Get Your Knickers Off - part 4

"I need vegetables"


That was my only request for this weekends "Get your knickers off" meal by G. If you haven't heard where the GYKO came from, have a look over here.


We'd celebrated a little too well at the Australian and New Zealand ball on Thursday night. Friday we were out again at a 50th birthday party which involved a 1.00am finish and a few glasses of champagne. Consequently, I woke up on Saturday morning feeling like I needed to be kind to my body. It needed lots of water and vegetables. 


G originally began with something from Gourmet traveler, but it involved lamb being dusted in flour, and there were anchovies with broccoli. I wasn't sure if it was GYKO material. And then he found this!


Jamie's Spring Lamb Vegetable Platter, mint sauce and chianti gravy. It's from Jamie's 30 minute meals (if you have a sous chef) I added the bracket to the title myself. The flavours in this meal are amazing. It was exactly what I needed. We invited a couple of friends over and they agreed. I haven't asked my girlfriend if she got her knickers off, her husband didn't cook the meal, but he was definitely giving it his best shot when they left our house.


I'll put all of the ingredients below with a link to the recipe. The process was stunning to watch. The house smelt fabulous. After the lamb had been seared in the frying pan it was coated with rosemary, garlic, dijon mustard and white wine vinegar.

The tomatoes were then placed on top of the lamb in the roasting tray and baked. Those tomatoes were delicious. DELICIOUS!

The vegetables stole the show. They were done in a chicken stock and there was a hint of lemon and mint. They were added to pan at the end. Here's how it came to the table.

Once again, my photography has let us down, but this meal is a winner. G thought maybe the lamb was a bit chewy so maybe that's one thing to watch out for. The mint sauce that came with it was perfect. It was definitely GYKO worthy. 


To everyone who has sent me notes regarding G's risotto, thank you, see I told you it was THAT good! And to the husband in Doha who made G's risotto for the first meal he's ever cooked for his wife - I hope it worked a treat ;-)




Here's the ingredients:


LAMB
• 1 x 8-bone rack of lamb, fat removed
• 1 x 2-piece pack of lambneck fillet
(approx 250g)
• 3 sprigs of fresh rosemary
• 2 cloves of garlic
• 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
• white wine vinegar
• 300g cherry tomatoes on the vine

GRAVY
• 4 rashers of smoked bacon
• 2 sprigs of fresh rosemary
• 1 heaped tablespoon plain flour
• ½ a glass of red wine

VEGETABLES
• 500g baby new potatoes
• 250g baby carrots
• stalks from a bunch of fresh mint
• 1 organic chicken stock cube
• 200g fine beans
• 200g runner beans
• ½ a Savoy cabbage
• 200g frozen peas
• a knob of butter
• ½ a lemon

MINT SAUCE
• leaves from a bunch of fresh mint
• 4 tablespoons red wine vinegar
• 1 tablespoon golden caster sugar

SEASONINGS
• olive oil
• extra virgin olive oil
• sea salt & black pepper



Here's a link to the recipe 


And here's Jamie's 30 minute meals (without the sous chef)

Nose to Nose and Five Different Accents.

It had been a long day at the end of a very long week. The birthday party was the last item on the agenda. It was on the other side of town. After dropping her off I then had to pick up another child, drop them at home and head back to the supermarket. I'd been earlier that day and forgotten the one crucial element for dinner. Don't you hate that?  

When I returned to the party to take her home, they were yet to cut the cake. She was blissfully happy and begging for just five more minutes. I took a seat with a couple of the other mothers and watched the next hour roll by. The groceries remained in the back of the car. It was Thursday night (our Friday) and I was ready for a glass of wine. There is zero tolerance for driving under the influence of alcohol in Qatar. Zero, not even a glass or a sip. I looked down at my water and thought about how lovely that glass of wine was going to be. G sent a text, he was on his way home. We'd stayed an extra hour. It was well and truly time to go.

And then the children disappeared.

To say that my blood was boiling would be an exaggeration, but it was definitely heating up. I'd promised her five more minutes again and again and again, and when she knew her time was up - she disappeared. In the distance you could see bodies at the park at the end of the street. I collected her things, and got in  the car. As she looked up through the monkey bars, I saw her see me, and then run and hide.

I could feel a little vein pulsing in the side of my head. 

Her friends giggled and innocently said "she's not here" and then I very calmly and slowly (as in scary calm and slow) said "get. out. from. behind. the. bush. we. are. going. home." She looked a little frightened as she made her way towards me. We probably could have moved on from there, if what happened next didn't happen.

She didn't say thank you.

She was searching through her goody bag when the birthday girl's mother arrived at the car window. I was waiting to hear the words "thanks for having me" when out of her mouth came "I can't find the lollies from the piñata". 

I stared at her. The mother stare. The one that is so much more than a stare, it's a glare and a stare combined. I was trying to telepathically convey to her that if she didn't say thank you right now, she wouldn't be attending another birthday party until she was old enough to drive herself there.

We said goodbye and left. I drove away from the party, turned a corner and then found a safe place to park. And then I lost it. Really, really, lost it. I was horrified and I told her. I talked about looking people in the eye, about respect, about how much work a party involves and how lucky she was to be invited. My hands were shaking. 

"I can't. I get embarrassed. I don't like it". Her eyes were filled with tears.

I was exactly the same as a child. 

Brimming with confidence with other children, it never made any sense as to why I struggled so much with adults. I never got the thank you thing right. I was never great at answering the questions or speaking on the phone. I remember the awkwardness of "say hello to Mrs Smith, Kirsty" and feeling my shoulders slouch and suddenly becoming very interested in what was on the ground.

And this is how it came to be that we sat in the car on a Thursday afternoon and practiced our thank you. Until it became hysterically funny. Nose to nose thank you, cross-eyed thank you, we said thank you in five different accents. And at the end, she said "I'm sorry I ran away Mum". As I hugged her I said "next time you hide? I will get back in the car and mow you all down."

