Which Mum are you?

Arrive at any school concert and you can pick the stereotypical Mums from the crowd. There's the heavily involved school Mum, showing people where to sit or helping out behind the scenes. There's gym Mum, dressed in lycra, ready to recite her latest half marathon stats. Working Mum arrives just in time, Blackberry in one hand, guilt in the other. Stay at home and work from home Mum are comfortably dressed, they have their own guilt, they're trying not to make eye contact with heavily involved school Mum. As different as they all appear, they all share a common goal, trying to find the balance between happy child and happy mother. Making choices every day and hoping they're the best ones.

When I grew up, my Mother took on several roles. She was working Mum, studying Mum, helping at school Mum and full time house work Mum. Where was my Dad? He was there, we loved him, he was funny, successful at work and golfing on the weekends. He had a great way of finding the balance, a secret weapon, something many working women of that generation wished they had. A wife.

I can't remember a time where my mother didn't work. It wasn't so much about being 'fulfilled' it was more about paying the mortgage. Even though she's a qualified Accountant now, I've heard the stories of her working in the fruit canning factory, the TAB, the High School office. My parents will talk about the early days when they had nothing, how Mum worked nightshift in a factory that she describes as "what I imagine hell to look like". Her eyes still twinkle when she talks of arriving home with her first pay cheque after a week of nightshift, how she woke up my Dad and threw the money in the air and it landed all around them while they both giggled.

I was incredibly proud of her as a child, I liked that she went to work, and why wouldn't have I? It didn't seem to really impact on my life that much.

She was always there, more than others, she coached the netball team, she umpired on weekends, she cut up the oranges, drove me to piano lessons, she was a timekeeper at swimming, she bought the ballet shoes, washed the basketball tops, she drove to the Gymnastics competitions. Did I mention she studied? When the man from ABC radio announced she'd received the best results in the region she was hanging up the washing "they said your name, they said your name!" I screamed as I ran outside. I can still see her half way through the washing basket, peg in her mouth "really?" she said.

She was superwoman. Or so it appeared.

As a young woman I bragged about my mother, I told friends about how hard she worked, how well she did in her study and how she'd managed to always be there for me throughout it all. I thought if I was ever a Mum, I'd set the same example.

I had no idea.

I had two small children and was pregnant with my third when I started to believe I was never going to get back to the office again. This was mainly because I hadn't managed to put deodorant on for weeks and I could barely string three words together, this was due to a mixture of baby brain, constant interruptions that usually involved poo and sleep deprivation.

We were living in Libya and I'd been to book group the night before. We'd discussed the story of working mother Kate Reddy in "I don't know how she does it" by Allison Pearson, it had stirred feelings in me that I didn't know I had. I was angry. I was angry that she found it all so exhausting, that she felt her work life was affecting her children. I started to think of my mother, and decided to give her a call. She'd reassure me, she'd agree that it was rubbish.

As I prattled on to my mother over the phone about how pathetic this woman was and how annoyed I was by her whining, I started up with my usual spiel, "I mean, you worked full time and I never felt like I was missing out"......there was a brief silence and then my mother said something that I'd never heard her say before "you may not have felt like you missed out darling, but I did".

I was speechless.

She continued "it might have been nice to have taken a breath, to have more time, to enjoy it a little bit more, you're all gone now and I'm still at work". I knew what she meant about taking a breath. It was always a rush, her car would scream in to the driveway as we reloaded and made our way to our next destination. Grocery shopping was done after work, washing was hung at 6 a.m., she stood ironing late on a Sunday night. There were no girls weekends away, no sneaky manicures, no discussions about work/life balance. What was that? I'm not sure if work/life balance had been invented at that stage.

I guess what she was saying was that I was lucky I didn't have to rush. There was time to take a breath. When I returned to full time work a few years later I understood exactly what she meant.

Arrive at any School concert and you can pick the stereotypical Mums from the crowd. Some get to choose their options, some have no choice, it's likely they will all doubt and question their decisions at some point in time. As the concert begins you will see a common theme, they will all look for their child, they will all believe their child is the star and more than likely that child will look back and feel exactly the same about them. I definitely felt that way about my Mum. I knew mine was the best.

