Just. Look. At. That.

When we were home over the Summer holidays (which were technically the winter holidays because we were in Australia), I spent a lot of time in the car with The Little Travellers. At least once a day I would stop the car on the side of the road and declare "look at that, would you JUST Look. At. That". One of the travellers would then sigh out loud in a here she goes again kind of way "are you going to make us get out of the car again Mum?" They would then make the obligatory glance towards either the wildflowers, tree, field or hill that I was marveling over.

A year in the desert, looking at sand dunes, construction sites and camels had provided me with a fresh set of eyes in Australia.

I arrived home to my mothers house and decided to enlighten her with the magical bushes I'd seen scattered through a certain area in South Australia, she raised an eyebrow and said "do you mean the camellias? Darling, you had one of those at Seaview Street, in the front yard".

Oh. So I did. I can't remember stopping to actually look at that bush once. I just took it for granted that there would always be camellias. I spent a long time taking gardens for granted.

We've had 8 gardens. Eight entirely different gardens, scattered all over the world. I wish I would have taken more photos of them.

I would have taken photos of the Jakarta garden in the wet season, water flooding through our front yard, the steam coming off the grass in the heat. In KL, I would have taken a photo of the monkeys that came to swing in the tree next to the First Little Travellers bedroom window. In Libya we have a photo, two little travellers are standing in the front garden with G, they're on their way to the Remembrance Day ceremony held at the British Embassy. That embassy has now been looted and trashed, it sits vacant, waiting like the rest of us, to see what Libya's future holds. Nearly there Libya, nearly there.

In Canada, I have photos because, like many Calgarians, I became obsessed with those 4 months of summer before the snow returned. I took so much pride in the tulips that were planted in October and then popped up in April, they were invariably snowed on 3 weeks after their arrival. In Houston, it was a tropical paradise in our backyard, I miss that house. It was like living in PG American movie, sunshine and tree lined streets with a swing hanging from a big oak tree in the front yard.

When we first walked in to the backyard of our house in Doha, we were speechless for a moment. We stood metres away from a towering peach coloured concrete wall. Our backyard was a concrete squash court. On the ground was a patch of dirt and some very tired and stained pavers. That was our garden. Not a leaf or a blade of grass in sight. In those first few weeks, G would stand outside and bbq and we'd look at the concrete wall trying to think of what we could do - quickly.

We planted some grass, bought a few pots and removed a few pavers. Slowly, the bougainvilleas began to creep up the wall. And then one day, one of the little travellers said "what's that smell?" and the answer was jasmine, our jasmine.

Yesterday I drove past the back of our house and noticed the bougainvillea now hangs over the top of the wall. This is what it looks like now.

We had these in our garden in Canada they were called Impatiens, they didn't like the cold (I now understand why). In the UK they call them "Busy Lizzies". These gutsy girls will stay with you all through the summer, I'm talking hard core 48 degrees for weeks - keep calm and carry on. It was 40 degrees when I took this shot, have a look at them, no wilting, keeping a stiff upper lip. I imagine them speaking in posh accents and drinking Pimms, telling me that Busy Lizzies don't sweat - they perspire.

The door/window is from Souq Waqif. We've just bought it and it's going up on the wall this week.  We didn't barter very well because we'd just been through some serious bartering for candle holders and were both suffering with barter fatigue. Plus, I loved it and it was so obvious to both G and the man selling it, that I was taking them home in the car with me. The lemon tree is the latest purchase from the plant souq. Next to it, in the pots is rosemary, coriander and basil. It still amazes me that these things survive in the heat.


When we arrived back from our Summer/Winter holidays, I expected to walk outside and find everything burnt to a crisp. It was still there (thanks to G and and his constant reshuffling of pots). Despite the heat, the bougainvillea had continued to climb and the peach coloured wall was almost a distant memory. No more peach wall.  Just. Look. At. That.

What's been your biggest gardening challenge?

I think you hit a nerve.

Yesterday, I may have had a little rant.  My rant was not about how easy or hard my life is, my life is pretty bloody good. I know that. But, my very first rant (on the blog) as one of the comments said "hit a nerve".

