I Want To Be a Doctor When I Grow Up

Hello Blog, I’m back.  But I’m sorry; this writing thing may be coming to an end because I’ve had the realisation that I want to be a doctor.

I have a weird little fascination with hospitals.  I’ve spent a bit of time up there of late and now I know for certain, I want to be a doctor.

I pity the fool who ends up with me as their doctor

Fortunately I’ve only experienced hospitals first hand on a couple of occasions and most of those times took home a baby with me, so it’s been a pretty good run so far.  On the occasions I’ve been to hospital as a visitor though, I am often found lurking the corridors and lingering in door-ways a little too long to find out what’s wrong with Mrs Smith in Bed 5. 

This isn’t a new fascination; it’s something I’ve toyed with for years.  I was actually accepted into a Nursing degree when I finished high school, but I deferred when I was offered a job too good to be refused – a dental assistant.  Why they think children of 16 and 17 can make sensible decisions on their career continues to baffle me.

I know being a doctor would be hard.  I watch Grey’s Anatomy.  All that study, the long hours, those hot doctors, it’s going to be tough!

Reality can be a cruel bitch sometimes though and it seems for the time being I’m stuck in the role of Dr Mummy.  I’m going to be back up the hospital next week with the kids though, I’ll be the lady with the Fisher Price stethoscope around her neck.  

What do you want to be when you grow up?

I’ll Have a Skinny Cappuccino, Hold the Muffin-Top

I tried on my “test pants” last week.  You know, that item of clothing you stash away at the back of your wardrobe waiting for that day when you’ll slip effortlessly back in like an old friend.

Please note:  This is not me.  It's a stunt muffin top.

My Test Pants are a slim little Allannah Hill number,  chocolate brown with cheeky little pink stitching in just the right places.  BB (Before Babies) I’d love nothing more than rocking them with a killer pair of heels and a strappy singlet.

Between B1 and B2, I had a brief moment of glory when the planets aligned for me to fasten zipper and buttons.  I celebrated my achievement, then quickly removed them when my legs started to tingle from lack of blood supply.

What I was thinking the other day when I put them on I don’t know.  Exercise is a random occurrence these days and I still eat like a pregnant lady.  Food is my problem and I know it.  I’m a comfort eater and reward myself with food.  “Treating Myself” or “Me Time” these days generally involves something sweet and even on our trips to the park I stop via my local café for a Skinny Cap and a little somethin’ somethin’.

It’s going to be a hard habit to kick, but I’m determined to get off the sugar before I need to sacrifice my favourite jeans and summer shorts. 

It’s seems the old girl ain’t what she used to be, but I’m hanging onto my Allannah’s for next winter.

Do you have "test clothes"?  What are they?

The Story of the Owl and the Lark

This week I had the pleasure of interviewing a psychology professor for a magazine article I’m writing.  He specialises in the human body clock, which in a nutshell puts some theory behind things like why we reach for a Tim Tam and cuppa at 3pm.  Among many interesting tid-bits, he shared with me the world of the Lark and the Owl.

It seems there’s two kinds of people in this world.  Larks and Owls.  Owls as you may have guessed, love to stay up late into the night and enjoy long leisurely sleep in’s the next day.  Larks are a bit like those annoying birds you hear chirping away just as the sun is starting to peak over the horizon.  They greet the day in full song and then nestle back into bed straight after Masterchef.

I’m going to challenge that there’s a third kind of person in this world, and that is whatever kind of ungodly creature my children can be represented as.  You see, before the Larks even begin to stir my children are up and at ‘em and probably on their 2^nd round of raisin toast.  I’m talking 4am people and that’s even in the middle of Winter.

B.C (Before Children) and B.H (Before Husband), I was an owl.  I have truly spent whole days in the wonderful self-indulgent bliss of sleeping, reading, sleeping, eating, sleeping.  My only conclusion is I slept too much in my early 20’s and am now being repaid with a lifetime of sleep debt.

I’ve gradually grown accustomed to a lack of sleep and once the sun actually rises, I’m feeling quite good.   After a shower and with clean teeth, I’m ready to face the day.  It doesn’t make it any easier though EVERY MORNING when my children bound into the day long before dawn.

I conclude with two questions for you dear reader.  Are you an Owl or a Lark?  And does anyone know how the F@#@ I can get my kids to sleep longer!  

The Booby Trap

What kind of bee’s make milk?
Boo-bee’s!

Funny?  Yeah a little isn’t it.  The sort of thing I thought my 3 year old son would lap up.  You see he is a bit of an early starter when it comes to his toilet humour.  I simply have to throw Bum or Poo into a conversation and by his reaction you would think that I’m Jerry Seinfeld.  So I told him my Bee joke and was met with a very serious face and his reply, “No Mum, bee’s make honey.”

You see, boobies are very serious business around here.

I was fortunate to have been able to breastfeed my 3 year old until he was 13 months old when I fell pregnant with #2.  Now my beautiful B#2 is nearing 17 months and is still being breastfed.  It’s a habit I’ve been meaning to break since her first birthday and every week I create a new reason for myself to keep going for a few more days; she’s sick, I’m sick, it’s too cold.  As you can see I’m starting to run out of reasons.

The funny thing is the decision to breastfeed or to not breastfeed and then when to stop should really be no one’s business at all but every so often a story will appear in the news or online and suddenly everyone has an opinion.  Pink recently posted a beautiful photo on Twitter of her breastfeeding her 1 year old.  This special moment that she chose to share publicly was ripped into shreds by the seemingly well-meaning public. 

