Category: Things

Parenting: a conundrum

· Leave a comment ·

I stumble over a dozen parenting mind-benders between my bedside table and the kettle every morning, it’s not a new phenomenon for me. But recently I encountered one that stopped me in my tracks quicker than a stray piece of LEGO.

For clarity, when I say parenting mind-bender, I mean those moments when your kiddlywinks do something that makes you want to hug them until they burst AND send them for a time-out that lasts their entire adolescence.

It started with one of my little critters running starkers through the living room claiming they needed to drop the kids off. We’d only recently reached that point where you can safely (kind of) assume your kid will tell you they need to go to the toilet, rather than relieve themselves in the bushes beside the swings (it’s happened) or go through five changes of pants in a single 30 minute outing. So, I was pretty impressed with this development.

As a former backpacker who’s travelled through many countries that welcome you with a chronic case of Delhi Belly on arrival, I’m fairly comfortable talking about the various states of distress my digestive system is in.

In fact, I remember fondly leaning over a petrol bowser in Mexico somewhere in agony, while my brother and a dear family friend ran around knocking on all the neighbouring doors asking for ‘el banos, por favour’, like we were trying to escape Jason Bourne. Oh, the glamour of being footloose and fancy free…

My point is, I’m OK with poo talk. I just never thought I’d find myself cheering someone on so passionately. Equally, I never thought I’d be able to deal with having poo all over my hands with the calm nonchalance every parent adopts after a few too many explosive nappies.

You know the kind I mean. Emergency crews wouldn’t be allowed to access the site without full HAZMAT gear and a mobile incinerator on hand, but when your darling little creation is lying on that change table looking like they’ve been rolled like a lamington in a vat of dahl, you just get straight in there and accept the fact that your nappy bag will burst, you’ll burn through at least two packs of wipes and both of you will still need a shower afterwards.

I digress. See, poo talk. OK with it.

Back to my newly toilet-trained offspring. Who, I’ve just realised, has been in the laundry toilet for a while now – much longer than it takes gravity to get things done. And, who, more worryingly, is very, very quiet.

Usually there’s a proud, “mum, come wipe my bum” called out when business is done.

Not today.

My mind instantly peruses the menu of many, many, many tantalising misdemeanours my kid could be getting up to all alone in the toilet…unsupervised. Us adults wouldn’t think it, but there are A LOT of things to entertain you in a laundry toilet. toilet brushes, soap, toilet paper, toilet water…the list goes on.

Obviously, I stopped one of the many jobs I was halfway through doing – folding the laundry on the dining room table, washing up breakfast (after lunch), that Marie Kondo-style spring clean of the pantry I’ve been putting off since we moved in five-ish years ago – and headed straight for the laundry door.

What I found was an absolute delight. My kid was “helping Mummy” by mopping the floor.

Nawww, what a little darling, right?

Well. Before your heart melts too much, ask yourself this:

How’d the mop get wet?

Especially when the only available source of water to my little tike is the toilet. The same toilet they’d recently made a deposit in. The same toilet that didn’t flush afterwards.

Soooo…

I think we can assume the mop they were diligently using went in the toilet with the bobbing little turd, got swished around a bit, then came out and mopped the floor.

Poo floor. Not ideal.

And, so, to the conundrum.

Is the little tike:

a) in a WHOLE lot of trouble for mopping the floor with poo water, or

b) a darling little angel for trying to help mummy keep up with the chores, knowing that poo water is probably more sanitary than the current state of the floor anyway?

Feel free to cast any votes in the comments section.

Who’s the fittest in this game of survival?

· Leave a comment ·

I’m a little worried about evolution.

I’m no scientist and my knowledge of Darwinian theory is basic at best, being sourced from the dusty secondary school biology files in my memory’s long-forgotten archives, as it is.

For instance, I vaguely recall there being a tale about giraffes’ necks extending over time to take advantage of the more abundant – and less sought after – food provided by acacia trees.

giraffe

Fact or fiction? Who knows, but I bought it. Figured this guy, Charles Darwin, was on to something. And, rightly or wrongly, I’ll probably tell it to my kid next time we’re at the zoo and she casually asks, “so, mum, tell me about Charles Darwin, what’s his schtick?”. She’s only in single digits age-wise and a while away from reaching the minimum height requirement for the teacup ride at Disneyland, so I’ve got some time to polish the giraffe analogy.

