Super Busy Writing

It's been awhile since we've seen the Superbusy Mummy Blogger. She's had an interesting month, the first half of which was a little blurred with painkillers and anti-inflamatories, while the second half has been jam packed with TimTams and home-made pies.

This month the Superbusy Mummy Blogger joined a group of writers to attempt NENANWRIMO. If you've heard of NANOWRIMO (the challenge to write fifty thousand words in a month), you may be asking what the NE is for. "Near Enough". I knew I was going to like these women immediately.

Despite the name wreaking of procrastination, there have been many in the group who today have announced making it to fifty thousand words. There was one woman who wrote ten thousand in a day. Yep, one day. That was the day I wrote three hundred words. Thankfully though, there's quite a few of us who remain ominously quiet on providing solid numbers.

I've given myself until the 12th December. In the meantime, TimTam anyone?

Geographical Triggers

It's the reindeers.

We had three of them in our front yard in Canada. I'd never seen them before living in North America, and I thought they were hysterical. Is it fair to say that the majority of the population does lights in North America over the Holiday season? Everyone on our street did. It didn't matter which religion or nationality - there were lights.

When I think of the reindeers, I think of driving home from work and it being dark because it was winter. I think of light snow, and gloves squeaking as they gripped onto the steering wheel. The click of a seatbelt as it stretched over a heavy winter coat. The feeling of being cocooned inside the car. I think of small children waiting. I can see G, standing out in the cold, getting the reindeers connected, the power cord for the Christmas lights running to the outside socket along the side of the house.

A catalogue arrived in my blazing hot, metal mailbox in Australia this week. And there they were, the reindeers. And in a second I was gone. I was standing with G in a warehouse store, with little travellers walking the isles in snow boots and puffer jackets helping out with the decision. It had to be the reindeers. We watched them from our front window, snow sprinkling gently over them as they charmed the little travellers.

Geographical triggers.

The Pottery Barn plastic bag that I keep under the sink and can never bring myself to use as a garbage bag.

"No, no, keep that" I say without explanation every time someone pulls it out to use it.

"Why are we keeping this? It's a plastic bag" even the children don't understand.

In a second that bag can transport me straight back to Houston. I know exactly where I'd park the car. I'd grab a coffee at the bookstore, the fourth little traveller and I would hover around the children's section. Pottery Barn, Banana Republic, Gap, Anthropologie, and then the grocery shopping. America, you make shopping so much fun, no-one shops like you do.

Keeping that plastic bag under the sink, is my last little slither of still being there. We have mementos, artwork and trinkets - but the plastic bag came packed with everything else that was under the sink in that house. The Whole Foods carry bags, the pack of cleaning wipes from SuperTarget (think Target and multiply by 4).

It says permanent, weekly, ordinary and every day. It says, this was your life once, this was your ordinary, you don't have to forget it and move on.

We'll just stay right here, and remind you that it wasn't all a dream.

Universal Parenting

Years ago in Jakarta, when I was deep in parenting books and spending just a little bit too much time obsessing over my very precious newborn, I joined a baby group.

When I look back I actually cringe at how intense I was with my perfect little traveller. I think I may have been that woman. The one who cornered you at the coffee shop and told you all about feed times, schedules, and how she'd tried putting mango in with the apple and pear that she'd frozen the evening before.

I was obsessed.

In amongst that obsession was thankfully a voice of reason. A girlfriend of mine was on baby number two and she was far more relaxed about it all. Her schedule had nothing to do with food mushing and everything to do with catching up for a glass of wine. She encouraged me to join her book group and it was on the way there, that she told me the story of a girlfriend of hers and her ingenious parenting skills.

Before entering anyone's house, her girlfriend liked to have a little "pep talk" on what the behavioural expectations would be for the day.

"If you misbehave and I have to tell you more than once to stop, I will take off my shoe and belt you with it".

I know, it sounds a little severe, but it turns out it was effective.

Each time the children began to wind things up just that little bit too far, their mother would make eye contact. And while she was applying the mother death stare, she would slowly run her hand down her leg towards her ankle as a gentle reminder that her shoe was right there. Waiting.

Worked. Every. Time.

It turns out, in some countries they actually take the threat a little further. The results are impressive!

Enjoy.

Oh, and just before you do. Have you checked out the 4 kids, 20 suitcases... Facebook page? It's just over there on the right, come over and say Hi. 

What About The Children?

I am often asked if I'm worried about the effect travelling will have on our children. It's not the groovy travel that people appear to be worried about. Holidays it seems, are deemed by society to be okay, you know, because everyone does that. The worry I'm meant to have, is the worry about them being psychologically scarred by mine and G's choice to live an expatriate life.

As a girl who couldn't have grown up in a more anchored, middle class, nuclear family, I get it. Our geographical family footprint, is not a traditional one. I understand that moving schools is a stressful thing, making new friends is hard, and returning to Australia each year with the hint of an accent or an unrecognizable pop culture reference, may set you up for the possibility of mockery.

I get it.

There are many things in life though, that may set you up for mockery from those who lack understanding. It's our job as parents to be there for discussion and education when this happens. If the toughest thing my children have had to handle is their over indulged expat lives, I may just need to remind them of that.