For me, I know these precious days are coming to an end with my little one and I know that it’s highly likely I’ll never have another baby to connect with in this way.  It makes me sad.  So sad. 

With all that said, the fact that my daughter attempts to seduce me with moves akin to her father in order to have her way with me is starting to weird me out a little, so I’m going to stop breastfeeding next week.  Promise…

Pounding the Path to Your Purpose

I had the absolute honour of speaking to the amazing Dick Hoyt recently.  Never heard of him?  Do yourself a favour and read on...

The path to finding ones purpose is a unique and personal journey.  For some, it strikes them like a lightning bolt from the heavens.  Others have it thrust upon them, like Dick Hoyt whose son Rick was born with cerebral palsy.  For anyone still searching or struggling to find their purpose or passion, Dick Hoyt has one simple message, “Yes you can.” 

Dick Hoyt didn’t set out to be an inspiration.  As one of ten children, he was raised to do things the hard way, perhaps that’s what attracted him to a career in the military.  Life changed forever when his first son, Rick, was born with cerebral palsy in 1962.  Dick and Judy Hoyt were told their son was a vegetable and should be institutionalised.  “Forget about him,” they were told.  “We cried a bit and then we talked,” Dick recalls.  “You could tell by looking in his eyes that he was smart and paying attention to everything we said.”  The Hoyts took one day at a time with their special little boy and eventually convinced a team of engineers to create a custom-designed computer to help Rick communicate.  This incredible machine enabled Rick to not only complete school but to then move on to university where he achieved a degree in special education. 

It was while at university that Rick first convinced his father to compete in a charity run for a student who had become paralysed in an accident.   Rick said to his father, “I want to let him know that life goes on.”  Despite finishing next to last, after the race Rick typed a simple sentence to his Father that changed his life forever, “When I’m running it feels like I’m not handicapped.”

More than 30 years later, Dick has pushed, pulled and carried Rick in 1073 different marathons, triathlons and ironman triathlons.  The numbers are extraordinary; a gruelling 32 races a year (down from 50 a year at their peak), the longest being the notorious Ironman Triathlon with  distances of 3.86km swim, 180.25 bike, 42.2 run.  The most extraordinary number though is their ages.  Rick is 50 and Dick will turn 72 later this year.  Team Hoyt, as they are now collectively known, are an unstoppable force.

The pure joy on Rick’s face as they cross the finish line is moving stuff and is the fuel Dick needs to continue.  Watch any footage of the pair in action and Team Hoyts message of “Yes you can” feels absolutely possible.  Dick’s motivation has never been in question.  Only once have they pulled out of a race, after they crashed out in the bike leg of the Hawaiian Ironman.  “There’s something that gets into me when we’re out there that I can’t explain. It makes me go faster,” Dick says with his relaxed Boston drawl.

He is often asked the question of how much longer he can keep this up.  While most of his contemporaries are deeply settled into retirement, Dick laces up his sneakers each morning often in temperatures that plummet to -5 degrees.  He admits that the early mornings are getting harder but he only needs to look at his son for inspiration.  “The easiest thing Rick could have done was quit,” he says.  “But he’s a fighter, he never gives up.  We’ll keep this up as long as we’re still enjoying it”. 

It’s not suprising that when Dick does have any precious down time he prefers to spend it enjoying the company of his family.  Simple pleasures like fishing or water skiing with his four grandsons bring him the greatest joy.  The family also own a small restaurant and ice-cream stand, Team Hoyt’s Finish Line.  As well as a reputation for the best ice-cream, the café is full of Team Hoyt memorabilia and is a popular stop for tourists.

Any break is never too long though.  With mounting injuries and state of the art equipment required for races, the cost to maintain Team Hoyt is astounding, so now on top of his training, Dick also travels the world as a motivational speaker.  His “yes you can” message is a powerful one that has changed the lives of alcoholics, drug addicts and people on the verge of suicide.  What began as a quest to bring happiness to his son, now feels like a much broader duty.

Dick is most proud of the changes he has seen in other families with disabled children and how they have been encouraged to take a more active role in their child’s life.  In 1962 people with disability were removed from mainstream society and most people would never have seen anyone in a wheelchair.  The Hoyts were determined that their child wouldn’t miss out on a thing.  “We took Rick everywhere with us.  To the shops, to restaurants, and people would leave because they didn’t want to be around us,” says Dick.  Team Hoyt have now inspired similar pairings around the world with athletes volunteering their time and bodies to give those with a disability the chance to feel free of their physical boundaries.   Where the Hoyts were once not even accepted in their own home town, they are welcomed with open arms the world over.  Dick admits there’s still some work to be done in overcoming people’s prejudices, but through the sheer determination of his family, Rick has been fortunate to live a fuller life than many able-bodied people.

Dick’s advice can be applied to virtually any dilemma and is almost frustratingly simple.  “If you are focused you will be able to accomplish almost anything you set your mind to.  It might be hard, but you can do it.”

It seems the Team Hoyt phenomenon is far from finished.  There are many races still on their ‘to do’ list and they would love to one day compete in Australia.  It’s been a journey that has given Dick’s life a depth of purpose he could never have imagined and for Rick it’s a journey that transcends the limitations of his body, and other people’s minds.

The Melody of Life (A picture says ...)

The latest of my creative writing posts in the Picture Says... series set by my writing friend Kelly Exeter. 