My rant was about a joke. A joke that gets told by men. A joke that I don't find funny because it's not really a joke. I mean it's not like "Did you hear about the expat wife who went to a seafood disco last week and pulled a mussel?" or "How do crazy expat wives find their way out of the jungle - they take the physco path".

The blog went nuts yesterday, it went two types of nuts. Expat women who perhaps felt a little validated, women who have all heard the joke before and laughed politely. Women who have heard the joke told by their partners or their colleagues and while smiling have wanted to punch them in the face. Women who are doctors, dentists and physiotherapists whose qualifications mean nothing in their newly adopted countries. New mothers, grandmothers, single career, dual career. All different types of women, because expat women come in many different packages.

The other type of nuts were the women who wanted to let me know how good the expat life is. There was the woman on twitter who told me about how frustrated she was with seeing women idly pushing strollers in malls. Not just any women, expat women. There was a lot of discussion in 140 characters or less. Who got what, when and why. Who should be able to cope on their own. Who was the biggest hero, the hardest worker, the most deserving. Medals were pinned, trophies were awarded. Winning!

It was then that I realized I was back there. Back in the land of breast feed or bottle, disposable or cloth, controlled crying or co-sleeping, back in the land of stay at home or head to back to work. Back in that world where women begin to judge other women on their choices. The old "I could never do that" which really means "can you believe she's doing that?" When we join in on a conversation that leaves us feeling a bit dirty. When we forget how lucky we are to even have choices. First. World. Problems.

I'm reading Tina Fey's 'Bossypants' at the moment. There are so many things that I like about this book, but some of it just makes me shift uncomfortably in my seat. Her reference to "girl on girl sabotage" unfortunately is all too familiar. 

"Don't be fooled. You're not in competition with other women. You're in competition with everyone"

I'm passing that one on to my girls. Along with a little advice from me. If you see a woman with a stroller hanging around in a mall for hours, it's highly possible she's either lonely, bored or exhausted trying to get her child to sleep. None of these options are fun. Please do not judge.  Just hope that she will find a group of women, women she can talk to about hemorrhoids and facial hair. Women who work full time, women who stay at home, women who have had children and women who haven't. Women she can celebrate with - whether it's the fact that she's just painted the house, developed a software program or learnt how to ski. 

We chicks need to stick together.

In my next life, I'm coming back as an......

"In my next life, I'm coming back as....."

Do you know what comes next?

It's hysterical.

I've heard it at parties, I've heard it at work functions and I've heard it from the big, fat, sweaty, hairy guy whose wife is standing next to him with a fixed smile on her face.

"In my next life, I'm coming back as an Expat Wife"

Do you get it?

Can you see how funny the joke is?

No?

You know, because it's so easy. Sooooooo easy being an Expat Wife. You just sit around having tea parties all day and when you're not doing that, you're shopping and getting drunk.

Right?

The first time I heard it, G and I had been married for about a year and I'd just found out I was pregnant. We were considering the expat experience while I took my maternity leave.  G's new boss was in town and he'd taken us out to dinner. He was a seasoned expat and was explaining to me how 'easy' my life was about to become.

Now, THAT'S a joke.

This is not a piece about how hard it is to give birth or raise a child in a foreign country. It is not a piece about health care and being terrified that you may need help that is simply not available. It's not a piece about bomb scares or low flying planes or being told to avoid certain parts of the city on certain days.

It is not about trying to get the bloody phone connected or discussing your thrush with an audience of 10 while you spell out C.A.N.E.S.T.O.N. only to leave empty handed. It's not about getting lost ten times in one day. It's not about being 45 minutes late to pick up your child from his first day of school because you just couldn't work out how to get from one side of the ten lane highway to the other.

It's not about being out of your comfort zone, not being able to read the signs or speak the language when you first arrive. It's not about finding a toilet and then trying to work out exactly how you will convince your 7 year old to use it without either of you throwing up at the stench. It's not about the birthdays, weddings and family gatherings that you've missed, about feeling 21 hours away, because you are. About the grown children that you left behind that you now speak to on Facebook and Skype, trying to read or see the hidden signs that you'd immediately see in person.

This is what it's about.

It's about making a joint decision to leave your home, your career and your family and then having to listen to some wanker tell that joke.

