Bounce

While in a fit of proactive parenting one night, I stumbled upon something that just seemed to catch the essence of what I was trying to say.

You see my kids often don't get that "glass half full" philosophy - it's a little, well, too philosophical and deep.  And usually when I'm preaching it, one of their eyes is wandering towards the TV, the computer or anywhere which isn't their mother sitting in front of them talking earnestly and deeply.  While mentally shaking their shoulders with hopeful words of living their best lives, I see the glaze, I see the fidget... and I think "ah well I gave it a shot" and move on.

But you see my job as a parent is to find a way to get that message across.  Because I will literally crumble with frustration if my kids don't give this life their absolute best shot.  If I give up on this, then I have failed with a big, fat F.

One son needed some coaching during the week.  He'd said something wrong and it had cut straight to a place that we never plan on going to in this family.  He knew it, but there's no backtracking when the words are ricocheting around the room.

And my words became sentences.  My calm became his.  And we went to a place where I felt it was time to pull out some big hits.  You see one of my boys bounces through life.  He has joy in his step.  His heart is kind.  And The Husband and I will fight tooth and nail to protect that bounce, because we've seen how life has a way of taking it away from our babies.  Practical, tedious, unbouncey life.  He doesn't have any self awareness.  He hums to himself.  He is joyous.

And who ever said it was wrong to compare your children, especially to each other.

I did.
I said to my son, "Look to your brother about how you can live your life, because he bounces right?  He actually bounces outside and inside himself, wouldn't it be great if you could find a way to do that too.  Because you used to be just like him".  "Did I?", he asked. "Yep mate, you did".

And while thinking of his bouncy, joyous brother, he smiled the kind of smile that warms your heart.

He got it.

I think it may be presumptious to think he'll start bouncing.  But if he can live life with a little more joy in his heart than before then I'll call that progress.

Do you bounce?  Do you know anyone who does?
There are life lessons everywhere, you just have to look for them.

Memories

Lordy it's hard writing a blog when you have a rodent issue.  I've had my life on pause until it's sorted.  However when the very nice Pest Extermination man came today to sort out my (ahem) small problem, and advised me that it was of biblical proportions then I knew I needed to face reality and push play again.  Especially as I write this I know they're munching away on an evil feast, before taking themselves OUTSIDE to die a humane death (actually sorry animal lovers, I don't give a toss if it's humane or not - it's a RAT OK???).

So another Mothers Day has been and gone, my 12th as a mum and my 18th as a motherless daughter.  I usually write a wee something for my mum each year such as here and here.  Memories will be forgotten if they're not dusted off every now and again and remembered.

I think about what my boys will remember about me.  Sometimes I shudder a little when I realise I've been too stuffy and unfunny, and too focused on getting stuff done.  I'm always so frustratingly focused on getting stuff done rather than just being.  I think this is an inherited thing.  I worry for myself that the cycle is repeating. I certainly don't have memories of my mum being fun, and silly and giggly.  I don't have memories of my mum being random, of letting things go, of being carefree.  And this isn't meant as a criticism of my mum.

It's a cautionary tale for me.

I'm not there, but I could be if I don't watch myself, or maybe that's stop watching myself and just be.  My eldest did one of those beautiful cards at school where they thank you for things you've done as a mum.  You know the kind that sometimes says "thank you for always making sure I get my homework done", or "thank you for keeping my room tidy".  My son's card wasn't like this, it was beautiful and made me cry in the mothers day mass I went to with him at school.  But it could have.  And in my eyes that would have been an epic fail.

I need to remember to keep young and playful for my boys, to do silly, to do random, to parent responsibly and irresponsibly.

I need to remember to do this for them.  But more importantly I need to remember to do this for me.

And so another mothers day, and another year to remember what it means to be a mum, and to have had a mum.  Last year, almost on this date, a dear friend built a cairn for my Mum in her memory at Mount Everest Base Camp, later that year, I built one for her on a stunning beach in Goa in Southern India.  On Saturday, my husband will be in Angkor Watt in Cambodia, he's going to build a cairn for her there.  This is how I like to remember my mum, for her uncannily wide general knowledge (my sister has inherited that bit), and even though she didn't have adventures, she would have appreciated the fact she can be remembered in these countries, even if it is a pile of stones, built from love.

I don't want my boys to remember me with rocks.

 I want them to remember me for the adventures I had with them, and not the ones I didn't.

Are you creating the right memories?

