Thank you Berenstains.

If you've ever picked up a Berenstain Bear children's book, this sentence will be familiar.

"This way to bear country, you'll know when you're there, as soon as you enter, you'll feel like a bear".

On occasion I change bear to beer, depending on how the day's going.

The first little traveler was two when a girlfriend of mine arrived at the door with a copy of "Moving Day". It was perfect timing. I'd just arrived home with a brand new second little traveler and we had three weeks to pack up and get ready to move to Libya - to say things were a little pear shaped at our house would be an understatement. Although we weren't living in a tree house in Bear Country, (we were in a bungalow in Kuala Lumpur) - there were obvious similarities. Mama Bear and I were facing the same questions. What happens to my toys? Where will I sleep? How will I say goodbye to my friends? Simple questions that require simplistic answers that a two year old can deal with. By the time we landed in Libya I could recite the book without needing to look at the pages.

Of course we already knew the Berenstain Bears well, we'd met them six months earlier when they were expecting a new baby. What a coincidence, so were we! The first little traveler noticed that she and brother bear had a lot in common. It was getting hard to find space to sit on mother bear's lap and people kept suggesting that it was probably time to move from a little bed to a big bed. When Mama bear said "You outgrew it - just in time" I congratulated her on her subtlety, so much better than "get out of the cot, the replacement baby is coming and we need it". 

Although, there were a few things the Bears did differently. Mama Bear didn't go to hospital to have her baby, she very conveniently popped it out while the other bears were busy outside making the new bed, she was back in her frock and whipping up dinner before they'd even managed to nail the headboard on to the base. It was possibly situations such as these that brought criticism to the Berenstains.

The Bernstains, on occasion copped a bit of flack for their simplistic attitudes. There was a definite format to their stories, the children would have a problem and often Papa Bear would do a reasonably disastrous job at dealing with it, only to have Mama Bear quietly come in and save the day. We all knew Mama Bear was the smart one and Papa Bear was good with his hands. Papa Bear was once reported as being the "Alan Alda of grizzlies, a wimp so passive and fumbling he makes Dagwood Bumstead look like Batman". In the same article Mama Bear was described as "the final flowering of the grade-school prissy, the one with perfect posture and impeccable handwriting".

Ouch! Such criticism for a family of bears who's average reader is anywhere between three and six years old.

It's a format we've all seen before. Mr Cunningham on Happy Days, Homer Simpson, and Billy Ray Cyrus on Hannah Montana are all bumbling fathers that have their child's best interest at heart. It could be argued that the difference with the Berenstain Bears is that they're aimed at very young children - and simplicity is often not a choice at this age, but more a requirement. Stan Berenstein often said that Papa Bear was modeled on himself.

As the years have gone by the bears have encouraged discussion on a few different topics, we've eaten too much junk food with the bears, we've been to the dentist and talked about stranger danger. Sure, the bears could have been a bit more PC, maybe Mama Bear should have balanced a full time career with motherhood. She did try to get back to work at one stage but found it all very hard to manage, some would say it was shortsighted, others would identify it as their reality. There was no way she could keep up with it all, she was cooking, cleaning, gardening, counseling and building - something had to give. I like to think of Mama Bear as a feminist bear who exercised her choices and I guess the bears were just lucky they had their own veggie garden to feed themselves and a good community for support.

When I clicked on the Washington Post story this morning and read of Jan Berenstains passing, I'll admit I sighed out loud. I know the Berenstains will continue, but now that both Jan and her husband are gone it feels like the end of an era. With a five year old that is now only shuffling through the bookshelf looking for the Berenstains sporadically, it almost feels like we're finishing up together.

With over 300 titles and 260 million copies sold in 23 languages, as well as the Berenstain franchise that has encompassed two television series and a wide variety of other products, I think it's safe to say the Bears knew their audience.  I, for one, am very happy that in 1941, when Janice Grant met Stanley Berenstain at their first day of art school they chose bears to draw because they were "easy".

Thank you Berenstains.

She seemed fine.

She seemed fine.

Her little girl was sitting next to her, both of them squashed in to a single lounge chair in a coffee shop. While the other children raced in and out of the chairs her little girl snuggled in next to her, both of them sharing a muffin.

She leaned across me to thank someone, she told them they could have their car seat back.

"Oh! Has your air shipment arrived?" the other woman said with interest.

"Are you new?" I asked.

"Yes, we arrived two weeks ago"

She seemed fine.

We talked about schools, housing, and homes that were being renovated "back home". She asked me about the little travelers, we ran through ages and names.

"I'd have liked to have four" she said wistfully, but my husband travels all the time and we're renovating now'.... her voice trailed off.

I asked about her boys.

"It was their first REAL day at school today. We arrived the week before the holidays so they just went for the one day - but today is their first proper day".

I looked at her closely. Her eyes had changed, they were glossy.

"When he woke up this morning, he didn't want to go. He was crying all morning. It's just..." she stopped to put her hand on her heart as if she needed to hold it in, as if it was too heavy. "I'm not sure I can talk about it". There's an apologetic smile - from both of us.

I've been her. More than once. I've sat in the chair surrounded by strangers, trying to remember names, ordering muffins for children and wondering if I know the way home.

She's not fine.

I begin to talk about my guys, how difficult it was for the first little traveler when we we arrived. How happy she is now. And then I notice.

One solitary tear is rolling down her cheek.

She's not fine - but she will be.

She will be.

Get a Job.

