4 kids, a dog and a blog

Bridges and Tunnels

2012-03-09T19:30:00.000-08:00

When I sent my smallest boy off to his new preschool in California I did so with much trepidation. And as expected, in those early weeks and months we had our share of tears and resistance.

Seven months down the track I am happy to report that my newly minted Mr5 only grants me one kiss before throwing me out the preschool door each morning; and when I asked him for a list of friends to invite to his birthday party he had no problem coming up with five names. His best friend is a sweet, funny and friendly boy. And that boy has been, in the words of another wise mother, the "bridge" linking my son to a small group of children who are all now firm friends.

Sadly, none of these children will be skipping off to kindergarten with my son. His best friend has another year of preschool to go, and the others either live in a different part of town or are attending the Young 5s program.

While a familiar face would perhaps make his first day that little bit easier, my Mr5 has grown immensely since we first landed in California. At this point, I am guessing that come September I will be the one holding back tears and wishing to stay that little bit longer in the classroom.

Even though I will celebrate a new found and longed for freedom, I will miss that small warm hand nestled so snugly inside my own as we go about our day and the constant company of a little boy whose future plans - 'when I am a man' - include building a series of tunnels between his home and mine.

Happy Birthday Mr5!

Dance Class Blues

2012-03-01T12:28:00.000-08:00

We turned up for the last five minutes of dance class and watched as the group formed a circle. The children took turns entering the centre and performing solo. Most were goofy, a few were good. My boy looked on nervously as he waited for his turn.

That turn never came. The teacher cut the music when it got up to him - the only one who had not had a turn - and directed the class to do some free dancing. My son performed a series of moves that were more disco than hip hop. He watched himself intently in the mirror, oblivious to the rumpus of girls before him.

The class ended and my son was the last to leave the floor. The teacher walked beside him, and as he talked to my son his tone was one of exasperation rather than encouragement. I put two and two together and my heart sank.

I asked another mother, the only familiar face, if she had watched the class today. No, I went to the market. Ok, I said. Damn. I needed a witness.

When I signed my boy up for this class I sent him off without a label. I didn't engage in a long explanation about learning disabilities. I had already done this with another dance school. They took a long time to get back to me.

I had hoped for too much. A teacher who saw the boy before him, trying his hardest every single time, rather than the problem who was messing up his dance routines.

The search is back on for that just right teacher. A special teacher for my special kid.

Moments of clarity

2012-02-27T09:12:00.000-08:00

I am one of those parents who loves to beat themselves up. And while guilt for guilt's sake is a waste of energy, I am well aware of my many flaws in life and parenting. But last night, when my daughter was setting up her own internet account and she typed in "writer, artist, musician" to describe herself, I decided I must be doing something right. Because I know for a fact that when I was 9, let alone 13 or 18 or 25, I would not have dared to claim one of those titles let alone all three. And as I hurtle ever faster towards the big 40 I still hesitate mightily and feel slightly fraudulent when I announce myself as anything other than mother.

At dinner on Friday night a passionate argument broke out around the table over the current political rumble in Australia. My oldest son vehemently disagreed with my position, and while I don't think he was right, the fire in his belly, the confidence with which he took his stand, and his motivation were incredibly impressive. And not just for a 12-year-old, for an any-year-old.

When my 7-year-old arrives home from a play and the mother-in-charge reports that he talked alot (possibly endlessly) about the importance of being kind; or my 4-year-old shows good judgement and wisdom in picking his preschool friends; or my daughter is chosen to sit with the girl with special needs in class, I know that we are, more often than not, getting things right.

Some days I am a barely good enough parent, mostly ordinary, occasionally amazing. We struggle through, with too many late notes, dirty floors and overflowing baskets of washing. We will continue to have many ordinary days, or even downright terrible, horrible, no good ones. But those moments - the ones where my kids reveal an extraordinary confidence and clarity about who they are or what they are about, passion for the world, compassion for their classmate - not only take my breath away but remind me that while I am not 'just' a mother, I am very bloody proud to be the mother of this particular brood.

The Ultimate Comfort Food

2012-02-25T23:03:00.001-08:00

Since landing in the US I have been struck by the emergence of what I call the Nursing Tent, a device designed to completely obscure the act of breastfeeding from the public eye. It is now very rare to see a woman breastfeeding in public without the tent, or at the very least an artfully arranged blanket. And this bothers me.

Breastfeeding a baby is not obscene or gross or something that needs to be hidden. I feel ridiculous even writing this down as I had assumed it was obvious. But then I started following more US tweeps and my eyes have been opened to a whole world of attitudes to breastfeeding that quite frankly I would rather not know about (see @wolfmommy's stream); attitudes that give lie to the position that somehow breastfeeding advocates have gone too far.

No, from the comments, they have clearly not gone far enough.

Breastfeeding is a simple act. It is eating for babies, the ultimate comfort food. Babies have a need and right to indulge whenever the urge strikes, and their mothers have a right to feel safe and supported doing so.

Breastfeeding is not special, it is normal and everyday. Or at least it should be.

The case of the missing violin

2012-02-21T11:39:00.000-08:00

I guess a day that started with a missing violin was bound to be interesting, even a little off the wall. While we did consider the possibility that there was a musically inclined thief in the neighbourhood, the instrument was eventually located on the premises. Outdoors and covered in dew drops but still in reasonable working order.

It is not that hard for me to imagine the series of events that led to this scenario. My daughter regularly walks around the house playing, a source of endless irritation to her older brother who would prefer she take his approach to practice - one that errs on the side of minimalism. It is entirely possible that she got caught up in a conversation in the backyard with her dad (who is busy spending the weekends building a trebochet) or just decided to share her talents with the local wildlife (and neighbours). Perhaps she put it down on the outdoor table to throw a ball to the dog or shoo away a little brother. The possibilities are endless.

While at this point it would not be entirely out of bounds to give my daughter a lecture on responsibility and blah blah I am going to skip it. Entirely. Nobody could have been more upset that her instrument had gone walkabout than my daughter. She left for school in tears knowing that she had to face her rather austere orchestra teacher with an unlikely story "Yes miss, that's right. I lost it."

So when I rocked up to school with violin case in hand, I left the lectures behind and handed over the goods.

My daughter may not be the most organised person in the world and neither am I. But I would swap that quality any day for all the things that she is - passionate, creative, unconventional and capable of making beautiful music in almost any location.

Male apologists

2012-02-11T20:01:00.018-08:00

Bettina Arndt is not a feminist. She is a male apologist. Her piece in today's SMH could have been written by the likes of Sam de Brito or (as some have pointed out on Twitter) Kyle Sandilands. And if nothing else, it will bring much comfort to all the "Kyles" out there, men who like to cast themselves as the victim while at the same time demeaning women.

At my downtown cafe I like to observe and sadly what I observe is all too
often enraging. Men, not working class or disenfranchised or impoverished, but older (30 plus) well educated entitled men openly gawking at and sizing up young women and often doing so in a group.

And I am not talking about a discreet glance. The discreet glance is another thing altogether. Nobody has a problem with that. Even a polite attempt at conversation. I have seen that too. No problem.

The harassment is not tied to the way the women are dressed. I have seen women subjected to this treatment when dressed in sweatpants or dressed to the 9s. I don't recall seeing any of these women with their tits out - so maybe under Arndt's rule they did not in fact deserve it because tits seem to be the all important factor.

In the article Arndt says

"And there are angry men, the beta males who lack the looks, the trappings of success to tick these women's boxes. They know the goodies on display are not for them. These are the men most likely to behave badly, blatantly leering, grabbing and sneering. For them, the whole thing is a tease. They know it and resent it."
Read more: http://www.smh.com.au/opinion/society-and-culture/the-booby-trap-20120211-1syoi.html#ixzz1m9Rm7nwu

Arndt references the poor males who have experienced rejection for not making the grade. These men are being attacked by women's boobs. Do women not also experience rejection? Are they not held up to a beauty standard or ideal that is far more onerous than that imposed on men. Have they not desired men who rejected them based on nothing but their lack of "the goods"?

Has Arndt taken a look at the online dating websites and noted that men consistently seek out women 10, 20 even 30 years younger, often with stringent criteria about body shape? Surely it is not just unattractive men who feel they have missed out on relationships, and adequate if not fulsome amounts of sex? Are women who have experienced rejection and ridicule from men, sometimes for their entire lives, now entitled to harass young attractive males who flaunt themselves in their tight t-shirts and jeans?

Arndt sympathetically portrays a man who goes to the beach with his girlfriend and "moan(ed) out loud when a particularly sexy beach bunny crossed our path." Does Arndt really think that this male is "misunderstood", that he couldn't keep the thoughts he had about other women's bodies inside his head. Is that asking too much? Seriously.

Apart from enraging women and men who don't accept that men are incapable of controlling their sexual urges, what is the message being given to young women and men?

The same old message my friends. You're asking for it is what she is saying. And it is up to women to police their behaviour rather than to put the onus on badly behaved men.

As I said, she is a male apologist of the first order.

Get Your Hands Off My Contraception

2012-02-09T11:43:00.015-08:00

I am feeling incredibly ranty this morning. Living in the US in an election year is bound to bring out the bile but it seems that entirely new lows are being plumbed. Like personhood amendments and attacks on access to contraception, not to mention the whole Komen debacle.

Yesterday I saw a car drive by with an "I love Boobies" sticker, in pink of course. I did a double take until I realised that it was part of what I think is a wrong headed approach to breast cancer awareness and prevention.

And then I think about how while we might "love boobies" when they are young and pretty and on display for the gratification of men we really are not so happy about boobies when they are in the mouths of babes. This sort of boobie needs to be buried under a tent or a blanket to ensure that nobody catches a glimpse of an actual breast performing the function for which it was designed.

While abortion has been under attack forever in the US, now it seems that contraception is also up for grabs. Recently Obama rightly ruled that Catholic organisations could not exempt contraception from their employee healthcare schemes and now the fight is on.

My question is what right does the Catholic Church have, the same one that allowed sexual abusers a free pass around the world, to get between a woman and her doctor? Access to medical care, which includes all forms of contraception, is a right and not something to be negotiated away to placate the hard right and religious conservatives who view women as second class citizens.

Nobody is forcing contraception or abortion on anybody who has a religious objection, therefore nobodies right to religious freedom is being violated. As a letter in today's NYTs pointed out, Catholic hospitals are "still able to deny full reproductive care to all female patients, including rape victims". (NYT, Letters, February 9th, 2012)

It is 2012 but sometimes it feels more like 1950.

You've got mail

2012-02-06T16:35:00.024-08:00

Today, amongst the usual assortment of bills, junk and not at this address mail, I found a hand addressed envelope in my letterbox. The envelope was wrapped around a card that was as whimsical as it's sender, without even a whiff of generic Hallmark style greetings. And inside the card was a beautiful, rambling, funny and thoughtful letter that encapsulated all that I adore about a very special old friend.

I love receiving a personal email and keep a semi-regular correspondence with a couple of my far flung friends. Whenever I see a new arrival in my inbox from one of these select few I get a special buzz. But the receipt of an actual card or letter is something else altogether.

Maybe snail mail is old-fashioned but I suspect that, like books printed on paper, rather than dying out they will come to be considered rare treasures in a world where communication has never been easier, faster or cheaper.

Retard

2012-02-05T14:34:00.015-08:00

"Retard.”

The word hung heavily in the air until I unleashed an anger towards the speaker so visceral that social niceties were left in tatters.

Growing up my high school was across the road from a special education school. In those days, terms like retard and spastic were thrown around with careless abandon to encompass disabilities as disparate and unrelated as Downs Syndrome, below the line IQ and autism. I particularly remember the two kids from this school who caught my bus home daily with the "regular" kids, kids who may not have had a label but whose unthinking cruelty was borderline sociopathic. And shockingly normal.

As a teen I recognized and was disturbed by this cruelty, but lacked the social muscle to take on the tormentors and was instead left with the guilty conscience of the bystander.

Twenty years (or more) later and I am no longer the "good girl" of old. While the tormentor this time came in the guise of a mature adult, the willingness to employ this term in pursuit of a laugh at a Friday night BBQ felt like the cold hard slap that little Hugo in Christos Tsiolkas's novel The Slap suffered at the hands of his uncle. As the mother of a child whose differences can also be described as disabilities, and who regularly hears from others with similarly affected children, I could not just let the remark go unchecked.

The man who found himself the subject of my vitriol is not a monster. In fact he is a pretty decent guy which is what made the casual way he used the term all the more distressing. He was on the rampage, venting about all the (his words) “retards” to be found in private schools, kids not smart enough to cope in public schools and definitely not in league with those with the luck to have the intellectual capital to land themselves in the - no less elite by virtue of being public - academically selective school system found in NSW.

He was talking about kids like my own son, who probably would not have survived beyond primary school in the NSW state school system, one that simply does not provide the funding necessary to provide for a child whose need for academic support are so high. Of course, we moved to the US and have landed in a system so dramatically different that the sense that we need a Plan B private school option is, for the time being at least, off the table.

While terms once considered degrading - like gay and queer and slut - have been adopted by affected communities as an act of subversion, I am not hoping for a similar ironic embrace of "retard" anytime soon. Instead, I expect that adults will be able summon up their considerable brain power, if not empathy, to delete the word from their vocabulary. And if not, I will happily subject users to the sort of verbal slap that they deserve.

Oh the places you'll go ... or not

2012-01-29T20:08:00.021-08:00

I woke up this morning wedged between two small boys. And as I reluctantly emerged from the fog of sleep, I found myself remembering fragments of the dream that my early risers had unknowingly interrupted.

It was about my Mr7 and without thinking I told him.

"I had a dream last night that you could read."

"Really read?" He asked, incredulous. Then he smiled. He knew that this was a happy dream.

"Yes" I said, remembering the boy in the dream effortlessly reading aloud from a Dr Seuss book.

For the parent of a child with a "reading disability", dyslexia in old speak, this dream was nothing short of miraculous, the equivalent of the wheelchair bound child suddenly hopping up and walking towards you.

Of course, learning to read is not really that difficult. While parents may find themselves worrying because their child's progress has not been as rapid as their classmates, the reality is that for most kids once they have cracked the basics they will go on to master the art of reading. My older children cracked the code at a fairly average pace, but there was never any doubt that they would make it. It was just a matter of time and patience.

For Mr7, learning to read is a Herculean task. As his classmates wade through chapter books he is still struggling with individual letter sounds. Yet he loves books as much as the next child, and possibly more than the one after that. And while this is the key to him mastering reading, it seems almost cruel.

I recently chatted with a mother of a 12-year-old with learning disabilities. She reflected that every day her son had to put in 100% in the classroom and then spend the evenings struggling through homework while she held his hand. And in spite of all this effort, he would still fail. Speaking as the mother of another child who qualifies as "gifted", the unfairness of this sometimes makes me want to punch the next person - possibly my former self - who complains about school being too slow or boring. While this response is possibly immature and definitely not one around which to formulate education policy, the reality is that those kids lucky enough to have above average intelligence can look forward to a life full of choices whereas those with learning disabilities or just a plain old low IQ have far fewer options.

Next September I will send my youngest off to kindergarten and I fear that his progress will be too rapid. All the signs are there. Reading is going to come to him easily and before long he will find himself lost in a sea of stories.

And I will find myself struggling, not wanting to slow him down but wanting him to wait just that little bit longer, giving his big brother time to catch up.

Kitchen Disco

2012-01-14T14:53:00.004-08:00

Last night I felt like a juggler. In a good mood, I promised the bigs a board game and the smalls disco dancing and playdough making. Big children had to wait out the dancing, and then small children had to wait out the board game until we got to the playdough making. By the end of it all I only had energy for sleep.

Today did not get off to the most promising start. And it could easily have continued it's southward trajectory. But maybe, after all these years of marriage we have learned the art of dodging a potential head on. Not always, but often enough that a case of the morning grumpies does not necessarily translate into an all day affair.

Our Saturday ritual, brunch or sometimes just plain old lunch at our favourite cafe, was a raucous affair. The smalls did not necessarily understand the jokes, but they laughed along anyway, happy because their parents and older siblings were happy.

The afternoon will be filled with writing for me and the building of a trebochet for The Engineer. More than likely the kids will act as sidekicks in this typically bizarre project. And I will ignore potential dangers, content that for at least some of this Saturday the kids won't be hypnotised by a screen.

In the meantime, some kitchen disco dancing from Mr7 accompanied by Mr4. Happy Saturday/Sunday depending on where you are in the world.

Playing Jesus

2012-01-09T00:49:00.004-08:00

We have a new favourite toy in our house and it is not a Transformer or Star Wars Lego set or any of the usual suspects. It is the Playmobil nativity scene I picked up 1/2 price at the post-holiday sale table. $15 my friends.

My small boys are entirely enamoured with the baby Jesus (presumed female by Mr4), the one wise man (not sure what happened to the other two) and the angel who Mr4 tells me grants wishes by waving her magic wand. Today the nativity scene was joined by some knights in shining armour. And so Jesus has entered the cast of characters that make up my young boys rich fantasy life.

I have been tempted to buy a nativity scene before. An odd ache for a self-declared atheist, but I attended Catholic school for 13 years and felt my kids should have some understanding of the basic Christmas story - the Jesus one rather than the Santa-Westfield version.

Last night, Mr4 listened wide eyed as I explained that baby Jesus grew up to be a very good man who taught people to be kind and this is why people celebrate his birthday. Today, as they "played Jesus" Mr7 gently sang in operatic style "baby Jesus" over and over again. It was a rather pleasant change from the usual war like play that so often ends in tears.

Next up is Easter. Somehow I don't think we will be adding a Playmobil resurrection set to our collection, although I have no doubt this far darker tale would be a huge hit. Instead, I will attempt to create the perfect Easter egg hunt, we will all gorge ourselves stupid on chocolate, and if by some miracle the nativity set has not been cast aside by then, the boys may enjoy a session of playing Jesus.