The One Word You Never Want To Hear

This blog post is going to make me the talk of the school yard, I can hear you all whispering and snickering behind my back now...still, it's a tale that needs to be told.  Even if it is still in progress....

My youngest son is a small version of David Attenborough.  he even recognises David Attenboriughs voice and will come coming to the TV if not in the room.  He makes his own video versions of Monster Bug Wars .  Have a watch below if you have a spare 3.05 minutes.  Especially if you are a hot shot Hollywood producer looking for new talent.

Anyhow, this boy knows a LOT about animals and we all tend to believe anything that he says about them.

So last night was a sleepy evening and we were doing our last wind downs to bed.  I was pottering away in our study, and The Husband was maybe 3 steps closer to the kitchen than I was (important point - you'll see why soon), when there was an almighty shout from Smith (who'd got up from bed to get himself a drink of water).

"Mouse, MOUSE".

Once that word registered I screamed to The Husband to "Go help SMITH"!!!  Everyone had come running now.  Apart from me who was listening in the study for updates. "Where did you see it mate?", "Where did it run to?" "Are you sure?"  I came through and trembled as I quietly asked "how big was it Mate?".

Our hearts chilled when he held out his hands, not a teeny mouse sized space apart, but a decent foot (or two) apart.  It got worse.

"And it had a pink tale".

Chaos reigned as we screamed and the males in the house went running for cricket bats and brooms.  But with no joy.  The very-large-mouse-with-a-pink-take-thats-not-a-rat is still loose in our house somewhere.

And it gets even worse.  The Husband is away this weekend.  His role in our house has and will always be Vermin and Teeth Extraction - I go near neither.

I said to my 12 year old "You're going to be the man in the house this weekend buddy, vermin extraction is a "Man's Job" in this family.  Then looked at my 9 year old son, "and if he's not here, then it's all up to you mate".

There are times that it's good to have 3 sons.  If only they were not as whimpy as me.

Contrasts

Image is not of my friend but is from here . Though she would rock those sunnies. And undies.

I've written often about how radically different your life before and after kids can be, especially if you've hung up your pencil skirt and high  heeled shoes for trackies and trainers so you can work from home, or parent full time, rather than schlep into the city and your corporate desk at your corporate office like I use to.

Yet mostly our partners still have the same life they did, maybe it changed a little as they head off to work with a dot of baby spew on their suit lapels, or leave office drinks early and head home to another meal of spag bol.  Or have some kindy art pinned to their office wall. Small changes.

And this difference was perfectly demonstrated by a friend I chatted with yesterday.

It was our school cross country, and these things can't function without parent help, so she had volunteered to do her bit and was positioned out on a path in a bushy area to guide and encourage the kids as they ran past.  It was a full day commitment, and the volunteers were told not to "leave their post", and when you watched the hodge podge of abilities from speedsters to stragglers, you could see why.

Before the days of kids, my friend had been a high flyer, a successful and intelligent go-getter.  But yesterday her smarts had deserted her and she hadn't gone to the loo before she headed out onto the track.  And on a hot day with plenty of water drunk, but not able to wander off in search of a loo, she did what any intelligent woman would do.

A bush wee.

"Is this what I've become", she'd thought as she squatted, "a school mum doing a wee in public".

Not long after, she got a call from her husband.  He was going to be late home, he was at a long working lunch at one of the city's best restaurants and they had just opened some very very nice bottles of wine.

Bush wee vs vintage wines.

The perfect juxtaposition.

Do you sometimes look at yourself and go "when did this happen?"  What have you done that you'd never have thought you'd do?  I carried around a potty in a plastic bag as if it was an accessory for a good chunk of one son's toilet training period. What about you?

Who are the "biggest losers"?

My boys have started watching The Biggest Loser.  Accidentally.  I don't think I'm ok with it.  On autoplay I do the positive glass half full "yes these people are big but at least they're doing something about it."  And they are.  But this is extreme.  My husband and I try and be good role models for our kids, we eat healthily with treats, we exercise, we make sure exercise is part of our kids lives.  So they know that eating well and exercising is the norm.  And I say this knowing that most of you reading this do exactly the same thing, and probably more.  This is not rocket science.

I tried explaining the simple concept of calories in/calories out to my boys, but lost them quickly when I tried explaining that "calorie" was a measure of energy (and I may have actually made that part up).  Isn't it simple? You eat well, you do plenty of moving and somewhere in the middle it all balances out into a healthy person. And there are times when I'm glad I have boys and that I probably won't be faced with all the stuff that mum's of girls have to filter, to protect their innocence and their self esteems.

