Harriet's Treat

and we say 'I know'

2011-12-14T20:54:00.001+11:00

The girls have finished school for the year, an amazing year and Freya's last in kindergarten. I still marvel at how far she has come in the past two years, and when I read words like these I am reminded and I am grateful:

The sun has climbed the hill, the day is on the downward slope.
Between the morning and the afternoon, stand I here with my soul, and lift it up.
My soul is heavy with sunshine, and steeped with strength.
The sunbeams have filled me like a honeycomb,
It is the moment of fulness,
And the top of the morning.

D.H. Lawrence
The Mid-Day Verse

And though we haven't seen much sun of late, this one reminds me of a certain almost-two-year-old:

Under the new-made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways.

Dylan Thomas
Fern Hill

i don't want this feeling to go away

2011-11-08T22:34:00.000+11:00

So, there was a meeting on Monday morning that I was to attend. It was not a business meeting, nobody had an agenda and nobody was wearing shoulder pads (that I know of). Its label is mothers meeting but it's actually much, much more and in a funny way much less than that.
But anyway, I found out first thing Monday that the meeting was to be at Merewether Beach. The main points of the 15,000 points that flashed through my mind in the next 30 seconds were: Rosa will run amok; I won't be able to actually sit down and ''attend'' the meeting; I need this meeting; I am a bad mother for not taking my toddler to the beach; I need this meeting. The result was, after about 10 minutes of just letting my brain run with it, I went alone to the beach and Rosa stayed with her loving father, completely oblivious of my whereabouts and the fun she was missing out on.
As I turned the corner and saw the still blue ocean I think I actually said "Oh, my" out loud. When I got out of the car and felt the warm, warm air I just knew that everything was perfect. It was all I could do to take the steps one at a time down to the sand, and as I walked into the waves there were hundreds of big, smooth rocks and shells at the soles of my feet that took me back more than 30 years to another beach and another lifetime. I dived in and the cold, clear water took my breath and forced me to the surface, gasping and just so happy to be alive and in the sea. I let the waves roll under me, then wash over me, until my feet lost contact with the sand and an age-old panic at the power of the ocean started to creep in. I washed off the salt and walked to the meeting venue - a picnic bench in the pavilion - and sat down to enjoy the magnificent day, the incredible view and the completely fantastic feeling that comes from sometimes just taking a breath. And having your breath taken away. I wish I could start every day like this.

a moment with Van the man and Mr Heinz

2011-06-20T22:01:00.000+10:00

Let me start by saying there are few ills in this world that cannot be soothed by a bowl of Big Red tomato soup. And so it came to pass, some days ago now, that after a week in which all five members of the family had been struck low (thankfully not at the same time) with a heinous gastro bug, I sat down to breathe a great sigh of relief and warm my cockles with a little Big Red. Sorely needed to say the least.

At the same time, my dear husband was browsing through YouTube looking for suitably ancient songs and videos to entertain and educate the two eldest of our children. He asked me what I felt like listening to, and since I was in a wound-licking, contemplative kind of mood I naturally answered “Into the Mystic”. Because it is one of my absolute favourite songs ever, and I marvel at how beautiful it is every time I hear it. This led to another question from my dear husband, namely to which Van Morrison song did we dance our first dance as husband and wife. And the answer: These Are The Days.

I’m not sure if I had heard the song in the ten years since our wedding day. It certainly didn’t feel like it, as I sat crying silently into my Big Red, overwhelmed by everything that had changed in our lives in the past ten years, and by the one extraordinary, unfaltering thing at the heart of it all that is still exactly the same.

almost one

2010-12-26T22:33:00.002+11:00

It has been quite a year. One in which this blog has not necessarily been a high priority, but one in which I have learned that in order to hold onto the things that matter, sometimes you have to let go of many things that don't. It has been my happiest year ever, I can say that with absolute certainty, and for that I am so grateful. I can't believe it has been almost one year since Rosa arrived and changed all of our lives so deeply, none more than mine. This little poem might have been written especially for her, but then it applies equally to all children, and all the sweet girls sleeping tonight under our roof.

Little One
Bless this little heart, this white soul that has won the kiss of heaven for our earth.
She loves the light of the sun, she loves the sight of her mother's face.
She has not learned to despise the dust, nor to hanker after gold.
Clasp her to your heart and bless her.
She has come into this land of one hundred crossroads; I know not how she chose you from the crowd, how she came to your door, and grasped your hand to ask you the way.
She will follow you, laughing and talking and not a doubt in her heart.
Keep her trust, lead her straight and bless her.
Lay your hand on her head, and pray that, though the waves underneath grow threatening, yet the breath from above may come and fill her sails and waft her to the haven of peace.
Forget her not in your hurry, let her come to your heart, and bless her.

Rabindranath Tagore

take the weather with you

2010-11-04T20:46:00.000+11:00

I recently heard the English actor Stephen Fry speak about mental illness, which as a sufferer of bipolar disorder he knows a bit about. He said that a person's mental state should be seen as their own personal weather. It was a mistake, he said, to see that it was raining and think that could be changed. It should just be accepted - it is raining therefore it will continue to rain until it stops. Raining. But it was equally futile, he said, to think that it would continue to rain for all eternity and that life was no longer worth living because the rain would never end.
I always thought Fry was talented, and sometimes funny. I had no idea he was so compellingly wise.

you have to read between the lines

2010-10-25T22:04:00.001+11:00

There was once a young girl who discovered that she liked to make bread. She made it whenever she could and it was always very good bread so that made her happy. When the young girl grew into a young woman and she had to find a job, she naturally looked in a bakery and was hired the very same day. The big bread-making benches and mixers and ovens were very exciting for someone who had only ever baked at home in her own small kitchen, but after many months of working every day in the big bakery for somebody else the woman began to lose her passion for making bread. She saw the unnecessary ingredients that her employer made all his bakers put into the dough to help it rise better and look whiter and stay fresher for many more days than it normally would. She felt bad about feeding this kind of fake bread to the people who came to the bakery. It started to make her sick. She planned to save all the money she earned from working at the bakery and use it to leave the town and travel to another country where she might find something else she liked doing. She eventually saved enough to leave the bakery and she tried other jobs, but there was nothing in her life that she loved doing as much as she loved making bread. More than a year passed and she returned to her home town, which she loved, and was offered a job at the same bakery she had left. She thought maybe it would be different but she was wrong. The fake bread made her sad and she lost her joy. Then she met a man who she loved even more than making bread, and they were married and her joy returned and multiplied though it had nothing to do with bread. She and the man became a family, then a larger family, and she spent more and more time away from her job at the bakery. She went days, sometimes weeks, without giving the bakery a second thought, but dreamed almost daily of making her own special heartfelt bread to feed her family. As her youngest child grew, the woman faced returning to the job at the bakery that weighed so heavily on her heart. She knew that her wages would help her family, and that it would feel good to work the dough with her hands and feel the heat from the bakery ovens. But in her heart she knew that it was not the same as the making of real bread.

in which i see the light

2010-08-24T11:57:00.003+10:00

In summer the Robinia tree in the corner of our garden is showered in leaves of an astonishing green, radiating light and life. Through winter it has been a mass of sticks and thorns but I have still thought it beautiful, maybe because I know what is to come in just a few months.

I think this tiny glimpse of green is what nature likes to call The Light at the End of the Tunnel.

raindrops on ... nasturtiums

2010-08-10T14:25:00.001+10:00

Mother Nature was having a particularly fabulous day when she came up with nasturtiums, you'd have to say. They smell sweet, they're a work of art, you can even put them in salad - and they never even seem to try. Not needy and showy like roses, which are beautiful too but in a trumped-up kind of way. Nasturtiums are more like a little brown girl in a yellow sundress and bare feet.
So I hope someone patted Mother Nature on the back after her nasturtium moment, although she doesn't strike me as somebody who'd need anyone else's validation for a job well done. She's more of a: 'Here is my work. Admire it as you see fit. Ultimately I do not require your attention or praise - you need it more than I do.'
A few days ago I was kind of craving a nasturtium day, because it seemed that not much was going right. But then just yesterday I was down on all fours above Rosa and I leaned right in and gave her a big noisy kiss on the cheek and she just gazed into my eyes, six inches away, and smiled at me. Nasturtium moment.

doe: a deer, a female deer

2010-07-13T12:59:00.000+10:00

I had to have this lovely deer when I saw it in a retro furniture shop out in the backwoods one recent weekend. When I say backwoods, I'm referring to a town that has a distinct Twin Peaks atmosphere about it, being set at the foothills of a mountain. At this time of year there's always a bracing chill in the air, although I'm never sure if it's from the frosty atmospheric conditions or the dead bodies in the back streets.
The nice lady in the retro furniture shop restores and sells beautiful furniture from the 1950s and 60s, which looks about as foreign in the backwoods as a small spaceship - possibly a time machine. She told me this deer was missing some antlers, although I prefer to think of her as a mother deer anyway, since she's so lovely and placid and graceful. Or maybe it's school holidays in the woodland glade and she's climbed this mountain of boulders, at great risk to her own personal safety, in order to get FIVE MINUTES PEACE. That expression on her face is deer for: Do not even think about following me up this mountain. The girls think the mountain looks like a pile of poo. You say potato.

season's greetings

2010-06-22T12:40:00.003+10:00

We bought this wondrous new ornament at a second-hand shop that's just opened nearby, and discovered on the box that it is a Weihnachts pyramide, or Christmas pyramid. Apparently they are very big (figuratively and literally) in Europe. The idea is to light the candles around the bottom, and the warm air sets the fan at the top spinning, which makes all the little people inside spin too. We fired it up on the night we bought it and turned off all the lights. Hard to say which member of the family was more mesmerised, although the looks on the girls' faces (all three of them) were priceless. It occurred to me that most traditional Christmas activities are much more enjoyable when it's cold outside. Hot lunch, open fires, carol-singing. And how sweet would it be to give hand-knitted mittens and scarves as Christmas gifts, if only it wasn't 35 degrees.

This is quite the turnaround for me, if you'll forgive the somewhat obvious reference to the above. In years past I would dread winter - in fact I'd start dreading it in early Autumn, thus missing the beautiful leaves changing colour and instead gritting my teeth against the coming cold. My jaw would only unclench some time in Spring, and not because of the signs I now cherish - tiny buds on the peach tree, green shoots defiant against grey skies - but only when the weather turned warm.

