A boy named Blue (or RPatz)

Red-haired men. They come up in conversation much more than they used to, thanks to the teen (and grown-up) phenomenon that is RPatz. I don't get the Edward love. I guess that puts me on Team Whatever-The-Werewolf's-Name-Is. I suspect it's a redhead/redhead thing. Put two together and people automatically think you're related, so I tended to steer clear. Only ever considered it this one time...but that ended up in a suitcase.

I had a conversation - via tweet - about my position on red-haired men. It's way too complicated to reduce to 140 characters, so I've decided instead to reproduce an article I wrote on the subject. It first appeared in The Sydney Morning Herald's Spectrum section a few years ago, long before RPatz was a twinkle in a film-maker's eyes. Since then, and thanks to the Undead One, women's attitudes to redheads has changed a bit. Then, Marian Keyes's evil Lorcan Larkin was a man women fell for despite the fact that he was a redhead (The Last Chance Saloon). Now half the planet's falling over itself for a pale, chiselled, ginger-haired Vampire. Progress.

"Extinct within 100 years. High sensitivity to heat- and cold-related pain. Down to two per cent of the population.

With stats like that, if redheads were an animal species, there’d be a conservation group set up, a fund-raising day set aside in which everyone had to wear red wigs, and some kind of cute mascot (possibly a Weasley?) designed to pull in the crowds. As it is, Simon Cheetham, founder of www.redandproud.com, recently told The Guardian newspaper that discrimination against redheads in the UK is getting worse.

“In this politically correct world you can’t say anything about people’s religion or sexuality, but it’s still okay here in Britain to portray redheads in a negative manner,” he said.

And that’s in a part of the world where they’ve got the numbers. After all, some 13 per cent of the world’s redheads live in Scotland, and 40 per cent of the population carries the gene.

I’d like to say I’ve never noticed this discrimination, but the fact is that I’ve even participated in it.

First, the disclaimer, I am a redhead, with a red-haired sister, a red-haired cousin, a red-haired nephew, a red-haired niece, a red-haired uncle – in fact, a whole family tree of Gingas, Carrot Tops, Jaffas and Bloodnuts. All of which affected me only in small ways: an embarrassing lack of suntan in 1980s Australia, a tendency to blush easily, and a fondness for Anne of Green Gables quotes (“People who haven't red hair don't know what trouble is.")

I thought I was red and proud. And in 2004, when Amanda Third, a Monash researcher (with red hair), found that redhead women had begun to surpass blondes in the sexiness stakes, well, my crimson pride knew no bounds.

Then I got pregnant.

Suddenly, between researching names (Maximus? Hermes? Ridge (not really)) and buying tiny singlets, I found myself obsessively studying genetics. Why? The prospect of The Red-Haired Son.

My husband and I discussed the possibility of a Tinge of Ginge on our unborn child. He waxed lyrical about the idea of a red-haired girl. When I raised the spectre of a boy named Blue, his response was less enthusiastic: “I’m sure I’ll learn to love him anyway.”

Put red hair on a boy and, somehow, the perception is that he’ll be picked last for sports (probably because mum’s still slathering him in sunscreen), geeky (Richie Cunningham anyone?) and have no luck with the ladies (evidence: the declining redhead population). Of course, rugby international Nick Farr-Jones, director/writer/actor/rich guy Ron Howard and notorious airline passenger Ralph Fiennes might beg to differ.

My initial research into our chances of producing a Rusty was encouragingly negative. According to Jonathan Rees, professor of dermatology at Edinburgh University who, with his colleagues, discovered the gene (MC1R, responsible for melanin production) that creates redheads, if a person has one of several variations of the gene, and if the variation is inherited from both parents, then they are likely to be red haired. So two parents with mutant gene equals red hair.

With my husband’s Dutch ancestry spectacularly redhead-free, things were looking good. I should have stopped there.

Professor Rees goes on to say that if you inherit the variation from just one parent, you have an increased chance of being red haired.

One parent with mutant gene equals very good chance of red hair.

Back to square one.