Like when I saw this on one of those spamming group buying emails that seem to clog my inbox

Get Rid of Stubborn Cellulite! Only $49 for a Non-Invasive Ultrasound Fat Cavitation Session (Valued at $400), $99 for Three Sessions (Valued at $700) or $139 for Five Sessions (Valued at $1000). Target Love Handles, Thighs and More. Plus Receive an Expert Consultation

WTF is fat cavitation?  It sounds like a made up word, and it certainly doesn't sound comfortable, nor capable of working miracles.

There seem to be so many excuses not to get off your bum and do the hard work yourself.  Miracle treatments, mud wraps 5:2 diets,  - no doubt, all largely fads and not very successful ones at that.  There aren't many better feelings that completing a hard run, gym class, swim, walk or whatever your choice of exercise is.  My doctor once advised me that as I am on the slippery slope to pre-menopausal symptoms, that exercise will be one of the best preventions and if need be remedy for dealing with times when you think you're being smothered by all the turkeys.  And there is even a medical name for it - endorphins.  If you've never experienced them then get moving for a while and you'll catch on.  Endorphins are the bodies invention for the gain at the end of the pain.

So my blood boils a little when I see extreme solutions to extreme situations.  Don't get there in the first place.  Move lots, eat healthy, be healthy.  Then you can save the money you might have spent on "fat cavitation" on something a whole lot more fun.

Am I preaching to the converted?

Walking the walk

It's a period of firsts for my family - first day of high school, first school bus trip, first high school camp, first time of being at school more than a few blocks away from home, and I couldn't be more prouder of how my family is handling ourselves.  But even though I'm doing a lot of hands-on parenting at the moment eg "mate is your science book in your locker and do you have time to get it and do your homework before class starts?", the relief my son feels once he realises he's got the right stuff for the right class and has done the right homework, is palpable.

And I can help with the stuff that needs to happen to get my kids to school, but once they're there, well it's game on.  They're on their own.  This morning in a 45 minute window before 8am, we've had two significant firsts.  Two of my boys started two new bands.  Both of them can play their instruments comfortably, but going into a room or hall full of new kids, and standing their twiddling your drum sticks while everyone else chats can be a little mortifying, terrifying challenging.

And as I drove away, after one of my boys had mouthed "GO AWAY" at me when I'd snuck back into the hall to see if he'd stopped twiddling his drum sticks yet, I realised that I am not managing to mask my own insecurities at the moment.  I would be shared absolutely shitless to walk into a small room with a small band already practicing because you're mother left home too late for the first time and hear the conductor call out a "Hello?" who are you (see I did it again!).  I couldn't bear to sit amongst a crowd and not have any "safe" person to talk to.

But these are my insecurities and not my kids and I sure as hell shouldn't be passing it on to them.  My eldest sucked in his breath and walked in to the room this morning, my middle son mouthed GO AWAY at me, so I would take my nervousness and introverted'ness away with me so he could get on with sitting with a group of 30 kids he didn't really know.

And I went home and gave myself a good wrist slapping.  I'm going to let my kids form their own neuroses and not inflict mine on them.  Because being a good parent means we don't give anxiety an inch to sneak in, we are the gatekeepers of their innocence in all walks of their lives, even the stuff that scares us.  They don't know any difference and it's my job to keep it that way.

Do you find yourselves passing on your fears to your kids or are you doing a better job than me?

A Study

I know meals are a little nonexistent by the end of the week - we like to improvise then 

This year, the NEW me is organised.  Ok that's a lie, the wheels aren't turning as smoothly as I'd hoped they would, but I have the systems in place and that's a damn fine start.  It's just the follow through I'm a little lacking in.

I follow a very, very organised blog The Organised Housewife in the hope that some of her awesome organisation will rub off on me, and who would have thought, but some of it actually is.  I get daily tips, many of them I pop in the "I'll save that and come back to that" virtual file in my head, and some I actually have made a habit of.  But there is a lot of faffing and randomness built into my DNA and it's hard for this leopardess to change her spots.  But I am trying.