The melody still dances through my mind, as vivid today as it was 30 years ago.  It’s the weirdest things that trigger the memory; the smell of gravy, the sound of a shovel piercing through fresh earth…

Most afternoons, my mother would call out over the fence to Mrs Tucker and obediently I would follow.  I was always in the way whenever my mother was around and especially so at 4pm when her latest boyfriend would be about to arrive for a midweek sleep over.  My fear and confusion would be washed away in a sea of iced vovo’s and milk the moment I stepped into the sanctuary of Mrs Tuckers home.

I would potter around the house with her, helping shell peas or mending her husband’s trousers and she would ask me about my day as if it was the most important information she’d ever heard.  Every so often she would pull the old sheet off her piano and play for me.  She would sit at her stool, apologising in advance, “I’m a little rusty,” she would always say, crack her knuckles and wince as she took one long sip of her warm sherry.  With fingers poised, she would wait as if for some signal from above, and then she would start. 

Her fingers would glide across the keys and I would stare, trance-like watching them.  The music transported me to another time and place, far from my suburban prison.  As she played, her eyes gleamed with the vibrancy of youth and her arthritic hands seemed suddenly cured.  Then as abruptly as she started, she would stop, her eyes moist from the time and memory the music evoked.

One day my mum picked me up from school and we didn’t go home.  I would sometimes dream that Mrs Tucker asked me to live with her and we lived together cosy in little fibro shack, without a worry in the world and a big garden at the front to display her prized Azalea’s. 

I cried every night until I forgot to.  Many years later I was reminded of my afternoons at Mrs Tucker’s house when at a party I heard the sound of neglected piano brought back to life by a man emboldened by one too many boutique beers.  I’ve even been inspired to take lessons myself, determined to find the beauty she did in the music.

She’d be long gone now, but the memory of her music will always play in my heart.

65 Years of Holding Hands

Recently I had the pleasure of interviewing a couple celebrating their 65th wedding anniversary.  So forget Hollywood for a moment and enjoy a real-life love story...

While Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman starred in one of the greatest romances of the silver screen in Casablanca, another love story was blossoming between Cliff & Jean Collins.  It was 1942 and only 15 at the time, Cliff spotted Jean while working as a postal messenger.  He came close to falling off his delivery bike when he spotted her sitting inside her Fathers Model-A Ford truck parked across the road from him.  On their first meeting he held her hand and he hasn’t let go since.

This week Cliff & Jean celebrated 65 years of marriage, a union which produced six children, 15 grandchildren and in the coming weeks will welcome great grandchildren numbers 13 and 14.  Family members are travelling from across Australia to be with the couple at their home on the Sunshine Coast to celebrate this special occasion.

Family is clearly important to Cliff and Jean and they credit this as being one of the foundations of their marriage.  “We’ve always done everything together and as the kids grew up our lives revolved around them and their activities,” said Cliff. 

Family also brought Cliff and Jean the biggest challenge of their partnership when their eldest son tragically died after an accident playing AFL at age 17.  Cliff remembers, “It was a really tough time, but where many couples would have fallen apart, his death actually brought us closer together.”

Despite the odd challenge, life as a young couple was simple and revolved around the cornerstones of family and hard work.  Farmers of wheat and sheep, Cliff and Jean retired from the farm in Victoria at 60 to move to Queensland to be closer to their children. 

“People today undervalue the importance of the connection between husband and wife,” says Cliff.  “The love in a home starts with the parents and is reflected onto the children of the family, who then pass this onto their own children.  It’s the most important legacy we can leave.”

They are now aged 85 and 86 respectively and have been fortunate to always had good health.  He doesn’t take it for granted though, Cliff begins each day by kissing his wife and telling her he loves her.  Their “love affair”, as he describes it, has only grown stronger over the years.

Over the past week, messages of best wishes have arrived from The Queen, The Prime Minister, QLD Premier, Governor General and local politicians.  This touching tradition reminds us just how momentous this occasion is.  65 years.  With modern couples marrying later in life, marriages of this length will soon be a thing of a past.

How did Cliff and Jean celebrate the day?  They enjoyed pumpkin scones for morning tea with their daughter and were treated to a roast lunch with friends.  Forget the traditional gift for a 65^th anniversary of blue sapphires.  After seven decades together, this couple understand that the most important things can’t be bought.

Relationships today are unnecessarily complicated.  We spend more time with our virtual friends than real ones and entire romances are conducted (and ended) via email, text and Skype.  Cliff’s answer to the secret of a long and happy marriage is frustratingly simple.  “A good marriage is like a bank account,” he shares.  “Put a little bit into it every day and the richer you will become.”  This may be the reason that throughout 65 years together, they have never had a fight.

After the commotion of their anniversary celebrations settle, Cliff and Jean look forward to what is for them a perfect night in: sitting in their matching recliners watching Dads Army DVD’s, and still after 65 years, holding hands.

A Day in the Life of a Three Year Old

Every day I am astounded by  the energy of my three year old son Jamie.  He leaps into each day with enviable joy and enthusiasm.  So for just a moment, I close my eyes to ponder what it would be like to spend a day in the life of a three year old…

My little 'ANGEL', Jamie xx

I wake up to sound of silence.  Stopping for a moment to listen, I realise the quietness is because not even at 4.50am are the birds awake.  Nevertheless, I have unstoppable energy coursing through me and I leap out of bed to greet the day.  I wake everyone in the house up with kisses, cuddles and misguided elbows in the face as I clamber on top of everyone in an attempt to get as physically close to them as I can.

