How we came to be

When I was 38 weeks pregnant with my third child, and my sister suddenly died, I was a mess, as you can imagine. I was having all sorts of health problems and suddenly plunged into grief and I had two young children to care for, and it was without a doubt the darkest, most oppressively difficult time in my life.

Friends rallied around, of course, and I will be forever grateful. But in that hideous period, the kindness of two near strangers stood out. One, a teacher, volunteered to bring both my kids to the school gates for the remainder of the term so that I wouldn't have to walk into the school. She knew how difficult it was for me to face people, and I will never forget her sensitivity and generosity.

The other, the class parent for my daughter's year, arranged a food roster for me. Every single night for weeks I had a hot meal on the table for my family thanks to her. I'd never met her, but that woman made a profound difference to my ability to cope.

Fast forward eighteen months, and I am sitting on the grass at a class picnic with my now toddler on my lap. I am chatting to that class parent, properly thanking her for all she did to help me. The conversation segues into a discussion of social media. I explain that I'm on Twitter (I'm feeling quite proud because I already have a couple of hundred followers) and wonder if she's ever heard of it.
"Kerri, we've been chatting on Twitter for months. I'm Sharpest Pencil."

The woman was Lana Hirschowitz. Until that point I had no idea that the hysterically funny person I'd been tweeting online was the very same woman who arranged meals for me after my sister died.

My worlds collided.

Since then, Lana and I have spent a ridiculous time communicating, across every medium one can imagine. We talk on Twitter, in public and (far less politically correctly) in DMs. We talk on Facebook, on Instagram, in emails, and in texts. We talk on the phone and we catch up in person. I have many friends who I adore, but Lana is the only friend who lives in all of my communities - the online, the Jewish, the school, and the anxious.

Of course, being South African, Lana is as different to me as cheese is to a polar bear. Her accent is irritating and she's bossy and she doesn't like most of my clothes. She is a dog person and I am a cat person. She is also a cat person, but whatever. And we disagree on nearly everything, which is weird because we also agree on nearly everything.

But our conversations are hilarious, and often bizarre, and for fun, we thought we'd share them with you.

This is the second in our serious of #5minutes with Kerri and Lana. We are in bed. Don't ask why. Just go with it and look at those ginormous pills.

Enjoy.

Do you know all the things?

The knowledge. All the things! There are too many things to know.

They say that the more you know, the more you know you don't know. Well, let me tell you, I've known how much I don't know for a long time now. And it pains me, because I want to know everything. Or at least a good part of it. A percentage. More than I do.

I read the news every day and try to remember everything I've read. But it's hard. For one thing, there are so many stories, so much going on around Australia and the world. For another thing, there is so much internet to distract me, and Twitter and Facebook are so tantalizingly there. For another thing, I have three kids to look after, and a house to run, and work of my own to do.

For another thing, the cat is usually sitting on the newspaper. And that makes it really hard for me to read.

I can retain an enormous amount of what interests me. Great TED talks, for example, stay with me indefinitely. Brilliant books, articles and blog posts make a lasting impact. I can remember theories and ideas, because they appeal to the creative side of my brain. But hard facts seem to disappear within seconds of processing. Names, dates and places can vanish into thin air, perhaps via an escape valve directly from my brain.

I have forgotten the majority of what I learned at school. Granted, you need to use your knowledge  to retain it, and I haven't had much call for calculus over the years. I have, on the other hand, remembered much of John Donne's poetry, because I love it and have re-read it a billion times. Sadly it doesn't help me to recall the names of world leaders or where Estonia is on the map, but I do comfort myself by reciting The Apparition when SBS World News begins to get blurry of a night.

And then there is the myriad of other useless information in my brain. Song lyrics. Chunks of my favourite books. Why Jodie left the Young Talent Team. What Bill Murray supposedly whispered to Scarlett Johansson in the final moments of "Lost In Translation". And the entire script of Grease, together with musical interludes. Perhaps if my mind wasn't filled with such trivial nonsense, I'd remember that the President of Greece is Karolos Papoulias, that the capital of Kazakhstan is Astana, and that the Battle of Hastings took place in 1066.

So what can I do? How can I learn all the things? And do you want me to recite The Apparition now?

#MyFirst... Act Of Rebellion

Today I am starting a new Blogger Challenge.
Why?
Because all of us bloggers need ideas.
Because all of us readers want great content.
Because it will be FUN.
And because I really want to read what you guys have to write.
So.

Each Monday I will be writing about a First. I will choose the First (first kiss? first drink? first fight? first phobia?)

I will post the topic here and write my own little piece about it. And I will invite YOU to write about your own First (Insert Topic Here) on your blogs anytime during the week. If you have never done that particular first, write about why not. And how you feel about that.

Then link to your piece in the comments below, or on my Facebook page.
Also tweet it under the hashtag #MyFirst.
 
 Ready? Let's begin.

Today's First is

MY FIRST ACT OF REBELLION

I was always a conservative child. I did the right thing and came home on time and studied for exams and wore my skirts at an appropriate length. (Then again, it was the 80's. We wore our skirts down to our mid calves. It wasn't fashion at its most provocative.)

