Who would have guessed?

It was the last day of our 3-week campervan adventure. I turn to my husband and remark: ‘We haven’t had a single bout of vomiting!’

He grinned back at me, likely recalling every other family holiday we’d had since being parents.

I quickly tried to negate the salient ‘jinx effect’ of the comment with: ‘I’m probably speaking too soon, but…..’

And yet, the holiday ended neatly at a resort, illness free. I was smugly content, feeling joyous in the knowledge that my food handling skills are apparently acceptable after all. But despite the luxurious surroundings, a longing for home shores (and 43 degree heat….) led us to bring our flights forward a few days.

It wasn’t until 2am this morning – 6 hours in – that I began to rue the words: ‘The red-eye will be great, we’ll all just sleep…’

But sleep we did, from two until a quarter to four, when my son wakes me with: ‘I don’t feel well!’

In the dark, I couldn’t find the vomit bags, so I was pressing buttons, and shoving random pieces of plastic at the semi-asleep child telling him to: ‘Be sick in that…no! Run to the bathroom…no! Here’s a sick bag…..’

Was that an expletive I heard from the row behind me?

Assisted by he initially grumpy, but then rather fleet-footed flight attendant, I had it in hand. But as my attention was diverted, my child closed the open sick bag and vomited on it like a plate…..what?????

‘Quick, here’s another one…no, you vomit IN the bag…..!’

With the splatter pattern fresh in my mind, and no doubt on my clothes, I smoothed the hair of my precious first born as he slept, oblivious, on my lap. I then counted down the many minutes until I could have a shower.

Road Trip Movies Are Funny!

I’m currently sitting in a campervan on the side of the Brand Highway, WA, 30k out of a town called Dongara. Where? Don’t bother asking….. all you need to know is they have 32 degree heat and an abundance of flies.

I am grinning, because we’re having one of those incredibly shoddy road trip moments, and I feel I have the right to be amused, since (thankfully) I’m not to blame.

So far, the ‘National Lampoon's Vacation’ jokes (prompted by kids’ squabbles and various minor malfunctions) have been giggle-worthy, but our current situation might just bump us into the ‘all time road trip idiot’ category.

Let me set the scene:

55km ago, a Maui van drives through the one horse town of Leeman.

Husband looks at the less than impressive petrol station (which also doubles as the general store, DVD store, bait shop, newsagents – you get the picture) and says: ‘I think I’ll wait ‘til the next town to fuel up.’

Wife: ‘Really? Should we just get a little?’

Husband: ‘Nah, we’ll be fine.’

Factoring in reader intelligence, I don’t need to tell the rest of the story. I do, however, feel the need to say that I did not say ‘I told you so’.

[I did, however, hum the ‘Holiday Road…..’ tune as the Maui limped and coughed off the highway – where I now sit (on an angle) typing….)

They make me LOL....

My youngest boy was presented with a picture of a jar of jam today and asked to identify it.

It featured a strawberry on the label, so he stated:

‘Strawberry.’ (Good guess, son!)

‘No, it has strawberries in it, though.’

‘Umm……’

‘You spread it on bread….’

‘Goat’s cheese!!!’

[Do you think my kids will need counseling for all the times I’ve laughed out loud at them inappropriately?]

Perhaps removing table sugar from our family’s diet has not been in the fullest interest of our children’s social competence.

Why do I share these things?

I check my blog traffic stats every so often (yes, my life is a fascinating specimen), and noticed - occasionally - that someone was reading my blog at the exact time that I was checking to see if anyone was reading it!

What a coincidence! (Cue: Twilght Zone music)

Just now, I was having a little look, and was amazed to see that even though not a single person had read it today, that right ‘now’ (as it is labeled on the high-tech graph), someone was online looking……

It was then that I realised.

[Seriously, what an idiot….]

When enough is enough.

Writers sit alone at their computer desks, pouring their little hearts out – sometimes tearing their hair out – earnestly seeking the approval of their readers. Heck, the honest truth is that most of us are happy just to have readers.

I, for example, upload a blog and then check it 25 times in the first sixty seconds to see if anyone has commented.

Sad, yes, but true none-the-less.

I really do live to please you!

I beam at the slightest praise and gnaw at my nails when there is silence (insert sound of crickets chirping here…). I live in fear that someone will tell me I’m no good. Thankfully the response boxes at the bottom don’t have a ‘sucks’ or ‘crap’ option.

As an adult, it’s an interesting position to find yourself in. I don’t see other professionals seeking, quite so fervently, the approval of the masses.