So which Mum are you? I'm guessing you're the best one you can be.

What are you packing?

I was standing in the basement of our new Canadian home surrounded by boxes. We were down to the left over boxes, the ones without an obvious home, glasses/cutlery went in the kitchen, sheets/blankets in the linen press, but these were the boxes that had missed a label. It was all the "stuff" that came from the back of the cupboards in our last home in Libya.

My companion for the day was Ed, he was a man of few words and even fewer teeth, part of a team that had been contracted by the International moving firm we'd spoken to seven months before in Libya. Ed looked a little different than the picture of the male model dressed in uniform on the front of the company brochure. Apart from being toothless, he smelt like he'd bathed in Eau de Burbon the evening before. It was oozing from his skin, even his butt crack which was very visible from his low slung pants.  I'm guessing Ed was around sixty, he had a penchant for women in stilettos with big bum cheeks, they were his preferred choice of tattoo.

Ed's favourite job, in between smoke breaks, was to open up a box and give me a running commentary as he filtered through through the contents. He'd then leave it all there in the box and make his way to next one. "Looks like this ones just got bathroom shit in it". Useful, thanks Ed. As he slid the knife through the latest strip of masking tape and lifted the flaps of the box, I caught sight of Ed's reaction. Uh oh. It all came flooding back, I remembered what was in there.  As I clambered my way over to Ed desperately trying to remove the evidence, I realized it was too late. There they were. Thirty boxes of unopened condoms. It wasn't so much the contents, it was the overwhelming quantity.

Silence, awkward, uncomfortable silence.

A string of excuses began pouring out of my mouth and my cheeks burned as I desperately tried to make  2,000 condoms disappear. I started to stammer my way through a really poor explanation "Expats sometimes have to buy in bulk, you never know when you're going to find something again, I just grabbed them while I could". Ed looked over at the three little travelers, at that stage, all under the age of four and turned back to the condoms "they obviously didn't come with instructions" he said.

If you've ever lived in a country where supplies are sporadic, you've more than likely, participated in bulk purchases. Even in Qatar, a country that has Marks and Spencer, Pumpkin Patch and Virgin Megastore, we are currently experiencing the great tinned tomato famine. In a world that's gone mad, I made the euphoric discovery of Barbeque Shapes and Tim Tams only to then realize there wasn't a diced or peeled tomato in a 10 mile radius of my house.

This of course will all change dramatically next week. Next week I will walk in to the supermarket and find an entire aisle dedicated to tinned tomatoes. They will take up all three shelves, it will be then, that I'll realize that they're in the space where the baked beans used to be. I'll silently curse myself for not being prepared for the ensuing great baked bean famine.

To understand the shopping psyche of an expat you have to understand extremes. When not buying in bulk you're rationing out supplies. The food shopping that was made on the last trip home must be appreciated until the next trip. In a time of need a Freddo Frog may be divided between four, if spread thinly, Grandma's home-made jam will last for months, "everyone can have 4 Twistees each if you don't fight at the dentist".

Why do we do it to ourselves? Why can't we just find a substitute and move on. Is it really about the food?

Does a piece of toast with Vegemite transport you to the kitchen table of your youth? Does the smell of Branston pickle make you think of sandwiches at your first job? Is that toothpaste really the best or does your toothbrush not feel like your toothbrush without it.

Sometimes in an unfamiliar world, that one piece of familiarity can be what gets you through the day.

Often if you ask an expat about the items they travel with, the answer is more about the tradition and the experience. It's not just the warm milo, its the warm milo we always had after netball practice. It's the road trip with the girlfriend where we took a bite out of every Clinker so she could have the green ones and I could have the pink. It's the Tootsie Roll that was bought if you were good while Mum did the shopping. There's a feeling that comes with the smell, taste, wrapping and even packaging.