When my friend Gina dropped Annie to the house this Thursday there was much excitement. They'd had their hands painted with henna, there was giggling and hugs for the beagle. And then I noticed that she was following Gina, walking inches behind her waiting to get in her face. I could almost see her heart beating through her chest. She stood right in front of Gina, looked her in the eye and in a clear loud voice said "thanks for having me". 

I don't know how to say thank you adequately for your comments on my last post. Every comment had something about it that made it unique. Every comment let me know that you were out there. Some of you really made me laugh and others had me in tears. When you tell me that you read my posts to your 87 year old mother, I can't think of a bigger compliment. 

A very special girlfriend of mine, who's not only known for her honesty and kind heart, but her unique ability to call a spade a spade - sent me a note:

I saw your blog about not being nominated #fail - not sure how the whole thing works but know one thing - you can write and your recent Anzac one was an awesome tear jerker which I copied the link to a pile of friends. Suck it up princess and get back on the keyboard - I am always waiting and looking forward to your next blog and I reckon I'm not alone x

I'm back on the keyboard and I promise not to wallow again. I will continue to enter competitions and be disappointed when I lose, but I will know that it doesn't matter because someone bothered to print out my writing and take it to their 87 year old mother. 

So thank you with our noses together, and thank you with cross-eyes, and thank you with five different accents.

Thank you.

The Day that Dad Auditioned for X Factor

I could hear G wandering around, I didn't open my eyes, I didn't need to, I could follow his movements with my ears. Cupboard opening (jocks and socks) cupboard closed. Electric toothbrush on, tap running. Cupboard opening again (dental floss) cupboard closed. Cupboard opening, a suit came off the hanger, a shirt, a tie. Cupboard closed. A belt was fastened. I finally opened one eye to see him fully dressed with shoes in his hand.

“What time is it?”

“Just before six – I have a meeting that I'm not ready for, I need to go in early. I've made smoothies.”

The third little traveler passed his father in the doorway.

“Hey Dad”

“G'day mate! Have a great day today.”

And he was gone.

“Hey Mum” I wipe away the little tiny pieces of sleep dust in his eyes.

“Hey”

As he snuggles in to bed with me he looks over my shoulder towards the remote, he's hoping for morning TV “Where did Dad go?”

“He's gone to audition for the X Factor”

We both giggle.

“He's gone to work, right?” He's pretty sure I'm joking about the X Factor thing but he just wants to make sure.

The remote is pointed towards the television, we are instantly joined by a bunch of leopards killing a small grey furry animal that neither of us can identify. It's loud, too loud. 

"Can you turn it down?"

He can't get the buttons to work. The noise continues.

I turn on my computer and read the news that I have not been chosen as a finalist for an Australian Blog competition. It confirms my suspicions that I should not be writing. I am clearly crap at it.

Sudden movement catches my eye through the door frame, I see a silhouette, I know it will be the second little traveler. The other two, the two who share my morning disposition are fast asleep. I want to wallow in self pity, I wince at the idea of waking them, having the same conversation.

“Come and help me wake your sister and brother?”

“No way. Do I look like I have a death wish?” says the third traveler.

I need smiles and optimism for this to work, I smile as I walk into the room. The first body is easily moved. “Can I carry you?” I offer. I take him into the next room and begin the next round of negotiations. We begin with a flat no and work from there. I remind her that it's Thursday, that the week is nearly done and then I remember I have a wild card. There is testing today at school, it cannot be missed.

A foot emerges from the quilt like a white flag in a battlefield.

Downstairs, they all hover around me as I pour the smoothie and then gasp as the lid flies off of the top of the blender. Thick strawberry smoothie juice flows over the kitchen bench and makes its way like lava over the kitchen cupboards.

“What'd you do that for?” asks the fourth little traveler.

I take a deep breath. 

I know that G has done this on purpose. It is clearly his fault and he has ruined my life. This smoothie is ruining my life. It is this smoothies fault that my book is unfinished and I have not been nominated for the bloggers competition. I hate this smoothie. This smoothie is making me feel worthless, useless, a complete failure.

Two travelers begin a disagreement. One is reaching across the table with his hand saying “I bet you can't hit me” and then cries when she proves him wrong.

My teeth clench and my jaw aches while I mop up the smoothie, I shut out the sounds of “he asked me to” and “did too".

I open the refrigerator door. There is no cheese for sandwiches. The absent cheese is ruining my life. I hate the absent cheese. As glance towards the clock, I begin the routine. 

“Don't forget you have PE today.”

“What time is your concert.”

“I thought you were finishing at 4? Are you sure you're not finishing at 4.”

“Does that book need to go back to school today.”

"Where are your shoes? This is the third time, do not make me ask again."

“Five more minutes.”

“I'm leaving in two minutes.”

I think about how I could just put them on a bus. I could go back to the office. Forget the writing, forget the book. I want a bonus. A pat on the back. A business trip that involves sleeping in a hotel room on my own. If I go back to the office I'll buy my own smoothies. I'll go to breakfast meetings. I'll walk out in the morning, “have a great day!” 

I wipe the last remnants of the smoothie from the cabinets. The smoothie that ruined my life is gone. It turns out that no-one wanted cheese in their lunch. Someone wants me to come to a concert this afternoon, and I think I can. I remember when I couldn't go to the concert. When I was away. When I missed the rehearsal and a friend had to take photos for me. I'm not ready to go back there yet. 

And I'm freaking lucky I have the choice.

Wallowing over. 

A Motley Group

My eyes aren't working properly, this is due to the fact that they were open at 3.45 this morning. I love the ANZAC Day service, but the whole "dawn" thing is a killer for those of us who are not good in the mornings. I'm fine once I'm up, but oh my, the getting up bit was hard today.