I can’t stop for breakfast as there’s just too much to do.  I’m halfway through a book on shapes, my dolls all need warm coats on and I’m trying to perfect a block tower.  A couple of bites of toast should see me through til 7am when I will cry uncontrollably from hunger pains.

I’ve dressed for work in my usual corporate attire, but have accessorised with fairy wings and sword. 
“That will come in handy for my 9am meeting”, I say aloud.

My day in the office begins as normal, except I have the uncontrollable urge to get up and run every 10 minutes and push over anyone who is even the slightest bit shorter than me. 

My 10am coffee has been replaced by Milo and when I discover that there are no Teddy Bear biscuits in the cupboard I throw myself to the ground and scream for the next 5 minutes.  I conclude the spectacle with a fabulous Milo fountain across the staff kitchen and walk away for someone else to clean it up.

There’s a big meeting in the boardroom scheduled for 12.30pm, but I cancel so I can have a nap.  You won’t want to know me by 3pm if I don’t get at least a 30 minute sleep in!

I’ve woken up grumpy and really need a cuddle.  It’s at this moment my boss comes in and gives me some constructive criticism on a report I’ve just submitted.  I cry and kick him in the shins.   

At 2pm, my day gets worse when I have “an accident”.  I don’t know how it happened.  One minute I’m at the printer chatting to my friends and then the next thing I know I’ve wet my pants.  I shout, “I’VE DONE A WEE” and walk confidently back to my desk.  Thank goodness, I have found a spare tutu in my bag which will see me through the afternoon.

5pm is here in a flash and I’ve spent the afternoon colouring all the grids of my excel spreadsheet.  I commend myself on my fabulous artwork and head home.  The others are off to the pub for a wine, but I can’t go, Playschool’s on.

Dinner goes much the same as what breakfast did and I finish my meal with more of it on the floor than in my mouth. 

(Insert more random crying, yelling and misguided violence here)

I climb into bed exhausted at 7pm after catching up on the latest instalment from Spot the dog.  I’m stoked because I’ve managed to go to bed without brushing my teeth or having a bath!

Brown Paper Notebook #2

I've got a bad case of writers block.  It's probably a good thing though as I've got a stack of my 'real job' stuff keeping me quite busy at the moment.  So my blog doesn't get too neglected, I've dusted off a classic entry from the Brown Paper Notebook, my teenage journal I stumbled upon a month or so ago.  Enjoy...


She sits on the bus.  Desperately, she attempts to concentrate on one thought for more than two seconds.  She needs this precious time by herself to think of urgent matters such as finding employment, repairing a broken friendship and pondering the seemingly wasted month spent with her father in a desperate attempt to rekindle any resemblance of a stable family life.  She fleetingly manages to grasp a thought, but her heart won't let her.


She has met a man.  A gorgeous, amazing and exciting man with whom she spent the most amazing nights of her life.  She prays to God.  The same God to whom she prayed at age 10 when she was desperate for the return of her stolen bike.  God was good to her back then and she now prayed he could register that same level or urgency in her silent voice.  


It had now been eight days since he promised to her a phone call in 10 days, or was it 15 days?  She couldn't remember.  The component of the brain named memory is often excluded when matters of the heart are concerned.  This often leads to a disgusting confusion of the actual facts, when regurgitated to friends in a flurry of romantic, lusty excitement.


She could paint the picture how ever she liked, but deep down she knew he would never call.  Her heart, although as beautiful and sweet as a blooming scarlet rose had become infected with the disease of trust.  He was a stranger, the most remarkable stranger that had ever passed through her life. It was for this reason, that she dared her thoughts to venture beyond the realm of her practicality...


The girl on the bus staggers out of her fantasy.  The next few days will surely be hell.  If he phones, her fantasy will be fulfilled.  If not, a scar will be embedded on her heart that only the love of her one true love can erase.

This is How I Do It

I've been a bit quiet on the blog this past week or so.  I often compare myself to the captain of a ship; a very important person, responsible for countless lives.  Just some days it feels like my ship is called the Titanic.  

  

My ship started sinking when at short notice my day care was cancelled, throwing everything out of whack.  This in a week that I’d scheduled a huge chunk of work into two precious day care days.  I juggled, worked nights and am forever thankful to a beautiful husband, somehow we made it through.  Even if you don’t have children, there’ll always be those days or weeks that you think will ruin us.  Between work, family, friends and worrying about everything from, “we’re out of milk” to the war in Afghanistan, there’s often not enough left in the tank for us. 

So in a rare treat, last night I picked up a DVD and a block of fruit and nut and settled in for some quality ME time.  Now with two small children, watching a DVD is a luxury, watching one I’ve chosen myself is pure decadence.  I needed a chick flick, I need to cry, laugh and swoon all within a 90 minute window.  I chose “I Don’t Know How She Does It”, you know the one, Sarah Jessica Parker makes being a working mum look effortless in a crazy kinda way.  Not a new release I know, but refer to afore mentioned statement.  My choice of title perhaps was a reflection of my week and my SJP fix start to look more like self-help than self-indulgence.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve seen this movie, but I was disappointed.  Poor little SJP, I’m sure you’re lovely, but I just don’t believe it.  Do you think she had to pay her phone bill a week late because her car needed a new starter motor?  Do you think she worries about dropping the kids at kindy, slaving away in the office and making sure Matthew Broderick has clean shirts for work?