When a fellow expat asks "what are they" you are then permitted to indulge in a 5 minute conversation on what a Tim Tam means to you, you'll teach a friend from Mumbai how to do the Tim Tam Slam. When you hand over the bottle of wine at the dinner party you can add "the winery is just near my house, my parents went there for lunch with my sister last week" and later, when everyone's talking and you're laughing at stories, you may catch a glimpse of the label, and in the back of your mind you can picture them all together.

Sometimes it has nothing to do with the food.

How do you make an Aussie?

Ask any expat how they keep ties with their home country and the answers will usually be similar. Some make a concerted effort to travel "home" regularly, some Skype with family and friends, maybe they keep themselves updated with Facebook or perhaps they have that regular ET moment each week, where they, 'phone home'.

If you're an expat parent, there's usually a conscious effort to make sure your child understands where they are from. An Australian expat toddler may be made to endure endless Wiggles, Play School and High Five DVD's while wearing their "someone in Noosa loves me" t-shirt. An American toddler will pledge allegiance to the flag, a Canadian will be adorned in Maple Leafs while wearing skates, an Indian or Pakistani child may own a cricket bat. A Brit will know that it is always Football and never Soccer.

When the Little Travelers speak I constantly correct them if an "un-Australian" term is used. "They are not cookies they're biscuits, it's not Trash, its Rubbish, it's Jelly not Jello" these were regular conversations when we were living in North America. Why do we bother? Well, apart from the fact that an Australian fairy dies every time a child with an Australian passport declares they don't like Vegemite or Tim Tams there's also the snicker that inevitably appears when you're on your visit home. The snicker that comes just before someone decides to take the mickey out of the way your child speaks.

After spending time with Granny on the last trip home, the Little Travelers asked if we could purchase the Australian television series "Packed to the Rafters". For all of the above reasons I decided it was a fantastic idea, a chance for us all to sit and have a bit of Aussie Culcha. Lined up on the couch, we began to watch Episode One. G and I grinned as we listened to the Aussie accents, we sighed as the camera panned over Sydney, then things became a little complicated.

I didn't have a problem coming up with an excuse for why Dave Rafter swallowed 4 or 5 Viagra before his 25th wedding anniversary dinner, (he had a headache), but when he made the trip to the ER and the nurse explained that "she was going to have to drain some of the blood from his erect penis" it was G who jumped up and started running towards the television exclaiming "turn it off, push stop, where's the remote, where's the remote!" We decided maybe they weren't quite ready.

This is how we entered the world of  McLeods Daughters.

McLeods Daughters is quite dated (the jeans are very high in series 1 and 2) but it has been perfect for our 10 and 8 year old daughters, the boys who are 7 and 4 could take it or leave it (it's dependent on the food provided during viewing). So far, the Mcleod women have shared some great messages, our children have seen strong Aussie chicks running a property, riding horses, changing tyres, fixing tractors, all the stuff we country *cough* girls do. That noise you just heard was my Father laughing hysterically.

There's been a few plot lines that have provided the perfect opportunity for discussion, things like pregnancy, alcholism and extra marital affairs but nothing I would consider inappropriate. Which is why today's conversation on the way home from school came as a bit of a surprise.

"I'm going to ask you a question Mummy, and I'd like you to be honest with me" said the Second Little Traveler. They'd been celebrating St Patricks Day at school, I was expecting a Leprechaun question, you know like 'is there really a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow' type question. Instead I got this.

"Were you pregnant when you married Daddy", my answer was no, because I wasn't, as I started to explain that there would have been absolutely nothing wrong with me being pregnant before we were....she cut in with "I just wanted to make sure that Daddy was our Father, because if he's not you should probably let us know".  Thank you Clare McLeod!

We ran through the conversation again, I stuck to the details, not pregnant, married Daddy, First Little Traveler came 18 months later. You all look like Dad, definitely no question that all of you belong to your Father. Just look at your mutant long arms, that's Dad. Right. Okay. Everyone got their seat belts on? What would everyone like for dinner?

