It's been a year, but...

It's been more or less 12 months since Connor's first attack of Rumination Syndrome. At the time we had no idea what the problem was. All we knew was our child was extremely ill and nothing seemed to help. We tried changing his diet, cutting out certain foods and introducing others. We tried Gaviscon and special waver-tablets that they give to kids going through chemo. Nothing helped. He was tested for every allergy and every disease, including leukemia. Everything came back negative. The doctors shook their heads. He saw at least 6 different doctors but none of them knew whether it was physical, social or psychological (I now believe the latter. Which doesn't make it less of an illness.)

Three times he was hospitalised. The final time I took him to Princess Margaret Hospital for Children and refused to leave until he was admitted. Meanwhile his sick bag filled and filled until, finally, it exploded.

They admitted him on the spot.

24 hours later (or 3 months, depending on how you time such things) we had the diagnosis. Rumination Syndrome: no cure, no real treatment. Try chewing gum. Try breathing exercises.

Nope, they didn't work.


Finally around January, just as we, as a family, had learned to live with the illness and make adjustments to our life, we started to see a slight improvement. Day by day we noticed some lessening of attacks. 40 became 30, became 20, became 10. From attacks every day we started to see the odd day missed. This was mid-February and Lee and I were starting to raise the possibility of Connor returning to school. Mid-March we started to see records broken.

3 days clear.

5 days clear.

A week.

The only thing we could put it down to was time and maybe, perhaps, Chamomile Tea. It was something we'd tried about 2 days before the first signs of let up and even now we notice it gets worse if he doesn't have the tea for a while (such as when he's been at his Nanna's).

Vomiting would recommence in between but for shorter periods.

Two weeks ago Connor enjoyed 9 days straight before he started again and even then it was only once a day for 3 days.

We could handle this. If Chamomile Tea was the answer then we were happy to make it an ongoing part of our life. The school was contacted and yes, they were only too happy to take him back.

No conditions. Connor is now accepted as having a disability because he's registered as such with Centrelink. It's amazing the difference a legal label makes.

Guess which 9 year old is super-excited about his first day back at school tomorrow? It's been a horrible, awful year, but this is the light at the end of the tunnel.

Yesterday, Lee and I took Connor to meet with the teacher who'll be picking up Connor's schooling. She's a young thing, early 20s, sweet, kind and everything I could have asked for. In fact, she's everything I did ask for. I put in a request for a teacher who is understanding of Connor's illness, who will make allowances for it, will be patient, will understand when he has to run from the classroom without explanation. The teacher was allocated and came to the meeting loaded with ideas on how to handle Connor. Our boy will be given a card which he'll place on the table when he has to leave suddenly. This way he doesn't have to put his hand up, but she'll see at a glance why he's left. No other child will know what this means, just Connor and his teachers.

Yes, teachers. He's been allocated to an assistant (there is another child with needs in the class) and she will give him any help if there are problems. He's also being given a blanket, beanbag and pillow and a 'chill out' area, so if he feels too sick to continue, he can lay down, then return when he feels ready. The theme this year seems to be "Let's keep Connor at school." This time last year they called me at the first sign of vomiting and told me I had to pick him up. In the end I gave up and home schooled. The feeling this year is very different. They asked me how many vomit sessions constituted a mum-call. I decided on four, usually because this is the point where Connor starts to feel weak.

We've decided to break him into the system slowly, one day this week, one day next week, two days the following...etc. Today Connor told me he wants to go two days next week. I'm more than happy to let him self-pace the return.

I am so pleased and happy with this result. Meadow Springs Primary School is an amazing place and I'm incredibly happy with the education and care my children have received there. The staff are nothing short of wonderful and deserve all the recognition in the world. The consideration they are giving our boy is second to none.

Below are some photos I took a few minutes ago. They show Connor getting ready for his big day. I'm as excited and as nervous as a new mum watching her baby enter their first day at Kindy. Yes, I'm scared. What if it all goes wrong? What if Connor hates it and wants to go back to homeschooling? What if I return to my normal life, only to have him get sick again.

Well, it's a no-brainer really. I'll hold Lee's hand and make the decisions as they need to be made. We've got through this together, as a family and we'll go through the next chapter in the same way. Because that's what we do.

Hat into bag, just like any other school kid.

Vomit bags into bag. Not quite like any other school kid.

"Tomorrow is going to be the best day ever..."

"I'm so excited, Mummy. Can you tell?" Umm, yeah, I sort of gathered.

My happy, beautiful boy, returning to life as a 'normal' school kid. (Ignore the messy bed. That's how Connor rolls.)

A tale of things past

Once, back in the 70s, 85 Amberley Road, Balga, had been an ordinary house owned by ordinary people intent on going about their ordinary lives. There was a Dad (ex-cop, now electrician), Mum (housewife, poodle-perm) and two boys (five and two). Dad was everything a Dad should have been: warm, loving, generous sense of humour. Mum was what you'd have expected from a Mum: great cook, semi-interested in housework, good with crafts and given to gossip. The boys were normal boys, rough, ready for a fight and really into Spiderman.

