Do you remember your first time?

Don't you love a first time? Okay, some are better than others (first heartbreak anyone? first labour pains anyone? first root canal anyone?), but today I got to enjoy a good one. My first ever Hot Stone massage. Ah.

I remember my first-ever massage very well. I was about 19 and in my first minutes as a cadet journalist. We'd received an invitation at Prevention magazine to take part in a yoga weekend at a nearby retreat. It's important to remember that yoga in 1988 was not Yoga in 2010. It was out of fashion and thought of as the last bastion of people who wore hemp sandals (which were also unfashionable). So I was volunteered to attend the workshop, which would be held by a lady of indeterminate age who claimed to sleep 45 minutes a night. To say that I was not excited would be an understatement.

The massage took place on the first day. I had no idea what to expect. I had no idea how naked I'd have to get. I asked a friendly lady by the pool whether it felt good and she looked at me as if I were nuts. "Afterwards it does," she said. All I could think was that it must be similar to banging one's head against a wall - bliss when it's over.

When I entered the massage room, I was surprised to find a male massage therapist. I wasn't sure how I felt about that. Now I know that you're generally told beforehand and given a choice. But I was only 19.

He told me to take off as many clothes as I felt comfortable with and, once done, to get under the towel. I was in an agony of indecision - bra on or off? Underpants on or off? I didn't want to look uncool in this hippie haven. I stripped off and hopped up on the bench.

The massage got underway. He was a chatter, which surprised me. I thought massage therapists were the strong, silent type. I could hardly hear the whale music for his small talk. He massaged away for a while and then flipped me over. The following conversation then occurred:

"Shall I massage your breasts?"

"Er."

"Most ladies don't mind. One does hold a lot of tension in the chest."

"Er." I could feel the tension rising in my chest at the thought.

"I could just start and you can stop me if you feel uncomfortable."

"Er." His hands moved in. I held up one of mine, holding him off. "That's fine," I said, "I feel quite relaxed there already." My blush covered my entire body. I was uncool. I didn't care.

Massage completed in silence.

"How was it?" the lady by the pool asked me as I left.

"Yeah, good now that it's over," I mumbled.

Today's massage was nothing like that. In a beautiful day spa with black-and-white striped walls and a gentle sea breeze wafting gossamer white curtains from the door. Clear instructions about what to remove and when. The delicious sensation of hot stones in warm oil sliding across the skin. No suggestion that tension was held anywhere other than the regular neck/shoulders/ears.

I didn't want it to end.

{image: monkeyjewels/etsy}

Keeping up with the kids

Do you like my fancy new Facebook 'like' box (way down there on the right hand side if you missed it)? I'm sitting here, wrapped in my granny rug because winter has made an unseasonal and unwelcome return, chuffed because I've actually managed to whip up a bit of HTML widgetry on my own. I'm not actually sure it works as yet - feel free to 'like' me with genuine enthusiasm and let me know.

Any wizardry you see here on the Fibro is thanks to Maxabella, who spent a few minutes this morning, in the aftermath of the Mermaid & Pirate party, to show me how to deal with blog buttons. I was so empowered by her lesson (and her throwaway comment that, really, this was 101 stuff) that I branched out on my own. Ta da!

I haven't always been such a Luddite. Once upon a time, I was the online editor for the CLEO website, gaily resizing pics, entering code and gasping at the questions sent through to the Sex Q&A. I'm not a natural gasper. Too many years in women's mags. The nature of those questions and the age of many of the questioners was enough to make anyone gasp. But I digress. We were talking HTML, not anonymous queries about - yes, well, that's enough.

My foray into blogging has shown me how quickly it is to get out of touch. A couple of years in the wilderness of WAHM-ville, where even using Microsoft Word's Track Changes is a hassle, and it's a learning curve to get back in. Now that Mr6 is taking baby steps onto the internet, I can see how important it is to keep up. Every piece of advice I've ever read about kids and cyberspace has one major message for parents: Keep Up. Know what's happening. Don't throw your hands up in the air and say 'too hard'.

I don't know whether importing code for a 'like' box classifies as keeping up, but, hey, you've got to start somewhere, right?

{image: etsy/barkingbirdart}

Keeping the band together

After two weeks' holidays, Mr6 and I are back at guitar lessons. We have scaled the lofty heights of Book 2 of our course, as far as 'I'm a Little Teapot' and 'Michael Finnigan' (begin again). We are also working on the theme from Inspector Gadget (you're welcome for the ear worm).

Despite my best efforts, Mr6 would not practise over the holidays. He noodled about with a few chords, making up a song or two, but he would not play notes, and definitely not in any recognisable order. I, on the other hand, put in two or three good sessions with Michael, The Teapot and the good Inspector.