As we made our way a little further down the road the Second Little Traveler continued. She wanted to once again confirm that a "special cuddle' was required to make a baby, she also just wanted to re-confirm the logistics of the "special cuddle". She knew the answers to her questions but this was just the lead in. While the First Little Traveler winced and made comments like "I think I might vomit" The Third Little Traveler let us all know that the "special cuddle" didn't really make any sense "Why didn't they make it easier? Why don't we just put our noses together and shoot boogers in to each other noses? No need to lie down".

After the giggles had subsided the real questions came "Don't you have to be careful you don't do it accidently? Have you done it when you're asleep? Like, have you ever woken up, well, you know,  oopsy daisy?"

Blunt, nosey, snot jokes and to the point. I think we're doing a pretty good job of raising them as Australians.




Ever had some explaining to do? How important is patriotism in your house?

How to be alone

When I was a child I wasn't a big fan of being alone. It wasn't that I didn't spend any time alone, with two working parents and a sister who was six years older, there were many pockets of alone time. I remember quite a bit of quality time with the dog. Together we came up with new and exciting games like I'll run around and around the house and you can try and catch me, unfortunately she was easily distracted and a passing car could change the game dramatically. I also played lets go through Mum and Dads drawers and lets take a good look at the biscuit tin, but most of the time I'd just hop on my bike or walk over to a friends house.

As a teen and later as a young adult being alone, to me, signified being friendless and lonely. I would have never considered grabbing a coffee, going to a movie or hitting the dance floor on my own. All events required friends, as many as I could find. I loved to be surrounded by noise, preferably people talking over the top of each other with sporadic bursts of uncontrollable laughter.

Heaven forbid, if I found myself stuck at home for any part of the weekend "I'm bored" I'd say to my mother, "only unintelligent people get bored" was her standard reply.

I finally understood the joy of being alone after having children. Those stolen moments of peace. I now truly appreciate the phrase 'time to gather my thoughts'. If G is traveling or the schedule looks like a bus timetable, I find it often takes me an extra two minutes to get out of the car after everyone else. Stolen moments of alone.

I've watched the clip below so many times I've lost count. I love the sentiment. "Resist the urge to hang out with your cell phone. Lonely is a freedom that breathes easy and weightless".

I'm not sure why it took me being completely maxed out on human contact to finally enjoy my own company but I'm glad it eventually happened. I think I have FINALLY learnt how to be alone.

What about you? How do you feel about being alone?

The Family Unit

The Third Little Traveler is learning units in Math. In the middle of explaining that units come in singles, then tens and hundreds, he stopped with a question. What's a family unit? Why do they call it that? How can all those people be just one unit?

I had no idea, so my answer had nothing to do with math and a lot to do with sentiment. Together, we stand as one, if one of us is missing, it doesn't feel right, everything loses its balance. If one of us is missing, there's an empty chair at the dinner table, a table setting gets accidently placed, there's an extra chicken leg on the bbq and at the end of the night, an empty bed and a kiss thats been missed. "I need more than just one chicken leg for dinner" he said.

The third little traveler began his life in a state of perpetual motion. Living in temporary accommodation for the first few months of his life, he'd managed to stamp his passport with Malta, Libya, The UAE, Australia and Canada by the time he was five months old. When he wasn't on a plane, he was on wheels, he spent the first few years of his life on the run from his older sister, she was 14 months old when he was born and had a penchant for tossing things towards his head at close range. Initially we kept him up high and on wheels, once he learnt to walk, he was running, usually from her.

It's hardly surprising that this is the child that I find hardest to track down. At age seven, he's a child who wakes and exits the bed at the speed of a guided missile, minutes later he's dressed, fed and on the street. There's no time to wait, places to go, people too see. Most of the time this is fine, but there's been a few occasions where as a parent, its been slightly disturbing, and to be honest, a little embarrassing if you're trying to fool everyone that you're at the top of your parenting game.

High on the list of how are we going to explain this to the child authorities, was the morning he left the house without us having any idea. He was five. As we sat at the breakfast table in Houston one Saturday morning, he shook his head after being offered eggs on toast "I've already eaten thanks". After we realized he was serious he explained that he'd had breakfast next door. As you can imagine the neighbours were positively delighted when he rang the door bell at around six a.m. It turns out he'd enjoyed a meal, a chat, a quick game on their Xbox and returned home before any of us had even got out of bed.

