Le "G" String

I have a friend whose father is a marriage counsellor. At a party last year we were talking about marriage and how a marriage changes over the years. I asked if his father had ever given him any advice, and he smiled.

"He says the same thing all the time. And he's right, it's so simple but it's so true".

I was on the edge of my seat.

"When guys come in and say they've fallen out of love with their wives, he tells them 'you're not loving her enough, go back and love her more'. It took me ages to understand it, until I'd been married for awhile myself."

I know that sometimes a marriage is terminal, but I couldn't agree more with the sentiment. Sometimes giving love, is the best way of receiving and falling back in love.

When people used to tell me that marriage required work, I would immediately shut them down. My idea of marriage was love and romance, if it was work, well then surely it was broken?

Fourteen years ago I married a 27 year old man. On the day, I would have told you that G could do anything. He was well travelled, smart, and confident in a crisis. Back then of course, our crises were the house getting broken into, or the car breaking down.

Today we call that, life.

Throughout our marriage G has loved to buy me beautiful underwear. It hasn't needed to be a birthday or Christmas, G would happily make a beeline for the La Perla shop on the way home if he thought there was any chance of seeing me in a matching set of le lacy and le see through, at the end of the day.

In the beginning of our relationship I thought I'd struck gold, the idea of a constant supply of le lacy and le see through was le fantastique. As the years have gone by though, there have been a few le fat, le frumpy and le totally not interested moments that have caused a bit of tension. The mothers day where we had four children under the age of six and I was breastfeeding with a healthy display of post baby weight, was possibly not the best time to present me with a G string that resembled tooth floss.

"I'd look so gross in this right now! These g strings are really starting to get up my bum, and I mean that both literally and physically", it was not the reaction G was hoping for.

We were coming from two different worlds. I couldn't have felt more unsexy, and he was trying to tell me that he thought I was fabulous.

I had forgotten about all about this until over the summer, after a six week stretch of solo parenting, two pairs of beautiful, comfortable, pyjamas arrived in the mail. G had bought them online. I loved the pyjamas, but I loved G more for knowing how much I would love them. I knew he would really prefer to have a pyjama free household. I explained the entire situation in detail to the ladies in the post office when I opened the parcel "this is huge for us, these pajamas would usually come with a g-string" they nodded slowly, smiling at the crazy lady with the Country Road pyjamas in her hand.

The 27 year old man that I married had never held a baby, sat down for a pretend tea party with a three year old, or waited patiently in a hospital with a four year old with a bead stuck up her nose. The 27 year old that I married agreed to look after me, love me, cherish me, but I don't think either of us had factored in how hard that might become once we'd added the entourage, the mortgage and the continued negotiation of balancing careers.

Today G will wake up in Qatar for a birthday without me. He will fill his day with driving someone to soccer camp, baking with ten year olds, entertaining a few extras for play dates and getting Halloween outfits ready for trick or treating. In my eyes he couldn't get any sexier, somehow I managed to marry the most capable man I know.

My birthday present for G will have to wait until December, but until then, thank you G for continuing to love me more, you make it very easy to love you back.

Halfway Across India, I Adjusted My Tiara.

Doha was gone. I was halfway across India when I made a trip to the airplane toilet. It was a dazzling bright blue morning sky, and we were high above layers of wispy clouds. The toilet had a window and while I stood to wash my face I could see through to the ground below. I'd been crying on and off since take off, and as I looked down I told myself to snap out of it. I wondered about all of the women filling those patches of land below me who were living a much harder life than I was.

I'm ashamed to admit, that right at that point in time, I just couldn't make myself care.

I whispered to myself as I looked down, trying to make sense of the jigsaw of multiple shades of brown land "get over yourself Kirsty". Think about how lucky you are to have access to decent health care. How lucky you are to have family to return to. How lucky you are that your condition is treatable. And all I could muster was a bland, banal, sigh.

I was so immersed in my own pity party that the starving millions were going to have to wait at the front door until I'd adjusted my tiara, straightened up my princess frock and wiped the mascara from under my eyes.

"You can't reason with your heart; it has its own laws, and thumps about things which the intellect scorns."
Mark Twain.

I've had my share of goodbyes. In hindsight, boarding school was brilliant preparation to the expat life. You come, you go - you leave one world and step into another. Logically you know exactly how many sleeps until the next visit, you can train yourself to diminish expectations and control reactions, but you can't reason with your heart. I now realize why my mother struggled so much with those bus stop farewells, when it comes to your own children - the heart is highly unreasonable.

I kept myself together at the airport. The little travelers attached themselves to my legs and I giggled while we cuddled. I didn't make eye contact with G because he knew, he had held me only hours before while I'd sobbed myself to sleep, he didn't speak in the darkness, there was nothing he could say, he just held me tighter until I fell asleep.

The pity party is over.

I woke up at 2 a.m on top of the bed, fully dressed with the lights on. I'd laid down at 5 p.m. last night, thinking I'd just wait for thirty minutes before I tried again to see if the hot water system was working. Jetlag had me craving a warm chicken salad at 3 a.m. and now that we're getting close to 6 a.m. I think I might be ready for a steak.

I've read through all of the material for the hospital, I now understand what the urodynamics test is that I'm going to have today, and no, it has nothing to do with auditioning for an eighties pop band like I had initially suspected. Today is all about getting prepared. I'm booking doctors appointments, visiting the hospital and looking for flowing maxi dresses that will disguise my soon to be acquired catheters.

I walked with the iPad around the house yesterday, showing the little travelers how different this beach house looks in the summer, I showed them the new colours of our garden, they giggled at my tiny little car, they've never seen me with a tiny little car. I pressed my lips up to the camera and imagined myself underneath the blanket with them on the couch.

The pity party is over, it's time to get on with things. Life is different but I have a time frame. I'm counting the sleeps, being productive and making the most of it.

Tiara be gone.

I Didn't Pull His Tooth Out

I'd done so well until earlier this week. I'd kept my tears to myself, reserved for showers and solo car rides, I was so close, days before departure.

You need a good friend to really make you fall apart.

You can fake it with strangers, you can avert your eyes, make excuses and end things quickly, but when you're sitting with people who give you the look, the look that says "C'mon, seriously? You expect us to believe this shit?" Then you know you're in trouble.

It was a quick coffee, there was work to be done, the usual texts had bounced between the usual friends. There was talk about Oktoberbfest, carparks and teenagers when I mentioned that I thought the fourth little traveller may lose a tooth soon. He's yet to loose one. I tried to make light of it happening while I was away but I couldn't, what started as a quiver rapidly moved into the ugly cry and that was it. The facade was over.

There was the awkwardness that comes with an initial shit is she crying. Which then turned into a murmuring of "oh no's" and some hand patting "it's okay, it'll be okay." And just when I thought I wasn't going to be able to pull myself together, I was saved, by a true friend.

"That's it, we'll just have to pull his tooth out before you leave"

Laughter.

I'm not sure what made it funnier? The situation, or the fact that many a mother has contemplated pushing something along incase she "missed it".

I have been blessed with amazing friends in each location, there are names that I hear wherever I am in the world that take me back to another time but Doha has completely outdone itself.

There is more to be written, but right now I'm sitting in a transit lounge of an airport with a boarding signal flashing.

A very good friend, lets call her the tooth puller, said to me this week "Sometimes I catch you looking at me laughing and smiling and I think what's she thinking?"

What I'm thinking, my gorgeous Lisa, is how did I get so bloody lucky to find friends like you.

Thank you to all, both online and off for your comments, thoughts, and help. I pulled myself together this morning and got on a plane when I really didn't want to.

I couldn't have done it without you.