Yes, there are fabulous aspects to the Expat life. There's the travel, the new friends, the possibility of new beginnings. Perhaps for some it's the chance to save money, for others maybe it's the possibility of having help around the house allowing more time with children. For many it's a chance to study or to develop a new career, an online business or a consultancy.

We are all individual, we all arrive coming from different situations, but there is one thing I think we all agree on.

Whether it's Singapore, The Hague or Doha, in the early days, it's not bloody easy.


What are you coming back as in your next life?

The Second Bottle

It's the weekend and G is home from London safe and sound with treats for all. The house is alive with questions about Buckingham Palace, Big Ben and The London Eye. G has been to Hamleys and is enjoying the God like status that it has awarded him in the eyes of his children.

It's been a busy week. Is it just me or does everyone find their household disasters tend to happen when their partner isn't around? Hats off to those of you who do it on your own week after week. A broken dryer, leaking ceiling, back to school night and self enforced writing deadlines have left me feeling a little fragile (or was it the 2nd bottle of bubbles I had with my neighbour last night?).

A website called "The Displaced Nation" did a little interview with me this week. They asked some questions that have given me great food for thought for further blog posts. It's funny how we roll through life not asking ourselves the really obvious questions. Perhaps like "Why are you still opening the second bottle, when you are old enough to know better?!"

Have a great weekend.

RANDOM NOMAD: Kirsty Rice, Freelance Writer & Blogger

4 CommentsPosted by ML Awanohara on September 21, 2011

Born in: Renmark*, South Australia
Passport: Australia (no one else will have me!)
Countries lived in: Australia (Adelaide & Perth): 1997-98; Indonesia (Jakarta): 1999 – 2001; Malaysia (Kuala Lumpur): 2001-02; Libya (Tripoli): 2002-04; Canada (Calgary): 2004-08; USA (Houston): 2008-09; Qatar (Doha): 2010-present.
Cyberspace coordinates: 4 kids, 20 suitcases and a beagle(blog)
*A small town of 7,500; my parents still live there.

What made you leave your homeland in the first place?
I am married to a former expat child. I know the term is Third Culture Kid, but I don’t really think it applies to him. He was always keen on doing the “expat” thing. I, on the other hand, was raised in the same town that I was born in and wasn’t a great lover of change. Our first move was the result of a promotion for my husband and the fact that I was pregnant with our first child. The plan was to do a two-year posting in Indonesia and to return “home”. That was 7 countries and 12 years ago. I now thrive on change.

So your husband was already “displaced”?
My husband’s parents were expats. He was actually born in New Zealand and then they went to the Philippines for many years before moving to Sydney, then Melbourne, and finally to Brisbane.

How about your kids?
My children were all born in different countries. We were living in Jakarta when I had my first child, my second was born in KL, the third in Malta and the fourth in Canada. Although none of them have lived permanently in Australia (our longest stint has been during school holidays, so a maximum of 12 weeks), they all think of themselves as Australian. My husband and I have both worked hard for that to be the case.

Describe the moment when you felt most displaced.
When we first moved to Tripoli — it was the middle of summer and I had a two-week-old baby and a two-year-old. We then had to endure months of housing hell — we couldn’t find one! For a while, I shared a “guest house” with about sixty men who were rotating in and out of the desert: there were no other women. Breast feeding amongst men who hadn’t seen a woman for a couple of months was a rather unique experience. Due to the weather, fruit and vegetables were limited and small in size. I can remember standing in a fruit and vegetable stand with a screaming baby and a restless toddler wondering how I was going to cook carrots the size of my little finger. I was continually getting lost, and the simplest of tasks seemed very overwhelming. There were many days that I considered getting on a plane — but I’m so pleased I didn’t. Three months later, we had a house, the weather was better, I made friends, and I loved our life in Libya. I was devastated to leave.

Describe the moment when you felt least displaced.
I feel like that here in Qatar. Our children are at a fabulous school, I have a place to write, and my husband works for a Qatari company and really enjoys it. There is so much here in the community for expats, and we are made to feel very welcome. I have made local friends and love heading to the local souqs. I feel that this is very much our second home. In other locations I have felt that we were passing through, but not here.

