bed. They have James written there, they call him James and indeed James is his official name.

But the name he prefers is Pat. And finally I ask them to correct the name and they do.

“Pat” It is like a suggested action for comfort.

There are three other patients in the room and I realize this afternoon that they are all amputees. Except for one man who sits, fully dressed, on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chin. I think he is saying goodbye to his legs. Nobody else in the room seems to get visitors but one lady is surrounded with loads of flowers.

They are talking about ventilators. Pat’s chest is wheezy. But if he has a ventilator that will be curtains. Curtains with a ventilator.

I stand and stroke my grandad’s hair just like I stroke my toddler’s hair when I am trying to get him to sleep, just like my mother used to stroke my hair when I was a little girl, just like I stroked her hair when she was dying.

Yesterday when my sister T left the hospital after seeing him, her last look at two legged granddad, a man walking on the footpath in front of her collapsed and died. He was talking on the mobile phone and he dropped like a stone and my sister grabbed at him and shouted DUDE DUDE WAKE UP. I think this was the surfer in her talking and then the Chinese medicine masters student with a recent first aid certificate took over and she thumped away at his chest while another woman did mouth to mouth until one of the passing ambos came and took over. It was full on, she said as I gaped at her story. But in some ways it helped me to take my mind off things.

He has said that he doesn’t believe in any sort of life after death, does not believe he will be reunited with my dead grandma, does not even think his essence will be dispersed Harry Bliss style and he will float up and up, spreading thinner and wider, until he is absorbed by the trees around him. This is a shame because just outside his window is a veritable forest of beautiful tall roughbarked eucalypts and anyone of these would make a pleasant receptacle for one’s soul.

This evening it is made clear to me that my granddad will die.

The doctor tells me that she doesn’t think he will leave the hospital. She tells me that she told him the same thing when he was deciding whether to have the operation or not. He could succumb to the infection and just be kept comfortable on painkillers or have the operation to remove the source of infection. At the time I thought, well what would I choose, of course I would choose a shot at life, one legged though it may be. But now I learn that he will die anyway. He was always going to die anyway, there are too many things wrong with him. And so why did he have to have his leg cut off my sisters and I ask each other tearfully. He is in such terrible pain, why can’t he just be comfortable?

Because he made a choice, our youngest sister, K says. And we have to respect that. As a family we can override his choice but we have to understand that it’s what we will be doing.

But he didn’t realize…

But he thought it would do him some good…

But he’s in so much pain….

But it is his choice.

Then just as we think maybe he will drift off in a hazy sea of friendly morphine K tells us that if he does, they will administer Narcan to revive him and that will negate every trace of opiate in his system and so he will be hit with the full force of his post op pain and it will be like being hit by a bus. Worst case scenario, she adds hastily as T starts to sob and say we have to ring the hospital and tell them he has to be comfortable, we want him to be comfortable…this is just inhumane.

But his choice…

And so now we wait for our father, now three hours away, and we see how Pat is tomorrow. And as a family try and make a decision for a poor old man, a poor old grumpy man, rude and cantankerous, stubborn and abrasive. But loved.

Yellow

2008-11-09T08:29:00.004+11:00

Grumpy grandad has turned yellow.

I have mixed feelings about yellow. It can be sunny and jolly and once I had a study painted yellow because I felt it was very condusive to creative writing but in clothes, for instance, it's a big no no (me being a winter and all) and in my grandad's skin it's all wrong.

But then it is all wrong, all this, getting to this point.

It was diabetes in the beginning but now it's Body Packed it In Disease which includes dodgy bladder, numb legs, dicky heart, several falls and (perhaps) a half tumbler of whiskey a night to get to sleep.

As well as being yellow (not exactly sure but I think medical term is "his liver=fucked") it seems that he will also need to have his leg amputated up to the knee. That would be that creeping infection in the bone.

They do that to you every time, those creeping infections. Start off as an ulcer, hidden in a pair of bedroom slippers, casually whistling, don't mind me I'm just going to loiter around and...fester.

Give them two toes and they take a limb.

Two weeks ago my grandad was already feeling that life deserved the big finger after day after day of botched and buggered up catheter business. The old feller was getting more action than it had ever seen in his tours of duty, except of course having a catheter inserted and reinserted and readjusted and repeat is very fucking painful.