What Happens If...

G's mother is going in for knee surgery.

Grandma wanted to Skype with the little travelers before the big day. I was in the shower when everyone sat in front of the laptop in Qatar looking into Grandmas home in Brisbane. People asked questions, repeated questions, repeated answers, talked of sausages for dinner and storms that were about to roll through.

G's mother is an ex nurse. Is there such a thing? Nurses never stop being nurses. Grandma knows all about hospitals and surgery and anesthetics. She's been putting this surgery off for a long time. Grandma is always on the move, she's fit, busy, and loves to go on long walks. I repeat, she's put this surgery off for as long as possible.

The night before the second little traveller had her fifth ear operation this July she ran through the usual questions.

"Will I get as many icypoles as I like?"

"Will I get jelly?'

"Will I get a treat after we leave the hospital?"

"What happens if I don't wake up?"

Bang. There it was. The unspeakable.

"If you don't wake up, I'll come in and wake you up, I'll yell "It's time for ice-cream! That will wake you up".

She giggled.

I felt sick. I didn't tell her that this is the internal debate that every parent who has a child requiring surgery, has with themselves over and over again. What if they don't wake up.

I don't like ice-cream.

You don't have to be a Grandma to be worried about not waking up.

I will wake up.

If not, please come in and shout "We have bubbles, G and the little travellers are outside in the car and we're all heading to the beach"

There's a lot to wake up for.

This is G

We don't yell, but we did yesterday.

We've been waiting for a letter from the surgeon.

I sent them an email, I tried to sound easy to get along with, undemanding.

"Just wondering..."

At the the end of the day there's a familiar sound of keys being dropped on a side table, while a tie is loosened.

"Have you heard from the Urologist?" the kitchen swallows the tension and serves it up with the evening meal.

This is marriage. This is what they need to tell you during the ceremony. Will you take this bride with her diverticulum...".

You lay side by side, bodies motionless, while minds are alert with what if's and lists. Thoughts crackle, they feel like they will explode from your ears and the top of your head. Bodies motionless. You reach out to hold the familiar hand that lays next to you.

In the morning the routine continues.

"Have you heard from the Urologist?"

You send another note, this one has an edge. You don't like how you sound but you've already rang and you're not sure what else to do. You need that report.

Another day passes.

In the morning there's an email.

They haven't sent the right thing. There's no letterhead. No detail.

He can't contain himself any longer.

"Did you read what they sent? Who are these idiots?" It's been a long week at work.

The crackles and the electricity can no longer contain itself, there's an explosion.

You both begin sentences of the worst kind.

"You need to..."

"You should have..."

"Why didn't you.."

"I tried to, but you said"

There's no time to talk about it. Someone arrives at the door to remind you both it's the Halloween parade at school.  People need to put costumes on, someone needs a hot pink shirt to show their support for breast cancer. The scene changes, time moves along, but your words hang where you left them. They share the space in between you. You don't make eye contact while you work together at getting the children ready.

Do you take this bride with her diverticulum and promise to cuff the pants of your Zombie child while she colours the face of your blue crayon?

He says goodbye and you do not kiss. You always kiss.

In the afternoon you stand in a supermarket with a child in an oversized hot pink shirt, a blue crayon, a soldier, and what's left of a zombie. You wonder how his day has been.

You send a text "getting printer cartridges".

His reply is chirpy, we've been paid, he's leaving the office shortly.

You arrive home to discover flowers on the table.

"For the love of my life"

Do you take this bride with her diverticulum and her incompetent urological administration staff.

I do.

This is marriage. This is love.

This is G.

This is why I adore him.

Because That's What Mothers Do

This morning the second little traveler woke up a little earlier. An opportunistic beagle had removed her quilt, it was now laying cozily on the floor while she shivered on top of her quilt-less bed. In the morning brume she looked out of the window expecting to see the usual sight of rooftops through a dessert haze, but instead sighted five parachuters gliding through the sky. Within half a second she was at our door. She knew her father would be awake because "no matter how early you get up Mum, Dad always wins"

"Look! Look out the window!"

I watched for a moment while they collectively oohed and ahhed over the view, this was something completely out of the ordinary. And then the mother panic set in, what if the others missed it?

The third little traveller has the propensity to wake in fright so I ran my fingers through his hair while gently rubbing his arm "hey gorgeous, you don't want to miss this, have a look out the window".

I bounded into the fourth travelers room, and said "Quick! Quick, you'll be really disappointed if you don't open your eyes and look out of the window now! Annie and Fred are in our room, it's amazing."

He ran straight in the opposite direction "Izzie, Izzie, there's chuters in the air"

She raised one arm from the bed and gave the thumbs up sign.

"Izzie Izzie - Quick! Look!"

Nothing.

I stepped in "Lizzie, have a quick look, it's really quite something - you can get straight back into bed"

One leg unfolded itself out of the bed and a foot hit the floor, another joined it, and for a brief moment she stood by our side with squinted eyes and ruffled hair. Without an ounce of excitement she gave us one word.

"Cool"

And then she was gone. A guest appearance, a walk-on in a sitcom. Hey, wasn't that...?

I wandered back into our room to see G and the second traveller still looking out of the window.

As we drove to school later that morning Lizzie asked why I had woke her.

"Because I'm your Mother, and the very first thing I thought of when I saw those parachutes was 'I better quickly wake the others, they'll be upset if they don't see this' because that's how mothers think"

She smiled.

The first rule of motherhood is that you will never get it completely right. Don't wake them and a pitiful face will look up into your eyes and plead "Why didn't you wake me?". Wake them and you'll be scolded "Why did you wake me up so early?"

Why do I care? Why does it matter?

Because that's what Mothers do.

Life is Broken Up Into Stories

Life is broken up into stories. I have pages I don't want to revisit and entire chapters that I will return to and settle in for an afternoon of reminiscing.

Too often as a child my future was told as one story. A common story, one that I saw each evening on the television, read in books and watched in my own household. The beginning was my childhood, the middle was my education and career, the end was the happily ever after, the partner, the children.

And then the story ended, there was never a mention of what came next. Happy family, happy career, happy ending.

Midlife crisis anyone?

There needs to be another chapter, there has to be more to the story.

I'm starting to craft mine into a rough draft now. Ideas are suggested and I pencil them in.

"We should go and work in New York for twelve months when the kids are grown" consider it penciled.

"We could always go back to the States and do a short contract" noted.

G's rough draft has images of Black Angus Beef, small properties and a house that is both simple but big enough to sleep a truck load of visitors.

These notes, go into the next chapter. The one where G and I return to our former state and begin again as a duo.

This chapter provides the twist. The main characters are smarter, she's learnt to listen a little more, he's not in such a hurry. They will have the same burning desire to discover, but there will be a different context and setting. There are no strollers or Chicken Little backpacks, they will travel lightly - always.

This story doesn't have to be a new one, there will be no closing of one book to open another, it will roll from one chapter to the next, its younger characters will remain but may not feature as prominently for they have started their own spinoff in the series.

The new setting will have pictures of pigtails, sports uniforms and band practice, but it will now be lined with the books, technology, and the beautiful things that are currently hidden out of arms reach. There will be pages of long lunches, voluntary work, spare of the moment drives, extended holidays and new discoveries.

Life is broken up into stories.



Do you ever think of the story after this one?

You're Going to Need an Emergency Contact

Being new is all about being out of place, you haven't quite found yours yet. It can be as simple as an unmatched wardrobe that doesn't fit the weather, a pair of open toe shoes with jeans and a heavy coat.  You're not quite sure how the door opens, or which exit to use; you can't find the bathroom and when you realize your purse is empty and ask where the ATM is located, the response is a blank stare.