I’m sure my expectations were a little out of reach, but despite its title, I didn’t learn anything useable about how she actually did it.  So I’m going to get the ball rolling, starting a little sisterhood of secrets and tell you how I do it…

I have low standards – this sounds terrible, but honestly, when I lowered my standards the game changed completely.  Instead of being an over-achieving neat freak I now am comfortable with dirty dishes in the sink and with things left uncrossed off my list. 

Embrace the things you can’t change - Instead of making my children fit my life, I work around them.  Life changed forever the day I welcomed two new little humans into my home and I can’t continue to expect that I’ll be able to sleep in, read the paper in peace or basically do what I want for the next few years.

Eat take away – Don’t put yourself under unnecessary pressure.  If you don’t have time to cook, don’t cook.  One night a week won’t hurt at all and if you really can’t bring yourself to the McDonalds drive thru, keep your pantry and freezer stocked with lifesavers such as tinned baked beans, two minute noodles and fish fingers. 

Ask for help – I think the myth of ‘having it all’ is starting to become accepted as exactly that, a myth.  There may be moments of some days where the planets align and things work smoothly, but most days it won’t and you know what, that’s ok.  There’s nothing wrong with that and you’re certainly not alone.  Say yes to the kind offers which occasionally cross our paths and go one step further by repaying the favour to friend in need. 

Start spreading the love now by sharing your tips on how you manage the juggle.  How do you do it?

The Brown-Paper Notebook #1

As promised, the first of my entries from The Brown-Paper Notebook, my old journal I kept as a teenager and rediscovered earlier this week.  I'll save the cringe-worthy Love stuff for another week.  

I wrote in my notebook inspirational quotes, poems, my thoughts and feelings as well as short stories...

THE TREE

There was once a tree.  A tremendously beautiful tree.  A Tree that was so tremendously beautiful, not even a thousand artists could capture its beauty.  This Tree did not grow flowers, nor did it grow fruit.  It was however, home to a hundred birds who would sing each morning to thank The Tree for such a lovely home. 

The Tree sat alone upon a small hill and from where it stood it could hear the ocean, which lay not too far from The Tree’s small hill.  The birds had told The Tree about the ocean, it seemed so different to life up on the hill.  The smell of the ocean alone could sometimes drive the beautiful tree crazy.  

“Oh, why can’t I have wings like my friends the birds so I can fly above the ocean and see the beautiful creatures that live within.”

One day his friend The Wind came to visit the tree upon the small hill.

“I have some terrible news,” said The Wind.  “My cousin Storm is coming from across the ocean.  He is coming to visit you and is so jealous of your beautiful branches and the birds that sing to you each morning.  He has promised to rip you from the ground on your small hill and scatter your leaves in a million places.  You will survive, but you will never be as beautiful again.”

This frightened The Tree.  How terrible it would be to leave his small hill and his friends the birds.  He was scared of what was to come, but he would now be able to visit the Ocean and the Mountains and the Rivers.  Things only he had ever heard the birds talk of.

The next day The Storm came.  Tree was prepared for his journey.  He shut his eyes bravely and awaited the impact as the gusts and gales approached.  The vicious Storm ripped the Tree mercilessly from the hill.  A thousand raindrops pelted heavily on his leaves.  Ferocious lightning bolts struck his trunk smashing it into a million pieces. 

The Storm soon passed, leaving only a large hole where The Tree once stood.  Some time later, The Tree opened his eyes, his journey was over.  Parts of him had grown in a million beautiful places all over the world.  But the most beautiful place of all was next to a small beach.  The Tree was invisible to anyone who walked by and ignored its gnarled and knotted appearance, but the birds who sang to it every morning knew that this tree had become truly beautiful after its amazing journey.  

For the Love of Writing

I began 2012 like most people, with hope for a fresh start and some positive change in my life.  I had already committed to a short online writing course and was excited to be connecting again to something I once loved so much.


You see, as an angst-filled 18 year old, writing was my solace and vehicle to vent.  I felt terribly artistic and would sit in my room writing, really writing with a pen, smoking cigarettes and listening to Massive Attack.  I covered an old notebook in brown paper, because this seemed like a creative thing to do and filled it with beautiful words. 


For some reason I connected writing with only painful emotions, so a few years later when I fell in love, moved to the beach and gave up the smokes, I also gave up my writing.  


What began as just a little writing course has now snowballed into something that consumes every spare square of my mind.  Doors have opened, strangers are reading what I write and I’m even getting paid for it.  I have never felt on a surer path and am seeing obstacles removed only moments after I’ve manifested them.
  
This week I have started to entertain the idea of writing a book.  I have no idea what it will be about, but like all this other writing business, I’ve planted the seed and trust that something fabulous will grow from it.  


With yet another reminder that I’m on the right path, yesterday I stumbled across my old brown paper notebook.  So I’m making a real out-loud commitment to a second blog post a week which will be an entry from the Brown-Paper Notebook.  This could be interesting and I’m going to have to do a bit of a Facebook inventory to check which old boyfriends I could be embarrassing myself in front of.  


It will be a laugh anyway and at very least, I’m really looking forward to the trip down memory lane.

A Picture Says....Week 2

Hello friends, I hope you enjoy the second of my posting in my creative Blog-Off initiated by the lovely Kelly at www.kellyexeter.com.au...

The smell of the rain on the cobblestone filled her nostrils as she explored another quaint lane way.