(Short burst of smugness coming up) - I have a hugely successful chalk board meal planner (I do love a good chalk board) and I use that to plan my weekly online shopping.  Which I actually do.  BOOM - I can use that 2 hours I would have been shopping doing something a little more meaningful (ok that part  is still a little aspirational but I will get there.  I will). I have routine lists LAMINATED and stuck on my kids bedroom doors (that 2 out of 3 boys follow which I say is a win in my books). I try and organise the kids shiz the night before, I have the recesses and lunch bags half ready to go, uniforms ironed, drink bottles chilling, all ready for that moment in the morning when like a military operation the call is out "go, go go, GO".

But here's my problem.  For some ungodly reason, I've been waking at 5.30'ish every morning.  I don't want to get up and start making noise, I want my kids to get as many more minutes sleep as possible.  Especially as one son's bedroom now has a door off it's hinges thanks to an exuberant game of "war" when one certain male who happens to be the oldest in the house and wears a suit, yanked the thing too hard when chasing one of the other males (it's a male kind of game and I'm soooo ok with that).  Anyone who knows us will know that door is going to spend a long time in that state since me , the supposed "handy' one has no idea nor intention of sorting it - if you're reading this my darling).

But here's the thing. Instead of being productive during that time, I lounge in bed reading the papers on my iPad and watching the clock tick over until it's sort of ok to make noise.  And then as I start to kick it up a gear until we hit that heady 5 minute countdown to being out the door, and I am a ranty, stressed thing, barking orders.  Like a light bulb moment I realised there is a correlation of time to effort ratio.  The more time I have, the less effort I put in, the less time I have, the more effort required. I think that should be called  Reverse Time to Effort ratio.  And as you can see by my clever chart below, my kids leave for school at 7.45am and 8.55 - no prizes there.

I thought I'd chart it.  This is an exciting find, I may even name it and try and get it put in some National Parenting Archive'y place of important studies.

You heard it here first folks.  This is where the important stuff goes down.

And I'll have you know that there was quite a lot of clawing back to my bad boy banking days to come up with this chart.  Excel and I have never been besties.

Do you get this?  Is this you in the mornings as well?

A Social Observation

In my quiet suburban life where my quiet days are busy with writing and exercise and house stuff, punctuated either end with the madness that is 3 boys, the buildup to christmas is so markedly different from The Husband's.
I'm writing lengthy To Do lists, calming Year 6 emotions, researching stories, remembering what days fairy bread and plastic plates need to be taken to school and managing the family social diary.  And then of course there's the dreaded trips to the mall.

The Husband put on his "going out" clothes to go to work today.  The jeans, jacket, nice shirt combo that can carry him from a collection of morning meetings to a long Christmas lunchy thing to after work drinks to a very boozy dinner - with all of them blending into the same.  And as I popped quickly to the bakery for lunch bread early this morning, I saw men (and women) looking just like The Husband, with their good "Friday" clothes on and an air of expectation of a good day.  All with that excited anticipation of a few drinks, a bit of well deserved socialness, the knowledge that they don't need to be home for pizza and a movie with the kids at 7pm before a busy weekend.

Me?  I was in my uniform of shorts, thongs and a singlet.  My writing clothes, my mummsy clothes.  And I don't begrudge this one bit, although maybe I'm a smidge envious for those city days, that first glass of white wine, that feeling of corporate christmas'ness.
I can remember my last christmas buildup while working with a bunch of fabulous people.  I had a 9 month old, a nanny, two big boys, and a job I loved.  The christmas function rolled around, I managed a late pass - the Husband would relieve the nanny and I didn't need to leave work and our function at 4.35 for the 4.45 train as normal.  I got on one of those unstoppable highs, I was everywhere, in every photo, I introduced "The Walk©" to the dance floor. The youngsters I worked with were like "Lisa's staying!" because Lisa always left.

I miss those days, especially at this time of year.  And even though I could prattle on about all the stuff of my life now that is obvious like how much I love my job, my kids, my friends and my life, fact is, I miss those days.

Do you love this time of year?  What's your christmas social buildup?

Clocks

I love a good clock.  The bigger the better, no roman numerals, no lines instead of numbers, just black and white clear numbers on a white background, thank you.  I brought a clock when I was getting to know The Husband, it was a slightly illegal sneak out of our office, when I insisted he had to see my clock before I bought it.  I know that many of you are raising your eyebrows a little puzzled, but there's a few of you that aren't.  The Husband and my story is not one that reads easily, so I won't trouble you with it, or him, or anyone else we left in our wake.  But I did appreciate that he convinced me to do the deal on my lovely clock and I love that it now sits on our bookcase in our house, where our boys sleep.  This, back then, was a pipedream   .  Still it's part of our story, and it's a nice clock.