Two of the little travelers have inherited my morning disposition. The first little traveler always requires some assistance, but after a trip to the Australian War Memorial last year she was keen to see her first dawn service. The fourth little traveler, not so much. He was there for the food.

"I'm eating this lamington for the soldiers in Jallipoly"

"It's Gallipoli Henry"

"Yep, I'm eating it for them"

I think there must have been about one hundred and fifty people there this morning. Living in an expat community often reminds me of growing up in a country town. As we wandered in and joined the group we said hello to a few of our teachers, there were familiar faces from work, sport and fun. A lot of little waves and hand gestures and nodding across the crowd.

We all looked a bit weird. Like we'd had a really big night and quickly sobered up by having a shower. No-one tells you that bit about getting old. That you look like shit if you don't get enough sleep. That it all takes a bit longer in the morning. That you may wake up with a creese across your cheek that will be with you until lunch time.

So there we all stood. Gym teachers in shorts, office workers in suits, men and women in uniform. A British soldier, a Canadian bugler and a collection of embassy workers from New Zealand, Australia and Turkey.

We were a motley group, but a group with a common goal.

That we would remember them.

No matter where we are.

We will remember them.

I've been to the desert...

Yesterday when I picked up the little travelers from school, Henry Hotdog's kindergarten teacher had something to tell me. "You have to tell your Mummy about the poem you wrote today Henry - can you tell her?" The hotdog considered the proposal for a moment and then proceeded to pull my head down towards his. In my ear he whispered.

"A poem - by Henwee"

He took a deep breath, I think this may have been a dramatic pause for effect.

"It's for my family" he qualified and continued with his whisper.

I want you to come to me.
I want you.
Come to me.
I want you to come to me.

My heart melted. I looked at the hotdog's teacher who was looking misty eyed.

"Isn't it beautiful?" It really touched me - he did it all by himself". She had her hand on her heart.

As I wandered off towards the school cafeteria with the third little traveler's guitar over one shoulder, the fourth's backpack on another, I felt weightless. I was lifted by the knowledge that someone had confirmed my thoughts all along, the fourth little traveler was truly special. The poem had just been another example.

It doesn't take much to send me down this path. The path of irrational thought towards each and everyone of my children being truly brilliant.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not setting any unreachable targets or asking for particular goals. It has nothing to do with sporting achievements or report cards. I just know that each of them has something that no-one else has. Their own je ne sais quoi, the indescribable core that comes from within, the essence that makes them them. I have no explanation as to why I can see this, except for perhaps that I am their mother. That from the moment they were handed to me in the hospital, I saw something that no-one else could see. And by the way that everyone else in the maternity ward was looking at their own babies, I could see I wasn't the only one. We'd all been instantly struck by an irrational love.

Later that afternoon, as we hopped in the car the third little traveler announced that he could now play "horse with no name". I was a little doubtful, he has had five guitar lessons. It seemed a bit of a stretch. He pulled out his guitar and strummed a few bars and I could hear it! I could actually hear horse with no name. I'm not so sure if anyone else could hear it, but I could. In the same way that a mother points to an ultrasound and says "see, there's the fingers and theres the toes" and everyone is nodding, while looking at a blob in a balloon. I sang along as he strummed, his eyes shone and he grinned as he played.

"I knew you'd be able to sing it Mum, I knew you'd know it".

Maybe that's it? Maybe that's why we can see the potential and hear the music and believe that there is brilliance. We can see that our children have something unique, because they need us to. They need to know that we see them.

It's not unrealistic or irresponsible. It's just love.




How about you? Are you suffering from irrational love?

Has Anyone Seen the Remote?

Years ago, in a different location, a girlfriend of mine shared a story about her weekend. She and her husband had been to a dinner party at a friend's home. They were all expats and had begun to rely on each other in a way that expats do in the absence of family and old friends. Half way through the evening, after the consumption of alcohol, their new friends asked if they could request a favour.

"It's a bit awkward" they explained. "We were wondering, if anything happened to us, could you come over and get rid of the box?"

My girlfriend and her husband immediately said yes, and then realized they both had to admit that they had no idea what the couple were talking about.

"The box?"

Their hosts went on to describe the box that was kept hidden away at the back of the top shelf in the bedroom cupboard. It was full of sex toys. They explained that in the event of an accident, they really didn't want their children, or their grief stricken parents to find the box. They wanted to make sure the box was going to disappear. "Of course, we're happy to do the same for you!"

My girlfriend told me this story partly as a giggle about her and husbands deer stuck in the headlights reaction, but also because she didn't have a box and she was starting to wonder if she should have. Were they boring because they were boxless? Was there something missing in their routine? Had they been doing it wrong? How had they coped for all these years without a box?

Today I stumbled across an article that made me realize that maybe the days of the box are gone. Vibrators have not only become mainstream, they are now multifunctional. For example, the people at MojoWijo have made a few design changes to the wii remote.

Sure, it looks like fun, but I still reckon I'd have a hard time (pardon the pun) explaining the extra piece of apparatus to the little travelers. Can you imagine? "Has anyone seen the remote control?" followed by a breathless and hurried reply from Mum "just a minute kids".

Or there's the ten different vibrating apps you can apply to your iPhone. Which brings a whole new meaning to "I'm on the phone" no, I really am! And if you believe the people at frisky, the credit crunch has had us feeling (yep, I did it again) and looking at a few household items a little differently. I'm not sure I'll ever look at the pastry brush, electric toothbrush and the washing machine in the same way again.

For the traveling woman though, this one is definitely pushing all the right buttons (I had to). This USB flash drive not only keeps a low profile through customs, but it keeps 16GB of data, is water proof AND it vibrates.

"Where did you put the Christmas photos Mum?"

"Trust me, they're tucked away safely".

I'm afraid I have to leave it there, there's lots to do and I've been very unproductive, I've been on the phone all day.