Taking a leaf from Sherlock Holmes’s Red Headed League (“for the propagation and spread of red-heads as well as for their maintenance”), I became a one-woman Red Haired Male Appreciation Society, tracking down the successful, the smart and the sexy of the red-haired fraternity. From Donald Trump and Kerry Packer, to Mark Twain, William Shakespeare and Jean-Paul Sartre, to David Wenham, that guy from Band of Brothers… even Prince Harry turned out better than we could have ever hoped. Archie Andrews was the red Romeo of Riverdale, Thomas Jefferson was President of the United States, Henry VIII was the original serial monogamiser.

True, redheads don’t often turn up as the heroes of romance novels – though I’m assured by my friends at the Romance Writers of Australia Association that there’s no rule about this – but I did discover a personals website (planetredhead.com) for redheads and those who love them.

If my boy turned out to be a rude red, I was ready. In fact, I was almost disappointed when he was not. Almost.

Second time around, I was more relaxed. So much so that when Mr3 showed signs of, um, strawberry in his baby blonde locks, I was able to be philosophical. Red-haired men, I’ve decided, are like pink diamonds: increasingly rare and a fine investment."

Update: Sister B (Red, with Red son) has weighed into this debate over on her blog. Read it. She gets to the short and curlies of the subject.

I wish there were a better word for decluttering...

Was it only four months ago – not even four months ago – that I was revelling in the acres of space, the neat, tidy drawers and the endless possibilities conjured up by my new desk?

The same space now curtailed to a three-centimetre ‘free zone’ around my keyboard? The same drawers now devoid of pens, or even, worryingly, scalpels (note to self, would be good to know where the scalpels went)? The same desk now buried under a blanket of paper that’s as deep, soft and white as the driven snow?

The only thing in clear view is the Keep Calm and Carry On poster that hangs above my desk.

I have no-one to blame but myself. That’s the worst part. The pile of detritus cannot even be written off as children’s artworks to be recycled filed at the earliest convenience. No, this is notebooks full of, well, notes. Old To-Do Lists (depressingly undone), articles that I’ve printed to ‘read later’ (depressingly unread), the endless ‘guff’ that goes with the grant application process (there is no other word than ‘guff’, trust me – I tried), bills (depressingly unpaid), a birthday present (depressingly unsent) – you get the picture. Even if I had the cool Lizzie Allen wallpaper pictured above, you would not be able to see it.

The irony is that I marched into Mr6’s room today and demanded he clear his desk. “How can you possibly do anything when you have bits of Lego strewn from one end to the other?” I asked, in my most serious, this-is-a-life-lesson Mum voice. (Even as I said it, the full scale of my less-than-stellar example flashed across my mind.)

“But Mum,” he answered, quite reasonably. “Lego is what I do here.”

Oh yes.

The same cannot be said for me. Paper is not, technically, what I do here. I’m in a mess, and it’s cramping my style.

Which is why I plan to spend one precious child-free hour tomorrow, a Pre-School Day, cleaning up my office. It’s not strictly productive, and I aim to make my precious child-free hours productive (which is probably my first problem, but there’s a whole different story there), but I think it will end up being the best hour I spend all day. If only to give my thoughts and ideas some room to grow.

I just wish there were a better word than 'decluttering'. It sounds clunky and ugly, even if the results are smooth and beautiful. I might try 'unearthing' instead. That would fit.

{image: lizzieallen.co.uk}

What did you talk about this week?

It’s that time of the week when I share some of the wide variety of topics of conversation that came up through work or play in the course of life in a pink fibro. It's come around quickly this week, and I approach my task with trepidation. You'll soon see why...

Tax, property investment, super-profits, red wine, tax, registration, Alla Hoo Hoo (they're going to lots of parties together - she wears a brown dress and 'big' shoes), wallflowers, coughs, The Wire, pay TV, capital gains tax, negative gearing, grant applications, future jobs, Toy Story 3, tummy bugs, the ATO, unpublished manuscripts, romance writing, waiting, Little Ninjas, temperatures, moving beds, Hunter wellie boots, high schools, Land Tax, superannuation, doctors, mining companies, sharemarket dip, birthday parties, reading at the first grade mass, blogging, revisions, and the weather - but not as much, or as well, as my Dad. But it was better than tax.

{image: A Cup Of Jo}

Don't bother me, I'm practising

It dawned on me today that I’ve lost my edge. Not a huge rockfall or anything, more a barely perceptible crumbling around the cliff-face.