"The ATM? The Automatic Teller? The cash machine?"

Why doesn't it have a universal name?

In my first week of expat life, I waited in the foyer of a hotel for a stranger. I knew her name was Karen and she was English - that was it. I'd received a phone call the day before from a woman whose husband worked with G.

"We're meeting tomorrow, I'll have someone come and collect you if you like, it will be a great chance for you to meet some people"

The whole idea seemed ridiculous. Hanging out with a group of women who all shared the one common theme, a pay packet that arrived twice a month from the The Big Blue. Was it really January 2000 or had we returned to the 1960's?

When I think back to that day I realize I had no idea of what I'd signed up for. How did I think it was going to work? I'm not sure I'd thought about how I was going to make friends - I just somehow figured I would.

Karen knew who I was immediately. In hindsight it wasn't hard, I was dressed in a combination of shell shock and jet lag. On the way to the coffee I asked about the group, and in a mocking tone suggested the fact that there were official titles and positions was a little sad. "Welcome Co-ordinator" and "President" had left me sneering. Wasn't this just a group of bored women with nothing better to do?

"You're right" she said. "We don't need the titles, I've been an expat for twenty years and we've been doing this quite effectively without the labels. Our organization has never needed a name. It's called doing the right thing."

If I had offended her, she wasn't showing it, she had too much class for that. I imagine she'd met me or the equivalent of me hundreds of times.

"You're going to need some help. You're pregnant, you'll need a doctor, you may want to meet other pregnant women or find out about ante natal classes. At some stage you'll be asked to fill out a form with an emergency contact that isn't your husband and you'll realize you don't have one - you need an emergency contact. You'll need friends to get through this. This is where you'll start".

This morning I'm finalizing the schedule. The schedule that has a core group of eight women who will drive the little travellers home from school while I'm away. In addition to those eight are another five or six that will work as back ups. These are women who have looked me in the eye and said "ANYTHING, I mean it, just ask."

This is what it's all about. You land, you're new, you're awkward, you meet, you befriend, you laugh, you share, you rely and you're thankful - so, so, thankful.

You need an emergency contact.

What Would You Do?

It's Friday, it's time for a giggle.

We are big Graham Norton watchers in our house. I often get lost in a Graham Norton youtube vortex, somehow I click on one clip and twenty minutes disappears. This one popped up this week. Surely your most embarrassing moment couldn't be worse than this? If it is - you have to share!





The little travellers are Halloween crazy, without sounding like to much of a heathen, it may possibly be their all time favourite holiday. Whenever I tell them Australians don't do Halloween, they look at me like I'm making some sort of cruel and heinous joke. With the combination of G's birthday, it is always frantic here in the lead up. One of the things I knew I had to get organized before leaving was their costumes; this year we have a bee, a blue crayon, a soldier and a zombie, they look hysterical together. We'll decorate the house this week, I'll buy the treats and hopefully it will all run smoothly for G on the day. There's no school on Halloween so at least he'll be spared the pain of packing 4 costumes in a bag amongst the usual chaos. This made me laugh this week:

And now, it's time to ask for advice.

I've been thinking of leaving a picture of me and each traveler next to their beds while I'm away, but I'm a little torn about the idea. Will this just make them sadder? Or will it be comforting?

What do you think?

What would you do?

The Group

The best conversations come from no-where. You're laying on top of her bed at the end of a long day. You've talked about the green piece of putty that's remained on the ceiling since the day it was thrown just that little bit too high. There are giggles, conversations about Halloween, soccer and choir. You ask about recess and she mentions a group.

"Do you want to be in the group?"

"No. I don't think so, I don't really have the right clothes."

Within the very same split second that you're horrified with the materialism of a ten year old, you're also slightly offended that the wardrobe you've played a part in is deemed unfit.

"What sort of stuff do they wear?"

"Well you know the couch the beagle sleeps on, one has a skirt like that - except without the dog hair".

You both giggle.

"So how do you know you're not in the group?"

"They just don't talk to you when you sit down."

"The girls in the group? How do they choose who's in the group?

"I think you have to have shiny hair, white teeth and dress like it's picture day every day"

Ten.

By the time you're twelve it's a little more sophisticated. You're out to lunch, you've discussed French homework, re-sitting the math test and the book that she's finished last night. A name is mentioned, "and then she said, if you wore make-up you'd be so pretty".

"What did you say?" you asked gently, while contemplating a hit man.

"I just smiled. They say it like they're giving you a compliment".

You admire her perceptiveness.

"You know how gorgeous you are right? You do know that, right?"

"Yes Mum" and there's the eye roll, but it's a good eye roll. A thank you eye roll.

The game has moved to a different location and the rules have changed. You can't organize a play-date, tell everyone to share, and put someone on the naughty step. You no longer listen out to hear if anyone's hurt, you listen in for inflections, clues. You arrive five minutes earlier to pick up at soccer so you can see if she's okay, see who she pairs up with. You watch and wait for the next installment without pushing to hard for the details.

You kiss them goodnight and remind them of your own group.

"We're here, whenever you need us".

"You know you're gorgeous. Right?"

Eye roll.

Pity About Your Pity

I was listening to an interview recently with a woman called Ruth Muir who was orphaned at age 11. The interview wasn't so much about her being orphaned but really the series of circumstances in her life that led her to find out more about her parents. In her clipped but warm English accent, Ruth spoke of memories of her childhood, her parents, grandparents, and people who surrounded her in what she described as a "catastrophic year".

As a mother, Ruth's story is my nightmare. A child without a mother, a mother without a child.

In amongst the story, Ruth said something that has stayed with me, floating in the back of my mind, shaming me of my past reactions, but teaching me how I want to be from now on.

"People's pity is very disabling, and it stops you from getting on with things. It crushes you, and just when you think I'm going to hold up my head again and get on with life, people's pity stops it. They say 'oh I feel so sorry for you, what a terrible thing, how awful you'. 

You don't want to listen to that.

When it happens to people, what they want to hear is 'you're doing a great job'. 

Whenever there's a death or a trauma it's not good to pity people, it's better to just say 'carry on, you're doing a great job, I'm here to help you'.

I've shut down many conversations in the past month. Conversations that begin with a sigh and are punctuated with sad eyes and knowing looks.

"Are you nervous?"

"Six weeks! That's such a long time"

"You'll miss them".

"Who will look after you? What will you do?"

And that's when I feel it, the bristle, the flinch. I'll look in another direction, searching for a distraction, anything to avoid eye contact. I'll explain the logistics and shrug "it is what it is".

Miss them?

I once went on holiday to London with G, we left the little travelers with my parents. It was on day three that I asked to go home.

No, I'm not going to miss them. I'm going to ache for them. I'm going to struggle to breathe without them. Miss them? I'm not sure how I will sleep. To not be able to touch them, kiss them goodnight, press my cheek against theirs? How will I will laugh, write, eat? And then there's the unthinkable - how will they cope without me?

Am I nervous? No. I'm angry. I'm sad.

My nightmare. A mother without her children. Children without their mother.

You can do this. Carry on. I'm here to help you.

I can do this, without the pity.

How was your day really?

It's no big deal.

How was your day?

Three children had vaccinations, one had a trip to the orthodontist - you bribed them with a donut before dropping them all to school. Later, you picked everyone up, one went to guitar lessons, one went to the library and two stayed with you. Dinner was easy - salmon, everyone was in bed by 8.30 after they'd done their homework.

But how was your day really?