I've just written a story about time, for a lovely friend with a lovely magazine.  And during the writing I stumbled across a quote in one of my all time favourite books; The Time Travellers Wife (I know, it's a very polarising, love it or hate it book, well I loved it)

Clock time is our bank manager, tax collector, police inspector;

this inner time is our wife

- JB Priestley, Man and Time

And here his wife is his absolute happiness.

In other words, "clock" time is the stuff that has to be done, the non-negotiables, the mundane.  And "inner" time is the time spent on things that make you feel joyous, that bring light and happiness into your life and that you look forward to.

Now this I get.  There is a difference with how we use time and there is also a difference with how we feel as a result of how we've used that time.
I feel significant satisfaction when I've used "clock" time to sort out the mountains of paper work and I've had a filing fiesta.  I feel relieved when I've paid bills, and filled in forms.

But I feel like I can bound off tall buildings when I've used "inner" time and have finished writing a story, I feel calm when I tuck myself into my big white bed at night with my book and my bedside light and my husband, I feel love when I see my little fella waiting poised for the next cricket ball for me to bowl to him.  I feel content when I settle beside my pyjama clad boys for a movie night.

Time is not what's different, it's how we use it and how we feel while doing this, that defines it.
The trick is in getting the balance, or perhaps that should be, the imbalance, just perfect.

 Do you have enough inner time?

Brothers in Arms

I have three fabulous fellas, and everyone knows that threesomes don't work often.  My eldest two are the least alike, and my youngest seems to be able to morph into whatever the others want at any particular time.  So he's not the problem, oh no no no.  Maybe the moon has entered a new phase, or maybe it's frustration of the small house, or (in most likelihood) it's the middle one entering the toilet humour phase just as my eldest leaves it, but they are constantly at each other.  If it wasn't so frustrating, it would be comforting in it's predictability.  Lets just say the time between 8am-8.50am seems to be when they are at fever pitch.  I've tried heading this time off by forcing them to stay away from each other, but they always manage to end up in the same place, snipping, irritating or just being plain mean. And lets just add that 8.am-8.50am is never the most stress free time of my day, let alone when there is an 11 year old and a 9 year old who are hell bent on making life difficult for each other.
There are consequences threatened, there are consequences realised which always results in more blaming, and door slamming.  And in this tiny house there are an awful lot of doors with fragile leadlight windows in them that don't appreciate being slammed and with our move out date only a week away, any door slamming brings on a white rage in me, as I see myself trying to find a leadlight repairman, just because someone said "fart".

I've tried threatening them (never works for me because I am the world's worst enforcer), I've tried getting them to make a plan together (backfired - they turned on me) but yesterday as we were driving home from school, I had a break through.
I cajoled them into realising how much they loved each other.
I'm not sure how it got started, but it went something along the lines of..
Me: ok, so imagine you're in a fire, and you could only save either your best friend Bruce (ok, we all know this is a fictional name, as noone calls their kids Bruce these days), or Rafe, who would you save
Will: Rafe
Me: So you would rescue Rafe and save his life
Will: Err yeah, but if he said fart, I'd be so furious.
Rafe: But I wouldn't Will....
Me: Ok so Rafe, if it was you and you could only save Stanley (best friend and yes, fictional - no surprises there), or Will, who would you save?
Rafe: but Stanleys not my best friend Mum, Tony is...
Me: Righto, would you save Tony or Will?
Rafe: I'd save Will
Me: Because you love him right?
Rafe: Yup
Me: So don't keep fighting as if you don't love each other, because you do.
Will: So what if we were in a triangle shape house and it was on fire and me, Rafe and Smith needed to be rescued, who would you save?
Me (without any hesitation), I would call out to you to rescue Smith and I would get Rafe, and we'd all get out safely.
Will: You know Mum if I needed to I could save both Rafe and Smith
Me: I know mate.
Me: (smile)

And yes, like clockwork at 8am this morning, they started going at it again.  But somehow it didn't seem as bad this morning.  It's nice to know you're loved.

And if you have a spare 2m32 today, take a look at this trailer for a movie, theres a scene where two brothers about my guys ages, find each other. THIS is what I'm talking about.