Life amongst the tech heads

2012-01-05T10:19:00.017-08:00

Pulling up at a stop sign I register what looks like a rocket on wheels. Or perhaps a child's toy brought to life. Large pieces of metal screwed together, similar to a Meccano set. And apparently road worthy. I feel like I have momentarily stepped onto the set of a Matrix remake.

I chat politely to my cafe neighbour. Before I know it he has decided that he must show me what he has been working on. He pulls up a screen to reveal a series of inter-connected boxes. He explains in great detail how his creation is going to revolutionise something or other. My eyes glaze over, not because it isn't interesting, but because my brain short circuits whenever a conversation verges into tech talk.

George the tiler arrives. He takes some measurements and discusses which bits of walls need to be taken, then asks where we are from. After explaining that we recently arrived from Sydney he says "computers brought you here" and it is more statement than question. Then he tells us what it was like growing up in Silicon Valley before it was Silicon Valley, how his uncles told him to go into electronics but he hated the idea of being tied to a desk, and how he grew up in a home on the land that now houses Google.

In some ways George is not that dissimilar to my husband and his engineer friends who once formed a woodworking collective. While most of my husband's time is spent at a desk in front of a computer screen, satisfaction is found in building things, whether it is via complex code or pieces of wood.

Most days when I pick up my youngest child from preschool I find him quietly working away in the block corner. I imagine this is where I would have found my husband as a 4-year-old. Or George. Or my own sister, who saved her pocket money to buy technical Lego while I spent mine at the stationary store much as my daughter does now.

I often feel like a bit of an alien amongst the tech heads of Silicon Valley, with my short circuiting brain and preference for words over anything else. But I love the optimism, the respect for creativity, the spirit of invention and the willingness to take a risk on a crazy idea. I also enjoy occasionally finding myself giving way at a stop sign to a man in a life size Meccano rocket on wheels.

A Completely Over the Top Christmas Post

2011-12-16T10:27:00.021-08:00

I imagine that in many American towns there is a street that is known for putting in a little extra effort when it comes to seasonal decorations. In our previous stint in the US we used to travel up from our home specially to view one particular street each year, it was so special. I remember the lines of cars well and the cold. This year, our first back in California, this street is around the corner from our house and is a rather cruel reminder of just how lacking our own efforts have been - consisting solely of a rather tired and broken tree brought from home.

Despite the cold, and the fact Mr7 forgot his jacket so spent the walk down Christmas Tree Lane sharing my cardi, it was as amazing as always. We noted that a few stray houses had perhaps missed the memo this year, but mostly the residents went completely and wildly OTT.

Enjoy!

Password to Happiness

2011-12-10T14:38:00.001-08:00

Last night* the ever curious Mr4 asked me "What is the password to happiness?" While I was tempted to reply in snarky tones "sleep, my dear", the unhappy truth is I have no idea. And if I ever do figure out that particular password I'll be sure to put it in a book and live the life of a squillionaire.

Scrolling through my tweetstream I discovered that there is an app that promises to make my middle schooler's life happier and bully free. Wow! Just as soon as I remember my smartphone password I'll be sure to download it. And in the meantime, I wonder if they could also develop an app to get my 4-year-old to fall asleep before 11pm.

Gadgets are everywhere and we love them. When I literally drowned my laptop a few weeks ago I was lost, bereaved. I also managed to complete three books in a week, and (oh the shame) pay closer attention to my children.

I have fiercely resisted the call of the hand held DS, fearing that my children will spend every waking moment glued to a screen. I have also resisted the x box, the wii and the television. But after all that resisting the smartphone found me and I am now the biggest hypocrite since *insert name of least favourite politician*

If you asked my children what app they would like to give me for Christmas, I suspect they would nominate the simplest app of them all - the off button. Which makes it rather handy that I cannot recall the password required to download those pesky apps, let alone the password to the deeply desired, elusive and often fleeting state called happiness.

*3 weeks ago

His name is Henry

2011-12-03T17:14:00.013-08:00

His name is Henry. Or possibly Hendry. I see him regularly at the local coffee shop ordering his giant size drink over and over again in one sitting. His demeanour is odd, off putting even, and I am ashamed to admit that I have found myself hoping that he does not ask to share a table with me when it it is crowded.

My first encounter with Henry was when he spoke to me abruptly while I was waiting to use the bathroom. At the time I thought he was very rude. It was only later that I realised that in fact he was trying to be helpful.

These days I notice how he jokes with the staff in his own odd way and occasionally strikes up brief, awkward, but always polite conversations with fellow cafe dwellers.

I sense that Henry has a safe base, perhaps still living with his parents. I am glad he has found a second home of sorts at the cafe. I have no doubt he finds comfort in this routine and in that way we are not so different.

* * * * * *

As I watch Henry, I think of my own children and those of friends, kids whose social interactions have an awkward quality or whose reports regularly note that they "talk at" rather than with their peers. And I know that one day they too will have to walk out into the world without a parent or sibling to rescue them when they don't quite get "it", the unwritten and often bewildering rules of the social world.

I hope that our kids find safe places to land, places where being a little bit different is not met with ridicule or avoidance or shame, but instead with offers to grab a chair and share a spot at the table.

Brothers and Sisters

2011-11-25T21:21:00.019-08:00

Today I spent much time at the children's playground watching brothers and sisters interact. Not the small ones climbing the wrong way up the slippery slide, but the big ones, adult children who had gathered at their childhood homes for the Thanksgiving holiday.

Off to one side of the park a man and woman float back and forth on the swings, all the time having a conversation that is both intimate and playful, without the petty irritations that distinguish the married with children set. Their easy banter reminds me of my own relationship with my brother.

In the other direction stand a pair who at first glance I presume are a couple, but on closer inspection realise their matching jet black hair is greying in exactly the same distinctive manner. And they are handsome in exactly the same way. Another brother and sister set.

Back to the swings, and I spot a second sister. Husbands float in and out. Small children are passed between mothers and fathers and uncles and aunts. Next year, more than likely they will all be back, the children a year older, the hair greyer, perhaps the young uncle will bring a partner this time and one of the sisters will be pregnant with a second child.

I stand on the outside looking in. Envious. Not because I don't have this but because I left it behind.

And then tonight my phone rings. It is my brother. In less than a month we'll be sitting side by side on the couch at mum's, exchanging conspirational glances across the dinner table, doubled over with laughter one moment and quietly sharing our darkest secrets and worst fears the next.

Talking Turkey

2011-11-23T21:34:00.010-08:00

Americans are relentlessly cheerful. And sometimes I find this exhausting, trying. Especially first thing in the morning.

But tonight, as I literally talked turkey with the cashier at Trader Joe's, I was left wishing for a small slice, and possibly a second helping, of that optimistic outlook on life. If my cashier -a single mother of three who had lost her husband to cancer a few years earlier and was working a 65-hour-week just to get by - could feel grateful because she had a job (2 in fact) and so many didn't, then surely I could adjust my own outlook up quite a few notches.

As I sit up in bed writing this post that same cashier is still working. Her shift will end at midnight at which point she will go home and try to figure out how to cook a turkey and all the condiments in time for Thanksgiving lunch. We will both put alfoil over the turkey to keep it moist (her suggestion) and I (ok, my husband) will make turkey gravy from the recipe that another store employee cheerfully provided me with when I revealed my Thanksgiving ignorance.

When we meet again at the check out we will report back on our Thanksgiving meals as promised. And I will silently thank her for reminding me that outside the bubble there is another America, full of people who are just getting by with far more optimism than seems reasonable.

Happy Thanksgiving.

A Happy Life

2011-11-23T13:01:00.005-08:00

I listen as

The girl in the café

Tells her friend

She has checked herself into the clinic

For anorexics

Bodies whittled down

To the sort of perfection

That attracts standing ovations

I feel a twinge

Of jealousy

For her brittle bones

The coat hanger body

That slips so easily into

Skinny jeans

The body that has consumed itself

To virtual oblivion

On a steady diet of 500 calories a day

Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels

Says the leader

To the assembled

Gathered in the church hall

For their weekly sermon

We nod our heads obediently

Committed to making the sacrifices

Required for a skinny life

I watch the old men

Spread comfortably in their chairs

Lines and rolls

Of flesh

Which they unapologetically feed

With a steady diet of coffee and cake

It is a happy life

Monkey Bar Therapy

2011-11-16T18:41:00.010-08:00

To put it mildly, this year is not shaping up to be an easy one for my daughter. Her new world is more than a little out of whack and most days she returns home from school very much out of sorts. Attempts at talking it through are generally speaking fraught.

Here is the good news. My daughter has landed on her own form of after school therapy and, surprisingly enough considering we are living at the epicentre of all things therapeutic, it does not involve chanting or lying on a couch and contemplating one's navel.

No, in perfect 9-year-old fashion and with a nod to freerange parenting (otherwise known as idle parenting), she takes herself to the park most afternoons and works out the turmoil of her day with an intense session on the monkey bars. Back and forth she goes, wearing her blisters as badges of honour and tracking her achievements with the same focus others reserve for grades and scoring averages.

Sometimes this workout is all that is needed. More commonly, there will still be angry outbursts directed at siblings, making it hard as a parent to maintain emotional equilibrium when it is most needed. On other days the tears will eventually come, erupting at unexpected moments that tell me just how deeply she is hurting.

While I wish with all my being that this year, for so many reasons, was not shaping up to be one of her toughtest yet, I hope that through it all she will gain some coping skills. Perhaps as an adult, when things are going array she will find herself mysteriously drawn to a children's playground, finding relief from adult torments as she speeds through the air clutching on tightly to a flying fox; rediscovering the physical and mental strength she possessed at age 9 as she makes her way slowly but surely across the monkey bars.

Happiness is Hard Work

2011-11-12T09:30:00.007-08:00

When we are children
We expect that when our dreams fall into place
We will no longer be gripped
By eternal doubts
But instead find ourselves in happiness's warm embrace

But then we grow up
And find that happiness
Does not just arrive
On our doorstep
Gift wrapped
Once our life goals have been marked off
One by one
As if life is an exam
That we have passed with flying colours

Instead,
Happiness must be cultivated
Like a temperamental plant
Who needs both sun and shade
Often at the same time
And if we are honest
We will admit
There is safety
To be found in our sadness

Parental Confessional

2011-11-05T21:12:00.005-07:00

I was raised a Catholic and as such I am familiar with guilt and confession plus men in frocks. As a parent, I remain overly familiar with guilt but feel let down in the confession department. We need ritual folks, and prayers and quite possibly our very own saint.

So, to kick proceedings off I shall begin with my parental sin of the day . . .

Today I have yelled, quite possibly to excess.

Dear *insert parenting guru of choice*

I am very sorry

For I have sinned against you

For what I have done

I am truly sorry

And as penance shall revise chapter one of *insert preferred parenting tome*

Amen

What parenting sin did you commit today? Who is your parenting guru? Did you go to confession as a child and find yourself repeating exactly the same list of sins every single time?

I scream for Halloween

2011-10-31T22:23:00.050-07:00

"Just one more house" I pleaded.

"Can we go home now?" the kids replied.

And so it went. It seems I quite like Halloween.

It has been a long time between Halloweens for our family so this year we embraced it with the gusto of the newly arrived. And aside from some fairly spectacular sugar rushes I feel that I got to know my neighbourhood just that little bit better.

Tonight, I present you with a series of badly taken photos.

And hopefully within the next few days I will come down from my sugar high enough to put down some words....

Here goes...

We began celebrations with classroom parties followed by a jaw dropping whole school Halloween parade. I introduced American 1st graders to the wonders of fairy bread.

I am not sure why but we decided to join our friends for some pre-trick or treating at the local outdoor shopping centre. It was quite the event ...

I think MrRubics Cubes mother deserves some sort of award. She designed this costume from scratch. Wowza.

The glass pumpkins in the pumpkin carriage (above) and The Robot (below) that was operated remotely by a man who had suffered a stroke at age 40 that left him a quadraplegic. He manipulated the robot to pick up candy bars and place them inside the children's baskets. The kids stood in line for a good hour to be a part of this.

Trick or Treating for real ... starting with the unbelievable Haunted House. Sadly, I could not take photos of the amazing pitch black maze that we made our way through and was truly terrifying for the little ones.

I just love pumpkin displays. Apologies if you don't because to follow there are quite a few...

(Below) Steve Jobs' family continued the tradition of providing the community with an amazing Halloween display and personally handed out very generous goodie bags to the kids.

(Below) This cul-de-sac display was magnificent. It was like walking onto a film set. Smoke machines were working overtime. The photos do it no justice whatsoever.

The End

Plastic Perfection

2011-10-30T20:17:00.010-07:00

Walking in the California sun

Seeing faces that have been moulded

Into plastic perfection

By surgeon's hands

Wondering if these women

Who have everything that money can buy

Have any notion of how sad they look

Seventy going on twenty-five

Marvelling at the beauty of a grandmother

Whose curves ensure

That she does not appear more reptilian

Than human

Driving home alone

Tears streaming down my face

Wishing that this Sunday

I did not feel so entirely out of place

On Being 4: Destination World Domination

2011-10-27T14:05:00.002-07:00

This post is part of the At War With Four blog hop where we share the pain (small portions of joy allowed) of parenting 4-year-olds.

Kick kick kick. "Stop it" I hiss.

"Well get me what I want" replies my mini-dictator. We are in the middle of a supermarket so hissing is all I've got. The trolley is full and we are accompanied by two other children. Would you be shocked if I told you we got the ice-cream?

That incident occurred yesterday. Over the past week there have been multiple doozies of similar proportions, ranging from the typical "I hate you" to the complete humiliation of having the small boy literally yell at an adult stranger for taking his seat.

Yes, the boy is four.

He is a bundle of contradictions of the sort Freud would have a field day with. He still holds my hand extra tight each time we pass through the preschool gate and snuggles up with me at night as he falls asleep. He is terrified of monsters and a firm believer in Santa Claus.

But he is no sentimentalist. Rather than embracing childhood, he is transfixed by the idea of being a grown up. To him, this is the point at which all his fantasies can be fulfilled. Fantasies of absolute power and revenge for those who have got in his way. "Those" being for the main part his parents and siblings.

As I somewhat pathetically attempt to stay on the path of small 'a' authoritative parenting, Mr4 admonishes me for my weak willed ways. "Punish him" he shouts "Make him do whatever I want."

I sigh. I am tired, defeated. If I hadn't experienced a female four-year-old I might buy the theories about 4-year-olds boys and testosterone surges. But I know that the F'ing Fours are not a gendered affair but instead a Distinctly Difficult Developmental phase, one where the internal struggle for independence is having it out with the desire to stay wrapped inside the warm embrace of early childhood.

"It is the saddest time when we die", says my Mr4 for the umpteenth time, staring at me with those beautiful eyes. And once again I find myself melting, knowing that beneath all that wild bravado is a small boy having very large and often scary thoughts.

Before long my Mr4 will morph into a somewhat more reasonable Mr5. And even though I may relish no longer living with quite such a determined dictator, I will also mourn the passing of a time when his small hand reached so readily for mine and he believed without a flicker of doubt that one magical day he would rule the world.

http://4kids1dogblog.blogspot.com/2011/10/at-war-with-4_26.html

At War With 4

2011-10-26T19:17:00.010-07:00

Are you the parent of a 4-year-old or should I say "dictator in training"? Do you find yourself in a state of despair more often than you care to admit? Are you considering putting a child psychiatrist on speed dial?

If so, then we are here to help. Or at least commiserate. Think of this blog hop as a virtual support group. We know you love your 4-year-old but living with a mini dictator is no easy task.

Share away and please visit your fellow parents in despair. We need all the support we can get.

Michelle

p.s. I am not big on rules. I'll leave that to the 4-year-olds! But if you are not already following my blog then please consider. Think of it as a little birthday present. 4 kids, 1 dog and a blog is turning 1 this weekend.

Sick Day

2011-10-26T09:50:00.024-07:00

My big boy has been running on 110% since the start of Year 7. Every time he finishes one task it seems another sprouts up to replace it. Four weekends in a row spent completing major homework assignments, multiple late nights followed by super early mornings. Many tears.

He is only twelve.

Last night I was woken up by the sound of loud gasping sobs. When I reluctantly opened my eyes I found Mr12 standing at my bedroom door, crying and shaking. And I was reminded of just how vulnerable he is, how my job as a parent is to not only make sure he stays organised and does his best, but that we also protect him from the worst of the pressure cooker school system that we have placed him in.

Today he is staying home. He has a bit of a sore throat. He may have had a fever last night or he may have been shaking because he was too cold. I don't really care. He is home taking care of his health, both physical and mental.

Happily this weekend will be homework free, the first since the start of the term. On Saturday night I will be taking him on a mother-son date to see To Kill a Mockingbird at the local arthouse cinema. And on Monday night we will celebrate Halloween with wild abandon, truly happy that on this one night we are back in America.

At some point today I will need to gently remind him he has a science test tomorrow and a math test on Friday. He will heave a sigh of resignation and do what needs to be done. But for now I will let him be, happy to see him playing blocks with his younger brother, having the space to just be.

The Not Quite Iowa Writers'* Workshop

2011-10-23T19:40:00.016-07:00

Tonight I watched my daughter suffer through her first crisis of confidence of the writerly sort. On Friday, she shone with excitement as she handed me the green entry form for the school's writers' club. By Sunday night she had come up with a list of excuses as to why she should not join.

Earlier in the day I had read one of those intimidating articles about bright young things who attended the Iowa Writers' Workshop and landed publishing gigs before turning 35. While impressed, I was more depressed than inspired. And then I read a poem my divine aunt sent me as inspiration for my own writing and while I loved the poem I again sunk a little lower in my seat, convinced yet again that I was a fool for even trying.