The one that didn't go, the one that didn't need a needle - he complained. It wasn't fair, "I know they'll get a treat. Are you sure I don't need a needle? Please let me come with you". You tried not to laugh when you were made to promise that he'd get an injection next year, and then you felt miserable while you watched him walk into the school yard on his own.  Maybe he could have come? No, of course he couldn't, that's ridiculous. Toughen up, although driving to school for one child seems like such a waste of time. Maybe he could have come? Stop it, that's ridiculous.

Even though you got to the surgery on time - the doctor didn't. While you waited the troops became restless. One child was reading the newspaper and wanted answers on the Syria/Turkey situation. You didn't have any. The other two invented a new game - lick tag. It started simply, there were a few giggles and then as time progressed things got out of hand. You attempted the whisper yell "sit down!" There were more giggles, someone tripped, you grabbed an arm and yanked just that little bit too hard, you made eye contact and did the scary mother smile "I. said. sit. down".

The doctor took one look at your Australian record book and felt the need to tell you it was wrong. "We don't do it like that here". You've had this conversation in six countries. It's never the same, nobody does it the same. You have vaccination numbers and torn bits of paper stapled into the corners of each book. It's suddenly looks messy and disorganized. You know not to argue, just ask politely, stay calm, explain why it has to be done. When you return to Australia, this will all be worth it.

Lick tag has changed location and while the nurse is gathering her tools someone has crashed into the blood pressure monitor, you mentally calculate the cost of repairs while you dive to catch it. You've lost the right page, you frantically flick through the booklet again, while the doctors taps her fingers on the desk. You smile, you say thank you while she signs the appropriate forms and contain yourself from saying "Does this look like fun for me? Do you think I want to be here?"

There was hysteria when the nurse walked into the room with the needles. One child tried to leave, the other began to cry, but thank god one of the travellers pulled themselves together and decided to be the vaccination hero. "I'll go first" she said with her chest puffed for effect.

"Hold my hand Mummy?" and you smiled and held her hand and thought of her as a baby, cradled into your body, two months, four months, six months. Jakarta, Kuala Lumpur, Tripoli, Adelaide, Calgary, Houston and now Qatar. "It'll just be a pinch and it will be over".

When the youngest traveller got scared his two big sisters sat at his feet and you tried not to cry - you realized that they will look after each other. There will be fighting, but ultimately they will look after each other.

You glance at the clock, you're late, you're on the phone to the orthodontist when the nurse comes looking for you, she says something to the travellers and disappears.

"What did she say?"

All three travellers shrug, no-one can remember. It was thirty seconds ago.

You walked from room to room to try and find her. What did she say? What did you miss?

You give up.

You apologize to the dentist as you walk quickly into his room, you made small talk about the school and kept your fingers and toes crossed that the other two travellers are behaving in the waiting room. You held her hand while they gave her the needle for the anesthetic and then again as they removed the tooth. She looks so long laying in the chair. How did she get so big? When they placed the tooth on the table you wondered if that was one of the teeth that had kept you awake at night, "do you think she's teething?"

The donuts were bought, there was more negotiating, back in the car, back to school, back through security. You spoke to the school nurse and made photocopies. They too wanted to let you know your book was wrong.

"You don't need to do that now. Do they do that in Australia?" You smiled, shrugged at the appropriate times, agreed when necessary. You know not to argue.

Grocery shopping can be done with your eyes closed, you know each isle well enough that a job unpacking shelves would require no training. You put petrol in the car, write a blog post, scroll through a news feed and then realize you're late for school pick up. How did that happen? You grab the guitar as you run past the front door.

You guiltily wave a child off to guitar lessons after remembering you've once again forgot to go and buy him a pick. Others get started on homework, you say no to requests for cookies and chocolate milk, and yes to smoothies and finishing whats in your lunch box. You pick one person up from one gate at 4, another from another gate at 4.15, and then it comes, it always comes:

"What's for dinner?"

You want to say that it's poo on toast with a glass of wee on the side, but you tell them it's salmon because you know everyone likes salmon.

As you drive home you check their little faces in your rear vision mirror for a gauge on how everyone's doing. Someone is gazing out of their window, someone's singing, someone is reading and someone thinks you don't know that they're on their electronic game.

After dinner it's baths, teeth brushing, pajamas and reading. You have repeated your requests. Get in the bath, get in the bath, get in the bath, I told you to get in the bath. Why aren't you in the bath.

And then there's silence. Just the two of you.

How was your day?

No, I Will Not be in Your Superbusy Mummy Bloggers Competition

The Superbusy Mummy Blogger is often approached by websites. When they aren't asking her to write free content they get busy with trying to get her to join their competition.

In my early days of blogging I'm ashamed to say I fell for it. If you want to feel really dirty, try asking your friends and readers to vote for you on a daily basis.

Icky.

It took me way too long to work out that all I was doing was ramping up some random website's statistics. And for what?

A badge.

A badge to put on my blog so that I could continue to give free advertising.

Maybe it's clever marketing, or maybe it's just another way of scamming hard working Bloggers into doing something for nothing?

Here's the Super Busy Mummy Blogger this week:






Here's Kristy the very first Superbusy Mummy Blogger
Here's the Superbusy Mummy Blogger talking about Spam
Here she is being asked how much she makes? She loves that question.

The Unpretentious Traveller

G and I are lovers of luggage. Our house is bursting with cases that have been tucked away, waiting for their next installment of baggage tags and carousel drop offs. We now have a range of sizes and colours, each with its different identifier - a ribbon here, a fluorescent piece of tape there. You would possibly expect when you travel as much as G we'd be lugging around some nice hardware, maybe something a bit high end? A bit posh.

Not so much.

G may cherish his luggage, but it's more about the romance than the price tag. He loves a suitcase that has been scuffed and marked, he cherish's the chalk marks left by the customs officers, and takes forever to remove the bag tags and stickers left behind. I've always known this about G, within our first week together he told me "I love a suitcase that looks like it has a story to tell". His suitcase at the time had more than a story, it was more a 12 part documentary, and it wasn't pretty.

I, on the other hand, cannot contain my superficiality. I covert those with the shiny suitcases. If you're one those people, you may have noticed me in an airport looking longingly at your Louis Vuitton, or running my fingers along your Samsonite seams.

I dream of walking into a store and slowly investigating my luggage options, but it's not about to happen anytime soon.

G and I like to perform a holiday ritual of baggage multiplication. What begins as a two suitcase journey will turn into three, who am I kidding, four, and a desperate stop at the $2 shop for a red white and blue bag on the way to the airport. Consequently, we have a plethora of suitcases and carry ons of the cheap and nasty variety. They line the tops our cupboards; our last minute, panicked, I can't fit it all in, we need to buy a suitcase now, purchases.

Which is why my husband now travels first class with a suit bag from Walmart. He really could not care less. This is the man who takes his lunch to work in a plastic bag, the man who uses his son's Power Rangers Kindergarten backpack to take sailing on the weekend. My husband will never be accused of being pretentious.

One day, when I'm a grown up, I will have matching luggage. I may not be afford to travel anywhere, but I will have matching luggage.



How about you?

Mrs Woog, Edenland and Kerri Sackville all came to Qatar

Laying on the couch at the Problogger conference (sans make-up, apologies if I gave you a fright)

I arrived in my hotel room at the beginning of our travels with a very clunky dell laptop, and a dial up internet connection that was both unreliable and hugely expensive.

It was January 2000.

These were the days when you thought of everything you needed to do online before you dialed up, as you were charged by the minute.

Someone forgot to tell me that bit.

I left the hotel two months later with an internet bill that G and I have just pretended never happened. It's better that way.

In January 2000, there was no Facebook, no Skype, no cheap apps for getting free calls. We didn't text through pictures, we didn't Instagram, an update was something that happened in the news.