"That'll be the cat."

It was nearly fourteen years ago that I flew to Queensland to meet my future in-laws. Hello, my name's Kirsty and I'm going to marry your son in about ten weeks - yes, lovely to meet you too!

G's parents took it all in their stride. When it comes to conversation, they are the King and Queen of diplomacy and tact. I have watched on in awe at G's family Christmas, where voices are rarely raised, issues are discussed and everyone is asked for their thoughts. There is a degree of order and calm. Pretty well the opposite of a meal with my own family.

G and his father are very much alike. Both in personality and looks. Same hair, same shoulders, same legs, same walk, same weirdly long arms. They employ the same mannerism when they speak. I was quite fascinated with G's Dad when we first met, as it was almost like looking through a window into my future, I was talking to a sixty year old G.

And then the doorbell rang and I realized that G's Dad was obviously senile.

"That'll be the cat" he said upon hearing the doorbell.

"I'm sorry?" I'd obviously misheard.

"The doorbell, that'll be the cat"

The rest of family acknowledged the arrival of the cat and continued on. It wasn't just him, they were all obviously crazy.

And off he went to open the door.

I had seen the doorbell, I knew it was an apparatus that had to be pushed. I knew it was at human height. I knew there was no way a cat could push that button.

And then the cat walked in.

The cat was one of those big fat don't mess with me British Blues. As it wandered by I'm sure I heard it say "what are you looking at new girl".

No-one said a word.

"That's amazing!" I was astounded by the cats obvious brilliance of being able to not only jump high enough, but to then push the button to let everyone know it was ready to come in.

I was now the crazy one.

Someone politely explained that the neighbours enjoyed a longstanding relationship with the cat and "borrowed" it each day. Every night, at dinner time they would ring the doorbell and drop the cat home.

Moving right along.

The beagle would love to have a relationship with our neighbours, mostly because she would like to eat their cats. It is for this reason that she is always kept on a leash when she's walked. The beagle spends a lot of her day working on an escape plan. She is walked three times a day and treats these walks as reconnaissance trips, gathering information and making mental notes.

Her escapes are usually made in the evenings, and are quickly put to an end when the guards at the gate of the compound ring us and let us know they have her.

Last night as G and I were heading to bed, the phone rang. I glanced at the clock, it was way too late for a social call.

"That'll be the dog" said G.




Family traits? Shared animals? Do you have any?

The girl in the green dress (except it's not, it's a shalwar khameez)

In December last year I wrote about "the girl in the green dress". I'd seen her picture that day in the New York Times and like everyone else, I was horrified. I'm not saying that lightly like "jeez I was horrified by the price of my electricity bill." I mean shocked, stunned, loss of breath, horrified. Which is exactly why photographer Massoud Hossaini has just won a pulitzer prize for his work.


An article I read today answered all of the questions I had at the time. I wonder what her name is? How old is she? I thought at the time she looked about the same age as the first little traveler. She is. Indiscriminate thoughts ran through my mind. Was it her best dress? It was.


"Tarana herself has scars on her legs and arms and walks with a limp. She no longer attends school because her legs hurt, she says, adding: “I hope I can get well soon and go back to school.”

Learning more about Tarana's life has provided insight, but the words have just made the picture more distressing. Tarana's father is unemployed, her family of seven live in what is described as a two roomed ramshackled house, a house which leads to an alley full of young men openly injecting herion.

I often wonder about our soldiers, how do they cope when they return home? When I talk about my geographical schizophrenia it all seems so middle class, so very first world. How does a soldier return to his family and not stop thinking about the Taranas of this world? The confusion that must come from being so happy to be going home, but knowing what you're leaving behind. 

If Massoud Hossaini hadn't won the Pulitzer prize, I imagine Tarana's name would remain a mystery.  I imagine her family would have been of little interest, for they are one of many families in the same situation. Understandably Tarana sounds a little confused by the attention:

That her picture has been featured on newspaper front pages around the world means little to her, she says, with a small shrug and a fleeting smile.

There's no way Tarana could comprehend how many people opened a newspaper, or clicked on a website and were shocked by her picture. Which is probably a good thing, because if she could she'd possibly wonder why she continues to live the way she does.

Here's the original post ::



Television was in its infancy during the Korean war but by the time Vietnam rolled along it was right there, in our homes.  For the first time the world was presented with haunting images on a daily basis. Who could ever forget "The girl in the picture"? Kim Phuc was nine when Nick Ut took this photo. The second little traveler is nine. Pictures like this were arguably so confronting that people began to ask more questions. Sometimes you can hear the story but it's not until you see the picture that you can really comprehend the horror.

Did I mention the second little traveler is nine?

Last week I read Sally Sara's "farewell to Kabul". It is such a beautiful piece of writing. Not only do you get a honest portrayal of life as a foreign correspondent but there are heart wrenching moments like this;

"But I have seen things here too that I wish I hadn't. Minutes I wish I could scratch away. Not so much for me, but for those whose lives have fractured in front of me. 

I still see one boy's face. His name was Abdul. He was an 11-year-old, who had been injured in a blast in Kandahar. He was brought into the military hospital with half his face blown away. The bandages around his head were covered in dirt, gravel, blood and vomit. He screamed and cried, pleading for the pain to stop. Adbul's face was so badly injured, I spent most of the time filming his feet. His toes flexed with the waves of agony. 

Abdul's suffering was not my fault but, as an adult, it was impossible not to feel responsible. I remember standing there thinking how utterly wrong it was that, live or die, this child would think this was what life was. It was just wrong.

And to think it was intentional. Someone had sat in a dusty compound somewhere, patiently lacing a homemade bomb with the nails and ball bearings that tore through this boy. A child should never know that life could be like that. The next day Abdul's dead body was carried out of the hospital, wrapped in a white sheet and cradled in the arms of his father."