I was anxious, and so I was careful to do the right thing; less, I suspect, from a sense of moral obligation, than from a sense of terror at what might happen if I didn't.

But one day it all changed. One day, I pushed through the wall of fear and embraced my inner rebel. And it was Good, I tell you.

It was very, very good.

I was in Year 11 at school, and I was hot, and bored. It was a Hebrew class. I didn't like Hebrew. I had no intention of moving to Israel and I didn't think that Hebrew would be particularly useful for my future career as an actress. But I went to a Jewish school, and Hebrew was compulsory right up until Year 12. Recently, however, the school had relented and agreed not to make us study Hebrew for one of our HSC subjects. We were, however, required to study Non-Hebrew - an absurd, non-assessable class for a couple of periods per week for those not taking the subject formally.

Well, you can imagine the motivation of the students in Non-Hebrew. A bunch of pubescent girls in short (okay, mid length) skirts, a bunch of pimply boys in short (okay, mid length) shorts, a teacher from Israel who could barely speak a word of English, and zero interest in the subject.

It wasn't pretty.

I kept talking to my friend D throughout the class (no doubt about Josh Goldenbum, who I had pined for unrequitedly for the past two years) when finally the poor teacher snapped.

Something in Hebrew! she cried. I didn't understand her. I didn't speak Hebrew. Still, even I could interpret the intonation, and I figured from her vigorous pointing at the door that she wanted D and I to exit the room.

We did.

But that was not the act of rebellion.

You see, as we stood in the corridor outside the classroom, I noticed a gap above the door - a space of about five inches between the top of the frame and the ceiling.

And an idea came to me. A horrible, brilliant idea.

"Let's get some paper," I told my friend D. Several lockers in the hallway were open, and we pulled various bits of paper out and began scrunching them into balls.

"Here goes!" I cried, and I lobbed the first ball over the door frame.

I heard a titter from inside the classroom. Adrenalin surged through my body. This is what it feels like to be bad, I thought. D and I threw ball after ball of paper over the door. The laughter grew stronger. The Hebrew teacher kept teaching.

And then suddenly, it came. The sweetest sound I had yet heard in my short life.

"BULLSEYE!!!"

I had hit the teacher on the head with one of my missiles.

It was a moment to cherish.

What happened after is irrelevant now. What matters is that I faced my inner demons and learned to be at one with my own darker urges.

For the record, though, I got put on detention. It was even more hot and boring than the stupid Hebrew class.

Gone.

My baby was almost late to her first ever day at school because I couldn't get my mascara right. I don't usually wear mascara, but my eyes looked like I'd been crying all night (which was not surprising, because I had). And so I slathered it on, then got teary again, so the whole lot smeared. In the end, I left the house with grey-rimmed puffy eyes, which will look truly memorable in those First Day At School photos.

I didn't expect to have such a strong reaction to my youngest starting school. I was quite excited when my big boy and girl started Year K all those years ago. I was ridiculously proud, marveling at their uniforms, taking endless photos of them with their hats and bags. It felt like the start of a wonderful new chapter. There was no sense of loss, no sense of mourning, just fresh beginnings.

This time, though, this time it's my baby. My beautiful, precious girl. She was born when her siblings were already six and eight. Last year her brother started high school, and next year her sister will join him. They are growing up, moving forward with their lives. Every day I see them morphing from children into teenagers. Every day I am stunned by the passage of time. It rushes ahead, and they rush with it. It's magnificent and wonderful and incredibly quick.

But it's been okay, because I have had my youngest. The big kids could grow up but she would always be with me. She would always be cute. She would always want to snuggle. It would be okay because I would always have my baby. I couldn't even fathom my girl growing up.

Today my baby put on her uniform and shoes, hoisted her backpack onto her back, and walked into school. And it hurt. It hurt. I didn't want to let her go. I was careful to be positive and cheerful, but inside I was crying. I know it will be fine, I know she will have a fabulous day, but I'm just not ready to let her go.

Time, it goes so fast. And kids grow up. Even your babies. Even the ones you think will stay young forever.

In years to come, I'll look back on the pictures from today and laugh. There is my daughter, in her too-big dress and her perfect, shiny shoes. There is my husband, smiling broadly. There is our big girl, having run down from her classroom, proudly showing her sister around. And there is me, with my grey puffy eyes, clinging on to my baby with all I've got.

One day I'll laugh. But right now I'm still having a little weep. Until 3pm, when I pick her up, and she'll be my little girl again.

I MADE SEXY WORDS!!!

Let me preface this post by stating that I am not good at languages*. I went to a Jewish day school and the only second language we were taught until high school was Hebrew, and I absolutely sucked at that. This was partly because I just don't have a good ear for languages (particularly guttural Middle Eastern languages that sound like an ongoing exercise in throat-clearing), and partly because the Hebrew teachers at the time were Maths teachers shipped out from Israel, who had no experience whatsoever in the teaching of language. In fact, they had very little grasp of English at all, which led to us treating them with the shocking adolescent contempt reserved for weak and insecure teachers. One teacher, in particular - who we called 'Auntie Edna' for reasons which escape me - earned our particular wrath.

"Do you know what 'shit' means, Auntie Edna?" one boy asked.