In Qatar, our compound life has provided all of the Little Travelers with a play date utopia. A perpetual door knock without the collection tin, house to house, there's always someone around to ride a bike, kick a ball or swing on a swing. Naturally there are rules, you don't leave the house until after 9 a.m. on a weekend, you don't go inside a house where we don't know the parents, you come home for meals and when the street lights come on, its time to come home for the day. The other steadfast rule in our house,  no sleepovers until your six years old.

Not being a big fan of the sleepover, I've managed to hold off with the third little traveler until this weekend. Late on Friday afternoon he and his buddy entered the house like a whirlwind, both of them talking over the top of each other "Nate's Mum said we could, please please please" I looked at those big blue eyes, he was desperate, I tried to convince him otherwise.  I tried luring him with the dinner he was going to miss, it didn't work. I reminded him it was American Idol night, still nothing. "Are you sure?" I said. "Please Mum" he begged. He was going to have his very first sleep over.

A few moments later he was half way out the door. In his backpack he'd packed,  pyjamas, a drink bottle, toothbrush, change of clothes and a piece of cheese. As he hit his stride I heard "hang on Nate, I forgot something" he came running towards me with a big smile and planted a kiss on my cheek, "love you Mum" and then he was gone. I know its pathetic, but yes, there may have been a tear in the corner of my eye.

As we sat in our usual spots at dinner we all said the same thing "its not the same", we wondered how he was, what he was doing, what he was eating, did they watch American Idol? As we moved to the couch we all took our places. The dynamics were different, it was quieter, it was like we were still in the play but one of the main characters hadn't made it on to the stage. We were having to improvise. Then the phone rang, it was Nate's Mum "Is this his first sleep over?" he was coming home.

It wasn't just me, we were all excited. With grins from ear to ear we raced to the front door, from a distance I could see him making his way down the street on his little orange bike, legs peddling as fast as they could, we waved and clapped as he got closer. As I leant down to kiss his cheek I could taste the salt from his tears "I missed you" he said. The other little travelers gathered around him, someone put his bike away, someone else took his backpack (and quickly checked for hidden treats) and we all made our way back to the couch.

I know it can't stay like this. Each year it will alter slightly. Children grow up, they go on camps, have nights with other families, they develop independence. I also know though, that this feeling of mine will never go away.

When I sit with friends who have adult children, I listen to them talking of the "next visit". They plan with excitement when they will all be together again. Graduations, birthday dinners, anniversaries, maybe a holiday away if they're lucky. Their eyes light up as they run through the details, in the same way mine did when that little orange bike made its way back home.

There's a reason its called the family unit. Together you stand as one. It doesn't feel the same, if one of you is missing.

What would you do for a drink?

As I sipped on my Gin and Tonic this evening, I thought back to what we went through to gain our Alcohol Permits when we first arrived. 







"I've been told it's probably best we don't take the little travelers", said G. He'd been given the heads up from those who had already been through the process. He was talking about our appointment for a medical. 


To obtain a residents permit you have to have a government medical. Resident's Permits are required for an alcohol permit. You need an alcohol permit to buy alcohol. I needed a Resident's Permit.

Our adventure started when we were collected by bus at 9 in the morning. Originally there were about 5 of us on the bus, we smiled, made polite conversation, nothing unusual. Over the next hour things got a little more interesting, we stopped four or five more times. We watched in dismay as forty people (men, women and children) loaded on to our twenty seater bus. 

On arrival, we unload cattle style from the bus and are reunited with our passports, we haven't seen them since we handed them over to Mr Talib on our first day in Doha. G was then sent to the men's section while I was directed to the women's. As I lined up behind the masses I suddenly felt very tall, very pale and very much a fish out of water. By perusing the passports in the queue I can see most of the women are from either the Philippines, Malaysia, Indonesia and India. We are all standing with our passports in hand, looking a little nervous, none of us knowing exactly what we are meant to be doing. Some of us have an extra passport or two, they belong to our children. I win the prize, with four, I have the most and although there is a language barrier, when everyone sees my stack of passports they give me the thumbs up.