So tonight, not wanting to pass on this perpetual crisis of confidence, I packed my daughter in the car and took her on a nighttime writing adventure. I ordered her to bring green form, pencil and book. I came armed with laptop, newspaper and book. And as I now write about her writing she is sitting beside me filling in her first writers' workshop application.

It may not be Iowa, but it is fabulous. It is getting the sense that you can do this thing that you love and surrounding yourself with other people who feel the same way.**

"Less popcorn, more writing" I say as the cafe prepares to close.

"I am writing" she says, scratching out a few more sentences.

And so am I.

*Advance apologies to my Apostrophe Bitches. You know who you are and that I love you. I am doing my best but am 100% sure that my apostrophobic ways have led to a 50% success rate in this post.

**My own personal Iowa is in fact found right here in blogland. I am 100% sure I am not the only one who feels this way.

Wild Things

2011-10-23T05:56:00.007-07:00

Maybe Occupy Wall St

Is better suited to poetry than prose

A primal scream

For justice

All at once too immense, too marginal

To wear the formal attire

Of the academic essay

All bow ties and footnotes

Or the carefully phrased report of the bureaucrat

Where humanity is lost in the maddening logic of bottom lines and flow charts

And the cruel joke that is trickle down economics

Leaves the pockets of the few overflowing

While those of the many

Are weighed down by nothing more substantial

Than loose change

These voices cannot be tamed

Into neat lists

Punctuated by dot points

As demanded by the pundits

Who sneer at the masses

From the comfort of their talkback towers

All the while seeking to whip the occupiers

Into a state of submission

These real life wild things

Who the 1 percent

Wish to send to bed

Without any supper

Occupy Motherhood

2011-10-20T16:58:00.010-07:00

Dark thunderous clouds encase her mind

Silver linings so faint they may as well not exist

Just as she is ready to do the unthinkable

A burst of sunshine breaks through

So bright it hurts

And she is not sure whether to laugh or cry

Armies of men, dressed in their uniforms

Of khaki casual

Or the denim preferred by dot com billionaires

Who wear their wealth

So casually

March towards her

Not meeting her eyes for even a moment

Her presence no more significant

Than a crack in the sidewalk

That is best avoided

As a small child clings to her leg

She looks with indecent lust

At these men

Wanting nothing more than their freedom

Blanding

2011-10-15T18:41:00.007-07:00

The trend to use the language of the marketplace to define ourselves in the online world is one that I find more than a little disturbing. It seems we are all now consumers wherever we go, rather than citizens or learners or patients or even (god forbid) human beings.

In the online world, the need to brand ourselves seems likely to lead to blanding more than anything else. We become less social media citizen, more social media product. We are in danger of serving what is expected rather than material that challenges both ourselves and our readers. If our brand is dessert then we should steer clear of serving up Indian buffet even if that is what we are really in the mood for.

Perhaps our brand is really no different from our reputation or profile or voice. But in using the language of advertising we are selling ourselves short, equating ourselves with just another product on a supermarket shelf rather than the infuriatingly complex, unpredictable and contradictory human beings that we are.

When I visit the online world, I am not on a shopping trip nor am I seeking the online equivalent of a Tupperware party. I am not interested in product but I am interested in people and ideas. And the ones that hold the most appeal are those that are least readily categorized.

Maybe I am just a conference away from understanding the need to brand. But I hope not. What I do hope is that my digital thumbprint, the voice that I use to tell my stories, has something worthwhile to offer in the sea of voices – not brands - that make up the blogosphere.

My fear is that the brand horse has already well and truly bolted. And it is my aversion to this trend that will force me to hit the publish button on this post, aware that not doing so is nothing more than a cowardly act of self-censorship, a step closer to becoming an easily digestible brand.

Alphabet Soup

2011-10-12T19:51:00.010-07:00

For a child who has trouble with the alphabet, my Mr7 sure has hell has a lot of letters after his name. I have written about my extra special boy here and here before, and aside from the recent accumulation of letter combinations that are entirely new to me, he continues to shine in so many ways.

He has charmed his way into the hearts of an entire special education department, not to mention his teacher, who all agree that this boy has charisma and kindness in abundance. And he not only thinks he can dance. According to his new speech therapist, he can dance. She thought enough of his special abilities in this arena to capture the boy on film.

In the course of a meeting whose purpose was to review the findings of multiple tests that did not bring back the sort of results that normally bring a smile to a mother's face, there was an awful lot of laughter. One minute we were analysing a complex set of test scores, the next we were musing that perhaps Mr7 should skip English and go straight to learning Spanish. Or possibly Russian or Chinese. Not that he believes that there is any need for an actual lesson. He has apparently been rather busy teaching "the team" his own version of all of these languages. And while his ability to read is seriously impaired by specific *insert fancy technical terms* learning disabilities, his prodigious memory stands him in good stead for new language learning.

This afternoon, post-meeting, I walked my boy home from school with a sense of optimism. Surrounded by this team, I feel confident that the often maligned American public school system is going to do the right thing by my son. They cared enough to dig far deeper than anybody has dug before, going above and beyond the bureaucratic requirements. They showed a genuine appreciation for the person my son is, not the jumble of letters that weigh down his learning and will at times make my heart ache a little bit more than is reasonable.

Tonight as we finished dinner, Mr7 decided it was time to teach me some Russian. He took me through many interesting words that all appropriately started with the letter Z. And then he told me that he loved me. In Russian*.

*I am using Russian in the very loosest sense. As in totally made up. Just clarifying.

Circling

2011-10-01T18:20:00.014-07:00

I was like a child, desperate to join the popular group but overly aware of my poor social standing. As a 9-year-old I often chose to wonder the perimeter of the playground rather than risk rejection. I had no idea how to permeate those tight circles of girls who sat cross-legged on the hot asphalt eating their devon and tomato sauce sandwiches. Twenty years later I continue to find myself, more often than not, circling the perimeter.

I noticed this mother earlier, sitting alone on the garden bench reading while waiting for her daughter to emerge from the children's theatre audition. I was busy comforting my own 9-year-old, whose aversion to large groups had seen her leave the audition before it even began. Repelled by a roomful of girls who appeared to have unlimited stores of confidence, I held my child tight, understanding all too well the feelings that had driven her with such force from the room. While I tried to convey to her that I had every confidence in her ability, I knew in my heart that performing somebody else's words on a stage would never be her thing.

The mother was now chatting with a friend. Not a best friend, but one of those mothers who you keep running into over the years, and find that you have a connection with even if you never actually manage to meet for that coffee. They clearly belonged to the unofficial club of mothers who ruled my neighborhood.

They seemed to know a lot about each other's children but less about each other.

"So you were an analyst in New York?" she asked her friend.

"That's right. Loved the numbers but writing the financial reports was torture."

"You know, everybody has their thing. I become completely blonde when it comes to numbers.” She laughed self-consciously at her own joke. “I did a writing course when we were in London. But when I signed up I didn't realise it was poetry. I can't do poetry."

"Oh, same. So what is the course you are doing now?"

"Fiction writing. I'm supposed to have a story ready to show the class but so far I have nothing."

The analyst mother was clearly impressed in spite of her friend's lack of progress. She said so repeatedly. “That is so great. I could never put myself through that.” And then they talked about all the mothers they knew who wrote. And I felt myself growing smaller and smaller in my seat.

I retreated behind my book, pretending to read but in reality fighting off the painful sensation of being an outsider yet again and not knowing how to get in. I wanted to be the mother sitting on the bench beside this woman talking about our mutual love of writing, comparing books and courses, maybe even being brave enough to share a rough draft.

She should have been my friend, I thought jealously, not the analysts. I watched the women leave with their daughters, daughters as pretty and confident and smart as their mothers. Future members of the club I assiduously avoided while simultaneously coveting a spot.

World Leaders

2011-09-29T12:08:00.009-07:00

This morning I sat down with my newspaper and laptop at a local cafe having deposited four children in various educational settings. I logged onto twitter and was happily distracted. Then I turned my attention to the New York Times. And found that Australia was on the front page. In fact, a world leader. Proud moment.

Not so much.

Australia is a world leader in the privatisation of immigration detention. That is right. Our immigration detention centres, the places where we deposit and then forget about refugees fleeing persecution, are run by companies whose sole motive is profit and market share. They are answerable to their shareholders, not the Australian people let alone Human Rights conventions.

This makes me ill. And angry. And ashamed.

Immigration centres run by publicly traded companies have not even succeeded on their own terms, failing to deliver the government "value for money", whatever that means when dealing with human life. And in terms of human life they have been even less successful, with self-harm increasing twelvefold in the past year, not to mention mental illness and suicide.

The Australian government is outsourcing it's dirty work. Dog whistle politics and for profit companies are determining the fate of people who have already been to hell and back.

That is what I learned in the New York Times today. Well done Australia.

Invisible Work

2011-09-26T23:13:00.010-07:00

I sweep, he tips

I wipe, he spills

I despair, he laughs

Thank god looks can't kill

Monotonous load upon load weighs me down

In this there is no pleasure

Nothing profound to be read into the dust particles

No art in wiping the children's paint stains off the floorboards

No wonder women hand this work over, to other women of course

The minute their fortune changes and there is cash to spare

Better to pay a poor woman to clean up after you than

Argue over the fair division of work that is only visible when it is not done

Where the sidewalk meets the footpath

2011-09-12T21:03:00.028-07:00

I'm over here. She's over there. Not so long ago it was the other way around. Then we did the great big continent switcheroo, and the parallel nature of our moves ensured that we each had a unique understanding of how the other was feeling.

Tina's boys speak Canadian English. My crew speak Australian English. Before we know it the occasional word will turn into the occasional phrase and hybrid accents will be transformed into entirely new ones. Slowly but surely, new pronunciations of key words like "garage" and "car" along with new terms for the same object, like "mobile" and "cell", will become the rule rather than the exception. Our children will leave their old accents behind, and an occasional word or phrase will be the only trace of their mother tongue.

Recently I heard the term tricultural for the first time. While I am still not sure if it applies to children like Tina and mine, more traditional migrants than globetrotting expats, I do think our kids will gain a unique perspective on the world by virtue of this experience. They will see and interpret their home and world from multiple perspectives and come to embrace rather than fear the contradictions.

My youngest son has a term that I particularly adore, something he picked up at a very young age while still living in Australia. It represents a fusion of two different words with the same meaning, taken from our home and our adopted country. Rather than choosing the correct term from one or the other culture he has instead come up with something that is completely his own.

Sidepath. Where the sidewalk meets the footpath. And a child shows the first hint of what will be a unique perspective on the world.

Unplugged

2011-09-10T18:31:00.008-07:00

There was a time when unplugged referred to music of the non-electrified variety, and the term conjured up something uncomplicated, raw, authentic. Today, being unplugged is more likely to provoke a sense of panic than a hankering for some Eric Clapton with your latte, referring to the moment you realize that your computer is about to run out of charge and all available power points have been commandeered by your fellow café dwellers.

While I have resisted giving up the unplugged version of books and newspapers, I now write almost exclusively on a computer. It is where I am most comfortable. While my mind swirls, most closely resembling one of my handwritten draft essays from my university days - a mess of arrows, scribble and illegible notes in the margins of my subconscious – the words reliably appear on the computer screen crisp and clear, ready for endless mess free revision.

It is no surprise that as the new technologies have completely replaced the old, the simple typewriter has become an object of nostalgia. Even notebooks, the paper sort with a spiral running down the side, have had to dress themselves up in ever more enticing outfits or else they risk languishing on stationary store shelves. Why buy a notebook when your smartphone has one built in, complete with lined yellow pages and one of the many versions of Handwriting font?

The shift from paper to screen is not something to be afraid of. Just as radio has survived and in fact prospered since the advent of television, revealing itself to be a superior medium in many respects, I believe that books, newspapers and even notebooks with annoyingly fragile spirals running down the side will continue to serve a purpose.

If nothing else, when we find ourselves completely unplugged - whether at a cafe without a spare power point or heroically raising funds for cancer by climbing a mountain in Africa - the wise amongst us will always have a book, pen and some scraps of paper at hand, providing us with the solace of somebody else’s words and the liberation that is found in seeing our own thoughts scrawled across the page, free to use as many characters as our fancy dictates, all in our own unique font.

You're not supposed to be here

2011-09-06T11:32:00.012-07:00

Last night, as we curled up in bed, I could not keep it from Mr4 any longer. Tomorrow was going to be his first proper day at his new American preschool. And, as predicted, he wailed and cried and said he was not ready to start.

He thought we should just wait until he was bigger. Maybe seven like his brother, or nine like his sister, or even twelve like his biggest brother. He met his siblings rather sweet attempts to offer words of comfort and encouragement with disdain. Eventually the chatter died down as they all drifted off to sleep and I mentally prepared myself for the morning that was to come.

Mr4 slept blissfully through the two-hour morning rush and then some. Finally, as the clocked ticked closer to 9am I braced myself. Creeping into bed beside him I whispered that it was time to wake up. He seemed to be in a good mood but I still waited a few minutes more before reminding him that this was the big day. And when I told him he offered only the faintest of protests.

We got through the morning motions cheerfully and arrived in good spirits. I sat with him in the morning circle and listened to a story about a cat who got up to a different form of mischief for each day of the week. Then it was time for the children to sit down for snack and for me to go. I braced myself for the difficult goodbye that was to come, the clinging and the tears, his openly on display and mine ready to fall the moment I was out the door.

At which point Mr4 turned to me and whispered “You’re not supposed to be here.”

And with that one simple phrase a year of worry and guilt at disrupting this small boy's life so radically fell away. The boy for whom the term “slow to warm” was invented and whose six months of silence at his first preschool had led me to conduct google searches on “voluntary mutism” was not just going to be alright, he was going to be great.

I bent down and gave him a kiss and then turned and walked towards the door. As I turned back one last time my small boy gave me a wave and then sat down at the snack table ready to start his day.

We received an envelope full of letters and drawings last week in the mail. I think that these really did help my boy to feel welcome.

Time Out

2011-09-04T17:34:00.026-07:00

As I sit here writing during my 'time out', my mind is not completely free of worry and I suspect it never will be. If my husband and children are not back by the time I return home I will find it hard to relax until I see the car pull safely into the driveway. As those four little faces emerge from the van I will breathe a sigh of relief and then brace myself for the onslaught as the noise levels rise and chaos returns.

As the years pass, the worries will increase. When I wave my children off it will not be for an outing with Daddy but will instead involve friends and lovers whose names I do not always know, many of whom will barely register my existence. I will learn to be happy with not much more than a cursory greeting, grateful that I am at least meeting this person who means so much to my child.

If I am smart I will not make a fuss when I assess these friends and lovers as less than I had hoped for my child, or I foresee the trail of destruction and heartache that they will leave in their wake. Instead I will wait quietly, ready to pick up the pieces, provide a soft place to land when the child returns with a broken heart and bruised ego.

Hopefully my children will be as eager to return home when life exceeds their expectations, when friends and lovers turn out to be the real deal and what is called for is the popping of champagne corks rather than comforting words and psychological hand holding. At these times the ripples of laughter and gentle ribbing between now adult siblings will remind me of those early years, years when the endless exuberance of four small children filled our daily lives to bursting point.

I do not like those boats

2011-09-01T19:54:00.009-07:00

(Abbott meets Dr Seuss)

I do not like those boats

I don’t

I will not like them

No I won’t

Unless they win me

Lots of votes

In the sea

On the shore

Knocking on my country's door

I do not like those

Boats you see

Go away

Away now flee

Just a minute

Come right back

Those boats will help me

Give Julia flack

Those boats I like them

Yes you see

I like those boats

Pol-it-ic-ally

Our Perfect

2011-08-29T11:50:00.029-07:00

When we made our outlandish plan to have an extra large family (yes, all planned) we did not really have a clue what we were getting ourselves into. Aside from obvious things like cost and the monumental pain that packing that many school lunches each day presents, the real challenge has been attempting to meet the ever changing emotional and developmental needs of each child.

How to adequately comfort small crying child while supporting large stressed child with a homework assignment due in the morning. How to get three children ready for school in time while providing the gentle entry to the day, cuddles inclusive, to the smallest. The scenarios are endless but invariably end up with at least one child feeling short changed.

On the upside, the impossibility of doing it all forces kids in larger families to become more self-sufficient. What choice do they have? While I am not one for chores charts and the like, it is not uncommon for a large child to help a small child prepare their breakfast in the morning rush. Or to quietly lead a sibling away for a story without being asked. Again, the possibilities are endless but the hope is that this pattern of looking out for each other in childhood, in between the endless skirmishes, continues into their adult lives.

Each child has their individual strengths and weaknesses, but it is together that my kids will face the world. Knowing that there are three other people who have your back is a gift. I have seen this phenomenon with my mother and her siblings. Relationships are not perfect and all the usual dysfunction is on display, but at the end of the day when things really go wrong and there is nowhere else to turn they have been there for one another.

They are also a band of four. Perhaps it was that photo of them all lined up in height order, my mother first, that planted the seed in my subconscious that four would somehow be my perfect number. It doesn't always feel that way, not when I consider the endless loads of washing, the exhausting negotiations between so many parties, and the unrelenting toll on my sleep and my body that four has taken.

But when the time comes each year to send out our annual holiday photo, with those four small but always growing people assembled in my own less ordered version of the line up, I can't help but simultaneously swell with pride and feel a deep sense of gratitude. Not because having four is somehow better than having one or two or six, but because four is our perfect.

Raising Addicts

2011-08-28T00:08:00.015-07:00

For many kids, Harry Potter is their gateway book, their introduction to the intense pleasures of reading. After experiencing the thrill of being transported to another world by those magical black squiggles on a page they find it hard to resist the urge to return for hit after hit.