"I know only what it is I want to know," she answered haughtily, which I suspect wasn't true at all, but was a pretty good answer nonetheless.

Later, in high school, I studied French, because I loved listening to French people talk, and had visions of myself ordering croissants and cafe au lait in Paris. Sadly, I discovered very quickly that I sucked at French, too. And - unlike my forced study of Hebrew - I really, really wanted to learn French. I studied really hard. I read the books and listened to the tapes and practiced every day. Once I left school I studied French at uni, and once I left uni I studied French at the Alliance Francaise, just for fun. And now, after all that work, I can order croissants and cafe au lait. But I still can't book a hotel room in French or order a taxi or understand a word of SBS Friday night porn. I really am just a cultural Fail.

The top line says 'Kerri Sackville' in Italian

Which leads me to my one second language success. Because I have before me the Italian version of When My Husband Does the Dishes. Yes, I have actually written a book in Italian. And it is beautiful. It says things like 'Una delle grandi e tragiche ironie' and 'Come tutti sappiamo' and 'Una chiamata sul cellular potrebbe', and while I don't have a clue what they all mean, they sound absolutely magnificent and damn sexy besides.

I received a couple of copies of the book, which means I have one to giveaway. So if you speak Italian, or you know someone who speaks Italian who would like a copy of my fabulous and hilarious memoir, leave a comment below and I will choose the best and most deserving to win.

Ciao, mes amis. Or something like that....

*English excluded**
**hopefully

A Conversation. Of The Crazy Making Kind.

“So Mum, did you like my performance best, or Johnny Li’s?”

My son was referring, of course, to his end-of-year school concert, which we had attended the night before. And the question wasn’t an easy one to answer. My son had read a beautiful poem about Maths that he composed himself (yes, about Maths. Numbers are very poetic, you know), but Johnny Li was a violin prodigy, and his performance had nearly brought me to tears.

The poem was possibly the best poem about Maths I had ever heard (and to be fair, I did hear three that night), but Johnny was a genius. How to answer?

“I always love your performances more than anyone else’s performances,” I said truthfully. My son rolled his eyes.

“Yes, I know that, Mum. You enjoy them because I'm your child. But which did you enjoy most?”

“They were both good! But I enjoyed yours most.”

He still wasn’t satisfied. “Okay, but if you didn’t know me, which would you think was the better performance?”

Oh for god’s sake. Why the fuck does he have to ask me these types of questions? How the hell am I supposed to answer that?

“How the hell am I supposed to answer that?” I asked, which possibly isn’t the approved way to speak to a twelve year old boy, but as he doesn’t seem to follow the rules when talking to me, I’m not sure I really care.

“Just tell me the truth, Mum. I can take it.”

“I can’t answer. I don’t know how to answer.”

“If Johnny did my performance and I did his, which would you think is better?”

Um... er.... “The one you did,” I said finally. I was pretty sure that was the right answer.

“So you’re saying his violin playing was better than my poem???”

“NO! I didn’t say that! I said I’d like the one you did better!”

He tried a different tack. “Okay, so what if a stranger read out my poem and then a stranger played Johnny’s violin?”

“Would the stranger be a good or bad violin player?” I asked. This was getting really confusing.

“Good. As good as him.”

“But did you still write the poem?”

“No, someone else wrote the poem.”

“I’d like the poem better. It was brilliant. Far better than that violin playing.”

My son looked satisfied, and he smiled. “Okay. Can you pass the milk?”

And I knew that – this time – I’d won.

Chatting In My Undies

The other night, I participated in a ‘Meet The Authors’ evening at a local school. My kids don’t go to the school, but I was happy to go as a) I will take any excuse to get out of the house, and b) there was going to be food that I hadn’t prepared.

I was exhausted when I arrived at the school, but I pepped up the minute I saw the spread. This school was truly a top school. Oh, I have no idea what kind of grades the kids get, but my god they put on a good spread. I tucked in heartily, cramming smoked salmon blintzes and pesto ciabatta into my mouth.

I eyed the (very nice) red wine with longing, but refrained as I make it a rule not to drink before giving an author talk. Alcohol gets me very relaxed very quickly, and am likely to say something like ‘You should buy my book because it has a purple cover’ or ‘I write because I’m a show off’ when I am even slightly intoxicated.

Okay, so I wasn't quite this bad, but still....

I was appearing with a couple of other authors, including the novelist Nikki Gemmell, whose latest book, With My Body, is almost entirely about sex. We had all been asked to prepare a short excerpt from our books to read, so I figured that as Nikki would have to read something about sex, I may as well do the same. I prepared an extract from When My Husband Does The Dishes... called ‘Sleep Is Better Than Sex’ and sat happily on stage picking pesto out of my teeth, waiting for my turn to read.

Then things took a turn for the unexpected. The wife of the rabbi at my synagogue walked in, and sat in clear view in the audience. She wasn’t even a mother at the school! Now, I can talk about sex in front of practically anyone, but to a woman who is Holy By Proxy? Not so much. I was thrown into uncertainty. But still, it got worse. Nikki stood up to read her excerpt, and it wasn’t about sex at all. She read an utterly tame passage from her book about motherhood – quite possibly the only segment not about sex in the entire thing. Looked like I was going to be all on my own. I felt like I was about to be thrown to the lions.

