My Mum

I was recently reminded of how great my mother is, by a female impersonator. Not that my mother is in the habit of frocking up in sequins and the CN Tower of blond wigs, per se…. Actually, that’s not strictly true. Anyway, she is far too short to be a drag queen herself.

So instead, she surrounded herself and our little family with a bunch of wonderful, colourful, clever characters. Our family friends ran businesses such as Polly’s Follies, were part of the original Les Girls troupe, and we regularly attended DIVA (Drag Industry Variety Awards), as a family.
We became skilled at the true art of applying make-up, how to dance in platforms, and discovered all about glitter, glamour and the most fantastic sense of humour.
We learnt all about Oxford St shenanigans from the comfort and security of backstage with family. We learnt - not from any class at school, the dangers and sadness of HIV. We discovered that family can be not only blood lines, but in a world where some are extremely ostracised, family are those who support, love and care for you. No matter the colour of their wig.
Of course there was a lot more to her parenting than these exposé’s:  She was, I realise now I’m raising my own kids, very strict. But an overriding lesson she taught us was highlighted to me the other night: That our mother brought us up to accept everyone, see who they are past the facade and the antics. But she didn’t teach us with words, she taught us with her own actions: Her own open heart and mind, her patience and fantastic sense of humour.
This extended through to our friends: Our house was always open to them. They were cooked for, had beds made up on our floor, and laughs…did we laugh. All sorts of fun parties were regularly held at our place, possibly, I suspect now, to monitor teenage activity, but many were my sister and I with a bunch of mum’s hilarious adult family friends. Mum took some of our friends in to live with us in our already squashed house during difficult times of their own, and she accepted some boyfriends which I know would challenge my own acceptance as a mother now. But I guess she could see the beauty in them all, just as we did. Or perhaps even that they needed a mother’s love too.
How great though art, that mothers love. How blessed I am.

Cranky Pants

I was a mother on a rampage today. If I could shake my pointed finger down the phone line I would. No more Mrs Nice Mummy Duck. Cranky Old Quack Snr is serving up today.

Not at the kids mind you, they must have sensed Jekyll left the room first thing AM. No, I was crancking at all the adults I came across who appeared to not give a damn. I’ve never noticed, but there seems to be an awful lot of them around.

Duh duh duuh is about all I ever manage if somone has a go at me. But today I was happy to “sound just like my mother” and pulled some beauties out of my mum and mother-in-laws’ quote boxes.

“It’s not rocket science: You listen, then you do it.”

“As.    I.    Said.    Before…”

“That is not the way you speak to people”

“Now, do you think this is acceptable?”

“There is no need to sigh”

“Don’t you know the power of social media? It’s not a good idea to provide bad customer service nowadays.” (This is from the gen X mum’s quotes box)

“No, I didn’t know this - I am not a weatherman nor am I tree lopper nor am I a psychic. And you are not getting our money today-Goodbye.”

Ahhh… now that feels better!

Saving Miss Molly

The first man told me he could see nothing wrong. “But bring her back in four hours and we’ll have another look.”

The next woman said it was usually nothing but we’ll do the standard blood tests and xray.

The next man, an hour’s drive away, said we’re going to operate. Now.

They said to sing to my limp six month-old baby as she fell off the precipice of consciousness and into emergency surgery.

The next man said we’ve cleaned her up, and now she’ll have medicine in her jugular for a month.

That man got out of his bed at 1am in the dead of winter, a year ago next week, to save our baby’s life. He came to visit the next morning. He looked like he could cry when he said to me “you’ve had a bad night hey? Is she not doing that well?”

At later bad news he did suggest a tear in my presence. “I’m sorry I couldn’t hide my worry…” I said I wouldn’t get through this with a doctor who didn’t show he cares.

We were "part of the furniture" they said, we were there that long. Women and men crowded around us like a pair of arms, carrying us, caring for us, showing us love while we were isolated from those who loved us. My baby floated upon their compassion, up and down, through needles, tubes, oxygen and isolation. They  dragged me when I stopped, heavy on the outskirts of their responsibility, crying, sleepless, insane and unsure.

‘Nurse’ and ‘doctor’ are silly words. These people have God in them. They save lives. They saved mine: Our baby survived.

Sydney Children’s Hospital makes a little life that is less, much more. Next week is Gold Week, a fund raiser for the hospital.  You never know, you may just need it too one day.  http://www.goldweektelethon.com.au/views/donate.aspx

Open space, open hearts

"The property is 10 k's from one end to the other..." I'm betting if I was plonked the whole 10 k's away I could still see the beaming face of my little man bumping along on the quad bike surrounded by his version of heaven - a real life farm. No little plastic lookalike pigs or cows here - these are the real jumping, slobbering, doe-eyed, big daddy bull beauties. He is shining like the moon.

My boys, who normally scream all sooky la la if a dog comes within cooee of them, are sitting comfortably on the bike with their arm resting over Beau the working dog.  He's just been for a bit of a run - what seemed like the most part of that 10 k's - nudging and sweeping sheep along in waves through gates, abreast of dips in the land and to a new destination to wait for their lambs to slip into the world. 