My oldest child was five when he first experienced the wonders of Harry Potter. As I dealt with the demands of one, two and finally three younger children, he curled up with his father night after night, transfixed. Over the next seven years he listened to and then read all of the books himself, multiple times, as well as spending many hours listening to Harry on tapes that are now mostly ruined from overuse.

To be honest Harry Potter is not really my thing. And I have been somewhat deliberate in staying away, allowing it to be something that my husband alone shares with the children. It is only now that my youngest is four that we have four children who are all enchanted at some level by the magic of Harry Potter.

My gateway book was Anne of Green Gables. It was not the first book I had experienced by any means, but I so clearly remember the excitement as I eagerly awaited birthdays and Christmases, knowing that the next instalment would be waiting for me under the tree. I still have all ten books, and am planning on slowly bringing them back to California to share with my daughter.

I doubt that my kids will be able to hand down our Harry Potter series to their children. It will have been read so many times, and by so many sticky hands that they will all eventually fall apart.

To me a book that is bent and torn and stained is a beautiful thing, as it has been loved with the intensity that a good book deserves. Of course, in the future children will increasingly do most, if not all, of their reading on electronic devices so there will be no actual book to pass on. While this makes me a little sad, it does not spell doom for the book although it is not good news for bookstores.

If I achieve nothing else as a parent, I hope to raise a tribe of book addicts. Their gateway books into the wide world of literature might be Anne of Green Gables or Harry Potter or Captain Underpants. It really doesn't matter just so long as that first puff is enough to leave them desperately craving more.

And if you catch your child reading into the wee hours of the night, put on a good show of being cross, all the while celebrating the fact that you are successfully raising a child with an addiction that will sustain them throughout their lives.

What books were your gateway into the world of reading?

Treasure Hunt

2011-08-24T18:06:00.019-07:00

Not long after landing in our new neighbourhood I discovered a particularly good op shop. Today we paid a visit. I entered with 3 children and left with 2 big bags of goodies. A little something for each of us...

This beautifully framed painting was sitting in the display window and immediately caught my eye. The matting is almost the same colour as our living room walls. Walls that are looking a little barren after the sellers took off with their unbelievable art collection. Cost $25

A floppy black velvet hat that was a perfect fit for Ms9 who is very partial to clothing that is a little bit off beat. She is planning on plonking this on her head for school tomorrow morning. Probably teamed with her usual combination of skirt over shorts. Eclectic. Cost $5.

Furniture for Ms9's Swedish style dollhouse. A couch, bed, table, chairs and a leopard print dog house. Lots of details in these pieces and I am guessing they would have been pricey brand new. I am particularly partial to the couch. $6

Mr7 discovered this chapter book with a special note from the author to it's original owner. I think he was drawn in by the lovely black and white sketches and for me it was the opening paragraph. A story about a family living in San Francisco in the 1970s, although from the title and illustrations the tale is really set in war torn Europe. A little piece of history. Cost $1

A Harry Potter chess set for the small boys to share. We have a regular chess set so this one can be used exclusively for imaginative play without upsetting the serious chess'ers, Daddy and the Bigs. Cost $2

And our final discovery - these two friendly characters for Mr4. A straw man that we picked out especially for the house he made from boxes this morning. The frog... well, everybody needs a frog. Cost 25 cents each.

After our treasure hunt we headed to the park. On the way Mr7 found the final treasure for the day. A particularly interesting stick. Cost: free!

The Shopping Trip

2011-08-21T00:58:00.009-07:00

We descended on the supermarket, 4 kids, 2 parents, 1 nana and a giant trolley. Fearful looks were exchanged amongst staff. Fly swatters, kit kats, choc chip cookies and DVDs were the cause of throw yourself down in the aisle tantrums.

The family shot out in all directions. Somehow we kept finding each other again, even the smallest who mostly knows to stick with the pack.

The pet food aisle was unusually crowded. I noticed an elderly woman loading up her trolley with masses of dog food. I didn't stop to help her until I passed her again ten minutes later. She was still stocking up.

Without thinking about the potential to offend I asked "Would you like some help there?" Relief as she smiled warmly and said "How did you know?" I hauled what were in fact very light bags to her trolley and we chatted. She asked "Why do women always know? It is the men that are the worst." And then she told me about the impatient man who had scowled at her for blocking his way. I tut-tutted and we parted smiling, both feeling better for having connected.

It is hard being at the outer edges of the age spectrum in the modern world. We are not so tolerant of people who move at a different pace, who cannot rush because their bodies no longer allow them to or they have no need or their minds no longer work as quickly. Or of the very young who cannot help but rush, zipping across aisles and interrupting the flow of traffic. Emotions ready to spring out unchecked at any moment, everything on display.

I aim for calm but firm when dealing with the meltdowns. I have backup for a change although mysteriously find myself alone each time we hit a new pothole. It is hard to know what my fellow shoppers are really thinking although my best guesses are "why did she go shopping with her kids in tow" "spoiled brats, look at her molly coddling them" "stupid breeder, all those kids and she can't even control them"and hopefully at least one "poor thing, I remember what that was like" or even better "wow, what an amazing mum staying calm under pressure".

At the checkout I find myself discussing Ireland, the GFC and immigration to Australia with the bagger. Her Irish accent is so thick and the noise from my youngest so loud that I have trouble catching all she says although I get the gist. In the meantime I send the bigs out to keep an eye on an upset sibling who is beyond reason over my refusal to buy a DVD.

We return to the car and begin the journey home. The shopping trip was messy but bursting with life. Of course shopping alone is more efficient but exposing kids to the world is important. And exposing the world to kids is too.

Food Snobbery, Class and the Golden Arches

2011-08-15T00:55:00.018-07:00

Mr7's most fervent wish was that we go to Maccas for his birthday lunch. Just as the marketers planned he wanted to go there for the toy in the Happy Meal, with the meal itself being very much a secondary affair.

Now, I have a confession. This is not the very first time ever Mr7 has been to the Golden Arches. Of late, I have had two different mum friends tell me with clear (and justified) pride that their children had never been there. Ever. And I felt a little bit sheepish, a little guilty and defensive.

While not serial attenders, we are possibly of the triannual variety give or take a few. And when we do go I become a bit of a kid again. Fries, burger, chocolate Sundae. All that sweet and salty loveliness. And now with free wifi too.

On our return trip from Canberra a few years ago, we found ourselves passing through the outer south western suburbs of Sydney and were in need of a meal. 4 kids, long car trip, tired. You guessed it. Maccas again.

Inside, I noticed the table opposite us was celebrating a birthday dinner. Not a child's birthday. But an older adults. It was a happy affair, and had the air of being a special occasion. Which made me think. About food and snobbery and money.

I forgot to mention that at our birthday lunch today Mr12, recent convert to ethical food production, refused to eat a single thing. He even carried a copy of Fast Food Nation with him just in case we missed his point. And I respected him for his stand. But I also wanted him to understand that being able to choose to buy all your beef grass fed, your eggs free range and your milk organic, is a privilege. A really expensive one.

We have two Whole Foods within close proximity of our home. It is the mecca of the organic free range ethical and environmental food movement in the US. However, it fails in one area. And I don't think this failure is a coincidence. The CEO of the company bans unions*. Oh, the irony. It is almost too delicious.

When I explained this situation to Mr12 he was shocked. It was a tough lesson, to learn that things are not so black and white and also for him to understand that my value system puts the health and well being of workers at the top of the chain. That smug glow that you get on your way out of Whole Foods cannot be sustained if you care about the people who work in the stores, the people who don't get paid enough to be able to afford to shop at Whole Paycheck.

Just for the record I refuse to shop at Walmart. And they also now sell organic product. Why? They have the worst record in the area of industrial relations and workers rights that I have come across* (with, quite shockingly, Whole Foods coming in as the 2nd worst large corporate offender in this regard although on an international stage McDonalds may be the worst offender of all***).

I am proud of my Mr12 but I also want to make sure that an ethical stance does not come with a large dose of arrogance. Eating well is a great thing, for our own health and the environment. But for some people, and in a global context more so, eating at all is a great thing.

* You can read more about Whole Foods and their anti-union stance here http://www.counterpunch.org/sharon05082009.html

** Insight into what it is like to work at Walmart and in low wage America from acclaimed journalist and author of Nickel and Dimed Barbara Ehrenreich

http://www.newint.org/features/2002/11/01/women/

*** And to read a comprehensive international review of McDonald's union busting activities read this http://www.mcspotlight.org/campaigns/tactics/unionall.html

7 Up

2011-08-14T22:17:00.010-07:00

Today my third child turned the magical age of seven. And that iconic age made me think about the series "7 Up", a documentary that tested the premise that "if you show me the child at seven I will show you the man". I adored the documentary, waiting every seven years for the next instalment and on the whole finding that the original premise proved true.

Watching my own newly minted Mr7 today I crossed my fingers and hoped that there is more than a grain of truth to this maxim. As he unwrapped his presents he celebrated every gift with equal enthusiasm, from the $1 microphone through to the much coveted Star Wars lego. On more than one occasion he spontaneously declared "I am a very lucky boy". That positive outlook alone, an inherent optimism, is such a gift. It doesn't mean that he exists in a Pollyanna like bubble but I think that at his core there is a tendency to look on the bright side.

He does not live in a family of inherent optimists. We are a mixed bunch and I like to think (call me Pollyanna) that there is worth in both approaches. Deep thinking and creativity seem more closely linked with a melancholy bent, as does the ability to maintain some fiscal restraint. Recently at dinner, as I bounced in my seat with excitement over something, my husband wryly tapped on his beer mug to indicate "half full". I groaned and kept bouncing, but this more (arguably) realistic approach is why we have not as yet been declared bankrupt.

We all have our highs and lows, but for some the lows far outweigh the highs, and the constant downward incline in mood and outlook makes those crazy big dreams seem just that, crazy. I am going to sit at the optimists table today, alongside my Mr7 who is nothing if not a crazy dreamer.

Tonight, as Mr7 prepared to blow out the candle on his birthday cake, his big brother and sister commanded him to stop and make a wish. He sat and thought hard, puffed out his cheeks and gave one almighty blow.

"What did you wish for?" we sang out in unison.

"I wished that I can fly."

The Countdown

2011-08-11T23:25:00.007-07:00

At this very moment in time my mother is literally up in the air, suspended in that weird alternative reality that is aeroplane travel. Hopefully she has an aisle seat, a non-recliner in front of her and is tired enough that she will actually fall asleep.

She is going to need all the sleep she can get. There are four very excited children awaiting her arrival. They have missed their Nana more than anybody and the expectations for her visit are big.

My two younger boys are still struggling to put together what this living overseas business means. My six-year-old has been pondering where Nana will live, not realising that she is visiting not staying. And while a well intentioned kidnapping is not entirely out of the question I figure that we will have to let her go at the end of three weeks.

I spent the first five years of motherhood without the constant help that extended family provides. But for the past seven years, I grew used to both the company and respite that living near Mum gave me. A weekly break for myself, but also our Sunday lunches and dinners, were routines that we clung too. There was no sense of duty or obligation involved. We wanted to spend that time in her orbit.

My Mum is a fellow #naughtynightowl. When I was at university she would happily head out at midnight to get me "supplies" when I was pulling an all-nighter. Then when I had my first bub and she came to visit me in California she would stay up with me until my newborn was ready to crash at some ungodly hour. As I struggled to pack up my life in Sydney, husband already fled to California, Mum picked up after me understanding my aversion to paperwork (amongst other things). And she continued to look after our affairs after we left, making sure nothing fell through the cracks.

In twelve hours time we will be greeting Mum as she walks through the gates, tired but happy. Its going to be great but also hard knowing that in three weeks time we will be back in the same spot saying goodbye all over again.

Although I am still not ruling out a kidnapping.

Excess Baggage

2011-08-09T09:40:00.015-07:00

This morning my Mr4 ate his cornflakes out of this Bunnykins bowl, a much loved relic from my childhood. Of course not everything I have carried with me into adulthood is so benign and not everything I am passing along to my children arouses such unequivocally positive memories. And when you look closely, even this cherished memento carries a tale that is far from sweet.

We inherit much from the families we grew up in. If we are really lucky we will inherit great big pots of gold along with Aunty Maeve's fabulous sense of humour, Uncle Ted's athleticism and Grandpa's gift for stories. For most of us our inheritance will be a mixed bag, a genetic and environmental lottery where luck and chance play a prominent role.

The terror of turning out like a parent who we feared or pitied can act like a psychological prison, preventing us from believing in our ability to move beyond their limitations. Spending our lives reenacting a script we promised we would rewrite rather than playing out the same tired roles. Trying to solve the real life puzzles from our childhood, but never managing to uncover the missing piece that would explain how it all fits together. Storylines might keep repeating themselves from one generation to the next and no matter how hard we try to break the pattern we keep find ourselves right back where we started.

I recently met up with a friend I hadn't seen in seven years. I knew that her father had died during that time, but I did not know that she had also lost her brother. Not to the cancer that stole her father away with shocking speed, but to the demons that inexplicably saw him reject his own family. To make this rejection complete, he not only cut off all family ties but he changed his family name to the most Anglicised version available.

Such an an overt attempt to shed the excess baggage, the things that weigh us down from our childhoods, is a step most of us are unwilling to take. Even those with the most complicated of family dynamics will usually seek out a compromise, attempting to minimize the damage to their own psyche while remaining connected to the people who shaped their formative years. People who they feel a debt of gratitude towards or an overwhelming sense of duty, often accompanied by genuine love and affection, but not always.

Bunnykins bowls will always take me back to something that was solid in my childhood, simple and unsullied. And while they do not tell the complete story of those years they represent the best, parts that I pass on without hesitation. In doing so I am attempting to not only give my kids the best China, but also the sort of inheritance that will in fact give them the security to be able to truly take flight. Minus the excess baggage.

The Wish Machine

2011-08-09T00:20:00.006-07:00

Mum, mum. Look he commands excitedly. Four he holds up four fingers plus three he holds up three fingers equals seven.

That’s right! I exclaim. Quick. Show Daddy.

And he does, repeating the exercise, glowing with pride.

Wow. How did you know that? asks Dad.

And our boy points behind us to the two rows of light switches on the restaurant wall, the one on top with four switches, the one below with three.

Aside from being a lovely example of how learning happens everywhere, this was a significant moment for this particular child. He is about to enter the 1^st grade for the second time and we are nervous. So far, he is both significantly behind his peers and will be significantly older. And he is very much aware of the former and happily ignorant of the latter.

Over the endless summer break there has been much talk from our Mr6 about his plan to build a Wish Machine when he grows up. He loves to ask us all what we will wish for when he comes up with his ingenious device. His oldest brother cannot stand this sort of nonsense, only indulging him for a moment under my insistence before returning to his strictly rationalist world view. The rest of us play along. How could we possibly refuse?

Mr6 has only one wish for himself. It is not what I would have expected given the acquisitiveness he displays every time we enter a toy or bookstore. I have now become immune to the pleading, simply repeating my mantra “put it on the birthday list”, desperately hoping that he is not in fact keeping a mental list in his head of all the things I may have guaranteed via this useful stalling tool.

My wish is that I will be able to read.

The crush of different emotions that I experience every time Mr6 expresses this is hard to explain. Thrilled that he considers the prospect of being able to read so alluring that it is his only wish, heartbroken that he believes that he will need some magical intervention to make the leap from story lover to story reader.

Not that he is alone. Parents of kids with learning difficulties spend much time wishing for magical interventions and the marketplace is happy to provide. The desperation of the worried parent is just as powerful a force as the ambition of the tiger mama.

We have been lured into paying a subscription to what seems like a valid computer based learn to read program. But honestly, I have no real way of knowing if it has helped. Like most parents in my position I am willing to throw everything we can at the “problem” and hope that something sticks. All the while making my own silent wish that some day soon the act of reading will just click, like the flick of a switch.

I don’t know how this story is going to end as it seems that we are only at the beginning. What I do know is that Mr6 will be turning seven on Sunday and by some beautiful coincidence in the days leading up to his birthday he has conjured up a series of simple equations that all add up to the number seven. Maybe seven will be our boy's lucky number, so that by the time he is eight he can begin to imagine himself as a man with a Wish Machine who already knows how to read.

At the bottom of the garden

2011-08-06T14:08:00.022-07:00

Getting our home ready for sale in Australia, I stripped it bare, recreating our space in a way I hoped would show it off to best effect. But I could not stand to remove all traces of 'us'. I made sure new items were ones that we would use in our future (still very much unknown) home. So my oldest two got brand new bed covers that will soon be making their way to California in Nana's suitcase. And I am looking forward to being reunited with some decorative pieces I would never have bought without the excuse that these indulgences were vital, the icing on the cake, in presenting our home for sale.

When I was decorating my daughter's bedroom I stocked a small bookshelf with some of my childhood favourites, books that I have held onto for what seems like my entire life, ready to be loved again by another 9-year-old. One agent advised us to turn our quiet reading room (in reality a playroom!) into a Playstation centre. I ignored him and instead hired an antique rocking horse to place under the stairs in the same spot that we used to have our train/lego table. It looked much prettier but still suggested play rather than mindless entertainment.

I shook down my aunt and good friends for books to replace my large'ish collection that was in transit somewhere in the middle of the ocean. I have no idea if people trawling through our home on a rainy Saturday afternoon were actually paying attention to the contents of the shelves but if they were we could have been mistaken for bilingual Italian art critics with an extensive interest in old Penguin classics and modern literary fiction. While I will lay claim to the last of these interests, the rest - complete fraud!

While we did 'stage' our house we didn't hand over the job to a professional and I like to think that in keeping it a bit more personal our house still felt like a home rather than a showroom. We had plenty of help, mostly from a friend with a background in interior design, but also from family, friends and our agent. There were some pretty fierce disagreements between all these parties and I think that I gained a bit of confidence in the process, learning to put my foot down when those 'helping' overstepped the mark. At the end of the day it was still my home and I had the right to have the final say.