How G and I choose to raise our children is exactly that, our choice. And until the children are adults, the jury remains out for those with the concerns. Not for us though, as their parents we've watched them grow, we've had the conversation about travel, talked about the pros and cons, and tried to make the conversation an ongoing one. Is everyone happy where we are? Does anyone want to move home? So far, so good.

Naturally, the children are often perplexed by others ideas of what a "true" Australian is. I know they wonder what it would be like to live in the same place all the time, in the same way that as a child I dreamed of running off with the circus. A child in the country wonders about city life, while a city kid perhaps dreams of a dirt bike or a horse to ride. Grass, greener, always.

What I hope for at the end of all of this, is for children like Maya.

"Everyone seems to have an opinion about our families, but it doesn't seem like anyone is asking the kids how they feel".

I saw Maya Newell on QandA last night (she's at about the 34 minute mark), she was outstanding. When she mentioned her two Mums, all I could think about was how proud those two Mums must have been.

Here's a snippet of the movie Maya is working on.



Families come in many different forms. It is not our role to judge or decide which form they take. We know it takes a village (I have a small village looking after my own children at this very moment) but it's all about helping, supporting and being there in a time of need. It has nothing to do with judging.



*if you would like to pledge support in getting Maya's movie completed, you can do so here

The Storytellers

My very favourite Uncle as a child, was my Uncle Buck. I'm sure there were many in our family that could never quite understand why I spent so much time at his house. Why would an old man in his seventies hold such an attraction for a young girl?

Like a drop-in centre for the homeless, his recliner armchairs became my after school solace. His limited mobility made him the perfect captive audience. I didn't notice that he was still in his pyjamas at three in the afternoon. I didn't care how clean the floor was. The necessities were covered. There was always chocolate in the fridge, a cup of tea that could be drank from a saucer, and an ear that would listen to story after story of my wildly exciting who said what in the playground melodramas.

Uncle Buck lived two houses away from my own, but the moment I stepped into his yard I felt like I'd entered another world. I was an Avenger, a superwoman, an explorer. What might appear to an adult as messy and overrun, is a breeding ground for creativity to a child. Any school project could be solved with a visit to Uncle Buck's wood heap at the back of his house. Preparation for show and tell at school was easily fixed with a quick scavenge through a few old discarded boxes in the sunroom. I would sit and listen as he told me the story of each quirky item that had its special place, the stuffed alligator, the biscuit tin in the shape of a head. Only old people can truly talk about waiting a lifetime for something to happen, for they have waited and watched time pass by. I believed every story, including the magic carpet ride to Japan, and his super power glasses that he'd never let me try.

After my Aunty Ruby had died, Uncle Buck would let me disappear into my own world of make-beleive while I tried on all of her long gloves and sparkly accessories. I would sit at his feet covered in brooches, hat pins and sparkly necklaces while he told me stories of where Aunty Ruby had worn them. It always sounded so exotic, when the reality was merely a country dance or a party. He spoke of her in the same way I would later hear my Grandmother speak of my Grandfather after his death. The invisible pedestal is placed, no ill can be spoken, fights are forgotten, disagreements never happened. You watch as eyes glisten while you hear the retelling of the first meeting, the day they were married.

"She was the most beautiful woman in Renmark."

He was back in a time of dances, diamontes and pencil skirts. There was no mention of Parkinsons, shakes, senile tantrums or mad escapes that would have my mother searching the town for an elderly woman in her nightdress.

Perhaps it takes a lifetime to choose what you want to remember. The disagreements, the petty arguments, or the raging fight you had that day in the Woolworths supermarket carpark about what you said at Dave's party on Saturday night, are all forgotten; the real point is that at the end of it all, when it was all said and done, you chose to stay. You were still there together, because you could never be apart.

I grew up surrounded by relatives who lived in houses that were not always perfect, but they were always positive. Work was done, money was banked, holidays were planned, and children were well looked after but encouraged to discover. Stories were told, recycled and remembered, each one helping in the building of the next invisible pedestal.

That's What Happens When You Mess With The Girls

In 1963, a girl from the city made a visit to a country town to see some family friends. One of the local boys, a cousin of hers, was instructed to take her out for the day and show her around. She ended up on what was effectively a country pub crawl. When she was telling me the story of how the boys would go inside the hotel while she would wait out in the car, I was understandably horrified.

"Why did you put up with that shit?"

"Darling, it was 1963, women were not welcome in the front bar, and I was just happy to be out! It was a different time."

Today the second little traveller and I were involved in a conversation about the week.

"You know Mum, how there's the soccer fields at school?"

"Uh huh"

"Well, lately, now that we're all playing soccer, the boys have kind of been hogging the field"

"Oh, that's disappointing"

"A couple of girls asked the boys if they could play with them and the boys said 'no, because girls aren't as good as boys at soccer'"

"Oh, that's just dumb on their behalf isn't it".

"Sure is Mum, because the girls told a teacher and now the girls have a field all of their own, because Mum, that's what happens when you mess with the girls."


Have a great weekend everyone. Kx

Deny The Goodbye.

I made the decision to live as a recluse shortly after hearing I needed to be at home for six weeks without my family.