Lately, though, I’ve been wondering what happens when we dabble too much with Darwin’s thoughts on the order of things; the natural world’s way of weeding its garden. What kind of evolutionary domino effect do we unleash on the world. I wouldn’t say it’s keeping me up at night or sending me rushing off to build an ark – parenthood’s left me too exhausted for that – but it’s definitely making a regular appearance on my roster of things to ponder.

Before I really get in to what’s concerning me, here’s my meagre interpretation of what Darwin was on about…

evolution
/ˌiːvəˈluːʃ(ə)n,ˈɛv-/
noun

The little tweaks that happen to Earth’s creatures over time to give some of us better odds at getting through this thing called life in order to pass on any superior genes to our littluns. For example, people with double-jointed thumbs or a ridiculously acute sense of smell; features that are bound to come in super handy in a few hundred years.

 

Bearing that in mind, there’s one particularly serious purveyor of synthetic evolution that has a lot to answer for – cosmetic surgery.

How is evolution meant to get its day job done when there are people running around artificially enhancing their features to be fitter than they were genetically destined to be. How are the legitimately fit (in the survival of the fittest sense, of course) meant to avoid this skulduggery.

See. Dominos, falling everywhere.

Then there’s the we know best attitude us humans just love to adopt. For example, there’s the alligator getting CT scans  in Miami, USA, for fear he might have melanoma on account of his pale leucistic (looks albino, but isn’t) skin. Then there’s the tiger having corrective eye surgery for her cataracts and another condition that makes her cross-eyed.

I’m all for helping these fellas out, but surely this is something that, in the spirit of the great game of netball, would have Mr Darwin blowing his whistle and yelling, “interference!”

Lucky I’m not going to be sharing a dinner table with the likes of the amazing Jane Goodall any time soon, isn’t it. My concerns would send her running back to Gombe National Park to be with the smart folk. But, then, we’re all a work in progress, aren’t we.

Should James Bond have his driver’s licence suspended?

· 1 Comment ·

It must be time for James Bond to start needing annual eye tests to have his driver’s licence renewed.

As the most recent Brit with the skills to disarm and seriously wound dozens of men at a time without tearing a stitch of his expensive suit, Daniel Craig has done a sensational job of pulling off being a youthful 37 year-old who happens to be born in 1953…

That includes being one of the most successful Bonds of all time, with at least two (Skyfall and Spectre) of the top five highest grossing films in the franchise, depending on which online source you consult. By the by, isn’t it comforting knowing even James Bond lies about his age.

But, even those with a licence to kill must admit, at some point, that age is sneaking up on them. Actually, I would’ve thought it would make you more sensitive to any dulling of the senses – no one wants to see someone with arthritic knuckles, swollen like beads on an abacus, waving around a Walther PPK. It’s dangerous for everybody.

So, why the suspicion over Mr Bond’s driving ability? Quite simply, the man trashes cars the way the rest of us put out the trash – all the damn time, it seems.

On a quiet Saturday night recently, I bunkered down with a block of chocolate and hot cuppa, ready to enjoy the weekly screening of Bond offered on rotation by the local TV stations. Within minutes of the title credits of Quantum of Solace wrapping up I was wincing in physical pain at the sight of Bond convincingly destroying his beautiful Aston Martin DBS in a few furious minutes.

Honestly, it was heartbreaking. Right up there with when the War Horse got tangled in barbed wire on the Western Front.

In his most recent death-defying endeavour, Spectre, Mr Bond is reported to have trashed no less than seven Aston Martins at a cost of around US$37 million. Excuse me for a moment while I dab the tears from my eyes. AND, not just any Aston Martin, but a DB10 designed and lovingly built especially for the movie.

Beautiful, isn’t it.

Surely, Bond’s Chief Gadget Man, Q, has realised by now that his R&D budget would be far better preserved if he just suped up a Skoda in future and let Bond go to town in that?

