Sisters

I grew up with an older sister, so when G and I found out we were pregnant with the second little traveler I secretly crossed my fingers for another little girl. We all got lucky. It's not that my relationship with my sister is perfect (far from it), but I can't imagine life without her being there, being my sister. If you ever want to see me bite, say something unkind about my sister. I think we're all the same aren't we?

Brigitte Lacombe and her sister Marian held a workshop at their exhibition yesterday. Brigitte has been taking photographs of leading and emerging players in the Arab film world and Marian has been making a documentary of the process, filming actors and film makers on what film means to them. On my way to see them I pass some of Brigitte's earlier work, photo's I remember from magazine covers and coffee table books. I'm running late and I've already been in to the exhibition twice but I can't help myself taking a second to have a closer look. Dennis Hopper in a cowboy hat, a young Julia Roberts an even younger Steven Spielberg. It's like a modern history lesson in film.

When I entered the workshop Brigitte and Marian are side by side behind a desk, they are not immediately recognizable as sisters. Brigitte is wearing serious black glasses and has her head down while writing notes. She looks no nonsense. She's not wearing a hint of make-up, she dressed comfortably in black and her hair is that gorgeous greyish/white. She is like one of her portraits. Black and White.

Marian is petite, wide eyed and has a smile that says "welcome". Marian looks around the room making eye contact with people, nodding and smiling.

When the conversation begins Brigitte makes it clear that she would like to have more of a discussion than just her speaking at us, her accent is beautiful, its soft and french. Initially a couple of photographers want to speak about technique and light but the conversation quickly moves on to the people in the photographs. What did you say to them to get "that" look?

"I don't like a lot of people around," Brigitte says. "I don't like a lot of noise. I really don't speak very much". Marian smiles knowingly by her side. Immediately they become sisters in my eyes, there's an unspoken language between them. Marian is nodding but she's thinking something else. Later in the conversation Marian contradicts this comment "you do speak, you say some wonderful things" she says mischievously. Brigitte slowly smiles and says "maybe I do? maybe I just can't remember what I say?" There's a chuckle from the crowd.

I can't help but think of my own sister at this point. What would we be like in this situation? Would I be drawing naughty pictures on the paper in front of her while she tried to speak? Pinching her leg under the table. With my sister so far away I can't help but start to feel a pang of jelousy looking at them together. They are so comfortable, they're adding to each others conversation, finishing sentences, they both are saying the same thing but differently. You can tell they're close and were raised to look out for one another. They have the same values in their work, they have the same interest in people, they love to hear people's stories. They have both been moved by the stories they have heard from the Arab world over the past year.

Brigitte mentions with a brilliant French disdain in her voice "when the DFI initially spoke to me about this exhibition they wanted to do one of those behind the scenes type documentaries that you see all the time now" In a tisk tisk way she abruptly says  "I could not!" She paused for a moment and then said something that touched my heart "Then I thought about it for awhile and realized that Marian was right there, that Marian could do it, if she did it I would be comfortable, she is the ONLY person I could do it with".  Marian smiles in her direction. I can feel a little tear in my eye.

A bit later they are asked if they think the exhibition would work as well if it was just one of them. Before Brigitte can answer Marian jumps in with a definite no, "it would be nothing without Brigitte". There is no jealousy in this comment she is saying it with pure respect for sister "no matter what, I will always be Brigitte's little sister". Okay, now I need a Kleenex.

I ask them if they fight like sisters, they both immediately answer "YES!" The crowd chuckles. Marian adds that one of the best things about having the film was the "evidence" it provided for her to give to Brigitte. "I would say, listen to how you are talking, listen to what you are saying to me". They both giggle.

When the workshop is over I get to have a moment with Brigitte on my own. She is fascinating. She retells her story of arriving in Cannes in 1975, the opportunities that were presented to her. There were hardly any photographers then, definitely no women. I ask where her confidence came from at such a young age? She tells me that she's not sure, maybe she was just young and foolish.

I tell Brigitte about my girls, how they both see themselves as future photographers and film makers, she smiles and then something comes to her. She says "you know, I left school at a young age, it must have terrified my parents at the time but they loved me and they made me feel loved. I felt that I could do anything. If you can give your children anything, give them that, love them."

How do you make a sex sandwich?

I was somewhere around 7 years old when I was told (what I believed at the time) to be the funniest joke in the world. "How do you make a sex sandwich?" I had no idea of the technicalities of sex but when I heard the punch line I immediately squealed with laughter. "With Penis Butter and Vaginamite". 

I think I love that joke even more now that I realize it is uniquely Australian. No one else makes up vegemite jokes.

The joke became a regular in my repertoire, even though I had no idea of how babies were made or the logistics of what went where I loved the play on words. I also knew it wasn't a joke to be shared with my parents, it was purely for the playground. 

A couple of years later I went along with my father to my first ever sex education class. I, like a lot of  little girls, idolized my Dad (still do). He was the funniest, smartest, tallest guy I knew. I was eager to please and show him how clever I was. When the man pointed to the girly bits and asked what they were I shot up my hand and got that urgent bounce that little people do. The man pointed in my direction and said "we have someone over here who knows what it's called".....I was ecstatic and eagerly shouted out "its a VAGINAMITE".  A girl at the end of the row called Andrea who was 10 times smarter than me and in my year (and knew the joke) giggled so much, she fell off her chair. Oops. Wrong word. 

