When A Brave Alligator Is Not Enough

My husband called me into the bedroom excitedly this morning. Not that kind of excitement - I was in the middle of getting the kids ready for school. No, he wanted me to see something on TV.

"Look at this," he said, waving his sock at the television. I looked. A few animals seemed to be gathered around a lake.

"So what is it?" I asked impatiently. The toddler was running around with a vegemite sandwich and no leash, so I knew time was of the essence.

"It's amazing," he said. "An alligator is wrestling a wildebeest away from a lion. They caught it on film."

"Wow!" I enthused, impressed. "Did the alligator save the wildebeest from the lion? That's unbelievable!" My husband looked at me pityingly.

"Yes, Kerri," he said sarcastically. "The alligator rescued the wildebeest and brought it back to his home. Then they all stood around singing 'Circle of Life'."

I looked blank.

"He was just fighting with the lion for food," my husband said. "He was a brave alligator."

I felt a little silly. So the alligator hadn't been freakishly altruistic beyond his reptilian capabilities, he had just been really brave. But then... big deal. What's so amazing about a really brave alligator? Maybe he wasn't even really brave. Maybe he was just really, really hungry. Or maybe alligators take on lions all the time, but it's never filmed, because, well, people would have to be pretty stupid to get near an alligator fighting with a lion?

But then I got to thinking. Maybe I'm just way too harsh. Maybe my expectations are too high.

After all, the world has gone slightly mad. Every day there are wilder stories, every day our imaginations are stretched further. Every day we need bigger and bigger news, and more and more outrageous stories to give us the buzz we're looking for.

It's not enough that Michael Jackson died. He had to be killed by a bizarro doctor who was using weirdo techniques to put him to sleep every night. It's not enough that a girl was kidnapped. She had to have been held captive by a psycho child killer for 18 years, bearing him two children and running his printing business. It's not enough that we have Vegemite. We have to have new Vegemite, with something unlikely added, and the extra bonus of a competition to choose its name.

Maybe it's time we all slowed down. Maybe it's time we appreciated the basics, and looked back to nature for our wonder and delight.

Maybe it's time to take a moment to honour the Brave Alligator.

And the Wildebeest, who gave his life, so that we could dream once more.

My Sixth Toe

So imagine this. You're lying on a mat, and your instructor is standing over you.

"Deep breath, breathe out, and move only your sixth toe," she says.

You breathe out and try to move your sixth toe.

"No," she says patiently, for the dozenth time. "That is your fifth toe. Move your sixth toe. Now deep breath."

You like your instructor, and you're paying lots of money, so obediently you try to move your sixth toe. You don't have much luck. Problem is, you can't actually feel your sixth toe. In fact, you're pretty sure you don't have a sixth toe. Still, your trainer is insistent. Apparently you do have a sixth toe, you've just never used it before, and she'll work with you for as long as it takes.

Welcome to Pilates.

Okay, you're not really asked to move your sixth toe. But it's almost as tough. 

Before Pilates, I thought I had one set of stomach muscles, and I did sit-ups to make them strong. I was proud to demonstrate my muscles to the instructor. I was sure she'd say I'd be a brilliant student. 

I was wrong.

You see, apparently I have a few different stomach muscles, and the ones I've been using aren't the ones I should be using. The ones I should be using are hidden under the ones I shouldn't be using. Problem is, they all feel the same to me.

"Breathe out, and draw in," the instructor says. She is lovely and serene and has her fingers wedged near my hipbone.

I draw in.

"No, see," she says as she presses down on my pelvis, "feel the tension here? You're using the wrong muscles. Let's try again."

I feel the tension all right, but it's not in my stomach. It is like being asked to bend spoons with your mind.

"Breathe out," she repeats ever so calmly. "Concentrate on the corset of muscles in your centre."

"But HOW?" I wail. I feel petulant. I can't feel the corset, I'm not sure I believe in the existence of the corset. How can I draw something in when I don't even know if it's there?

"It takes practice," the instructor says soothingly. "In the meantime, just keep sending it signals. Eventually it will catch on."

So I send signals, corsetry signals, out towards my mid-region. I concentrate fiercely. So determined am I that I nearly chip a tooth.

"No," she says gently, and I want to weep. "Let's try again."

So on we go, the instructor and me, on our search for my elusive corset. It may take a while, and I'd better be careful. Wouldn't want to stub my sixth toe.