I credit the girls' school with my newfound appreciation of the seasons. They have such a focus on nature and its changes throughout the year, learning poems and stories that are based around the seasons and all their glory. It is a rare thing in this part of Australia to embrace winter. We tend to kid ourselves that we're living in the tropics, and try to shut out the cold by shutting down. I'm learning that embracing the cold can warm you very effectively from the inside.

layin' everybody low with a love song that he made

2010-06-17T17:13:00.000+10:00

I was thinking the other day, as you do, what my favourite song of all time would be. Naturally I could not make such an immense decision, but I did go as far as making a shortlist, and this song would be way up there on that list. It makes me cry every single time I hear it, for lots of reasons. It's so filled with teenage angst and that heart-shattering love that you think might actually kill you. And while I love it, I don't actually own a copy of it, so I Googled it today and found out that some hip band called The Killers, which I think the young people are listening to these days, has done a cover version. It does do the song justice, which apparently the lead singer feared it may not, although his voice tends to prove that nobody other than Mark Knopfler can bring it down so low it makes your knees give way. But then it also got me thinking that if any man on the planet sang this song for me, whether he could hold a note or not, I would be his forever. Right after I picked myself up off the floor. And I can say this secure in the knowledge that it will never happen.

Can't do anything, but I'd do anything for you.
Can't be anything 'cept be in love with you.

this way up

2010-06-16T22:19:00.001+10:00

Call me what you will - daydreamer, stargazer, procrastinator, bubble girl - but I can't get enough of the great big blue skies these days, when the sun is performing under duress but still managing a magnificent show (even if it does end early). It may be a little light on substance, but for me the wide blue yonder is the closest thing I have to religion. Even when it's more grey than blue, just look at those clouds. It's like your own private viewing of the Sistine Chapel, minus the queues and price of admission. Doesn't matter what the day holds, what ungodly state the world is in, the house is in, your mind is in. Go outside, look up and open your eyes. I defy you not to be amazed.

time as a whole

2010-05-05T22:29:00.000+10:00

It will shock nobody who knows me that I am not very good at time management. I struggle to get my shit together unless there's a deadline fast approaching, breathing down my neck or even pinning me to the ground. This could be seen as a good thing in some ways, as it so clearly illustrates my grasp of the whole "live in the now" mantra. I am so mindful of what I'm doing right now (starving) that what I should have been doing three hours ago (ie preparing dinner) has clearly passed me by. Embrace the moment or plan ahead? Is it really possible to do both?

The minutiae of time, the regular tick-tock, is often my worst enemy. It's in the big picture that old father time and I seem to see eye to eye. Just lately I've had cause to compare and contrast this time with this time last year. Is it really twelve whole months since I suspended self-doubt and spent two nights alone in the big smoke as part of the Happiness and Its Causes conference? Since I joined in a group meditation with Tibetan monks without knowing the tiny little seed I carried with me would be a sleeping Rosa just one year down the track?

As winter approaches, I remember feeling cold and nauseous last winter as I sat on the lounge in my hideous but delightfully warm flanno jarmies, cursing my inability to stomach milky tea, relishing every moment of Around the World in 80 Gardens and dreaming about sweet babies and warmer climes. I hung on every word Monty Don uttered, imagined myself having a little boy named Sol and a magnificent garden in the Spanish style. Before bed I'd use my Natio skin toner, still in Monty mode, thinking about growing and travelling and babies, and I'd read the key ingredient on the front of the bottle: Palmarosa. Something about that word. Turns out I was growing and travelling the whole time.

wish you were here

2010-04-13T17:35:00.001+10:00

This is Maisie Sladen. I knew her, many years after this photo was taken, as Grandma. I had never seen this photo until today, when my mum brought it and several others to show me. They came from the home of a great aunt who is selling up to move into a unit and is trying to clear out old belongings before the move. I wasn’t prepared for the impact these photos would have on me - the incredible emotions I felt when I looked at this beautiful young woman and recognised in her Grandma’s dazzling blue eyes.

It was only a matter of months after this photo was taken that Maisie got the news her husband Roy, a taxi driver, had been killed in a road accident not far from home. She was left to raise a three-year-old daughter and a one-year-old son (my dad) on her own, and to forge her own life through unbearable sorrow, in turn creating a defining chapter in our family history.

I stared at this photo for so long, trying to absorb every tiny detail, as though that might recreate the tiny missing bits of history. I wanted so much for Grandma to be here, so that I might ask her about Roy and about this photo - Who took it? What were you doing that day? What was your life like? Were you happy?

I couldn’t ask any of it, of course, so I just made myself a cup of tea and sat down at the kitchen table with the album open, staring at the grainy images and remembering. It was the closest I could get to having a cuppa with Grandma, who made me my very first cup of tea (and roused at me for making gulping noises when I drank it) and whose cupboards were always full of Lan Choo tokens.

When I look at her as a young mother, immaculately dressed and with her perfect complexion, before the well-earned wrinkles I knew, I understand why she was always wearing jewellery, buying Avon and painting her fingernails with three coats of rock-hard Cutex. I see why her bedroom always smelt of perfume, why she had a dressing table with not one but three mirrors, and I know that even when she was up at daybreak milking cows at the age of 65, the beautiful Maisie Sladen was still inside her, holding on to happier times.

shelter from the shit storm

2010-03-02T11:50:00.000+11:00

Last week I took Rosa on an outing, one of our first, that was not entirely without potential for stress but which went quite swimmingly, as it turned out. I walked back to my car with my six-week-old baby in my arms, feeling happy to have completed my task without incident, when I was suddenly confronted by a person who was craving an incident and entirely surrounded by stress. He marched across the road and shouted at me (and I remember this word for word, though I'm not sure why): "Excuse me, I know you have a child and all, but could you not park someone in? I've been waiting here for over half an hour and now I have to go to work.'' And before he had even finished his sentence, he turned on his heel and marched back across the road to where (I'm assuming) his parents were waiting for him in their conspiratorial huddle. "Sorry" was all I could manage in reply, though I assume it didn't make it through his suffocating air of self-importance. I put Rosa in her car seat, as slowly as possible, remarking to her how some people are just not very nice. Then I got into my car and waved at Mr ME-ME-ME as I passed.
This man does not deserve to be mentioned here, and maybe this story shouldn't be either, but the point is that two years ago, had this happened to me, I would still be sitting in the gutter crying. I would have fallen apart. And I think that most women with a six-week-old baby would struggle with such an aggressive confrontation. But oh what a corner I have turned. My reaction was purely one of disbelief. That any person could choose to heap such ill-meaning aggression on anyone, without any consideration of the effect that might have, is beyond me. But I looked at that big black cloud intended for me and I turned the sucker around, back from whence it came. I like to call my new mindset: IMMUNE TO OTHER PEOPLE'S SHIT.

time waits for no mum

2010-03-01T14:54:00.000+11:00

The past seven weeks have been pretty special, to say the least, and I have been floating on a cloud that's an equal mix of hormones, a happy baby and - in keeping with the letter of the day - a husband on holidays. I'm pretty sure my own frame of mind made all these things even better, and I'm about to find out how strong that frame really is. All good things, including husband's holidays, must come to an end, and today I flew solo in the morning school run with no reported turbulence. Lunches were made, breakfasts eaten, clothes dutifully worn, hair brushed, teeth brushed, shoes .. check, check, check .. car keys .. check .. baby .. check. There were no tears at school (not even from me) and as I drove home with my one remaining pre-school child, it seemed all eventualities had been accounted for. Then came the surprise. I was expecting noise to come from inside the car, and not from me or the radio. I wanted, and for a split second fully expected, to hear "Where are we going now Mum?". My seven-week-old bundle, oblivious to all but the most basic of earthly needs, did not oblige. And for a moment I was left longing for the passenger I had just left behind, at a stop called kindergarten, on the first leg of her journey.
Time, you must cry farewell, take up the track. And leave this lovely moment at your back. - Kenneth Slessor

monday's child

2010-01-25T22:22:00.001+11:00

And now she is here. How did the earth ever turn without her? She arrived at 10.06pm on Monday, January 11, 2010 in the most perfect way, into arms that were made to hold her. I cannot believe my good fortune, though I owe many thanks to Kate, Kim, Jacqui, Marlene, Josephine, Harriet and all the other good women who were watching over me and Rosa as she made her way into the world.
Today there are wonderful people enduring terrible sadness and the injustice of it is almost unbearable. All I can do is look around me and see my many blessings, count them, savour them, and be eternally, overwhelmingly grateful. Every one of them is so precious.

and nine became ten

2009-12-31T14:29:00.000+11:00

I guess it would be remiss of me not to properly farewell what's been a pretty momentous year, so on this last day of 2009 I'm taking a moment to remember how very far I've come, and my family with me. Elsa has lost teeth, grown inches (sometimes it seems like a whole foot!) and rarely lost her beautiful smile. Freya has embraced playgroup and grown inches too, but her real growth has been on the inside and I'm so proud of her for that. Randal and I have devoted most of the year to a very special project that will soon bear fruit, as it were, and I can't quite believe how close we are to meeting the new person who's going to live at our house and share it all with us. I'm torn between wanting to meet her and wanting her to stay put just for a few more days. Hoping very much for the latter, and feeling confident it will come to be.
I feel older, wiser and happier today than ever in my life. How lucky I am to be able to say that. I don't have any desire to stay up until midnight to see out this year, although it's been so good to me. I will be blissfully happy to have my comfortable bed, my children sleeping soundly in theirs and the knowledge that tomorrow is another day, another year, and anything is possible. Happy 2010.

actually it is quite a big deal

2009-11-16T21:04:00.002+11:00

Why yes, I am most definitely pregnant. No doubts about that, even among complete strangers. Some of whom seem mildly alarmed when I tell them I'm not due until late January - the raised eyebrows are a dead giveaway. But then there are the women at the school gate who tell me how lovely I look - one even used the expression "absolutely beautiful" - and bless their hearts doesn't it make my day. I find it amazing that (some) women have this innate understanding that a pregnant woman, no matter how well her day is going, could always use a little compliment. And when she's feeling huge, tired, faint, hot, ungainly and irritable that compliment is like a bear hug for the soul. I love that there are these kinds of women in the world, and that some of them can't resist rubbing your belly and smiling. It's a source of aggravation for a lot of pregnant women but for me it's just nice to know someone appreciates what you're going through and can see beyond the sometimes mundane nature of being pregnant to the miraculous.

whatever the weather

2009-10-13T16:52:00.004+11:00

You might be wondering, as am I, what happened to the whole month known as September. I vaguely recall a couple of positively beautiful days that had me singing "Spring oh sweet Spring" and taking a lot of time - literally - to smell the roses. But then those days vanished, blown by the wind that clearly misread the calendar and thought it was still August. Maybe it couldn't see straight for the 10,000 tonnes of topsoil it brought with it from the region formerly known as a dustbowl (when it still had dust). Then there were several days of coldness and wetness, which I was pretty sure would not last since my birthday was just around the corner and it's October for pity's sake! Apparently with each of these annual milestones I grow more clueless about the weather.

So, last birthday I clearly recall an early morning swim at Nambucca Heads. This year the idea of swimming in anything other than hot springs was out of the question. But we did see sun, and a bit of rain, and hundreds of the most beautiful roses ever to raise their lovely heads, at a not-so-little garden not so far from here. I came home to admire my own beautiful bunch of roses, eat chocolate cake and marvel at my good fortune - my Elsa, my Freya, my Rosa and my Randal to keep me company and make it the kind of Happy Birthday you just won't find in any greeting card.