The fine folk at Aston Martin must also be starting to despair at all those wasted hours of painstakingly hand-crafted deliciousness going to waste with barely a growl from a V12 engine. Especially when it takes around 200 hours to build just one Aston Martin in their swanky factory in Gaydon, Warwickshire (UK) – fifty of which are spent on the paint job alone.

Yes, I wonder if it’s time Mr Bond considers taking the bus.

Parents: be ware the child-free holiday

· 2 Comments ·

I fear it’s not safe to visit too long with memories of my life before kids. Mainly, of course, because they bring such incredible joy and, um, yes, deep perspective on what’s important in life. But also because it’s just not helpful to let your mind wistfully wander to weekends spent waking up at one’s leisure and enjoying a peaceful cuppa in bed with the papers.

Truth be told, I’ve never done that, but my memories of those days clearly chronicle something like that happening.

It’s these very memories, fantasies and half-truths that inspired my husband and I to take a brief sojourn to the Blue Mountains recently without our ridiculously cute, funny, adorable and button-pushing toddler.

FullSizeRender
The stunning view of the Blue Mountains from the Three Sisters lookout at Katoomba

Just to get some necessary fact to balance out what we were sure was inspired fiction, you see. It’s not like we bolted to the car, arms flailing in the air like lunatics escaping the asylum, locked the doors and rushed off, at speed, before our heaven-sent family members could change their minds. That most definitely did not happen.

And, so, it pains me to tell you that any dreams you have that take you tripping, nay, skipping (with daisies in your hair and soft, green grass beneath your feet), to a place where you can visit the WC on your own and leave your house on a whim, are true.

You can do everything at your pace – fast, slow or not at all. Naps are for adults, wherever and whenever you fancy. And, the papers can absolutely be read slowly with a cuppa in bed, or during a relaxed breakfast spent in companionable silence.

There is a small catch, though – the bone-jarring thud of reality that’s waiting to welcome you back into its clutches. The same reality that insists you check your bright eyes and holiday glow in at the door. The same reality that will make you realise those nostalgic glances at photos of your kids while you were away – usually accompanied with protestations of, “oh, I just miss them so much” – were a misuse of valuable time.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got a good’un; a kid that’s just so stinking cute I can’t stand it and who makes me smile more than I had in my entire life before she became part of it. But, boy did we pay the price for having a ‘time out’.

There was no over-excited, “Mummy!” as she ran into my arms. Quite the opposite, really – more blithe indifference than heartwarming Disney-esque reunion. Then there were the tantrums. Two within half an hour of our return, when I have it on good authority (from my sister-in-law) that she didn’t throw one the whole time we were away. Saving them as a special welcome home gift for us, obviously. See, thud!

FullSizeRender
The famous Three Sisters rock formation at Katoomba

I blame the hotel. How dare they attend to our every need like that. How dare they lure us into a hypnotic state of restful naps by the pool. How dare they make it possible to enjoy a game of Monopoly without one of the hotels being shoved up a nose or in an ear.

How very dare they!

 

 

Keeping quiet

· Leave a comment ·

Anyone who’s ever adopted another country as their home will hopefully agree that, once you’ve given your heart to another place, it remains forever adrift; locked in a bittersweet tug-of-war of loving where you are and longing to be somewhere else.

I feel that way about silence.

I love being in its company but can feel intimidated by its presence at the same time.

In truth, if you could ask silence how committed I’d been to our companionship over the years, I’m sure it’d say I’d been most inattentive. We don’t get together often, but when we do it’s usually a passing nod of acknowledgment – quick dip of the cap – and we’re off in different directions again.

Lately, though, my respect for silence has been reborn.

It’s called parenthood.

The squeals of delighted playfulness that fill your house and melt your heart are met, in equal measure, by ear-splitting clashing, banging and screaming. It’s a land where silence surrendered long ago.

I escaped our Land of Bellows briefly over New Years Eve, thanks to incredibly generous grandparents, aunties and uncles, desperate to unashamedly spoil the youngest member of our clan.

My first thought as the car drove off towards three blissful days of sleep-ins and relaxed breakfasts spent reading the paper?

It’s so quiet. Too quiet.

There was no dog whining in the boot, desperate for a pee, and our darling toddler wasn’t imploring, “more, more, more…” as soon as Taylor Swift’s Shake it off finished playing on the stereo.