* * *

When we first set foot in what would become our new house in California it instantly felt like home. We fell hard and nothing to date has changed my mind that our instincts were right. Not even the less than terrific plumbing that has been placed under some strain due to the small boys enthusiastic use of toilet paper.

Our new home was the opposite of staged. And rather than detracting from the house, for us it added value (forgive the market speak). Of course, it didn't hurt that the owners possessed an art collection to rival many a small gallery as well as an artistic sense about how to put together a somewhat eclectic assortment of furniture. And perhaps most importantly they did not have four young children occupying the house. But what they presented to us was very much a home. And one thing that has (mostly) charmed us since moving in has been the little pieces of themselves that the owners left behind.

The garden has been a particular source of joy in this regard. While I am a little sad that they did remove a large and beautiful Buddha from the front garden (I could do with some zen) I am thrilled with the treasures that remained. A cracked mermaid sitting somewhat forlornly in a bird bath, a small cross that seems more art than religious icon nailed to a tree, a bright red push mower that is used almost daily by my oldest son and, most winningly of all, the garden gnomes. Not one, not two, but seven. Plotted around the front and back garden, some facing the street as if guarding our house from intruders, one keeping a careful eye on us through the dining room window, and another in the very back corner of the garden holding a lamp, seemingly ready to light the way for a disoriented party of fairies.

Our gnomes add a little touch of magic to our storybook house, a whimsical note that charms us as we go about our day. I am guessing that the real estate experts would advise that garden gnomes and the like are in breach of the global convention on good taste. But I am thrilled to have been entrusted with the care of these seven strange little men who never fail to make me smile, imagining that in the midst of the high tech wizardry that defines silicon valley, there is a little magic of the old fashioned variety taking place at the bottom of our garden.

Where do you write?

2011-08-04T21:47:00.013-07:00

Surrounded by walls coloured Dark Cherry Tart, I have found what will be my writing spot in our new home. While not a room of my own it is a room with a view, a spot where I can spy on the world almost undetected, a small garden gnome my only witness.

I do not have exclusive rights over this space. There is no door that can be closed in order to shut out the life and noise that rumbles through our home. In fact, the dining room is a thoroughfare of sorts, and the children regularly join me here, bringing their craft and books and legos with them. Squabbles take place and are occasionally resolved. Milk is spilled and the evidence of a chaotic life is never far away.

Maybe this is good. Creativity is surely nothing if not chaotic. Already our optimistically designated “good room” is morphing into my daughter’s art studio, rolls of easel paper spread across its length and crayons and glue scattered in all directions. Even the porch has been transformed into a surface ripe for play, a spot where my small boys can build train tracks beneath the warm rays of the California sun.

The colour of the dining room walls is so rich and dramatic that it cannot fail to stir the imagination as it saturates the senses. And when the children are finally all asleep, little pieces of them remain just in sight. Scraps from a craft project, a half built lego structure, and at the end of the long summer break these will be joined by the endless trail of paper that accompanies the children home from school, tumbling from backpack to table at the end of each day.

Chaos will continue to reign supreme, but hopefully in the midst of all this chaos I have found a space where my own creativity can flourish. A place where I can stitch together my own stories from the scraps of material, the everyday life that swirls around me and passes me by.

Is parenting more art than science?

2011-08-02T00:56:00.029-07:00

During twelve years of parenting there have been more days than I care to admit where I felt I had failed, often going to bed with a heavy heart and a silent promise to do better tomorrow. And as I inch ever closer towards the murky waters of parenting an adolescent I definitely feel that I have more questions than answers when it comes to this parenting gig.

I don’t think I am unique in finding that each time we have things sorted, the game changes. One child finally sleeps through the night, another commences wetting the bed. One child finds their social niche at school, another spends a year without a birthday party invite. The level of difficulty increases with multiple children, as each child adds ever more complex variables and the interaction between these variables has what seems like infinite outcomes.

My poor youngest child is beating on the door of a mother who has seen some version of it all before. Not that he isn’t unique (he certainly is) or hasn’t come up with new challenges for me to ponder (he certainly has) but I am less likely to run to the nearest bookstore (thankfully there are still some left) and frantically search out another parenting book to deal with the newest development. If I am really perplexed I may consult Dr Google and see what answers she provides. And more often than not the problem resolves itself long before I finally throw up my hands and consult a professional.

The confidence I experienced in the early years of parenting has not been sustained. Meeting the needs of a baby and toddler was for me a relatively simple affair, simple addition compared to the advanced calculus that parenting multiple children across a broad span of ages seems to be. And while I know that if I concentrate really hard I might just find the right answers or manage to apply the correct formula to the problem at hand, I doubt that a formula is what is really called for.

This is not as troubling as it sounds. I have never been one to place great faith in formulaic approaches to child rearing. My sense is that the variables are so great that rather than a simple algebraic equation what is needed is more an approach rooted in philosophy than mathematics, parenting being far more art than science.

I sometimes wish that parenting was as easy as ABC or 1,2,3. In my experience a one size fits all approach is not desirable in the long run. The confidence I had when parenting my children as babies was largely the result of having a very clear underlying philosophy, an understanding of why I was approaching an issue in a particular way even if the books or GP or lady on the street were doing everything in their power to tell me I had it wrong.

These days I often struggle to identify what exactly the underlying problem is that is the cause of unhappiness in one child or discord between siblings. But I am not going to get any closer to an answer myself, nor help my children figure out for themselves what it is that is bothering them, with a simple formula. What I might get is compliance, the parenting equivalent of a correct answer, but in the meantime the real issue may be completely missed and an opportunity for the child and parent to learn and grow lost.

Maybe I did learn something from my mother after all. A mathematics teacher who annoyed my teen self greatly by consistently refusing to tell me how to get the right answer to a mathematical problem, always more concerned that I understood what the problem actually was than that I simply get it right.

American Rose

2011-07-24T17:58:00.029-07:00

For a brief few hours this Sunday my son's bedroom was transformed into something amazing, glowing, bordello like. He had picked out the colour that I would desperately liked to have painted my own bedroom but didn't dare. American Rose.

American Rose is, as the name suggests, a beautiful deep red. When my son saw it on his bedroom wall I saw his face fall and before he had a chance to speak I knew exactly what he was thinking. Too pink. And no matter how hard we tried to convince him that after a few more layers of paint the colour would be a more definite shade of red, he would not budge.

We were all so disappointed. This colour glowed, his room was alight, it would be the unexpected "wow" room in our home. But it is not my son's job to carry that burden. Because when you are entering the teen years, being "wow" in the wrong way is uncomfortable. And being a teen is pretty uncomfortable to begin with. No need to add to the angst.

When we first saw our new home, we were impressed by the bold colour scheme used by the owners. It was only on having the walls repaired by the painter our agent organised that we even considered the possibility of making changes. And while we liked the idea of making our own mark on our new home, we were also slightly afraid.

Afraid that we would allow ourselves to be convinced that we should tone it down, play it safe, not offend. While on paper we are the conservatives idealised version of "family", we are no more or less conventional (or a family) than the couple we bought our house from, a family headed by two parents who both happened to be male. And who definitely were not afraid of making bold choices, at least in the arena of colours.

I am glad that we refused to listen to the sensible voices in our own heads and the very real voice of our agent as she subtly tried to steer us towards neutral tones. At the same time, we listened to our son and allowed him to make his own statement. American Rose is not on his agenda for the time being and may never be, but just in case any of us change our minds we are keeping a tin in the garage on standby.

The Runaway Mummy

2011-07-12T01:26:00.019-07:00

Once there was a little bunny who wanted to run away.

So he said to his mother, "I am running away."

"If you run away," said his mother. "I will run after you. For you are my little bunny."

Most of us are familiar with the children's book The Runaway Bunny, a story by Margaret Wise Brown about the unconditional love of a mother and how she will stand by her child no matter how he changes or how far he roams.

"If you run after me," said the little bunny,

"I will become a fish in a trout stream and I will swim away from you."

If you become a fish in a trout stream," said his mother,

"I will become a fisherman and I will fish for you."

I remember times from my own childhood when I fantasised about running away. My antics were pretty lame, involving nothing more daring than a trip down to the corner of my street... and then sheepishly walking back home again.

And now that I am no longer the bunny but the mummy in the story I identify with that huge and unending bucket of love that we have for our children, knowing that I would indeed follow my bunnies to the ends of the earth and back again. No matter what.

"If you become a rock on the mountain high above me," said his mother,

"I will become a mountain climber, and I will climb to where you are."

But, (there is always a but), I have also learned that in order to keep some semblance of sanity, maintain a sense of self, I must be able to do some running away of my own. And funnily enough, just as I ran to the corner of my street and back as a child, my runaway routes as a mother are just as predictable.

In my Sydney home, my runaway mummy antics again took me to the corner and back as I rejuvenated at my beloved Corner Cafe. In California, I am still figuring out my runaway destinations, although I am happy to report that there are many and they all to date involve a small table, a newspaper, wifi and something to drink.

My getaways give me the chance to take a moment, to think without interruption, to read, to write. I often return to the nest (or should that be the hutch) with new ideas, solutions, inspiration. Sometimes these are knocked over within moments of my return, much the same way the house is tipped upside down within minutes of being cleaned. But still, knowing that the escape route is available is like a release valve on a pressure cooker, something to look forward to on those days when I feel myself drowning, overwhelmed by those four voices and eight hands all clambering for a piece of me.

As I feel myself falling Alice like down the parenting rabbit hole, I am comforted by the plotting of my own escape route which, just like the runaway bunny, always ends exactly back where I started. Home.

Social Circles

2011-07-09T18:19:00.051-07:00

Ven diagrams stared out at us from our Year 7 maths text books. Intersecting circles. Who would have guessed that one day these circles would form one of the central planks of the newest social networking site Google+. Imagine if our maths teacher, the authoritative Mrs Vaz, had thought to explain the complexities of our school yard social relationships via this mathematical model.

Dark basement hallways, mean girls and new best friends, training bras and the interminable wait for that illusive first period. Teachers barely out of university trying to teach or at least control a classroom of thirty 12 and 13 year-old girls. Social circles shifting as we slowly found our tribe. Or didn't.

The girls who didn't know which circle they truly belonged to seemed to fair the worst. Drifting between groups, trying on and discarding identities the way others tore through their wardrobes for a Saturday night outing.

Others seemed stuck inside their circle, regardless of the fit. The academically talented whose desire to remain firmly inside the popular circle undermined their willingness to succeed in the classroom. In the case of one such girl, this became especially apparent when a new subset entered our classrooms in the senior years. Boys.

And then there was the rare breed who didn't seem to need a circle. They were the circle. Others flocked around them. They exuded an aura and power not dissimilar to the modern day celebrity.

I am grateful that I got through adolesence before the emergence of social networking. While I would now be lost without it, the lack of a permanent record of those awkward years seems like a gift. Of course, our own children -"digital natives"- will scoff at such sentiments, mystified as to how we survived without the benefit of the digital playground.

We have all heard horror stories of 15-year-olds who exchange "private" photos with their boyfriends only to find they have been posted all over Facebook. When I hear such tales I cringe, wondering how my fragile teen ego would have survived such humiliations and hoping I never have to help one of my own children through such a crisis.

But for the many who never quite find their tribe in the school corridor, the virtual playground can be a revelation, in some cases a literal lifesaver. The misfits, the gay teen in a small country town, the nerd in a school full of jocks, the Aspie who only truly emerges from his shell in the virtual world. It is important to remember this as we rail against online bullying, which is no more than an extension of the school yard but with the potential to turn viral.

The teen years weren't terrible ones for me by any stretch, but somehow I sensed that there was more out there, that my tribe was waiting for me beyond those dark school hallways. And ironically, at this point in my life I seem to have found that tribe right here in the virtual world thanks to the astonishing powers of twitter.

If Google+ catches on I might find my place in that world increasingly being defined by a series of intersecting circles, the Ven Diagrams of my virtual life.

Splash!

2011-07-06T13:13:00.016-07:00

The sun and I are not on the best of terms. As a teen her rays seemed to effortlessly colour my friends the most magnificent shades of brown, shades that did not seem to be available to me no matter how hard I tried. It was if somebody had snuck in and stolen all the best colours from the crayon box, leaving nothing in my palette aside from white and various shades of pink.

Sadly, this unhappy relationship with the sun did not leave me with a Cate Blanchett style peaches and cream complexion. Instead it left me with freckles and a vampire like aversion to the sun. While others ran outside at the first sign of the sun's golden rays, I was running in the opposite direction, seeking out the shade and waiting for nightfall.

These days in Australia this attitude is not uncommon. Enough of us have families with long and distressing histories of melanoma. Watching my beloved grandfather die a swift and painful death from melanoma, and witnessing the next generation having regular skin checks, biopsies and scares has rammed the message home more strongly than any Cancer Council campaign could hope to.

But still we get caught out. Disorganised by nature, hats are left behind, sunscreen forgotten and unexpected events have led to a few more instances of sunburn for myself and my kids than I am comfortable with. At the same time, the light dusting of pink across a freckled nose does not compare to the burns I endured as a child. Burns that led to blisters and peeling skin and extreme discomfort. And this was with a mother who was incredibly vigilant about the effects of the sun long before her time.

I miss the relatively carefree attitude that we had towards the sun when I was growing up. But I don't miss the sunburn. And I cannot ignore the deadly potential that her rays pose to my own and my children's skin.

So today, I struck a compromise. Decked out in rashy shirts and sunscreen, we bravely headed out to the hotel pool for a swim in the middle of the day. And rather than sitting on the sidelines I splashed and dived and played right alongside the kids. I gave dolphin rides to Captain Mermaid (my six-year-old) as we searched for underwater treasures; I ably demonstrated the finer points of synchronised swimming to my big children; and by being in the water rather than on the sidelines I managed to help my four-year-old take another step away from his own mortal fear of bodies of water.

No photos were taken of our daring exploits in the pool today, but I have little doubt that the gentle dusting of colour that the sun left on my kid's faces today will fade much faster than the happy memories formed in it's warm embrace.

Is being lucky enough?

2011-06-27T23:19:00.009-07:00

More often than not Australians get a warm reception while travelling and living abroad. But we fail to return that warm reception to those who are seeking refuge from places that have rarely if ever been described as “lucky” countries. And our poor form in this regard, consistent with a long history of ugly race politics, has not gone unnoticed internationally.

We have never truly shaken off the legacy of the White Australia policy nor have our current leaders committed to a new era of indigenous policies that are rooted in a commitment to true justice. The Cronulla race riots are a tragic manifestation of an era in Australian politics that raised a whole generation to view difference and diversity as something to be feared rather than celebrated, and harked back to an era where the idealised white picket fence hid a multitude of sins.

And today, to the despair of so many Australians, we find our political leaders competing to come up with the least just, the toughest approach on refugee policy. I cannot fathom how decent people on both sides of parliament can stomach the moral corruption at the cold heart of their parties’ policies and I wonder what it would take for those politicians, the ones who feel the bile rise up as they are forced to defend the indefensible, to take a stand.

It is somewhat startling to consider that our refugee policy in the 1970s was far more compassionate than it is today. And this was under the leadership of Malcolm Fraser, the former leader of the Liberal Party who is now treated with nothing but disrespect and dismissal for his outspoken attack on the current approach to refugees from both parties.

It is my birthday today. I would like to be writing a post about my shiny new device or the cake I will be eating tonight or complaining about having a sick daughter interfering with my plans for a special dinner out. But really, that is all beside the point.

There is no point in being lucky if we are not willing to share in our good fortune. When I tell people that I am from Australia I want to do so with pride, I want to tell them how while we have much to celebrate, we have thrown off the vestiges of an ugly history on race relations and redoubled our efforts to be leaders on human rights issues at home and abroad.

I want to know that rather than viewing refugees as a burden, somebody else's problem, and most cynically an issue that will garner votes if you step far enough to the right, we instead recognise that we as a nation will benefit from a more humane policy. We will collectively sleep easier at night knowing that there are no children being locked up or shipped back to a country with an appalling record on treatment of refugees.

Our nation will be energized by embracing a new approach to refugees, one that is rooted in generosity and compassion, a shared sense of our common humanity.

Right now I can say with honesty that I miss my beautiful country, I miss my family, I miss the irreverent sense of humour and healthy cynicism. But I cannot say that I am proud to be Australian. We are acting like petulant toddlers who have not yet learned to share, adults still behaving like teenagers who cannot see that a narrow focus on self-interest rarely ends well. My hope is that sometime soon we will grow up and show that it is not enough to be lucky if we are not also brave and good.

Push to Open

2011-06-26T20:09:00.013-07:00

Today is one of those days where if the sign on the door says push, I will pull. And on the way out, I will make the same mistake all over again, this time in reverse.

After making it through the push-pull debacle on the way into the café today, I managed to get to my favourite seat without any further mishaps. I resolved to leave my laptop out of sight while I waded through the Sunday papers and even had some favourite magazines ready to go if the mood took me there.

Before long, the neighbouring seat was vacated by a typical valley resident, single male complete with black rimmed glasses, laptop and eccentric rocking motion. He was soon replaced by a completely different sort of character, a homeless man who has made the concrete bench outside the café his permanent resting spot and the inside of the café a refuge from the street.

Within minutes of sitting down he was cackling away to himself, muttering loudly and laughing some more. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, not wanting to be rude but checking that perhaps there was a joke I should have been sharing. But no, thankfully he was as content as a man could be caught merrily inside the world of a crumpled but much loved paperback.

And there I sat, discontented, with my laptop and my NY Times. Discontented after an expensive impromptu lunch out with the family, after buying a new car yesterday, and settling on a house the day before.