You may bring one curiosity you’ve collected from your adopted country into The Displaced Nation. What’s in your suitcase?
From Indonesia: A jamu (traditional medicine) woman made of silver, given to me by a very dear friend.
From Malaysia: The Selangor pewter tea set I was given as a gift. Each time I use it I think of my friends.
From Libya: A wedding blanket with traditional jewellery pinned to it, which was given as a farewell present. It is such a unique gift and always a talking point when people spot it in our house.
From Canada: Nothing material, just the memory of what it was like to be back to work full time. In Calgary, I returned to the “old” me, remembering who I was pre children and travel. That was Canada’s gift — along with a huge appreciation of weather!
From the U.S. (Houston): A fantastic painting of an American flag that I picked up in San Antonio. It’s 3D and not in the traditional colors. It reminds me that America is far more layered and multidimensional that what I’d given it credit for.

You’re invited to prepare one meal based on your travels for other Displaced Nation members. What’s on the menu?
We’ll have some kind of soup for starters: either Indonesian soto ayam (chicken soup), Libyan soup* (I love it!), or the Canadian version of Italian wedding soup. Though I come from an area in Australia that has a large Italian community, I’d never heard of Italian Wedding Soup — turns out it’s more of a North American thing.

For the mains, perhaps I’ll offer a choice between Malaysian curry or maybe a nasi goreng from Indonesia.

And for drinks, we’ll have margaritas. I learned to make a mean margarita in Houston.

For dessert, a caramel cheesecake — a recipe I picked up from a fellow Aussie in Houston.

You may add one word or expression from the country you’re living in to The Displaced Nation argot. What will you loan us?
From Indonesia: Satu lagi (one more) — I said that way to often!
From Malaysia: I just loved how you could put lah on the end of everything and automatically make a sentence sound friendlier.
From Tripoli: Shokran (thank you). It was the first Arabic word I learned and makes me think of how special the people in Libya are — so kind and helpful. Incidentally, in learning how to say “pregnancy test,” I discovered thathamil is the word for “pregnant” in Indonesia, Malaysia and Tripoli.
From Canada: Hey — kind of the same as lah in Malaysian.
From the U.S. (Houston): I found myself describing things differently. It wasn’t just “the big tree out the front” but“the big ‘ol tree out the front.”
From Qatar: Right now I’m back to learning Arabic (unsuccessfully). Oh how I wish I had a chip I could just insert into my brain to switch languages. Why haven’t they invented that yet?

It’s Zen and the Art of the Road Trip month at The Displaced Nation. Robert M. Pirsig, author of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, famously said: “Sometimes it’s a little better to travel than to arrive.” Do you agree?
I disagree. I like to arrive, settle and learn how a city/country works. You can learn so much about a place just by trying to get the telephone connected! Traveling through is just a brief picture. I love that we’ve been able to become part of a community everywhere we have lived.

Pirsig’s book details two types of personalities: 1) those who are interested mostly in gestalts so focus on being in the moment, not rational analysis; and 2) those who seek to know the details, understand the inner workings, and master the mechanics. Which type are you?
If you read my blog you’ll see there is usually a romantic viewpoint or flowery end to a posting. I’m a big believer in things happening for a reason and not always being logical. Having said that, I am a stickler for details, I hate to enter into things blindly and have to know exactly what the story is. Which personality am I in my expat life? I’m a bit of both. I don’t believe that anyone can be a successful expat without having the flexibility to change with the situation. In our daily lives as expats we need to quickly learn the rules, find out the details, go with the flow and just enjoy the ride. You have to be both.

* Libyan soup is a tomato-based soup. There are many variations. The one I loved was with lamb.

Ingredients:
1/2 to 1/3 lb. lamb meat cut into small pieces
1/4 cup oil or “samn” (vegetable ghee)
one large onion
1 tablespoon tomato paste
2-3 tomatoes
1 lemon
1/2 cup orzo, salt, red pepper, Libyan spices (Hararat) or cinnamon

Directions:
Sauté the onion with meat in oil.
Add parsley and sauté until meet is brown.
Add chopped tomatoes, tomato paste, salt, spices, and stir while sizzling.
Add enough water to cover meat, simmer on medium heat until meat is cooked.
Add more water if needed, and bring to a boil.
Add orzo, simmer until cooked.
Before serving, sprinkle crushed dried mint leaves, and squeeze fresh lemon juice to taste.