After yesterday's blog a conversation began about when we tell our little people information and how much is too much too soon. Little traveler number 1 already knows about secret women's business, I got in early after finding out she had friends that were unfortunate enough to be "early starters" at age 9. She  knows that love presents itself in all different forms and that "special cuddles" are required for babies. Last weeks breakfast table question was "if you were gay and married in a state where it was legal in the US and you moved with your gay wife/husband to Australia.....would your marriage be recognized?" I'm pretty sure when I was 10 these were not things I was considering before I'd finished my weetbix.

I can't help but think of friends who were out for a drive with their young son and daughter and the conversation moved on to love, marriage and all the different possibilities of who could end up together. Their daughter said with great pride of her depth of knowledge "I know what it's called when you're a lady who loves ladies............you're a vegetarian!"

Doha - Reinvent yourself

We arrived in Doha just a few weeks after the 2009 Doha Tribeca Film Festival, which meant any magazine in a hotel foyer, coffee shop or dentist' office still had a reminiscent photograph of DeNiro or Scorsese in the first few pages. I read every article fascinated with who was in town and the beauty of the Festival, they had films screened in visually stunning locations and an incredible depth and variety of content.

I caught up with a girlfriend from Canada in our first few days here, we'd worked together in recruitment in Calgary and she had moved back to Doha to be with family. As we sat in the hotel foyer catching up on old news I asked what she was doing for work. She told me about how her sister was working on the festival and how she had gained a few months work there herself. She'd been helping out with the panels and discussions, her eyes lit up when she spoke about it. "I want to do that next year, it sounds fantastic". I said.

Last night I sat with a group of woman who are all involved in writing, publishing and education in Doha. We were talking about future magazine article ideas and events going on in Doha. We started to get excited about some of the events and who we should be talking to.  Who were the key players, what were their achievements? One of the women said "people tend to come to Doha and re-invent themselves". I knew what she was talking about,  I agreed.

It's not unique to Doha. When any of us move city or travel overseas we have a chance to re-invent ourselves. School friends aren't around to remind everyone of the time you wet your pants in Grade 3. Old work colleagues cant reminisce about the Christmas party that you snogged the bloke with the bad shoes and sometimes no-ones there to clarify if you really did complete that Law degree.  It sounds so much better to say you "ran" the project rather than simply be one of the team.

In some cases this re-invention can be diabolical, people are in jobs way beyond their capabilities. In other cases it's inspiring. People are given an opportunity to show they can do anything, and they do. People start business', they build things, grow things and develop things all the while flying by the seat of their pants using hard work, energy and optimism to keep them going. Particularly in Doha, there's a feeling that anything is possible.

This morning I arrived at Katara Village, home of the 2nd Doha Tribeca Film Festival and it's absolutely buzzing. People are rushing to get things finished, those little jeeps that you see on film sets are buzzing from place to place with stressed people hanging off of them talking quickly in to mobile phones. There's action everywhere and it's coming together. I can't help but wonder how proud the the original crew who decided to do this event are. Is this what they pictured?

When you wander around from building to building you hear accents from all over the world. There's people everywhere, some of them live here permanently, some are here for the short term, all are here for the expertise they can offer. It's the same throughout Doha.  Whether your a banker in the city or you're working in Operations out on the plant you've decided to take a chance, to uproot all that you know and give it a try. Maybe you want a better opportunity for your children maybe you just want to travel? Perhaps it's all of that and more.

There's enough interesting people around me to be able to write hundreds of blogs. Who are you? Where did you come from? Why Doha? Which is what I think I might do. I'd love to spend the next few days blogging about the people involved in the festival from the guy driving the jeep to (if I'm very very lucky) either Brigitte or Marian Lacombe.

This afternoon as I sat in the press room clicking away on my keyboard I enjoyed a bit of banter with a couple of cameramen from Al Jazeera. It's times like these I feel a long way from the little travelers. My phone rang and it was a school Mum, she wanted to know should she bring Cheese Ghost's, mini yoghurts or popcorn to the Kindergarten Halloween party. It's a burning issue. The party is on Thursday and we're not sure if we have a craft or an activity planned! Should she decorate pumpkins or do marshmallows on sticks. What are my thoughts? Have I collected the orange plates and forks? I can't help but get the giggles at the absurdity of my two situations.

There's a limit on how much you can reinvent yourself when you have 4 kids, 20 suitcases and a beagle.

Technology and the Tooth Fairy

If you were to conduct a performance review with the tooth fairy at our house, I'm afraid there would be some "issues" to discuss. I'm not sure if she's had problems at home, substance abuse or maybe transport complications but the tooth fairy has been a little off her game. If we were looking at best practice in the Tooth Fairy's performance measurement, she's failed on some key performance indicators.