I am sure that the man seated next to me also has his moments that sometimes stretch into days and beyond, of discontent and worse. And really, when you are having a day that is full of pushing when you are meant to be pulling, a rational examination of your good fortune relative to others is unlikely to provoke a sudden shift in mood. In fact, it may just make you despair further, guilt now mixed into the cocktail of irrational feelings that are dragging you down.

Of course, it is not this man’s job to teach me some profound life lesson. As I sit in my comfortable bed attempting to turn a brief encounter into something meaningful I hope that he has claimed his safe spot in a doorway or on a bench and imagine that he is hoping for nothing more profound than a night of clear weather.

Breeder

2011-06-23T16:27:00.019-07:00

I used to enjoy the term 'breeder' at some level, appreciating what I presumed was a somewhat ironic take on motherhood. But these days I find it more irritating than humorous, the implied put down biting me harder than perhaps intended.

If anybody fits the definition of that word, it is me. Four kids in eight years, and here I am struggling to come out from under. And while I try to give the impression of a zen like calm, all the while a swirl of discontent rumbles away inside.

As I look around me on my daily trips to the coffee house, I cannot help experiencing an uncomfortable sense of envy at those going about their business unencumbered. It is not the thought of a good mother, one who happily gives everything she has without complaint. But it is the truth. Even before having children, there was never anything I really liked better than being at one with a newspaper or book, solitary pursuits that do not work well with the demands of motherhood.

I know I am not alone in this, and for most of us charged with the responsibility of the day to day care of young children the sense of isolation and even despair can at times be overwhelming. And perhaps that is why the term 'breeder' bites so damn hard. Because this all consuming role, the business and responsibility of growing a person inside your body, the monumental life task of then being responsible for that persons well-being forever, is not akin to breeding.

Breeding reduces me to my uterus, to the biological function that brought me to this place called motherhood. Perhaps it encompasses my breasts, but even then it reduces their function to provider of nutrients rather than the provider of comfort and security and love.

At the end of a long day I would really prefer not to be compared to a farm animal. I am just too darn tired to find it funny. And I'd also prefer not to be called selfish or selfless, because I am neither. I am just me, a woman who happened to have children, struggling through each day trying to raise some human people without screwing it up any more than necessary.

Stairs to Australia

2011-06-18T15:46:00.038-07:00

Not long after we arrived in California I was having a chat with my youngest when, seemingly out of the blue, he started to cry. He was struggling to remember exactly how his Nana’s face looked, the one we had just left behind in Australia, the one he had seen at least twice a week for his entire life.

Last week we were visiting a generic shopping mall, one that looked much like the Westfield that we had visited so often with Mum, and I joked that Nana might appear around the corner at any moment. As I witnessed the small boys eyes light up with excitement as they peered eagerly into the crowds my heart sank. And I was again reminded that my youngest cannot conceptualise what half a world away really means.

I occasionally have these moments myself, where I momentarily forget, and it sets off a painful longing to be back in the city I love with the people who sustain me. Sometimes it is nothing more than a pang, at other times a sadness that can be best described as grief. And then there is guilt when I realise how at home I am here, how sometimes it feels as if I had never left in the first place.

One of the kids will make a comment, a reminder that they too are struggling, missing the extended family, their friends, their schools, their city, and I have to resist the urge to block my ears. Because I don’t want to hear it, it is too painful to think that our very adult decision is the cause of such longing and sadness in our kids.

Struggling to get to sleep the other night I found myself replaying the moment each Tuesday when Nana would arrive and my youngest would sing out "Nana's here, Nana's here" while he ran down the hall to embrace her. And then we would walk up to our beloved corner cafe and make a show of reading the menu, knowing all along exactly what we were going to order. After 3 o'clock Mum would take the whole crew off my hands for a couple of hours and I would enjoy a sanity saving break, respite that kept me afloat in the often choppy waters of motherhood.

We have lost our Tuesdays, as well as our Sunday nights at Mum's where we would order in take out and just "hang out". I know the pain is as great, if not greater, for Mum as it is for me. We have left a hole in her week, each Tuesday now a blank canvas where before there were guaranteed kisses and hugs from one adoring four-year-old and as the afternoon wore on the company of a whole tribe of grandchildren.

Each year, we will come together again in California or Australia, and we will try to pack a year of Tuesday afternoons and Sunday nights into a two week period or a month or even six weeks if we are lucky. And we will find new rituals, ones involving airports and goodbyes and letters and phone calls and maybe even some new favourite cafes.

But I will never stop wishing that there was a way that we could overcome the vast physical distance, that a fourteen hour plane trip could be magically compressed by a Samantha like twitch of the nose into a 14-minute bus trip. And it seems that my youngest child has been thinking along similar lines.

As we climbed down the steep stairs in the shopping centre car park last week, he pulled me close and whispered in a barely audible voice “I thought they were the stairs to Australia.”

“If only”, I thought. “If only.”

Bubble of Privilege

2011-06-11T19:49:00.057-07:00

I find it hard to write about this new place in which we live. A bubble of privilege, one that is easy to parody with its predictable mixture of wealth, education and liberal politics. Type A personalities abound, as do yoga outfits and yoghurt bars. The creators of South Park would have a field day.

Green credentials are proudly on display downtown with fleets of Prius's lining the parking lots. Meanwhile teams of (mostly) Latino workers arrive in their gas guzzling pick-up trucks to tend to homes that are as perfectly groomed as their occupants.

A buff body is almost as reliable an indicator of wealth as any other around here. A status symbol whose potency is enhanced by the difficulty, discipline and time it takes to achieve. Bodies sculpted by yoga and pilates workouts, balanced routines of cardio and weights, but never by the sweat and back breaking labour that is performed daily by these teams of mostly uninsured and illegal workers.

Each school day, bunches of children cycle past our kitchen window on their way to class. Glowing with good health and optimism, they are destined to go far. Another group of children is "bused" in from the neighbouring school district, one where the less seemly side of the American project can be witnessed in all its glory. Their destiny is far less certain.

Police cars patrol the single road that connects these two worlds, neighbouring districts who kept their school systems separate to ensure the privilege of one was not pulled down by the disadvantage of the other. Segregation by any other name.*

*"American schools are more segregated by race and class today than they were on the day Martin Luther King, Jr. was killed, 43 years ago. The average white child in America attends a school that is 77 percent white, and where just 32 percent of the student body lives in poverty. The average black child attends a school that is 59 percent poor but only 29 percent white. The typical Latino kid is similarly segregated; his school is 57 percent poor and 27 percent white.
Overall, a third of all black and Latino children sit every day in classrooms that are 90 to 100 percent black and Latino."
Ezra Klein, Washington Post, January 17th, 2011
http://voices.washingtonpost.com/ezra-klein/2011/01/american_schooles_more_segrega.html

Motherhood Statements

2011-06-04T19:00:00.013-07:00

She smiles at me somewhat shyly from beneath her broad brimmed and ever sensible sun hat as I pull up at the table next to her. I apologise for interrupting her peace as I sit my young boy up in a chair and she laughs and seeks to engage him in conversation. Her efforts are fruitless, as there is nothing my four-year-old enjoys less than conversing with a stranger.

“He is so cute” she enthuses as he scowls at her and then issues his commands for more food, a straw, whatever. I attempt to maintain some shred of dignity in the face of his demands, while at heart my real concern is figuring out how to best keep my son occupied with the least amount of effort. I need a quiet moment to recover from what has been, in no uncertain terms, a bad morning.

“So how old is he? Does he go to preschool?” she asks and I soon learn that she is a fellow mother, attempting to maintain her sanity in the face of sleep deprivation and all the unspoken strains of new motherhood. She has an 11-month-old at home, a nanny, a PhD in mathematics and is working for a start up. A typical mother in these parts, and like most in this neighbourhood she is not a native Californian but hails from Europe.

“I am trying to decide if I should have another one”, she says, holding up a self-help book covered in baby pastel shades of blue, pink and lemon. And I realise that she is in fact highlighting and writing notes in the margins as she seeks a logical answer to a question that is better suited to the science of Chaos Theory than algebraic formulas.

She reminds me of another mother I know from around these parts who drew up a spread sheet to determine the optimal name for her future child. Not surprisingly, six-months down the track the child’s name was changed.

“You do know,” I say as if sharing some great secret “that in some ways it is easier with two. At least they have somebody else to play with.”

“But what if they don’t play?” she asks bluntly. “What if they don’t like each other?”

At this I am rendered speechless. Moments later I guiltily join in as she enthusiastically lists the many reasons why having more than one child is an irrational and unwise decision and then we both retreat to our private worlds. My son, possibly so drained from my morning of tears, is in an unusually cooperative mood. While he draws I read and mentally re-group in preparation for the long afternoon ahead.

Before long it is time for my new friend to leave. She stands up and then issues forth with a stream of motherhood statements worthy of a Hallmark greeting card catalogue, statements so at odds with our earlier conversation that I can only assume she was gripped by a certain guilt at our earlier disloyalty to the project at hand. I nod and smile awkwardly, happy that however briefly, I shared an honest moment with a fellow traveller on this strange journey called motherhood.

Preschool Panic

2011-06-02T17:17:00.010-07:00

For me, preschool is the last chance I have to make a real decision about the type of education my child will get. Years of public school education lie ahead where I am constantly forced to swallow hard and squash my disappointment at how out of line my philosophy about education is with the education my children are receiving.

To date I have managed to find excellent preschools for all of my kids, places that nurtured their whole beings and cared as much about their hearts as their heads. Places that were guided by the best research into early childhood education and employed the best people. Places that I trusted completely and absolutely to do their very best by my child.

Mr4, my final preschooler, was lucky enough to attend a small gem of a preschool in Sydney. We travelled some distance to get there but once through those doors he was met each day by Irish Joan who persisted in getting to know my scared and silent boy, and along with the classroom teacher never gave up on helping helping him to overcome the fears and anxieties that caused him to shut down and turn mute. By the time he left preschool he had two friends and a strong bond with two teachers. For this little boy that was a huge achievement.

Now fast forward to the day Mr4 and I took a scooter ride through our new neighbourhood. We walked past a large church and then I noticed a preschool off to the side. Something told me that this was a special place, worth a look. The Director met us with open arms even though we had not called and made an appointment. And by some miracle she had a place for us in the Fall.

I skipped home that day, shared my good news with far too many people and knew that I had by some miracle landed in the right place for my child. Last week I went back to hand in my forms, again unannounced and was treated to an impromptu tour. I left even more impressed and Mr4 spent the afternoon drawing in elaborate detail the inside treehouse (a wooden platform) that was just one element of the enchanting classroom that was to be his.

Sadly, it is not to be. This preschool is also a daycare and Mr4s spot is a daycare placement with full day costs. I won't bore you with the finances but needless to say it does not fit in with budgetary restraints. And in my head I know that my husband's position is rational and reasonable but in my heart I am bereft.

I know that in a day or a week I will have moved on, there will be something else out there, maybe a little further away and with fewer hours. And I also know that this is a small matter in the scale of things, especially considering that so many children in both Australia and the United States (my two homes) cannot afford any form of early childhood education.

Update: I am thrilled to report that my original dream preschool contacted me last week and offered 2 half days which we will start in the Fall. I am very happy for Mr4 and for myself. And grateful for the (as always) lovely support I got from blog readers and tweeps when I was in the middle of my crisis. Michelle xx

Politics and Parenting

2011-05-30T23:01:00.008-07:00

Tonight over dinner I found myself discussing the birth of trade unions, communism and the end of slavery with my oldest child. We also touched upon the restricted lives that women led during the 1800s and the birth of feminism. The discussion arose as I shared (bored) the family with my enthusiasm for my latest read about LM Alcott (biography by Susan Cheever).

On the car trip home, the Bigs revealed their confusion about the differing usage of the term 'liberal' in Australia, the USA and the UK. After covering this ground we moved on to talking about how I voted in the most recent Australian election and why. Which eventually led to a discussion about bullying.

I love having these far ranging discussions with my kids. And while mostly they still (thankfully) believe that I know what I am talking about, my goal is not to indoctrinate so much as excite them to think about and engage in the world around them.

I don't want my kids to grow up feeling as if politics is something that has nothing to do with them, that their opinion or vote makes no difference, that tuning out is an option. At some point they will start to argue with me, challenge my views, formulate their own. And rather than feeling threatened I hope that I instead can smile to myself, knowing that at least in this one area of parenting I have done my job well.

Sticky Fingers

2011-05-23T13:01:00.016-07:00

I have written before about letting the bigs into the kitchen and even presented myself as marvellously relaxed about it. Of course, my children will tell a different story. Just ask Mr11:

"Relaxed. You!" he chuckled after reading a comment on my blog.

"Well," I said, just a little defensively, "At least I let you into the kitchen. A lot."

So, in order to restore my reputation I am posting these photos of my most recent cooking adventures with the small boys who completed the mammoth task of making chicken nuggets from scratch. Yes, there was a mess. Quite a large mess. And this time I can honestly say I managed to remain pleasant throughout.

One of the loveliest aspects of this cooking adventure from my point of view was that the boys managed to complete the whole process without having a single disagreement. They were intently focused on the job at hand. They were doing something that had a real purpose - dinner. And it tasted great.

Growing Up Feminist

2011-05-20T10:48:00.025-07:00

I am writing this post in response to another bloggers #feministfriday link up. Such a great idea...

There was no dramatic moment when I became a feminist. I grew up in a house where Germaine Greer happily sat on our bookshelves and at some point in my late adolescence I gave it a whirl.

At university I remember being completely taken with Marilyn French's "The Women's Room". Along the way I joined an official feminist group, with my favourite aunt, and admit I was in awe but also intimidated by these really fantastic women who seemed so incredibly sure of themselves.

Working in trade unions and a domestic violence agency brought me face to face with the real challenges still faced by women in their work and home lives. It also brought me in contact with many amazing people who have chosen to spend their working lives advocating for equality and justice.

Being a feminist mum is an interesting challenge. On the surface my life looks like a patriarchs wet dream. Stay at home mum, go to work dad, 4 kids. But of course life is much more interesting than that and I see it as part of my mission to raise children who question authority (not just mine) and care about social justice.

Sweet Art

2011-05-19T08:42:00.029-07:00

Our marshmallow sculpture extravaganza was a hit. With four children aged from 4 to (almost) 12 it is hard to find activities that engage each child. It was wonderfully open ended and working with such a novel material was liberating. I did not sense that the kids were comparing their work or holding it up to some preconceived notion of what it should look like.

I am impressed that 12 hours later the sculptures are still in tact given their edible nature. I am also relieved that this was one project I was happy to do in our short-term rental without fear of a messy costly disaster.

This is definitely an activity that I will be repeating at each child's birthday party for as long as they'll let me.

Mr4s late entry in our Marshmallow Sculpture Gallery - washing drying on the line.

Mr11 makes a steamroller or bulldozer ... or perhaps a steamdozer.

Daddy makes a diamond. He says he did it for the kids....

Mr4: "This is Bouncehead the kangaroo."

Mr6 made a rabbit (above)

Mr4 explaining his sculpture (above): "This is a sort of machine and even it makes everything and it is the best thing in the world and this is how it works .....vzzzhhhhh."
Ms9 (above and below) makes some people. The one in the middle is a dancer.

Mr4: "Its this sort of machine that you turn on and it helps the people" ... he now examines my blackened finger nails and concludes that it can suck up the black bruise without causing damage.

Mr6 explaining the Rabbit (above)

Ms9 made a camera and tripod (above)

Ms9s flower (above) and house frame (below)

I found the inspiration to do this activity at

http://smilinglikesunshine1.blogspot.com/2011/05/marshmallow-and-toothpick-sculptures.html?spref=tw

Making marshmallow and toothpick sculptures on a snowy afternoon - The Artful Parent

Botox Mom

2011-05-14T16:36:00.009-07:00

This week I witnessed the birth of one of those perfect social media tsunamis. In the woman I shall tag “Botox Mom” we have the ideal target for our outrage – a woman who had chosen to inject her nine-year-old daughter’s face with botox (ordered off the internet) in order to smooth out her “wrinkles” so she could better compete in Child Beauty Pageants. Let the rock hurling begin!

But first, maybe we should take a few steps back and look at the bigger picture. Botox Mum is just the extreme edge of a larger ideology that conveys to our daughters from a very early age that appearance is their most valuable currency. And even as we resist the insidious messages that are all around us, our daughters (just like “us”, their mothers) cannot help but absorb at some level this damaging and limiting view of what it is that makes us worthwhile.

The cosmetic surgery industry has not grown rich off some fringe element in society, the Hollywood star or the unlucky child of an ambitious beauty pageant mother. But they have successfully framed the debates around cosmetic surgery in terms of “choice” and self-esteem. And it is this exact terminology that Botox Mom uses to justify the twisted “decision” she made on behalf of her daughter.

Talk to enough young women and it will not take you long to find a reasonable number who would consider having cosmetic surgery in the future or have indeed already begun the process. Consider the beauty regime of nearly any woman in her twenties and walk away amazed at the time and money that is spent on what are now considered essentials – hair straightening, spray tans and extensive waxing to name a few.

Chat to a group of women in their forties and fifties and you will find that some are considering Botox or other “procedures” for career reasons. Others will have succumbed to the pressure to erase the lines on their faces knowing that in our culture an old woman is more likely to be dismissed rather than revered.

Hurling rocks at Botox Mom is too obvious, too easy. Yes, her actions are atrocious and have quite rightly been described as abusive. However, I am saving my rocks for the many industries that make their fortunes promoting and exploiting a view that a woman’s primary value, her most important asset, is what is on the outside. And I am challenging myself to take every measure I can to reject that message for my own sake and that of my daughter.

From where I sit Botox Mom and her daughter are collateral damage, a mother who has bought the distorted messages of the beauty industry hook, line and sinker. And while we are busy hurling rocks at an individual woman, the industries that make money by preying on our deepest insecurities are laughing all the way to the bank.