The Person Critic

I’m tired of people criticizing me for being opinionated and judgemental. It’s unfair. Not the part about me being opinionated and judgemental – I am! I love passing judgements on people - their appearance, their intellects, their conversation, their personalities. This, however, isn’t something to criticize.

Think about it. You don’t condemn food critics for judging their restaurant meal. You don’t condemn book reviewers for being opinionated about what they read. And I’m doing the same thing. I’m performing a valuable service for the community.

I am a Person Critic.

Other critics get paid to pass judgements, whereas I do it for free. And I’m tired of being looked down upon simply because the work I do is unpaid. After all, my reviews, like any others, will save you time, effort and aggravation.

If you meet Kathy at a school function and are thinking of meeting for coffee, I can save you the irritation. (Her life is perfect. You’ll want to smack her). At a wedding I can help you avoid hours of boredom. (Move your seat away from Tom! He’s a Trekkie who lives with his mother!) And if you’re friendly with Darren I can save you befuddlement (He’s not deep. He’s just really confused).

Nadia? A whinger. Josh? Depressive. Ruth? Scary. And Michael? Great guy, really sweet. Just such a shame about the tracksuit pants.

Now, you’re probably thinking smugly, ‘Hey, I can be a Person Critic. Anyone can form an opinion’. Well guess what? You’re wrong.

For a start, a Person Critic needs to be very judgemental. If you’re one of those (annoying) types who accepts everyone as they are, you’re not cut out for this work. Who will listen to your opinions if you see beauty and goodness in all humankind?

On the other hand, you can’t be hypercritical and negative. A Person Critic must distinguish between those who give good value for one’s friendship dollar – so to speak - and those who don’t.

Furthermore, a Person Critic needs to be able to make rapid and accurate judgements. There’s no time to get to know your subject in all their full and rich complexity. You must meet them, form an opinion, and be ready to describe them in three adjectives or less, all within about 15 minutes. There are people waiting for you to tell them what to think.

I’m very well suited to Person Reviewing. I’m bursting with opinions. And, quite frankly, there’s no other area I’m qualified to make opinions about. Of course, I have no special expertise in people, either. However, in Person Reviewing, that doesn’t actually matter. Qualified or not, your audience will always listen to what you have to say.

The best thing about being a Person Critic is that you win either way. If your subject is interesting then you’ll enjoy meeting them. And if they’re not interesting, although you may not enjoy meeting them, you will definitely enjoy telling everyone about it afterwards.

Toilet Troubles - It's In Vogue To Be Vague

So, the other night I was in a lovely restaurant with some friends. I'd had one too many Caiprioskas (i.e. one), one too many wines (yes, one again) and I was a little blurry. And, given the fact that I've had three children and haven't done pelvic floor exercises since the day I left hospital, I needed to wee. Badly.

So off I stumbled to the ladies room on heels that were just a little too high (i.e. three centimetres) in a direction that was just a little bit wrong (i.e. I ended up in the kitchen).

Still, it wasn't till I found myself in front of the bathroom doors that the trouble really began. Because for the life of me, I couldn't work out what door I was meant to open.

No, I was not having a gender identity crisis. I was woman, and I needed to wee. The problem was, I couldn't interpret the signs upon the doors. Which sign represented 'female'? Was it the abstract figure doing something nebulous with its foot, or the abstract figure fiddling ambiguously with its head?

Now, I know I was slightly inebriated, but I honestly believe that stone cold sober I would have difficultly interpreting these mysterious signs. Pumped with alcohol, in the dark, with the urgency of a full bladder, I had no hope at all.

What ever happened to the simple 'M' and 'F'? Is it cool to be obscure? Is it in vogue to be vague? Is it fun to watch female patrons anxiously push the door open, a centimetre at a time, hoping for a reassuring glimpse of a sanitary disposal unit, terrified of encountering a - horror of horrors - urinal?

Imagine if they did that to traffic signs. If, instead of 'No Standing' there was a picture of a man in a wheelchair, or a nice frieze of aquatic life. Or, instead of 'Stop', there was a photo of a girl waggling her earlobe whilst pointing to a policeman. You know. As in, "sounds like 'cop'?"

But they won't, of course, because that could risk human lives. Which is clearly a priority. Unlike my bladder, which was at risk of being emptied on the floor of the restaurant.

So in the end, I chose the door on the right. And - low and behold - it was correct. Thank god. Wouldn't have wanted to be confronted with one of those dreaded urinals.