I'm not the sort of person to cast dispersions on a fairy but after several "no shows" where she simply hasn't arrived (particularly on weekends), I've started to wonder about her commitment to the role. When asked by the little travelers I naturally felt that I should cover (for said fairy) and came up with a few parental gems "oh, I see what's happened here, you had the tooth  BETWEEN the pillows, I'm pretty sure she has to have it under BOTH pillows, it's an occupational health and safety thing". Or "she didn't come again? You know, I seem to remember hearing she's in the Southern Hemisphere on Mondays, don't worry Tuesday's a Northern Hemisphere day she's bound to come tomorrow".

Back in June on the day we were flying out of Doha to Australia, little traveler number 2 lost a tooth, we promptly put it in my bedside table, hopped on a plane and forgot about it. Over the summer there were a couple of mentions of how we would give it to the fairy when we returned. Up until last night it was still in my drawer. Up until last night, when the tooth fairy redeemed herself and is now enjoying accolades of the Santa kind.

Yesterday Little Traveler number 1 lost a tooth at the end of the day, just before bedtime. We went through the usual routine of baths, jim jams, stories and kisses goodnight.  After the chaos, G and I sat talking downstairs enjoying a glass of wine. Little did we know, there was some serious action going on upstairs.

The first discovery was on my pillow, a cryptic note from Little Traveler number 2,

Why only Mum? I'm guessing because only Mum knows about the tooth we left in the drawer, I didn't remember straight away though. Traveler number 2 wanted to make a claim, especially now that she had seen toothless Little Traveler number 1 in the bed next to her writing some serious correspondence to the tooth fairy.

When entering their room we discover 2 little girls fast asleep. Under traveler number 1's pillow is an itouch and a very busy piece of paper that has questions and carefully drawn lines that are waiting for answers. The itouch has a message on the screen "Dear Tooth Fairy, don't forget to fill out the questionnaire!" It appears the Tooth Fairy now has to be proficient in apple technology as well.

The questionnaire had some fairly personal questions. How old are you? What's your favourite meal? Where do you live? What's your outfit made of? I imagine the tooth fairy had to concentrate very hard to make sure her handwriting was perfect and her answers were quantifiable. What the tooth fairy did next though was a true crowd pleaser. She remembered the tooth of the 2nd little traveler in the drawer and with the same pen and paper wrote a little note saying she had found the tooth while visiting.

This morning I opened my eyes to the sounds of giggles. Little travelers were yelling from room to room "look, look". There was action everywhere. As the stories were excitedly relayed to me I tried desperately to open my eyes and focus while reading both notes aloud, astonished and just as excited by the Tooth Fairy's brilliance. The adorable toothless grins nodding and staring back at me.

Congratulations Tooth Fairy, as I listened to the little travelers on the way to school this morning the performance review was impeccable, you had excelled in all KPI's. Your career and reputation saved. Time for a bonus I think! Or at least a new pair of shoes?

Who is Brigitte Lacombe?

Doha doesn't do anything on a small scale. If you build an outdoor theatre you make it a huge marble amphitheater with mind blowing acoustics and have a spectacular backdrop of the ocean.  It leaves you speechless for the first two minutes of laying eyes on it. If you build a soccer stadium you make it the first outdoor solar cooled stadium in the world. If you have a photographic exhibition you get Brigitte Lacombe to come to town.

I don't work for the Doha Film Institute so I can be excused for being a little clueless on this one.

As I've been driving the little travelers to school this week I have driven past hundreds of posters with beautifully taken shots of what appears to be every day people. Little traveler number 1 was the first to notice just how good they are. As we sat at the lights she said "See how you can see that the lady's been laughing, see the tear in her eye". Little traveler number 4 said "she's bootiful". We all agreed. Her head was tossed back, she was mid smile, she had been caught at the perfect moment. Someone who knew about people, about capturing their souls, had taken the shot. Number 4 was right, she was beautiful.

This week over coffee with a few of the DFI team I learnt a little bit about Brigitte Lacombe, she's French so you get to say Breeejeeeet and sound all fancy. She has a sister called Marian, you can call her Mahriooooooohn, don't you just love speaking English with a French accent!

Brigitte has been the official photographer on hundreds of film sets since the 70's. She's worked with Martin Scorsese, Quentin Tarantino, Sam Mendes, Steven Spielberg.....I could keep going but I'm sure you've realized by now that she's photographed just about everyone and anyone and her shots are mesmerizing. Please go and have a look at her website.

It turns out the people in the photographs are all involved in the Arab Film Industry. Like I said, I'm clueless when it comes to film, but I know now. Brigitte and her sister have traveled over 10 countries in the past year (not with 4 kids, 20 suitcases and a beagle though), while Brigitte has been taken the shots, Marion's been making a documentary of the process. The results are true Doha style. Spectacular!

Just another thing to go and see at the Doha Tribecca Film Festival. Check out their website for details.

Buckle up kids, Mummy's going Cross Country

I love living in Doha.

I love the excitement you feel amongst the people here, the visible growth and the constant change. It's a true melting pot. Doha has an energy I've not felt before and the city is growing faster than most of us can keep up with.

There's definitely some repercussions of rapid growth though and in Doha it comes in the form of rubble, cranes and chaos. On arrival you could be fooled in to thinking you'd landed in the worlds largest construction site. It's surprising hard hats aren't being handed out at customs.