Being an expat, used to be a much more isolated gig.

This weekend a girlfriend of mine flew to Dubai to meet with a group of fellow students that she'll be studying along side this year. The University she will be "attending" is in the UK, her classmates are from all over the world but at this point in time they find themselves in the Middle East. What did we do before online study? I can still remember the panic of friends when study materials didn't arrive in the post, the assignment that was lost in transit.

This weekend I attended a blogging conference. The conference was in Melbourne, but I was wandering around my house with a goofy grin and a set of headphones in Qatar. For the grand total of $200 I listened in on every presentation, copied notes from slides that were presented, followed a tweet stream, and joined a Facebook group. I couldn't have been more there without actually being there than I was.

This is how the world is changing - and it rocks for women like me.

Sure, it would have been great to have made eye contact with some of of my peers over the weekend, and yes I was insanely jealous when I saw pictures of women that I now class as friends standing side by side, but hey, I got to see the pictures! And although I wasn't a part of the conversation, I was there, listening and learning.

For years expats have struggled to pick up on certain points of pop culture. We've missed references or haven't understood the punchline, but things are changing. Technology is on our side. For women who are traveling, the world is not just smaller it's easier, our careers are more portable and our opportunities have expanded.

This weekend I didn't miss out.

The Re-union

G was away in London this week.

We missed him.

It's not just the space in the bed, it's the empty chair at the breakfast table and the realization at the end of the day that he's not going to walk through the door with the usual fanfare "Dad's home!" When the little travellers were babies I resented G's travel. I was envious of everything. Envious of the flight, the hotel room with the fluffy pillows, the robes and the room service. I dreamed of laying in a bed with an opportunity for hours of uninterrupted sleep.

I have different dramas now. Emails from the school, money to hand out, forms that need to be signed. Often when G's away I think about the single parents of the world and how lonely those nights can be when you don't have someone to bounce ideas off of. On Friday morning I told G about the school dance and how the car was making a strange noise. We talked about the group that one of the travellers isn't in, about the behavourial plan suggested by a teacher for another traveller. The moment I'd shared a few of the worries that had been in the back of my mind I felt better. Things that had initially made my head explode were now making me giggle. I need G, I couldn't imagine doing this full time without him. 

I often receive lovely emails from women who are married to soldiers, they identify with being mobile and starting afresh and often being left to your own devices. There's a level of guilt at my end with their compliments, I've got it easy compared to these women. Can you imagine how it feels to be the spouse of a soldier? The guilt that comes with sometimes feeling disgruntled about being left to solo parent, while constantly being on edge about where they are and their safety? 

You women are made of tougher stuff than I am.

I was scrolling through my news feed this week and this clip had me happily sobbing into my keyboard.

From the Huffington Post:

Just before kickoff at Saturday's game between the University of South Carolina and the University of Georgia, the Faile family of Kershaw, S.C., was recognized as the 'military family of the game.'

The organizers then surprised the family with a heartwarming video message from Sergeant First Class Scott Faile on the jumbo screen of the stadium.

But the surprises didn't end there.

Faile ended his message with, "I'll see you very, very, soon."

Lo and behold, 30 seconds later, Seargant Faile stepped onto the field to the astonishment of his family and the roar of the crowd.

I'm afraid G's reunion wasn't quite as glamourous. By the time he landed at 2am on Friday morning I had passed out. He came home laden with lovely gifts to find me snoring with the television on. Sometimes I'm just so sexy I surprise even myself.

I need to work on better re-unions.

Ten Years On

There's only one thing more beautiful than Bali, its people.

Although we lived in Jakarta, landing in Bali was like landing on a whole different planet.

Today there will be many people that remark that they can't believe it was ten years ago, for others it will feel like only yesterday.

Each year on this day, I look at our Annabelle who recently turned ten, and think of how lucky we all are.

Ten years ago.

Life can change in an instant.

I wrote this a couple of years ago.

We will be thinking of the people of Bali today, and all of those affected, particularly two little girls.

Wynton Marsalis and his Horn

If you google "who is the best trumpet player in the world?" the name Wynton Marsalis makes a very healthy appearance on the page. It took me about 30 seconds to respond to the email from the little traveller's school, Wynton was coming to Doha and had agreed to give a short performance in the High School theatre.

We were in.

There was only one thing that was cooler than seeing Wynton that day. It was the look on both of the music teachers faces when they introduced him and watched him play. The more senior of the music teachers, a gentle man who does an incredible job of encouraging and supporting a group of spotty band members, stood beaming in front of a microphone in the middle of the stage.

"I never thought I'd be introducing Wynton Marsalis" I found myself grinning, mirroring his face. I'm guessing it may have been a career highlight.

G and I were blown away by the performance. Wynton told stories from his childhood, he talked of New Orleans, he had us singing. And with carefully chosen words that somehow managed to sit in the air while you digested them slowly, he inspired you to dedicate yourself to something. This was a man who had played for presidents, but when asked for a career highlight spoke with genuine pleasure of watching a high school band practice.

It was a beautiful afternoon, which is why it's so amazing that I have now turned the name Wynton Marsalis into a cringeworthy, no-one say that name, moment.

Wynton came back last week. He played at the St Regis and the first little traveller told us that her music teacher was lucky enough to go along. We were sitting at the dinner table when she made a comment that was perfectly innocent - but it was just too hard for me to keep a straight face.

"Mr K said that Wynton Marsalis let him hold his horn"

I froze.

The giggle was just there. G looked in my direction, smirking, but doing a much better job of containing himself.

"What's so funny Mum?"

"Nothing - I was just thinking of something funny that happened today"

"Mr K is a very lucky man, not everyone gets to hold Wynton Marsalis' horn" I had to leave the room.

Now if the story ended there, it would be fine - but in typical Kirsty let-me-share-this-inappropriate-story-with-you style, it doesn't.

I saw Mr K in the corridor the other day, and in a brief moment of madness (and on reflection, possibly looking like a crazy woman) decided to share my hysterically funny story.

"And then she said Mr K got to hold Wynton Marsalis' horn!"

"Yes I did" said a deadpan Mr K "it was great"

I should have left it there. But oh no, I had to explain the hysterically funny joke.

"It was really hard to keep a straight face"

Mr K looked confused for a moment, and then the penny dropped.

"Oh"

He was never going to see me in the same light again.

"You're dirty" he said with a mixture of surprise and, well I'm not sure, was it a smirk or was it just pure horror?

Thankfully he smiled (as he backed away slowly from the crazy woman), but I'm sure I've just become THAT mother.

It's a gift. Anyone else got it? The inappropriate storyteller gift?

See That Woman Up There

When we began our travels all those years ago, there was talk of an Australian female politician. A red head, a strong woman with a nasal Australian accent. G and I were constantly surprised by how many people knew her name.

Pauline Hanson.

It was embarrassing. Conversations would begin at dinners.

"You're Australian? Oh, what do you think of that Pauline Hanson?"

We were constantly defending Australia. Explaining that no, she wasn't the head of a party, no, we didn't all feel that way.

::

Last year we took the little travellers to Canberra. We had an insider in our ranks who was able to take us behind the scenes. The little travellers were understandably in awe. We walked the corridors, learnt a bit of history, waved to Peter Garrett, said hi to Tanya Plibersek and had a coffee next to Bob Brown. And then we went to look at Question Time.

It was embarrassing.

We'd walked into an audition of a new reality show "Politicians behaving badly".

All the things you tell your kids not to do. Don't interrupt, don't talk over the top of each other, change that tone, don't point, don't pretend to throw up in your mouth while I'm speaking to you.

Adults, generously paid, publicly elected, adults.