Readers — yay or nay for letting Kirsty Rice into The Displaced Nation? Tell us your reasons. (Note: It’s fine to vote “nay” as long as you couch your reasoning in terms we all — including Kirsty — find amusing.)

What men REALLY want

I didn't post this on the blog, so just incase you missed it, here I am on Mamamia talking about men and what they REALLY want, or more to the point, if it really is that simple.

Kirsty RiceWednesday 21 September 2011 11:13am

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What do men look for in a partner?

It was an unfortunate coincidence that I had my furniture epiphany at roughly the same time that my husband sat down to watch the Rugby. We’d bought a new table and it just wasn’t in the right place, I needed to move a few things around.

As the words “Do you think you could give me a hand shifting this furniture…” made their way out of my mouth, I realized just how ridiculous the timing of my request was.  With a look of disbelief my husband looked at the Rugby and looked back at me. He looked at the Rugby again and then said “unless you plan on moving the furniture while naked, you must know that you have no hope of getting my attention right now”.

I knew he was telling the truth, he really wanted to watch the Rugby and getting naked was the only thing that would have distracted him.

While doing my weekend scan of the newspapers I discovered this little article about what men really want from women. I don’t usually bother with these sorts of headlines (I read enough Cleo/Cosmo magazines in the 90′s) but I was interested that the information was compiled by a research company. It was going to be presented at the Australian Market and Social Research Conference in Sydney over the weekend.

Within the first paragraph of the story I was told the shocking news that men “are highly attracted to nice breasts and a cute backside”.

Who knew?!

The second point of the article was that it was possible that “they (men) have matured through political correctness and have been socialised not to say everything they think”.

Get out of town!

Were they telling me that for all of those years in my twenties, while I stood at bars and men told me I had pretty eyes and a lovely smile, it was possible they were just trying to get me in to bed?!

It was truly ground breaking research.

I am a 42 year old mother of 4. I have breastfed 4 babies and my exercise regime involves walking my children to their classrooms, pushing a shopping trolley through the supermarket a couple of times a week and very sporadic visits to the gym. In a nutshell, I am of average size (12 -14) with wobbly bits. My boobs have seen better days, my upper arms wave with me when I say goodbye and my thighs and I are no longer on speaking terms.

Having shared this with you, I can also honestly say, if I was to ring my husband right now and suggest he meet me in a hotel room near the office, he would possibly sprint down the stairs of his high rise, rather than wait for the elevator to get there. My wobbly bits don’t seem to bother him.

Thankfully, halfway through the article, I was to learn that men also valued traits such as togetherness, honesty, respect, a sense of humour and friendship  (they’d just like you to have great boobs and a nice bum as well).

Really?

Having worked in the bar of a Football Club, I’ve heard some pretty atrocious comments made about women by men, but I also think it’s safe to say that most men when making a long term decision on love, aren’t just thinking about the DD’s. I did a quick survey on my male friends and asked how or why they chose their partner. Unsurprisingly, not one of them stated the number one reason as “she had a great set of jugs”.

When it comes to choosing a mate, I think we can give the blokes a bit more credit. We all know that most men (particularly heterosexual men) appreciate the female form, but when it comes to finding a long term mate, a mutual love of travel, an interest in home renovation and “she liked fishing as much as I did” were all reasons supplied by my male friends. And, yes I know, according to the research my mates are just saying that because they have been raised in a world of political correctness. I’d like to give them a bit more credit than that.

When it comes to my husband, whether I’ve been big, small, pregnant or in bed with a nasty head cold, the relationship has pretty much stayed the same. Some days we don’t like each other very much, but for the most part we’re best friends.  And, even better friends when I’m naked.

Do we give men enough credit? Do you really think that men and women are looking for different things in their partners?

Knock Knock

In the space of 6 years, I carried and gave birth to 4 children. My eldest is now 11, my youngest is 5.

This means 2 things.