But next time, I'm asking the waitress for directions.

And for those of you wondering, it was the figure scratching her head. Who would have thought?

Tattoo Story Part 2: Remove Dried Blood

So I found my design.

I'd love to say it came to me in a dream, but in truth it came to me in my son's favourite Dr Seuss book. It was perfect. It was literary, it represented my life, and it was small enough so that if the whole thing turned out to be a hideous mistake I could laser it off.

Unfortunately, I had no idea where to go. The only tattoo parlours I knew were in Kings Cross, patronised, I imagined, by criminals, drunken sailors and weapon-wielding gang members. Then one day, my friend Mandy pointed out a tattoo studio (note: studio, not parlour) just a suburb away. That afternoon, I checked it out.

“I want to get a tattoo,” I told the multi-pierced and tattooed receptionist.

“Wow, you are amazingly cutting edge and brave,” she said admiringly. Well, no, that’s just what I expected her to say. What she actually said (barely glancing up from her tofu burger) was “Yeah, okay. What day?”

I had no idea. When was a good day to brand myself? “Monday?” I asked.

She made an appointment. “Your tattoo artist will be Tong,” she told me. “His design folder is over there.”

Artist. Sounded reassuringly professional. I flipped through the folder. A purple dragon loomed at me from a hairy back. A blood red rose adorned a giant breast. I broke into a sweat and slammed the book shut.

“Great! See you Monday!” I said. If I turn up, I thought. It’s not like I’ve paid a deposit.

“You need to pay a deposit,” she told me.

It was the moment of truth. I was tempted to run, but I paid the money. The receptionist handed me an appointment card. “Read the instructions on the back.” I turned it over.

Care of Your New Tattoo: Leave bandage on for three hours.
Okay, sounds reasonable.
Wash with soap and water to remove dried blood.
Blood? There’ll be blood?
Do not pick scab. Let it fall off by itself.
Scab? Who said anything about a SCAB???

On Monday, Mandy, my designated support person, met me at the studio. Inside, a young man with dreadlocks waited, while two heavily pierced girls inspected a range of nipple rings. I began to feel faint.

The receptionist asked me if I’d chosen my design. I sheepishly handed over the Dr Seuss book. To her credit, the receptionist barely flinched.

She made copies of the symbol in several different sizes, which Mandy and I considered with the utmost seriousness. In the end, we decided on the second smallest. The receptionist agreed, and - though I’d never met her in my life before and she had a studded lip - I felt strangely reassured.

After a 20 minute wait (during which I considered bolting about 20 times), Tong, my tattoo artist, appeared. I appraised him warily. He was a big teddy bear of a man, reasonably normal looking, except for a huge hole in his left earlobe, stretched by a massive earring. He also seemed to be mute, smiling benignly as he waved me through.

I felt alarmed at the prospect of entrusting one of my ankles to this silent stranger, but then I remembered the deposit, and followed, with Mandy close behind.

The tattooing room was clinical, with long black recliner chairs and cabinets of (what I desperately hoped was) sterile equipment. It was like a dentist’s surgery, only sado-masochistic.

I lay in a chair as Tong made a stencil of my design, and placed it on my ankle to determine the correct position. Suddenly I panicked.

“Tell me, Mandy!” I blurted. “It’s your last chance! Do you like it? Am I too old?”

“It’s great!” she assured me. I clutched her hand.

“Do it, Tong” I said.

Tong fired up his equipment (well, he switched on the needle). He looked very nonchalant, which worried me. Shouldn’t he be wearing an expression of intense concentration?

I heard a gentle buzz, felt a scratch on my ankle, and tensed, waiting for the shocking pain.

“When’s it going to hurt?” I asked Tong.

“This it!” he said.

It was nothing! Just like a sharp pencil being dragged across my skin. Okay, a very sharp pencil, but nothing dreadful. Uncomfortable, yes, but compared to the pain of childbirth (or, even worse, electrolysis) it was a walk in the park.

“Done!” Tong announced.

“Congratulations!” Mandy said.

I looked down. I had a tattoo!

Years down the track, I still love my tattoo. It makes me feel strong, sexy, and a little rebellious. In fact, I now have another, in a secret, sensual location (okay, on my shoulder).

Still, I’m constantly surprised that they don’t wash off. Just like having children, it’s the permanence you never quite get used to.