It made perfect sense to me, to lock myself away. I didn't want to talk to people about the children, and if they were missing me. I didn't want to see anyone else's children, I knew it would just remind me of what I was missing. I wanted to concentrate on healing, and doing the best I could at getting better. No extra coffees, no okay just another glass of wine. I wanted to keep the iPad next to me at all times incase one of the children called. I didn't want to ever be unavailable to them. More importantly, I wanted to try and get as much writing done as possible. I wanted to be able to meet G and the children at the airport when it was all over and have something to show for it. Something that wouldn't make me feel like I'd wasted my time and it was all for nothing.

It's been hard to explain why I want to be alone.

I miss my parents, family, and friends terribly when I'm away from them, and now here I am, right here in the country, choosing to be alone. After looking after me for that first week out of hospital, my mother cried when she had to return home and say goodbye.

"Oh Mum, why are you crying?  I'm right here, we can talk everyday. I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm not crying" she said with tears streaming down her face. My parents live a few hours from the beach house, they have their own lives to get back to. My mother texts each morning to check I don't need her to come back, and then she texts that evening just to make sure.

My sister and I spoke on the phone for nearly two hours last night, and as much as I'd love to see her, I know it's better if I just lay low. We talked about camping, toilets and generational changes in women's expectations of men. We both agreed that yabbies need to be served hot, that vinegar is essential in the process, and seafood sauce is redundant in the world of a yabbie. We giggled, a lot. We agreed that we have one of the best mothers on the planet.

We did not discuss how the children were "coping" without me. She knows I don't want to think of them "coping". She gets it. This period of time is going to be about being productive, not about being miserable.

I have mechanisms I have developed over time, on how to deal with being away from the people I love. It comes from years of practice, of staring at photos of smiling faces and reconsidering the cost of travel again and again and again - only to have to face the fact that we cannot afford to go home.

After years of travelling there's a hardness, an outer shell or crust. Maybe it's a strength, maybe it's just denial. In the beginning of your expat travels, there's the sadness in a goodbye, the tears at the airport, the melancholy of knowing what's about to be missed. I've heard many expats say the first thing they learnt to let go, was the airport goodbye.

"We don't do airports, it's too hard, why put everyone under that pressure". said one girlfriend.

Next comes the actual process of saying goodbye.

I was at a table of six long term expats when a girlfriend said "we don't even do goodbyes now, we just say 'see ya next time' with a really cheery voice" everyone at the table admitted to now doing the same.

Years of experience teach you how to effectively avoid getting yourself in a miserable situation. I had coffee with a woman earlier this year who told me she had said goodbye to her father with the full knowledge that she may not see him again.

"I had to say, well Dad, this could be it." she told me.

I wouldn't have said it, I couldn't have. I would have said everything I needed to say in the weeks leading up to the goodbye, but when it came time to go, I would have embraced denial and held on tight.

I thought back to a time with a family friend who had cancer. We had caught up at my parents house, he was thin and not well, I'm sure he knew it was our last time together. As he drove out of our driveway he looked me straight in the eye and gave me a wink and a smile. That was enough, that was a good enough goodbye for me. If I think of him, I think of that wink. It was perfect.

On the morning of my surgery, I sat in the reception area of the hospital completely alone, waiting for someone to take me to where I needed to be. I knew it wasn't just wanting to be alone, it was needing to be alone. I didn't want to make conversation, I didn't want to see the stress in my mothers eyes, and I didn't want any goodbyes on the way into surgery. I wanted to stay tough, keep strong.

We have passed the half way mark. It is now three weeks and two days until I see my babies and that bloody gorgeous over achieving husband of mine.

I get a little stronger every day, a write a little more, listen to the birds, and marvel over the colours in the flowers (we're a little bird and flower deprived in the desert). Some days I stay in my pyjamas, some days I drive to the shop.  Every day I chat with each of the little travellers and giggle along with their updates. Recently, the fourth traveller told me that his friend went home because his Grandma passed out.

"Passed out?"

"Yes! She must have been somewhere up high when she passed out, because now she's looking down at them from somewhere?"

I was about to explain that maybe Grandma had actually passed away, rather than passed out, but I stopped myself.

Sometimes a little bit of denial is okay.

Particularly if it's stopping you from being sad.

And This Is Why It Takes So Long To Write A Book.

I have spent the entire day 'trying' to write.

The entire day.

I have a total of 1900 words to show for my efforts. I was hoping for around 5,000.

I began at 10.00 am this morning, and it is now 6 pm. Apart from a break to eat lunch, and Skyping with the little travellers, I have pretty much stared at the Scrivener application on my computer screen for the the entire day.

I think I may be going completely mad.

It was all going well until I joined a group of people in a Salsa bar.

"Look, you are pregnant!"

Except it wasn't "look, you are pregnant", it couldn't just be look you are pregnant, because the woman who said it, was Columbian.

There had to be an element of excitement and surprise. You had to be thinking salsa, sex and Gloria from Modern Family.

"Louuuk, you ah pregnant" wasn't right. She wasn't Scottish.

"Ahaaaaaa, loook at chu, you har preegnint" was that offensive?