Still, there was nothing to do but press on. Up I rose, and headed with trepidation to the microphone.

“This chapter is entitled ‘Sleep Is Better Than Sex’,” I said, and the entire room sat up straight. They laughed all the way through and applauded loudly at the end. I sat down in relief, and felt so happy that I relaxed a little too much, and ended up answering ‘Because I’m a show off’ when asked why I like to write. I may as well have just had the wine.

Afterwards, a girlfriend who was in the audience approached me.

“It was great, but you have to keep your legs together when you stand up,” she said. “The whole room could see your undies. Still, at least you were wearing some.”

I poured myself a huge glass of wine. I’m never doing an author talk again.

No Good Deed For Me

At pick-up time at pre-school, three year old Boo tugged on my sleeve. “Mummy,” she said, “I want to have a good deed!”

“You want to do a good deed?” I asked. “Fantastic! What would you like to do?”

“No, Mummy, have a good deed. On the tree!”

She pointed to a stick tree at the back of the room, covered in little paper leaves, each with a couple of lines of handwriting.

“It’s the good deed tree!” she yelled. “I want a good deed on the tree!”

A good deed tree now? Clearly another memo I forgot to read. I frowned and went to check it out.

Joshy was kind to his sister this morning, read one leaf.

 Bella helped to make her bed, read another.

“You write one and you put it on the tree!” Boo told me helpfully. “Then the teacher she reads them!”

I looked more closely. Max, Gemma, Zac, Eden... they all had their leaves on the tree. It seemed that poor little Boo was the only child with no good deed. Clearly, I had failed again. No good deed for Mummy.

“Can you write I make a bed?” Boo asked.

I thought for a minute. “Boo, you haven’t ever made the bed. I don’t think I can write that.”

“Just write it!” she said. I considered it for a moment, but didn’t feel comfortable lying about a good deed. Wasn’t that some sort of sin?

“Why don’t you make the bed?” I asked her. “Then I can write it for the tree!”

Boo shook her head. “I don’t want to make a bed. I just want a good deed!” I sighed.

We said goodbye to the teachers, and trudged outside to the car.

“Why don’t you clean up the Lego at home and I’ll write that on the good deed tree?” I suggested.

“I don’t want to clean up my Lego. Just write it!”

“But darling you have to actually do the good deed, that’s the whole point of the exercise.”

“Mum, I don’t think she really understands you,” ten year old Pinkela piped up from the backseat. She is always the voice of reason. I called on her for help.

“Will you explain the concept of the good deed tree to Boo?”

Pinkela put on her Big Sister face and her most reasonable voice. “Boo, you have to do a Good deed to get a leaf on the tree. What would you like to be your good deed? Would you like to help me make your bed and then we can write that on the tree?”

“NO!” Boo yelled. “I don’t want to make my bed. Just write it on the tree! Do it!”

“Er, Mum?” said Pinkela. “I think she understands.”

All the way home I contemplated the dilemma. Do I write Boo a good deed for doing nothing at all? Or do I withhold the leaf, and allow her to continue as the only child in the pre-school not featured on the tree?

In the end, I compromised. I didn’t lie, but I wasn’t scrupulously honest, either. I gave Boo her leaf, but it had a hopeful tone, and used ‘always’ in the sense of ‘sometimes’. 

Boo always puts her dishes in the sink, I wrote, and I pinned the leaf to the tree.

Boo beamed, I smiled, and we both felt happy. And that was truly a good deed.

Return From Camp Fear

Yesterday, my son returned safely from Camp Fear. After agonising over the permission slip, which required me to acknowledge my eleven-year-old child's 'increased risk of death', I signed and dutifully transported him to the bus on Monday morning. (Actually, that's not quite true. His father transported him to the bus. But I packed his bags, fed him a nutritious breakfast, and waved goodbye at the door, quaking in my thongs.)

I thought often of my son during the week, wondering whether he was having fun, what he was eating, how he was sleeping, and by what percentage point had his 'risk of death' actually increased. His nine-year-old sister drew pictures for him to present on his return. His three-year-old sister kept wandering into his room looking for him and asking if he was at Nana's (her long term memory seems a little undeveloped at this point).

And then, yesterday afternoon, it was time to pick him up.

There was my man, all tired and grubby, pulling behind him my fake crocodile skin suitcase and a water bottle the size of his head. My heart leapt. I rushed to give him a huge cuddle and he pushed me away.

"Mum, I'm eleven now," he said. "You'll ruin my reputation." Oh. God forbid.