The by-product of living in a construction site is TRAFFIC.

Qatar has it's own traffic rules. Initially when I arrived the rules shocked me, I sat in the passengers seat gobsmacked at what I saw. I soon changed, we all do.

My integration to Doha became obvious one morning in excruciating slow moving traffic. Stuck on a busy road taking the little travelers to school, I heard a voice that sounded like mine but with a Michael Schumacher white knuckle determination  "hold on tight kids, Mummy's going cross country".  There were squeals and giggles from the little travelers as we mounted the curb and drove down the embankment. Number 1 between the giggles had a moment of maturity and said "can you get arrested for this?" Up until now, a question she'd never had to ask her mother.

After reading the top 10 worst driving habits, it made me consider my Doha driving habits and the habits of those around me.  Any of these sound familiar?


1. Overtaking in to oncoming traffic
Oh C'mon, there's enough room for everyone?


2. Not indicating
Indicating? I'm sorry, what's indicating? I find if I just start to swerve towards people they realize I'm coming over.


3. Tailgating
Sometimes flashing the lights and beeping the horn just isn't enough.


4. Crossing solid white lines
Lines, what are these lines of which you speak? Maybe they're underneath the rubble or maybe they're under the 10 guys that are standing looking at the rubble.


5. Not knowing which lane you should be in
Oh that's easy, the fastest one.


6. Queue jumping
Why have a 4 wheel drive if you can't mount the curb, stradle the medium strip and gently push that little Asian car out of the way.


7. Not wearing a seatbelt
But the kids use the seatbelt to swing from the back seat in to the front seat,  they love to stand on my lap and have the wind rush through their hair as their little heads protrude out of the sunroof.


8. Driving through amber lights
Well, ahem, now that the fine's about 6000 riyals (2,000US) I reckon we might be working on that.


9. Speeding
It's hard to keep up with the Lamborghini that's behind you beeping it's horn and flashing it lights to move you along.


10. Driving on the phone.
How else am I meant to have a conversation with the guy in the car next to me, check my facebook AND bluetooth my brother in the back seat? 


So, have I missed any? Any "interesting" driving habits you'd like to share? Drop me a line in the comments box.

Salma Valgarma Hayek Jiménez-Pinault - or you can just call her Salma Hayek

The word is out. Salma Hayek-Pinault is coming to Doha.

As you can imagine the team at DFI are incredibly excited and this is big big news for DTFF. There's all sorts of fantastic rumors that Salma will also be at TEDx. I have a feeling there's going to be a lot of sleep deprived people in Doha from the 26th - 30th of this month.

Now, in most blogs/articles,  this would be the part where I would waffle on with my own personal opinions of Salma's work. I'd mention the film credits, the huge highs, the nasty lows, the awards, Ugly Betty, the humanitarianism and then the nitty gritty of her relationships blah blah blah. But really, if you wanted that you wouldn't be here, you'd be on one of those tacky websites that require a shower after a visit.

No, what I thought I'd do is see what Salma and I had in common (you know, for when myself, Robert DeNiro, John Cusack and Salma are off doing the school run, sitting in the bleachers at swimming lessons and pushing the shopping trolley down the isles of the supermarket). I thought I'd find out what we could talk about. 

Lets see, Salma went to boarding school - okay, there you go, so did I. 

Salma abruptly left the boarding school.....hmmm I wonder if she got in a fight with Kylie Zeitz as well? 

Salma is a mother, yes, me to. 

Salma breast fed her children, yes, there we go again, we're like sisters. 

Salma breast fed someone else's child. You rock Salma, if you're holding on to a starving child the best way to make it not starving, is to feed it. I would have done the same myself.

Salma doesn't like snakes, neither do I. Actually Salma really really doesn't like snakes. Salma can do amazing things in high heels when she see's a snake.

I like Salma.

This is exactly what I would do!

Click here to see what happened

Guess who's coming to Doha?!

It's 9 days until the Doha Tribeca Film Festival and I know a secret about who's coming.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that now that John Cusack and I are friends he's decided to drop everything and make a trip over to spend some quality time with the little travelers and the beagle. Can't you just see John and I doing the school run together?

Although, he may consider Qatar, when he sees what's happening in Doha this month, (and by the way John, we have a spare room and I can move the lego set and the dollhouse at a moments notice) but no, that's not who I'm talking about.

So, who let me in on the secret?

It came from the Executive Director of the Doha Film Institute, the incredibly gorgeous Amanda Palmer.  Amanda's energy and drive is completely infectious as is her somewhat Kylie Minogue accent (she's half Aussie, half Brit). I had the chance to meet Amanda, and some of her posse (these girls are impressive) at the Doha Cultural Village this weekend. In the excitement of her latest HUGE actor/producer/director/humanitarian guest confirmation, she let it slip. Then she told me I couldn't tell anyone until at least Tuesday. You could try and bribe me though, I'm completely open to all offers of free food, technology and beagle training.

Naturally the usual Tribeca suspects will be in town, Robert DeNiro (we'll probably become good friends) will be here again, along with some of the participants of the 50 movies shown over the Festival, as I said,  it's going to be big, but as those who live and have visited Doha know, everything in Doha is big. Just take a look at the new outdoor theatre.