I moved on, that's what they keep telling me, let it go, come back to it, move on.

And then the Scottish guy walked into the room and asked everyone to take their seats.

I was back there again, in accent hell.

I made a coffee, talked to myself in a Scottish accent for an hour, and returned to the sentence.

"Canee ask that you all be taken your seats"

I knew it wasn't right.

I enlisted a few of my closest Scottish mafiaette around the world.

"I think he would say "Canna ask that you all be takin' yer seats?"

I knew Aileen would be able to help me, bless my flower of Scotland in Jakarta.

But no, my proclaimer in Paris, Shari, came in with a highland fling.

"Canna" it turns out, is not 'Can I', it is 'Can not'. Which is also the same as 'Cannae'.

My head was beginning to hurt.

Between Jakarta, Paris and Aberdeen, my Scotswomen concluded it had to be this:

"Can Ah ask ye all tae tak yer seats?"

Brilliant. Spare kidneys to anyone who may need one in the future. Eternally grateful.

Until a Southern Belle sat next to me at the table, I took one look at her and had only one thought.

Can you be the first American to speak with a Australian accent?

And this is why it takes so long to write a book.

Surgically Serious

My surgeon rang last week to follow up on a question I had, and to check on how I was doing. Without thinking, I told her the truth.

"Well, it kind of feels like someone knocked me out, and a team of people assaulted my vagina for about five hours, I guess that's probably because you did".

She roared with laughter.

I'm starting to like my surgeon.

I like her because she removed my diverticulum. I like her because she has lovely small hands (a quality I also admire in an Obstetrician) and I like her because she is incredibly honest and to the point. When we first met I found her frankness disarming, but I've learnt that frankness is a quality you want in your surgeon. Tell me the truth, don't paint a pretty picture, just let me know.

A few days before my surgery she had performed something called a urodynamics test. I've asked to return to the room to where the test took place to collect my dignity, as I'm pretty sure I left it there. By the end of the procedure, my surgeon and I knew each other very intimately, she had placed all sorts of things in all sorts of places, while making all sorts of excruciatingly embarrassing requests. I had left the room learning more about myself than I'd hoped for eg. yes, you can fill my bladder to the brim but I will not, can not, wee while you stand and watch me. Uh huh!

"It's not unusual" she said in a monotone voice. "We're trained from childhood not to do this, it goes against everything we think is right. It's your subconscious, I'll put you on a toilet and leave the room - you'll wee immediately"

And I did. Like a good girl.

On the morning of my surgery there was not a man in sight. A female receptionist, a female nurse, a female anesthetist, two female surgeons, two female theatre nurses. There were a few smiles, but everyone was very serious, to the point, getting on with the job.

Not one person asked what I did for a living, not a question about where I lived, or my children, because at that moment, all any of them could see, was a diverticulum. I was merely its host. What do you do Kirsty, why, I grow really good diverticulums!

And in that moment I realized I didn't care about the niceties, because it suddenly dawned on me, that all they were doing, was their job.

I wonder if my expectation of what I had perceived as a lack of warmth from my surgeon, was a little sexist on my behalf. Surely if you're a woman and a mother, you're soft and warm?

No.

If you're a surgeon, you're a surgeon. I wasn't her child. I was a patient.

The day after my surgery, my surgeon dropped by the hospital with her four year old son. She introduced him and ruffled his hair. "I hope you don't mind that I brought him along?" I couldn't have been happier. The look in her eyes when she introduced him to me, and that familiar glint of overwhelming pride on her behalf was very familiar.

Nurses on the ward had told me while taking my blood pressure, that I had been lucky, I'd picked a brilliant surgeon. I was now witness to the fact that she was also a loving and very proud mother, and a bloody good example of how you can combine the two.

Relaxing the Ying

Although he's understandably tired, it's fair to say G is proving to be very good at parenting without me. In fact it wouldn't be unfair to suggest he's taken it a step further. Some may say, well, I think he's just showing off now.

I'm told there are no more last minute dashes to school. The little travellers have let me know that when you go with Dad, it's highly possible he'll get you there early enough that you actually have to wait for the gates to open. I made a comment recently to one of the travellers about the line up of cars at a particular entry point, she quickly let me know that the line is a thing of the past. Things have changed. "Mum, when Dad drops us off, there is no line. We get there before everyone else".

I listen via Skype as breakfast requests are made. Cereal and toast have been surpassed by G's short order menu, eggs are poached, boiled or scrambled, sausages sizzle in the background. Everyone has remembered their swimming gear for PE, their trombone for music, their guitar for lessons. Information nights have been attended and new lists have been made for International Week and an upcoming camp.

"You should probably talk to Dad about getting a present for the birthday parties you have to go to this weekend" I suggest.

"We did that yesterday Mum, it's all done - Dad's making us wrap them today so we're organized".

"Of course he has" I mutter under my breathe.

The little travellers are sending me pictures of their latest joint achievements with Dad. Here's a picture of the boat we made, here's a picture of the layered caramel sponge cake. And then these words after a midweek dinner from G "Annie wanted berries for dessert, so I just threw in some tiny meringues and whipped some cream and then drizzled the juice of the fruit over the top. I wish we had some marscapone, I think that would have just made the dish."