I loved this house so much. It was a classic house of its time and suburb. A product of the 40s, it was built to bring a second chance at life to returning soldiers and their families after the war. Most of the houses on the street were owned by the military and every few years we welcomed a new young family as our next door neighbours. As we grew older, they didn't. The house next door was given over to newly-weds and those with young children. We saw those children go from being babies to toddlers but never any further, for they'd move on again and the next couple would arrive.

Not number 85, though. Somehow the army had passed over it and a normal suburban couple and their kids lived there. They were a forever family, built to grow up and old in that little house, just like my family in number 37. 

I've spoken about Maureen in my blog before. Maureen was, and continues to be, the mainstay of my life. She taught me so much and it was through her I started to understand the importance of music, of marriage, of family, of crafting, of cooking and of reaching beyond what my own parents had given me. My mum and (various) dads might have created and raised me, but Maureen molded me into an individual. She was the first person to say "You're smart. You can do anything you want in life." At some point I stopped hearing the message, but I never stopped thinking about Maureen and what she would want for me.

The person I haven't spoken in depth about is Doug. Doug was important too. He taught me that men can be decent and loving without being abusive or over-stepping any boundaries. He, and only he, is the reason I trust any man today. In a childhood full of men, it was his character who shone most brightly.  He was good, kind, strong, opinionated and gentle. While Maureen taught me the importance of being true to myself, Doug taught me the importance of being true to others. He used to compliment me and tell me how amazing I was. Initially I was shy and refused to believe it. I would hide my face and shake my head. Later I held my head up and announced "I know." Doug was kind in both this instances and soon put me right. "It's best to say 'Thank you' to a compliment. Just a simple 'Thank you.'" And so I do. 

As I grew older and started to develop, he advised me to tone it back, to have people listen to my thoughts rather than look at my breasts. He taught me how to catch a man's gaze and hold it so he wouldn't be tempted to sneak a peek. Yeah, they still stare at me and they peek as much as they want, but the important thing is, I use my brain to speak for me, not my breasts.

I met Doug and Maureen when I was nine and for the next six years they were the most important people in my life. They kept me going through what was the absolute worst time of my life. Because of them I was able to hold my head above water and keep my sights on the shore-line of turning 18 and getting the hell out of my life.

And then, at 15, everything changed. Dad died. It as a sudden death, a freeing death, especially for me. I've never cried over my Dad's death because even then I knew it was the best thing ever likely to happen to me. That chapter of my life was over. My brother and I went off to live with my uncle and aunty and real life began for us.

I was happy for a while. Sort of. It wasn't a perfect life but it was better than the previous one. I still got to visit Doug and Maureen on weekends and kept them up to date with what was happening in my life. I told them about my new boyfriend. I shared with them when I lost my virginity. For the first time I talked to them about my childhood and just how awful it was. They'd known it was bad, but they hadn't known just how bad it was. However, I also outlined my plans for my future and uni. I was going to be a writer and an English teacher and have a big house and lots of kids and a wonderful husband. I was going to do all this and they were going to be by my side through it all.

And then they unveiled their grand plan. They were selling up, packing up their van and taking their boys around Australia. My Dad's death may have had a positive impact on my life, but it had also had one on theirs. They'd come to the realisation of how short life was. They had sat up late discussing his death and my revelations and decided that a close family was the most precious possession they had. They determined to close ranks and head out on the road.

Within two months they were gone.

I never ever saw them again. Thirty years later there's a place within me that still feels the deep and ongoing pain of their leaving. They were supposed to be my forever people. They weren't.

I think that's why I find it so easy to let go of people today. People I love come and go from my life with surprising regularity. Children, best friends, siblings. They've all, at some point, said, "Enough's enough. Good-bye." It hurts when it happens, it hurts like crazy, but not like losing Doug and Maureen. Back then I didn't know how to handle it. I was a child, a child who had, in turn, lost her mother, her father and now her best adult friends.The grief was immense and eventually I withdrew into myself until I was ready to let go. I still do that today and it helps.

On Sunday I had reason to revisit Balga. I pointed out my old street to Lee (it had changed from Amberley Road to Amberley Way sometime during the late 70s) and we took a tour for old time's sake. The biggest shock was not how run down my old house was or how small it seemed. No, the biggest shock was that number 85 is gone. Oh, there's a number 85 there. In fact, there's three of them, but they're not the 85 that I knew and loved. They've torn it down, removed my past and replaced them with faceless units that mean nothing.

I had Lee drive past twice to make sure I hadn't misread the number, but no, it really had disappeared. 

This is the stuff writers dream about. It's the stuff that informs stories, that builds setting and creates scene and character. This morning I woke up with the first paragraph in my head. Obeying my instincts I wrote that paragraph down and saw it as a gateway into my novel The Camp of Women. By the end of the paragraph I wasn't seeing the house anymore, but Maureen, Doug and the life they've led me to. They're gone, their house is gone, but I'm still here. I could have been the sum of my parents' input, but I'm not. I'm the creation of Maureen and Doug Smith. I am who I am because of them. I love my family because of the way they loved. I delight in cooking because Maureen taught me to bake. I can accept a compliment with grace because Doug taught me how to. 