It's time to get to Doha. If your thinking of coming along, can you give me a heads up? I'll just need to check with John if he needs the spare room.


P.S. If you'd like to take a guess at who the mystery VIP is, just throw your guess in the comments box and I'll see if I can get some DTFF tickets to you.


 .

Twitter - my dirty little secret

My name's Kirsty................and I'm twitaholic.

It all began innocently on the Australian election day. I was far from home and started trawling the news sites searching for polling results,  I noticed a tweet link to the incredibly talented Aussie political journalist, Annabel Crabb.  I was going to just have a quick look.  I mean, ahem, I have to be honest.....I wasn't a twirgin, I'd been there before, I'd twabbled once or twice, but I was more what you'd call an occasionitter.

Something was different this time though, armed with a "trending topic"  (#ausvotes) on election day, it was a twitsplosion. All of the politweeters were there, chatting in 140 characters or less, it was instant, it was clever and twitty.

Initially I was just a voyeur, occasionally I'd throw in a drive by tweet but mostly I was happy just to twatch.

As the days and weeks went by I gained a couple of followers and slowly I found myself with a whole new group of sweeple, I tweeted them, they tweeted me. They were my tweeps.

Then I became more of an adventuritter. I couldn't just wait patiently at any of my appointments, I was twaiting,  I was twalking and the worst, I was twitterlooing. I found 5 minutes without my phone left me feeling twitterish and out of the twitterloop. I'm embarrassed to admit, I was even doing it when I was stuck in twaffic.

It got worse.

I noticed the blog links. I thought about my own blog, maybe I could "flog MY blog?" The twitophant came out in me. I linked, I flogged and when people "mentioned" me I was in twitterphoria.  I had a bad case of twittereah. CHECK THIS BLOG OUT", I screamed at people. "YOU MIGHT LIKE THIS?" I'd become as desperate as an AFL player in a nightclub at 3am.

I knew I'd hit rock bottom when I turned my attention to the twitterati. I didn't take the obvious route, not Ashton Kucher, Stephen Fry or Lance Armstrong......noooooo after a couple of glasses of wine I tweeted or dweeted (drunk tweeted) John Cusack?!  He didn't tweet back. I'm sure you're as shocked as I am to discover a middle aged bachelor wasn't ALL over a blog about 4 kids, 20 suitcases and a beagle.

Initially I felt a little tweetsulted, then it grew to full blown twitterage but by the morning I was just feeling tweepish and was seriously contemplating a twittectomy. I thought about qwitting but knew I couldn't go cold twurkey.

So I've decided to develop my own 12 step program. I'd love your help. Please feel free to add some steps.....

Step 1.  Unfollow John Cusack!

For Sophie and Belle

I was 5 months pregnant when we moved to Jakarta. It was January 2000 and there were still remnants of burnt out buildings from the 1998 riots. When you met people it came up in the conversation early, they wanted to know how long you'd been around. Were you living here in the riots? Everyone had their own evacuation story, where they were, how it played out, whether they evacuated from the airport or met in a "safe" place. Friends described streets lined with army tanks and desperate people handing over wads of cash at the airport trying to get themselves or their families out of the country.

Over time the buildings were restored,  changes in government were made, people started to feel safe that it wouldn't happen again. We didn't really consider terrorist attacks. We had a couple of bomb scares at G's office and although we were cautious, for the most part we carried on a normal life.

As my tummy expanded we started to think about the logistics of having our first baby. We'd joined an ante natal group where we sat and nervously giggled with a group of about 20 others. It was the first baby for all of us. We watched those awful 70's birthing movies, passed baby dolls around and practiced our breathing. I imagine it was like ante natal class anywhere in the world.

Naturally, we became friends.  We met for coffee or lunch, a few of the blokes met up for a drink. Being expats we were conscious of not having our families around.

We delivered our babies within a 2 month window of each other. Some couples went off to Singapore,  others to Malaysia, some to Australia. It's different now, but back then no one was brave enough to give birth in Indonesia, we'd checked out the hospitals, discussed medical facilities, blood screening, what if something went wrong? It was the first baby for most of us.

When we returned, we regrouped.  We compared war stories, labour, episiotomies, emergency c-sections. Out of the 20 there was only one couple choosing the stay at home Dad option. They were both teachers at the school. Jamie was a Kiwi, Lissie an American. Jamie was a PE teacher, he was around my age, he looked like an athlete, he was good looking.

When we formed a baby group Jamie decided to give it a skip. I'm not sure if it was the idea of discussing cracked nipples and stitches that didn't float his boat or perhaps it was just the horror of a "coffee morning" with a bunch of postpartum women.

I ran in to Jamie often over the next year. Initially it was at the makeshift baby clinic that was held in an English woman's house. We'd be there with our baby books, recording weights and feeding patterns. As the babies went from newborns to healthy chubby babies the visits spread out and eventually ended. Often we'd run in to each other at the supermarket,  Sophie would be in one those backpacks on his shoulders. Jamie handled her like a guy, tossed her over his shoulder like a football and wore her like a guernsey, they were so comfortable together, they were very much a couple.