In my twenties I sheepishly returned to my hometown with my tail between my legs, I'd dropped out of University and really didn't have anywhere else to go. My parents were not particularly impressed with my return, don't get me wrong - they were always happy to have me home but even I was getting a little sick of myself. I was big on ideas, sporadic with execution and dismal at completion. After finishing school I'd wandered from job to job, course to course. It was an exhausting way to live. Probably more so for my parents than for me.

It was made very clear to me upon my return that I needed to go and get a job. Any job. Just get one. I'd worked in various professional offices with a background in HR and Industrial Relations, but in my hometown of eight thousand people these jobs were non existent. Good jobs were held on to, only a fool would let a decent position in a comfortable office slip through their fingers.

I put my name down at various fruit packing/distributing companies and within a week or two I was working. Nepotism worked in my favour, my sister was reliable and hard working at the local fruit co-operative, my father was the Managing Director. I'm sure there were a few giggles when my application made its way through the office. All those dollars spent on a private school education and here I was desperate for a job sorting mice out of apricots or hunched over, packing oranges in to a box.

Every day was the same, make sure your walkman (remember those) was charged, put your apron on and try not to get too sea sick as the fruit whizzed by. The noise was deafening, it was dark and damp. A quality control inspector sat at the end of the line looking at what was going through to be packed, there was pressure to move quickly, keep your eye on the ball.  If you didn't move fast enough you let everyone down and it was obvious when you couldn't keep up. I had a continual feeling of dread that I wasn't any good at the job. If I couldn't do this. What could I do?

When the suits from the city came to talk of enterprise bargaining and spoke about our careers, we stifled giggles. No one was there for the job satisfaction, no one was there by choice, we all needed to be there, there was no alternative. It wasn't a career, it was a job. You clocked in. You clocked out. It didn't mean we didn't have some fun in the process.

At lunch we'd sit at laminated tables on uncomfortable chairs and talk about what we'd do if we won the lottery. When we'd exhausted that conversation it moved to the mundane. The factory was full of women, there were a couple of token men thrown in to work on the machinery and help with the heavy lifting. People talked about wanting to buy a house and struggling to get a deposit together. Those that did have a house spoke of the struggle to pay the mortgage, feed kids and maybe go on a family holiday to the city or the Gold Coast.

We talked about the footy, the weather, the Union rep and the local gossip around town. There were lots of jokes, lots of laughs.

I look back at that time of my life and realize how much it changed me. In particular it was a time that I got to spend with my sister. As I sit here typing from my desert surroundings, it's hard to imagine that there was once a time where we worked in the same town, in the same building. If I knew how much our lives would change it's possible I would have greeted her with a hug each morning, cherished it all a little bit more. In a few years I would be gone, back to the city and eventually out of the country.

When I was packing oranges I was physically exhausted. At age 24 I would come home and fall asleep in the bath at the end of the day. My back hurt from standing hunched in the same position. In the winter I seemed to constantly have a cold. I stood next to women in their forties and fifties that were faster and stronger than I was. I often wonder if it was just because they had more at stake - a house, children, a dream of retirement.

I wonder what the conversation would have been this week in my hometown when a certain Australian politician flew all the way to Washington only to then resign from his role. Maybe they wondered what it was like to fly to Washington for work? Maybe they wondered about what he was actually meant to be doing while he was there? Or maybe they just thought you'd have to be a bloody fool to give up a job like that.

This week I've been surprised by how many people have spelt Labor as Labour. I'm not sure the two have anything in common.



* For those outside of Australia here's a link for some background.


Anyone else as tired as I am with the current state of Australian politics?

The Field Trip

In my early years of parenting I went on every field/class trip, I was new to the game - or as my Kindergarten teacher girlfriend once said "fresh meat". I thought a trip to the zoo with forty or so, five year olds sounded like fun - a chance to connect with my child and her new friends. I pictured it as an opportunity to get to know the teachers and other parents, and maybe gain an insight into my child's life away from home. Does that really sound as tragic as what I think it does?

On my first class trip I distinctly remember boarding the yellow bus and giggling at the deja vu moments the setting was capturing. There was a lot of excitement. A little bit of giggling, a bit of squealing. After a further 10 minutes on the bus, when we'd hit the road with forty children, I realized that maybe I'd overlooked a few things. Things like the total lack of suspension a big yellow 1970's school bus provides and the noise that forty screaming children can create.

And then you arrive.

There's a format to class trips. Initially it begins with an immediate scramble, particularly when little people are given a target of finding two giraffes that happen to be located three kilometers ahead of you. You will hit the ground running while calling out "boy in the green shirt STOP, boy in the green shirt STOP". Don't feel bad about not knowing his name, at some stage you and he will have plenty of time to exchange details, it will be either when you're wiping the blood off of his shirt after the I saw the zebra first give me the pencil incident or perhaps while you're both stuck in the fire exit of the Art Gallery (true story).

Of course not every field trip is open air, maybe you'll visit the police or fire station. On one of these occasions you may be lucky enough to become the mother who gets pushed forward to wear the fireman's outfit after no one else puts their hand up. It's an opportunity to provide great hilarity for both teachers, students, and the entire division of your local fire department when your arse doesn't fit into Fireman Sam's overalls. Soggy sandwich anyone?

I know I probably sound a little jaded, but four children at school has provided me with a lot of bus rides, zoo visits, science fairs and ten pin bowling shoes to lace.