Finally, she was here.  The journey from Australian suburbia to Parisian laneway had been more emotional than she’d anticipated.  What began as a simple decision to take a 12 month contract with the Paris branch resulted in a tangled mess of hurt feelings and broken promises.  It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she lamented.

 
“I only wanted to taste a REAL chocolate croissant”, she said out loud as the buttery smell from yet another bakery wafted by.

He had Skyped her already, every day in fact.  With beer bottles and the sound of his mates laughter in the background, she knew she didn’t belong there anymore.  In only a week, she had been introduced to the culture, the decadence, the romance.  Yes it was confirmed, she was in love, with Paris. 

Each step she took led her further from her past, and like the rain falling from the sky, washed away the past to reveal the beautiful rainbow of the future.  

Our Special Visitors

Ghost taught me everything I know about
the afterlife and pottery.

Do you believe in life after death?  Do you think we’re “watched over” by our loved ones who have passed away?  I believe in God, but I wouldn’t classify myself as religious.  I’ve dabbled in many different religions and spiritual beliefs, but as is typical for my generation, have never committed to anything.  My version of Heaven and Hell comes straight from Patrick Swayze in Ghost.  Today I’ve been confronted to face my views on religion and after-life in the most unlikely way.


While out walking with my children this morning, my three year old questioned me on the grumpy garbage man who didn’t respond to his cheerful “hello”.  I explained that not everyone is as friendly as we are sweetheart and maybe if we worked with smelly rubbish all day we’d be grumpy too.  He pondered that for a moment and proceeded to tell me that he always says hello to the people in the sky.  Before I had time to question him, he’d moved on to the next topic in the typical machine-gun pace of a toddler.  


Ten minutes later and he was telling me he saw a baby up in the tree and could I get him a ladder so he could see the baby.  I asked him some questions, but couldn’t make sense of any of his answers.


I didn’t give it too much thought until I raised it with my husband this evening.  He’s a spiritual soul and a bit of a deep thinker.  He gave a knowing nod and started asking our little Spirit Whisperer more about these people in the sky he talks to.  
“The baby is sad because she’s lost her dummy and can’t find her Mummy or Daddy.”  


Yikes.


Now, my son has an active imagination, loves to role-play and at times often believes he is Murray Wiggle.  So I’m torn as to what the best approach is with this.  


My husband and I both have friends and family members on the “other side” and the thought of them popping by to get to know my children fills my heart with joy.  We’ve joked in the past about our “visitors” who come to play with the kids when we hear Tickle-Me Elmo play on his own.   I’m beginning to now entertain the idea that there’s perhaps more to this than battery malfunctions.


I know that religion and afterlife is such a personal matter for us all and I would never proclaim my views over those of anyone else.  In fact, I don’t think I know what to think.  I do however believe in the power of social media to help solve problems, so turn to you dear reader for your advice on what to do with my little John Edwards.  

The Potato Battle

Ready for a history lesson?

The Potato Famine ravaged Ireland from 1845 – 1852.  A vast majority of the Irish were entirely dependent on the humble potato for food, so when potato disease struck, the results were catastrophic.  Approximately 1 million people died and a million more emigrated from Ireland.  The effect changed Ireland’s cultural landscape forever and is one of the most important periods in the country’s history.

The War of the Bavarian Succession, also known as the Potato War, was fought in the Prussian region in 1778.  In comparison to others in this period, this was a minor skirmish with most casualties resulting from soldiers starvation.

2012, and the latest Potato Battle is in full swing in my own home.  My husband Henry hails from the Small clan of Geebung.  Clearly a family built on the steady tradition of washing one’s potato prior to peeling.  I am from noble Harsley stock, and despite our pedigree, we like our potato’s dirty and get straight down to business.  Peel first, then wash.

In all seriousness, what began as a bit of a joke and some gentle mocking has now escalated to a being a real issue, with threats of divorce and worst of all, The Cranky Face.

I took this big issue to the people (facebook) about a year ago and the results were mixed.   Many never knew of their potato bias until that time and I shudder to think of the amount of homes which began their own Potato Battle that night. 

It got me thinking this afternoon about the crazy things that we all have a thing about and how the beautiful union of two lovers in domestic bliss can be shattered so suddenly by washing the dishes the “wrong” way, or putting dirty clothes straight in the machine instead of a basket. 

Where do we get these “things” from and what “things” am I passing onto my children??

I remember making rissoles one evening not long after Henry and I moved in together.  He asked me why did I start by soaking slices of bread in stock?  I wasn’t quite sure why, that’s just how you make rissoles.  Right?  So I rang my Mum to ask why she did it.  She wasn’t quite sure either.  We then asked my wise old Nanny, the monarch of the family to reveal the truth.  Her simple answer was that when she was young they couldn’t afford much meat and padded out their rissoles by adding slices of bread.

Ha.  What a complex breed our domestic species can be.  I’m a lover, not a fighter.  So from now on I declare we will be a pasta and rice family.  And if Henry wants potato he can bloody well peel them himself, crazy potato-peeling fool!

A Picture Says...Week 1

Hi there, this post is part of a fortnightly blog-off I'm part of with some writing friends.  Each time there's a picture to set the theme and we all then write 500 words.  It's a bit of creative fun, so read on if you wish.  
Big thanks to www.kellyexeter.com.au for getting the ball rolling and the creative juices flowing!
We'll be back to our regular scheduled blogging later this week....

A picture says 500 words

As the kids played in the waves, unburdened with the naivety of youth, their parents discussed how best to break the news.