I miss them so much but I'm grateful for the years that they gave me. I would be a very different person if they hadn't entered my life and I will always cherish them for that. I wish I could track them down and thank them personally, but it's not going to happen. I have accepted they're gone for good and I accept the good they left behind.

An update...sort of

I've been pretty quiet on the blog-front this week, mainly due to having very little to discuss. Most of my time has been spent either working with Connor at his home-schooling, or keeping up with uni reading. So far I've read Robinson Crusoe and Mansfield Park and now I'm about to start Jane Eyre (literally, as in, as soon as I've posted this and poured myself a glass of wine.)

This week I did manage to catch up with my daughter, Cassandra. I love hanging out with Cass, particularly as she's now matured into a fine young woman and a wonderful mother. There was a time when I despaired of even being able to have a civil conversation with her, but now we manage to sit and talk about all sorts of things and I feel a lot more confident about where her life is going. Cassie has so much promise and I feel she'll come to advanced education rather late (as I did) but I know she can accomplish great things with time, support and a loving hand.

This Thursday I'm off to UWA to see Alexander McCall Smith give a speech. I love McCall Smith with much loving lovingness. His Mma Ramotswe is one of my two favourite novel characters (the other being Henry from The Time Traveller's Wife) and so I really look forward to hearing the creator talk about his product.

As an author I really love watching other authors discuss their work. Mma Ramotswe is the sort of character I like to create myself, as she is quiet, gentle and good. Yes, good. She is a good woman who does good things for other people. Sometimes her clients are not so good, but they always get what's coming to them, one way or the other. When I was a child my dad used to talk about his mother and how she was the last 'true lady'. I always liked this idea of being a 'lady' and I think Mma is the embodiment of the ideal I built up in my mind. I'm not always 'good' and I have done quite a few wrong things in my life, but, like Mma and the lessons she took from her horrendous marriage to Note Makote I have used them to move onwards and upwards.

Because that's always the better than the alternative.

A fine day out

The other thing we did as a family this week, was visit the "Sculpture by the Sea" exhibition. Now, I must say that I enjoyed quite a few of the pieces, but on the whole was rather underwhelmed by the exhibition as a whole. I had, previously, seen two pieces from last year's Castaways exhibition that seemed to have been transplanted from one beach to the other, but what really surprised me was the huge number of recycled works on display. When I last visited (two years ago) I'd say most of the pieces were built from original materials that had not been repurposed. However, this year, a great many of the artworks were built from recycled material. I couldn't help but feel that this was, in a large part, due to the impact of Castaways upon local sculptors.

Below are some photos of my favourite pieces in order. The bottom one is not an artwork, but a piece of natural beauty we found at Cottesloe Beach.

This photo does not do the work justice. The spinning arms caught the sun's rays and threw them off. The effect was nothing short of dazzling.

There is something about this man's work that captivates me over and over. Lee finds him somewhat derivative, but I love the simple beauty of the lovers.

This begged "Please, touch me." I did. 

Standing under this was the ultimate in visual stimulation. No matter where you stood, the effect was unique.

Another view. We stayed with this piece for ages.

A piece of recycling showing the effect our debris is having on our oceans. Apparently, everything in the glass container came from the oceans. Each piece (syringes, bubble wrap, a toy car) was made to look like a marine creature.

Okay, not a firm favourite, but a lovely photo of our whole family.

There were heaps of these walking along the rocks at the jetty. They were truly beautiful to behold.

Yeah, it's a PVC goon bag. No matter where you went on the beach, you could see this. 

Connor obviously loved this piece. He took 25 photos of it.

This artwork is really rather blah, but it seemed to both delight and anger the butcher bird at its base. The bird kept trying to fight it and stroke it at the same time.

I took a few laps with the bird as it tried to work out what was going on.

I loved this. Pure and simple, love.

Watch out! A cranky lady resides here.

Well, you know that's not really me. When it comes to angst, I tend to turn my grumbling on myself rather than others. I am, however, a person who admires a cantankerous nature in others, especially if it's the sort of nature that is directed towards not only Getting Things Done, but also Getting Things Changed.

As a woman who went though her formative years in the 70s and 80s, I've witnessed a lot of change, particularly in the areas pertaining to women. Oh, there's still along way to go, but I really do believe that my generation was the first to be taught "You can be anything you want in life" and actually believe they meant anything, not just secretary, teacher, nurse etc.

When I was a Mum-deprived child in my pre- to mid-teens, the person who had the most positive impact on my developing psyche was my Dad's best friend Maureen Smith. Maureen was a woman in her early 30s, happily married to the love of her life, Doug, and raising two sons, Glenn and Neil. She wore a classic 70s poodle-perm and worked as a crossing guard to bring in a little extra money. She saw Dad dropping my brother off at Kindy in the early days of the separation and asked if Mum was okay. Dad told her Mum was gone and Maureen immediately offered to help.

Within days she was at our house and organising to look after us while Dad sorted himself out. Maureen was not a Cranky Lady. Far from it. She was gentle, kind and full of love for those around her. She was, to me, the embodiment of grace and gentility. She was, in short, a real lady.