Everyone working in the office is a woman. English is limited so commands are short and difficult to understand. " You go there" says a woman in an Abaya, I can see a smile in her eyes. After registering, having my photo taken and walking to 3 different offices to have someone new sign my forms, I am then told to take a blood test. An extensive search is made throughout the building and I finally find the blood test room and stand in line. There are roughly fifty women ahead of me. We are called one by one to give blood while the rest of us look on with interest. I remember thinking at the time that privacy obviously wasn't an issue. I had no idea what was to come.

After the blood test I am told to go to the Xray room. As I walk through the door a woman points to a basket full of scrunched up dirty hospital gowns and tells me to move in to the next room. I can see three rooms in front of me, each with a sign saying "changing room" so I knock politely and open the door. As I open the door I'm embarrassed to find three women in different stages of undressing and apologize profusely and close the door. 


After a few minutes it occurs to me that everyone is looking at me like I'm an idiot. Another couple of minutes and it comes to me in a flash, oh God, I am obviously meant to JOIN them in their state of undress. Oops! 


I go through the process of walking in again, this time I'm nervously giggling at my earlier mistake, I find a corner to whip my gear off. There are now 5 of us in a room the size of your average toilet, and with a combination of body odor and the fact we all have our arms in the air undressing, it was, ahem, fragrant. With our range of languages we somehow have a conversation about if our bra is meant to stay on or off and everyone decides off. I start to giggle as I whip off my bra, this is possibly one of the strangest situations I've been in for awhile. I am also amazed by how white my boobs are in a room full of brown ones, and when the lady next to me does a double take at my pink nipples, I realize I'm not the only one who's amazed.

The xray room has a sign on the door saying "do not enter while xray in process" the door opens and I discover that while the xray's are going on there are fifteen or more women standing in line watching the process. No one is wearing the usual protection required for an xray. It's truly horrifying. I want to question what's taking place, but I also want to just get it over and done with and never come back again. I choose the latter option. As I'm standing in line, the xray woman is barking rules to all of us in Arabic, we have no idea what she is saying and she's getting frustrated. 


Finally, it's my turn for the Xray. I'm pushed against the screen with my hands behind my back and my chin rested on a bar. It's kind of like I'm being arrested in a hospital gown without the handcuffs. I've watched 15 people before me go through the process and I'm determined to get it right so I can get out of the room and find my bra. I miss my bra. Thankfully, it all happens quickly. I run back to the room, walk in on some of my old friends and meet some new ones. In lightning speed I get dressed and confirm the experience is over.

The process has taken just over 2 hours. I walk outside, find a seat in the sun and wait and wait for G to arrive. He finally appears. He has sat in a line for 3 hours only to watch the office close and be told to come back tomorrow and try again. I tell him what I've just done and we laugh. The things we'll do for a drink.

So what do you do all day?

Have you heard the story about the man who came home from work and found garbage strewn all over his front lawn. His hungry, dirty, children were waiting for him on the front doorstep, one of them was holding a sharp kitchen knife trying to wedge open a jar of Nutella.

When he walked inside, he couldn't believe it, the house was almost unrecognizable. Dishes were piled on the sink and the dog was licking spilt sticky juice from the floor.  The ironing basket was overflowing, there was a huge pile of dirty clothes leant up against the washing machine. He realized something else was wrong. He couldn't smell his dinner cooking?

"Where's your mother?" he asked his children. "She's upstairs in bed" they replied somewhat bewildered. As he wandered up the stairs he collected the debris along the way, empty drink containers, notes from school about library books and field trips, the remains of discarded lunch boxes. He found his wife, sitting in bed with her feet up reading a book. "What's going on?" he said.

"Well", she replied "you know how you asked me what I do all day? Today I didn't do it".

It is exactly three weeks since I broke my foot. Three weeks of sponge baths, upside down hair washing and wide length pants. Three weeks of hopping on one foot to the bathroom, sliding up and down the stairs on my bum and tucking as many items in to my bra before picking up my crutches. Thank you God for providing me with the cleavage to support a bottle of bubbles and champagne flute.