I'm guessing in Jamie's sporting career he was a pretty competitive guy. He always wanted to compare notes. What was my little traveler eating? Could she lift her cup by herself yet? Sophie could. Could she crawl? Sophie could. Could she balance a plate on her head while unicycling......you get the picture.

He was a very proud father.

Within a couple of years most of us were pregnant again. G and I moved to Malaysia and said our goodbyes. We heard through the group they had another little girl in 2002, coincidentally she shared the same name as our 2nd little traveller, Annabelle.

On October 12th, 2002 Lissie and Jamie were in Bali for the Annual 10's Rugby tour. Expats from all over the world were there. When the story was relayed we were told there had been 2 taxi's traveling together, Jamie was in the first. When the bomb went off the occupants of the second taxi watched in  horror as  Jamie's taxi "just disappeared". Lissie and the girls were thankfully not in the taxi, Sophie was 2, Annabelle a tiny baby.

Over the years,  I've thought of Sophie and Annabelle often. I've thought about how much time they spent with their Dad, how intense he was about every part of their lives and how important they were to him.  I've heard through friends that they're safe and happy and back in the States with their Mum.

I guess this is my way of letting you know girls, that for all of us who were watching from the side lines, it was very obvious that you were everything to your father. Although your time together was short you were very very loved.

Just you wait until you have children

I'm guessing I was about 8 when I recorded one of my worst "just you wait until you have children" Karma violations. I was sitting on my mothers bed, watching her change from her office clothes in to her now I'm going to clean the house, hang out the washing and cook you all dinner clothes.

In a chirpy, clueless voice I enquired with genuine interest "Who do you think is fatter, you or Aunty Margaret?"

As the air was sucked out of the room, I started to sense I'd said something wrong, very VERY wrong.  In the world of just you wait until you have children Karma legislation, I'd just recorded one of my heaviest crimes, for every action there was a reaction. 

It can be hard to walk with dignity and grace through a shopping mall when your 4 year old has a hand planted on each of your bum cheeks and is refusing to let go. It can be even harder when he is making the sound of a big bass drum while each bum cheek moves up and down in his hands "BOOM, BOOSH, BOOM, BOOSH.....Mummy your big bottom is wobbling" he announces to our fellow shoppers. Just you wait until you have children.

I've been asked why my eyeballs have red squiggles,  my arms are jiggling, what the bump on my nose is and my personal favourite if I'm having a baby. No, no I'm not, but by the way, just you wait until you have children.

My music choices are now questioned, little travelers giggle when I dance, my dress sense is discussed in a group forum and I am often woken up just to be reminded I have bad breath and mascara "panda eyes". Thanks for that guys,  just you wait until you have children.

As I was brushing the hair of little traveler number 2 yesterday she looked back at me through the reflection of the mirror in front of us and said "lots of people tell me I look like you", I braced myself for the next horrifying personal observation when she continued "I like it when they say that, it makes me feel warm and happy".

Okay, so thankfully, sometimes Karma works both ways.

Best Comedy Series of all time

Last week I was "tagged", not in a punch you in the arm and run away kind of tag but in the blogging kind of way. The very talented Heather from Note from Lapland had commented on London City Mum's post on the best comedy series ever.

Then it was on.

All sorts of bloggers started to get involved, Kiwi's living in London, a Brit living in Finland and a Scottish woman living in ..........Scotland. I'll list them all at the end of the blog so you can check out their fabulous blogs and their various opinions.

I feel completely ill informed to comment on this topic, but that's never stopped me before so I'll just pour myself another glass of bubbles and get the ball rolling.

Growing up in rural Australia meant I was limited to the ABC (Australian Broadcasting Commission), which is kind of like the BBC except the people are tanned, happy and have better teeth. The ABC provided the best of British humour. I never questioned that EVERYTHING was British but I guess I never questioned that I was singing God Save the Queen at School Assembly either.

We stuffed ourselves on a TV diet of The Good Life, George and Mildred, The Two Ronnies, Steptoe and Son, Yes Minister and the real corker, Robins Nest! Remember that? I would get shuttled off to bed as The Dave Allen Show began but I'd always quietly sneak down to the kitchen and lean against the refrigerator to see Dave with his Scotch in one hand and cigar in the other.  "Is that you out there Kirsty?" "Just grabbing a glass of milk Mum".

I have to agree with A modern military mother  on her strong regard for Absolutely Fabulous, remember Patsy with the gazillion nicotene patches all over her body after the non smoking cab ride? Brilliant television.

I'm also a big fan of The Office and yes Only Fools and Horses was great BUT OH MY GOD YOU BRITS BLOODY LOVE IT DON'T YOU?!

It would be completely un Ostraylian if I didn't agree that Kath and Kim was thigh slapping pass the Cardonay funny, but it was a little lost in translation.

Which brings me to the Best Comedy Series of all time. It's controversial. Very controversial. You see, it's fairly new, it's only in its second series BUT the worst thing........ it's American.

I know!

I think it's wet your pants hysterical.

The winner for me.

MODERN FAMILY.

Check out these blogs for their TV offerings.