She was, also, extremely determined to help me grow up with some sort of feminine ideal. She took me as a proxy daughter and taught me all she thought I needed to know in order to be a strong woman of the future. My family life was pretty bad but Maureen was constantly telling me that I was wonderful, that I was loved, that I was smart and fantastic and the best. She approved of everything I did and never made me feel bad about myself.

I worshipped Maureen, so when she said "You can be anything you want when you grow up" I knew what I wanted to be; I wanted to be just like her. And I am.

Thanks to Maureen, I learned:
To knit.
To crochet.
To make a fruit cake from All-Bran.
To put family-time ahead of house-work (she'd be proud to see how well I applied that lesson :))
To dress nicely for my husband once a week in anticipation of his return from work.

Yes, a lot of women would feel some of these go against feminist principles (particularly the last one), but I really do find they suit me. I am a maternal woman and family is important to me. But, I have also faced a lot of adversity and difficulty in my life and, thanks to Maureen, I've come out of them with a strong sense of my own self-worth. Nothing has defeated me and I like the woman I've turned out to be. I wouldn't be the me you yourself call friend, lover or mother without Maureen Smith.

Thanks to Maureen, I can knit Tom Baker-esque scarves for my son.
And ignore the cushions lying on the floor.

Now, as a middle-aged woman of the 21st century, I find myself looking beyond family happiness and focussing on what the rest of the world is up to. All too often I watch in despair as I see us do terrible things to each other. I witness my own country commit crimes in the name of "Good Government" and I feel powerless to do anything but share my anger via Facebook.

Yes, I'm a slacktivist. But what can I do?

Which is why I wanted to use this stop on the Cranky Ladies of History tour to discuss my favourite hero, Beate Klarsfeld.

The 70s were a time of growing awareness for me. At some point I learned the truth of my heritage. Joe Dineley (Dinely?) my biological father was Irish. Okay, I thought. There's a certain coolness to this, as long as he's not IRA. My biological maternal Grandfather, Rudi (Rudy?) Sander was, however, a German immigrant, who came to Australia some time in the 40s.

Also, towards the end of the 70s I became aware of the work of a man named Simon Wiesenthal. Wiesenthal's crusade to bring Nazis to justice made me aware of the atrocities of WWII and for the first time I came to understand the real horror that lay beyond the hi-jinx of Hogan's Heroes. People, I realised, had died during this time. Millions and millions of people. Later I would come to understand that it wasn't just the 6 million Jews, but also another 5-6 million non-Jews such as gypsies, homosexuals, intellectuals and yes, even my own Jehovah's Witnesses (called Bibelforscher in Germany). I was so embarrassed by this knowledge and the knowledge that I was, in part, German. However, I had no way of doing anything positive with it. So, I let it go.

Anyway, back to Wiesenthal. Simon Wiesenthal became, for me, the face of Nazi Hunting, but it was still an impersonal face. He was, after all, a Jewish man who had personally been exposed to the Holocaust. His cause was just that, his cause and the cause of those who suffered as he had suffered. I could see and appreciate what he did, but really it meant nothing to me.

Three years ago Lee and I were settling in for another night on the couch in front of the History Channel. The show we'd chosen to watch was one about Nazi Hunters and I was pretty certain the focus would be on Simon Wiesenthal. I was wrong. The first episode we saw was called The Monster and The Butcher. The story of Klaus Barbie (The Butcher of Lyon) was told and for the first time I heard her name: Beate Klarsfeld.

Beate Klarsfeld (nee Kunzel) was not born into a Jewish family. Quite the opposite, actually. Born in Germany in 1939, Beate was the daughter of a Wehrmacht soldier. Whilst her formative years were spent in relative ignorance of all that had gone on in her country, this changed when she moved to France to work as an au pair. One day, in 1960, she was standing at the Metro platform waiting for a train when a young man introduced himself as Serge Klarsfeld. A French Jew, Klarsfeld had been personally affected by the Nazi regime when his father had been rounded up and taken from the family in 1943. He never returned.

It didn't take long for Beate and Serge to become involved and, in 1963, they married and started their family.

Now most women, myself included, would have thought "How terrible. I wish I could do something, but I have a husband to look after and a baby to raise and really, it's all in the past. What can I possibly do?"

Not Beate. In 1966 Beate began campaigning against the West German Chancellor Kurt Kiesenger for his work within the Nazi propaganda department and as a result  lost her job. Now this, to me, is pretty amazing in and of itself and again, I think I would have been somewhat impressed with myself for this achievement had it been mine. I mean, apart from saying a few damning remarks on Facebook or Twitter, how many of us have actively led campaigns against an official in power? And, who would dare do so in a country that had an international reputation for dealing with those who spoke against authority?

Beate Klarsfeld would.

Beate Klarsfeld did.

In 1968, a year before I was born, Beate Klarsfeld took activism into her own hands, literally. Disguised as a reporter, Klarsfeld managed to confront Kiesenger during a conference, denounce him as a Nazi and slap his face. Yes, she was arrested and convicted to a year's imprisonment (reduced to 4 months), but this act of heroism had its effect. The following year, following denouncement after denouncement by Klarsfeld, Kiesenger was soundly defeated at the polls.