However, today as I made my way to the fourth little travellers field trip it occurred to me that this was possibly my very last Kindergarten Field trip. All of a sudden my feelings of dread moved to nostalgia - and as sure as motherhood schizophrenia exists, melancholy joined me on my shoulder.

If it's true we should live each day as if its our last - it's also possible the same rule applies to field trips. I really loved today. Henry Hotdog tells me it was the bestest day of his life. As I began to type today's post he was sitting next to me asking what I was going to write and asked if he could "have my blog to talk".

I am about to type word for word, from the mouth of the 4th little traveler, here he is:

Today was the best Tuesday ever! It was my first ever field trip in my life. We went to Katara and Mrs H gave us a list of buildings and things we had to find. We did it super fast because we looked so good. 


The best thing we found was the Golden Mosque because it was Golden. The second best thing was finding the biggest door in the whole wide world - it went into the amphitheater which I thought was called the echotheatre. 


The blog is finished now. Mum you don't have to write that. Mum, stop writing. You are sooooooo not funny.

Live each field trip as though it's your last.

And take your own vehicle.

The Rise of The Expat Mummy Blogger

In my first few weeks of blogging I wrote solely to tell stories of our experience moving to Doha. I then shared those posts (while cringing at the grammatical errors) on my Facebook page with family and friends.

I figured that was what a blog was for, kind of like having your own web page. I also thought it killed all of those group emails that I'd sent over the years. Remember receiving an email from cousin Tom with photos of the new baby that took an hour to download? There's the baby's nose, there's the baby's mouth... I've been cousin Tom once or twice.

I'm not sure how it all pieced together, I imagine I probably googled "expat blog", but eventually I began reading other blogs and realized there was a whole lot of chatter out there on the internet. The way I wrote began to change, the stories moved from right now to last year, to last decade.

Expat Explorer posted a link the other day titled "The Rise of the Expat Mummy Blogger" - it's possible that I squealed out loud when I saw my picture pop up on the screen, but as I made my way down the list it just got better and better.

Over the past 18 months of blogging I've read/commented/spoken to a lot of the people listed. People I class as good friends, people I genuinely care about. I know that's hard to understand but through reading their blogs I've witnesses their ups and downs and frustrations with making a move abroad. Some of the women listed below are traveling spouses, some are women who fell in love while traveling and some are women who just picked up and relocated one day. We may have all arrived at our expat destination in a different format but the the font is pretty much the same.

Here's a link to  Expat Explorer.

And here's the post.

The Rise of the Expat Mummy Blogger

Yesterday in The London Evening Standard there was an incrediblearticle about exercise shorts that help you lose weight. Zaggora HotPants have been on the market for just six months and their revenues are set to hit a staggering £10 million this year! With no advertising budget, Dessislava Bell, creator of the HotPants, attributes this amazing success to sending out a free pair of the shorts to each of 500 bloggers, many of whom where Mummy Bloggers.

From The Evening Standard

But where did these Mummy Bloggers come from? Dave Lee and Snezana Curcic, BBC World Service Reporters, say that, “For the mums, they provide a discussion and support network”.

Clearly, if this is the main reason for blogging, this can only be amplified for Mummy Bloggers living abroad where a support network may not be immediately underneath them in their expat posting. Writing a blog can be a way of connecting with people in a similar situation, although may not be in a similar geographical location.

So to celebrate all the wonderful Expat Mummy Blogs out there Expat Explorer has compiled an A-Z of the Top Ten Expat Mummy Bloggers.

4 kids, 20 suitcases and a beagle

In her own words: Kirsty is an Australian writer and Blogger currently living in Qatar. After calling 7 countries home over the past 11 years she's embarrassed to admit she still can't pack a suitcase properly. Kirsty is currently writing a book about having 4 children in 4 different countries while trying to remember her new telephone number and where she packed the can opener. You can catch Kirsty on twitter @shamozal

Bringing Up Brits

In her own words: Meghan Fenn is an American expat and mother who has lived in England since 1999. After graduating from university with a BA in English and Art, she became an English teacher and lived and worked in Prague for two years and then in Tokyo for two and a half years. She moved to England to complete her Masters degree in Design Studies and then worked as a web designer at a company in Nottinghamshire. After being made redundant whilst pregnant with her 2nd child, she set up her own web and graphic design company, White Ochre Design Ltd.

Meghan currently lives on the Southeast coast of England, is married to an English man and has 3 young children, all born in the UK.

Bringing Up Brits is her first book and she is currently working on another book about raising a family around a business (and vice versa!).

Dubai’s Desperate Housewife

In her own words: Dubai’s Desperate Housewife has lived in Dubai for 11 years. She quit her high-flying job to be a full-time mum to a 4-year-old and a small baby – something she wrestles with every day. Although she loves being there for her kids, she lives a parallel life in her head; one where her career continued its upward trajectory and her days are not spent on the school run and dangling rattles for a baby to swat.

Expat Mum

In her own words: Quite simply I'm a Brit who was whisked off by a knight in shining armour (well, an accountant) to live in the USA some twenty years ago. We now have three kiddy-winkies and a mutt with selective hearing.

My days are filled with writing for various things on the web (see next tab), finishing another book, running a charitable organisation to fund a school in Ghana, and of course, being a devoted wife and mother to my adorable family. (That would be British sarcasm in case anyone's now a little confused.)

I was brought up in the northeast of England (God's own country), went to university in Bristol and worked for the rest of the 80's in London. When I first moved to the States, I lived in Dallas, but the rest of the time has been spent trying to come to terms with the oppressively hot summers and unbearably frigid winters of Chicago.