Two days after this piece was aired there was yet another suicide bombing. This picture was in the New York Times.

The photo was taken by Massoud Hossaini, you can read about how he came to take the shot here. My first reaction when I saw this photo was pure horror. There are too many children, too many little hands and feet.  

I keep thinking about the girl in the green, wondering if that was her favourite outfit. Was it new? Who was she going to meet at the festival she was on her way to? I wonder about the people surrounding her. How many family members did she lose? Who was looking after her? Who was holding her hand? 

In 2011, this has to be our "the girl in the picture". 

Does she have the same impact? 

Look. There it is.

Somewhere, lost in the middle of the nineties - there I was. Brimming with confidence on the outside, dying with self doubt on the inside. I can never remember exactly which year anything happened when I think back to those days. I imagine it's probably because I don't really want to remember the exact details. I'm glad it's behind me, it's over.

Somewhere in amongst it, I was asked if I wanted to be in a hair show. And just to make sure I'm painting the right picture, it wasn't the type of hair show that involved photographers, stage lights and champagne. It was the type of hair show that involved the local pub, a complimentary Bacardi Breezer and a night with a group of hairdressers talking about colour codes and updo's.

I must have been about twenty four.

Part of the deal involved having a make-up artist complete our "look". I can't remember any details about her face or voice, where she came from or who she worked for, but I can remember one particular thing she said.

"Your eyebrows are driving me nuts! There's really nothing I can do with them".

I'd never given my eyebrows a second thought. "Why, what's wrong?"

"I can't get them into an arch, they're kind of flat, almost straight. It's just the way they are. Some people just can't have an arch in their eyebrow".

"Oh - I'm sorry - okay" I stumbled. Apologizing for my disappointing eyebrows, because that's what I said to anyone I found vaguely intimidating in my twenties.

I don't miss my twenties.

If I didn't get the job I really wanted, I almost apologized for applying "Oh - I'm sorry - okay".

If the particularly attractive salesperson of the incredibly groovy store didn't have my size, I apologized for being there "Oh - I'm sorry - okay"

It wasn't that I was a wallflower - I was far from it. I was the girl slamming the tequila, making the phone calls and organizing the party.

I just didn't want you to look me in the eye and ask me who I was, because I didn't like the answer. In my mind, I had faults that went way beyond my eyebrows. The unfinished university degree, the boyfriend who found someone better and the unpaid bills, were regular guests at my table of self loathing. I kept setting that table and serving myself up another plate.

I don't miss my twenties.

And then finally, I stopped. I started to see myself a little differently.

I realized I had a good job, great friends, I liked where I lived and life was pretty good. I was 28 and finally I wasn't apologizing anymore.

Two weeks ago I had an appointment in London, G and the travelers went off to the park and I found myself suddenly childless with an hour to kill. I love the way big cities can swallow you whole while charging you with their energy. There's no choice about the speed in which you walk, the sensory overload makes your fingers tingle and your hair stand on end. I ducked into a side street in Soho and saw a benefit store and knew it was my time to do the whole "benefit brow" thing.  When they told me they'd just had a cancellation, I saw it as fate. No children, an hour to kill - do it now!

"You've got great eyebrows" said my new best friend from benefit.

"No, I've get terrible eyebrows -  someone told me that years ago"

"What are you on about? Whoever told you that was a right plonker" she said with her gorgeous Londoner accent.

"Have a look at em!" she flashed the mirror in my direction.

And there it was. My arch. It had been there all the time.

I just wasn't ready, or perhaps able to see it.





Do you have a stage of your life that you're happy to forget?

Machine Guns at Recess

It was dark when we realized the fourth little traveler had left his backpack at school. It's a strange feeling doing the school run at 7pm. The feel of a school changes dramatically when it doesn't have any children. The corridors become eery, it's too quiet and empty. Playgrounds are barren and classrooms are lifeless.

The fourth little traveler left his brand new backpack in the car park and we went back to look for it. I swore under my breath as I shone my lights across the bare stretch of rubble we refer to as the school car park. How did I miss it? How did I not notice he didn't have his backpack? I remembered the first little traveler carrying it out of the gate for him, and I remembered watching her pass it to him half way across the car park, but I couldn't remember him putting it in the car.

I was distracted. I was thinking about something else.

There was a policeman standing outside of the school yesterday. There are always policeman outside of the school, but yesterday they changed their routine. Instead of sitting in the car at the corner, they stood at the gate. They were holding machine guns.

I walked straight past them without noticing.

I was walking along with a girlfriend, talking and holding hands with the smaller travelers while negotiating the traffic. It wasn't until we caught up with another friend who asked if we knew why the police were at the gate, that I gave it a second thought.

As we continued to wander along towards our cars we thought about events that were on in Doha. There were events that would call for a heightened security, but there was nothing that matched machine guns at the gates.

"The TED event?" we all agreed it didn't make sense.

"There's something bigger though, it's International, people flying in from everywhere..." no one could quite remember the details.

And then it came to a girlfriend of mine.

"Kabul. There were a number of attacks there today, I think mainly embassies and foreign offices."

Mystery solved. The conversation moved on. There was a new restaurant opening. Did we want to take the children for a swim on Thursday? Are you still okay to take my child home on Wednesday when I go to the dentist? The usual stuff. And then we got in our cars and drove off.

What was coming out of my mouth was not matching what was going on in my head. In my head I was wondering if any children were hurt and how many people had lost a parent. I thought about a friend who'd just finished working in Afghanistan and was pleased she was safe in Australia.

As we drove past the man with the machine gun I wondered what he'd been told. Was he there to make me feel comfortable, or was he there because he knew something we didn't.

And then I did what I always do. I stopped myself from thinking, because when you think too much about it your mind starts to wander. Should I start doing this? Should I stop doing that? And then they've won, because you've changed your life for them.