Mr Cool School Dude doesn't usually like to get his hands dirty but today he's into collecting the bones of dead sheep and cattle. He paces over boulders like he's got mountain goat in him, clambers through long grass which says snakes to me, but adventure to him.  One skull is the size of my torso. "That one smells a bit, I think it's still a bit green.."  He's not worried, a bit of blood and body never hurt him, not today.
Bulldozer rides, a real life tractor with a hay fork, feeding baby lambs, shearing sheep and riding sheep! Blue sky, sausage sizzle on a hill with a view which lulls me toward heaven too, children laughing all day long, asking questions, playing and more questions again. 
The things we have learned about farming life on our visit to this beautiful place, with it's matching beautiful people who host us: No book could explain it to us, no plastic toy would test our children's bravery and ignite their excitement, their passion. No photo could seep into our hearts like the real thing has done.

Have a little piece yourself - http://www.farmday.com.au/.  http://ktsfarmlife.blogspot.com/; 

Gifts from our farm day hosts, and a wee memento skull.

Embarrasing Your Kids 1 ohh 1

Ahh, love it.  Now's the time to get a bit of your own back for the massive poo on your white linen trousers at your very first mothers group, or that day spent (unsuspectingly) with vomit matting up the end of the hair behind your shoulder, and of course we can't forget the old "mummy has that lady got a big baby in her tummy? [no, just lots of cheeseburgers]" severe embarrassment in the crowded lift.
The first EYK101 plan I've had brewing since my breastfeeding days.  I am president of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee, and am expecting full assault from two teenage boys and one little sister who copies their all when the time comes to tease your poor mother about such things.  My response will be:  Firstly to wait til there are as many of their spotty friends congregated, and secondly to cup my itty bitty's and announce, with jiggling motion, "These made 10 kilo's of each one my children, you know".  Ohh, I can't wait.
And now we've entered school, the games we can play mummy ducks. The "GIVE MUMMY A KISS GOODBYE SCHMOOCKY POOCKY" in the middle of a full capacity playground is standard procedure to be employed any time after their first term of school for the rest of their 13 years.
Yesterday I stumbled upon a good one to add to our list, by sheer, delightful accident.  I put a little note in Cool School Dude's lunch box, with words he has shown me he knows from his new journey of learning to read. However, he seemed to have - unfortunately for him - forgotten what the words were so asked his teacher for a bit of help.  She kindly announced, in the presence of the whole class having lunch: "It says 'Love you'", then also apparently turned around and told all the teachers on playground duty too!
All other lessons for the greater good of our children, would be gratefully received...

A little man

My heart broke this morning.
For a couple of days now there’s been a little boy who doesn’t want to leave the person dropping him off, who is his nanny, as in carer, not grandma.
He holds onto her neck for dear life, his skinny little boy legs dangling from the bottom of his shorts, goosepimpled in the 10 degree weather. He’s not crying – is he past crying he’s so upset? It could also be a game he plays, I don’t know any of them well enough.
"His mum’s away… She’s going away for weeks soon… Resort... Several marriages, two handful’s worth of kids and wanting even more...."
These all paint a picture which it is very easy to judge. I'm trying my darndest not to because who’s to say the way we’re raising our children is not breaking their hearts, or that this little man will turn out to be a got-it-completely-together, caring man of the church and ours will be jailbirds.  No book says what I'm doing is right, no book says what she's doing is wrong.  My own mistakes are obvious and all the time.
But simply the sight of him clinging to someone 20 years old and saying he misses mummy makes me want to wrap him up and bring him home to my warm house for some lamb chops, a snuggly blanket and some ABC TV on the lounge with our boys and I'll be his mummy for a couple of days.
Just can’t shake the feeling.

Worry wrinkles

I'm worried that I'm worrying too much.
Someone once said to me, "I would never have had kids if I knew how much I'd worry".  At the time I didn't grasp the concept, but after some big illnesses with our kids, and having seen other kids break their bits, I now would quite happily sit at home on the very soft lounge with three little mounds of cottonwool-formerly-children.
And worry is not good for our beauty mummy ducks. 
During a rather major stint of worrying my hair decided to join the party and zap the living colour out of itself.  But I didn't go grey with some funky slick spouting out right at my cowlick at the front, nor did it ease me into it with a little smattering of nice evenly streaked looking grey. Nooooo. One nice big fat patch at the crown of my head, in the shape of a rugby ball, and another slug, smack bang on the side of my head, like a flippin' koala's ear. 
To add to the downward Giant Slide, I came out of the same experience with about 8 years worth of wrinkles, particularly prominent at the frown mark area. And "what were those cracks in my eyes?" as my boys so eloquently put it.
Worry.  Not worth it.  Doesn't get you anywhere (except UP the age ladder).
Someone suggested Botox for a quick fix, might lift my spirits after all the worry. But if Botox makes you not frown because you've bazookered the muscles therefore getting rid of the frown lines, then maybe, umm, well I just won't frown.  Rocket science.
So, because I don't stick needles into myself unless medically necessary, my new aim is to stop worrying.  And start smiling, because I want to look like these smiley, worldly women when I'm 70. 

I want smile wrinkles. Nice big crows feet which say I have laughed hilariously with my family and friends.  Permanent grin marks around my mouth, bright happy eyes and a big old relaxed look to my beautiful wrinkly noggin.
So from now on I'm going to close my eyes, look away and don't wait for it to never happen. I'm going to go a little Buddhist and try and live in the moment - 'oh look, Big Bad School Dude climbed to the top of the LIQUID AMBER!  Don't think about it.... ohmmmmm......'
Then I will find that, guess what - he's still there (ignore the fact that he's waving to me with both hands). And I have survived the experience without the worry and without the grey hair.
So I tell myself.