Really, that would have made the dish, I reckon just getting dessert probably made the week!

On Facetime yesterday, the first traveller provided updates of the weekend. We talked about a party she had attended and how Dad had been there early to pick her up, but then the tone changed. G had taken her shopping for shoes for camp.

"How did it go?"

"He's not you Mum. I mean, he's great at cooking, and he's fun to bake with, but he kind of doesn't get it when it comes to shopping for clothes."

I tried to stifle my glee.

"Your Dad's never been one for shopping, he feels that 5 minutes is enough time to spend on a purchase. Any more than five minutes in a mall and he begins to break out in hives"

She giggled.

"You're more relaxed" she smiles.

I'm afraid my relaxed has its faults. It encourages me to take an extra couple of minutes finishing my coffee when I should be heading out the door. My relaxed joins me while I try to buy a birthday present at the store, only minutes before the party I've known about all week. My relaxed has had me sizing up two chicken breasts, a broad bean and a limp artichoke wondering how I'll turn it into a fabulous dinner for six. I would hope though, that without G, my relaxed would learn it was time to step up the pace, just as G's organized appears to have remolded itself in my absence. The yin and yang of our life.

My relaxed yin, looks on admirably at how G's organized yang is surviving without us.

Two different energies, not completely black nor white, waiting to form an outer ongoing circle.

Waiting For That Big Thing

In the lead up to leaving Doha, there were many times I told friends I wanted to wake up tomorrow and discover it was December 13th. I just wanted to skip all the hard bits. I didn't want to leave the children. I didn't want to go to hospital. I didn't want the catheters or the recovery process. I couldn't imagine going through any of it without G.

I wonder now what I must have looked like when I was transiting through Kuala Lumpur. I was just so sad. So, so sad. I cried in the Royal Selangor shop over a set of salad servers. Except it wasn't really the salad servers, it was what they represented. It had been ten years since we'd lived in KL, we'd bought the most beautiful pewter salad servers when we left as a memento. They'd gone with us to Libya and then onto Canada and the US. They now sit a drawer in our kitchen in Doha. I thought about all the different bowls, the different food, the different friends.

I wasted so much our year in Kuala Lumpur. We knew it wasn't a long term posting. We'd been told to just "sit tight" until they told G where the next gig was. The entire year was punctuated by G coming home from work and me asking "have you heard anything yet?"

I forgot to stop thinking about what was next, and instead, just think about what was now.

There are so many beautiful memories of that time. Watching the monkeys swinging in the trees in the mini jungle across from our house. The first traveller's second birthday. The birth of the second little traveller.  We had some great friends, life was busy, but I just couldn't get my head away from "have you heard anything yet?" I was in a rush to see what the next big thing would be.



I don't want to waste the next month while I wait for G and the children to arrive. I don't want to lose any more days. The little travellers and I have enjoyed some of the best chats on Skype over the past few weeks, and I have learnt so much about how we work as a family by stepping back and watching from a distance.

It's time to really get writing, I am determined that when I pick up the little travellers from the airport, I will have something to show for it. Fifty thousand words closer to the end of the book.

The big thing? The big thing is happening right now.

Kirsty, you're a douche bag.

She's right. It was naughty to call Adelaide the City of Churches and serial killers. Officially yes, it is the City of Churches but the serial killer thing? They haven't made that official yet.

My post earlier this week on why I could understand Melissa George not wanting to rehash her past, provided a few blogging lessons.

1. Be very clear about what it is you're actually trying to say, otherwise get ready to spend the next day explaining what you really meant.
2. If you reference Melissa George in your message, you may be mistaken as the new president of the Melissa George fan club. This could be awkward if (apart from The Slap) you've never seen any of her work.
3. Honest feedback is really good. It makes you tough, and it makes you learn what to do next time.
4. Mindless name calling is weak and lacks validity, but it can still sting. No-one wants to be called a douche bag.

Over the past two days I've been told I should see a therapist, that I seek validation through my dry cleaner, and that I need to get over myself.

All of this from a post that was meant to be about running into people after not seeing them for years, and feeling the need to fill in the gaps. I know I didn't write the post well, but I'm guessing that sympathizing with Melissa George is where I really went wrong (according to the same commenter, she's a douche bag as well).

I've had time over the last few days to ask myself a few questions about why I do things. Why do I need to fill in the gaps? Why do I strike up conversations with the girl at the bakery, the guy at the petrol station and the women next to me in the supermarket? And then there's the big questions. Why do I need to make a cup of tea to justify the two mint slices I'm about to eat?

Back to the original question though. Why can't I run into someone without needing to do a quick rehash of the past twenty years?

Yesterday my mother bought a few items from a shopping centre in the city (the city of churches and serial killers). When she came home she told me about the woman behind the cash register, she was apparently very nice, she has paid forty thousand dollars for the foundation of her new house. Who knew that's how much the foundation of a house cost these days? The woman needs a bigger house because she has three children and it looks like they'll be home for awhile. One child has autism, one has other special needs, and one may be going to London but it looks like her mother in law may be moving in....I could go on.

Why do I need to fill in the gaps?

It's hereditary.

Man, like, you know?