Doctor : Did you like how I lanced your wart? Did you see how I angled that scalpel just right? On a scale of one to ten…

Patient: (Surgery door slamming)

No doubt, it’s human nature to seek the approval of others, which would explain why those MC Hammer pants took off in the 90s..... There appears to be an underlying fear that what we are is inadequate; surely if others say we’re okay then we must be fine? Right?

Imagine what it’s like knowing that who you are is not only enough, but abundantly enough….

[PS Just incase any of you are feeling sorry for me, I actually know I'm pretty awesome! Such an enigma, aren't I?]

Push it; push it good!

I haven’t quite worked out the psychology surrounding people and the ‘walk’ button at traffic lights.

I’d like to think of myself as a bit of a ‘footpath expert’, having travelled many streets as I run around and around my local suburbs on a daily basis (and that disturbing behaviour will need to be dealt with at a later point!). So I think I know what I’m talking about when I say that intelligent pedestrians revert to toddlers when they see the walk button.

They push it.

Fair enough, that’s the plan, I’m pretty sure.

But then they push it again. Repeatedly.

They all know it doesn’t make the lights change any faster, but they press it numerous times – sometimes desisting and then returning again for another few pushes!

I always have a smile to myself when the second person inevitably arrives - having seen the first person engage in the act of button pressing - and they lean in, across them, to press it again. Do they think the first person may have made a mistake? How many people walking the streets are incapable of executing an accurate button press?

I am also guilty of the behaviour. I hang my head in shame. But, if I can redeem myself, I am smart enough to be sneaky! After all, I don’t want other pedestrians to know that I am also a ‘multi-presser’. So, I like to hold my hand casually on the button and do a whole heap of secret presses… clever….

The most disturbing part is, whilst I’m doing it, I know it’s futile. It doesn’t work. Never before in the history of traffic lights has it actually brought the light change even a nano-second earlier.

So what’s going on here? What’s with all the button pressing? I’d like to sum up with a pithy sentence highlighting a truth about the impatience of humanity, but I actually think we’re all just a little bit deranged…..

Tough Kids and Expendable Body Parts

I was nervous as my son approached the diving block, about to race his third event for the day. Why do I get like that? Anyone would think it was me having to perform!

They all mount, ready to dive. My boy hesitates, walks back to the official, who looks momentarily confused, and hands them something. What is he doing?

My husband leans in: ‘Did he just lose a tooth?’

Surely not.

He scrambled into place, casually dived in on the starters gun, and swam his 50 metres in his usual methodical style.

I excitedly congratulated him when he got out of the pool: ‘What did you hand to the lady?’

‘My molar dropped out.’ He shrugged. ‘It was pretty uncomfortable, and I had heaps of blood in my mouth’.

Okay…..

(Maybe he has a future as a boxer?)

I can honestly say that I’ve never had to collect a molar (now in a plastic drink bottle) from a timing official before. I was unsure about the protocol – do I thank her for her willingness to handle my offspring’s saliva?

There are moments as a parent that make you marvel at the strength and unblemished simplicity of a child’s heart. Their courage can be humbling; their matter-of-fact approach to dealing with a potential meltdown-inducing situation can be inspiring.

Man, I love that kid.

And he loved that he came home with a swag of ribbons. He had a huge grin: ‘I wish we could have this day every day.’

Pavement, and other abrasives

I have the hugest, most painful knee scab in the history of the world– a classy accessory for the modern woman, don’t you think? – and it’s affecting pretty much every aspect of my life.

I kid you not.

Not only have I abandoned wearing skinny jeans and all activities involving knee bending (like…say, walking), I’ve also taken to wearing skin coloured bandaids as a ‘disguise’. This, of course, is to save myself from answering the embarrassing question: “Ouch! Where’d ya get that????”

Thank you, friends…..

I’d like to say I got it by diving in front of a vehicle to save a small child from imminent danger or that I was pushed over by a scary, tattooed guy……sadly, I think we might both know I was lying.

So – to ‘fess up – I bit the bitumen, big time! I was with one of my running buddies, whom I was looking sideways at, when…bam! One minute I was loping along, the next, I was a bundle of 2B lines in a Disney sketch!

All I remember is skidding along the ground with my left arm out in front (way cooler if you’re scoring a try), and the rest of my body following in hot pursuit (think ‘cheese grater’).