My breasts don't look quite like they used to and it's also highly possible that I have heard more 'Knock Knock' jokes than anyone else in the world. Well, maybe not as many as the woman who had 5 children in 7 years, but she spends most of her day drunk, rocking in a fetal position in the corner, so I still win.

In the early years of the 'Knock Knock' jokes I suffered through many jokes that just didn't make any sense. Actually, I'm not sure you could technically call them jokes. They were more just statements with fake laughing at the end. Kind of like a political gathering for small people.

"Knock Knock" the First Little Traveller would say "Who's there?" I'd ask picturing the next little Tina Fey. "Ant" and before I could even make my way to the highly anticipated "Ant who?"  she'd break out in to fits of laughter with "An ant was on the pavement and it was walking along and it, it, it, stopped".

I'd wait for more.

Nothing. Which would have been kind of cute if I hadn't already heard it forty three times that day. And no, she wasn't being ironic.

We eventually made our way to chickens crossing roads, oranges that were glad you didn't say banana and turkeys that were standing in for chickens.

And then miraculously, one day, the Knock Knocks started to be funny - hmm, I should say, funnier. I can still remember my first genuine laugh at the First Little Traveller and her Interrupting Cow..." Interrupting Cow who you may ask. And I did. Except as soon as I got to the  "Interuptin..." she butted in with a loud "Moooooooooooo".

We'd made progress. Until the Second Little Traveller started her comedic career. We were back to where we started. We were back in the world of pretend thigh slapping guffaws. Until one day she knocked out a "Lettuce.....Lettuce in" and we knew she had it.

The Third Little Traveller was quick to catch up but the Fourth Little Traveller has taken awhile. What has been interesting, is watching the bigger Travellers suffer through his "that is just not funny" humour. "Knock knock.....bee....there's a bee in the sky".

Silence

"That's not a joke" someone will say. Perhaps the Fourth Little Traveller could have been humiliated by the critique, but no, he's always too busy laughing hysterically at his own brilliance. He finds himself particularly funny.

So today came as a surprise to all of us.

As I drove the car into our carpark, I listened and took part in the latest round of knock knock jokes and just as I switched off the car the Fourth Little Traveller got everyones attention.

"Knock Knock" he screamed. Someone sighed, someone else groaned and I shot them both a death stare from the the Mother ship. "Who's there" I asked. His face was red, his voice was strained, he sounded as if he was choking "Fish" he squeeked. His face was now crimson and I began to wonder if this was actually a joke or if he'd stopped breathing "are you okay.....fish who?"

"Quick, open the door and get me a fishbowl and some water, I'm here on the floor in your doorway"

I'm not sure who laughed louder, us or him. It was lame, but he was so cute and it was pretty funny.

How does it feel to finally get a laugh?

Like this.

Know any good Knock Knock jokes?

Trombone Suicide

The First Little Traveller has just started Grade 6. She has entered the world of Middle School and life as we know it has changed. It appears there are some new rules. She now enters through a new gate, eats with the bigger kids in the Cafeteria and wears lipgloss (I'm choosing my battles people, it could be fishnets and a boob tube).

In the old days (as in 4 months ago), the 4 Little Travellers and I would arrive at school and exit the car together. It appears those days are over. I am now instructed to do a drive by drop off, I watch the First Little Traveller exit the car with the precision and speed of a experienced solider parachuting from a chopper. The backpack is strapped and before the car can even roll to a final halt she has jumped. A quick "bye Mum" but no kisses, no looking back. I gather that Mothers at School Drop off are about as cool as ringworms and floral underwear.

Life in Middle School means text books, switching classes, different teachers and rolling timetables. She now has a "home room" and she has choices. She chose French rather than Arabic or Spanish. She chose Band rather than Choir.

When it came time to choose her instrument, I was secretly hoping for Flute or Clarinet. Okay, it wasn't a secret at all, I said my choices out loud, this was my first mistake. If there is anything I am learning about tweenhood, it is that my choices are both uncool and unnecessary.

She chose the Trombone.

I remarked on Facebook that my child had chosen an instrument that resembled one long continuous fart and after an hour of "practice" I was in need of a rather large glass of Gin. Someone reminded me that it could have been worse, it could have been the French Horn. So true.