Tattoo Story Part 1: Pretentious Gullible White Woman

When I was 34, I decided to get a tattoo. I could pretend it was for some deeply symbolic reason, but in truth I just wanted to do something cool and rebellious.

A tattoo makes a statement. A tattoo says "this person is an individual (or at least one of the thousands of individuals who has a tattoo)". A tattoo also says "this person is an artist and their body is their canvas", which I thought was highly applicable to me, particularly since I shaved my legs and bought that bolder shade of lip gloss.

A tattoo would also show my ability to tolerate pain. Since I didn't get to wear a badge that said "I gave birth without an epidural" or "I've had electrolysis on my eyebrows", I was desperate for the opportunity to let people know how brave I really was.

The problem was, I didn't actually have a design, and I was informed by people in the know that this made me less "cool and rebellious" than "pretentious and sad".

However, none of the traditional feminine tattoos worked for me. Dolphins, for example. I knew they represented freedom and beauty, but I simply did not feel any affinity with aquatic mammals. The same went for butterflies, which are, after all, just metamorphosed caterpillars.

Chinese letters were popular, but I could just see myself getting a tattoo that I thought translated as "Peace and Love", only to find out it actually meant "Pretentious, Gullible White Woman". It may have been true, but it wasn't something I wanted imprinted on my body forever.

My husband's initials were not an option. It's not that I didn't expect to be with him forever. It's just that we're a pretty volatile couple, and I knew that whenever we argued I was going to want to chew my own arm off. For similar reasons, I was loath to tattoo myself with my children's names. It would give them too much power.

So there I was, a woman without a design. Still, maybe I wasn't tragically uncool. Maybe it was all those people who chose something metaphorical and symbolic who were pretentious. Maybe it was best to take the direct approach, and say what I wanted to say all along.

Maybe it was best to get a tattoo that read, in plain English, "Look at me! I am cool!"

Wak Attack

There was an article in the paper today about Cassandra Parker, a mother of seven kids between the ages of 10 and two months, who home schools her entire clan.

Cassandra freaks me out. And her story reminds me of another family who freak me out - Haya and Zephaniah Waks, featured in a TV documentary a few years back.

The Waks, an orthodox Jewish couple from Melbourne, have raised 17 children. Both parents stay utterly serene at all times, and still manage to pray three times a day.

Compare them to me, who struggles with just three children, experiences motherhood as a constant, barely restrained state of crisis, and barely finds time to wash my face in the morning.

So what’s going on? Are orthodox children far easier to raise than other children (and I do suspect my son generates as much work as a dozen or so orthodox kids), or am I just hopelessly inadequate?

Haya, in between growing an entire community of people in her womb, also works as a wigmaker, and effortlessly prepares meals for 300 guests every time there’s a birthday or festival.

I, on the other hand, am still recuperating from giving birth 20 months ago (at least that’s what I tell my husband), get exhausted just thinking about what to wear to go shopping, and as for cooking, well, let’s just say that if the frankfurt hadn’t been invented, my kids would surely have starved.

Haya Waks looks impeccably groomed and attractive at all times. Now this really bewilders me. Firstly, how does she find the time to dress in the morning (I, mother of three, have been known to leave the house in my slippers)? Secondly, why have her kids left her looking so youthful and vibrant, when my three kids have stamped lines on my face and bags under my eyes (although that’s possibly just because I haven’t had time to wash my face in a decade)?

Thirdly, and most importantly, why does Haya allow herself to look so attractive all the time? If I was a mother of 17, I’d be doing my best to be as physically repugnant as possible – anything to keep my husband at bay and save myself from another pregnancy.

The Waks family can’t afford a nanny, but this doesn't pose a problem. They simply employ their own children, with each older child being responsible for a younger sibling.

Well, I tried that with my kids and it failed dismally. The only thing my son took responsibility for was to pinch his sister when I wasn’t looking, teach her to say ‘smelly bum bum’, and cut out big chunks of her hair with a pair of kitchen scissors.

Haya Waks believes that the role of the Jewish mother is to bring more Jewish souls into the world. (I agree with her. It's just that in my case, the souls have been brought into the world to test me.) And she is inspiring. So much so that when the documentary was over, my sixty-something mother sent me a text message announcing that she'd decided to have 15 more children.

I’m delighted. Truly. Better my mum than me. For one thing, I can’t be sure that my next children will eat frankfurts. For another thing, I’m still tired from giving birth.