I decided to focus on Annabelle Crabb - my most favourite political journalist.

"See that woman up there, the one with the ipad and the keyboard. She has a brilliant mind, she writes beautifully and she will somehow make some sense of all of this chaos. She's a Mummy AND she's from South Australia. You could do that one day girls".

I chose the journalist - not the Prime Minister.

::

My most favourite Uncle as a child was my Uncle Buck. He lived two doors down from us, and his house was the most magical place of my childhood. After my Aunty Ruby died, Uncle Buck would let me pull out the boxes of her long gloves, jewellery and hair pins and play for hours. He told me stories of their travels (some of them were true, most were not). He loved Aunty Ruby, his eyes would often get teary when he spoke of her. I loved how he loved her. I knew I wanted that.

I believed him when he said he flew to Japan on his magic carpet. I sat on that carpet wishing and wishing and just couldn't work out why I couldn't get it off the ground. I was understandably devastated when he died, he was quickly placed on a pedestal much higher than others.

Years later my mother and I were talking about an upcoming election. Her and my father have always voted differently, I love this about them. I asked if Uncle Buck and Aunty Ruby voted the same way, "Uncle Buck told Aunty Ruby who to vote for". For a moment I didn't understand.

 "He would tell her who to vote for and she did? What about Nanna?"

"No-one's ever told your Nanna what to do."

::

I remember when Tony Abbott said it was "too easy" to have an abortion. I remember thinking that obviously Tony Abbott had never had an abortion or had to hold the hand of someone who had - then he would know there was nothing easy about it. You know what's easy? Ejaculating - I've heard there are men who can do it in seconds.

Last night, I sat down with the eldest little traveller and we watched what I would have liked to have shown her in person last year. This is the most talked about Australian redhead in the world today. The New Yorker, The Telegraph, The Huffington Post and Salon had all published links and stories by the time I went to bed last night. I watched my Twitter stream as women all over the world tweeted links with "What a woman! Australian prime minister takes down misogynist".

::

I grew up in a world where women, even though they were adored, were still told how to vote or what to think.

My girls will not.

They know it's okay to stand up and say yes, I was offended.

The F Word

I found a video clip of the 4th little traveller on my phone over the holidays. He was furious with his older brother and had taken the time to sit on the stairs and record a message for him. The message was clear:

Fred - you are fat and moldy.
You are so fat and moldy.
You are so fat and moldy.
And I hate you.

He was not a happy traveller.

By the time I'd found the recording and asked what it was all about, the fourth traveller couldn't remember.

"But he's not fat darling, he's almost underweight?"

"I know - but that was the worse thing I could think of saying. I was really mad at him."

In the western world, we train our children from an early age not to use the F word. We tell them it's insulting and hurtful. We love to talk about fitness, healthy eating and the importance of a balanced diet, but whatever you do kids - don't ever tell Grandma she's fat.

As it turns out for the little travellers, Granny is overweight. In their toddler years, they did the same as many other small children, they asked the un-askable "Why is your tummy so big?" or "Are you having a baby?"

We've all heard it right? My own children have asked me post pregnancy if I had another baby in there, or why my bottom jiggled; there is no denying the fact that even when it comes from the cutest toddler mouth, it still stings a little.

Over the years the little travellers have built up a repertoire of F words. Granny Max told them once that she was "comfortably plump" and I've used words such as curvaceous and rubenesque when talking about myself. The general discussion at our house is eat your vegetables, enjoy playing sport, and recognize that we all come in various shapes and sizes.

But when is it okay to get specific about weight?

We were halfway to Australia when we had a stopover in Hong Kong. A quick trip to Disneyland was organized, and as I stood in line for one of the rides a Disney employee approached me looking very official.

"I'm sorry Madam, you can't go on the ride if you're pregnant". I told her with great indignation that I was not pregnant, uttered a few profanities to my husband and then quietly died of embarrassment for the rest of the day.

But here's the thing, I did look pregnant. I was wearing a dress with a belt that sat very high, (forgive me it was 2006), I'd worn that same dress very comfortably as a pregnant woman. It wasn't that I was huge, I was just wearing a very unflattering dress. My weight was not the issue.

The woman was just doing her job.

There's been a recent run of stories in the media of women giving birth on planes. It's a common conversation between expat women. Letters are required from doctors to board, and it's one of those last minute things that we all keep our fingers and toes crossed for 'please God, let me get on that flight and make it home safely' we've all heard of the women who were refused entry onto an aircraft.

I've boarded a flight at both 34 and 39 weeks pregnant (I know!) one was long haul, one was a quick up and down 45 minute affair. If you're reading this and wondering how in the hell I got away with it - I was very naughty and very desperate.

Giving birth on a plane is no fun - I know this because I've met someone who's done it. My very first baby group in Jakarta consisted of a woman who had boarded a flight in Sydney with the intention of landing in San Francisco. She did eventually get to San Francisco, after spending a lengthy unplanned stay in Indonesia with her newly born premature baby. Her description of people holding up blankets while flight attendants and her husband hovered above her, debating whether to turn the plane around or continue to Indonesia sounded anything but idyllic. There was no relaxation music, massage or meditation, she was merely happy that as she rocked back and forth the engines dulled out her screams. I know that flight staff are trained for an emergency, but one minute you're asking if it's chicken or beef and the next you're covered in vermix? It seems like a big ask to me.

I work with the general rule that unless I can see a baby crowning from a mother's vagina, I do not ask the "are you pregnant" question. Although, if I worked for an airline and it was me that had to deliver the baby? Maybe I would. Today's article about the 21 year old Jetstar passenger who was asked that exact question, has left me wondering if we are about to approach dangerous territory. Surely if one person is insulted, we will now have to take the politically correct route of asking each passenger the same question.

Or do we just realize that someone made a mistake while they were doing their job? Sure, the mistake was insulting, but newsworthy and unforgivable? Let's just apologize and move on.

The Superbusy Mummy Blogger Meets Spam

When the Superbusy Mummy Blogger isn't talking to brands about tampon reviews, she finds herself deleting spam emails from websites who would desperately like her to visit. I would write the name down of some of these sites, but I imagine they would immediately be blocked by your server.

SPAM.

It began in a small way, but as the blog grows, so does its spam. Emails pop into my inbox with words and sentences jumbled into undecipherable mash. Each email has a common bond, they all share the name anonymous, and they all want me to "come visit my site". And they all get the same reaction.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

The Superbusy Mummy Blogger has spoken before about Brands and being asked how much she makes. Here she is with Spam.





You may have noticed our 4 kids, 20 suitcases and beagle Facebook page over there on your right, don't be shy, come on over and say hi!

The Steeplechase

London 1908 - Steeplechase

In the background, hovering, is the fact that I'm leaving at the end of the month. It's everywhere, it lays dormant until someone mentions an event that's coming up "oh, no, I can't come but G can, I wont be here" and then it's there, smack, right in your face.

G and I continue to get busier and busier, which means there's less time for talk, less time for consultation. We have a rough idea of how things will work and plans are slowly falling into place - but we are yet to look each other in the eye. We make broad sweeping statements, but we shy away from the detail.

The weekend refused to stick to its original plan. The sleepover took a twist when we found out our neighbour had lost his mother. Expat life has its hurdles, but the one that appears to be the biggest to jump, is illness. Whether it's yours or your family, a new set of obstacles appear, the fact that you're away from home turns your marathon into a steeplechase.