Now it's almost halfway through October, and I have three more days of work before my 58 weeks of maternity leave starts. Whatever the bureau has to say, the forecast from Friday is for blue skies.

in other growing news

2009-08-17T20:37:00.002+10:00

This incredible flower was grown in my own garden, with very little input by me except that I planted the rose bush some years ago, in among some much older ones. It produces less than a handful of blooms each year, but it didn't half make an effort with this one. It's almost a hand-span across, and just keeps stretching out its petals, puffing out its chest. It's called a Double Delight, which is somewhat misleading since it clearly is much more delightful than that. I guess it was so named because it has two colours, but it might also be that it looks and smells totally intoxicating. And in my case, it might also be because I'm both surprised and delighted when it rewards my lack of gardening know-how with such a stunning bloom every now and again, when I least expect it. Delightful.

now showing

2009-08-11T21:26:00.003+10:00

Maybe it was the vegie burger I had for lunch. Or the two hot chocolates. Or the large slice of chocolate cake (it was a special occasion). But I like to think this baby is finally beginning to make its presence felt to people other than myself. Luckily I wore my new maternity jeans to lunch - $65 at Jeans West (yes, Jeans West sells maternity jeans) and oh, so comfortable. I have a new and deep appreciation for stretch cotton and waistbands that reach up to your boobs.

truth, beauty and chaos

2009-07-29T20:27:00.003+10:00

When I wrote about my happiness a little while ago, I mentioned (twice) that having a baby had bordered on catastrophic for my mental health. This may alarm those of you who now know that I'm pregnant with my third child, but rest assured I am not alarmed. Alert, but certainly not alarmed. There are moments, I confess, when I have a slight panic about the prospect of raising three children, of welcoming a newborn baby into our lives, which have just recently seemed to be a little smoother, in a moments-of-complete-chaos kind of way. But then I focus on why I wanted to have this baby, that feeling at my very core that believed it would be so right. It's about lots of things, but mostly it's about being true to what I believe in. Trusting myself. Sometimes when people find out my news I sense shock, or pity, or even ridicule. It's not for them to say, of course, and not for me to know if I'm just imagining it. It doesn't matter in the least when I'm focusing on the truth and beauty of the journey we're on, all the little and great things that lie within. Along with moments, I'm sure, of complete chaos. How else would we know we're alive?

the raw ingredients

2009-07-17T16:47:00.003+10:00

I have several issues with food, the most pressing of which just lately has been that none of it is at all appetising (except maybe Kraft deluxe macaroni cheese, but whether that can technically be called food is debatable). I blame the pregnancy hormones for this latest issue, but there are many more that go way deeper than that. My biggest problem with food, however, is that I despise having to prepare it. The stress I feel taking over my body as dinner time approaches every night is akin only to that I feel when I'm sitting in a dentist's waiting room and drilling can be heard. My children are both incredibly fussy eaters and Freya has her own issues including the texture and appearance of food. She would probably be happy to eat sausages every night of her life. I probably need not mention what the smell of sausages cooking does to my nausea-addled stomach at the moment, so her sausage intake has fallen considerably in recent weeks. Another few notches added to the mother guilt.

I have tried cooking flavoursome, minimally adventurous meals for the younger set, all met with incredulous stares and point-blank refusal to eat. Frustrating doesn't even begin to cover it. So I have chosen to go the easy, conflict-free route and largely give them what they want to eat. I want them to be relaxed about food. I want them to enjoy eating, not feel like their dragon of a mother is breathing down their neck forcing them to eat. I connect food with nurturing, so my shortcomings in the cooking department weigh heavily on my perceived worth as a mother. I don't think I'm alone there. I wish I loved cooking. I wish they loved eating. But wishing doesn't help.

What has helped, surprisingly, has been a little reality TV show called MasterChef. If you haven't been living under a rock, you may have heard of it. I haven't been watching it all, but in the past few weeks have been incredibly inspired by one of the contestants, Julie. She's actually in the final two as of last night. Julie is a mother and her reason for cooking is always clear - she does it for her sons and husband, as a display of her love, and what they get out of it is nothing compared to the joy she feels in doing it for them. I so envy her that ability to cook, and to have such a healthy emotional connection with the process. It's been such an eye opener to hear her speak so passionately about cooking. And it makes me think maybe I can be like that one day. I normally hate ''foodies'' but something about MasterChef is so real, and so fascinating, that the egos fade into the background and it's really just about the skill of cooking, creating sustenance for other people to enjoy. I haven't been able to eat much in the way of appetising food lately, but I've loved watching other people make it.

I had a glimpse of Julie's motivation just the other day, when I was icing a cake I'd baked for Elsa's seventh birthday. I make one every year, and every year I want it to be special. Not in a three-tiered, elaborately decorated way but in a real way. I want it to look lovely, to be delicious, and to let her know that I love her so much and I want her birthday to be as fantastic as she is. It was that feeling that I put into every spatula stroke of the pale pink icing as I finished her seventh birthday cake, and I was so grateful for it. Small steps, admittedly, but maybe one day I'll be feeling that same way as I serve up a creamy risotto or a rustic vegetable lasagne for my girls and they say "Thanks Mum, that looks delicious!"

Happy birthday my darling girl.

PS: If you'd like to talk to me, you can now comment without needing a blogger sign-on. It's open slather. Please be nice.

me again. remember me?

2009-07-12T14:59:00.007+10:00

Has it been two months already? Really? I guess I should write something down then. The happiness conference went swimmingly, was quite an experience and I'm glad I went, despite the frequent panic attacks and crying that went on behind the closed doors of my huge but fishbowl-like apartment in the centre of Hell - I mean Sydney. And about two weeks later some lovely Buddhist monks came directly to Newcastle to create a sand mandala and spread the message of happiness in a week-long engagement at City Hall - 20 minutes from home. I chose to take this as a sign from the universe that I need not look too far from myself to find that which I am seeking. It shouldn't be that hard. Sometimes it's right under your nose.

There's been a few other things happening of late. Namely, I'm expecting my third child and battling the nausea that I had completely forgotten about - a lot like labour, I'm guessing, but it's a bit late when you're in the delivery room to say "Sorry, hadn't thought this one through.'' I had been feeling comparatively sprightly in the past couple of weeks but in recent days actual vomiting has been involved. Since I'm 12 weeks on Wednesday, I'm assuming the sun will shine brighter that morning, birdsong will ring out and all signs of the sickness will be a distant memory. That's very much the assumption I'm holding onto, actually, if the universe is reading this, and I'll be awfully disappointed if reality doesn't match up. I'm also anticipating a return to the consumption - and enjoyment - of real food. This includes tea of the milky, sugary kind that I have savoured practically every day of my life since I was five. Which I can no longer even smell without wanting to throw up.

the pursuit of happiness

2009-05-09T20:39:00.003+10:00

My happiness is a work in progress. I’ve struggled with depression since I was a teenager, hit rock bottom in my early 20s just when life seemed to be giving me everything I’d ever wanted, used medication, found it didn’t have all the answers, had a baby and teetered on the edge of the abyss again, used medication again just to keep my head above water, had another baby and fell so far into the abyss I thought I might never get out, used medication as a lifeline and eventually realised that there had to be more to it than that.

So here I am, more than 18 months after pushing aside the medication option and putting everything I had into the alternative. I’ve learned more about myself in that time than I knew going into it, and while I still have my bad days, they are much less frequent and when they come I am ready for them.

I work at my happiness now, but as time goes on it takes less and less conscious effort. There are things that I know will make me happy, and not in a superficial way. They make my soul happy, and stave off the blackness. It feels like the happier my soul is, the more resistant it is to the blackness. It’s multiple coats of Teflon, every colour of the rainbow. Sometimes it helps to make a list:

1. Go outside. Feel the sun, or the wind or the rain as the case may be, on your face. It’s called nature and some days it’s your best friend.
2. Put some music on. Dance. Sing if you know the words.
3. Learn the words. To anything - Somewhere Over the Rainbow, My Favourite Things, Morningtown Ride - and sing them. Loud.
4. Write it down. All of it.

Next week I’m going to a conference in Sydney called Happiness and Its Causes, mainly because when I saw the flyer for it some months ago I just knew I had to get there somehow. So now I’m going, and I don't want to leave my family for two days and two nights but I have a feeling I will not regret it. Part of me is still frightened by the world out there but I’m on the journey now and there is no going back. Enduring stress to find happiness? Let’s just say it’s par for the course.

2009-05-02T21:00:00.003+10:00

The older I get, the more my childhood seems to be like another country. I have the photos to prove I've been there, the crystal-clear memories that allow me to recreate whole days down to the smell and the fabric on the lounge cushions. But I can never go back there, and I will always want to, if only for a few minutes, until the day I die.

The place I really long for is my grandmother's house at Lennox Head, and when I say it was on the beach I mean the front yard was sand. It's not there any more, there's a row of millionaires' beach pads where the nasturtiums used to be, but then I'm not 5 any more either, unless I really concentrate. Then I'm back there, summer holidays, long walks on the beach with the dogs every morning and afternoon, classical music on the radio, storms at sea, Enid Blyton books, pumice stones in the shower, wooden floorboards dusted with sand, shells and driftwood drying on the timber deck. The smell of old books and seagrass matting. The calm.

We've just spent a few days on the south coast, somewhere I had never been before. I found a B&B on the internet and booked it because it looked beautiful and something about it felt right. And because they had a labrador and two cats - the clincher. We have a labrador named Sunday, and I figured we'd be missing him so it might be nice to have another one around as a stand-in. She was chocolate. Her name? Sundae. Universal sign number one, you might say. Turned out this little B&B was probably the closest thing I'll ever get to revisiting my grandmother's beach house, and thus my own childhood. The bookshelves were packed, the matting was seagrass. Shells and driftwood on every flat surface. And calm.

We walked on Hyams Beach on a beautiful sunny day, and I could have kept walking for hours. I only wished I'd had a labrador or two with me. That would have made it beyond perfect. But I was revelling anyway in the knowledge that sometimes roads lead you somewhere you've never been before, and it's as though you never left.

for fox sake

2009-04-19T17:28:00.010+10:00

I love foxes, which causes some dismay for my more 'country' friends, who see them as beastly killers, chicken blood dripping from their murderous fangs. Me, I'm not so big on chickens.

Last week I went hunting, Ikea-style, and I wasn't on horseback but this handsome devil just had to come home with me. I bought one for each of the girls but Freya, having spent just one night with hers, informed me she did not care for him. Maybe because he is not wearing pink and he is not a cat, but I'm only guessing.