Bloggertropolis

Soft Thistle

Very Bored In Catalunya

Make mine a milo

I was speaking with a fellow Aussie today about football. She hates it. What had her fuming was the latest story regarding another alleged sexual assault. I didn't know the full details of the story but it was one I'd heard before, girls at a footballers house in the early hours of the morning. Lots of drinking,  claims being made. This is not the first case this year.

Disliking football wasn't an option in the house I grew up in. My father boarders on fanatical when it comes to footy. Growing up I watched him head off to the local games, listening to the ones he couldn't catch on the radio and watching what he could on TV. He didn't seem to care that he wasn't "blessed" with a son, if his daughters couldn't play the game we were definitely going to understand it. 

My sister and I realized early on that we just couldn't compete with football. We both understood that until they changed the rules of netball and one of us could climb up the back of our opponent and kick from outside 50, as much as he loved us, he wasn't going to make it to a lot our games. 

His love of the game definitely rubbed off on me and I found each week after netball I would head to the footy to go and meet my father. When I think of my favourite childhood memories, footy features prominently.

All the men would stand in front of the clubrooms, partly because of it's viewing capacity but mostly because of its proximity to the bar.  There was no social hierarchy, just a bunch of guys watching the game. In a chorus they'd scream "HOLDIN THA BAAAAAAAWL" and every now and then Mr Ceracci would scream out in his strong Italian/Australian accent "you bloody donkey" at the umpire and we'd all laugh.

"Go and grab us a Cherry Ripe will ya love?" my Dad would say as he gave me a wink. As I stood in line at the canteen I'd watch and listen to the footballers wives and mums as they served out the pies and pea and ham soup. I knew which group I wanted to be in. Definitely with the blokes.

As the years went on my relationship with football went through different phases. I went off to boarding school but every weekend that I made it "home" I was back at the footy with Dad. After I started working in the city I would often drive home on weekends and head to a game. We'd drink beers at half time, talk about who was doing well, who should be dropped. We'd gossip about the coach, laugh about the blunders. We'd drown our sorrows after a loss and celebrate the wins. Not once did my father suggest that I didn't belong there. 

With my peers it wasn't quite the same. In my early twenties I shared a house with a couple of University boys, one the captain, the other the coach of one of the University teams. The house was always heaving with people. All week there was a lot of "game" talk and Saturdays consisted of the game followed by a club meeting in the back room of a local pub.  I went a couple of times but it didn't feel right. In a room full of educated boys there was a very tribal feeling, rituals that have gone on for years, sculling competitions, songs, lots of fun for the boys but a weird place to be if you didn't have a willy. It was all  a little neanderthal. I left them to it. 

Don't get me wrong. I was very fond of sculling competitions. After years of training I could easily down 10 beers with the boys, move on to the spirits and throw in a few slammers. One of my biggest problems was or maybe still is that I don't know when to go home. I've been to a lot parties that have continued on long after the pub doors closed. This is why I probably fit into that group of women that Peter "Spida" Everett has mentioned this morning. For those unaware, Peter Everett was a decent footballer in his time and because of the way the media works now he has a regular television spot. Here's his quote or "tweet" this morning regarding 2 more alleged sexual assault cases:

 "Girls!! When will you learn! At 3am when you are blind drunk and you decide to go home with a guy ITS NOT FOR A CUP OF MILO!

As a happily married mother of 4 my milo drinking days are over but I can't help think back to the days when they were in full force. Peter "Spida" Everett is right,  I never went for a glass of milo. Most of the time I went for more drinks and more fun BUT if I wanted to have a milo I could and if I didn't want a milo I didn't. If I realized in the cold hard light of your badly furnished mobile home "Spida" that you are a neanderthal idiot I could decide to go home, to call it a night, because that's my choice.

As a woman who loves her footy. Perhaps a bit of respect?

P.S. My apologies to those who are not in Australia as I imagine this post is a little boring. If you want a good giggle at some strong Aussie accents you can listen to Peter "Spida" Everett chat with "Hughesy and Kate" here.

Where was I born?

We were in Malta. We'd rented an apartment with a spectacular view of the Mediterranean in a town called Sliema. The Mediterranean part was great. The leaky pipes, moldy bathroom and dodgy elevator (we were on the 6th floor) was not so great. I didn't care though, we weren't in Libya anymore and we'd made it. Safe.

We'd flown in the morning before, I was about 3 years pregnant. I imagine the staff at Air Malta took one look at me and allowed for some serious extra baggage. They may have even fired up an extra engine.

Roughly 8 months before, I'd woken up in our house in Libya with an unsettling and familiar feeling of nausea.  Like most parents the choice to wake up wasn't my own. The cries of our second little traveler who was a few months old at the time, were making a crescendo, louder and louder, my time was up. As I sat propped up in bed breast-feeding, cushions strategically placed, the nausea popped by to say hello again. Was it something I ate? I felt like this yesterday.

Then it all clicked.

I found G in the kitchen and as we ate our breakfast I casually slotted in the familiar sentence we've all used  "do you know how to say pregnancy test in Arabic"?