Our biggest causality was a backpack.

This morning the playground was bursting with children, the teachers stood outside sipping coffee and saying good morning to parents as they wandered by. The policeman was back at the corner, the backpack was waiting on a chair.

As I left the car park I thought terrible thoughts about evil people doing terrible things, and then I stopped myself.

If I change the way I live my life - they've won.

The Daddy Wars

A few days ago on national television in the US, a man made a massive generalization about another man who was the stay at home father to five children. "He's never worked a day in his life" was the phrase that kicked off the war. Which war? The Daddy war.

Working Dads and Stay At Home Dads came out of the woodwork to confabulate the choice of staying at home or returning to work. Many men spoke of Daddy guilt; after their birth of their children and returning to the office, they all agreed there was a huge period of adjustment. A large number of men referred to the latest Hollywood movie "I don't know how he does it" and clips were run and rerun of Brad Pitt frantically dusting a shop bought apple pie with icing sugar, before racing to drop his children at nursery school. All of the men on the panel admitted that they had been forced into the same scenario.

Men talked about juggling child care, doctors appointments and volunteering at school, and of course the added pressure of being a Yummy Daddy inflicted on them from men's magazines. The discussion continued throughout the day; was it easier to go to the office, harder to stay at home? Voices were raised. Feelings were hurt and ratings soared.

And where were the Mummies? They were looking on, shaking their heads and quietly thinking "I'm glad I don't have to worry about any of this shit".

If you do a google search on "Mommy Wars" at this very point in time, you will have a myriad of stories to choose from, all of which were posted over the past 48 hours. This is of course, due to the fact that Hilary Rosen, who calls herself a political strategist, made a statement that Ann Romney, wife of Republican candidate Mitt Romney had "never worked a day in her life". Whether you think that Hilary Rosen was misunderstood in her comments or you agree with them, we arrive at the same destination. Women arguing with women over choice. We return to the she said/she said discussion that continues to hold us back from an even playing field.

I am a Work From Home Mummy. I have also been a Stay at Home Mummy and a Work At The Office Mummy. The thing that annoys me the most about all of the "Mummy" titles, is there really is no equivalent title for my husband. He retuned to work when our first child was two weeks old, and as far as I know there was no backlash from other fathers, he has never felt judged or uncomfortable about his choice. No-one refers to him as a "working father." He is simply a father.

I have female friends that work from home and others that work in an office, I am at war with none of them. In fact it's quite the opposite. The women in my life are very much my support team. You will often see us negotiating pick ups and drop offs, parties and sporting events, we work in a syndicate. When I returned to full-time work at the office, I relied very much on the help from my Stay at Home Mother friends who were there when I was running late, stuck in a meeting or caught in a last minute crises.

There was no war.

Sure, we've all had our moment of being on the judging panel. The mother who spends 14 hours a day at the office. The mother who never comes on the field trip. The mother that doesn't "work" but has perfectly manicured fingers and toes AND she has a cleaner!

These things will always be discussed because they are opinion, and we will always have an opinion. It doesn't mean it has to be uncivilized. I have very different opinions to many of my friends, but they remain to be my friends. It's what makes the dinner party more interesting and the conversation lively.

I am not at war with any of my Mummy friends, it's quite the opposite. I couldn't survive without them.

Get Your Knickers Off - Part 3

Holidays in London are exciting, busy and really freaking expensive. As much I kept telling myself that the museums and parks were free, we still managed to hemorrhage cash on an hourly basis. At the end of our holiday we came home a little fatter, a little poorer and a little overtired. It was a fantastic family experience, but definitely not a holiday that involved a lot of a rest.

This week has been all about putting one foot in front of the other, children catching up on sleep and eating lots of vegetables. On Thursday night (because Thursday is our Friday) we had a family game of Monopoly and reminisced about Regent, Oxford and Piccadilly Street. They all have a different meaning now.

Friday was spent by the pool. It was heaven. A day of pure nothing. Nowhere to go, nothing to do, we read newspapers, glanced at magazines and intermittently swam. It was exactly what everyone needed. G and I were meant to be going out to dinner, but by the time 4 o'clock came we realized dinner at home was sounding a lot more appealing. The little travelers were having one of those out of the blue we all love each other days, and we had 3 episodes of survivor waiting for us.

G decided it was time for the third edition of Get Your Knickers Off.   Or as my friend Paula referred to it the other day, the GYKO. Thank God Knickers doesn't start with a N. Not quite as appetizing.

We stopped at the shops on the way home and collected some prawns, some Saudi Feta (they make really good Feta in Saudi Arabia - I know, who knew?!) and some pomegranate seeds. And with a little help from Jamie Oliver, G came up with this.

I wish I could take a photo to do this dish justice *sigh*

We didn't have any avocados otherwise this would be Jamie's Prawns and Avocado with an old-school Marie Rose sauce. G bought Jamie's "Ministry of Food" while we were in London and it's full of really good, simple recipes. It would be a great cookbook for a teenager leaving home or for someone who feels they can't cook.

The prawns were really delicious. G dusted them in flour, and then cooked them in olive oil with some garlic, a bit of salt and pepper and paprika. That's how they got that fabulous colour.

The sauce was similar to the one my mother makes for the compulsory Christmas prawn cocktail, which is probably why Jamie calls it an "old school Marie Rose sauce".

4 tablespoons mayonnaise
1 dessertspoon tomato ketchup
1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
1 teaspoon whisky
1 lemon
seas salt and freshly ground black pepper

The salad was crispy lettuce, feta, pomegranate seeds and a couple of home grown tomatoes.

The little travelers had strawberries and ice-cream for dessert, while I snuck in a few stray easter eggs with a really yummy glass of red wine.

Half way through the second episode I looked around the room and noticed we'd had a few casualties.

The 2nd little traveler began on the beanbag and ended dangerously close to the beagle's bottom. The beagle is just not good at sharing.