At the hospital I looked at my grandad, helpless and yellow in his hospital bed minus his clothes, and teeth and glasses. And two toes. He is scared. If he survives the operation he will be in great pain and the lodge where he has a little roomette of his own will move him into the high care facility, the nursing home.

"You only come out of there in a chute," he told us once.

He is a big heavy man my grandad. He won't be able to walk and he won't be able to put himself into a wheelchair so there will be hoisting required and cunning bits of machinery...but the staff will be busy, said my youngest sister K, a nurse herself, and so they will end up leaving him in bed.

I stroke his hair, picking little pieces of flaky scalp off as I do and letting them flutter over the side of the hospital bed.

I rub his arm and note how his tattoo, the one he got after D-Day and the Liberation of Paris, is stained with blood.

My stepmother has been given a book on death and dying and I looked at it before I went into visit Grandis. It is a very good book (and when I get back to Newcastle I will note the name) with some very good things to think about. I took some photographs with me to the hospital, of the family, of my long dead grandmother, of my younger smartly dressed grandfather.

Yesterday we came back to Sydney to pick up Byron Bay sister T who has flown in to see him too. Later today she and I and Tricky will drive back to Newcastle while C drives for 6 hours to Country Town where he is working on an exhibition. Life continues.

As does death.

He won't be able to recognise these photographs, I thought. His eyes have been bad for a while and he's not wearing glasses, he won't be able to see a thing, but I was wrong.

That's Alma Louise, he pointed out. My wife. And there's old Pickles! Our dog! Now she was a ...um...boxer, that's it. And there's the girls when they were little. And there's us in Penang when we went to visit them...there we are sitting outside the Snake Temple...

Funny old photographs, faces long changed or gone, full of stories and memories of the past.

The colours had changed, I noticed, but they do that, old photographs. Too much time or maybe a reaction to the plastic sheets in the old photo album. And I saw how those long ago people, the woman in the hat and the smartly dressed man wearing glasses posing happily by a stone temple wall seem bathed in a sickly yellow light.

hope

2008-11-06T11:32:00.003+11:00

A few years ago I tried to write a one-woman show for a well known Australian tv and film actress. I had done some work with her on another project and she was someone I knew to have integrity and compassion. I liked her work and I liked her personality.

She was one of the people I thought of yesterday, at 3pm, as I hurried to pick up the Naughty Nephews and the Toddler Tyrant, with the radio up loud, listening to the announcement of the new President of the United States of America.

I was late because I had been watching the webcasts as well as making zuchini muffins and I was of course sleep deprived - the night before being officially the worst Night Of Living Hell ever (Toddler screaming starts at 3am, Parents' screaming starts at 4.30 am. All fall into exhausted sleep at 5am).

We had talked a little about the sort of play it could be, this actress and I, and she told me that when she looked at new scripts she looked for stories of hope.

There is too much darkness in this world, she told me. Too much anger, too much hate.

I can't be part of something that simply adds to the despair. For my children if not for me.

There has to be light.

Yesterday, I felt like the whole world was reading the same script and hoping for the same light.

For our children if not for us.

don't stop now

2008-11-04T16:27:00.003+11:00

God it's hard... doing this... trying to write...with half a brain...

I was talking to Screenwriting Mummy as we lolled over cups of tea and our various offspring/spawn of Satan/toddlers were raising tiny person hell nearby.

She nodded slightly, too knackered to actually expend energy on words.

We were trying to talk about the work we had been doing on a television series - both of us having written an episode- and this was a chance to catch up but also to debrief some of the process. Instead we slumped about, talked in half sentences, ate junkfood and yawned a lot.

Tricky, now seemingly entrenched in his big boy bed, is playing his parents for the mollycoddling amateurs they are. When, in some desperation, I turned to Christopher Green's excellent study in the area; "Toddler Taming", I discovered that C and I are textbook suckers for toddler related sleep deprivation mainly due to our willingness to fetch water, replace doona and spend hours stroking his back on demand. As well, we have let him sleep in our bed although in the wee hours I will generally struggle to carry him back.