I was driving Mr6 to school this morning and I realised that I’m hesitating too long. Waiting for an unfeasibly large gap. Taking a deep breath as I cross intersections. Flinching when a car approaches too fast from the right.

After my little accident a few weeks ago, I got straight back on the horse. So to speak. In the hire car as soon as I could turn my neck enough to see. It hurt, but what else could I do?

I’ve never loved driving. I didn’t get my licence until I was 25 (late for Australia, where distances can be huge and a car represents freedom). I was a year younger than everyone in my year at school and they never seemed to mind driving me around. I particularly adored my friend W’s Fiat Bambino, bright red, with a striped sunroof. Like a Noddy car. We’d often leave the pub (orange juice, mum) and find it ‘parked’ on the footpath, courtesy of the local Hilarious People.

But I never wanted one.

When I moved to the Big Smoke, hotfooting it out of Fibrotown as soon as I was able, I relocated in the inner city and took to walking, buses and loafing about with gusto. It wasn’t until I went overseas for a few years and came back to Australia that I got up enough chutzpah to brave the city traffic. Ten lessons. Job done.

Then I didn’t drive. For years and years and years. I lived close to everything. I didn’t need to. Truth be told, I didn’t want to. And as the years went past, my dislike turned phobic.

I’d look with utter envy at people who just hopped in a car and drove off. I wanted to be one. When I got pregnant with Mr6, I realised I had to become one. By now I was living in the World’s Most Unwieldy Suburb. Close to town, but somehow so huge that it took ages just to walk across it. I needed to drive. I needed to be able to get my baby around. I needed to be able to visit my friends without the need for three buses and a packed lunch.

So, thanks to the unbelievable patience of my beautiful friend A-around-the-corner, who sat through untold hours of bunny hops and minor scares (“We take off at intersections with alacrity Allison, we do not dribble into them”), and a few lessons from Danny the driving instructor who specialised in Nervous Nellies (“You’re one of them, act like it”), I got to the point where I could get in the car and drive without shaking. Where the idea of driving home didn’t ruin every good night out I should have had.

My sister C laughed about how I was still ‘practising’ driving 10 years after I got my licence. “Don’t you just get to the point where it’s not practice anymore, it’s just driving?” she wondered aloud.

And one day I did. I even started to, on occasion, enjoy it.

I’m not back in my box, by any means. But I’m more cautious. To the point where I’m fitting right in around Fibrotown where the average driving age is 60+ and the average speed is about 40km/hour.

I’m sure it will come back. That edge, I mean. But for now, I feel like I’m back to practising. Just a bit.

The romance of writing (or why I didn't write Twilight)

Don’t you love it when something arrives in the post that makes you smile? Not only smile, but motivates and inspires you to action? No, I’m not talking about the Aldi catalogue (colour TV and a garden fork, anyone?), rather my copy of the RWA newsletter.

For the uninitiated, RWA stands for Romance Writers of Australia. I’ve been a member since before Mr6 was born. I joined up when I thought that writing romance novels would be a fun way to work from home. To supplement my freelance income. In short, when I was deluded. (And it was before I was pregnant, so I can’t even blame the hormones responsible for scrapbooking.)

I went along to my first RWA conference, at Sydney’s Kings Cross, with no real idea what to expect. I found a bunch of warm, welcoming, encouraging women (and two men) – one of whom was wearing a ‘Just Finish The Damn Book’ t-shirt. It’s a slogan I’ve tried to live by ever since.

I confess I was somewhat overwhelmed by it all. Everybody was so friendly, so approachable, so not up themselves. The published authors – many of whom have incredibly successful careers – were happy to mingle with the plebs (which is the word I prefer to the currently fashionable ‘pre-published’, which is, frankly, awful), and it was all very jolly. Enid Blyton jolly.

I left with a few new friends and the impetus to write my first romance novel. Which sucked. My heroine, named Celeste, wore a Winter White suit. Enough said.

Between babies, and halfway through a second book, I managed to make it to my second conference. It was here that I met my beloved friend A. She was, in fact, witness to my uttering, sotto voce, the immortal line: “Don’t you think sex with the undead might be a little, er, icky?”