The third little traveler was on my lap.

It's nice to be home.

You can buy it here

Dancing with Knives

A large part of grief is fear, and my fear is grief. I don't want it near me, yet like a suspense thriller, I know it will come, maybe not in the first or second act, but it will come.

Death is life.

I'm currently in the scene of the movie where it's sunny and everyone is happily playing in the park. It's still early, the relationships have been established. When it's tumultuous you can still see there is love, but the music is changing. There's someone standing over by a car, or behind a tree, looking on. You know there's something coming, it's too good, you just know this can't last.

My fear is the obvious, my children. If they were to leave me I would no longer be me "the pain is indescribable" - that's how it was explained to me by someone who knew. If I was to leave them they would no longer be them, they will become a new them, a them that comes after grief. I've seen it.

April is poetry month at the school. The little travelers are writing and telling me over dinner about editing and publishing. Today was a big day for the second little traveler, she read her piece to me while we sat on a green couch with the sun on our backs. I watched parents sit awkwardly in chairs made for children, while they smiled and listened proudly, mothers swept hair off of faces.

As I read her story she giggled and buried her face in under my arm, she was embarrassed but completely delighted to share. She had changed her name to Stefana. Stefana was "awesome" and could do anything. Stefana had gone against her mothers wishes and used a knife to cook while her mother was out. Naturally Stefana was an "awesome" dancer, but she made the fatal mistake to dance and cook with a knife in her hand. The second little traveler and I both giggled throughout the story. Stefana was extreme, she did everything three times.  She danced and danced and danced, she screamed and screamed and screamed.

While we read the story, we laughed and laughed and laughed.

And then it was time to read a story with someone else.

A little boy with the neatest handwriting and the most descriptive text, told me about getting lost in a forest. How he was scared and punched his way out, "like a boxer who was in his tenth round". He wrote of falling from a building with the speed of an elephant. His voice was gentle, I had to lean in closer to listen.

"You're an amazing writer, you have an incredible way of describing things for a boy who's only nine." We talked about his name, how many languages he spoke and how he had the name of a future king. I told him I was the from the same country as the future Queen. "Did you know Mary is Australian?" I asked.

"My mum has cancer" he answered.

It wasn't the answer I was expecting.

"She has to go back and have treatment"

I floundered, I wasn't ready. I said something stupid like "I'm so sorry, but I'm sure she'll get better soon, once she has the treatment".

"She's had it before, it came back".

I put my hand on his knee.

"I hope you show her this, you're really clever, she'd think this is amazing".

 "Can I go and get something to eat now?"

This is not the part of the film where it is sunny and they are playing in the park. The man who was hiding behind the tree has come out, and the film has become dark and scary, and this film is particularly confounding because some of its characters are children. We've moved from a G rating, it's not suitable for children.

While I watch him pick out a cupcake, the second little traveler sheepishly returns with a donut "I'll only have half" she says with a grin. Her biggest worry right now is that her mother will not let her eat an entire donut for a snack. As she breaks off a larger piece for herself, I look toward the window and pretend that I'm dabbing at my mascara.

For a moment, I was a part of someone else's story. A story that I cannot edit. I cannot change. I can only hope that the scene changes back to the park with the sunshine where the characters are laughing and laughing and laughing.

Posh Shopping

When we lived in Libya we were the healthiest we'd ever been in our lives. We shopped at the bakery for bread, the vegetable stand for produce and the butchers for meat. Any thing else came from a small grocery store. It was back to basics. There was no McDonalds, no Pizza Hut, we were pretty well preservative free, and of course, there was no pub on the corner. Shopping involved a little more work  but bloody hell, our skin looked fantastic.

I remember moving to North America and standing open mouthed at the local Safeway. The choice was bewildering. I had just been through two years of relying on seasonal produce only to find myself in a building full of abundant fresh fruit and vegetables, outside the snow fell on the ground. How did that work? In the world of international vegetable travel, some of those vegetables had more stamps in their passport than I did.

And then there were the discoveries.

I saw jars of something called "Cheez Whizz" and genuinely wondered who the person was that decided that cheese would taste so much better if it was reprocessed, made orange, liquified with stabilizing agents and finished off with citric acid. Hungry anyone? There were aisles of Kraft products. Mac n cheese in a packet, hamburger helper in a packet, and it was cheap. Really cheap.

When I found the aisle that had the fresh organic produce, it was the opposite of cheap.

Has anyone else noticed that if you want to be healthy you're going to have to pay for it?

G and I went through a stage in our lives where money was very tight. We had a budget for everything and the most exciting time of my week was shopping at one of those bloody awful monster discount hyper-markets. You know the ones, they usually have concrete floors and a warehouse feel to them - because they are a warehouse. If I could come in under budget it was a major celebration.

Every now and then we'd grab a coffee at the boutique supermarket near our house. It had funky music, good looking staff and everything was organic. While waiting for our coffee's we'd covet other people's overflowing shopping trolleys/carts and then ask each other the same question every time "how can they afford to do their weekly shop here?" Yes, that's how tragic we were. I'll own up to it. We were jealous of people's grocery shopping!

Those days are over now. I still have a budget but it's not as dire as it once was, but I can't help but shake the feeling (particularly after our last visit to London) that a healthy trip to the supermarket perhaps requires a healthy bank balance.

"Dad put his what, where?!"

The first little traveler was five when she asked "how did that baby get in to Mummy's tummy?" I knew the question was coming, I just hadn't worked out exactly how we were going to answer it - which is why G and I froze for a moment in the kitchen before I came out with this little gem.

"Mummies and Daddies have special cuddles".

I had always hoped that we'd be very open with the discussion of sex but I really wasn't ready to get down to the nuts and bolts of it - so to speak. We were still in the world of Maisy Mouse and Bob the Builder, it felt like a pretty big jump to spring towards the vagina, egg, sperm and penis conversation with a background track of 'this is how we do it'.