Happy Homemaker UK

In her own words: Follow my journey as it unfolds as an American mom living in England. Often featuring local locations and tidbits, I love photography & a good story.

Note from Lapland

In her own words: Note From Lapland is where I write about whatever the hell is on my mind, whether that’s Finnish supermarkets selling vibrators or more serious posts about dealing with life after children and discovering who you are but hopefully always in an entertaining manner.  I swear, I rant and rave, I make you laugh and hopefully also make you think.

Mommy has a Headache

In her own words: Who am I? Displaced Londoner now living in the States with my two little girlies and long suffering husband. Co-author of hilarious parenting book Cocktails at Naptimewww.cocktailsatnaptime.com My mom's an Austrian, my dad's a Brit, which makes me a Britaustrian, or possibly an Austrish?

The American Resident

In her own words: The American Resident is written by Michelle Garrett, an American expat making a home in Britain for over 20 years.

I am a freelance writer who enjoys being creative in an interactive way during my free time. That’s why, besides blogging, I also love cooking, gardening and hosting parties–all creativity enhanced by interaction with others. Sharing makes most things more fun.

As a freelance writer and professional blogger I have written for magazines, websites and larger projects. I am currently working on two eGuides for expats.

If you’re curious about my back story, click here: How I Got Where I am Today

If you would like one cool fact about me: I can do that thing where you run up to a chair, stand on it with one foot on the seat and one on the back, and slowly tip it over. Can you?

The New Diplomat’s Wife

In her own words: The plan was to become a diplomat myself, but I somehow ended up marrying one instead. We started out as a duet and recently became a trio, just to spice up the spirit of adventure. Previous post: Vienna, Austria Current post: Washington, DC

Vegemite Vix

In her own words: Well not all about me obviously, this is the internet.

I moved with my three kids, my dog, cat, a guitar and twenty boxes of books, from New Zealand to North Hampshire in the UK in August 2008. Why in God’s name did I swap beautiful beaches for Blighty, pavlova for pork pies and sand, surf, sun for …. snow… and sleet…

You’d be surprised how often I’m asked that question, but in truth, I did it for lots of reasons – work opportunities, opportunities for my kids, but mainly for the love of my Englishman this crazy man I met and fell in love with in Paris in June 2007.

This is the story of our experiences, of our brave adventure. Sometimes they’re funny, sometimes they’re sad, but always – at least I hope so – meaningful.

This is our story about how to really live – wet-paint-on-your-fingers-live – in another country as an expat, a long way from the places, the people and the land you call home.

And a final word for any aspiring bloggers out there (expat, mummy or other), here are 25 Top Tips for Bloggers from Expat Mummy Blogger, The American Resident, Michelle Garrett.

Are you an Expat Mummy Blogger? Get in touch and share your blog, tell us why you love blogging! 

You might also like:

KEA Keeps Kiwis Connected

Web Wednesday

Expert Excellence featuring Robin Pascoe

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The Other Stuff

Our house in Libya was one of my favourites. Sure, it had a resident rat living in the clothes dryer pipe, a very inconsistent electricity source and random pipes that would burst causing water to inexplicably shoot through a wall at any given hour of the day - but I loved that house. A lot happened in that house.

When our shipment arrived in Tripoli it was a mess. It appeared that the container had been opened by customs, searched and then squashed back in sideways. Chairs were broken, picture frames smashed and ornaments misplaced. For months we'd find ourselves remembering something that was no longer with us "where's the silver teapot from KL?" And then we'd realize it didn't make it.

As the furniture made its way off the truck and was carried in to the house, even in its disheveled state, I automatically felt like we were settling. I think it's a natural thing when you're traveling, as soon as that container/shipment arrives there's a feeling of calm. Photos are placed on mantles, clocks on walls, beds are made with familiar sheets. The change table and cot that were in Jakarta and then in KL were now in Libya, it was familiar - it was going to be okay.

The minute the dining table was up we began entertaining. I taught myself how to bake and in between breastfeeding, toilet training and bum wiping I'd usually manage to coax a few extras into our lounge room each week. G and I learnt how to make our own alcohol, yes Mr Ghaddafi we did, and after working through some supply issues, soon enough we were having dinner parties and curry nights resulting in our house being known as the Australian Embassy. 

When we moved to Canada, bought a house and became settled we began the routine again (minus the grog making). The children were tiny, we became experts at child friendly events, feeding little people on arrival and attempting an adult meal that usually resulted in at least one child being passed around as each of us finished a meal. In Houston we had a fairly constant stream of people either around the pool or at the dining table, we cooked ribs and G barbecued the side of the house, but that's another story for another time.

And then we came to Qatar. And we stopped entertaining.

When we moved here we came with a container full of flat packed IKEA furniture, it was all shiny and new and without the scuffs and memories of 10 years of travel it suddenly felt soulless. The other "stuff," the "stuff" that we scoured through furniture stores in Jakarta and picked up in markets in KL and discovered in the Souq in Tripoli was all sent back to Australia.

When the shipment came off the truck and was all assembled I looked around our house and said to G "it doesn't feel like our home". I wanted to sit at our dining table, I wanted to see the framed Libyan wedding jewellery and the big blue bowl that had been with us everywhere. I'm embarrassed to admit this, but when people came to the house I would find myself explaining what we'd left behind "we have this great dining room table, but it's back in Australia".