When someone dies it doesn't matter where you are, life stands still for a moment while you regroup with family and let the news sink in. When you're an expat it means booking flights, maybe getting travel approval from the office and arranging for extended leave. If you have children, all of a sudden you're trying to negotiate the ridiculous notion of fitting Grandmas funereal around the calculus exam. You're on the phone constantly to family and friends, but there's nothing hiding what's really going on; you're miles from home and you have a desperate urge to be with those who understand.

I missed my Grandmother's funereal. I was heavily pregnant with the second little traveler and had just returned from Australia to KL when she died. My mother made me promise not to come back when it happened. I'd watched my Grandmother only weeks before become progressively worse in the nursing home, I held her hand while she begged for help - she was in incredible pain. She had one request for me "don't you go getting all sentimental and call that baby Mabel - I hated the name". She knew me to well. I was getting sentimental, I was thinking of calling the baby Mabel.

My mother emailed me the eulogy my father read at the funeral. My sister said it was beautiful, that's when I realized that funerals weren't for the dead - they're all about the living. It's a chance to say a proper goodbye, a well thought out, planned ending. When I finally returned to Australia eight months later, I'd almost convinced myself that there was a possibility it had all been a terrible mistake, that maybe there was a slight chance that she'd be there. If you haven't seen the moment, attended the funereal, seen the headstone or listened to the memorial, it's easy to pretend it never happened.

I know for G it's not working how he wants it to. He's busy at work, and there are events in his calendar in November that he can't miss. He wants to be with me, but he needs to be with the children. I've seen him looking at air miles and calendars, but I don't ask because I know he can't make it work. He gets quieter, egg shells get sprinkled. We continue to go about our separate plans, we don't make eye contact, because if we do, we'll have to admit that this is really happening.

As we get closer, we'll acknowledge that we'll get through this. I will stop saying "it is what it is". G will surrender and give up on the idea of physically being in two places at once. We will clear all of the barriers required, stretch ourselves for the water jumps and sprint to the end separately with an aim of ending together. And hopefully at some stage, one of us will admit that we were shit scared throughout the entire process.

Lost

A girlfriend asked me over the summer, what an average day in Qatar looked like. "What do you do after you've dropped the kids off?" I tried to explain that things took a bit longer here, but I didn't do well at explaining why.

On Thursday I had to pick up a boy scouts shirt for the third little traveller. I was given the name of a tailor and told to head over near the airport. Unfamiliar territory. I tried to put the name in the GPS but it didn't show up, as is often the case, there was no actual address just the name of the area, I printed out a map from google and set off.

The shops at the souq and the smaller shops in what I can only describe as makeshift strip malls, shut at midday and don't often open again until 4. This means, if you're a parent with an afternoon school pick up, everything needs to be done in the morning. I had a list of things to get for the birthday celebrations that evening, so time was of the essence.

After driving up and down a highway that was undergoing major roadworks, I rang the tailors for help. A very lovely man with broken english displayed incredible patience while it became very clear that he couldn't work out where I was, and I couldn't work out where he was. It's hard to give directions from no-where to the unknown. I could tell him that the airport was on my left, that I'd driven past a series of shops and a service station and that Wakra was in front of me and the city behind me - but we weren't getting anywhere. An hour later - I went home without a shirt.

For anyone living away from home, this is a common story. These are the frustrations that come with being new. Sometimes it's not just a new city it's a new culture that comes with it. In my early expat years, I would have pulled over to the side of the road and cried. It sounds so pathetic, but a weeks worth of fruitless searching can leave you feeling that you just can't get anything right. I would have asked myself why I was here, why everything seemed so much more difficult than home, and then I would have done the only logical thing. Blamed it all on G. It would have been his fault, he brought me here, it was his stupid fault.

I don't do that anymore.

I rang G in the midst of giving up, we traded jokes on who was having the more exciting morning, him at the IT security meeting, or me on a highway with low flying planes, trying to avoid the trucks while  reading the signs.

"I'll have a go at it on the weekend" he said, I moved on to the next job of picking up the ice-cream cake.

This morning G decided to go in search of the tailor before his sailing lessons. He rang me from the location asking for the tailor's number.

"You found it?! Fantastic! Where was it?"

"If you would have kept driving for about another 500 metres you would have found it. You were really close" his voice was encouraging.

"So why do you need the number?"

"This place is huge, I've driven around and around but I can't see the tailor".

After G had rang and got directions, he eventually found the store.

"Where's your son?" the man asked G.

"He's at home - but I don't need him right? You have the shirts here?"

"No, no sir, we make them - we need to measure him."

We're going back this afternoon.

She Must Be Hungry?

"And just so you know, I am a dog person but that is not a dog, that is evil with a dog face that humps my leg and is peeing on your carpet."

The Dog Sitter - Marley and Me

We knew we had a problem right from the start, from the moment G arrived home from the beagle rescue centre and let her through the back door, she was out of control. She went straight for the bin, head first, rummaging like a frantic bride to be who'd misplaced her engagement ring.

"She must be hungry?" someone said.

We would soon learn that she would always be hungry. She was a beagle. Food is her drug. Those beagles you see in the airport? They're not trained, they're just looking for their next hit.

I often speak to the beagle in a southern accent, I know its ridiculous but it's her heritage, she was born and raised in Texas. When I first saw her pretty face, I thought of her as a gentle southern belle, impeccable manners, maybe a Laura Bush or a Lady Bird Johnson - I didn't realize what we actually had was an Anna Nicole Smith.

Unlike Anna the beagle see's no need for prescription drugs, but if you were to coat them in butter, I'm sure she'd change her mind. I now only buy butter in the smallest quantities, I do this so that when the beagle breaks into the fridge (a weekly event) I can minimize the damage. 

Butter and burgers are her weakness. She once dug a tunnel from our house in Houston to our neighbours for the sole purpose of locating their 4th of July barbecue leftovers. Faster than you could say "these burgers will make ya wanna slap your mamma" she'd ripped through their garbage bags and was knee deep in burger heaven.

At a dinner party last week, we set up a table for the children while we sat at a more grown up affair nearby. We timed it so the children were just finishing as we sat down with their parents. G had outdone himself and our guests were showering him in compliments when I saw a look of horror on one of our guest's face. She yelled while gesturing behind me "The dog! Oh my god - The dog is up ON the table". I turned to see the beagle, standing in the middle of table, inhaling the children's left overs. Nothing was going to stop her. The sound of the chairs scraping across the floor, the screams of "get down now", nothing slowed her down. As I grabbed her collar she gave me a look of "where's the fixins?" 

There have been many times where I have questioned our beagle decision. The hundred or so times where I've found garbage strewn all over our carpet. The quick fix dinner that has been required because she's jumped up on a bench to retrieve the defrosting chicken. The multiple times when I have found her slurping through my fresh cup of coffee while I've buttered my toast. The fifteen to twenty discarded school lunch boxes that she has eaten through. The fact that we cannot have an inside garbage bin. Or the fact that while I've been typing this post, I've been interrupted by the third little traveller to be told that the beagle has done a big runny poo in the playroom. I can't tell you how much joy it gave me to clean it up while receiving a running commentary from the six or seven onlookers. 

The beagle looked on in a rather disinterested manner 

It's at this stage that I make myself remember John Grogan's quote from Marley and me.

A dog doesn't care if you're rich or poor, clever or dull, smart or dumb. Give him your heart and he'll give you his. How many people can you say that about? How many people can make you feel rare and pure and special? How many people can make you feel extraordinary?

In my darker moments I want to write to John Grogan and ask him how many people did a poo in his playroom. 

I like to watch Marley and me, it makes me feel better about our beagle. When it comes to naughty, our beagle has nothing on Marley, I like to be reminded that it could be so much worse. I need to remember that when I come home it's the beagle that runs to my feet. That when I kiss the travellers good night it's the beagle they all want on their bed. When we all frantically leave the house for school in the morning, it's the beagle that cries at the front door as the car pulls away. 