Another playwrighting friend told me recently that her daughter still sleeps in the parental bed - at the age of five and a half. It was an improvement as far as my friend was concerned. Previously her daughter would cry loudly in the middle of the night until carried into her parents' bed, now she gets up and climbs into their bed herself.

And quite soon, I thought, she'll also be able to get herself up and pop over to the bakery for morning croissants.

The edit section on this blog is littered with the corpses of dead posts I half wrote before the mushbrain hit.

In the same way my Leunig wall calendar is crossed with never-made deadlines and opportunities lost because I've been too tired or fuzzy headed to knock up a proposal.

Which made this news so entirely miraculous:

Congratulations on your successful application to the New Work - Developing Writers grant category of the Literature Board of the Australia Council for the Arts. Please find attached your letter of notification and the contract for your grant...

This is a grant for me to write a second book, next year, which I am calling as a 'working title' (except I really like it): The Unreliable Observer's Guide To Pond Life.

And am I happy?

I tell you, I'd be jumping up and down like a mad thing, in celebration, except that I'm too frigging tired.

Revisiting

2008-10-28T14:04:00.005+11:00

Last weekend we returned to the Parental Home to have our last few days of fun with my sister AJ and the Nephews/Niece. My sister and her family live in a small, picturesque corner of New Zealand; a country seemingly made of nothing but small picturesque corners and the occasional large flightless bird. They were due to return this week and while I had detected a certain weariness amongst my parents, I could also see that they would be sorely missed.

AJ, being the mother of an 8 yr old boy, a 6 yr old girl and a 4 yr old gorilla, seems perpetually tired but in a sort of gentle, gracious Earth Mother-ish sort of way. Whereas I, mother of a screaming tomato aged 2 and three months, am also perpetually tired, but in a thrashing, writhing Earth Worm-ish sort of way.

On Saturday night AJ, our surfy naturopath sister T, our stepmum D and my husband C went off to one of the local pubs to watch a rather grumpy Australian singer play her 90's hits. Meanwhile, my dad and I fed the all kids, bathed them and put them to bed.

With Tricky's new jack-in-the-box style of sleeping and the NZ cousins' own sleep related pecadillos, it meant some clever tactics for the grownups.

For me it meant attempting to be more calm, more zen about the whole sleep battle thing. One of my friends has a pre-schooler and she described the crucial period when she would lie next to her toddler, patting her back, until she fell asleep. It took about twenty minutes and this particular stage lasted for six months.

"Six Months!" I had exclaimed in horror.

"It's ok," she reassured me. "Once I accepted that there was nothing else I could do I just lay there and came up with script ideas. I wrote two animation scripts in my head during that six months."

So as I lay next to Tricky on the Big Bed and stroked his back (more doking Mummy) I tried to ponder script ideas and exciting new plays. Instead, all I could think about was the frightening news my producer had shared with me last week when she told me they were making a 'behind the scenes' thing to go with the television series and the writers would be filmed talking about their episodes and also their 'process'.

What could I say about my episode, I wondered. What could I say about my process? And most important of all, what should I wear?

Give or take a few false sleeping alarms (Tricky can be practically snoring but has his eyes wide open and ears alert for any sound of escaping parent. Mummy! More Doking!) I was out of the bedroom by 8.30.

My dad, I noted, had set up a chair between the bedrooms of the NZ nephews/niece and was sitting there, keeping guard and growling if anyone dared to sit up. Which was not dissimilar to the technique he used on my sisters and I when we were kids.

The NZ kids aren't naughty per se, but like most kids they are...well... intense in small spaces.

Also quite adventurous and selectively deaf.

These two things combined can be fairly gutwrenching for a gentle soul like AJ. My sister took her kids on an outing to the Sydney Aquarium. After a good hour or so of examining the sharks and octopi and multitude of brightly coloured reef fish, their little group emerged blinking in the sunlight and stood for a few minutes by the edge of the wharf. When AJ stopped blinking she found that her youngest, the gorilla, was missing.

After calling his name in more and more desparate tones she decided he must have fallen over the edge of the wharf and into the harbour. As she flung her bag onto the ground and prepared to leap into the water she heard an answering call - naughty gorilla child had wandered back into the aquarium and couldn't understand what all the fuss was about.