Really? Who cares?

I drove G crazy. Every time he'd suggest having a group over to dinner I'd say the house wasn't up to it. I found excuses, we didn't have the right table, we didn't have enough plates, when really the underlying problem was I wasn't house proud. Which is just dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Some of the prettiest houses are filled with the ugliest people.

We bought some new plates (I love my new pink plates, that's them up the top), some new cutlery and little bits and pieces, but more importantly I finally got over myself. Our house is just fine and I'm a tosser for thinking otherwise.

Last night we had ten people come over for dinner. In the afternoon G and I stood in the kitchen together and cooked, we argued over time constraints, did some passive aggressive mumbling and nearly divorced over entree plates, and then we sat down to a really fun evening. This morning we began planning the menu for next weekend and the weekend after.

I like the other stuff, but I can live without it.

The Slow Dance

I can't remember who passed me the note, but its impact was similar to a swift blow to the stomach with a pick axe. "We don't want you to sit with us anymore" they'd all signed it.  As I read the words the blood drained from my twelve year old face, I immediately felt ill. I quickly stuffed the note into my pocket, I wanted it to disappear. It was lunch time, where was I going to go? Who would I sit with? The dread sat in the bottom of my stomach, it grew with each second that passed, tick, tick, tick. I made my way to the library, I walked with purpose, like I had somewhere to be, people to see. I couldn't let anyone know I was alone, friendless. I needed a friend. Who was going to be my friend?

It was my turn to be to dumped. Next week it would be someone else's. I spent my time with a group of girls that turned note writing into a sport.  Each week there was a new drama. Who had a bra? Who liked who? Which team did you get in to? Who would be the Captain. The wrong jeans, the right top. While standing in line to hand something to a teacher, one of the girls gestured to a boy lying on the floor reading a book "look how he's clinching his bum cheeks together" everyone giggled.

I fluctuated daily between kid and teen. One weekend I'd be riding my bike to the corner store to get an ice-cream, the next I was laying on a towel sunbathing at the local pool talking about boys. So much of what I did depended on who I was with. In the old language I would have been called immature, in this era I would be counseled, there would be conversations about providing me with the "necessary tools" to come up with "strategies"to make "smart choices".

It's not about mean girls, it's about a particular age and a particular time.

It doesn't matter how much we change the words, the lessons are still the same.

I picked up the first little traveller from the school dance last week, it's her second dance, she has the cutest sweetest friend that she goes with and I love LOVE the conversation in the back seat on the way home. The first time I picked them up they were giggling, I had to ask.

"OH MY GOD Mum! It was so funny! We were all dancing! And then the music changed! And a slow song came on! And then people started pairing up!"

All of this is told to me within fits of giggles.

"So, what did you do when people started pairing up?" It was one of those questions that I wasn't sure I wanted the answer to.

"WE JUST RAN!" they both said in unison.

This is the fun part, the part where you dress up, where you giggle and eat popcorn and have sleepovers and listen to the same song one hundred times in a row. And then you go to soccer practice and instead of just handing out coloured bibs to identify teams, someone yells out "can we pick our own teams?" And you find yourself standing alone, the last person to be chosen. Don't cry, don't cry.

Instead of telling me exactly what happened she complained about her lunch box. Later that night, when I asked again her bottom lip began to quiver. As she relayed the story, my eyes began to fill with tears, I didn't have any solutions. All I could say was "that's completely shit and I so wish you didn't have to have this happen to you." And then I told the truth. "It might happen again, it might happen next week, but this will make you stronger. Years later when you start work and you either do or don't get the promotion, you'll handle it that little bit better. You'll be tougher because of this." I'm not sure if she believed me.

This week they chose the teams on their own again. Her name came up early in the procedure. I walked by the field, pretending it was a coincidence, she was laughing with a friend and gave me an absentminded wave.

I've listened to "This American Life"in the snow, the swamp and the desert. I first discovered it in Canada. I'd get caught up in a show on a drive to the supermarket and end up having to sit in the car park for the next 30 minutes because I couldn't bear to miss the end of the story.

Here's their take on Middle School, if you have a child anywhere near the age of 11 onwards you have to listen to this. For those of you with younger children, this quote is for you;

"The terrible twelves are a complete analogue to the terrible twos, they're just not as cute"

 Linda Pearlstein - Author of Not Much Just Chilling, the hidden lives of middle schoolers.

Take a listen:

Can you "take" a listen? Maybe have a listen? 

I like it.

The eldest little traveller is eleven. This means she has entered the world of the tween and is beginning to speak another language.

It's a language I'm picking up in snippets.

I find it's much the same as learning French or Arabic, apart from the fact there are no books and every time you get something wrong your teacher rolls her eyes and tells you you're sooooooo embarrassing!

The other challenge is I can never receive a set lesson time, it's important that I catch what she's said the first time around as having to repeat yourself to your mother is about as annoying as a mosquito in a sleeping bag. Don't even bother trying to schedule a lesson in the morning.

Apart from the usual gangsta talk, I'm learning a whole new concept of "like". Gone are the days of just "liking" something, you have to "like, like" it. As in "like" it online.

Ms 11 is not on Facebook and doesn't have a phone, but she's a keen Instagram fan.

"Can you post that so I can like it?" has become a regular request.

"But I know you like it?"

"Yeah, but I want to like like it.

Every time we watch a link together on my laptop I receive the prompt.

"You need to like it".