And what happened at Camp Fear? Well, this was detailed to me sporadically over the course of the next five hours. For your convenience, I have summarised the key points below:

• There were no high ropes. This was a source of great relief to my son.
• There was a wombat hole, through which the children were required to crawl. This made no sense to me at all, but apparently made perfect sense to the kids.
• I packed too many clothes.
• I packed not enough socks.
• Dinner on the first night was 'the best meal ever'. This probably says more about the quality of my cooking than the quality of the camp's food.
• On the second day, my son was bitten by a 'spider with a red back'. As he survived to tell the tale, it clearly wasn't THE spider with a red back, but it still made me vomit a little to hear it.
• My son's tent-mate wept for the entire first day and night before having to go home. If I had to share a tiny two-man tent in the rain with a pre-pubescent boy who hadn't showered, I probably would have done the same.
• My son did not win the talent quest. He did, however, perform more vigorously than his two friends, who chose, in their piece, to portray 'rocks'.
• My son did not miss me or his father or sisters at all. He did, however, miss his gameboy, Wii and computer very much.
• The kids got to pet some alpaca goats. This made me smile.
• The kids then had an alpaca-goat-poo tossing contest. Hearing this made me vomit again a little. And when I had to remove his alpaca-goat-poo sullied clothes from his bag and put them in the wash, I vomited again.

So that was it. An exciting and safe - if not exactly hygienic - time was had by all.

And when my son went to sleep last night, I snuck into his room and gave him a gigantic hug. A reputation and a bit of alpaca poo isn't going to stop me.

The Swimming Carnival

Yesterday was my son's swimming carnival. He is in Year 6, and he is short. The shortest in his year by a long shot. He is strong, and wiry, and not a bad swimmer, but when you're competing against kids a head-and-a-half taller than you, your chances of ending up with a winner's ribbon are slim, to say the least.

My son had been practising every day for the past couple of weeks, but I didn't think he stood much of a chance. Last year he came last in each of the three events he entered, and actually failed to finish one race. It was well within his capability, but he went out so hard, trying to match the taller kids stroke for stroke, that he exhausted himself and had to leave the pool.

This year, his goals were realistic. "I don't expect to win, Mum," he told me, "but I really want to make it to the end."

Day after day he'd swim his laps, and then, every time he climbed out of the pool, he'd ask the same question. "What if I don't finish again, Mum?"

I tried to reassure him. "It doesn't matter if you don't finish," I'd say. "You just have to do your best." I was lying, of course. I knew it did matter if he didn't finish. Not to me, but certainly to him.

"I do have to finish," he'd tell me. And he'd roll his eyes. "You're no help." Which, you know, I probably wasn't.

I arrived at the carnival just in time. My son was in his swimsuit at the end of the pool, standing behind two other boys, waiting for his turn to climb onto the starting block. The gun fired and a group of boys swam the100 metre freestyle. And then anothe group raced. And another.

And then it was his turn.

My son stepped onto the block, and the gun fired. And off he went. By halfway through the first lap, he was well behind the others - not surprising, seeing as he had to swim three strokes for each of their two. After the turn, he was almost a full length behind. The next group of boys were up on their blocks and waiting to jump by the time he made it to the finish.

But he made it to the end.

I was SO proud. My son returned to his seat, beaming. "Well, I earned one point for my house," he said. "And every point counts".

"It does indeed," I told him. We celebrated with some snacks. And within an hour, the 100 metre breaststroke was on.

Again, my son climbed on the block. Again, the gun fired. And again, he was behind by the time they'd reached the halfway point.

But then I noticed: he was neck and neck with one of the other boys. They were tying for last place - but hey, that was a massive improvement on coming last by a mile. My heart started to pound. I leaned forward in my seat. It was so exciting!

The others all finished. It was just my son and the other boy left. Both swam, hard, towards the blocks. I could barely sit still. "Go!" I thought. "GO!" Imagine if he came second last? It would be amazing!!!

He didn't, of course. The other kid beat him by a length. But he did brilliantly well. I swelled with pride and had tears in my eyes as he made his way back to me.

And as he settled into his seat, an announcement came over the loudspeaker. "And some news.... The Blue House has moved into first place! By one point!"

My son cheered. "That's us!" he said, munching happily on some chips.

"Yep," I told him. "Your swim pushed your house in front!" He nodded and returned to his food, but he looked quietly satisfied. He may have come last, but he helped his team to victory.

It was one of the proudest moments of my life.

Death By Camp

I'm not an overly anxious person. I'm... Oh for godsake. Who am I kidding. I'm an incredibly anxious person. Let's start this again. With honesty.

I'm an extremely anxious person. Always have been, probably always will be. However, I've worked very hard over the years to manage my anxiety, particularly in relation to my children. It's not my kids' fault they have me as a mum. It's bad enough they're going to be stuck with a genetic predisposition to anxiety; I don't want this excacerbated by the additional burden of anxious parenting.

So I try to stay relaxed. I don't wrap them in cotton wool. I let the older kids ride their bikes around the neighbourhood by themselves. I leave them in the house for an hour alone while I go to the casino (okay, the shops, fear not, I was just testing you). I try not to worry when they're out in other people's cars. I try not to panic when the phone rings in the middle of the day and it's the school nurse (or worse, the teacher, or worse than that, the principal). I refuse to let my mind wander to all the terrible mishaps that can befall a child in this dangerous modern world (which is no doubt safer than the dangerous ancient world, but still...).

But this.... This is really stretching my limits.

My son is going on a school camp this term. Now, he's been to school camps before, as has my daughter. But this one is different. This one is Death by Camp. This camp has the Disclaimer to end all Disclaimers. And I'm scared.