At which point AJ felt her knees buckle as she fell to the ground and howled.

This was probably the lowlight of her holiday, there were a few sleepless nights and shouty mornings, one rather badly hungover day which she couldn't really blame on the kids, but give or take some conflicts over eat your dinner! brush your teeth! and stay in bed! I think they all had a great time.

This was perhaps measured best by the intense reaction that occurred on Tuesday when, AJ enjoying her penultimate day in Australia with a relaxing hair treatment and a final jolly catch up with our younger sisters (and newest Tiny Niece) before her return to NZ on Wednesday, discovered rather late in the morning that she had in fact got her dates arse about. She had drifted onto T's computer to check her bank balance and called out in a perplexed tone: why does your computer say today is the 28th? Answer of course being: because it is.

It seemed that in fact, Tuesday, ie the 28th, was the day she was meant to vacate the country.

Not Wednesday.

Cue a lot of frantic and hysterical packing of two and a half weeks of collected holiday shite into three too-small suitcases. Also some handwringing over failure to properly farewell Aphwa, visit Grandad etc. Also, just sort of random non-copeyness. My dad described her as looking like a rabbit in the headlights as she stood in the middle of the bedroom staring, helpless, at first one suitcase and then another while T and K packed like demons around her.

I was in Sydney at this point but discovered the situation when I rang to find out how Grumpy Grandad was faring - another post - and then, while dad drove AJ and the kids two and a half hours to Sydney Airport I got online to try and check them in (only for domestic flights) and failing that, try to find the right number to call someone and explain the problem (you want to speak to a human, are you joking?).

The plan was for C to drop me at the airport so I could be there to help wrangle the kids (and my sister) to the check in counter and help keep them together until they could be shepherded onto their flight. This worked reasonably well, although there was one horrid moment when I tried to find my 8 year old nephew who had suddenly gone AWOL and I stood in the middle of the airport searching for a glimpse of curly black hair and thin running legs and thought:

Maybe one really is enough.

But then he was found (I told you I was going to the toilet! I did!) and all was forgiven and Crispy Cremes were selected and packed into handluggage (you can only eat these when you are sitting in your seats on the plane, with your seatbelts on!) and then my sister was in floods of tears again and mumbling about her wonderful family and how she must be insane...

And then they were gone.

Later that night as I sat by my toddler, doking his back, and trying to think of script ideas, I thought about how close my sisters and I have become as we have gotten older, how much we like each other as adult women.

And I remembered how, when I first caught sight of her oldest son, dripping wet from the pool, face split with a huge grin as he ran up to say hello, I nearly laughed out loud because his face was AJ's face but her face as a child - a face I hadn't seen for more than thirty years. It was like being in a time machine and being taken back to Penang and Werribee and Carlingford and all the little corners of our childhood.

A new stage worth toasting... nightly.

2008-10-21T21:15:00.004+11:00

Today I picked up Tricky's little friend, Midget Vampire Boy, from daycare along with Tricky and they had a nice play together at home with Naughty Nephew the 3rd on our new trampoline. Tricky calls it 'dumping' and I find it hard to contradict him because it makes me laugh when he asks if he can dump on the tam-peen.

I say 'new' because we bought it last Christmas, or at least Santa did, but after having four boys dump up and down and wrestle and fling themselves from mesh wall to mesh wall, the trampoline is looking a little on the sad and saggy side.

Not unlike me.

When Midget Vampire's mother turned up, the very beautiful and talented Opera Singing Mummy, she looked at me with concern and said I looked drab and weary and a small vertical frown had developed across my forehead. OSM can say these sorts of things because we have been friends since first year drama at Newcastle University, when she was a buxom virgin in wholesome gingham and I was still learning to draw my eyeliner on straight.

Anyway my point is that the two of us sat down and watched the toddlers at play and OSM saw how Tricky soon tired of innocent dumping and instead took to wicked flinging all the wooden train tracks off the table and onto the floor, all the while with an evil little smile playing across his lips.