"But I'm not sure if I like it that much?"

"You should still like it"

This appears to be a universal issue. A girlfriend of mine who has a household of girls, refereed a recent argument over a picture on Facebook "I posted it and you didn't 'like' it" announced the eldest to her younger sister. She'd said she liked it, but she hadn't like liked it.

It's important to "like" it.

You may have noticed there's something new on 4 kids, 20 suitcases... today.

I have a Facebook page. It's up there in the top right hand corner. I turned a 10 minute exercise in to about three hours of blogging template hell - it wasn't pretty and I will not be heading back in to the world of html code for awhile.

If you like, you can like it.

Power Walking.

Our morning routine has involved a few adjustments this year. We are now spread across several sections of a very large school which means three separate drop off points. With changes in security, getting in and out of the school has become somewhat similar to making it through the Los Angeles airport with a swiss army knife and set of pruning shears. Lets just say there's been a few glitches.

This week I asked the third little traveller if he could walk the fourth to his classroom each morning. I think the third traveller misunderstood me and thought I was asking for him to donate a kidney as he was, well, not impressed with the idea.

"But he walks sooooooo slowly" followed by "you don't understaaaaaaaand - I'll never get time to play with my friends" seemed to be the top two grievances with the new morning request. I delved in to my personal parenting strategies and sound parenting ideas and thought about the best way to handle things.

I bribed him. 

We made a deal, a week of walking his little brother to class and there would be an extra treat at the weekly visit to the corner store. He was allowed to have an extra lolly.

As I dusted off a little piece of parenting guilt from my sleeve, I thought about why this particular bribe was making me feel a little more dirty than some of my others. It wasn't just the bribing bit, but more the fact that one child couldn't even manage to walk the other to his door. I want the little travelers to care about each other. I understand that they're not going to always like each other, but was I seriously bribing one child to walk next to another? 

The end of the week arrived and there was much excitement on the way to the corner store. The third little traveller ran through his list of wants and needs and everyone trotted in to the store together to do their usual five minute perusal of the shelves, before picking the exact same thing they picked last week. As I loaded the water in to the back of the car, the fourth little traveller walked out of the store with a look of devastation on his face - something terrible had happened to the third little traveller. 

"He's crying Mummy, he put his drink on the counter and it tipped on the floor and its all over the ground"

The third little traveller came out of the store with tears running down his flushed cheeks. He was in a flux of embarrassment and disappointment. His sisters followed behind him.

"The man said you could have another one" said the first little traveller.

"I'm too embarrassed" his head was in his hands as she stroked the top of his head.

"I'll go and get it for you!" said the second little traveller as she ran back in to the store.

I watched them all fuss over him. When the second little traveller emerged from the store with the new drink he smiled through his tears, "thank you". She smiled back at him. 

I watched their faces as they moved instantly from that moment, on to the topic of who was going to the park, and who got first dibs not the computer tomorrow. 

They care about each other. They might not always like each other, but that's okay.

Stranger Danger

There's been some "security issues" at a school just down the street from ours, and a warning was sent out to parents about keeping an eye out for suspicious behaviour. As you can imagine, the community got talking and within days I had about three stories to choose from. All involved a man, a car and a proposition to a child. 

The little travellers have been warned many times about not getting in to cars with strangers, but I thought I'd better return to the conversation. I'd always felt reasonably confident that they wouldn't get in to a car with a stranger, but a couple of minutes in to the conversation, I now wasn't entirely convinced.

As we drove to school we talked about things a stranger in a car might say to you to get your attention. I began with "he/she may offer you sweets". In my rear vision mirror I saw the second and fourth little traveller's ears prick up, the chocoholics of the family were instantly interested in exactly what sort of lollies might be on offer. I moved on "another thing they may say is that I sent them to pick you up" suddenly the first little traveller could see how it could happen. In her self appointed role as deputy mother she reminded everyone about the family password. I hadn't heard a word from the third little traveller, I looked in the mirror and said "They may try and make you feel sorry for them, they might tell you they've lost a pet or need help". 

He couldn't see how any of this applied to him. It wasn't getting through. I went for the jugular.

"They may tell you they have a playstation or Xbox at their house" He immediately became interested. We don't have either an Xbox or a Playstation and because of this the third little traveller feels he's playing the role of a deprived young child in a Dickens novel. We are ruining his life. 

"Exactly what would the person do to us?" His brain was ticking over. I could see him weighing up his options - asking himself if it was worth getting in the car? I mean how bad could this place be if it had an Xbox or a Playstation?

And that's when I decided to tell them.

In that moment I could see that I needed to go further. They didn't get it. 

I told them about the man I once worked with, the man who I believed was a really lovely man. A man I went to the pub and had beers with. A man who would then spend his weekends convincing children to get in the car with him by telling them he was a talent scout. 

"Did he hurt them?"

"Yes he did, very very badly. And it took the police awhile to find him, but when they did, when they saw the videos, they were incredibly sad that he'd managed to get those children to come home with him"

No-one asked for more details and I wouldn't have given them, I could see the message had been received. There was no more contemplation of Playstations or chocolate.

And then I felt like the worst parent in the world. I felt like I'd stolen a little piece of their innocence, that I'd made them start thinking about creepy people who were out to steal them. What if I'd scared them? What if I'd really damaged them? I pictured them laying on couches in therapy, working through their distrust of strangers and having their "breakthrough moment" when they remembered the conversation they had with their mother in the car on the way to school.