Dream Home

2011-05-11T16:46:00.001-07:00

This is our lovely new home. I am sharing it here, briefly, as I feel like I have received so much support and cheer from my lovely tweeps over the past months where life has been a bit of a roller coaster ride. xx

My Life: the score

2011-04-30T00:33:00.013-07:00

If my life was a music score at this moment in time, there would be far too few pauses and rests, far too many discordant notes. The music would be uncomfortable to listen too, challenging rather than pleasurable. And for a time this is ok.

Moving overseas, while it sounds glamorous, is supposed to take you out of your comfort zone. There would be no point in trying out something new, and making the sacrifices involved, if it was all just more of the same.

But still. I am getting tired of the minor keys, the constant changes in meter, the discordant melodies as we bump against layer upon layer of bureaucracy, red tape seemingly designed for the express purpose of tripping us over, and each family member is pulled in a different direction as we all struggle to find our way.

And that percussion section. It needs to tone it down. I am done with loud, atonal, out of time. Could the strings and woodwinds please take over for a bit with some soaring melodies, a quiet sad movement, a duet, or better yet a piano solo.

There have been moments when it has all come together, we are playing in harmony, matching rhythms, following the same melodic line. An afternoon at the park where the children discovered the giant concrete slide would surely come with an allegro. A Mexican feast where more time was spent in happy banter than bickering would earn a vivace. The visit to a nature reserve would have been a perfectly balanced score, all legato and adagio, reminiscent of Vivaldi's Four Seasons - a masterpiece that never fails to lift my spirits.

Life cannot all be easy listening, nor should it. After a prolonged period of difficult, surely there is nothing wrong with craving something more predictable - a moderate tempo, more light than dark, all parts of the orchestra playing in the same key, reading from the same score.

The Illustrated . . . Boy

2011-04-27T19:26:00.004-07:00

At the end of one of my many drives about town this week I turned to find Mr4 decorating his pants with texta. It was an intricate pattern of shapes running up both legs and he insisted I let him finish before he got out.

This afternoon I pulled up to coffee to discover he had literally covered his arms in green texta much like the people who leave tattoo parlours ... not the mums having their midlife crisis or the teen girls getting a little rose tattoo on their breast .... no, like the original Illustrated Man. Covered.

We recently had our house painted from top to bottom. The rather charming painter noted that our walls were covered with much "art". When he had finished the job he suggested that perhaps we should not return to the house ...

I obeyed. We remained at a safe distance, holed up in our hotel room like travelling musos. But I couldn't avoid the house forever. A consultation with my friend the house dresser was all it took for Mr4 to get to work ... he tagged one wall with his name, another with some less distinctive marking ... a future Banksy in our midst. Perhaps.

Tomorrow we will be meeting with the principal of my older children's elementary school. Mr4 currently displays complete arm markings plus some well placed green dots on his forehead. The principal doesn't know us from a bar of soap, and while she may very well be tempted to hand me one, I hope that she doesn't just see a boy in need of a good wash but instead a child whose desire to express himself knows no boundaries.

And I will cross my fingers that while we cherish this innate creativity, as Mr4 morphs into Mr14 we can perhaps direct the compulsion to a more traditional canvas.

Corrupting the Caveman and other tales from suburbia

2011-04-22T18:40:00.008-07:00

After thirteen or so years of marriage my husband and I recently experienced a separation. Not as dramatic as it sounds, and for one party possibly quite the relaxing break. The separation was brought on by the lure of the almighty dollar. Start work on Feb 1st and you will get a lovely bonus at the end of the year. Remain with your wife and children in the home country for an extra few months and assist in the mammoth task of getting a house ready for sale - no bonus.

So, my husband decided that a bonus was far more appealing than a pack-a-thon and set off for the wild wild west. And I stayed behind with 4 kids, 1 dog and a blog .... plus a house to sell and a bazillion things to organise. While we just survived, the husband thrived.

When he set off for California he was weary, tired, over it. When we landed at SFO we were greeted by the newly minted version of my former husband, lets call him Husband 2.0. Husband 2.0 had joined the gym, played board games with college girls* and adopted an eating regime based on romantic notions of the caveman.

The new caveman is a far different breed from the original version. He insists that his prey be grass fed, organic and allowed to roam free. He only eats chickens that have been hand raised, fed vitamin supplements and read bedtime stories. And rather than getting his exercise by way of chasing lions and wrestling bears he instead joins a class with a bunch of other unitard wearers and pumps his booty to the latest from Lady Gaga.

I have been extremely tolerant of the new ways of Husband 2.0, willing to play Me Jane to his Tarzan, but no more. Ever subtle, distinctly uncaveman like substances have been creeping back into the pantry and onto his plate as I embark on my campaign of corruption. One day he finds himself biting into the forbidden pleasures of a grain and legume laden burrito**, the next we are fighting it out over the final square of Lindt Orange***.

Just in time for Sunday. Happy Bunny Day!

* not a euphemism and still being worked through at couple's counselling.

** gluten he cries, gluten.

***no chocolate was harmed in the writing of this post although I cannot say the same for my marriage.

My boy and some not so designer labels

2011-04-16T17:29:00.014-07:00

My son began a new mantra today. He has said it repeatedly so I know it is really important to him and it worries me. And it has become important to him because he has picked up that it is important to us.

"When I get bigger I will be really smart. I will be the smartest boy in my class."

My boy will be many things when he gets big but, barring a dramatic change, he will not be the smartest boy in his class. He may be the friendliest, the kindest, the funniest. He will try incredibly hard and he will get frustrated. But unlike his sibilings who may in fact be the smartest or amongst the smartest or at least have the right to hang with the smartest, this boy will never be the smartest boy in his class.

In our newly adopted hometown, being smart is about the most important thing you can be. Being called a nerd is virtually, often actually, a compliment. Being bad at sports is no big deal as long as you are not bad at everything else.

So, my eldest child will probably get away with having a somewhat awkward gait and unconventional interests because he will also be able to lead class discussions in politics and science, make music and do awesome things with computer games.

My youngest child will flourish in a place where an unnatural fascination with pipes and how things fit together is exactly the kind of thinking that has led to many a successful start up. And my second child, who I jokingly call my Tiger Daughter, will succeed through a combination of smarts, creativity and grit determination.

But my son. What becomes of a child for whom getting into a Community College would be a huge achievement growing up in a place where teens regularly throw themselves in front of trains because they fear missing out on a spot at an elite Ivy League school? Where parents rarely have to worry about a child who does not study enough, but rather too much?

My child is six. He loves to think. In fact he requests thinking time. But mostly he is thinking about movies - currently Scooby Doo. He wants to be an inventor or a scientist because these are words he has heard used to describe his dad. He also wants to be cool and have big muscles and be president and prime minister and a dad and have kids and 100 dogs.

He is a child who is incredibly likeable but also incredibly naive. While peer pressure is unlikely to be a concern with my other children, this child's friendliness and desire to fit in have the potential to shift from traits we celebrate to traits we curse.

I will be working hard to prevent him from acquiring new labels as he grows from child to teen, unofficial ones like class clown or troublemaker, labels that ironically are applied just as often to the bored gifted child as to the child for whom school is just too hard.

For now we will stick with the one label, Aspergers, knowing that this diagnosis while imperfect provides our child with a degree of support and protection that will hopefully allow him to find his own path to his own version of success. In the meantime, we will happily grapple with the paradox of a child who is officially on the Autism Spectrum but appears to have more friends than the rest of the family put together.

First Friendships

2011-04-09T14:58:00.038-07:00

Jet's hands shake as she carries the plate of pancakes across the room. I take them off her and pass the plate to her daughter. The twelve-year-old sighs with the effort of raising her eyes from the computer screen and churlishly complains "But Mom, I didn't want pancakes."

To me, this is just as it should be and exactly the way Jet wants it. Her daughter has flourished, grown like a weed that cannot be held down no matter how hostile the climate.

Six years have passed since I last saw Jet and that luminous smile has not dimmed in spite of the unimaginable hurdles thrown in her path. Terrorised by breast cancer just a year ago, and all the while her MS has continued on its relentless trajectory. Jet's movements have taken on a new stiffness that is impossible to miss. But in spite of this, she somehow continues to virtually leap about her second home, our favourite coffee shop.

Although very different people, Jet and I always got along. While she came outfitted in leopard skin hats and knee high boots, I struggled to come up with anything resembling style let alone imagination. She was a welcome relief, a breath of fresh air from the coffee shop regulars, mostly grumpy old men who didn't hide their hostility towards our brood of children who romped about the place as if they owned it.

Six years earlier, my oldest child and her only had been the best of friends. We looked on in fascination as they worked together on their "science" experiments, using the cups, straws and stirrers of the cafe as their tools. Other times they would sit at a table "reading" the New York Times, like any old married couple. Jet remembered an argument they had had aged five about god, my son arguing the case against, her daughter the case for. They were a great match.

Six years later and Jet's daughter is on the cusp of adolesence, leggy and beautiful but still friendly and unaffected. My son, only six months younger, blushes and giggles as we remind him of this early friendship. Knowing that before long they will be in the full throes of adolescence and there will be no room for this gentle teasing, we somehow cajole them into allowing us to capture them on film together, possibly for the last time.

Bitter Endings

2011-04-02T22:56:00.013-07:00

I saw Nora from a distance, dragging her bright red shopping cart behind her, an odd splash of colour for a person who was otherwise drained of life. Always hunched over, she was the archetypal bitter old woman, angry at the world rather than sad.

Some days she would pick up her granddaughter from my children’s school and the hostility between the old woman and young girl was palpable. In a rare moment of friendliness, I once got into a conversation with Nora. It didn’t take her long to embark on a complete character assassination of her granddaughter. She reminded me of the Queen in Sleeping Beauty, telling me with cruel delight how vain her granddaughter was, how much time she spent looking in the mirror and how nasty this pretty little girl really was.

I almost admired Nora for her unbridled anger, her refusal to paint over the cracks and put on a happy face. There were no hours wasted at gyms and salons attempting to mould herself into an acceptable version of womanhood or at least of giving the appearance that she had tried. No forced smiles or girlish laughs, no concession to the world and its blows.

Nora has a large growth that covers one side of her neck. She does not try to hide the protrusion, spare the rest of us from her likely pain. It would be easy to view this growth as a physical manifestation of her inner bitterness. I doubt that Nora sees it this way, no doubt treating it with the same disdain she reserves for the rest of us. I suspect this is a treatable if not curable condition, but Nora has chosen to just keep trudging along with her shopping cart waiting to see what blow the world will throw at her next.

I don’t know if Nora was ever beautiful or even happy, whether a sad disappointing life had turned the corners of her mouth into a permanent grimace. Maybe there was a time in her life when she stared approvingly into a mirror, kissing the glass and imagining her own prince charming whisking her away from an unhappy family, a disinterested or cruel mother, an angry father.

Perhaps when Nora looks into the face of her granddaughter she sees herself fifty years ago, on the brink of adolescence, still full of hope and desire. Or maybe Nora had already been dealt too many blows in her childhood and wonders when her granddaughter will learn that the world is not your oyster and dreams only lead to disappointment.

Airport Novel

2011-04-01T14:45:00.005-07:00

The airport novel is a light and racy affair. Something you can sink into as you attempt to pass the interminable hours of cramped conditions that constitute a journey across the world in cattle class discomfort. Not too taxing, it may even have the added benefit of sending you into a slumber.

The reality of flying is of course nothing like an airport novel. Not that you would want your trip to turn into an actual action adventure as the likelihood of emerging alive from such a scenario is depressingly slight. Passengers understanding of this is amply demonstrated during the safety procedures video that runs at the start of every flight. Few pay more than cursory attention, most simply hoping that if anything is to go wrong that the end is over before they even know it has started.

The alternative genre airport novel is the racy romance. An actuarial analysis of the probability of having an actual airborne romance are sadly much lower than catching a rare airborne disease while locked in an isolation chamber for 14-hours. And if you are fortunate enough to pass some flying time entangled in the arms of Ralph Fiennes you may decide that those moments of ecstasy were not really worth the pain of becoming a feature story on tabloid television.

Most flights, thankfully, do not involve disaster so much as discomfort. Possibly the discomfort of being seated behind the woman who decides that she will keep her seat in a permanent recline as she gets herself happy on booze. Or being subject to a campaign of passive aggressive shoving from the person behind you as you attempt to get some shut eye – while reclined.

There is the discomfort of being seated with children, particularly your own. You cross your fingers that nobody will vomit or pass other bodily fluids during the course of the flight. More ominous is the distinct possibility that they will at some point simply snap and enter into a no holds barred meltdown from which there is no return and another ten hours of flying time to endure.

The worst fear of a parent is that they get seated next to an adult whose own worst fear is being seated anywhere near an actual child. Enduring 14-hours next to a person who offers a scowl instead of a sympathetic smile or even a helping hand as your children inevitably lose the plot is a cruel fate for all concerned.

It is the existential playwright who is most likely to capture the true angst ridden nature of flying. Why these authors have not used the economy class section of a United Airlines flight from Sydney to LA as a setting for their most depressing work I do not know (but am happy to share in the royalties if any would like to take me up on the idea). While many passengers turn to alcohol or sleeping pills to escape the mind numbing boredom and physical discomforts of flying, for others the airport novel provides the perfect antidote to finding themselves stuck in their own version of Waiting for Godot.

Green Light Stop, Red Light Go

2011-03-02T17:26:00.010-08:00

You have heard the warnings: "Don't drink and drive" then "Don't talk on your mobile while driving" and even possibly "Don't attempt to pull on your pantyhose while applying makeup on a freeway and drive". But there may be a need for a new one: "Don't write and drive".

Something weird has happened to me. The times when I have my most inspired ideas (using the term inspired very loosely) these days seem to occur most often while driving. Perhaps it is because I spend so much time on the road ferrying children between schools, stuck in traffic, my body spreading as my mind wanders. Or is it because the act of driving in Sydney traffic is so intensely boring that I enter a sleep like state (as advocated by literature's current wonder boy - who is really a middle aged man - Jonathan Franzen) and from this dreamlike state my mind is freed?

This is all well and good, but I am not sure that it should be permitted. Looking forward to red lights and traffic hold-ups so I can scrawl my latest great idea (relatively speaking) into my trusty notepad is not the most conventional approach to the peak hour drive, especially when you are attempting to beat the countdown to bell time. And it could prove intensely irritating to the unlucky road user stuck behind me who was relying on me running the "amber" light so as not to have to wait another 10 minutes to cross the intersection.

Perhaps I could simulate the conditions of the Sydney drive by parking the car, leaving the engine running and strapping the kids into their seats for an hour or two. Occasionally I could edge a couple of inches forwards or backwards in my spot, throw the kids a bottle of water and some food scraps, all while issuing empty threats to stop fighting or else ... or else I'll yell some more and remain stationary.

So, now I have found my perfect Franzenesque dreamlike state nothing can stop me. Apart from an unlucky green light.

We Have Turbulence

2011-03-01T17:15:00.010-08:00

This morning I left my little boy sad, angry and confused at preschool. Crouched beside him was his teacher who, watching his sadness turn to anger, patiently suggested he might hurt his toe if he kept kicking the gate. And with those words I walked away secure in the knowledge that he was being left in the very safest of hands.

My beautiful articulate and sometimes difficult three-year-old is trying to come to grips with his safe world being turned upside down. Yesterday it seemed that our house was literally turned inside out as the packers did their work. This morning I discovered that they had taken shoes that were meant to be left behind, and left behind toys that were meant to be taken.

Caught up in the turbulence, I have had neither the time or required state of mind, to help my children process what is taking place. I joke that I need a replacement when what I really mean is that I want to find the old me, the one who isn't sleep deprived and overwhelmed. So overwhelmed that the smallest request can make me strike like lightning.

In the midst of the storm, my oldest child has done some serious growing up. Aside from putting many a family meal on the table, last night he went beyond his usual repertoire with his younger siblings and quietly took his baby brother off to bed for a story. He did this with no input from me and without show. This morning he looked at me with concern and asked kindly "Did you get enough sleep?"

My kids have had many dreadful moments, even days, since my husband boarded the plane. I have had even more and my parental guilt will not be easily assuaged because I should have done better. My parenting has not even lived up to "good enough" let alone some ridiculous notion of perfect. It is like I am physically present but my mind is always elsewhere.

I know that this is a brief phase in our lives and we will ride out the storm. We will arrive at San Francisco airport and there will be my husband, their dad. I am not sure how he will cope with the return of the brood after a couple of very quiet months but I hope that we can find our way back from the brink. We must.

Drive Time

2011-02-26T05:26:00.010-08:00

I am all hare this morning. Every decision ends in a No Right Turn, as if the streets are conspiring against me.

The boys backseat chatter is endless. Their minds whizz at lightening speed as if they’ve inhaled some psychedelic substance along with their Rice Bubbles for some extra Snap, Crackle, Pop. It is all rockets and rescue missions, their dreams for the future taking on blockbuster proportions.

I tune my ears away from the backseat chatter to the radio where story after story of disaster and death dominates the news, sitting uneasily beside talk back radios bread and butter of traffic reports and grubby state politics. And then, somewhat incongruously, this:

“A man was arrested this morning while dealing heroin with a 4-year-old girl strapped into the backseat of his car”.

At least amidst his drug dealing he’d managed to strap her in.

Before long the boys have dragged me reluctantly back into their orbit, with the younger issuing forth a relentless stream of demands. “Get me water” “Pick up the rocket” and on it goes. “Say please” I murmur, defeated, just wishing for nothing greater than silence.

An ambulance fights its way through the traffic, snaking in and out of streams of cars and trucks, until it hits a traffic block that no amount of clever maneuvering and screaming sirens can get it out of. I wonder what has happened, who they are rushing to, and then selfishly whether there has been an accident up ahead that will slow us down even further.