Klarsfeld, being arrested after the slap.

At this point I'm thinking "Well, glass of champagne for me and a good lie down before returning to the bosom of my family."

Uh uh. Not our Beate. She's already got her next target in her sights.

I could go on and on about all that she attempts and achieves (along with a few failures) after this, but I'm going to cut to the chase.

Klaus Barbie.

Growing up in Australia during the 70s and 80s, there were some Nazi names that equated to the Boogie Man for me. Hitler (obviously), Mengele and Eichmann were, in my young and impressionable mind, the most evil of men. They were the reason people hated all Germans. Klaus Barbie was a relative unknown to me, at least until that Nazi Hunters episode.

Known as the Butcher of Lyon, Barbie was a Gestapo officer placed in the French town of Lyon. Here he carried out acts of torture and barbarism against the citizens and was personally responsible for the deaths of 14,000 people including the 44 Jewish orphans he sent to Auschwitz.

After the war, a US intelligence service found him and offered him a position as an anti-communist agent. Once this became known he was moved to Bolivia. Tried and condemned as a war criminal in his absence, Klarsfeld turned her attention upon Barbie and began a campaign to have him extradited to France for trial. It took 12 years and her own arrest in Bolivia, but eventually Barbie was extradited and faced his accusers. Finally, in 1987 he was found guilty and imprisoned for his crimes. He died in his prison in Lyon, the scene of his worst crimes against humanity.

I fell head over heels for Beate Klarsfeld over this. Barbie was a man who was, to all intents and purposes, being protected and paid by the US and would have continued to be so if not for the ongoing actions of this woman. The plight of the Jews in France was not Beate Klarsfeld's problem, but once she knew the problem existed she got cranky and did her utmost to address it. The Beate Klarsfeld Foundation was started and as a result the following war criminals faced their day in court:

• Klaus Barbie (1987)
• Rene Bousquet (1993)
• Jean Leguay (1989)
• Maurice Papon (1998)
• Paul Touvier (1994)

Today, Klarsfeld is alive, well and just as vocal as ever. She is hated within Germany and seen as a traitor to her country, but I see her as a hero to humanity. As a woman in her mid-life, I am inspired by Beate Klarsfeld and all she achieved. The example she and her husband Serge set is nothing short of outstanding. At a time when I find it hard to deal with family, my son's illness, my writing career and university, I look to her and think "She had a family AND caught Nazis. Who am I to say it's all too hard?"

So, there we have it, two of the women in my physical and intellectual life whom I love and wish I could be like. We all have them, we all take a piece of them into ourselves. Now, let's celebrate these Cranky Ladies of History.

This week's Mid-Life Crisis in review

Today my husband kicked me out of the house. "Get out. Go now. I want you out of my sight right now and I don't want to see you before 1pm." He really, really loves me.

So, here I am, with 4 hours free time up my sleeve. What shall I do with it?

Well, as we have limited internet at home at the moment, the plan is to blog the week's events at the Safety Bay Library (ta-da), blog about Cranky Women and their place in my life (with a focus on one in particular), take out many books on knitting and then head into Rockingham Proper in order to sit at Mash, have a glass of wine and start work on a short story. So first things, first, here is my week in review.

 

On Faith

I'm currently going through a crisis of faith. This is, in quite a large way, due to Connor's illness. Not because I believe God has anything to do with my boy being sick (not at all) but because of the reaction of those around me to this illness.

Connor has been since May last year. From the first moment of his illness, people of all walks of life and belief have shown our family a lot of support. Most of these are 'friends' whom I've come to know via the internet, particularly through Facebook, but over the past few months they have become a personal part of our lives as they send through gifts of tea, books, stamps, DVDs, internet games and all sorts, all with a view of cheering up this little boy whom they barely know.

Others who believe in God have sent prayers. All this has been offered with love and kindness. All of it has been received in gratitude.

So, where does the crisis of faith come into it? Well, I have had one real belief over the past 20 years or so, and that's that all goodness has gone from the world, that people are basically selfish and unthinking of others. However, despite this negativity, I belonged to a faith that believed in showing 'love amongst themselves' and that made me feel secure. 'My people' were a tightknit group and really were lovely and supportive. Now, however, almost all the support our family have received has come from outside my belief system. I'm seeing so much good from those who owe me and my family nothing, nothing at all. There is no selfishness, no agenda, just pure kindness from those who have it to give. Lee and I lay in bed recently discussing this outpouring of kindness and Lee pointed out that the largest portion of support has come from those who carry an atheistic view of life. I hadn't thought of it this way. All I'd seen was a group of people showing inclusiveness, not a group of people with or without a belief system. For the first time I began to think that maybe it's not the belief system that matters. It's what you do with it.

To all of you (believer and non-believer), I say thank you for being you.

 

On Sharon

I met Sharon 19 years ago when my previous husband and I moved to Kununurra. Sharon was part of the congregation and, as we were both young mums with 3 children (Blake was only 4 months away from being born), we both had a lot in common. We clicked and quickly became best friends.