Maybe I’m a bigger fan of the cacophony of life than I thought.

 

 

 

 

The artful conmen

· Leave a comment ·

I love to marvel at nature with the best of them – a beautiful vista; majestic wildlife; weather that can switch between delicately pristine and beautifully violent in an instant. All breathtaking.

Sometimes, though, you just have to wonder if it’s having a laugh at your expense. I certainly thought that was the case on a lovely holiday to Tasmania’s much revered Cradle Mountain Lodge recently. My partner and I were enjoying an early morning cuppa (tea, that is) in our cabin, overlooking the sensational view of the bush outside our window. We could hear a creek making a run for freedom nearby and smell the delicious memory of our wood fire on the breeze.

It was so heavenly it was cliched. So, I guess we were lucky for the reality check that flew around the corner, after a quick visit to the cabin next door, and sat on our balcony. It was a jet black crow sporting a rather unfortunate injury. It seems he’d* lost a good chunk of his beak in what we could only assume was an unfortunate lock picking incident. Judgemental, I know, but he just seemed like that kind of bird.

As soon as he confirmed the room had occupants, with a scan of his beady little eye, he got to work. He went from sitting on our balcony railing to the back of a chair right by the window in the blink of an eye. Then he began transmitting what was clearly an urgent message by morse code. The telegraph key of choice? His tapping his beak on our window pane, of course.

“Please help me,” we believe he said. “It’s my beak, you see. It makes it so hard to capture my own food,” he continued.

“Won’t you help me? How about a biscuit from the tea and coffee station, or even a Mars Bar from the mini bar? I know you’ve got some in there.”

What he probably didn’t know is that there are polite requests all over our room not to feed the wildlife. Their little sob story was going nowhere with us. Realising this, our beak-less friend called in reinforcements. They came in the shape of another feathered friend. He’d obviously been waiting just out of sight on our neighbour’s balcony, ready to leap into action if the first act didn’t wow the critics.

He quickly took his place on the balcony and sprung into action, warbling a tune to complement the tap, tap, tapping of his friend.

These jokers had their scam locked down. They’d clearly done the hard work to not only identify their USP – unique sympathy point – but also refine it. Together they made quite a symphony and their beady little eyes made for quite a foreboding accompaniment.

After a couple more minutes of tapping, warbling and eyeballing we’d obviously reached the final act. They both gave us one more threatening stare before silently declaring to one another;

“Stuff this, man, they’re not going to give up the goods. Let’s look somewhere else.”

*David Attenborough I am not. The little fella’s gender is assumed.

Hound-ward bound

Aside · · Leave a comment ·

I’ve stumbled on a parallel universe. A place where you tend to know people only by the name of their companion and a trip to the supermarket involves shopping for an array of toys and treats promising loyalty and obedience.

The best friend a family could have
The best friend a family could have

It’s the world of dog ownership and it’s a bit like Hotel California; once you cross the threshold you’ll almost certainly never leave.

I remember the moment we knew we’d bought our one-way ticket perfectly. It was our newly adopted friend’s first day out of the clink; the RSPCA’s pet shelter. We were walking down a grassy knoll in Sydney’s Centennial Park, leaving footprints in the dew because we’d been up since daybreak tending to the little fella’s every need. Not that he’d noticed, I might add.

Ahead of us was a crowd of people and pooches all looking like they belonged. The people came well prepared in their Hunter wellington boots, leaving me silently cursing my already damp Converse for revealing me to be the novice I so clearly was. The hounds strutted around like it was their own backyard, casually sniffing bottoms and chasing balls with gusto. Or, in our little man’s case, total indifference.

We walked tentatively around the edge of the park, conscious there was nothing keeping our pooch from scarpering if we got too cocky and let him off the lead. That is, he was yet to realise we were his meal ticket, and there was certainly none of that loyalty and obedience we’d tried to buy at Petbarn. So, to be on the safe side, we kept him on the lead and spent the morning feeling quietly chuffed with ourselves as we got into the swing of exchanging pleasantries with the other dog owners we passed on our jolly stroll around the park.