This popped up in the SMH this morning;

The Sydney Morning Herald reported today that there has been a 30% jump in the numbers of Australians arrested for child pornography since 2010.

The head of the federal police's cyber-crime unit, Assistant Commissioner Neil Gaughan, said there might have been no increase in the number of adults sexually assaulting children but, ''we are seeing those sexual assaults being recorded, and those sexual assaults being uploaded onto the internet''.

''There's no empirical evidence of an increase in child abuse, but we're seeing an increase in the number of violent images that clearly have not been commercially made,'' he said.

There was a 30 per cent jump, from 136 to 180, in the number of Australians arrested for child pornography offences last year compared with 2010.

Mr Gaughan said: ''I think there's two schools of thought here, one that there's been a proliferation of the image-making and the image dissemination. There's also a school of thought that the reason why we're getting so many more referrals is that law enforcement and industry are working better together and we're discovering a lot more.''

I'm hoping more arrests means better police work. 

In the meantime I'll return to the fine balance of parenting while I pop another few dollars in to the future therapy fund jar.

What do you think? How did you/would you warn your children about stranger danger? How much do you need to tell them?

5 tips to slow it down and make the most of your day.

I'm trying not to begin the countdown. Last night at the dinner table everyone started making their calculations. How many weeks until our guests get here? How long until Easter? And then it came "well how many weeks until we go back to Australia for school holidays?"

Last year we began the countdown at 17 weeks.

This meant that every Thursday morning (the end of our working week) we would drive to school and talk about exactly how many sleeps and what we would eat and where we would go and who we would see when we got there - which was all fine. However, it was all in the future.

This year I am living in the present.

I've wished away far too much of my life. When the children were babies I wished mostly for sleep, but I had milestones along the way that broke up the time. I wished away pregnancies "only 12 more weeks". I couldn't wait until she she would sleep through the night or sit up on her own. I couldn't wait until he could hold his own sippy cup. I couldn't wait until she could crawl, walk, talk, buy me a beer.

Still waiting.

I began sentences with "imagine when they can bath themselves" and "imagine when they can brush their own teeth". We counted down the days for every holiday, days until G came home, days until Granny arrived. And while I was marking the days off the calendar, I never stopped to realize that I'd just lost another day of my life.

I'm not losing any more days. I'm slowing it down. And I've come up with 5 ways to do it.

1.     Get offline.

Anyone else sit down at the computer and look up to discover they've just lost an hour of their life? From now on there are set times for surfing the web, scanning Facebook and giggling over Twitter. I set very strict screen time for the little travellers but not for myself? Ah, the sweet irony of parenthood.

2.     Put my phone in my handbag.

I carry my phone in my hand, this means I am constantly looking down. I do it without thinking, I glance for an update, a message, an email. I glance while I'm at the cash register, I glance while I wait to pick up the children. I glance when I see someone else glance. Have you ever noticed that technology is as infectious as a yawn?

3.     Schedule my day and stick to it.

I work from home so my time is a little too flexible for my personality. It's time to stick to the schedule. I can drag anything out. Whether it's the gym, the grocery shopping, a "quick" coffee, or cleaning out the kids cupboards. My calendar now has a timetable of blog/book/articles/communication. It also has the fun stuff like coffee and gym but no more wondering around over to get a towel and striking up a lovely chat with the elderly man who's going skiing in Switzerland with his wife in a few weeks. They have three children and six grandchildren, scattered all over the world. Their daughter had some health problems but all is well now. They like it here, they think they'd like to stay, they just bought a new car..... twenty minutes later! I really didn't need to spend those 20 minutes shooting the breeze by the water cooler. Which brings me to my next point.

4.     Shut up.

Over the years it has become apparent that I could strike up a chat with a basketball hoop if I was in the mood. If I've ever wondered where the time went it was usually because it was unproductive time. If I've written 3,000 words that morning I know exactly where the time went - if I've spoken 3,000 words, not so much. I can still chat, I just need to remember to keep an eye on the time.

5.     Stop and look.

I am determined that I will look each child in the eye at least once a day. I know this sounds ridiculous, I drive them to school and pick them up every day. We go to activities, talk in the car, I lean over homework and wash hair in the bath that night - but there have been evenings I've laid in bed and wondered if I actually stopped and took the time to see the little travellers. I am going to really try to not rush them in and out of the car, to the bath or the dinner table. It doesn't make it any faster when I clap my hands and raise my voice. But let's just say, ahem, for arguments sake that we ARE running late and consequently in a bit of a hurry. I will take the time to see their faces when I kiss them goodbye.

Everyone needs to be seen.




What do you think? Any tips? How do you make the most of each day?

My Little Brother - The Endurance Race.

I have often been told, by the two eldest travellers (the two girls) that I don't realize just how lucky I am that I don't have a little brother. In fact, the eldest little traveller has told me on several occasions that I should ring Granny Max and thank her for sparing me.

"If you knew how annoying little brothers are - you'd ring her. Actually you'd send her flowers with a note saying THANKYOU Granny for not putting me through the pain of a little brother".

This evening when I was putting the girls to bed they had a visit from one of their little brothers. He was proudly showing off the front tooth that he'd bought home in a bag from school. And just when we all thought the sole purpose of his visit was to brag about being "cashed up" in the morning and that his sisters of course would be bereft of any visiting fairies, he outdid himself. As they stood around him looking at the tooth he began to laugh and then said "oops, I just cut the cheese - in your bedroom!" and made a quick exit while they screamed.