I left Doha knowing that Hurricane Sandy was on her way to New York. Like many people I had friends who were either there, or within the general vicinity, so I was keen to hear or read a news report when I landed in Australia.

After picking up the hire car at the airport, I turned on the radio to a leading breakfast program. The hourly news break was followed by a discussion between the three hosts of the show.

"Man, like, you know, it's just so, man, well, it's intense"

There was an upwards inflection on the intense. Almost like a question. I was bewildered. How you can work on radio and not have a vocabulary extensive enough to describe the effects of a storm?

I know, I sound like I'm 105 years old.

Am I crazy though? Has anyone else noticed a change in how we speak?

Earlier this year we were lucky enough to see slam poet Taylor Mali. A man who has no problem with either vocabulary or using it effectively. I loved this:



"I challenge you to speak with conviction. To say what you believe in a manner that bespeaks the determination with which you believe it."

We went through a phase with the little travellers where everyone had to bring a new idea to the dinner table each week. It was fantastic while it lasted, we had discussions about anything that had sparked an interest with the travellers. We stopped doing it awhile ago and I really don't know why, but, I'm bringing it back.

I also want to add an extra component, we're going to bring a new word to the table (I know, this could be fraught with danger). Each child, one idea and one word for the week - that's not hard.

I'll be interested in the little travellers response to the new rule. You know, like, it'll probably be, you know, intense.

Mum's On Leave.

If job titles were handed out in families, I would immediately claim mine as Operations Manager. G and I work very much as a team but when it comes to the day to day machinations of Chez Shamozal, all requests and schedules land on my desk.

I knew travelling home for this operation would require a temporary leave of absence. I had to pass on the power decision making process to G if this was going to work. Thankfully, great friends jumped in to help with the distribution of little travelers, but all other components of the role are now in G's hands.

My position is now remote, I no longer work from home. I phone it in.

I join the children for breakfast at 2 in the afternoon each day. I don't wake anyone up, help anyone get dressed, or brush anyone's hair. I am a thousand miles away from being practical, a time zone too late.

My appearances are now made on the screen of an ipad or laptop, kisses are blown, waves are made, funny faces are pulled. And in a G rated game of "Spin the Mummy", the little travelers place me in the middle of the table, and spin me from face to face.

"Hi Mummy" says the fourth little traveller.

"Do you want to know what I chose for hot lunch yesterday?"

As he reels off the names of various fruits and vegetables, I will myself not to ask why he's having hot lunch at the beginning of the week. Hot lunch is on Thursday, but management has obviously made some changes. The fourth little traveller is very happy with the way things are panning out.

"AND, we're having hot lunch again today!" he squeals.

The second little traveller who is not a lover of change and enjoys the rules that come with life, raises an eyebrow and brings the laptop closer to her mouth so she can whisper "Dad didn't do the grocery shopping on the weekend".

I know where this could lead. I immediately show my support, anything less has the possibility to evoke dissidence amongst the ranks.

"I can see why, Daddy didn't have a spare minute darling, you guys were busy all weekend."

She thinks about it for a moment, agrees and then decides to share other frivolities.

"We're going to watch a movie after dinner tonight - on a school night".

"You're so lucky!" I wince a little at the idea of everyone on the couch, without me.

As the conversation moves on to Tin Tin, I watch them going about their day. I ask if teeth have been brushed and remind people about study club and soccer. I sit with what seems to be endless amounts of time in front of me, while they check clocks and talk about minutes until they need to be in the car. I listen to G in the background in his new role, reminding everyone of what needs to happen. He could not sound any more attractive to me as he enquires about drink bottles and information nights. Mummy porn.

I'm on a leave of absence, but my benefits have remained intact. I'm still on the payroll, my life insurance and super are safe, my colleagues miss me and can't wait to have me back at the office. My position is safe.

Sometimes it takes a leave of absence to remind you how much you enjoy your job.

Modern Convalescing

In the olden days, like, say, 2002, convalescence at home looked a little different. Perhaps it may have meant a pile of books and magazines stacked next to the bed, with the choice of a few stations on the television. Maybe DVD's were rented and the cordless phone was nearby.

Things have changed.

From the moment I arrived home and back to the warm embrace of wifi, I have kept the iPad, laptop and iPhone withins arms reach. We have a landline here at the beach, but I couldn't tell you the last time the phone rang.

Thanks to technology I feel very much in contact with the real world, although it comes with its hazards.

What can begin as a quick search "name movie with Ewan McGregor, Dad, Christopher Plummer, comes out" can turn into an hours worth of movie trailers.

Yesterday I clicked on Mamamia to have a look at a clip from The Today Show, which then somehow turned into twenty clips from The Today Show (a show I manage to live without for most of the year), it was this that had me snorting out loud:



I have the humour of a 12 year old.

Back to Ewan McGregor, the name of the movie is "Beginners", I'm going to watch it tonight.




Any movie suggestions?

A Marriage of Inconvenience

One of the hardest pieces of information to process from the initial conversation with the surgeon, was the piece about the catheters. Yes, feel free to head in the direction of my vagina with five of your closest surgical friends, but if you could just leave everything as you found it (minus the diverticulum), that would be great.