So I claimed him for my own, what else was I to do? And now he sits beside my computer, his sly eyes following my every move. I throw him a live chicken every now and then. He seems happy.

as pure as the driven snow

2009-03-09T10:24:00.002+11:00

This conversation took place yesterday as we (more specifically, I) tried to rationalise the glut of Barbie dolls and other plastic paraphernalia that has found its way into our house. In the process, Elsa rediscovered her two Snow White barbies and all seven of the freakish little dwarves, which she mercifully reunited with their clothing.

Elsa: Can you put these undies back on Snow White? The other Snow White already has undies on. Snow White always has to wear undies.
Me: Of course she does.

I figured it was a little too early to start talking reputations with a six-year-old.

no, he wasn't wearing a kilt

2009-02-25T21:17:00.003+11:00

I haven't been to the dentist for a very long time. Just how long became apparent today, when I finally fronted for my half hour of torture and realised that some things have actually improved. The place itself was more airport lounge than dental surgery, although that old familiar smell - equal parts fear and fluoride - left me in no doubt I was in the right place. The 'nurse' (actually she used that word, not me) looked roughly 19 years old and seemed a little embarrassed, or maybe just perplexed, at her role in proceedings. I was a tad perplexed myself. How can somebody born in the late 1980s be saying things like: "I'll be your nurse today''. Yes. And technically I could be your mother.
Enter Mr Dentist, who unlike any dentist I've ever encountered, was relatively young (though thankfully from Gen X, not Y), had a dazzling smile, was really quite cute and was Scottish. Tick, tick, tick. Let's just say he had me at hello.
There have been quite a few dentists in my past, through no fault of my own since I just happened to grow sub-standard teeth and far too many of them to fit comfortably in my mouth. Almost all my dental visits were arranged, attended and paid for by my mother, because I was too young to have a say. Thank goodness for mothers.
When it fell to me to arrange my own dental hygiene, brushing twice a day was generally the maximum commitment I was prepared to make. I had the odd check-up here and there, but aside from the general hideousness of all dental surgeries, there were the old, balding dentists with bad breath, the uncomfortable eye contact, the maniacal buzz of the tiny drill ... it is no accident that people hate going to the dentist. When I say people, I mean me.
But today I was in for a treat. Not only did Mr Cute Scottish Dentist wear a surgical mask while he stared into my gaping mouth, thus sparing me any shattered illusions should his breath not smell like 12-year-old single malt, he also issued me (should I say ''the nurse'' issued me) with sunglasses. Apparently for the glare from the overhead light, but I've stared into enough of those babies to know there's not much your eyes have to worry about, it's your teeth that need to be afraid.
My stunning aviator-style black plastic numbers (no, they could not have been less flattering) enabled me to avoid the awkward scenario where you try not to look directly into the eyes of the man who is looking directly into your molars. Let's just say there's not much else you can focus on when their entire head is obscuring your view.
So there I was, shades on, thinking: "This is not so bad''. Even the fluoride treatment, which used to contain a ''flavour'' that instantly induced vomiting, was bearable. Could it be I'm turning into a grown-up? Needless to say, I didn't ask my nurse.

the art of self-preservation

2009-02-15T21:48:00.002+11:00

I’m not so much avoiding my children as practising self-preservation. It’s a new thing to me, the whole ‘live in the now’ concept, but I have to say it makes sense. Do not fret about what’s for dinner, what dreadful future emotional suffering you’re putting your kids through by letting them watch four DVDs in a row on a day not unlike that on which the Ark was first considered. Forget about it. Let it rain. Let their eyes go temporarily square. Let your awareness rise above the fact you are wearing a 10-year-old cardigan that’s seen better days, tracksuit pants that are clearly not in any way flattering and may be one size too small and ugh boots (enough said). If you look within yourself, you will see the real thing. This may mean removing yourself, if not physically then at least psychologically, from the room. Even from the building. Do not feel guilty about this. It’s in everyone’s best interests. Find your centre and focus on it for a few minutes. Breathe deeply and concentrate on feeling good about yourself. Not about exterior sensations or kind deeds or even perceived character strengths. This is not about any of that. This is about the blood that’s pumping through your veins. The air in your lungs that keeps your heart beating. The essence of what it means to be alive. You have all of these things and you need to be aware of them, even if it’s only for a fraction of time. As long as it’s enough to get you connected again to that which is truly you. Say hello to your higher self and remember they are always with you. Mentally puff our your chest, put your chin up and resolve to carry on. You are never alone and you are always strong and wise and doing what you’re meant to be doing.

new beginnings

2009-01-21T22:11:00.004+11:00

There are very few things that will get me out of bed, with my eyes open, at 3.30am. In fact there are only two I can think of. One is a crying baby that needs to be fed. The other is Barack Obama.

I set my alarm, crawled onto the lounge and watched one man bring 2million people to a freezing city so they might bask in the warmth of his glow. And I'm not ashamed to say I was basking right along with them.

Four years earlier, almost to the minute, I was bringing my new baby girl into the world. I had been waiting a long time to meet her, but it was her patience that had been most tested. When the opportunity came she was here in an instant, and there were moments of fear and chaos before that tiny body was finally mine to hold.

She is still fighting to do things on her terms, and sometimes I can literally see the fear and chaos that the world represents to her. I want to protect her from it all, of course, but ideally I want to teach her that she can handle it. Better than she knows.

Today I received my first lesson in an anthroposophy course. It feels good to be learning again at a time when the whole world seems ready to change and flourish.

It seems to me there is no such thing as false hope. There is only hope.

Happy birthday, my darling Freya.

some days are diamonds

2009-01-09T21:57:00.002+11:00

I want to turn the whole thing upside down
I'll find the things they say just can't be found
I'll share this love I find with everyone
We'll sing and dance to Mother Nature's songs
I don't want this feeling to go away

- Jack Johnson

Sometimes it's just background music. Sometimes it's a little bit more than that. And sometimes it just gets you in the pit of your stomach and your whole world stands still. Today I heard someone talking about one of their favourite songs, a small but breathtaking love song. They said they thought it could stop a city. I wish I'd thought of that.

I've been laying low for a while, doubting the value of words in general and mine in particular. But then I hear people talking, singing, and it's like stumbling across the Hope Diamond in the sandpaper aisle at Bunnings. You've just got to seek out the diamonds in the rough.

This feeling that I don't want to go away? At its core it's intense and unshakeable and it defies any kind of logic or mechanical thought you might want to apply to it. It only fades when my awareness of it radiates outward, into the mundane and the world where everybody else is sitting in judgement. I'm clinging to it for dear life, just hoping I can make it real.

have yourself a merry little christmas

2008-12-12T22:34:00.002+11:00

Christmas morning. I think it was 1976. I know Mum made our nighties out of flannelette, my sister's had pink pussy cats on it and I still covet it to this day. Clearly I was not a morning person even then, although the promise of all those presents was enough to put a smile on my face. Having posed very patiently for the Kodak instamatic, we probably ripped into those presents unaware that outside Santa had been busy building us a brand new swing set and a pool. The kind with the corrugated tin on the outside and the blue plastic on the inside, with those strange white plastic clips that always reminded me of Cheezels to keep the lining attached to the walls. It was indeed a merry Christmas. The kind of Christmas I find myself craving more every year, as the circus grows and becomes further and further removed from anything good and simple and heartfelt. I remember the simple joy of being a child, feeling quite innocently that the whole world was only as big as your arms would reach. That was a good feeling. And while the world has largely been taken out of my hands these past 32 years, I only hope the simple joy will be alive and well at our house this Christmas morning through the eyes of two little girls. And that my arms are enough to hold their world together for a few years yet.
Merry Christmas.

trash and treasure

2008-11-11T17:11:00.004+11:00

Today was very much a nothing kind of day, a tracky-dack, don't-bother-brushing-your-hair kind of day. Until I went out to the wizbin and found this little fellow, just perched there on the most non-descript, mundane item of man-made detritus it could find, looking truly miraculous. And all ''Who me? Don't mind me, I'm just sitting here being the poster boy for nature's incredible design portfolio.'' So it seems that even in the trash, there is treasure.

where have you been, my darling young one?

2008-10-30T20:39:00.004+11:00

I consider myself a deeply devoted follower of Bob Dylan. His music has been the soundtrack to many of my life's great joys and dramas, and even the inconsequential moments in between. His words still, and will always, make me cry. But I had not, until recently, seen any of Martin Scorsese's documentary No Direction Home. This probably makes me a very pale pretender in the eyes of Dylan diehards, but I'll put it down to the fact that I haven't watched anything feature-length that doesn't involve animation for at least five years.

I still haven't watched No Direction Home in its entirety. But I have seen enough to realise that my love for this man's poetry was just scratching the surface. Seeing the young Bob Dylan, the kid prophet who everyone wanted a piece of, I fell under his spell. His grainy black-and-white, before-I-was-born spell. Sexy doesn't even come close. It was love on a whole new level.

don't hold your breath

2008-10-24T09:32:00.004+11:00

Bellingen. You can't actually say it without emitting a deep sigh. I've tried.

I've also tried to imagine a reality that involves me living there, raising barefoot blissful children, communing with nature and seriously not giving a flying fuck what anyone else thinks, says or does. I'll let you know how that works out.

perfectly balanced

2008-10-23T21:18:00.005+11:00

I love dragonflies. In my own personal ranking of beautiful insects, they're second only to cicadas. This is largely because their very long tails are a little bit freaky and they make that click/buzz sound when they fly, whereas the dear little cicada has a very slow, considered way of walking around that makes you feel sure they're not going to do anything rash. But dragonflies, when they are perfectly still, are so perfect and so still that you can't help but marvel at them.

Which brings me to this little chap, another Bellingen purchase, handcrafted so that when you place its head on the tip of your finger, its wings provide perfect balance and it will sit there all day without falling off. You can even zoom it around if you feel so inclined. Although I think zooming might defeat the purpose. It's really all about the stillness. No sudden movements. Don't do anything rash.

the rainbow connection

2008-10-17T13:03:00.004+11:00

I served up two bowls of pasta to the six-and-under set, for whom eating is not always a priority. It was a kind of pasta we'd never had before, which prompted Freya to ask exactly what kind of pasta it was.

Me (reading from packet): They're called macaroni elbows.

Freya (without pausing for thought): No, Mum. Not elbows. Rainbows.