Time wears away all things, but our friendship, which has gone through many trials, has somehow survived. I left Kununurra about a year after meeting Sharon, but we managed to keep the fires of our friendship alive. A few years later we were both divorced from our husbands and finding our feet in our new lives. We made mistakes, we discussed them, and, with an arm thrown around each others shoulders, we continued on.

Sharon and I both left our faith, but not each other. Oh, we've had our periods of separation, but we've always come back to each other full of news and love and understanding. We just 'get' each other and want happiness for each other.

Recently we met up for the first time in years. "Let's take Connor out on an excursion and catch up," Sharon said, and I fell in love with her all over again. It wasn't "Let's catch up and you can bring Connor along." No, this beautiful, generous person saw my difficulty and put it first. "Let's take Connor out on an excursion and catch up." It's all in the wording. The excursion became lunch and with that we're back on track with a view to introducing our husbands.

After several years of female-friend loneliness (my other best friend, Catherine, lives in the US with her new husband. There is a Catherine-shaped hole in my soul :( ) , I am starting to feel like I can breathe again.

 

On My Daughters

Yesterday was a happy day for me. I got to spend several hours with my daughter, Cassandra, as well as my grandchildren. As I sat on a couch and chatted to the oldest of my babies, I got to see how the years have treated my girl. The several troubled years of her teens are well behind her and now she's a confident, devoted mother who thinks of her children first and foremost. I am so proud of her.

After a while, however, we had to part ways. Erin was scheduled to sit the GATE exam in Claremont and I wanted to leave in plenty of time to find where we had to be as well as give her some time out before hand. We stopped at the Rose Gardens in Nedlands and for 15 glorious minutes Erin, Connor and I ran around, smelling the roses. And so, Goal 22 was ticked off: Take the kids to smell roses at least once. By the end of our time in the park, Erin was happy and calm and ready to face the test that would decide her future (not that we've said this to her, even once.) Three hours later the test was over and Erin walked out with a big smile on her face.

Now, here's the thing. Two weeks ago the GATE people sent out a practice exam so the kids could see what they faced. Erin struggled with a few of the maths questions, so I went to her teacher to ask for a handful of worksheets to help Erin gain an understanding of what might be included in the test. Her teacher sent about 30 worksheets, all filled with the maths subjects Erin will be learning this year. Over the next 10 days Erin learned an entire year's worth of work. We worked hard together starting with the basics and building and building until Erin had mastered an array of problems. She never gave up, never said it was too hard and she didn't want to do it. She just got on with it until it clicked. On Friday she received an Honour Certificate that showed that this effort hadn't been in vain, that her teacher had noticed her drive and had seen fit her reward her for it.

As it was, not one single thing she learned was in the exam. Not one fraction, not one percentage, nothing. However, as she said to me as we walked to the car: "It doesn't matter, Mum. It was your teaching me that gave me the confidence to walk in there and give it my best."

Oh, look, teary Mummy is teary.

Yeah, I'm so very proud of her.

 

On knitting

35 years ago my dad's best friend, Maureen, taught me to knit. I made all sorts of things for my dolls and I was quite adept. So, she taught me to crochet and I was good at that too. Actually, I found I preferred crochet to knitting and so I kept at that and dropped the knitting.

And then the 80s came and the 90s and craft work fell out of favour. Yes, to be honest, there's no way I'd leave the house with a knitted handbag, no matter how 'funky' the authors of the pattern claimed it was.

I left the woollen crafts behind and turned my creative attention towards writing instead.

Now, I want to return to knitting. And, oh goodness, I want to be as good as I was all that time ago. But I'm not. I'm trying to knit a pair of (toe up) socks but I keep doing the same two rows over and over. Cast on. (Yep.) Knit. (Yep.) Turn knitting upside down and knit into purl bump. (Say the heck, what?) How does that even work? Oh, goodness, I've mucked it up so I have to pull it out and start again. Cast on... I find I am getting frustrated by the inability of my reading brain and my doing fingers to communicate. I look at socks and I can't see why they'd be difficult to make and yet I can't make even the simplest of patterns work.

So, now I'm thinking of joining a knitting group but I'm nervous. I'm sure they'll be quick and clever and will be irritated by my clumsy attempts to make a garter square (Okay, I'm actually quite good at that, but you get my point.) I'm finding that, in my mid-life, I'm less inclined to put myself in situations of embarrassment. I don't want to be a newbie again, but I don't know what else to do in order to achieve the creations I know lie within.

 

On Writing

Usually, when I attend a Writers Festival (or conventions, or book launches, or dinner with writers) I leave feeling inspired and ready to add my voice to the art. This year, however, I'm left feeling flat and drained and totally uninspired. This Perth Writers Festival seemed, to me, to be an exercise in obtaining money rather than a discussion on the literary arts. Yes, I am aware that my beloved, Lee brought money into the household by being an "Artist" of the festival, but he did this by running a three hour workshop for would-be writers, rather than by sitting in a panel discussing how great his books are to paying readers.