Different strokes for different folks

You know that  when we moved to our little temporary house 10 weeks ago, we got a couple of surprises such as the local methadone clinic a few doors up, and the fact that the back half of the house actually wasn't for our use but was for the "lodger".  As we'd already signed on the dotted line and were sitting drinking tea with the owners at the time, The Husband and I could only raise our eyebrows - "did you know about that?", he whispered to me as we left.  I didn't and as we were mid-very-stressful move, and had only days to vacate our house, we had no choice but to accept it.
"She's hardly ever home", they said, "she looks after the garden, it's basically hers", they also said, so images of my boys kicking a ball around the pleasant backyard disappeared in a puff.

Still, she seemed nice enough, she's a her mid 40's with a boyfriend who rescued us the first night we moved in while the husband was wining and dining, and my fellas were standing in the pitch black with their cooling KFC, and the thread I was hanging onto was at breaking point while I tried to find the house keys (couldn't) and he turned up with a spare.

And a little bit like the methadone clinic, which I'm ever so slightly fascinated by, I have enjoyed "observing" the way our lodger lives her life.  And how hugely different it is from my own.
And if you think the next lot of observations are a result from perving or stalking her, you're wrong, it's just I am ALWAYS at the clothesline and can see into her life while I'm hanging or taking down the gazillion loads of washing I do daily.
And lets start with that.  One load.  On a Saturday. Including sheets.  The shared washing machine seems to go 24/7 thanks to our half of the house, and even though we share the clothes line, I know I can hog it safely until Saturday.  When she does her one load.
She comes in late from work and then seems to go to her bedroom and maybe just reads in bed.  Or has her dinner in bed.
She is silent.  I know this for a fact because we're anything but.  The other morning while my first born and I were having a debate about the merit of Minecraft being played on a school morning, and the debate was quite...hmmm, heated, I heard her clip clopping past our half of the house.  Meaning she would have heard every ranty word from the mother in the house.
She is handy.  Our little shared fusebox can only handle 2 lights and the TV being on before it blows leaving both houses in darkness while her and I hold our iPhones up to the fusebox to see what's gone wrong.  On one instance, the Husband tried joining us, but as he'd just got home from drinks and was only in his undies, I suggested that her and I could sort it.
She makes no mess.  On rubbish day, I'm sitting on the wheelie bin, trying to squish in that last rubbish bag before I give up and put it in someone else's, her contribution has been a small rubbish bag.  We are rubbish bin hogs as well as clothes line hogs.
She has a social life.  I know this because some tickets to an orchestra recital had slipped from her one rubbish bag one day.  Our social life revolves around takeout on a Friday night and maybe a glass of wine in front of the fire.  I need no other clothes in my wardrobe apart from trackies and slippers.

Sometimes I wonder if she looks at my life with the same kind of fascination as I do hers.  Maybe you always want a teeny smidge of what you haven't got, or just for a night or two.

Maybe she looks at my kids and thinks thank god! wouldn't that be nice?  Because it is.
What would you want if you could have it in your daily life?  Dinner in bed? An uninterrupted night of reality TV?  Calm and silence?

A little special

I'm not sure if I blogged about this post that was published a few months ago in Mamamia but I'm going to repost it anyway - lets call it a retro post, but a timely one.  Because thanks to The Sister who is currently in NZ, she has finalised the plans and the wheels are in motion for a new plaque for our mum complete with a poem from her favourite poet James K Baxter.  And interestingly, the night she visited the engraver, she was woken at 3am with a fire alarm going on in her bedroom in our old house (that we are 100% convinced has....presences).  A funny way of showing it, but I think Mum was ok with what we've done.  We are.....

Have you ever had THAT chat with your partner or your family?  You know the one where you lovingly joke about what you want to happen if you died, what kind of funeral you'd want, and where you’d like to be buried or have your ashes scattered?

You know when you're having this chat, that it's not really a joke, and that quietly you're tucking the information away in case you need it. Even though you promise yourself that it will be years and years away, so it doesn’t seem too real and too scary.

I know the music my husband wants played at his funeral.  I hope I don't lose the CD because the only thing I remember is that it’s Track 5.  I will do something more permanent with that piece of information now though. Especially as CD players may be obsolete before I need it (or at least I hope so.)

My Mum died when she was 55. Years too young, and far too soon.  Although she died unexpectedly, she'd been unwell for ages.  Not dying unwell, but unwell.  So when it happened, in our grief, my sister, Dad and I seized the opportunity to make sure that everything that happened afterwards was as perfectly "Mum" as we could make it.