“News just in, rescuers are reporting signs of life beneath the rubble . . ."

I wait for more, but that is all for now. I think of the family on the front page of today’s paper, an ex-husband and two teenage children sit sobbing outside the building hoping against hope that their mother will emerge from the rubble. And now, with this news I am hoping right alongside them. Not that my wishes are of any use.

We finally pull into the street that houses my son’s school, and by some miracle we have five minutes to spare. I am grateful for this leeway but wonder if my stroke of good fortune has been handed out by the gods at the expense of those trapped in the post-earthquake wreckage, as if luck is such a rare commodity that there is an international quota on it’s supply.

The miracle doesn’t extend as far as providing a parking spot, so I sheepishly line up behind the other parents who have opted for a double park rather than walk a mere two blocks, although two blocks with a disgruntled toddler can take what feels like a lifetime. Securing my place in the queue I leap out of the drivers seat and hurry my boy through the school gates just as the bell sends off its warning sound.

Sepia Tones

2011-02-21T17:30:00.021-08:00

The old man appeared on the street as if from nowhere, instantly recognisable as the infamous owner of the ghostly milkbar that sits derelict although not empty on Parramatta Road. He looked as faded and out of date as his trays full of unsold candy bars, as if he lived his life in sepia tones. I tried to imagine why he stayed in his broken down shop with his out of date chocolate bars, and could only think that he could not let go of a past that had long since ceased to exist outside his front window.

My mother-in-law lives her life in similarly faded tones, never looking forward, always harking back to an idyllic version of her childhood spent between the Blue Mountains and the lower North Shore. She lives as though in a permanent dream like state.

When she came to visit us in California it seemed as if the unfamiliar environment shook her out of her revery. Overnight, she swapped old style floral dresses, sensible court shoes and stockings on even the hottest days for jeans and coloured sneakers. The effect was unsettling. All of a sudden she seemed to slip out of black and white and into colour, like watching an actor swap roles midway through a play. She had gone from playing the dotty grandmother to her more spirited middle aged daughter in one costume change.

Going to her house is like visiting some sort of ramshackle badly run museum. The couch is so old you sink to the bottom, and everything is firmly encased in layers of dust. A home that must have been considered modern on construction now just looks ugly, built in a period that is too old to be current and too recent to appeal to the heritage hunters. It sits nervously awaiting the inevitable demolition that will come once the dream is over. Sepia tones will be replaced by a brash modern masterpiece, taking full advantage of the expansive water views. There will be no remaining traces of the ghosts of past lives once the new money moves in.

The cliff face that juts out from behind the house will continue to store memories of ancient times, before old money was replaced by new, before 3D superseded colour and sepia tones, to a time when a carving in a rock face stored the memories of another dreamtime.

My Knight in Shining Armour with String Bag

2011-02-21T04:48:00.006-08:00

Sitting in my car this afternoon with flat tyre, a mobile in it's final death throes and small children poorly shod for a possible walk home (no shoes) I experienced a complete brain freeze. My problem solving abilites had dried up as all available options disappeared before my eyes. Which is the precise moment that my unexpected hero entered stage left and resurrected my faith in the village.

Andrew, a crumpled middle aged man with green credentials (see string shopping bag) could have kept on walking at the sight of a deflated tyre, a desperate harried mother and a giant minivan. But he didn't. Instead, he enquired (hopefully) "In the NRMA?" to which I shook my head. And he was off. Boot opened, tools searched for and located, and 30 minutes later a spare tyre to get me home.

So, on a day of mishaps, one kind man made things much more bearable. He could have (probably should have) kept walking, but instead he just quietly got on with it, shrugging off my thanks and hurrying back home to feed his dogs.

Dear Dicks

2011-02-18T15:42:00.002-08:00

Dear Dicks,

Whether you are hung left or right, please stop bringing my pussy into your political debates. Calling a right wing thug a "cunt" does not mark you out as progressive. And since when did a penis and testicles become a prerequisite for leadership ability. Man up, grow some balls, stop being a pussy. For gods sake! I am as fond of an excellent expletive as the next person but claiming my genitalia as the mark of the lowest of the low in your political purview makes me angry.

And sorry guys, but right now the country is being run by a bunch of people whose leadership ability is not in any way assisted by possession of some manly balls, from the PM, GG through to many Premiers. So go get yourself some ovaries and get over yourselves,

Cheers,

Vagina

Let Me In

2011-02-17T22:17:00.000-08:00

Twitter has broken. I am ruined.

I am like a person left helplessly standing outside the greatest party ever, peering in the window, knocking on the glass, ringing the doorbell, but nobody can hear me. Conversations are flowing, wines are being poured, books are being shared, and still I am stuck outside.

So here I am. Waving, possibly drowning in a sea of twitterless despair.

Sob.

Embracing Chaos

2011-02-13T01:20:00.000-08:00

In a world of magazine homes and neat freaks I am going to do the unthinkable and advocate we get better at embracing chaos! Tonight my kitchen resembles a war zone. But my children have gone to bed happy, we have entertained a favourite old friend, and our bellies are full of real food cooked by my kids.

While I avoid the inevitable clean-up until the morning, I am determined to remain focused on the beauty and creativity that allowing a little (or alot) of chaos can bring into our homes. Tonight my 11-year-old son put together a sophisticated meat dish and "plated" it up with style and flair. And my 8-year-old daughter and her best friend let me relax with my friend while they deciphered a complex recipe for chocolate pudding with orange zest sauce - all done without an ounce of help from me. They made decisions about leaving out certain troublesome ingredients (crushed hazelnuts) and turned out something that was closer to a chocolate soup than pudding. But it tasted brilliant and brought far more joy and laughter to the dinner table than any store bought perfection could deliver.

My children's interest in cooking (thank you Masterchef) has made me commit to a new tradition of kid cooked dinner parties for our family and friends. As we prepare for our move overseas I am seeking ways of farewelling loved ones while at the same time welcoming new friends into our lives. And I can't think of a better way of doing this while at the same time promoting a sense of competence and confidence in my young brood than allowing them control of the kitchen - a domain usually reserved for adults.

While my older children have demonstrated again that they are more than capable of turning out something that tastes delicious - which my daughter reminded us all is far more important than how it looks - I need to find a way to include the smalls in this process. Tonight they provided some post-dinner entertainment with an improvisational dance medley. In the future I would love to find a way for them to step out of sideshow alley and be part of the main act.

I have never been one for the dinner party circuit but putting my kids in charge of the process brings a whole new joy to the idea of entertaining.

Messy, chaotic and potentially catastrophic. But for now I will turn away from the war zone that is my kitchen and embrace the chaos. Bon Apetit!

May Day May Day

2011-02-12T02:19:00.001-08:00

May 1st is a date that I will forever cherish. Not only is it May Day, which for a former professional rabble rouser (union organiser) is an obvious sentimental favourite, it is also my daughter's birthday.

Emma was meant to be an April baby. In my family, April birthdays are incredibly popular, specifically those that fall in the 20s - my brother on April 20th, my Nan on April 23rd, my sister on April 26th, and my cousin on April 29th. While I enjoy the counting by 3s aspect, I was not so keen for my child's moment in the spotlight to be continually over-shadowed by a competing relo bash. And apparently my wise unborn daughter agreed.

Despite being 4cm dilated for weeks, little miss unknown gripped on for dear life, refusing to be lured by speed bumps, uncomfortable sex, herbs and acupuncture. She refused to listen to the pleas of her visiting Nana who had travelled from Sydney to California to be there for the grand event of her birth (and the minding of her soon to be displaced older brother). So one week past the due date and with my mother's departure looming ever closer we pulled the plug (literally and figuratively) and out she came.

Like a rocket. Flying into the doctor's arms, weighing a tonne (5 kilos to be precise) this rather large bundle of loveliness flew into our lives and forever changed our world, again. And in keeping with her May Day birth, I am thrilled to report that behind the "good girl" facade beats the heart of a rebel (as described here 4 kids, a dog and a blog: Defiantly Yours).

While currently that rebellion is often aimed at me, I have no doubt that one day she will speak truth to much greater powers than her own mother and her passion for justice will extend from defending the rights of cockroaches (true story) to the more traditionally oppressed.

Viva la revolution!

Straight Men Dancing

2011-02-06T21:47:00.000-08:00

This week I took my six-year old son to see Tap Dogs at the Capital Theatre. He has recently acquired a love of dancing which he expresses with scant regard for genre or traditional forms. I am thrilled that he has not yet picked up on the cultural messages that lead most boys away from dance (if they ever got there in the first place) and into more traditionally masculine pursuits.

So I was excited to find a show that would present dance as a medium that was open to boys. And the show delivered with shovel loads of fun, joy and boisterous energetic dance. It was inventive, challenged traditional notions about dance and was delightfully playful. It was a pleasure to watch the interaction, often cheeky in nature, between the cast members themselves who obviously shared a great rapport. At the same time they connected directly with the audience in a way that was refreshing for what is often an aloof art form.

While the show successfully revitalised a sometimes stale dance form - tap - giving it an energy and creativity that was contagious, it did nothing to challenge normative constructions of masculinity itself. In fact, it felt almost desperate to reassure the audience that this was a company for ‘real men’ – not sissies. One of the earliest scenes in the show, a very clever one where the dancers well-shod feet are revealed to the audience with the rest of their bodies hidden behind a tin wall, ends with the insinuation that one of the "blokes" has urinated onto the set. Mildly amusing yes, but to me the first signposting that we are watching real men, larrikins not sissies.

The theme continues. There is the mimed scene involving the revving of a lawnmower (can of WD40 at the ready), play acting with imaginary guns, tap dancing with basketballs, even dancing while welding. And while there was nothing wrong with any of these ideas, all working in their own way, the signposting was unmistakable. Real men, blokes, true blue. And just in case we didn't quite get it, the final scene ends with all five dancers sitting on a workbench at a construction site spraying each other with a "Tooheys" - label face forward and definitely not Lite!

I left disappointed that the company could not find a way to play with notions of masculinity with the same inventive creative spirit that they took to their own dance form. Theatre, even dance, should not just entertain. It should also challenge the audience, make us think or even squirm a little. I was hoping to show my six-year-old that there were lots of ways of being a boy, and while I was not expecting to find a troupe of men dressed in tutus, I could have done without an endorsement of a masculinity that would have gone down a treat with the Footy Show crowd.

It is ironic that by making the world of dance appealing to a wider group of boys and men, the hyper-masculinity of the show symbollically slams the door in the face of another group of males - a group for whom the world of dance (and the arts in general) has been a welcome refuge from the aggressive masculinity that dominate sport, pop culture and the corporate world.

I am raising three sons and one daughter. My hope is that in the 21st century their lives are less hemmed in by traditional gender expectations, and that taking up pursuits that have been historically defined as belonging to one or the other gender does not require taking on a hyper-masculinity (or femininity) as a defensive measure. This would feel like progress.

Why writing is like stripping

2011-01-28T20:44:00.000-08:00

I once lived with a friend who took her gear off professionally. While by day she was an accountant, by night she opted for the tax free income provided by a somewhat less prestigious but much in demand "profession".

Now my friend was in her early twenties and genetically blessed with the sort of form that was well suited to public disrobing. While her outer body was, I am sure, a beautiful sight to behold -my husband can verify this as she was in the habit of practising her craft at parties - her inner workings were another whole matter. She had like many young women suffered from an eating disorder and I suspect that there was much complexity to her psychological state. So while public disrobing was no big deal, I am sure that a view into the inner workings of her mind would be just as titillating if not more so than the easy allure of her body.

Writing is a lot like stripping. If you are not willing to get your gear off on paper then what you produce may be pretty, it may be pleasing, but it is unlikely to be interesting, powerful or transformative. Writing in public is impolite - you will offend people with your views, and you will anger those around you as you reveal more about yourself and family members than anybody has the right to know. And if you are planning on doing a full scale strip show your ugliest thoughts and impulses will be there in black and white for all to see.

Of course, the traditional way around the full striptease is to pull on the cloak of fiction. This is not to say that all fiction is autobiographical but I suspect that for most writers there is much that is borrowed from their own lives and the lives of those around them. So fiction writing may be more like a peep show than the full scale lap dance that is the memoir - or at least a memoir that is worth the effort of reading.

While there is no danger that I will ever strip in the literal sense outside the privacy of my own home, I know that to really write I have to be willing to do more than flash a bit lof leg. A full scale striptease is what it takes and it is what I plan to give. So start the music folks. And enjoy the show.

Am Writing

2011-01-23T17:51:00.000-08:00

One of my favourite hashtags on twitter is #amwriting. Oddly, for a hashtag addict like myself it is one I have never used. Because when somebody says #amwriting I assume they must be a real writer. Not a wannabe like me.

Something happened to me this past week that made me question that perception of myself. The transformation occurred during the course of a single phone call, the call where I found out that my opinion piece was to be published in a major national newspaper. By the end of that phone call we had agreed that my bio at the end of the article would not read Stay At Home Mum and regular SMH reader (my idea) but instead point to my past work (unions, domestic violence) and future writing endeavours. Indeed, I distinctly remember Mr Opinion Page using the phrase "freelance writer".

Still shaking, laughing and screaming hysterically I placed an emergency call to my aunt (the one midway through a PhD while running a school). I then got down to working on the extra 150 words that needed to be added to the piece within the hour. That task complete (right on deadline) it was time to deal with far more important matters.

He needed a headshot! #fuckfuckfuckityfuckfuck.

I had been putting off having my ever growing grey roots repaired because I am lazy and it is school holidays and I am lazy. Given the choice between sneaking out for a coffee and a read alone or spending two hours at the hairdresser I will always pick the former. And this is the part of the story where I am punished for my inherent laziness.

With her tools of the hairdressing trade at the ready, my aunt wrestled my frizzy greying bedhead hair into the smoothest least offensive version that five minutes with a hair straightener could induce. While I took calls from Mr Opinion Page I applied a quick smear of lipstick and then it was off to the photo shoot.

We headed for the master bedroom where we located the only clean background in the house, the sliding doors of the wardrobe, which somehow had avoided the fate of all other clear surfaces of being smeared with grime or decorated with crayon or pencil or food. I smiled and tilted my head under the direction of my aunt while Husband the Really Shit Photographer got with the program and agreed to take multiple head shots. We settled on the least offensive and allowed Husband the Tech Head Extraordinairre to complete the final piece of the puzzle - sending a photo over the internet.

The photo that actually appeared in the paper did not look a whole lot like the one we sent in. Forgetting past feminist rants about the evils of airbrushing I silently thanked the graphics department for not only removing my red eye but also glossing over the permanent bruise on my lip and giving my sallow complexion colour and life. While it may be cruel to the rest of us to make supermodels look even thinner and in other ways "more" (or less) than they really are, for mere mortals such as myself it is an act of great kindness.

While I never aspired to use the hashtag #ammodelling I always envied those who could legitimately use the hashtag #amwriting. And while it is ridiculous to think that only those whose words have been given the big tick by a publisher or newspaper should be eligible, I now realise that had been my secret belief.

So dear friends, while you may more commonly find me using hashtags along the lines of #fuckfuckfuckityfuckfuck on occasion you may find me braving up and signing off with #amwriting. I highly recommend it.

http://www.smh.com.au/opinion/society-and-culture/language-reflects-a-dark-side-of-surrogacy-20110120-19xxp.html

Defiantly Yours

2011-01-18T03:21:00.001-08:00

A healthy dose of defiance is a fine thing. Especially when raising a daughter.

My daughter, on the surface, is the quintessential good girl. A child that a lazy teacher could easily miss as they deal with the "louder" personalities in the class. But underneath that good girl facade beats the heart of a rebel. And, while a spirit of rebellion is not the most convenient trait in a child, I am secretly glad and proud to find it lurking inside my only daughter.

Take the car trip down to Nana's today. I employed my best new strategy from my handy grab bag of parenting tricks for when the children are about to rip each other's heads off in the back row. The strategy involves yelling, threatening to pull over while still yelling, and finally pulling over. It gives me a chance to peruse the newspaper, breathe, and figure out which child has the strongest personality.

While on the surface my oldest child is the most likely to be perceived as the family rebel with his long wild curly hair and unconventional manner, it was he who first caved in to my demands. Points of fairness and principle were quickly brushed aside in the face of my willingness to wait it out. And his overwhelming desire to reach high tech central, otherwise known as Nana's house.

Not so for my daughter. She stared stonily out the window, unmoved by my ever more dramatic pronouncements. It was only when I finally declared my willingness to actually remove the entire family from the car if she did not accede that she finally and reluctantly agreed. But her principles were sorely offended, and she maintained a stony dignified silence for the rest of the car trip.

Once we pulled up, just in case I'd missed it, she pointed out to me that she had kept her hard won promise to keep quiet by not uttering a single solitary word. I acknowledged that she had indeed fulfilled the strictest interpretation of my requirements and also pointed out that this was not entirely necessary. She then got over herself and skipped off into the wonderland that is Nana's.

My daughter regularly displays this same quiet rebellion on the playground. While thankful that she will never be pop culture's much maligned (but secretly admired) Queen Bee, at the age of eight she is more than willing to swim against the tide without concern for the impact this may have on her popularity. At the age of fifteen I have little doubt that she will be organising letter writing campaigns and petitions, marching on parliament and without doubt will be a committed and vocal vegan. While I am bracing myself for the lectures that I will have to endure about my vapid consumerism, failed feminism, and general sold-out'edness, I am in an odd way looking forward to it.

While most parenting manuals do not list defiance as a character trait worth developing, in the long run do we really want kids who are not willing to question authority and act upon their principles. Let us hope that beneath the fairy dresses and butterfly wings, our daughters (and sons) are also developing the first flutterings of rebellion. While defiance may not be the most convenient trait - especially not in the car on the way to Nana's - more than likely a child in possession of this trait will one day make you a very proud parent.