So, I'm thinking that the only way to feel good about writing is to just sit down and write. I can't keep waiting for this magical community to appear that will help it all make sense. I just need to do it. I  have ideas and I have works that I'm half way through, but what I need is the motivation to take a work through to the end and the only one who can make that happen is me.

I know, it's an old revelation that verges on being a mantra, but sometimes I just need that gentle reminder to myself as to why I do the things I do. So, why do I write? I don't know why I write, anymore than I know why, despite my desire to lose weight, I have to eat cheese and crackers with a glass of wine when the kids go to bed. I do it because I can, I guess. And, maybe, because when I do it (the cheese, the crackers, the wine and the writing) I actually stop feeling flat, drained and totally uninspired.

 

Feeling a little accomplished

 I'm feeling rather proud of myself right now. After over a year of silence, I finally submitted a story today. My novella "Aphrodite Dreaming" has taken me a very long time to write (many, many years in fact) but today I got it to the point where I thought, "Yeah, that seems about right." One final edit saw me attaching it to the email and off it went, out of my hands and into the world of cyber-space.

Then, awash in that glow that comes from finalising a creative piece, I line-edited a poem that I wrote 5 weeks ago before asking my beloved for a Lee-edit. As usual there was a LOT of crossing out, reworking and comments, but Lee was 100% right in the changes and I applied them all. And so - ta-da:

I was able to kick over this little goal.

9. Write a poem and submit it.

The poem is called "Last Rights" and talks about the last few hours I spent time-travelling with my mum before she died. My only hope is that it's not too emo-teen angsty.

Which brings me to my final achievement: I worked up a new Submission Tracker for 2014. Believe it or not, the last one I filled in was in 2011. I'm not sure if that's due to sloppy record keeping, a lack of subs (no, I know it's not that) or a different Tracker file lying dormant in an obsolete computer. I'd like to think it's the last one, but sort of feel it might be the first.

Anyway, onwards and upwards. Here's to a new year of writing.

A little self-improvement goes a long way

It was a bit of a stressful week, here in the Batthouse. Last Saturday, Aiden invited all his friends and family around to a bar-be-que to celebrate his 21st/housewarming. I went along for two reasons, 1) I was there for the housewarming and Lee had given Aiden a present the previous week ON his actual 21st and 2) my daughter was bringing her brand new baby for the family to admire.

Family.

As in, all of them. 

Including those I hadn't seen since leaving my ex-husband 11 years ago.

Yeah, I was rather stressed. Once upon a time I had been close to my former sister-in-law. We'd really liked each other and had gotten along well during the 14 years of my relationship with her brother. My former brother-in-law and I weren't so close and I hadn't formed a close attachment with his wife. But, still, once we'd been family and now we weren't and I was worried about how that would translate.

And then, of course, there was my ex-husband. I had loved this man once. Loved him enough to have children and build a life with him. But, things change as things always change and I left him.

We're not friends.

Did I mention stressful? 

But, surprisingly, it was also pleasant. I actually quite enjoyed chatting with my former sister-in-law (she really is lovely) as well as with my ex's current wife. Okay, there's no chance of us being besties, by any means, but she was still polite and so was I and it wasn't as shambolic as I expect it to be. 

But, I was totally glad when it was over. So, this week, I was pleased to be able to complete two goals, just so I could remind myself of the life I have now, rather than the life I left behind.

10. Complete a course in something unusual. 

Well, I can't lay any claims to now being an expert or anything, but this week I completed a six-week course in an Introduction to Forensics. I studied an actual true recreation of a murder committed in Scotland, and as a result learned about Fingermarks/prints, DNA, Tyre tread, shoe marks, witness accounts and a whole lot more. No, I'm not the next Bones, but I feel I can go into writing crime with a little more knowledge of the process.

(I'm sure my instructors were a little perturbed by the number of times I stated "What an idiot. He should have lied. If he'd done this instead, there's a chance he'd have gotten away with it.")

Next up, Life in the Time of King Richard III. Can't wait.

Actually, belay that. Next up, back to uni. Hopefully.

23. Have a professional massage.

I am a qualified massage therapist. Two years ago, however, I swore off giving massages for life and sold my table. What a mistake! 

At my Massage Therapist graduation

Today I had a massage with a professional beautician. The best thing I can say about it was that she 'rubbed with style'. As a therapist I know some of the best moves to help release tension, knots and pain. This woman did not. There was no kneading, no form of percussion (ie chopping and cupping, my favourite) no warm up, and only minimum warm down. She had her main moves (rubbing and knuckling) but didn't really do anything with them to help the tension in my shoulders, despite my request to do so. She mainly concentrated on my lumbar and left it feeling sore rather than better. Now, if there's anything I learned as a therapist, it's 'don't hurt, help.' You don't need to be hard or heavy with your strokes. A gentle touch can be more beneficial for pain than digging in, but you have to know how to control what you're doing. She didn't.

I really, really wish I hadn't sold my table.

(On the other hand, she did a great job of waxing my eyebrows.)

So, there you go. Another week sees two goals ticked off. I'm actually quite enjoying this.