She might not be the best dog - but she's our dog.

Zip, Buzz, Whoosh, Gone.

I'm not sure how it happened, but yesterday we all ended up sitting on my bed. Everyone except Dad, he was at work. You saw the title of a blog on my computer, an old post from last year - it was called "Lunch Monitors" and you asked me to read it.

You had no idea it was all about you.

I hadn't read it out loud to any of you before - it's one of those posts that I just hope you'll stumble across in years to come and be magically transported back to this time. To this house. A house that barely contains your energy. I watch you zip from room to room, and this house somehow becomes a glass jar with a lid and you its trapped fly. You buzz and buzz until I grant you the freedom of opening the front door. Whoosh. Gone.

You all giggled while I read the post. The second little traveller made jokes and when I said the bit about the 4th traveller using the eye mask as underwear, you all roared with laughter. And for that split second, I took a photo in my mind; a photo that has you in your final moments of 8, head thrown back with squeals of laughter, flanked by family.

Your Dad made the usual jokes last night "have you done a poo today? I wonder if that's your last 8 year old poo." You think he is hysterical. "8 year old poo Dad, can you imagine an eight year old poo?" You want to be just like him, and you will be - only better. Your father was made better by his sister, he will admit to this, probably not to her - but he has to me. She adores him in the same way that your sisters adore you, you can't see it right now, but you will. You don't notice that the second little traveller has checked your schedule on the refrigerator - that's how you knew to get changed this morning, it was her that yelled out "you need to wear your PE uniform". You will possibly not remember that it was the first little traveller that chose your outfit for the school photos yesterday "Oh God, you can't wear that" she said before marching you back into your bedroom to get changed.

There are so many things you can do that make you big; you can make a sandwich, a proper healthy sandwich with lettuce. You can swim, ride, run and catch. You can order something over the phone, you can run inside the service station and pick up a loaf of bread.

I often remember that you are still small when I notice that you don't like to walk upstairs on your own. I really hope that you remember that your brother always offers to go with you. Always. You like to keep the light on at night and your favorite place in the world is right in the middle of Dad and I on a Saturday morning in bed. You often arrive with your own bedding incase you're competing for a position. I can't tell you how often I wake with you at my feet, the most loyal of puppies.

I'm still not sure where all of your questions will lead you. You have them for everyone, the car salesman, the air-conditioning repair man, the plumber and the parents of your friends. You sit with our friends and ask them about their jobs, you want to know how to build a train station, how to fly a plane, how to teach a class. You ask questions continuously, you need to know exactly why and how. I constantly change my mind on where the questions are leading - who you will be. This is maybe my favourite thing about you - you're open to everything.

One of the biggest gifts I was ever given, was from Grandma and Grandad, a better gift than the gift of Daddy - it was you. With the first little traveller, I was neurotic and obsessed with doing it all properly. The second traveller arrived and we were on a plane to Libya in a matter of weeks, there was little time to enjoy her amongst the boxes and packing. Grandma and Grandad came to help me when you were born, and often left for hours with your sisters so that I could have some time. I sat staring at the wonder of you. Confident enough that I knew what I was doing, I simply enjoyed you. Sitting in that bay window, looking out to sea with you in my arms, remains to be one of my most favourite memories. It was our time.

My first son.

Happy birthday my darling, I begged you not to turn nine, I wanted to keep you eight forever, but you had other plans. I know the day will come where I will wake and you will not have snuck into my bed, you will be neither by my side nor at my feet. We will move to the next stage and I will marvel at your growth while secretly revisiting the photo in my mind; you, us, together, head thrown back, flanked by family.

Pinch Me

We were smack in the middle of expat limbo. We'd been living in Houston for not even a year when G was offered a job in Qatar. For a healthy dose of geographical schizophrenia we went backwards to our old life. We returned to Canada for a weekend. We did what we said we could never do. We revisited, reflected, and planted ourselves in the middle of what was. The old us.

I didn't do well in my first year in Canada. I was that woman that you meet who's new in town and isn't happy. I struggled, more than anywhere before. It remains to be my toughest move. I had three very small children, a husband who travelled extensively, and a budget that had us exploring one hundred ways to cook mince. We'd taken out our first mortgage and it wasn't how I had dreamed - a pink house in the burbs, they called it Californian salmon in the brochure - but it was pink. 

I was miserable. This was not what I'd signed up for. I wanted the exotic, the foreign language, the extremes of power outages and tracking down supplies. Instead I was in a mini-van in the burbs, I was shopping at warehouse supermarkets and watching Oprah while folding the washing. 

"I could have this life in Australia" I said to G more than once "I don't understand why we're here? We could be doing the same thing at home, but with better weather!"

The little travellers were in heaven. We lived on a cul-de-sac, there were kids to play with, bikes to ride, a basement full of toys. Libya became a distant memory for them, we were now a family with snow suits, toboggans and toques. I hated the cold, I didn't ski, I was geographically mismatched. I was an eskimo in the desert, a Caribbean reggae band performing in the Alps.

I think the major change came when I returned to the office. Calgary was in the height of the boom and the pace was fast, we all got swept up in it. It was the modern day gold rush - people came out west for jobs and opportunity. We watched friends build businesses while others sold to corporations. I made girlfriends, really good girlfriends. I giggled at work and felt good about seeing people get jobs that they were happy about. I learnt how to speak Canadian, I drank beer at hockey games, listened to the Bare Naked Ladies and found tears on my cheeks when the little travellers sang the National Anthem in French.

And when the time came to leave, I realized I didn't want to go. 

There it was again. That problem, the home/heart problem. Where was my heart? Somehow, maybe when it initially broke, my heart had managed to separate, compartmentalize and save a little piece for Canada. It happened when I wasn't looking. I knew how it worked, I was going to have to leave that piece behind, it would sting initially and then move into a dull ache that would resurrect itself in the form of a Facebook status update "Stampede time!" or the words of a song "It's the perfect time of year, somewhere far away from here..."

Over the weekend that we returned, we didn't so much slide, we plunged straight back in to our old life. The little travellers attended birthday parties and played on the same cul-de-sac. We sat at familiar tables in houses that could have been our own, we knew where to find the wine glasses. The neighbours sang Happy Birthday to the third little traveller and made him cupcakes - and for a minute I was about to suggest that we all go back over to our house, and then I remembered that it now belonged to a South African doctor and his family. 

That evening at the local hotel we sat with the hockey playing in the background while catching up and retelling old stories. I looked out into the car park and saw the beginning of snow. It began lightly and within minutes it changed to huge, fat, cotton ball snow. My favourite kind. The snow that makes you stop and notice. It was the first for the season, October 4th 2009. 

The third little traveller has woken me up every day this week with a running commentary of how many sleeps until his birthday. We are down to one. This morning as he lay inches from my face he asked "remember when we went back to Canada for my birthday Mum? And it snowed? And now I'm going to go swimming on my birthday in Qatar! What do you prefer? The snow or the sun?" He knows my answer will always be the sun, but I know that my answer no longer comes with the same speed and ease that it used to.

The compartmentalization comes into play. It was all a surprise, I wasn't meant to fall in love with Canada. Thinking of  snow now makes me see faces, houses, favourite ice-cream shops, lakes and mountains. The snow takes me to dance lessons with little girls in pink leotards, drinks after work with suits, concerts and hockey games that require a walk in minus 20 temps to get inside the building.

It doesn't matter where I am, or what I'd prefer, when you leave a piece of your heart somewhere, it will always be the perfect time of year, somewhere very far from here.