And then I explained about the hellish no-sleep nights we'd been having and she nodded. Midget Vampire Boy has just turned 3 and indeed has been responsible for many a hellish night himself. So she knew and was sympathetic.

She leaned across and patted my arm.

"Tricky's just going through a stage but I'm concerned..." she said and her voice was warm and caring, "that you won't have anywhere near enough alcohol in this house."

Interestingly I had thought the very same thing - not that there wasn't enough alcohol because I knew there certainly was - but that as the mother of a toddler it would be so easy to become a complete lush.

And then tonight, I put Tricky into his bed, and led him back twice and stroked his back and sat on the floor beside him and tried to be calm and not think about a glass of wine and by 8.30 he was asleep.

By coincidence (and not because of OSM's observation) I am having my First Ever Facial tomorrow. I am taking my other friend from uni, Screen Writing Mummy, for her birthday treat. She rang me tonight and we discussed plans and lunch and clothing to be worn.

And my big tip, said Screen Writing Mummy, re the facial, is this: Don't Fall Asleep.

And I swear I'll try not to, because obviously one wants to experience one's full money's worth and also one doesn't want to do that embarrasing snorty snore thing where you just catch yourself dropping off, but lordy if I'm horizontal and even just vaguely comfortable without a toddler screaming in my ear for water, I don't really hold out much hope.

Night Terror

2008-10-20T21:31:00.003+11:00

We are just back from visiting the family in Newcastle and potentially the most appalling nights' sleep ever.

Not just us, the motherperson and the fatherperson, but also grandparents, two aunties and three little New Zealand cousins. And not just the one night, but three, although to give Tricky his due he made sure that the nights got progressively worse.

Last week, after a couple of harrowing nights where Tricky had managed to throw himself out of the cot several times in an hour, C rolled up his sleeves and transformed the cot into a Big Boy Bed.

Cue much delighted shrieking from Small Brown Toddler and insisting that it was bedtime at 3 in the afternoon.

Mine Big Boy Bed! Mine have seeping! Mine seeping now! Doodnight!
On that first night he curled up in his big boy bed with a grin. C and I put an arm around each other's waist and simpered at each other. So adorable. So sweet.

Too easy.

He must have been chortling into his gingham doona cover.

One night and one night only of uninterrupted sleep. The next and the next and the next saw Tricky imitating a jack-in-the-box and us re-enacting a scene from Groundhog Day, probably one that hit the cutting room floor.

We had been advised that the best thing to do was to take him by the hand and firmly lead him back to bed without speaking or making eye-contact.

This worked well the first time. I led him back to bed and he obediently climbed back in. I did the same thing about 4 minutes later. Then C did it a couple of times. We were both aware that we were trying to instill good sleeping habits in our child, essential healthgiving skills that would ensure the wellbeing of all, and also we were gagging to watch the next episode of The Wire (series 2) in bed (with headphones).

C and I were quite calm and grownup about the leading back, taking it in turns, tipping each other off as we spotted him approaching our computers, muttering out of the side of our mouths like a couple of bad ventriloquists.

Ooh, here he comes, I can see him in the window.
Is he looking at us?
Yup.
Who's he heading for?
You.
Ok, both ignore him and then when he gets close enough I'll grab his hand and take him back.

But Tricky seemed to think that the silent treatment wasn't really working and on about the fourth or fifth curtain call he decided we needed a good prompt.

Come on, Mummy, he said, as he grabbed my hand and led me back to the bedroom.
Time for bed. Tricky's big boy bed. Seepy time. Det into bed. Shhhhh!

There was no Wire that night. Instead, C and I, finally, beaten, turned off the lights and got into bed only to hear the ominous patter of little feet, followed quickly by the rabid scrabbling of little paws.

And yes I got out of bed and led him back to his Big Boy Bed. And again and again. But at some point in the night, half asleep, I got confused and put him into our bed and so The Toddler won, at least until about four in the morning when I awoke to find his feet jammed into my stomach and I picked him up and carried him back to where he belonged.

Which leads us to our little holiday in Newcastle to meet lovely little cousins/nephews/niece and to see Aunty AJ again and Aunty K and newest Tiny Niece and, bonus: Aunty T down from Byron Bay. Aphwa and Poppy's house was full and so Tricky had to sleep in his travel cot in the same room with us and so the nightmare began again. Except this time, although he could climb out of the travel cot he couldn't get back in and it was hot and the walls were thin...