Over the next couple of days we made our way through 8 positive pregnancy tests. In the words of  Tony Blair we were "shocked but delighted". I wondered if the Blairs were like friends of ours who were also a little shocked with their news, in the words of the husband "it's not bloody fair, I can't even remember having sex?" His wife replied "I think we both may have been asleep".

So here we were in Malta. It was time to have a baby. I'm sure G's parents hadn't considered when they had their own children that they would find themselves in Malta waiting for their 3rd Grandchild to be born. We couldn't have survived without them.

In my elephantiasis state we walked along the cobbled streets and up the hill to the hospital . We held hands, hormones and the situation struck me for a moment. The guilt for the other little travelers asleep in their beds, nerves about being in another country, sadness at not having my parents around.  G tried to make me laugh.  "Now that Mum and Dad have got the kids, do you want to book in to a hotel"?

The pace increased at the hospital, we went through the usual drill of forms and conversations with medico's. We sat grinning at each other. It was the same every time, no wonder we kept having babies? Adrenaline was zipping through my veins. Was it a boy or girl? What colour was it's hair, it's eye's? I thought about my parents back in my home town, waiting for the call. I tried not to cry.

In the delivery room I joked with my cheeky Anesthetist and G got the camera ready, this was his 3rd gig in 3 years, he was thinking of turning professional.

And then our world changed. Our family changed. Our 3rd little traveler arrived.

 "What's his name?" they asked
 "It's Fred" we both beamed in unison.
 "Oh...hmmm" said  Dr Muscat (our  Obstetrician who had once been a politician) "You know that's the current Prime Ministers name, right?" He wasn't a fan. "Are you sure?"
 "Yes, it's my Dads name" I said with a little tear in my eye "and my Grandfathers".
"Ahhh, well you are excused".  "Welcome to Malta little Fred" he said.

Happy Birthday my little man.

Black Hawk down

"America's worst mother" Lenore Skenazy  was in Australia this week and as a result is all over the Australian press.   Lenore created a furore in America when she let her 9 year travel home on the subway on his own. Kerry OBrien interviewed Lenore here if you're interested.

The topic of "Helicopter Parenting" has been around for a long long time, it's a fabulous catch phase and perfectly describes a parents want or need to hover over their child's every move. My other favourite is the "lawnmower parent" who mows down and clears all obstacles in their child's life.

In the world of Human Resources and Recruitment we talk about helicopter parenting at its' next stage. Forget about the effect of the 8 and 9 year old who can no longer hop on a seesaw without a helmet and knee pads, but think about the 19 and 20 year old whose parents lunch with them at university while going through lecture and tutorial notes. I remember having dinner with friends a few years ago, their eldest was in his first year at University. I commented on the size of the book in the kitchen and was told it was part of his required reading.  The mother said "oh, that's my copy" she shook her head and sighed in despair "it's heavy reading". Her son went on to explain that it was going to be a hard subject (English Lit) as his friends mum was an English teacher and she had written his paper and only managed a C. She lodged a formal complaint.

A couple of years ago, when we were living in Canada I managed a small team of recruiters for an International firm. We interviewed a lot of Gen Y's for both internal and external positions.  It was right at the height of the energy boom and we were desperate for good candidates, all over the world we talked about the employment crisis and the candidate shortage.  I attended every professional seminar and discussion possible on how we were going to attract and keep our Gen Y's. As a Gen X who hit the workforce in the late 80's where the employment crisis was that there was no employment,  it was very hard to swallow. As I spoke to Gen Y about them, them and them and what they hoped for, their dreams and what they needed I noticed every now and then a "we" would pop up in conversation. At a water cooler you might hear  "we have a place by the lake" or  "we usually holiday in Florida once a year". They were talking about their parents.

At the time, I too was a parent, I had 4 children who were aged 6 and below and naturally I knew everything there was too know about parenting teenagers and young adults. I wondered how these tragic parents had lost their way. As my children have grown older, it has all become clear.

On the drive home from school this week I was informed that I had math homework. The math teacher had designed this neat little game of tic tac toe that resulted in me having to sit and do long division problems with my child eg. she did one, i did one, until someone won the game. What a great idea....if you don't have a tired and cranky 4 year old and two other children circling like sharks with their own scholastic demands. What's for dinner? What dinner? I'm too busy doing my homework?!

This is not unusual. There is the writing project in Grade 1 where I write on one side of the page and my second little traveler writes on the other. There's the nightly math game combined with the 30 minutes minutes of reading, oh and parent, don't forget to write down the tools you used to become a better reader ?! My current favourite is the after school program for parents offering "strategies" on HOW to do your child's math homework (the class is full).

The demands at school are constant. Come along to the spelling bee, watch your child's poetry reading, watch your child speak another language, watch your child discover South America, Aboriginal Art and French cooking and don't whatever you do forget to bring the video recorder. They are not so much invitations but instructions, the note that comes home reads "Parents are required to meet in the multi-function room at 8.10"....hmmmm I guess I'll be taking some time off work or perhaps just add another dollar to the therapy jar. As each year passes our propellors get stronger and more developed until we're so much a part of the school we have our own landing pads in the car park.

As parents we have the common sense to know how ridiculous the involvement is, believe me, I'd do anything to guide this black hawk down.