Over the weekend the First Little Traveller explained her choice to me. The music teacher had told her that many of the girl's Mothers usually chose the Flute because it was pretty, or a "girls" instrument. I assured her that I was thinking more of how much easier the Flute was to transport. And, that the Flute didn't sound like one continuous fart. She giggled and said "it'll be cool Mum, wait and see, Trombone can be really cool."

A girlfriend of mine who's currently based in Houston reminded this morning of the "Trombone Suicide", she'd been to a High School Football match over the weekend and remarked on how "visually exciting" the music had been. I immediately googled. She was right.

Things have changed. As 3 of the Little Travellers and I make our way through the school gates, I am forced to watch the First Little Traveller heading in a different direction, making her way on her own. She's making choices and it appears they're not going to be the "girly" ones. She's making the big brassy choices. I love it.

I just need a little bit more time to get used to watching from the sidelines.

Here's the Trombone Suicide done by Colorado State University or (CSU).

Enjoy.








Any interesting musical choices at your house?

Living a Double Life

I realized I was in trouble when I found myself sobbing in the restaurant. It had almost happened earlier that day at the hairdressers, when I'd gone for the last haircut. As I gave my hairdresser a quick kiss goodbye I tried my usual goodbye trick with a chirpy "see you next time" but I didn't pull it off, my voice changed mid sentence and the cracks appeared. I made a quick exit and attempted to inconspicuously wipe away the tears on the walk back to the car. Deep breaths Kirsty, deep breaths.

I'm not sure why I found it so hard to leave Australia this time. It had been a long break, usually I would have been keen to get the children back to school and back in to a routine, but I wasn't. I wanted to stay. I wanted to keep walking on the beach, to keep going to the Farmers Market, to keep dropping in to see old friends for a glass on wine on the way home. I wanted to watch my children crawl all over my Father while he tried to watch the Footy. I wanted to hear them talk about Granny and repeat all of her little sayings "now there's something you don't see everyday". 

For the first time in 12 years I began to question what we were doing. I looked at the Little Travellers living their very Australian life and I wondered if they too were about to become victims of my self diagnosed 'Geographical Schizophrenia'. How would they switch back to their old lives after such a big break? How do you readjust when you're seven? Am I confusing them by having two homes, two sets of friends, two completely different lives?

As we sat in the restaurant across the road from the Melbourne Airport waiting for our flight to Doha, I listened to the Third Little Traveller talk about our beach house neighbours. "When I grow up I'm going to be just like John, I'm going to be an Engineer and have a moustache". G and I smiled but I couldn't help but think about all the people we had all just said goodbye to, about what we might be missing.

"Why are your eyes wet Mummy?" asked the Fourth Little Traveller.
"Too many Goodbyes in one day Darling - nothing serious, I'll be fine in a minute"

From the moment our plane touched down in Doha I began to remember the other life. Initially I saw everything through a haze, a haze of heat that rose from the Tarmac, it was 6.30 in the morning and already 37 degrees.  Everything was different, it wasn't just the weather, the language, the taxis or the sun with its desert orange glow. The traffic moved at a different speed, someone stopped next to us at the lights with a camel in the back of their 4 wheel drive "you don't see that everyday" said the Third Little Traveller, "you do in Doha" said the Fourth. I smiled.

Within two hours of being home I made a quick head count. Four little girls on the computer, four little boys building Lego, four bigger kids squealing as they began planning their next performance. Scottish, South African, Canadian and Australian accents compared their Summer break, someone had been to Florida, someone had been to London, someone had been to Calgary, everyone had been spoilt by Grandma. They had all had a great holiday but were all glad to be "home".

As they all talked over the top of each other, trying to out do each other with their holiday stories, fishing, camping, bike riding, I realized that it wasn't 2 separate lives for them. For them and their friends it is just the way life is. Everybody lives like this. Yes, we do have 2 homes and 2 sets of friends, but I was wrong, we only have 1 life, it has just covered a few different locations. And, for as long as the Little Travellers are happy we will continue on with the life we know.

So next year, when I'm sobbing through my Goodbyes, I'll remember, the Hellos are pretty fantastic.







How about you? Have you floated between two places? Have you lived a double life?