I was instantly impressed with my new phrase. I hadn't told a lie and a special cuddle sounded so much better than just an everyday cuddle. The special cuddle also meant that G didn't have to face the "Dad put's his what where?!" I figured as everyone became older we could fill in the details as we went along. We had a starting point.

The 'special cuddle' conversation worked well for the next couple of years, and then I noticed that the questions that followed required a little more detail. "Where do you have the special cuddle?" asked the second little traveler, "I think they probably do it in the bathroom. Do you do it standing up or laying down?" said the third. My favourite question was asked one night at the dinner table in a pass the gravy fashion, "If you decide to have another baby can we all watch you have the special cuddle?" Naturally all the little travelers presumed the special cuddle was only performed when a child was required, it was maybe time to elaborate. I invested in a book, with pictures, and everyone agreed that no-one wanted to see Mum and Dad do that!

Somehow though, I forgot to have the conversation with the fourth little traveler, I'll admit this tends to happen a lot. As much as he is overindulged as the youngest child we tend to forget the things that seemed so important with the first three travelers, like teaching him how to ride a bike. He may be the first university student to cycle to campus with his training wheels firmly attached.

During our holiday last week, we left Westminster Abbey and marched two by two towards Buckingham Palace to see the changing of the guards. We were with friends who were keen to get a good position and keeping up the half walk/half run pace was proving troublesome for the youngest traveler. The fourth little traveler and I were at the back of the pack, he was in his usual state of being completely unaware that everyone else was in a hurry. He wanted to have a chat. In the madness of crossing the road amongst London traffic, double decker busses, cabs and speeding cyclists he asked "how did Jesus get inside Mary's tummy?" The trip through Westminster Abbey had obviously provided some further questions.

"That's a sit down chat, can I answer that one over lunch? We really should be walking as quickly as possible"

"Okay - but how did I get in your tummy? Can you tell me that now?"

Breathless and marching towards St James park I asked "Have I not told you about special cuddles? Mummy and Daddy had a special cuddle. We have to run, lets catch up".

The situation was ridiculous, my child was asking for the facts of life while I was trying to maintain a headcount of the other three children while keeping up with the rest of the group.

"I was born in a puddle?"

I giggled at the response and the timing, we were now power walking.

"No, Mummy and Daddy had a SPECIAL CUDDLE and that's how you got in my tummy".

"I don't think that's right Mummy, I don't think that's how it happens."

He wasn't having any of it, and that's when it happened. The death of the special cuddle.

"Well, you're right it's more than just a special cuddle, I have a book in Doha, it's written especially for kids, can I read it to you when we get back?"

He seemed pleased with the idea and nodded, we continued to half run/half walk, and as the band marched past us, I realized that it was over, the special cuddle was gone.

Geographical Schizophrenia

In the week leading up to our trip away, I was acting as a tourguide for our guests from Australia. I love living in Qatar and I tend to get a little overexcited about the opportunities available when living here. By the end of the week I'd worked myself into such a frenzy, I was thinking of lining up job interviews for our guests. I had no idea if they wanted to live here or not, I'd just decided that they should. Me? Bossy? Never. Perhaps it's not bossy maybe just a little overeager, combine that with the fact that if there is a proverbial Qatar bandwagon, I'm not just on it, I'm sitting up the front wearing an "I heart Doha" t-shirt shouting "everyone jump on, jump on!"

I like living in Doha, I REALLY like living in Doha - but unfortunately it doesn't just stop there.

I love living in Australia, it's my home and there have been times where I've been so happy to be back there I've kissed the tarmac upon arrival. I am an irrationally proud Australian, which is why it's very strange that I have a good cry every time I hear the Canadian national anthem. Canada is a truly beautiful county and it's true what they say about Canadians, they really are THAT nice. I miss our Canadian friends and have forbidden myself from asking the "what if we would have stayed" question as it's just too confusing. However, I miss our house in Houston, the local sushi place, the convenience of the gym, family bike rides along the bayou and the swing that hung from the big oak tree that I could see from our kitchen window. I'd return to Kuala Lumpur in a heartbeat, I know exactly where I 'd send the children to school, where I'd live and get my morning coffee. The same goes for Jakarta, I stood in front of our old house in Jakarta only a couple of months ago and remembered the first little travelers very first birthday party and cried, we left Jakarta too soon. We have promised the children that one day we'll return to Libya and go back to all of the old haunts.

I know. I sound like a madwoman.

I have a name for my condition.

Geographical Schizophrenia.

I'm self diagnosed and I know I'm not the only sufferer.

Geographical schizophrenia isn't only for expats. It's a common condition for anyone who has moved from a country town to a big city - you don't have to leave the country, you can just move states. You can be armed with every piece of common geographical sense as to why your current address works for you, but when you least expect it, a little piece of nostalgia will sneak into your senses. That reminds me of....

I can usually keep it under control, but it tends to flare up after a trip away that involves catching up with old friends. Particularly friends I won't see again without one of us having to get on a plane. After a week away it hit me this morning and I did what I always do. Stayed out of everyone's way. I'm not a lot of fun to be with when I'm in the throws of GS.

After a week of second hand stores, corner pubs and enormous parks with towering trees bursting with blossoms, I knew I couldn't face Doha today. As much as I love it here, there are a few things I miss. Farmers markets, footpaths on high streets and quaint little cheese stores will now be thought about and planned for our trip to Australia in June.

Today was the decompression day. A day to unpack, to think about old friends, to load the photos, to admire the purchases, and to Skype with my parents who provide the foundation. Today is the day to appreciate the fact that I am so bloody lucky to be sad and miserable about missing people and places.

To be thankful for my geographical schizophrenia.


Anyone else feel they belong in two, if not more places?