Yerk.

Last night, the worst of all, Tricky woke (in travel cot) suddenly, at 11pm, and started screaming about...oh look who knows. There was something about Mummy and Big Bed and quite a lot of Water and I think there was something about the Global Financial Crisis...but really, when you are wrenched from your sleep by a howling monster of a toddler who arches and kicks in your arms and then tries to hit you across the face and then when given a sippy cup of water throws it on the floor because you haven't held it to his lips as he expressly told you listen when I am screaming, how many times do I have to tell you my hands do not touch the loathsome sippy cup and then finally when you do hold it to his lips he bites down and uses his teeth to rip the lid off ensuring he and you will be doused in water and now he really will scream because I am wet dammit, change my trousers this instant!

I am sort of laughing about it now but in that moment, knowing that everyone, adults and kids alike had also been rudely woken and were lying there, wondering what the hell was happening, and water dripped through my pyjamas and my child howled and bucked and kicked and slapped, I felt like some evil fairy had slipped through the window and replaced my darling little bubba boy with some horrendous mythical monster.

I shouted at C through gritted, I Have Had Enough, teeth and he leapt up and grabbed Tricky and dragged him out into the loungeroom where I would find them ten minutes later curled together on the sofa, Tricky's eyes large and dark as he silently drank cup after cup of water.

But before then, I got up and turned on the light to get a towel and dry myself and the bed off, and I saw my angry face in the mirror and my ugly clenched-jaw scowl, and who, I wondered, was the real monster now?

Having Your Cake And Eating It (also the icing and sprinkles)

2008-10-14T12:06:00.004+11:00

This attractively garish and slightly fuzzy array of anti-oxident rich cupcakes was the product of a few hours of quality time between Tricky and myself.

Yes they came from a packet.

They were (gasp) sans buttermilk. That's despite my previous cupcake making experience.

Nigella would be turning in her rose petal infused milk bath.

No I don't know if Nigella has a rose infused milk bath. I do know that she's not lactose-intolerant so she may indeed enjoy le douche de la vache-juice .

(Please feel free to correct. I have decided to continue to apprendre le francais via blog comments only.)

Like Nigella to milkbaths, so too Tricky to this nutritious blue icing.

Especially on the big spoon.

No I didn't eat any cupcakes. The very sight of them disgusted me.

Yes they were eaten by a selection of children.

Yes those children are all related to me in one way or another.

While Tricky is enjoying the remainder of his health-giving green sprinkles (strange that he won't eat his broccoli with such enthusiasm), I shall just add that the title of this post was originally going to be:

Contracting Yet Another Flu Virus And Hacking Tiny Droplets Of Phlegm over Your Toddler Ensuring He Bears Your Infection, Spikes A Fever, And Has A Meltdown Just As You Walk In The Door At Daycare.

But, it didn't really have much of a ring.

Plus... no photos.

Scenes from my life...

2008-10-06T20:42:00.003+11:00

Last week exploded like an egg in a microwave.

It started when I got The Phonecall from my producer-bosses asking me for the new draft of my episode within a matter of hours.

This was followed by another meeting with notes for rewriting over the next 48 hours.

Day then followed night in the strange floating world that is Rewriting Scenes Very Fucking Fast. It was uncomfortable and I consumed way too much coffee and chocolate but in a strange perverted way, I enjoyed it.

'You were in The Zone' one of my fellow writers observed, and yay verrily I was there, I did the tour and I bought the postcards.

I didn't even get the Second Phonecall, it went straight to messagebank but the gist was: my baby sister K (aged 29) had gone into labour 4 weeks early.

The baby was breech, she went to have accupuncture on Monday afternoon to try and turn the baby and within a couple of hours she had a foot in her birthcanal and a nightmare car ride to the hospital ending with an emergency c-section and...a divinely beautiful little tiny girl.

Cue Tricky and I dashing to Newcastle as soon as I had submitted my script, seeing Tiny Niece, blubbering over baby sister K and her husband for good measure and all the other things one does when a new baby comes into the world.