And who am I to argue with that.

five grey elephants

2008-10-14T21:38:00.002+11:00

The other day I was sitting at my computer, looking at this and that, when Freya came into the room to see what was happening and why she wasn't involved. She was holding a hair elastic, stretched between two fingers, and she started singing a song that's often on Play School - five grey elephants balancing, step by step on a piece of string - actually those weren't her exact words, but I got the general idea. Then she realised the computer was on, which led a split-second later to the realisation that she had direct access to YouTube, her new favourite thing which allows her to watch ''the Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang song'' and funny cat videos for hours on end (probably only minutes, but it genuinely seems like hours). So she asked to hear the elephants song, and as I know the infinite resource that is the internet, I googled it. We did not immediately get the song we wanted, but something much more intriguing and wonderful, called the calm space which on that particular day in this particular life could not have been more perfect. I marvelled at the sheer serendipity of it all for several seconds, before being sternly prompted to find the five grey elephants. Bal-an-cing.

good for the soul

2008-10-11T20:44:00.003+11:00

These little red shoes were waiting for me, very patiently, with all the other good little Naots, at a shop in Bellingen. I don't know how long they had been waiting, but I can tell you my feet had been waiting what seems like a lifetime to find shoes so deeply, blissfully comfortable. And on the very day that I turned 36, there they were. Like a beacon. Sensible shoes. The time has come, the universe decreed, to turn your back on articles of vanity and embrace your inner librarian (I have always longed to be a librarian, but that's another story). My beloved paid the kind lady and handed me a gift wrapped in my favourite fashion statement -to thine own self be true. My soles, and my soul, were immensely grateful.

footnotes

2008-09-23T21:49:00.001+10:00

Some days it feels like you’re chipping away at a forty-foot brick wall with a plastic teaspoon. Other days a whole chunk of that wall collapses like a piece of stale gingerbread and you’re left gobsmacked at the amount of daylight you've let in, with your own two hands.
I am staring at a broad expanse of daylight. There is now more daylight in my immediate vicinity than there is wall. Mainly the wall is at my feet, where I can’t really see it but where it can easily trip me over if I spend too much time with my head up, staring at the sky.
I guess today I tripped. I fell. On my face. But I got back up with the help of someone who I really needed, and now I am even more determined to step over that wall and breathe in that daylight and stare at the sky and open myself up to new possibilities. I am stronger right now than I have ever been.

i love you mrs parker

2008-09-17T16:19:00.003+10:00

My land is bare of chattering folk,
The clouds are low along the ridges.
And sweet's the air with curly smoke
From all my burning bridges.

- Dorothy Parker

With thanks to my sister, who sent me this by email in January this year, when it struck me as wise and funny (although not in an LOL way, because there's a special place reserved in hell for the person who invented that particular non-word) but didn't really resonate the way it does today. I'm feeling kind of itchy-footed and a bit excited, although I'm not sure why, and to paraphrase another great wordsmith I am standing at two diverging roads, checking the signposts, wondering if I'm holding the street directory upside down. A voice in my head is yelling at me to run but I've never been one to rush in. Which makes me wonder why now, of all the times in my life, I really want to.

in the garden these days

2008-08-23T21:00:00.004+10:00

A few short days ago, the air outside was so unseasonally warm it felt more like summer than almost-spring. The peach blossoms were celebrating and inviting the bees to take all the nectar they could carry. Freya just wanted to sit with her feet in the dirt and take it all in. There was a hazy, lazy feel about everything, and it was bliss.

Today it's colder than the proverbial witch's tit, too cold even for the rain to fall so it just hangs out in big grey clouds, being ominous. And spring plays its wicked little games: now you see me, now you don't. But that's okay. I can wait. I've felt your warm breath on the back of my neck, and I know you're just around the corner.

the grasping

2008-08-19T22:04:00.005+10:00

I was asked by two different people yesterday how old my children are, to which I gave a kind of automatic, matter-of-fact reply. When I thought about it later, I realised that those two numbers mean I have been a mother for six years and a mother of two for three-and-a-half years. And I thought to myself: That seems like a hell of a long time to be doing a job and still not think you really have a handle on it. But then I read this and realised that of course you never get a handle on it, and even if you think you do, the handle will soon change or disappear from view for a minute, enough to keep you grasping and thinking. All I know is I love being their mother, relaxing into it more every day and letting them run wild and happy then having them come back to me. It's not an easy job, but I'm beginning to believe it does get easier.

on a lighter note

2008-08-07T16:11:00.005+10:00

Okay, so it's all materialistic of me and they cost a small fortune, but how gorgeous are these little girls' dresses? I could spend hours, if I had that kind of time, looking at the sweet pretty things that clever people make for little ones to wear. Many are in small magazine, an online treasure trove of inspiring craft, fashion and design. The blue pintuck number above is by Baby Bean and the Liberty print tunic below is by Flora & Henri, available through Tiny McSmall.

Makes me want to get my sorely neglected sewing machine down from the attic. If only I could get past threading the bobbin.

not drowning, wavering

2008-08-03T20:33:00.003+10:00

I should clarify that when I say I have made a decision, it generally doesn't mean that will be the last decision on the given subject. My decision is not final. Correspondence between me and myself will frequently be entered into. So for all those who haven't long since given up caring, here is my position as of now. I can do this. I CAN DO THIS.

here you come again

2008-08-01T14:04:00.004+10:00

It comes down to this: my children deserve to have a happy mother. They deserve to see me smiling more times than not, they deserve to hear me laughing and know that all is right with the world (at least the world that exists within these four walls). I have no right to deprive them of that. So while the past weeks have not been in vain, and I have learnt a lot and am still learning how to deal with my depression, I have made a decision. Mr Zoloft, just when I'm about to make it work without you, I want you to hold my hand again.

Because today, and several times in the past couple of months, it's just too bloody hard. Right or wrong, I'm tired of having to use every fibre of my being just to be able to get out of bed. To fight for nothing more than a feeling of not being depressed for a day or two. That's the reward. Not sheer unadulterated joy or heartfelt happiness or anything remotely resembling those things. Just head-above-water. I feel like I'm trying to run a marathon but to get to the starting line I have to climb out of a forty-foot hole. Even if I get to the top, my race is already run.

So there it is. All my reasoning, and I've needed quite a bit. But ultimately I think I deserve to be happy, and that right there is a major step forward from where I was six months ago. I think I deserve it. I know my children do. And even if that's all my knowledge, it has to be enough.

so not child's play

2008-07-31T21:01:00.005+10:00

Today we went to playgroup .. again. That sounds such a simple sentence, a straightforward proposition, even fun if you're into that kind of thing. For me, though, it's kind of like saying "today I went to have all my eyelashes pulled out one at a time''. Only today there were more tears.

I'm not sure why this is. I first went to this playgroup about two years ago, although I didn't really enjoy it then and didn't go back for some time. But this year we started out positive, I thought if I just kept going back every single week with Freya she would warm up. She would learn to love it. She would form friendships and feel comfortable and smile and laugh and do all the things children are supposed to do when they are in a group that does nothing except play. Playing. In a group. Sounds simple enough.

But Freya has not really done any of these things. Admittedly, she has smiled. A few times. And once she sang along with all the songs, and played with a couple of the other children. But mostly she clings to me, or sits grumpily on my lap glaring at everyone, or hiding her face, or crying. When she finally stands up it's only to demand that I pick her up so she can do ''ring a rosy'', which I can tell you is NO FUN when you are carrying a three-year-old and trying to ''all fall down'' and ''all jump up'' without seriously injuring yourself.

Last term we didn't go to playgroup at all. I was over it. Why should I put myself through it when the person I'm doing it for appears to be miserable the entire time we're there? I rationalised. We had fun. We played. Sometimes she watched telly, me being the irresponsible mother that I am. And guess what? I got the floor clean. It made me feel better. Freya appeared to have no ill effects. I didn't cry. She didn't cry. We just enjoyed each other's company.

Maybe this lulled me into a false sense of security. Freya is a happy, well-adjusted child, I told myself. She started enjoying other kids' company, so I thought maybe we could give playgroup another shot. It would be good for her, I reasoned, and everyone else appeared to agree with me (including the large, frightening entity known as SOCIETY, for whom nothing is ever good enough but which has generally decreed it is particularly not good for a three-and-a-half-year-old to have no social interaction with children of their own age). I think mostly society is made up of childcare centre operators and mothers who work full-time, but that's just my opinion. And it invariably falters when faced with the opinion of SOCIETY.

I would love to go to playgroup and be able to chat sociably with the other mothers, to drink herbal tea and compare notes on this crazy thing known as motherhood. I don't know about anyone else, but I need help with it. I think there is no other job in the world that so clearly requires an occupational health and safety overhaul. And the only people qualified to do that are those in the same position.

But it's a closed shop, this playgroup. You get the feeling all that bonding and knitting and tea-drinking and singing are reserved only for those who TRULY belong. And the child-rearing thing comes as naturally as breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Raise perfect children. Never be ruffled. Always know innately what the best thing is to do.

I realise these are all my own fears and uncertainties and that they probably affect the way I relate to these people, which in turn affects the way they see me. I get that. But I can't shake the feeling, and I can't, no matter what I do, make Freya enjoy herself when she is there. Today she hid her face almost the entire time, wouldn't sing or play or even walk. And I was in tears before the morning tea was even served. We went home. And at home the sun was shining so we had a picnic and Freya played on the swings and the trampoline and - god forbid - watched telly. I went from feeling hopeless to feeling okay. And I'm so tired of all this playgroup drama I can't tell you. Except I just did. So thanks for listening.

i have a dream

2008-07-24T19:53:00.002+10:00

Saw Mamma Mia today. The film, not the musical. Laughed, cried, ate too much popcorn, marvelled at how incredibly beautiful Meryl Streep still is, decided that some day I really must visit the Greek Islands - no, wait, did I say visit? I meant live on for the rest of my days. Because I'm fairly sure I can unequivocally state that people who have an all-year-round natural tan are INTENSELY HAPPY. ALL THE TIME.

I also remembered (and loved) every single Abba song and vowed to retrieve my Abba Gold CD from the back of the cupboard forthwith. Who knew Benny and Bjorn could write such beautiful songs, while still looking sexy-as in white satin tunics and flares. Thankyou for the music, gentlemen.

bloom and grow

2008-07-22T21:20:00.008+10:00

The camellia trees in my garden are older than me. They have solid, no-nonsense trunks that were nurtured in their early, twig-like days by a solid, no-nonsense woman named Josephine who owned this house long before I was born, and whom I never met but whose blood circulates in three of the people I love most in this world.

When I was pregnant with Elsa, I watched the camellia buds appear and grow larger as I did, and when I brought our tiny baby girl home their beautiful pink blooms covered the branches and the lawn beneath them. It was like nature saying "It's a girl!''.

Now that tiny baby has turned six, and if you were to ask her I'm sure she'd tell you there is no greater age to be. The camellias are blooming and falling, as they do, and although it is winter there is still tremendous warmth to be had if you know where to look for it. And on the branches of our peach tree, hope of an abundant spring.

who is this harriet?