What do you mean they'll be something left behind?

"You'll have two, they will be there for a minimum of six weeks post surgery, but it's possible you'll have them for up to twelve weeks".

I didn't say a word. I was tying to work out the logistics of two.

I only had one hole to wee from. Or did I? Had I missed something?

Has anyone got a hand mirror?

I had to ask, I didn't understand.

"Two? Is one for poo?"

Please, please, don't let one be for poo.

She smiled. She does that, she smiles at my idiocy. A patting of the head smile. An oh aren't you sweet smile. Look what we've got here - a moron.

"One will be suprapubic, it will be in your lower abdomen, the other will be in your urethra" the second one is in case of emergency. If one gets a kink or a block, the second one will jump in. We can't afford to have the slightest bit of urine go through your urethra, the wound won't heal".

There was to be no negotiation. This was a relationship I was entering into unwillingly, an arranged but short marriage between my body an outside invader. Harden up, deal with it.

I would love this next paragraph to be about me being a grown up and understanding that there are many people in the world with much bigger problems than two catheters - but I'm not.  It wasn't just the logistics of how it all worked, or the grossness of carrying my wee around on the outside of my body rather than the inside. It was, well, everything.

How would I exercise? What would I wear? How do you accessorize a piece of tubing protruding from your abdomen? With a bold lip and an animal print scarf? What if they had to be around for longer than six weeks and were still here at the beach over summer? No beach, no bathers, no swimming, no baths (I love a good bath). Christmas with a catheter. I could hear the little travellers "why can't Mum come to the beach?".

Friends rang with reassurances. "You'll hardly notice them, they'll be strapped to each thigh, no-one will know they're there".

It is now screamingly obvious that none of these friends has ever had a catheter.

There is nothing inconspicuous about wearing a catheter. If you've ever tried to disguise the girth of your thighs, imagine adding some tubing, a couple of valves and a plastic bag to the equation. Anything tight has to be removed from your wardrobe. Best you put those jeans, tights, linen pants and shorts away. And forget about anything slightly see through. Go long, go dark, go heavy. Did you see that? I just became a catheter fashion blogger.

My marriage of inconvenience is on day six. And although we're yet to go public with our relationship, we're managing through the getting to know each other phase nicely. I have embraced the Maxi dress, and developed a fascination with the colour of my wee. I've done weirder things in other relationships.

And although I'm not particularly keen on my two new friends, they are far too needy for my liking; I'm okay with sticking together for another five weeks. I have to be, I hate being a grown up.

Of Use

Mothers can easily be of use.

I'm thirsty.

Here's a glass of water.

I've got an owie.

Let me kiss it better.

Where are my shin pads?

Check in the brown bag next to the shoe cupboard.

I don't have a shirt for soccer.

What about the yellow one from Canada?

I need money for the field trip.

Bring me my purse.

Can you wake me up early?

Let me teach you how to set the alarm.

My days are filled with usefulness.

I am mother, watch me dazzle you with my usefulness.

I am a mother, without her children.

An emperor penguin without an egg to incubate, a teacher without a class, a farmer without a crop.

Yes, there are many other things to do, I just need to remember what they are.

What they were.

On the road to usefulness.

Staring Out The Window

I keep finding myself staring out the window. I'm in the middle of a scene change. If my thought process were a movie, we've moved from a busy kitchen in a downtown New York restaurant, to the back waters of a lake in Canada. The sounds of waiters shouting orders, clanging pots, and furious knife cutting stopped with the insertion of a needle.

The screen went black.

Birds chirped while a faint sound of water, trickled in the background.

I cannot change a thing that is going on in Doha right now. Little travelers have had days off school, someone attempted to wear make-up, someone went home with a fever and was then found playing outside. I cannot do a thing about it. I'm in the backwaters.

I cannot contribute to anything going on in my house in Australia right now. Each morning my father walks into my bedroom wearing a "Mr Happy" t-shirt and a pair of stripey pajamas. "How are you love?" My mother feeds me vegetables and brings continuous supplies of water and cranberry juice. I hear them living beyond my bedroom door, in between floating in and out of sleep.

Our conversations are snippets. Something about lotto, something about the Melbourne Cup. I'm almost with them and then it's time to return to the trickling water and the birds in the backwaters. Serious thoughts slowly move into focus, infections, school camps, hospital bills, and then I realize I can't - not yet.

"I might just have a sleep".

I cannot rewind or fast forward, because both will have me in a world that I am not capable of inhabiting, nor facing, just yet.

I'm in the backwaters.

I keep finding myself staring out the window.

Not A Suitcase In Sight.

Checking into a hospital is a little similar to joining a cult. You're no longer in charge of your own destiny, and there's a new set of rules to follow with costumes to wear and procedures to learn. The cult will have you checking out tubes, wounds and stitches while you join an open discussion about your dressings. When you become sick or injured, what was once gross, can now be quite fascinating with a little help from the cult.

I don't want to gross anyone out so I won't go into too much detail, but you know when a magician begins pulling the scarves from his sleeve and they just keep coming and coming and coming? A similar thing happened to me today, but it wasn't my sleeve. I had no idea THAT was what "packing" was when everyone talked about removing the packing. Not a suitcase in sight.