Like the receding tide, her bottle of wine was emptying.  Warmed by the afternoon sun, its bitterness felt almost medicinal. 
“So, we’ll talk to them at dinner tonight, then I’ll pack and be out by the morning.”  His tone was so business-like, it’s the only side she had seen of him for so long. 
“Sure.”  There was nothing else that could be said.

The decision had been his.  Now that you think of it, they had all been his: the big impersonal wedding, the house in the suburbs and the children, all three within quick succession.   Her life, her dreams felt like a distant memory and the fact that she now would have control of her own decisions terrified her.  Even their vanilla scented shower wash was his decision.
“Lavender or Orange?”  She’d said it out loud.
“What?” He barked in return.

The tension was broken by their youngest, Claire, a beautiful spirit who was impossible not to smile around.  She leapt into her father’s lap smothering him with kisses and sand.
“What’s for dinner guys?  We’re starving!  Can we have chips?  Can we eat at that park again?  Does Tom have to get that calamari again?  It’s gross!” 
The questions rattled at machine gun pace.  Where do they get this energy she wondered? 

She wriggled her toes in the cool sand and wished that like her feet she could disappear, forget this was happening and escape on her own to Morocco or somewhere fabulous like that.  Spend her days reading and drinking tea and her nights dancing.

The sound of her children calling her broke her daydream, “MUM!” They all screamed, each with their different demand. 

Her husband helped her to her feet and for an instant their eyes met in a moment of compassion.  She took a deep breath and like two wounded soldiers, walked arm in arm toward the conversation they’d been dreading.  

Repeat After Me: I Love Being a Mum!

I've read a lot about motherhood lately which has given it a pretty bad wrap.  I understand the childless by choice stories and honestly respect everyone’s right to choose, but what’s getting me down is the constant stream of negativity about Mums, from Mums! 

It’s a hard trap not to fall in to and one I’ve fallen victim to on countless occasions.  There can be a lot to whinge about.  But you know what.  I love being a Mum, so much so I went back and did it again and thanks to this new natural contraceptive I’m using, I’ll probably be back for thirds.  I love being a Mum, but I didn’t trade my sense of adventure and style when I rented out my uterus. 

Despite The Wiggles on constant repeat inside my head, I still know important things like what’s happening in the Middle East and who wore what at the Logies.  I have goals and aspirations that don’t revolve around my children, but are an independent accompaniment to a very full life. 

My beautiful Jessica, only minutes after she was born

I’m no Super Mum though, like all of us, at times I’ve really struggled and I have had professional  help to get through physically and emotionally.

   

It can be tough and we need support, particularly from other Mums, not being on each other’s case about parenting style or adding to the negative poor-mum syndrome.  I want to challenge every Mum out there for one day to drop the negativity and be proud of being a Mum.  When someone asks how the kids are, don’t reply with rolling eyes and tales of woe. 

It’s a hard habit to break and without getting into a heap of feminist rambling, it’s something us chicks seem to constantly come up against.  Imagine if instead of your husband and his mates sitting around at the pub trading footy yarns they told amazing tales of their heroic wives who braved 13 hours of labour to give birth to a 9 pound baby with no pain relief! 

While I don’t see that happening any time soon, it’s completely easy to tell another Mum that she’s doing a great job, to tell ourselves that we’re doing a great job!  There’s a lot to love about being a Mum, something that’s easy to say at 7.30pm with 2 kids in bed, perhaps we just need a reminder sometimes from our Mummy mates.

What is love? A blog about Sex, Red Velvet Cupcakes and Adele

This week I’m tapping back into my reason for beginning this blog.   As much as I love to share intimate details of my private life with you all, my intention was to learn more about words and writing.  A literary gym if you will.

I read an article this week on powerful words used in sales and marketing.  Triggers for the reader to take notice and listen more closely to your message.  I’ve learnt a thing or two and will incorporate these in my business as well as when convincing my husband I do need that new pair of boots this winter.   

So here's the list.  I promise you won't look at advertising the same way afterwards...

You
Results
Health
Guarantee
Discover
Love
Proven
Safety
Save
New

If you haven’t realised already, I’m sorry dear reader, but you’ve been duped. 

As much as I know you would love me to share a dirty little story about Adele and Red Velvet Cupcakes, the title is simply a concoction of some of the most searched words on Google for 2011, a fascinating list I stumbled across recently.  When it comes to powerful words, this is it – according to Google.

Love the hair Beiber!

Most Googled question – What is Love?  Or perhaps this is a reflection of our infatuation with 90’s pop sensation Haddaway??
Most Googled food – Red Velvet Cupcakes
Most Googled person – Adele
and to round off the list, the Most Googled Image of 2011 was the little cutie Justin Beiber.

I'm also curious to see the stats from this post to see how many people clicked through after spying the most popular trigger word of all-time - SEX.

Thank You Marshall

Four weeks ago I reluctantly entered the blogosphere to help hone my writing skills.  Like the bio says “to practice big words and perfect bad grammar.”  I’ve cringed at the self-indulgence of blogging and swore myself I wouldn’t do the same.  Trouble.  Seems blogging is a little more addictive than anticipated and I spend my week constructing blogs in my mind and wondering if my hilarious antidote about my crazy neighbours would make a good read.  This week I had planned to cram as many big words as I could into my blog in an attempt to “get serious” and stop banging on about myself.  But then this afternoon I experienced 5 minutes and 46 seconds of pure clarity that I just can’t contain.