In my defence, a woman who looked like the worst cliché of a librarian had stood to put several pressing questions about Vampire sex to the presenter. In public. Out loud. She may well have been Stephanie Meyer. All I know is that I have no prescience when it comes to publishing trends. And I still think that if people thought about the actual reality of horizontal folkdancing with someone who’s been dead a century or two, they might rethink the whole Twilight phenomenon.

But I digress.

There’s a real art to romance writing. It’s all about character. It’s all about the relationship. It's all about emotion. The middle of the book can be a very long place when that’s your focus (think about the couch and dvd phase of most relationships and that’s about where you’re at in the very long middle section).

My second novel was rejected as being too complicated. I’m not sure if it was the late-night DJ sub-plot, the elusive ingredient sub-plot, the wicked uncle sub-plot or the random trip to Paris, but I came undone. I went on to something different after I won a competition to secure a mentor who kept repeating (ad nauseum now that I think about it) that she felt that I might need to try something different. It seems I was trying to stuff too much into 60,000 words. It’s amazing how few 60,000 words can be.

I’m still a paid-up member of RWA though. I don’t think there’s a more inclusive, more accessible writers’ association around. I’ve met some amazing people through the group and am looking forward to sharing cocktails with them all at my third conference in August.

All I need to do now is to track down a ‘just finish the damn book’ t-shirt. Either that, or just finish a damn book.

{image: Fan Pop}

Me + Florence Nightingale = Different

When The Builder was sick yesterday, I remembered this post. When I got sick last night, I realised I'd have to use it. It first appeared on Kidspot.com.au earlier this year. Apologies if you've read it before. Normal transmission should return tomorrow.

Florence Nightingale and I have a lot in common. We’re both women, we were both born in May, and, er, no, actually that’s about it.

Apparently, Ms Nightingale felt called upon by God to become a nurse. The woman is a saint. I am not.

Until I had children, I’d done no nursing. If I felt ill, I took a tablet and soldiered off to work. My husband was expected to do the same. Now that I have kids, the only discussions that take place between me and God on the subject of nursing go something like this:

Me: Dear God. Please make them better. That coughing is driving me INsane.

God:

Me: Hello? Anyone there?

God:

Clearly, the Lord has better things to do than deal with the ravings of a sleep-deprived, self-centred maniac.

Of course, it’s not just the bodily fluids and incessant noise factor that sends me over the edge. It’s not even the piles of tissues, raging fevers and sooky little scraps of misery that insist on sitting on me all day.

It’s the worry.

I’m sure even qualified nurses come undone in the face of their own baby’s first battle with the vomiting bug. Or the quavery little voice in the night that calls out ‘Mummy, I don’t feel well’. Surely even hard-bitten professionals lie awake, listening hard, wondering, ‘Was that a cough or a death rattle?’

When you sign on for this parenting caper, there’s a lot of information available. By the third month of my first pregnancy, I could have told you all about what I could eat, what I couldn’t, how breast was best and which hospital had the highest C-section rate. It wasn’t until after the birth, however, that the secret truth of parenting became apparent.

We were in the carpark, trying to work out how to get the capsule into the car when it dawned on us: we were responsible for this tiny life. The real parents, who knew what they were doing, weren’t going to swing by later to pick him up. The weight of parenthood settled quietly on our shoulders.

For the most part, I don’t notice the extra burden. It’s like gaining weight anywhere – your body shifts imperceptibly to take the strain. But when the kids are sick, it moves front and centre, like a hard rock in my gut.

Oh, I make all the right moves. I keep the fluids up, try to keep the temperature down, wipe runny noses, play endless DVDs to keep them ‘resting’ on the couch, whip up nutritious smoothies, get them to the doctor when necessary and, generally, channel Florence.

But like any hard rock in the gut, it makes me irritable. I just want them better so that I can throw them out into the backyard with a ball or a light-sabre and have a moment’s peace. I’m sure Florence never felt like that.

Then again, Florence never had to worry about what would happen if she herself got sick with the latest permutation of kid virus to come through the door. If the reality of Sick Kids is a bad dream, the prospect of Sick Mummy is a nightmare.

Welcome to my nightmare...