To my credit (there must be an up-side), I jumped up and regained my composure; as my friend picked the grass and sticks from my hair…shoulder…back.…

Needless to say, I’m still cringing. And I suspect my silent running partner is saving this story for a well positioned moment of ‘sharing’……

And I’m contemplating taking up lawn bowls. Still too dangerous for me? How about chess?

‘Meg-alopolis’ the Turbo Cat

We bought a kitten several months ago. She’s grey, cute, and playful – all the things you’d expect an eight-week-old cat to be – and I chose her because she was so pretty…

And isn’t that a smart way to choose an animal!

The thing is, you can’t really tell what they’re really like until you get them home (dare I insert an inappropriate comment here about husbands?). And my concern was aroused two hours into our ownership, when she launched off the 16^th internal stair and concussed herself. Alarms bells chimed ‘smart kitty’….

But really, how was I to know she had a fetish for upending and sleeping in waste paper bins? Or that she enjoys sitting on the back of the toilet seat with you?….and then there’s the walking across the computer keyboard, biting your chin, attacking your feet, and the rear-end (tail always up) in your face while you’re snacking on the lounge…..

But perhaps her most frustrating quality (if one can ascribe ‘qualities’ to a cat?) is her paper thievery. Any documents left on benches and desks are fair game – many of them never to be recovered, and most unreadable if they are; chewed and loaded with cat saliva. Nice.

Unfortunately, because I was the official ‘Chooser of the Animal’, I am to blame whenever Meg turns into ‘Mega Cat’; which is often. As if I don’t have enough personality issues of my own to make amends for!

Ironically, our last cat was grey and cute, too (also chosen by yours truly) and he was a complete butt-head as well. Even my entirely non-mathematical brain can detect an emerging pattern…..

So, the obvious solution to my faulty ‘potential-pet-criteria-list’ is to consider character above outward appearance (or plead with the pet store to institute an annoying-pet-refund program). A time tested principle, pertinent to all facets of life….

Meh….

…. at the end of the day, bright and shiny is in fact, bright and shiny….

Reepicheep – you diabolical mouse!

You would be forgiven for thinking that I’m a fan of Book Week. With my personal ideology resolutely advocating the abundant virtues of written language, it would seem a likely assumption.

Actually….

I kinda think Book Week stinks!

I awoke in a cold sweat (narrowly shy of screaming) at 2am last night, sure that I had sewn the ears of the mouse costume on backwards and I had to start again!

This subconscious terror was, no doubt, born from pressure applied by 'perfectionist child no.#2' (father’s son….) who had commissioned the impossible: ‘How am I going to look authentic, Mum, if I’m not entirely covered in fur?????’

Like, dur…..

You would assume (being the ideal mother) I said: ‘Yes, my darling, of course, of course!’ And not: ‘Good, well why don’t you go to sleep tonight and grow some!’ (Hmmmmm…..)

Perhaps the ‘adventuring-fencing-mouse’ costume wouldn’t have been so daunting if it hadn’t come straight off the bat of the ‘forest-dwelling-caped-ranger-complete-with-shadow-hood’ ensemble developed the evening before. Which was preceded by the ‘What-the?-this-doesn’t-look-like-Luke-SkyWalker!!!’ outfit, accompanied by a tearful and rather impressive tantrum….. ‘Mum, I don’t want to wear that, I want you to make me an R2D2 costume!!!!!’

[Dentist: ‘Trina, have you been grinding your teeth?’]

Arguably, it’s my own fault for choosing to have three children, or because I agree to engage in the costume manufacturing process. But seriously, educators…..please…..

Time to regrind

Now that was a stinking bucket of sun-heated prawns if ever I’ve smelt one; or read one, as the case may be.

Poorly written garbage! Stilted, boring, lack-lustre language posing as ‘literature’. Simply cringe-worthy!

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. It seems less common than ever to pick up something and call it a ‘good read’ these days (….okay, sounding a lot like my Grandma here…..).

The problem with this morning’s excruciating prose is that it happens to be the last chapter of my own novel. *Groan*. No wonder I’d left that particular file closed (locked-bolted-buried) for the last few months. When did I become so bad at…well….the very thing I’m supposed to be my best at?

Sheesh; this doesn’t bode well! And now I’ve left my run too late to pursue my secretly desired career as a Teen Idol….

So what now? Have I lost my witty edge? Has my irreverence for the traditional use of syntax finally caught up with me? Or – heaven forbid – have I discovered that I actually don’t have anything to say after all?

The small voice in the back of my head is saying ‘Stay the course, Denner. You’re tougher than that’.

Dang voices in my head; I hate it when they’re right…..