Perhaps more intriguing than my multi purpose cleavage though, is my multi purpose husband.

In the many domestic forms of our 12 years of marriage, I think we have pretty well covered all of the different options available. Our marriage, in its current form, involves G leaving for the office at 7 and arriving (if he wants to remain married) home before 7 that evening. My day involves co-ordinating 4 children in various states of mood, dress and activity, each day is varied depending on the state of the child. A simple trip to swimming lessons can be fun, it can involve swinging hands and kisses at the door or on a bad day a complete meltdown in the change rooms, followed by a poo in the pool. You're never sure what you're going to get.

For the past three weeks we've had to adjust our roles. Well G has adjusted his, I just gave mine up. I was forced in to retirement. My new role, initially sounded fabulous. Sit with your ankle elevated, no driving, no weight baring. This is every mothers dream. Right? An enforced break from the routine.

On day one it was cute, as G stood in his suit and tie, blackberry between his teeth, he began wrestling with the Second Little Travelers pony tail, she gave instructions "it's not right, it needs to be higher, I need boof at the front, there's no boof". I looked up from laptop and smiled to myself, I know how to do boof, I do really good boof.

When G came home from the first school run he told me it was great, he loved the conversations in the car, they'd all been to the cafeteria after school and had Subway and chocolate cookies and brownies, I decide not to point out that we would require a second mortgage if this was to continue. I was happy that everyone was happy, but yes, I was secretly waiting for the wheels to fall off.

After two lots of swimming lessons, an orthodontist visit, a lost child, and a science project that involved the transportation of fish, I noticed the tone was starting to change. There was tension. When G had endured four hours at the school fair I thought I could visibly see his hair receding before my eyes. Then came the text from the indoor play centre, "put wine in fridge, right now please" when I made a joke he said "you don't understand, I'm in a dark room with flashing lights, there is a grown man singing La Bamba". I didn't tell him La Bamba man and I are on a first name basis.

He phones me as he waits at my usual after school hang outs, he shares the events of the day. The lost swimming goggles, the terrifying school play rehearsal, how someone changed their mind on dress up day and a mad scramble was made to get in to "normal clothes," in the car park. He proudly tells me how it was handled, just a few tears, the crisis averted. I congratulate him, it takes all my strength not to tell him that these are weekly events, that soon he won't even mention them.

At dinner there are the usual discussions about forgotten lunch money, field trip notices, birthday party invitations, mismatched sandwich choices and missing PE shorts. I find myself hanging on every word and there's a faint feeling of jealousy. I've had to relinquish control and suddenly G has a much better idea of what's going on in everyones lives. Isn't this what I wanted? Why am I feeling so threatened by this?

It's possible that I'm irrational when I realize how upset I am that I missed the awful Grade One zoo trip, the one where you have to sit on the ridiculously little train with your knees up around your ears. I missed it. I apologize to the Third Little Traveler for not being there for him, I have a tear in my eye, he looks frightened by my desperation.

When dinner is finished and everyone is told to head upstairs for baths and bed, G uses his new phrase,  I've heard it every day this week "brush your teeth or you'll have Rhino Butt Breath" everyone finds this hysterically funny. Dad said Butt. Suddenly, tooth brushing is funny. I smile a forced smile.

Yesterday, G and I return to the doctors, we're told there's a possibility the cast may come off by the end of the week, G lets out a huge sigh of relief and I immediately start planning my first bath. We both agree this experience has taught us something really important. Something we knew but we'd somehow lost sight of in the rush. Appreciate what you have, the every day, the stuff that's right in front of you. Even the Grade One zoo trip.

Hotel Cyberspace

There were four little girls dancing in the lounge room, we must have been eight or nine. We were all giggling, music turned up, making up our own signature dances "you do this and then I'll go like this and then you clap your hands". That sort of thing.