2008-07-09T15:53:00.002+10:00

Excellent question. I like to think of Harriet as someone who watches over me, an employee of the universe if you will. I credit her for leading me into the arms of the man I love, for taking us both into a rundown old house in the early months of 1997 and showing us (okay, maybe just me) the love and life that dwelt in its tobacco-stained walls and could resurface with a bit of hard work and several thousands of dollars. I thank her every day for bringing me home.
Sometimes it seems Harriet has deserted me in my hour of need. When I'm beating myself up and shutting out everyone around me, it feels like Harriet has run for the hills, and I am in no place to blame her. But then, without fail, she comes back to me and it is clear she was just checking in with the boss, getting new instructions from Universe Pty Ltd on how to deal with her charge.
Today I read dooce and thought for the hundred-and-ninety-ninth time how much I'd like to be Heather B. Armstrong's best friend, then thought how unlikely that is because 1. She lives in Utah. 2. She is the world's most popular blogger. and 3. She recently had more than 40,000 comments posted for one entry. I almost wet myself when I get just one. But still I am bordering on obsessive about Heather, and I recently sent her an email because I was sure we could have a meaningful connection beyond me slavishly reading her blog and idolising her. Today her blog entry mentions in passing that she often listened to Pearl Jam's Alive at high volume during her college days for hours on end. And today, somewhat later, I was driving to work and trying to find a decent song on the radio when I heard John Butler Trio and instantly stopped searching. I was now listening to a radio station I literally NEVER listen to, and then the 18-year-old announcer came on and said something hip and rad and groovy, as they do, and I was just about to change the channel again when he said ''Pearl Jam'' and then ''Alive" and then Eddie Vedder starting growling to me and I swear, Heather B. Armstrong might as well have called me directly on my mobile phone and asked me to fly straight to Utah so she could adopt me as her new best friend and constant companion. Harriet and I drove the rest of the way in stunned silence. Eddie growling. Me purring.

blow wind blow

2008-07-01T16:12:00.003+10:00

Windy. Man, is it windy. Enough to blow a brown dog off its chain, in fact. The kind of wind you might call 'lazy', since it opts to blow right through you rather than go the long way around. That wind you can pretty much feel in your bones after you've been in it for a while. My grandma used to hate this kind of wind. I figure that's because she worked a dairy farm and had to spend hours out in it, roaming around a windswept cow paddock chasing 'the girls' in for milking when she probably would have much rather been sitting down to a slice of fresh butter with some bread on it and several cups of tea. These kind of days remind me of her, and the farm, and the cold that you just couldn't shake (although the Lan-Choo did a pretty good job of it). I hope that wherever she is, Grandma has a bottomless cup of tea, an endless supply of butter and a nice spot to sit, out of the wind.

are you receiving?

2008-06-28T20:55:00.002+10:00

So I asked the universe for help. And literally within the hour I had received my brand new laptop (one week early) and received a phone call from a dear friend who, it turns out, was coming to see me this weekend, one month earlier than expected. Good things were brought forward for no other reason than to show me that help is out there. Friends are out there. And shiny red laptops are right here, helping me to write these very words.

one forward, three back

2008-06-25T08:32:00.002+10:00

It seems news of my recovery was slightly premature. It seems, also, in this particular moment that hope is heavily camouflaged as struggle. I'm not sure I'm ready for the struggle. I'm not sure why I make things so difficult for myself. I'm not sure when or how the light will return and I'm not even sure what I'm going to do today to try and make a difference. But mostly I'm not sure why I find everything such a struggle when clearly there are millions of people out there with a real and gigantic reason for hurting. I don't know. I just don't.

my reading list

2008-06-02T20:42:00.003+10:00

A very special delivery arrived last week from amazon.com and I'm already struggling to know which one to read first. Rather than make the decision, I've been flicking through all three and finding little gems in all of them that are so close to the mark it would be scary, if it weren't so exciting and liberating at the same time.

friday morning beachcombing

2008-05-24T18:31:00.003+10:00

worth mentioning

2008-05-21T22:15:00.002+10:00

I don't think my Dan Zanes link was working on an earlier post, but all should be revealed now. Watch and learn (at least once a day if possible).

Yay! (verily)

2008-05-20T21:05:00.005+10:00

And yay, verily, the anti-happiness wall began to crumble, and it fell, and life strode in with great purpose and renewed vigour and deep, fulfilling mirth ensued. Thanks, Eckhart Tolle, for handing me the world's quietest, most powerful jackhammer. I will treasure it always.

more about me

2008-05-13T20:27:00.002+10:00

It's a shocking admission for a person with a blog, I know, but just lately I'm getting sick of talking about myself. It's been an enormous reawakening, that much is true, but I think I'm at the point in my 'process' where I just need to focus on something else. So hooray. Now what could it be? In my ideal fantasy world, I'd quit my hideous, unfulfilling but ridiculously well-paying job and become a freelance journalist specialising in home and lifestyle articles for those glossy magazines that have me salivating with covetous intent. I'd write a book about trying to live with depression. My blog would be read and admired by lots of people in all different countries, and I'd be on a first-name basis with like-minded individuals on the opposite side of the globe. I'd learn to cook, and my family would learn to eat. I'd become a vegetarian. I'd have another baby, when the time feels close to right.
Two things have become apparent: 1. I'm still talking about myself. Old habits. 2. None of these things are technically in the 'fantasy' realm at all. They're all quite achievable, in fact. Who knows what might happen?

mummy's here

2008-05-06T21:54:00.002+10:00

One of the things that came up during my visit to the kinesiologist last week was my relationship with my youngest child, Freya. It came up a lot, actually. Maybe because on any given day it feels like it's taken over my life. I love her deeply, innately, but there are times when I despair of her behaviour, her aggression, even her anger, which seems so out of place in such a tiny soul. I go through blaming myself for not being emotionally available or for just being a bad mother, because that's always such an easy guilt trip to take. But Marlene came up with a different theory, one that rang painfully true. I was taking anti-depressants during my pregnancy with Freya, up until just before she was born. She suffered severe reflux as a baby, and I suffered what was almost certainly post-natal depression for a second time but was too busy trying to think positively to see it. So my darling child was taken from my womb and from the drug that I'd been providing her and into the arms of a mother who could not fully bond with her and clearly could not cope with her precarious temperament. Any wonder separation from me is so frightening for her even now. If someone had told me that even a month ago, I may well have curled up into a ball and never got back up. But being newly empowered by my energy balancing, I felt it was a gift. I looked on our mother/child relationship with different eyes, and because I felt stronger, she related to me quite differently. It was like we were both tuned to the same frequency for the same time. Channels open.
I've been thinking, and telling anyone who'll listen, for about a year that it seems like Freya is hypersensitive to everything, to sound, to emotions, everything's amplified by about 100. And today I found out I was right. We had a meeting with a child psychiatrist, who diagnosed Freya with regulation disorder. Basically it means everything I just described. Sensory overload, and no way of dealing with it. The daughter of said psychologist has the same thing, so tell me that's not the universe handing me a great big merit certificate for being on the right track.
So it's day one of dealing with this newfound 'problem', but knowing what it is and that there's ways to approach it makes it so much easier to face the future. I just want to hold her and tell her it's all going to be alright. Mummy's here.

emotional rescue

2008-05-01T16:08:00.002+10:00

You know what, it's such a long story but I really just wanted to put something down. To see it written.
I went to see a kinesiologist on Tuesday, having read a bit about the therapy and its use in treating depression. Basically it harnesses the energy in your body and uses it for good instead of evil. That's the simplified version. Anyway, having it rock bottom and revisited my depression, I made the appointment. I tried really hard to stop myself thinking this woman could 'cure' me, make everything alright again. But at the time that's exactly what I thought because that's all I felt I had to hang on to.
Then there I was, crying, sobbing, wracked with despair and uncertainty and fear and sitting in this stranger's room hoping to hell she could help me. And somebody did help me. Somebody who was also in the room, but not the one I thought it would be. It was me. The will, the energy and the emotional rescue I'd been waiting for was right inside me all along. She 'balanced' my energy and did some relaxation and muscle memory work and I left feeling so much stronger, and so much braver. I know it's not the end of the road, not by a long shot, but I feel like I have the tools right here should I find myself in another ditch. I know there is happiness, strength and wisdom deep down within me, and that knowledge has come to me like a mid-summer rain storm, washing away so much self-doubt and self-loathing.

the red, the blue and the black dog

2008-04-18T20:53:00.003+10:00

Blue is blue
Sky's colour
Sea's hue

But red is red.
When you're losing your head
And you're better off dead.

I wrote that many moons ago, when I had too much time on my hands and life was just a gaping great hole really, filled with doubt and self-loathing and not much more.
These days I can't say any of that is true. My life is full of wonderful things. But this last week the old self-loathing crept back in, creating doubt, eating away at the wholeness of things and trying to suck me back into the gaping great hole. I know its name. I know its tricks. But even as the black dog had me pinned by the chest, baring its teeth, I couldn't find the strength to call it off. If it were only for me it might be forgivable. I can't bear that I shrink from the fight when my family is involved. I want to be like the lioness who'd give her life for her cubs, but all I seem able to do is lay down and pray for it to be over quickly. I don't know if it's just hormonal, if it's seasonal, or if it's the more logical thing - I'm facing my demons without medication. No safety net. But even while the slightest thing makes me weep and sob and wail at the moment, I'm not ready to bow down to the god of Zoloft again. It took me so long to crawl out from his shadow, and I'm sure there are other things I can do. It might just take a little longer. But this too shall pass.

right here, right now

2008-03-27T22:13:00.003+11:00

If there's one thing I know, it's that there's a lot I don't know. A lot I have yet to learn, and some things I never will. But just lately it feels like a huge chunk of the universal syllabus has landed in my lap, daring me to read it. Go on, it's saying, take a peek. Read page 124, it's a masterpiece. I'm not far in yet, it's early days, but something is changing. I will never regain the stillness, the all-consuming focus of a five-year-old colouring in a mandala but sometimes just being in the same room as her is an education in itself. Live in the now, says the universe. Happiness 101. Leave your notebook at home.

jazz hands

2008-03-22T14:52:00.006+11:00

These babies have been languishing in the laundry for longer than I care to admit .. dismembered and kind of mouldy from too many happy bathtimes. After a couple of days and a bucket of bleach, hey presto! Good as new. It doesn't get much better than a freshly washed cherub.