Mum walked her own path in life and we celebrated that.  We had artwork from her favourite artist on the funeral notice. Not being one for large gushy bouquets, we had a floral piece of lichen, berries and driftwood made for her coffin. Her favourite song played. We wrote the funeral completely. We carried her out.  And we made sure that the nibbles for the wake were catered from a swish, catering company, as Mum always liked things done nicely.  But what we were most proud of, was having a tree planted in the local Botanical gardens, overlooking a stunning view.  It was a native tree with a plaque.  My Dad and I went up one sunny Saturday morning with a cardboard box of Mum's ashes, a shovel and lovingly buried her under her tree. She would have enjoyed that we did that, especially as my Dad was beside himself with worry that we’d get busted.

But sometimes even the best intentions can go wrong.

They got the name on the plaque wrong.  My Dad is the nicest-man-in-the-world, so didn't want to trouble anyone with a small detail like that.  We did.  And then the council people went and dug up the tree and shifted it.  We had no idea where to. Just gone – pouf! Once again, Dad didn't want to make a fuss.  My fuss made up for the lack of his. "We need somewhere to go to visit Mum, to remember her, to have a chat, to take our kids", I ranted.  My sister said she'd sort it, and after some phone calls, she found Mum’s tree.  They had shifted it to a damp, dark place with no view and in the part of the Botanical gardens that you don't feel safe, nor like visiting.

My clever sister has decided that this plan isn't working, and we need a new one.  She's come up with a plan so we'll have somewhere to go and visit Mum, to remember her, to have a chat, to take our kids.  Mum's parents and two of her sisters are buried in a gorgeous little cemetery in the countryside at the base of a range of mountains. She's always loved this spot.  So we are going to have a small, bronzed plaque, commemorating Mum with a nice Mum-like quote, placed on her family's head stone. It’s very Mum.  She will be so happy there.

We’re relieved that although we didn’t know exactly what our Mum wanted when she died, we kind of got it right.

Don't put off having that chat.  Ask directly, ask subtlety, ask jokingly. Just remember to ask.
While you have a chance.

School Projects

Our family is in that fun position of having three speech projects on at the moment - it's always a challenging time, especially when speeches are involved.  The topics increase in interest with age.  And even though we have been lucky enough to interview and do a photo shoot at our school canteen (for my Y1's Workers in the Community" speech), the Y6 speech about "Playing the hand you're dealt with" is so much more heart swelling and interesting.

I literally stand in front of my eldest as he eyes the computer hoping to get a "hit" of Minecraft, and mentally shake him by the shoulders.  I've said to him - this is about you, this is about living to your full potential, using all the gifts you've been given.  This is about going for it.  You are almost 12, you have the world at your feet.  I didn't know this when I was 12, I wish my mum and dad had told me, like I'm trying to tell you.  This is your time.  You are amazing.  Don't hold back.  GO FOR IT!

And as I bleet on, he gives me a bemused look, and gives me a "sure Mum" and "are you done?" kind of look.

Is it me?  Am I just panic stricken because I see my years racing and my "time" disappearing at great knots?  Am I trying to live vicariously through my son and will my other two have to suffer through their mother as well?  And am I trying to put my expectations onto young shoulders that have only started their journey.  Probably.

But then my eldest came rushing through after a last burst on his speech.  He was excited and proud of himself, he explained what he'd written.  He read it out, beautifully, and it was beautiful.  Because for a moment, however long it lasts, he got it.

And as a mother that's all I'm trying to do.  To help my kids to have beautiful moments like that. To see the world of opportunity at their feet.  To see all that they are capable of.
This is the beauty of experience, and sharing that knowledge and learning from all the twists and turns we've taken in our lives.  I want my kids to look forward at their lives with vision and unwavering focus.

I want them to dare to be great.

Do you get this?  Can your children see the world as their oyster?

* Thank you for this perfect image

Another Story about Camping

Oh where do I start.
Maybe I start back at the two days I spent putting camping equipment together, packing everything I needed into camping sized bags then carefully piling it up in our study.  Or do I start by the time I spent planning our trip and finding and booking accommodation.  Or even do I start at the cleaning and tidying, laundry washing and folding I did before we left?