It’s possibly the best way to start a Saturday morning I can think of.

** Note – it’s been a few months since I first started writing this post. I’m pleased to report that our little friend has settled in perfectly and delights us every day with his shenanigans. Thank you to all the staff and volunteers at the RSPCA who held onto him for seven months, just so we could find him.

The festival and the mighty town of Dungog

· Leave a comment ·

God, it’s exciting descending on a town you’ve never been to before full of pre-festival jitters. It’s been so long since my last one, I’d forgotten what it’s like; walking up to the gates surrounded by people in lots of weird and wacky get-up, all itching to let the fun begin.

There was something just a little different about this musical spectacular, though. We were in Dungog for Mumford & Sons’ Gentlemen of the Road festival and it just so happened to coincide with an absolute scorcher of a day. Not a cloud in the sky, nor a drop of moisture in the earth and a balmy 38 degrees celsius all around.

Instead of walking into an arena full of bearded hipsters jostling for poll position in front of the stage they were all huddled quietly under trees. It was all very unexpected and very odd.

A sort of mollified silence had descended on the festival as people battled it out for what little shade there was. In a flash I was taken back to my days growing up on the farm, when I’d drive past a dusty paddock on a stinking hot day and see a cotton wool ball of sheep gathered under a eucalyptus.

Then, slowly, as the sun became less ferocious, the festival spirit started to wake from its slumber. The chatter became louder, the dancing more spirited and then, at the end of the day, this happened…

Mumford & Sons, going OFF!

Mother Nature and her quirky blessings

· Leave a comment ·

Mother Nature gets a bad wrap, I think. We’re all so quick to use her name in vain when things get a little wild, but I reckon there’s a reason for the crazy stuff she does sometimes.

Yesterday, I think I may have discovered some of the method in her madness.

After what seems like weeks of wall to wall sunshine and warmth, a day of murky, damp weather finally descended on Sydney. The migration of beach-goers who’d crept out of hibernation a little early to make their summer nest in the sands of Bondi quickly fled back to their hiding places.

It was heaven. The beach was blissfully deserted.

Seeing my chance, I took advantage of the abandoned pavements and enjoyed a jog along Bondi’s coastal walk, free from dodging enraptured tourists stopping abruptly to take photos.

On the way home I hit a wall of wind. Not a gentle breeze that lets you imagine you’re in one of Beyonce’s music videos by gently tussling your hair, but a proper gale.

Usually I’d retreat to shelter as fast as my ASICS trainers and dodgy knees would carry me, but, for some unexplained reason, it was just so damn pleasant standing on the headland surrounded by grey skies, churning ocean swells and drizzling rain.

For a few glorious minutes, I stood facing the ocean quietly revelling in the sweeping gusts of wind that snatched all my cares and worries out to sea with it. Then, as if in reward for venturing out to appreciate one of her dodgier masterpieces, Mother Nature offered up an amazing sight – a pod of whales stupidly close to shore started fooling around and breaching all over the place.

It. Was. Awesome.

When Mother Nature turns on the sunshine we’re all quick to get out amongst it. But I think it’s when she’s having a bad day and just needs to get some things off her chest that she has some of her best moments.

The church bell and its midnight serenade

· Leave a comment ·

One of the absolute pleasures of living in the country is the silence. Mainly because it’s just so easy to find. Particularly in the evening and even more so in the dead of night.

In the city it plays a much tougher game of hide and seek. There’s always someone or something determined to disturb the peace; sirens squealing, revellers rejoicing, someone using the bathroom in the apartment above yours.

The beauty of silence is that it’s content to let the really unique sounds be heard. The ones that need only a second to make a warm smile shine within.

Last night I heard just that, a magical sound.

It was well past midnight and I’d become obsessed with finishing the Jodi Picoult novel I’d found abandoned on a bookshelf at my parents’ house. There was a frost sneaking through the window and barely a whisper to be heard outside besides the occasional curt bark from a curious dog.

Then, it happened. Somewhere in the distance a quiet wind nudged a church bell into breaking its silence. It tolled only once, but that’s all it needed to say. The sound carried quietly across the dark night and the thousands of people sleeping peacefully amongst it.

It was a short moment, but it was bliss.