Our sister AJ is coming from New Zealand on Monday to stay for two and a half weeks. She is bringing lots of sensible sleep advice and her three kids meaning Tricky will be well and truly clubbed with the Cousin Stick...he will have met four in a fortnight.

In between the arranging and the phonecalls, the photos and the release drafts, the show and the baby, I find myself musing over how unpredictable life can be, my life for instance, and how that's not such a bad thing at all, although can be difficult if one wants to schedule a legwax say or an apppointment with the dentist - which may explain why I've never done the first and the second was two years ago .

As I held Tiny Niece and marvelled at her tiny ears and imagined nibbling off her tiny fingers (oh come on, don't say the thought has never crossed your mind) my sister K said to me...'do you feel like doing IVF again?'

'Of course I do,' I said, 'of course I do.'

And of course I don't, the last thing I feel like doing at the moment, in this crazy all-at-once dreamworld is pinch an inch and date the dildocam (and if I can't schedule my dentist how will I schedule Dr Lovely Accent) but I do, yes, feel like holding another tiny dancing baby that I call mine, and of course that sad soft yearning will never really go away.

Return to the scene of the crime...

2008-09-29T08:35:00.000+10:00

No lasting trauma it seems.

waterbaby

2008-09-24T14:34:00.011+10:00

Tricky is a water baby, born in July, Cancer, like the motherperson, much to her concern. (Oh dear, that means two over sensitive, moody as all get out, easily enraged, fiercely loyal, grudge bearing, easily spooked, crab people in the family. )

Thank God that C the fatherperson is a jolly Sag.

Tricky has not yet learned to fear water but that may come. His mother has nearly drowned twice thank you very much, Penang and Phuket, and every year when she joins her extended family at the beach be it Fremantle or Bronte, Newcastle or Byron Bay, she stays just that bit closer to the shore.

The water laps pleasantly at her knees and the fatherperson tries to entice her further in and when enticing doesn’t work, attempts violent abduction, but she is very good at the stern voice and the prune mouth and so he laughs and lets her go and stands on his head and waves his feet at her.

And now the fatherperson has a smiling toddler to ferry through the waves and carry on his back.

It is not quite swimming time here, the water is icy but already there has been fish and chips on the beach with the Naughty Nephews and sandcastle making at the beach and digging of personal puddles with new plastic spade and fork.

On the weekend there was a trip to Newcastle and that led to an excursion to the wetlands which was almost educational and may well have been if Tricky could read, say, or pronounce ‘catchment area’ or ‘biodiversity’. But instead it was all about walking with Aphwa and Poppy, the east coast grandparents, (as opposed to Gramma and Papa on the west) and a certain amount of dip netting aka “bishing”.

Despite many an effort with the dip net, the bishing was unsuccessful, in that no bish was actually caught although shoals of the things could be spotted weaving and darting through the swampy waters.

I didn’t bother taking pictures of the menfolk and their earnest, bloody-minded attempts to catch a fish for Tricky, I simply laughed.

The point with the dip net was really just to dip and empty into a basin to see if there was anything in the net such as weed, water beetles, leeches or damselfly nymphs.

The basin started embarrassingly with a bit of bark but as the day wore on a succession of sucking, wriggling, biting insect larvae were caught, examined, prodded and returned.

Back at Poppy and Aphwa’s house, the swimming pool (fenced yes, poster demonstrating CPR, yes) is also a great attraction, what with Poppy’s regular skimming (which is really just an oversized dipnet) and Jimmy the dog leaping in and dogpaddling from side to side.

And Tricky found a small broom and did some serious dipping and skimming with that. And it was good. Which is why, early on the morning before we left, with the fatherperson half asleep, and an extremely alert and cheerful toddler quite determined to dip the other side of the pool, there was a sudden splash and a roar and a very very loud and long cry for Mummy.

I did not see him fall and for that I’m quite grateful but I held his frightened trembling body and kissed his salty wet face and also the pale cold face of his father.

And that night, snuggled up together, C woke suddenly with a start and a gasp and the image seared into his head of his baby blithely stepping over the edge and sinking and rising to the surface and starting to sink again as C reached him and pulled him out.