"Heeeeeeeeeeeee's soooooooooooo grooooooooooooos" said the first little traveller.

"You didn't get me - I can't even smell it" said the second little traveller with her head under the quilt.

The beagle left the room.

"Oh come on - he's so sweet and he loves you, what's the worst he could do?" I was trying to calm things down.

"He breathes" said one.

"He's alive" said the other.

I shut it down. We weren't getting anywhere and the aroma of Fart number 8 was lingering, the timing for the family love chat wasn't good.

When I went to kiss the boys I found the cheese cutter tucked up in bed with a satisfied grin.

"Sometimes they just make my job so easy" he was genuinely pleased with himself.

Perhaps little brothers were put on this earth solely to torment their sisters?

Here's the thing I've noticed about older sisters though.

Older sisters are allowed to "cut the cheese" whenever they like, it can be loud, it can be soft, it can be deadly - it never really happened.

Older sisters can be told by little brothers that their home-made cookies "are the best cookies in the world" and their response will be "you only get one" before swiftly sharing them with the entire neighborhood.

Older sisters can dictate which school gate is entered, which car seat is sat in and who gets how much popcorn for movie night.

Older sisters will always win the death stare, occupier rights in the bathroom and the who gets to hold the money argument.

Older sisters have the power, the control and the instinct to make a little brother the size of an ant in a moment. Hearing your sister shout "Are you wearing underpants?" across a playground. Followed by a "remember how you forgot to put them on yesterday" is enough to dent any mans ego.

And finally, older sisters will not notice who the first person was to run towards them at the end of the basketball final, the very same person who stood on a chair to cheer when they scored their first goal. They will not see the look of adoration that only a younger sibling can provide.

A siblings love can seem like a series of quick scores. A she did/he did event. I wonder what age we are when we realize it's an endurance race - that you'll both be there until the end?



How old were you when you realized your siblings were some of the best friends you were ever going to have? Or are you pleased not to have any at all?

I live in the desert.

I live in the desert. Is it just me or does everyone have to double check the spelling for desert/dessert every time they type it? The reason I mention the desert is because it's very easy to forget you live in the desert in Qatar. When you're situated on the Persian Gulf, surrounded by water and modern architecture, it can slip your mind that just outside the city limits is sand. Lots of sand.

Until it gets windy.

For the past two days the wind has been crazy. Sand drifts across streets in purposeful waves, the sky is the colour of a butternut and a city view becomes a distant memory. My hair is full of grit. My skin has an extra layer and my eyes are in a state of permanent squint.

As I made my way across the school car park yesterday I watched mothers clutching the hands of their children. Someone was walking backwards trying to lessen the impact. A girlfriend of mine stopped talking mid sentence and said "I can feel the sand on my teeth".

Most of the houses here don't have carpet, it means the children can draw and sketch with just an index finger and a kitchen floor. Me? Exaggerate?

Okay, but I can feel the sand on my feet as I walk from room to room. It's on my laptop as I type, it's on the plants, the windows, the cupboards and it piles up in miniature dunes at the front and back door.

Here's the view through our back window.

My laptop.

I live in the desert. Not the dessert.

Take a picture in your mind.

In the week leading up to our wedding a good friend of mine, a guy I'd known for years, quietly offered a suggestion for the big day. Momentous occasions such as weddings, births and deaths seem to attract well meaning recommendations - sometimes they don't apply, this one I've kept and reused.

"At some stage during the evening, walk away. Find a minute for yourself. Find a spot where you can just stand and take it all in. Look at everyone from a distance and take a picture in your mind. A snapshot for your memory. It'll go so fast, before you know it, it will be over - but you'll always have that picture".

He was absolutely right.

I still have that picture. I was standing in my parents back yard, about 50 metres from the marquee - looking in. I could see G talking with his sister, a friend was playing the guitar while others sang along, my parents were at a table with their friends, friends that have been in my life forever - all of it is crystal clear. I haven't looked at our wedding photos for years, but that moment is mine. It's embedded.

Often when the little travellers are doing something special, they'll see something they feel is picture worthy. Sometimes it's not special - it's an event out of the blue. This morning it was a group of men in uniform on camels. "Take a picture in your mind" someone screamed, and in an instant I saw them all close their eyes as if that moment was being captured forever.

When I watch them do it, I wonder how differently their pictures will translate. For some it may be the camels, for others it will driving to school in Doha.

I grew up in a small country town in a little house where my Grandparents lived next door, my Aunt and Uncle next to them.  It felt safe. It was reliable and warm. There was always someone watching. The kindergarten I went to was 100 metres from my back gate. The primary school, one street away. The high school - right next to the Primary School. If someone would have told me to take a picture I would have told them there was no need. It was always going to be there. It would always the same.

The little travellers couldn't be having a more different childhood than mine. Each one of them was brought home to a different house, in a different country after their birth. Obviously, I think about it. Will they feel safe? Will they feel secure? Has life been too disjointed? We bought the beach house with one plan - they wanted somewhere that stayed the same, a base, a home.

In my picture of the wedding there are only people. I remember the marquee was pretty, I remember how long it took friends and family to tie the bows on the back of the chairs. But in my picture, the focal points are the faces - my G, my parents, my friends, my family.

Sometimes the location is irrelevant. It's the people that make the picture. Houses can be painted, extensions added, kitchens renovated. My fathers smile has always been the same, my mothers laugh has never changed.

Take a picture in your mind.