Take a look at what I need to sign:

I acknowledge that the activities may be of an adventurous nature, often in remote bush settings.
(REMOTE??? Why REMOTE?? Aren't there any 'nearby' bush settings' they can go to??? Can't they just camp in a playpark?)

I am aware that these activities involve an altered or increased risk of illness, injury or death arising from an accident or event occuring during an activity or within the camp environment.
DEATH? NO! I'm not aware of an increased risk of DEATH. Illness I can take. My son comes home with a cold. Big deal. Injury? Well, a sprained ankle wouldn't be ideal, but it's not the end of the world. These things happen. But DEATH? Uh uh. No way. I'm not sending my son off to Lethal Camp of Schoolboy Doom.

I understand that all hazards and dangers associated with these activities cannot be forseen or may be beyond the control of Camp X, its instructors or staff.
NO! I don't understand! Isn't it your JOB to forsee all hazards and dangers associated with these activities?? I mean, isn't that kind of why you're THERE? If you can't handle the heat, instructors, then get out of the remote bushland, and find a job somewhere hazard free. Like in a typing pool. If they still have them. Which they probably don't. But it was the most hazard-free thing I could think of.

I agree that if my child suffers injury or illness, Camp X can, at my cost, arrange medical treatment and emergency evacuation services as Camp X deems appropriate.
Fabulous. Not only are you possibly going to maim or infect my child, when you do, you're going to make me PAY for it??

But I'm just being anxious. I'm sure the camp is all perfectly safe. The Disclaimer is just a piece of paper. It doesn't mean there's really any danger. Right?

Right?

RIGHT???

Something Slightly Magical

Yesterday I took just-turned-three year old Boo to her orientation day at pre-school. It's the same pre-school attended by her big brother and sister many years ago, the same pre-school in which I sat on a teeny tiny chair and sobbed uncontrollably for a full hour when my Pinkela 'graduated' in mini robes and a hat. Back then, four years ago, I didn't think I was going to have any more children, and my Pinkela, my baby, was all grown up.

Incredibly, just over a year after Pinkela moved to big school, my baby Boo was born. As many of you will know, it was a time of tremendous sadness as well as great joy, because my beloved sister had died only three weeks earlier. Tanya was very close to my big kids - her precious niece and nephew - and they loved their only Auntie deeply. But she never got to meet her youngest niece. Tanya never got to see Boo's huge dark eyes, or the fact that she has the only 'outy' belly-button in the family. She never got to discover Boo's ecclectic taste in music (everything from 'Incy Wincy Spider' to pretty much anything by the Black Eyed Peas), or her preference for 'tuna-from-a-can' and 'freddo-frog-the-head-AND-body!'. She never got to attend Boo's first birthday party, or see her first steps, or watch as she sat proudly on the toilet for the first time.

And of course, she wasn't there to hear about her orientation day at pre-school.

Or was she?

Because something slightly magical happened yesterday. We adults were sitting in a circle listening to a talk from the director whilst our children had morning tea with the teachers in the room next door. The director discussed opening hours, protocols, naptime arrangements, food, and all the minutia of daily life at pre-school. Then she handed out a few of the 'weekend books' to pass around and look at. The weekend books are scrapbooks, taken home by each child in each class once a year, and returned to pre-school to be shared and discussed. They detail what the child did on their weekend, and include pictures and drawings and various other details that paint a picture of each child's family life. Given that the pre-school has three classes per year, and each class has their own book, there have been many books over the years.

So what were the chances that the book that happened to land on my lap - the book helpfully passed to me by a mother I've never met - was from my daughter's last year at pre-school? And what were the chances that the particular weekend we'd documented in the book (a weekend I'd completely forgotten) was the weekend we'd all gone to Auntie Tanya's house for dinner to celebrate my birthday?

Chances or not, that's the book I got. And in some small way, it was like Tanya popping her head in, making her enduring presence known. It reminded me that I still have a relationship with my sister, even if it's not the relationship it was. I may not be able to call Tanya about Boo's first day at pre-school, or about Pinkela's dance concert, or my son's presentation ceremony at school, but I can still talk to her about them, and I believe she will hear.

As for little Boo, well, her Auntie Tanya is at pre-school with her, and always will be. And for some reason, I find this very comforting.

A Graphic Post: Please Read With Caution

So next week, my husband is accompanying my son to a talk at his all-boys school. (My son's all-boys school, that is, not my husband's. My husband is all grown up and goes to work now.)

The talk they are attending is about penises.

Okay, so it's not just about penises. It's about breasts and vaginas too. In fact, it is about all things related to private parts. It is called "Preparing For Puberty", and is presented by specialist sex educators.

And I've decided to allocate this one to my husband.

Now, you know me. I love talking about penises and breasts and vaginas. It's right up my alley (so to speak). But there's something about this talk that really bothers me; one thing I cannot deal with in front of a crowd of pre-pubescent boys.

Wet dreams.

Oh! I can barely even type the phrase. Of course, there's nothing wrong with the words themselves. 'Wet' makes me think of rain, and 'dreams' makes me think of having forgotten to study for a big test (which is the scenario usually played out in mine). But put them together and you get something very different. Something - to me, anyway - kind of scary.