The simple things in life

At the beginning of the school holidays, the kids and I sat down and discussed what we'd like to do over the next six weeks. One idea that was quickly floated and agreed upon was that we'd meet Lee for a picnic lunch at a lovely park near his work. Somehow, between the various celebration days, going away, house work and kids visiting their grandparents (a lot!) it never seemed to happen. 

This morning, on the last official day of the holidays the opportunity arose. The kids and I took on a task each and set about making a picnic. I made Ham and Cheese Muffins (with help from the kids), Erin made fruit salad, (aided by Connor) and Connor made a Cheese Salad (aided by Erin). I bought some Ginger Lemonade and we set off for City Park.

Last official day of the summer school holidays. 

The kids are out there (waves in general direction of playground) somewhere.

There's a black swan in the thick of all those seagulls.

It was a glorious day with plenty of wildlife on the lake and kids in the playground. Lee and I had started the day on a downer, so took the opportunity to take a breath and just be together. It was the perfect end to a lovely 6 weeks.

What I didn't expect was that a new opportunity arose. I managed to tick off one of my 45 goals for the year.

28. Swing on a swing. 

Okay, as goals go it was probably the easiest, but sometimes we adults need a physical reminder that the simple joys are often the most pleasurable. And the kids loved it. Erin gets so excited when I decide to take on a goal and this time was no different. She cheered me on as I took off my shoes, set up the seat against my bottom and took off into the sky. 

Marks...set...

Go!

Look at me, Connor! Connor! Connor, look at me.

Can you see me, kids?

Are you watching?

I'm flying!

Yaaaaaa....

...aaaaaaaaaa...

...aaaay. And...

Back we go!

Up in the air, I fly

Zoom zoom a zoomer zoom zoom

Ready to disembark, and...

...

Ta da.

I sailed, I dipped and I tipped backwards for that little flutter in the stomach. And finally I dismounted and she high-5d me.

Yeah, it was worth it just for that.

If you want something done properly...

I'm aware that this week teachers in WA are heading back to school to prepare and ready their classrooms for next week's influx of students.

Things are no different here in the Batthouse as next week Erin returns to school and Connor and I resume our homeschooling. Today the three of us got in and in short order turned the ex-reading room/catastrophe into Connor's school-room. It took us 90 minutes (we also cleaned out the drawers) but it was totally worth it.

Connor, being given the task of sorting working pens and textas from their non-working counterparts. In our house we call this "Keeping Connor busy while we work." Only kidding. It was a job that needed doing and he did it well, despite having a bad sick day.

10 minutes previously there was barely room to walk in this room. Erin and I quickly put things into piles before pulling them apart again and putting them away.

The first sign of order appears. My teaching stationary for the upcoming school year.

Connor's desk, before we go to work on it. You can't see it, but at this point there's a thick coat of dust on every surface.

We have a saying in our house: "If you want something done properly, get Erin to do it."

And voila!, Connor's learning space. Okay, Aisla's cot doesn't feature a lot in our studies, but that's the best place for it, for now.

The complete learning area. 

Our new, improved school room. I am so proud of the kids and how much work they put in. Erin, particularly worked right through with me, cleaning out drawers and the desk, shifting boxes, dusting and vacuuming. Connor did the best he could, especially as he had to keep leaving the room to deal with his RS.

And school is open for some pre-term revision.

Connor gets into the swing of maths...

And is pleased with the results.

And afterwards, Erin even rewrote the White-board facts for us.

And now, for cooking news.

When asked about her favourite meals, Erin always states "Mum's Kedgeree and Dad's Spaghetti and Meatballs." At the moment she has a goal to learn 6 new recipes by the end of the year and Kedgeree is on the list. She's making it today for tomorrow night's dinner and has asked me to write it out for her to keep. Not only have I done that, I'm also putting the recipe here for her future reference.

Lyn’s Kedgeree

Cooking times: Rice 30 minutes plus 10 minutes standing time

Cod 5 minutes first side, 4 minutes second side

Boiled egg 5 minutes

Heating in oven approximately 25 – 35 minutes.

1 ½ cups brown rice

3 ½ cups boiling water for rice

500 g slice smoked cod

1 cup milk for cod

1 hard boiled egg

1 raw egg

1 cup cheese

Pepper to taste

Parsley to taste

A good squeeze of lemon juice

Cook rice in microwave, removing every 10 minutes to stir and add more water as necessary

Meanwhile, boil cod in milk until soft. Remove and allow to cool slightly, then flake into smallish pieces. Remove any bones that surface. Leave skin in.

Using an oven-proof casserole dish, add cod to rice along with boiled egg, raw egg, cheese, pepper, parsley and lemon juice. Stir well, then top with a little more cheese. Cover and heat for approximately 25 minutes. Remove lid and cook a further 5 minutes. Heating time depends on temperature of Kedgeree when placing in oven. If it’s cold from the fridge it’ll take longer than if it’s assembled then cooked straight away.

Oh, and for what it's worth, Lee's Spaghetti and Meatballs is my absolute favourite meal. It's the first thing he ever made for me and is still my number one comfort food.