I'm not sure.
So perhaps I'll start the moment in the late afternoon sun on a public holiday, we unpacked our tent after carefully choosing a camping spot in a deserted camping ground in Mudgee (empty of tents, plenty of warm campers though), after a lovely day exploring inland NSW on a crisp autumn day.
Two words.
Tent.
Poles.
There were none.
Now we have a Taj Mahal sized tent with a games room and mezzanine floor that requires many attempts and bitten finger nails to get up.  It's the kind of tent that really, truly does need tent poles.
I stood there in shock, The Husband and I spent some time pointing silent fingers at each other. But in my heart of hearts and in my martyrdom, I knew I had organised the camping stuff.  Tension was at fever pitch.  If a word of blame had been mentioned, a brawl would have erupted for all of those tucked warmly up in their campers to watch.
The Husband got busy ringing accommodation places in Mudgee with no success while I asked the camping ground owners if they had any spare tent poles, and I almost hugged him when he went out to a large, hopeful shed to conduct what he knew to be a futile search.  The Husband frostily asked what the chances were of any random tent poles actually fitting our McMansion.
I had a brain wave.  We'd passed a Big W on our way to the camping ground.  I made some calls.  We did some frantic strategising about the logic of buying more tents.  We did some quick calculations.  And then I did some quick shopping.
We had decided that 2 two man tents would be more useful than a second big one but a wise person would know that a two man tent from Big W would be more like a 11/2 person tent.  Which I wasn't, and which they were. After the 2 minutes erecting both tents our stomachs dropped when we realised our air beds wouldn't fit in the tents, nor would The Husband. But with shops now closed and light fading, we just had to make it work.  So we squeezed in our half inflated air beds, and attempted to zip up our tent.  Which if you've ever worn jeans that were too small for you, you'll know what we needed to do to inch up the zip slowly.
Which meant we were now all trapped in our weird, flat tents.  And for 4 freezing nights we slept like this. Uncanny how a cold snap hit as we attempted camping in our $29.95 tents with "excellent ventilation".  Uncanny.  And this old girl's bladder in the cold overnight temperatures just had to hold it in because that tent would never have got done up again in the middle of a night if a toilet trip had been necessary (which it was nightly).  I stopped taking on board fluids (apart from a warming red wine or two) from mid day on. And did I mention panic attacks, lets just say that being enclosed in a teeny tent in a sleeping bag liner, twisted inside a sleeping bag with legs half bent to fit in, is never a good thing for a person with claustrophobia.  But with the only other options of the car or the ladies loos, I liked to think of it as a form of treatment for my phobia.
But apart from the lack of tent poles, the freezing overnight conditions, and the claustrophobic conditions, we had a memorable family holiday. And I did see the funny side of it, my friend Caroline and the locals in the Mudgee Woolies supermarket will attest to that as a fit of hysteria struck as I snuck her a call.  It will be some while before The Husband sees the humour about this experience on one of his rare holidays.
I'm thinking perhaps never.
Have you ever had a bad camping experience?

Gone Bush

Actually, thats a lie, in fact one of the camping grounds may even have a 'Big 4' in front of it, and I'm pretty sure that my blow up bed will only resemble the image above, in my shivering dreams.

We've loaded up the car so much that I was contemplating a mid afternoon dash to the Roof Capsule Shop to buy one of those roof capsule thingees to deal with the over flow, but seeing it's Sunday and a public holiday I figured I had as much chance of buying one as I do sleeping in the bed pictured.  Anyhow, by the time we hit the road I'm hoping The Husband will be talking to me again, just as I hope that the whole family will enjoy the camping table I brought that has filled up a decent share of the boot space.

And the best part - we're heading inland, with far cooler overnight temperatures than our already cool temperatures at home.  We all have new slippers though so can face the evening chill with warm toes at least (and if any of the kids attempt to wear their new slippers into the toilet block, I can't even begin to describe my reaction - camping ground toilets are right up there in my "Things that gross me out the most") Sadly it's not the middle of summer so I can't guarantee I'll be able to swim daily, therefore avoiding the toilet block and dreaded showers (with big wads of other peoples hair and black globs of yuck lurking in the corners).  I may attempt to go for for the whole time with no shower (and maybe the occasional sponge bath in the cleanliness of our tent), but as I need to churn out some decent runs, this could be unpleasant for all of us.

So, I'll be back in a week.  I'm hoping to see a little Country Australia, and some sheep.  I think the last place I saw sheep was New Zealand, and the Easter Show.

Have a good week Peeps, see you back here soon!