I rest my case.

someday we'll find it

2008-03-20T16:23:00.002+11:00

I'm so out-of-control inspired by the people of this great big, tiny world called the internet. The mothers, the friends, the incredible creativity that is ours for the sharing. I love it. I love that on the face of it, it's all big computers and techno-speak but deep down, at the very heart of it, it's a long and winding path that you follow without a map, and the wonders you find are so very small and the people are just other people, just like you, dreaming and making and living one day at a time. People you're destined to meet, or even to meet again after what seems like a lifetime. It's a crazy world out there, but there is so much hope.

come the revolution, baby

2008-03-17T21:47:00.011+11:00

Let's all hear it for Mr Dan Zanes, a man I first saw on Sesame Street and instantly fell in love with. From what I can gather he's a music man with a huge heart but all you really need to do is watch this and all will be revealed. Come the revolution, baby, we'll all be wearing yellow ponchos and playing the guitar. Dare you not to smile.

with my own two hands

2008-03-15T22:44:00.002+11:00

I can't really put my finger on it, but today was a special day. Not only because I spent it at home with my two girls, and not only because the sun was out and the sky was a cloudless blue. I think maybe because I just didn't think about being anywhere else. We played, I cooked pancakes, we painted, sang, danced, read books, and not once did my mind wander past these four walls. It was breathtaking.
Yesterday as I waited for Elsa at school I watched her class playing outside, running but they could have been flying from the looks on their faces, holding their little paper aeroplanes and letting them go, watching them fly then picking them up and doing it all again. It almost made me cry. Today was a bit like that too, just feeling the sheer beauty of everything that I just haven't felt for so long. Not really felt, not the kind of feeling you do when you're just so happy you want to cry.
Been listening to Jack Johnson's soundtrack for the film Curious George, and loving it. Particularly With My Own Two Hands, featuring the divine Ben Harper. The words: Gonna make a brighter place, with my own two hands, gonna help the human race, with my own two hands and the voices, and the sweet guitar, get me every time. I can't think of a more beautiful song, or a more beautiful message, to give our children.

tantrums, tears and trims

2008-02-28T21:53:00.000+11:00

I had my hair cut today. Quite a substantial haircut actually, with an alarming amount on the floor afterwards. Ordinarily this could be cause for panic, or gut-wrenching regret, but I'm okay. Really. Hair is hair. It grows back. Could it be I'm getting old and these things have fallen away? The outward artifice? Probably not, but it's nice to think so. And it's nice to run my hand through my cropped off hair and think how nice, to be comfortable in my own skin.

But today was not all good. It involved crying, by myself and others, and I wish I could say there will be no more. But three is apparently a very bad age to be, because you want to do exactly what you want to do, when you want to do it. And not everybody agrees. Tres frustrating, for all concerned.

But I soon learned, your love burned brighter than the stars in my eyes. Now I know how and when, I know where and why.

So sings Missy Higgins in her beautiful version of the Split Enz song Stuff and Nonsense, one of many on the She Will Have Her Way album that lives permanently in my car's CD player. Such a beautiful song, such a beautiful album. Never ceases to amaze me, the Finn brothers' way with words. A portrait of the lovely Neil, my pin-up boy from way back, won the Packing Room Prize at the Archibalds today. When I saw it I felt like I was 14 again, dancing around the loungeroom to Mean To Me and pledging my eternal love to Finn the Younger. I still would (pledge eternal love that is, and dance around the loungeroom given half a chance).

And that is me

2008-02-07T20:03:00.001+11:00

Some days, when you least expect it, you find a quiet strength within yourself that you didn't know you had.
On Monday, I left my three-year-old daughter at preschool for the very first time. She was screaming, crying, inconsolable, and I spent the entire day with my stomach in a knot, wandering around the house like a zombie. I felt like Meryl Streep in Sophie's Choice.
The next day I did it again, and there was no screaming, but lots and lots of tears from both of us.
Today I spoke to friends, a passing acquaintance and some family members who I somehow didn't think would have an opinion, and by telling them how I felt it just crept up on me, that quiet inner strength, the knowledge that what I think is right is actually really right, the only right, the only truth and there can be no other way.
So this Monday, instead of feeling that knot in my stomach grow even tighter, instead of doubting myself and my mothering instincts, I will spend the entire day with a three-year-old girl who will only ever know one mother. And that is me.

At the end of this path

2008-01-24T22:13:00.000+11:00

Time marches on. It is weeks into a new year, and thoughts have turned to real change, not just superficial promises. I took the girls and Sunday for a very long walk yesterday, on a path we had never travelled before, and it was lovely. I'm not sure who enjoyed it more, though Sunday was quite delighted to find a duck pond at the end of it. When the girls grew a bit weary and asked 'Mum, where's the duck pond?' all I could answer, quite honestly, was 'At the end of this path'. There was a moment during our walk that I really wanted to keep. I even had the urge to find my mobile phone and take a picture so it would stay with me forever, but then I decided I could write about it, and keep the image inside my head.

I came around the corner then, and saw her standing, watching me from such a distance that she looked quite small. Just a tiny girl, I thought, and then I realised just how small, how precious, how fleeting, was this moment in her life, in our lives. She had never seemed so small, not even when I held her for the very first time, when she was barely as big as my own two hands. She had taken up so much of my world that I had never realised what a tiny soul she really was. And now I watch her, watching me, waiting for me to catch up to her, but I am suddenly aware that soon she will be on her own way, and I will not be able to catch up to her. I want to run to her and hold her and tell her how precious she is, how precious this day is to me. She just smiles up at me, and we walk the rest of the way side by side.

one tiny life

2007-11-22T22:13:00.000+11:00

I can't remember the last time I felt so passionately about something, and I really need to write this down. The tragic death of a little girl named Shellay Ward a few weeks ago, and the horrific details that are now emerging about her life, is almost unfathomable. It is tempting to not think about Shellay, to not imagine the filth, the suffering, the despair. But we really must. We really must because we cannot let it happen again. We need to open our eyes to the children around us, love and nurture our own children more, and realise that we as a community can make a difference. I want to stage a day of awareness, a day to embrace the memory of Shellay and tell the world that she will not be forgotten, though it would most definitely be easier to forget, to ignore, her desperate story. I think everyone who wants to shed light on this tiny girl's soul, which saw pretty much only darkness, should gather on a Sunday some time in the near future (maybe January or February) on a beach and bring with them a shell. These shells will form a line, as long as humanly possible, to protect the children who nobody seems able to protect. It will be A LINE IN THE SAND - drawn to say enough is enough. We cannot stand by and let another tiny, sacred life be treated with such appalling contempt. We will nurture and protect all children, and bring back the old philosophy that 'It takes a village to raise a child.' I don't think the day should be about the many negative aspects of Shellay's life, not about blame or punishment because that will come in other arenas. It should be a way of shedding light on her tiny life. She deserves it.
If you can help me with this project in any way, even with ideas, please let me know.

time to breathe

2007-10-24T15:18:00.000+10:00

Forgive me for getting all Deepak Chopra, but sometimes, in the middle of the daily chaos, the washing, the renovating, the dust, the toast crusts, you really just need to stop. Sit down. Take a deep breath. Savour everything. And be grateful. Today seems as good a day as any to remind myself of that.

the grass is ris'

2007-09-06T21:59:00.001+10:00

And so, here it is, springtime. Freezing as all get-out, but springtime nonetheless. Much has transpired since my last post, naturally, since it was sooo last season. Our extension is up, lined, and looking fabulous. We have a roof, walls, and even plaster as of Monday. Our kitchen arrives on September 17th and with any luck I will be toasting my 35th birthday with a glass of bubbly on my beautiful Caesarstone benchtops from my lovely aluminium bar chairs (thankyou www.mattblatt.com.au)
Today I created a Facebook account, prompted by a friend I have not seen in almost a decade who now lives in Italy. I have been reading about him and his beautiful wife and little boy on their blog, and today he made me one of his 'friends' on Facebook. Which led me to create my own account. Isn't it amazing how small and big the world can be, all at the same time.
A big hug for the Perry family, in memory of the beautiful Leila. May she and Ambrose be lying somewhere sunny, on a bed of clover.

darling girl

2007-07-15T21:39:00.000+10:00

Happy birthday to my darling girl number one, Miss Elsa. As I write this, in front of my computer terminal at work, wishing I was at home to wrap her presents in preparation for tomorrow morning, I can't quite believe I have a nearly-five-year-old daughter. How did that happen? One minute she was a tiny, tiny baby who filled up my whole world, and this time tomorrow she'll be five. Old enough to start school. And I hope she knows this, because I tell her often, but if she happens to be reading this in 10, even 20 years time, I am so proud of her, and I love her very much.

the hit and miss list

2007-05-06T16:06:00.000+10:00

I find it increasingly hard to fathom the amount of things I need/want/should do on any given day, so I have done what any good woman would do: I have made a list. Lists are fabulous things for any number of reasons. To list a few: they are easy to make, they create the (usually false) impression that you are very organised, and they fill you with an enormous sense of achievement - even if all you have achieved is writing down the insurmountable tasks you face.
My list has 22 items on it, under the heading Things to Do. Some of these are quite urgent, like 'clean bathroom' and 'wash sheets'. And if my list is still floating around a week or so from now, they will reappear on it. Others are semi-urgent, like cooking the pumpkin soup, minestrone, risotto and vegie lasagne I recently found in a Donna Hay magazine and, in a very uncharacteristic rush of blood, went out and bought all the ingredients. Semi-urgent because that was over a week ago and some of the ingredients are looking a bit the worse for wear.
Having looked at my list for some time, I realised there was no chance of me achieving it all in one day. Maybe not even in one week. But I have made a pledge to tick three items off the list at the end of each day, and today I did just that (I cheated a bit by writing 'wash sheets' in after I'd already done it, but sometimes you just need to be creative). I write this with a pot full of minestrone on the stove, clean sheets on the clothes line and a sparkling clean bathroom. Three down, nineteen to go.

for what it's worth

2007-03-17T21:50:00.001+11:00

Went to the beautiful Newcastle Waldorf School (http://www.newcastlewaldorfschool.nsw.edu.au/) yesterday and discovered Elsa can actually start there from next term if we so desire. Hadn't really considered it would happen so soon, but given the organic nature of the school it won't be an issue as far as ''catching up'' goes. Big decision now is whether we send her next term or wait until term three, when she will have turned five but will have had an extra term of preschool, possibly making the transition a bit harder. Big decisions, but then you can't avoid them when you have children. A poem I found recently makes me think of the Waldorf school, and the Steiner method of education, and I'm completely swayed whenever I read it.

I meant to do my work today -
But a brown bird sang in the apple tree,
And a butterfly flitted across the field,
And all the leaves were calling me.

And the wind went sighing over the land,
Tossing the grasses to and fro,
And a rainbow held out its shining hand -
So what could I do but laugh and go?