In the middle of all the fun, my Mother arrived at the back door and said we had to head home, I tried negotiating an extended stay, it didn't work, so I said goodbye. When we were outside, I thought I'd give it one last try, I began the usual begging "just five more minutes, can I just stay for five more....pleeeeeeeease". Perhaps, the most surprising part of this story, is that my Mother then said yes.

When I raced back in to the house I immediately felt the air had changed, something was different. They hadn't heard me come in and I was halfway into the kitchen when I heard them. "How good does she think she is?" one girl said in a tone that dripped with venom, "Did you see her? God she loves herself?" She then started imitating me and every one laughed.

As I slowly and very quietly backed out of the kitchen, I could feel a weight in the deepest darkest pit of my stomach, it's a feeling I now recognize with nerves or a stupid argument that didn't need to happen.

Sometimes, the most hurtful words, are the ones that people think you didn't hear.

Little girls can be vicious. That's what they say, don't they? Mean girls. We've seen the movie, watched the stereotypes on television, every series has a super bitch. As a mother of both boys and girls I hear it often from the more experienced Mothers. The boys, they tell me, are going to be relaxed and easy going teenagers (who love their Mother) but the girls will give me trouble, cattiness, acerbic tongues. "Girls get nasty".

I'm not so sure if it's just the girls?

I've been sitting around with a broken foot and a Macbook pro for just over two weeks and I'll be the first to admit, I've spent way to much time reading online newspapers and other social media sites. I've also found myself reading the "comments" from the readers, and then the comments on the comments. This is where the fight usually breaks out and things starts getting personal.

Sure, some are complimentary to the writer, some are not, but some are just nasty. Nastier than high school, nastier than adult chicken pox and nastier than you would ever hear in a spirited debate at the office water cooler.

Last year, Annabel Crabb (ABC Journalist, amongst lots of other things)  wrote and presented an article about modern day Journalism, in particular, online Journalism. She pointed out here just how much easier it is to make a comment online than it is in traditional media. I think most of us would agree.

I've never put together a letter to an Editor that required an envelope or a stamp, but on a daily basis I will look or possibly comment on either Facebook, Twitter, Mamamia, the Huffington Post, Punch, The Daily Beast....I'll just stop there.

This past week in the Australian media, the debate over the 17 year old girl who slept with an AFL identity or two, remains in the press. Interestingly, the last two stories I have read about her have not been about her story, but more on how the two female journalist felt about interviewing and reporting on her. Both stories, (here and here) provided a different perspective and because of this, comments were made.

Comments came from both men and women, some were general observations, some were funny, some were sarcastic and some of them were just plain mean, not witty, just abusive. I found myself cringing and visibly wincing as I read words like "Skank", "Slut", "Whore', "Ho" and "Moll".  It felt more like a public lynching, than a discussion. In a discussion that involved AFL, people had forgotten the golden rule, play the ball and not the man.

It's easy to bag someone anonymously, but lets pretend for a moment there was a Hotel called Cyberspace. In each room of the hotel, stood the people you visit online each day. Imagine walking in to find Annabel Crabb, reading an article out loud to a group, when she's finished a man yells out "you will never be taken seriously until you do something about your ridiculous hair".

In the next room Kerri Sackville and Mia Freedman are having a discussion about the use of bluetooth devices while driving, a woman screams "you eastern suburbs princess, get a job!", a fight immediately breaks out in the crowd. A moderator swiftly moves in and starts removing people, delete, delete, delete.

In the next room Dave Penberthy is counting page views while grinning at the 400 people screaming at each other. He hasn't said anything yet, as they're all too busy fighting with one other to listen, one guy's calling the Prime Minister a "Cougar" and a "barren redheaded spinster", everyone's forgotten what the original topic was.

The rooms at Hotel Cyberspace differ greatly, the New York Times has the boardroom with the expensive cutlery and mammoth flower display, The Hufffington Post has the large multipurpose conference area. In my mind, Mamamia has the dining area, long elegant tables of dinner party conversation and there's usually something on the menu that takes my fancy.

If I could choose, I'd probably put my blog over at the swim up bar, and while drinking cocktails I'd keep my fingers crossed that no one was about to arrive and tell me I look fat in my bathers.