You see, I grew up with one sister and no brothers. I didn't have to deal with any of those kind of... things. I read about wet dreams in that 1970s bible of sex education "What's Happening To Me", but as I knew the part about wet dreams wouldn't actually Happen To Me, I didn't think much about it. And for some reason, in all my years of marriage, it has never come up in a discussion with my husband (er... again... so to speak).

So now is the first time I'm really thinking about them. And they sound very unsettling. I'm sure wet dreams must be awkward for boys; you know.... strange and potentially embarrassing. But jeez, they're certainly better than what pubescent girls can look forward to. I can't speak for every female, but I know I'd much rather swap my cramps and bleeding each month for FREE ORGASMS IN MY SLEEP A COUPLE OF TIMES A WEEK!!!!

So with that in mind, I'm sending hubby and son off to the talk next week. I shall stay at home with my two totally non-pre-pubescent girls, and think lovely thoughts about flowers and moonbeams.

I hope they have a good time, and that all questions related to that particular issue are discussed in the car on the way home.

And I shall pretend puberty, and all it entails, is still a decade or two away.

Three Girls Make Contact With A Man With Magic Hands

It began with a bet between three girlfriends, to see who could do it better. You see, Carole's technique was lacking a bit of finesse. It was fine, it did the job, but it just wasn't getting the results she wanted.

Mandy and I decided we could teach her a thing or two.

Mandy went first. She did better than Carole, but suffered from performance anxiety, and took far longer than she usually would.

I went next, over-confident as usual. I rushed it, showing off, and the next thing you know, I had left behind several unsightly bubbles.

Then Adam wandered over to check things out.

"You girls know nothing," he told us, with a touch of the expert's arrogance. "Move over and let me show you how it's done."

He sat down with us and grabbed some tools. And let me tell you, this man knew his stuff. Within minutes, we were sighing over his fingers, overwhelmed by his spectacular touch.

"Firm, and yet tender," Carole marvelled.

"Incredible," I breathed. "His wife is so lucky."

"Great ruler work," noted Mandy. "He's really getting the bubbles out."

Adam smoothed out the final crease, and raised his book with a triumphant flourish.

"And that," he announced, "is how a book should be covered."

It was magnificent. I was awed. And inspired. I rushed home to finish covering the 15 (yes, FIFTEEN) books required by my school aged kids. I knew that, after Adam's masterclass, I would produce perfect results.

Oh...... but I was wrong.

Out of the 11 books remaining on my desk, only two left my hands perfectly creaseless (using 'perfectly' in the sense of 'well, creaseless compared to my other books, but still hopeless in comparison to Adam's').

One book I actually covered in the wrong coloured paper, risking humiliation and insult to my eight year old daughter. Several books I covered in coloured paper that I'd managed to glue to the table first, resulting in an attractive 'cloudy' effect where the colour had come away (though, unsurprisingly, my kids failed to buy this metaphor). And two books ended up with stray bits of scrap paper under the contact, for which I couldn't come up with a metaphor at all.

So I concede defeat. I am the Worst Contacter In The World. Not only am I worse than Adam, but I am worse than Mandy, Carole, and pretty much any other parent to ever grace the halls of any school.

Still, it's not like I really care. It's covering books, for godsake, not rocket science. It's not like it's going to affect my kids' futures.

But if we were talking about the perfectly tied school tie, well..... that would be another story.

No Tie, No Cleavage, And Too Tattooed For School

It started with the tie. Really, I was doing fine until I lost the tie.

"It's gone! It's GOOOOOORN!" I cried, rushing panic stricken around the house like a mother whose son was starting a new school the next day*.

"What's gone?" my husband asked, barely glancing up from the TV.

"His school tie!" I howled, in mounting distress. "I had it and now it's GOOOOOOOORN!!!"

"Oh right," replied my husband. "Can you pass me the controls?"

"But it's a DISASTER!" I yelled irrationally. "He can't turn up on the first day of school TIELESS! He could get in trouble! He could be stigmatised! He could be blacklisted!!!!"

"Well he certainly won't be black-tied," answered my husband**.

I ran wildly around for the next 45 minutes, searching frantically for the tie - in cupboards, drawers, laundry baskkets - even the pantry. My husband helped (using 'helped' in the sense of 'happily watched TV').

"Gee, I hope you find it," he said cheerily to me. "The little guy could be expelled if he doesn't wear his tie on the first day***."

I slumped to the floor, in my son's room, right next to his new school shoes.

And there, tucked away in the left shoe, was his tie. Where I'd left it for safekeeping. As you do.

I went to bed, giddy with relief (using 'relief' in the sense of 'Riesling'). My son was sorted out.

But then it hit me.

What would I wear the next day? It was my only chance to make a good first impression on the parents of my son's new classmates - not to mention his teachers. How on earth would I dress? Should I go casual, or make a bit of an effort? Should I show cleavage, or hide it all away****? Most importantly, would I let the headmaster glimpse my tattoos???