The urology ward is much the same as the maternity ward. It's full of people without pants, people who have become used to displaying their bits and pieces on demand while discussing movements, bruising and stitches. People who have checked their dignity at the door, hoping they'll find it somewhere on the way out before re-entering the real world. Many of them won't, they'll learn to live with bags, clips and drains - this is my reality for the next six weeks. And now that I've visited the urology ward and heard the stories, I've realized six weeks isn't that long at all.

I've met many nurses on a two hourly schedule over the past few days. After four and half hours of surgery, "just here to take your obs" has arrived with the same regularity as a newborn screaming for a feed. Each nurse was fabulous at making me feel comfortable, and interested in how I came to be there. We've discussed family, travel, health, and whatever happened to be playing in the background on the telly. I've learnt that if you write a post about hanging on to your labia, you've made a nurse friend for life in the urology ward "we see people throwing them in the bin all the time in plastics, while in the room across the hall someone has used one to save their urethra".

It took some convincing but eventually the cult let me go. After a lengthy catheter demonstration and some "light" reading material was run through, I felt proficient enough in how to attach a catheter without causing myself some serious public embarrassment. Discussions were had, and eventually they unrolled the pressure stockings, pulled out the IV's and served me my last luke warm tea. Room 211 and I said goodbye.

It's done. The operation is over. Two major things happened this week; I woke up, and my children made it home from school safely without me.

We're over the scary bits and we're moving along, very tenderly, but we're moving along.

You Were At The...

You were all in my tiny little car today. Taylor Swift came on and I heard you, someone yelled "turn it up", and someone groaned and said "turn it off!"

You were in the grocery store today. You were asking me to buy barbecue shapes and someone wanted to make a cake, every week someone wants to make a cake. I looked down at my list and wondered which items I would send you off to find.

You were at the mall today, they had stripey board shorts exactly the same as the ones you love, I bought two pairs and told the girl at the checkout they were your favourites. Involving an outsider was a mistake, she asked how old you were and if you were at school. I said yes, and quickly asked if she knew what the weather was going to be tomorrow. Subject changed.

You were at the bakery. The lady suggested I try a miniature cheesymite scroll and told me they'd be great for lunch boxes. I wanted to tell her that your lunch boxes were in Qatar, but I couldn't. I said yes, and asked if she knew what the weather was going to be tomorrow.

You were in your room today. I made your beds and lay on each one and looked at what you see when you lay there at night. I found a texta mark on the ladder of one of the bunks, and instead of erasing it, I left it, ran my finger over it slowly, and thought of you.

You were in the book store today. Fancy Nancy, My Dad, Enid Blyton, Harry Potter, you were spread like time capsules throughout the store. I saw you laying in bed, knees bent, eyes focussed, heads on pillows, reading solo or together with me. I saw you mouthing words, giggling.

Without packing, planning or forethought, I unknowingly take you with me.

My heart, my thoughts, you're everywhere.

I take you with me.

Manage the Managing. If you say manage enough it manages to sound ridiculous.

I've been told many times in the past month to focus on myself.

"It's time to take care of yourself, the kids will manage, your main objective needs to be getting better."

I've winced through the idea of the little travellers "managing". No mother ever wants her children to HAVE to manage without her, and I've certainly spent many hours wondering how they will.

It's not about me needing to feel needed.

It's about me not wanting them to feel alone.

Halloween is our favourite holiday. It began for us in Canada, rugging up in snowsuits with costumes stretched over the top, little Michelin characters everywhere. Houston was setting up a stand at the end of the street and giggling at the outfits, Americans take their Halloween very seriously, the Father and Son Tootsie Roll remains to be my favourite, second to the Christmas Tree that arrived at the house and asked for a power outlet so she could "light herself up". Qatar has also been fantastic, our neighbour Bonnie decorates better than anyone, and the kids wait patiently to watch her house transform each year.

I bought the costumes weeks ago and we had a trial run for a day at school, but I had some concerns about how it was all going to come together on the big night. The fourth little traveller had the zombie costume, but he required make-up. I know this is a ridiculous thing to be worried about in the big scheme of things, but all I could think of was how disappointed he was going to be if he didn't have the right face. These things are very important to our fourth traveler. The outfit always has to be just right.

I went out for dinner and a movie with girlfriends last night, when the second bottle of wine was ordered, the movie idea was cancelled and we settled in for a chat. At one point I went to talk about the little travelers and not being with them for Halloween, the tears were right there, the lump forming slowly in the back of the throat. "I'm not sure I can talk about it.." we moved on.

It was no co-incidence that I chose to be with my childless friends last night, I'm taking baby steps towards seeing other families, of being reminded that I'm here in the most unfamiliar situation. Alone.

Not lonely, just alone.

This morning G sent me pictures of Halloween, this put the biggest smile on my face.

One of my most favourite men in Qatar, applying face paint to my very favourite Zombie. We have beautiful friends.

The first little traveler made a cake, there was a picture of G holding a knife ready to cut it. All my worries about him not having a birthday disappeared.

Nobody wants to have to manage, but they can, and they will.

It's going to be okay. It's going to take forever, but it's going to be okay.