- Richard LeGallienne

so hot right now

2007-02-04T19:52:00.000+11:00

Okay, I'm officially not very dedicated to this blog, but hey, at least it's here, right? At least it made it from the many fabulous ideas that float around constantly in my head to actually exist. And for that, I'm sure, we are all truly thankful.
I tell myself that once I am established in my gorgeous new study, adjoining my gorgeous new kitchen/family room and covered deck, I will be a daily blogger. I may have absolutely nothing of any interest to blog about, but by golly I'll be blogging anyway. And reading it all myself, just in case nobody else does.
The extension is still pending, and of great excitement although not feeling terribly real since no actual work has yet been done. This includes actual work that needs to be done by us, including demolishing a not-insubstantial brick wall and relocating a great deal of quite heavy pavers. Still, it is nice to know we have only these tasks standing between us and real progress.
There are really not many spare moments to be had in our corner of the world, what with one thing and the other, but even those rare occasions lately have not been at all fruitful due mainly to the fact that it is so incredibly hot. I realise I risk sounding like an old person here, but I seriously cannot remember summers being quite so intense when I was a child. I can't even hang out the washing these days without wearing a hat, not only to prevent sunburn but to stop me from passing out due to heat exhaustion. It kind of frightens me that maybe my children will grow up in a country where there is a certain part of the year where you just can't be outside for any length of time. Kind of like those Scandinavian countries where they have to stay indoors for three months of the year or risk freezing to death, only at the other extreme. Did somebody say climate change?

sing as though no-one can hear you

2006-12-21T15:34:00.000+11:00

Can I just say I'm terribly sorry for attending to this blog in such a haphazard fashion. I would blame the whole crazy Christmas thing, but since my last entry was mid-November, that might be a stretch. Anyway, I do finally have something to report, having completed my eight-week introduction to singing course last night with a concert during which I sang not once but five times (four with my fellow students). I am so glad I did it, the course and the concert, and now when I am singing in the car or the shower or out in the backyard, Sound of Music style, I will know in my heart that I CAN really sing. And that will make all the difference.

do the ocean motion

2006-11-10T21:38:00.001+11:00

A red letter day! My first swim of the season, in the crystal blue waters of Little Beach. It was even worth the two hours driving there and back and having to drag myself away from Elsa and Freya in full beach mode so I could come to work. Let's hope there will be many more days and swims just like it before another crazy year is out.
Dreaming of storybook cottages www.storybookcottages.com.au and weighing up the prospect of renovating (ie huge mortgage, stress, chaos) versus moving (ie not-quite-so-huge mortgage, stress, chaos). All weighty issues really, not to be taken lightly. But exciting, nonetheless.

in alignment

2006-11-03T21:14:00.000+11:00

You know how some days the stars just seem to align and a spooky sort of symmetry prevails? Doesn't happen very often at all any more, but today it kind of did.
I decided to get take-away for dinner (while I'm at work) from the Hare Krishna cafe, which always makes me feel very calm and at-one-with-the-universe, especially if the lovely little monk-like man behind the counter smiles serenely at me when he asks "Pappadum?". Anyway, I digress. So there I was in the peace cafe, ordering my meal, when I saw a pamphlet about yoga classes being run in Newcastle. I am in the market for a good yoga class, having found one that was very convenient and run by a lovely 70-something-year-old lady named Shirley but then having to schedule swimming lessons for Freya on the same day, at the same time. The physiotherapist I've been seeing has recommended I return to yoga "as soon as possible". When she told me this, she gave me a concerned look that seemed to imply I might a) be completely incapacitated by back pain and general inflexibility; or b) have a nervous breakdown if I didn't heed her advice.
The very exciting thing about these new yoga classes, run by another monk-like man, is that they are on several different days and at different times (excellent for my no-routine type of life). I have not yet run this idea by my dear husband, but there seems a definite possibility I will be able to attend at least one yoga class a week! How very decadent of me.
This seems particularly decadent because I have just started an eight-week singing course, because it is something I have always wanted to know how to do properly. Apparently anyone can sing, or so the course outline says. We shall see. In the meantime, it is nice to see it as an emotional outlet, a way to be joyful, a social activity and even a two-hour reprieve from the daily grind. Of course all this is tempered with the mother guilt, the curse of selfishness, the washing that still needs folding when I get home.

hooray for me

2006-10-04T22:22:00.000+10:00

My God, it has been a while, hasn't it? But I have been on holidays, and the bitter irony of this is that I have had exactly no time to do any blogging, reading or otherwise relaxing. In order to do these things, I have had to return to work.
The holiday was lovely, as is the nature of holidays, being all together and not having or wanting to be anywhere else. But it was nice to come home, because home is lovely too.
And tomorrow is my 34th birthday, fancy that. I cannot believe I am thirty-four years of age as of tomorrow. I cannot believe I am not still 19. I cannot believe I was only 23 when I met RJ and my single life was abruptly, spectacularly, wonderfully terminated. I cannot believe there are adults around who were born in the late 1980s. Part of me cannot believe I am not a famous actress, or singer, or fashion designer, because when I was 19 and my mind stopped processing birthdays, all of those things were a definite possibility.
All I do know is that it is my birthday tomorrow, and the mother and wife in me, the one who rarely has time for personal appearances or even hair washing these days, would like that to be celebrated. Hooray for me, she wants to shout. And maybe I will, tomorrow morning while I take a long shower and thank the universe for sending me my beloved family, who will all be at home with me and who mean more to me than anything or anyone ever did when I was 19.

mother's milk

2006-08-24T21:30:00.000+10:00

More than a week has passed, which is not at all surprising when you know me and my propensity to put things off, or just to be generally too disorganised to find the time. Such is my life, to paraphrase Ned Kelly. I swear I will be more vigilant when I'm paying to call myself a blogger.

Loving the 24-hour husband thing, with RJ on holidays and all. I think he might be pleased to go back to work for a rest. But it is lovely having him around. We even went to the beach twice in as many days last week.

Meanwhile, I've been reading in last month's Women's Weekly (better late than never) about a plan to create a breast milk bank in a Queensland hospital. It will be the only one in Australia, and will help pre-term babies and those whose mothers for various reasons cannot provide their own milk. I remember thinking, during one of my many sleep-deprived hazes while I was still breastfeeding F, that it would be wonderful if you could go into a supermarket and buy a carton of breast milk alongside the low-fat, no-fat, high-calcium, lactose-free, soy varieties. Wouldn't that be grand? My vision may never be realised, but the vision of at least one Australian breast milk bank for wee bairns is still a worthy one. Go to www.mothersmilkbank.com.au for more info, and details of a CD you can buy to help fund the project. It features The Waifs, Deborah Conway and Women In Docs, among many others. Almost makes me sad I may never call myself a breastfeeding mother again. How quickly we forget the soggy bra straps, baby-vomit shoulders, sudden and indiscriminate 'leaking' in public and boobs like granite. Even as I am writing these things, I realise how much I really do miss it.

skipping a season

2006-08-16T22:03:00.000+10:00

Another day at the office, literally. In fact I'm still at the office, but not for much longer. Home time awaits.

Had a few beautiful days, weather-wise, so much like spring you would swear it's already here. But then I suppose it almost is. Where did those eight months go? Soon we'll be jetting off to the Whitsundays, where we can pretend it's summer for eight glorious days. How very decadent, skipping a whole season.

There are many things I've been loving about the warmer weather - letting F run around bare-bummed outside (so she can quite unexpectedly do a wee and look up at me in amazement as it puddles on the ground), feeling the sunshine warm my hair, opening the windows in the back room and not feeling too cold, listening to Linda Ronstadt (and singing, very loud, pretending to live out my fantasy of being in a Linda Ronstadt tribute band) and picking (and smelling) the beautiful nasturtiums, my absolute favourite, from the back yard and putting them in a vase on the kitchen window sill, where I can still smell them from the other side of the room and be reminded of childhood summers at Lennox Head.

Roll on summer, roll on.

destination normal

2006-08-10T22:02:00.000+10:00

It's all a bit of a blur really. Today was one of those days where having two shiftworkers in the house really takes its toll. I finished work at 10.30 last night and got to sleep about midnight, which was when RJ had to start work. F woke me just after 7 and I blearily prepared breakfast, knowing there was no chance of returning to bed until at least 11 o'clock tonight. RJ came home about 9am and fell into bed, rising again at 2pm when I woke him in time for me to have a shower and come back to work. When I go home I will have roughly 30 minutes in which to catch up with my dear husband (but only if he's awake) before he has to go to work.

Thankfully all this only happens once every couple of months, and after today my working week is over. And the big plus is that from next week RJ is on five weeks holiday! Hooray! We can pretend we're a normal family. Whatever that means.

a whole lot

2006-08-08T21:48:00.001+10:00

It is as I feared. My life is not interesting enough to maintain a daily weblog. Busy, yes. Hectic, yes. Often fraught with stress. But not terribly interesting in the grand scheme of things. Still, it is my prerogative to continue, even if only to entertain myself.

Two more days of preschool are behind us and two days of work in front of me. Amazing how quickly a week can go by, then two, then before you know it a whole year.

Three and a half years, to be exact, have passed since RJ and I set out to purchase half of our neighbour's backyard, thereby doubling the size of ours and allowing us to stay in our dear sweet corner of sunny wallsend. when the process began we had one child and one cat. We now have two children, one very unfit labrador and one cat (but not the same one). The times are a changin', that's for sure. And as of Friday, our lot has also changed! We are the proud owners of a new backyard! All very exciting, and now I can really start planning our extension, including a new kitchen, knowing that it is completely possible and not just a figment of my imagination.

We have already been to many, many kitchen showrooms (I want to say 'hundreds', because that's what it feels like, but really only about five). Freya has collected her own weight in Laminex samples, which come in so many pretty colours and hang at such an attractive height when you're 18 months old. For anyone else, they are all equally ugly and completely useless in any setting other than a kitchen showroom.

way out west

2006-08-03T22:26:00.000+10:00

Oh dear, another day gone by the wayside. A very cold day, I might add, so better off forgotten really. Today the sun is back, better than ever. And welcome, welcome to little Francis Lou, who arrived on Monday. Can't wait to meet you. God help me if you make me clucky again.

Been listening to a lot of The Waifs lately, which makes me feel like moving to Western Australia and wearing dresses over jeans and not shaving my legs. Just being a lot more relaxed about everything. Just read that both Donna and Vikki, sisters of The Waifs fame, had baby sons within a week of each other in September/October last year. Aaaaahhhh.

many taxing returns

2006-08-01T21:36:00.000+10:00

Failure to post on day two of website. Bad blogger! Still learning. But hooray! I just lodged my tax return - one of those very time-consuming jobs that never seems to get done but because today the stars aligned and F slept for two hours while E was at preschool, it can be removed from my very long list of things to do when I get around to it.

Happy birthday to all you horses out there (only the ones who can read, of course).

day one

2006-07-30T16:38:00.000+10:00

A glorious day, the third in a line of glorious days, not only because of the brilliant sunshine and cloudless sky but also because RJ had the day off and we could do the family thing.

Decided to wash Sunday (that's how sunny it was) and ended up wet to the knees and covered in white labrador fur, but with a much nicer smelling dog to show for it.

Had a family lunch at RJ's sister's house, enjoyed some sunshine (all of us), trampolining (E and F) and soccer (the dog, Susie) in the backyard plus several cups of tea (a family tradition).

Came home and put F to bed, read the Sunday paper, got the clothes in (all dry!) and sat down to begin my foray into blogging. Almost time for tea, then the bathing/bedtime rituals. Maybe an early night? We shall see.