In the end, after hours of obsessive deliberation (including a session browsing my wardrobe at 4am while my son slept soundly and my husband no doubt rolled his eyes in his dreams), I settled on a plain black sundress. This was a sensible choice, a) because it disguised the tattoo on my shoulder, but not the one on my ankle, thus allowing me to be myself but not TOO much myself; b) it was a cool dress and it was a warm day; and c) it was my only clean option.

So I wore it as I dropped my son off, me shaking with nerves, him perfectly calm, and ready for the day.

And though I couldn't hold his hand, and make sure everything was alright, at least I could give him a perfectly tied tie, and a mother in the best possible dress.

*Which I was.
**Actually he didn't, but it would have been funny if he did.
***YES he actually said that. My husband has tremendous fun with my neuroses.
****Okay, so that was rhetorical. I don't really have any cleavage.

Tomorrow I Am Taking A Lover

Tomorrow I am taking a lover.
Why? Because I CAN.
My youngest child is starting creche, my two big kids will be at camp before starting school the following week, and I will have time to myself for the first time in TWO YEARS. Time to do anything I like. Write. Read. Go for a walk. Get a hair cut. Or find a handsome man to come over and ravish me while my husband is at work.
If I like.
Of course, the day may not necessarily pan out like that. The way I see it, there are several possible scenarios:

1. I take my baby into creche. She sobs when I try to leave. I sob when I try to leave. The carers spend ten minutes prising us apart with heavy machinery developed especially for that purpose*, and I spend the rest of the day paralytic with grief, prostrate on my bed, until the moment it is time to pick her up again.
2. I take my baby into creche. She smiles and waves when I try to leave. I sob when I try to leave. I still spend the rest of the day paralytic with grief, only this time I feel a bit silly, as the carers assure me (every fifteen minutes when I ring) that my baby is perfectly cheery and having an absolutely delightful time.
3. I take my baby into creche. I decide it was all a horrible mistake and take her straight home again.
4. I take my baby into creche. I decide it was all a horrible mistake and try to take her home again, but she cries and says 'No mummy! Want kindy!' and I am forced to shamefacedly return her to the centre.
5. I take my baby into creche. We both sob a little and then we both recover and I go home to my 26 year old Italian lover Paolo**. Though I cannot actually go through with cheating on my husband, I do allow Paolo to fulfill his favourite sexual fantasy, which is to clean my house and prepare me food whilst dressed in nothing but a pair of black Bonds. After watching him vacuum and mop in his undies, I enjoy an excellent spaghetti puttanesca before picking up my calm, happy children.
6. I take my baby into creche. We both sob a little and then we both recover and I go home. I clean, do the washing, prepare some schnitzel for dinner, and wonder if I'll ever have time to get my hair cut.

Will keep you posted.
*"Maternal Bond Severance Equipment" or the like.
**Name changed to protect privacy***.
***Okay, name made up to give impression he actually exists.

Thank You, Minister, For The Thumbs....

Dear Minister For Education,

Though you are frequently and vehemently criticised (for a variety of important and valid reasons), today I wish to thank you.

Glancing through my son's Year 4 English homework last night, I noticed the sentences that he is required to study. I was astonished at how pertinent, vocational, and conceptually advanced they are, and I would like to congratulate the educator who produced them.

For example (and I take these directly from his workbook):

It is absurd to murder a turnip with a guillotine

I am thrilled to know that my son and his classmates are being taught such vital nuggets of wisdom. Many a night I have lain awake, frantic that my child would attempt to murder a vegetable with an inappropriate implement. What if he tried to kill a carrot with a hairbrush? Or a cucumber with a pair of tweezers? Or - god help us - a potato with an envelope and a ball point pen? Now I can sleep securely again. For my son has copied the sentence, three times. And now, he will never forget it.

The claimant made a complaint about the reminder of artificial politicians

This is an all too common scenario, one of which our children should be aware. Claimants make complaints. After all, claimants are litigious. This is why they are claiming. And we all know that politicians are horrible. Real politicians are bad enough, but artificial politicians? Intolerable. And to be reminded of them is just shocking. So why wouldn't the claimant complain?

There was a disturbing murmur from the teacher on our excursion and I fear she will not survive

Yes, that happens all the time to my son on school excursions. Many a teacher has murmured disturbingly. Generally they recover, but on the odd occasion they do perish. It is difficult enough for the children when this happens in a classroom, but at least then they can call for reinforcements. When it happens on an excursion, they get very anxious, wondering if they shall be left alone, wandering forever in the museum. No wonder they fear for her survival. I would too.

'Oh dear', said the butcher. 'I am sad to announce that I cut off my thumb while I was slicing the lamb.'

Yes, no doubt the butcher is sad. Losing a thumb is a sad experience, whether you are a butcher, a baker, or a candlestick maker. Other people might howl and scream, but being a butcher, this gentleman had no doubt cut off several of his digits previously, whilst slicing lambs, cows, deer, and even the odd chook. So by the time he cut off his thumb, he was saddened, but not alarmed. 'Oh dear', indeed. A most dignified and approrpriate announcement.

It is unlawful to wear a faun miniskirt on the bus.

Well, of course it is. And now the children know it. Very well put.

So thank you, Minister. Our children are in excellent hands. Even if some of them, sadly, do not have thumbs.

Sincerely,

Kerri