I ran this afternoon.  And with my I-Pod loaded with new songs I felt amazing. Then my favourite, all-time favourite running song came on – Lose Yourself by Eminem. 

If you had one shot, or one opportunity
to seize everything you ever wanted, one moment
Would you capture it?
Or just let it slip.
Yo

Marshall Mathers AKA Eminem

As I ran in time to the beat and the F-Bombs I felt unstoppable.   I really could do anything I set my mind to, thank you Eminem, and yo to you to.   Body and mind as one, I felt strong, fit and confident.  

How amazing is the power of music.  Whether it’s the Rocky anthem or my other favourite running song, Christina Aguilera “Candyman” (don’t laugh, it’s got a great beat!) I’m sure everyone has THAT song that makes them feel great and can pick them up from the darkest of places. 

What’s the song that makes YOUR heart sing? 

Peace out.

PS – Almost forgot my Big Word.  And as I’ve strayed from format this week I’ve included the biggest word according to Guinness 1992 – Floccinaucinihilipilification.
“My inclusion of this post script at the end of the blog is a complete floccinaucinihilipilification.”

The REAL 7 Signs of Aging

So it turns out I’m getting old.  Despite the grey hairs and crows feet being a dead giveaway, I’ve been blissfully cocooned in the mind of a 19 year old.  Underneath my sagging exterior, I’ve been jiving away to The Venga Boys and playing Snake on my mobile phone.  Hang on, did I just say “jiving”?  Confirmed.  I am getting old.

You see, I’ve recently decided to compete in a half-marathon.  I’ve always enjoyed running and have competed in several running events and triathlons.  I even challenged myself to competing in a full length triathlon when my first born was only eight months old.  Two babies and a few too many chocolate Magnums later though, and it’s not quite as easy.  I still get the same buzz when I’m in the zone.  Nothing else exists except the sweat on my back and the beat of the music on my Ipod.  Those occasions are becoming more few and far between and it seems I can’t walk to the letterbox without pulling a hamstring. 

Getting old can't be that bad

Facebook reminds me of my age every day.  My friends are having their birthdays, turning 32, 35, 38.  How did that happen?  My quadragenarian husband (like that one?) and I begin a Fiesta of Fortieths this weekend and I have to keep reminding myself these are my friends, not my Dad’s mates birthdays that we’re celebrating. 

I’m determined to persevere with my uphill run against the effects of age, but this enlightenment has led me to uncover the REAL 7 signs aging…

1.        You’ve recently developed a passion for drinking tea.  In fact you’re probably having “nice cuppa” right now.

2.       A typical Friday night now involves a block of Fruit & Nut and perving on the cute chippie from Better Homes & Gardens.

3.       You own more than one pair of slippers.

4.       You think modern music is too loud, too rude or too fast

5.       You’ve always got a tissue “handy”.  Most likely it’s in your bra.

6.       You have a gravitational pull towards clothes shopping at Katies.

7.       You can’t remember the last time you wore a G-String

How many more signs can you add to the list?

Oh Baby

I nuzzle my nose in my daughter’s neck and I can smell all of the babies I may never have.  As I soak up that sweet indescribable aroma, I am reminded of those first precious moments with my babies.

You see, last week my second child, my baby, celebrated her first birthday.  I love this age, all sweet smiles and cute noises.  The sleepless nights and tearful days I spent in my PJ’s struggling with the concept of caring for 2 children seem a million years away. 

Jessica the Fairy Princess

The last 12 months haven’t been easy.  Anyone with 2 young children will tell you that life travels at a vertiginous speed (BOOM!).  Trying to teach my 2 year old son the concept of patience while I tend to his sister was a fruitless exercise and the physical logistics of leaving the house with 2 children to attempt something  as menial as grocery shopping still puts me to the test.

I also recently started my own business and am very career driven, I’m training for half marathon and I have a very itchy feet and long to travel. 

Despite all of this, I feel a physical longing inside of me to do it all again. 

The thought of never experiencing this again breaks my heart in a way I simply can’t explain. 

I know I’m crazy.  I know this doesn’t make sense and most importantly, I know I’ll probably never convince Big Daddy to jump on board with this one.  So unless we are blessed with a miraculous immaculate conception, it seems we are destined to be a family of four. 

Don’t worry.  I’ll be ok.  I’ve just resigned myself to a lifetime full of staring at pregnant bellies, crying over old photos and sniffing the necks of random babies.  

Hello Blog #1

Hello Blog, you’ve finally worn me down and now here I am.  Blogging. 

Until now I thought blogging was a self-indulgent pass time done by those who clearly have too much time on their hands, sort of like the new Sudoku.  Honestly, unless your name is Bridget Jones I don’t want to read about what you ate for breakfast or what colour undies you’re wearing. 

So aside from feeling left out and ostracised from the writing community, why am I blogging?  I’m comparing my blog to a literary gym.  A place to practice my new big words and to try to figure out once and for all if I should be using “are” or “is” in a sentence. 

Now that blogs are so ubiquitous (there’s my big word.  Like it?) I’ll be thrilled if anyone reads it.  If you are reading this, please throw some big words my way and I’ll work them into a future blog. 

So there it is. my first blog done.  Like Facebook and coloured denim, I swore I’d never do it – but now look at me go.  Thanks for coming along for the ride.

By the way, in case you were wondering, I ate muesli with banana on it for breakfast and my undies are white.