I discussed tactics with my Mum. I remember being a kid and being, um, encouraged to practise the piano or organ or recorder or whatever the instrument du jour was. It didn't work. But setting an example wasn't working either. She pointed out that he's only six and it's more important that he be introduced to the instrument than that he be committed to it. Dating rather than marriage, so to speak. So I didn't nag. Besides, on other occasions when he's refused to practise, he's rolled up to our lesson and, in the face of my dire predictions, pulled out a reasonably good effort.

Not this time. For starters, he insisted on wearing full piratical garb and attempted to play in his eye patch. That lasted all of three minutes. He couldn't remember what the notes were, let alone where they were. (Being unable to see them with one eye, didn't help.) I didn't say anything. Just played through my pieces and then sat there quietly while he struggled through his. The Inspector Gadget theme, in particular, seemed to take days.

When he'd finally played the last note, our teacher, the lovely B, laughed at him (as only a gorgeous 17 year old could get away with) and said, "See what happens when you don't practice? It's just hard work."

After we'd zipped our guitars back into their cases (we're very rock star) and were walking back to the car, he turned to me. "I think we'd better schedule in some practice this week," he said.

I was relieved. It could have gone the other way, with a refusal to ever return. I'm not ready to go solo just yet.

Do your kids play instruments? How do you deal with the practice problem?


It's Flog Yo Blog Friday! Visit Lori at RRSAHM for your weekend reading list of fab blogs.

It's a pirate's life for me (apparently)

Last time I visited my sister Maxabella, we found ourselves at a loose end and, consequently, delved deep into the contents of her TiVo. Somewhere near the bottom was an episode of Wife Swap USA, in which a professional organiser type with professionally organised husband and professionally organised children (seriously, I think they all went to sleep in individual, clearly labeled tubs each night) swapped with a woman whose family had chosen to live Piratically. In essence, like pirates. (cue: Arrrrrr!)

I was reminded of that one particular hour of my life (which I will never get back) today as both my boys ran around the house wearing piratical garb and speaking piratically. There was even some cutlass waving, which was quickly cut short when Mr3 attempted to trim Mr6's nose hairs with said weapon. Again, the inspiration for this afternoon of mayhem was Maxabella. On Saturday, we will attend the Mermaid/Pirates party of my niece Cappers. Mr3 is beyond excited. He has been talking about his outfit for weeks.

It was agreed that pirates need three things: an eye patch, a hat (artistically tied bandanna also suitable), a sword. I tried to fob him off with a Captain Feathersword feathersword, but he scoffed (piratically) at the idea. Only babies have featherswords, apparently.

After an excursion to Spotlight today, he is the proud possessor of a skull-and-crossbones headscarf arrangement, an eye patch the size of his head and a cutlass that will need to be kept in a high cupboard as soon as the piratical party is over. Possibly before. He has chosen the four piratical tattoos that will adorn his body. He prefaces every sentence with 'Arrrrrr Me Hearties'. And he takes to the high seas in the washing basket at the slightest provocation.

I have begun calling him The Dread Pirate Mr3, which he loves, despite not having the faintest idea what I'm talking about. I'm wondering if we have time for a viewing of The Princess Bride, one of my all-time favourite movies, before we set sail for the party. But perhaps not. I'm not sure I could cope with listening to Mr6 parrot 'Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die' for the next week.*

Speaking of which, Mr6 has one special request for his pirate costume. A parrot for his shoulder. Spotlight was all out of those. 

It's times like this I wish I'd been blessed with the craft gene. Arrrrr.

*If this paragraph makes no sense whatsoever, I thoroughly recommend a viewing of the movie. 

{image: carolyndraws/etsy}

The Letter of The Day: Still L

Mr3 has always been fond of the letter L. He doesn't know much about it, beyond the fact that it is the first letter in his name and the first letter of the word 'lawnmower'. Two of his favourite things covered off by one handy letter. What's not to love?

He is an enthusiastic participant in Fam Fibro's regular games of 'I Spy', despite displaying singular disinterest in the other 25 letters of the alphabet. We tried again on Sunday. Mr6 went first, his 'P' standing not for 'post' but for 'pole'. Then it was Mr3's turn.

Mr3: "I spy with my little eye something beginning with.... L"

The rest of us: "Lawnmower!" (Note: this is always the right answer, whether there is a lawnmower within 500km or not.)

Mr3: "No!" The triumph was clear in his voice.

TROU: "Um. No? Are you sure?"

Mr3: "It's definitely not Lawnmower."

TROU: "Hmmm. Lights? Lawn? Ladder?"

Mr3 (huge grin): "No! No! No!"

The Builder: "Give us a clue."

Mr3: "It's yellow and it has spots."

TROU (looking at each other, bewildered): "Um."

TB: "I know! Leopard."

Mr6: "There are no leopards on this road. There are no leopards in Australia, except in zoos."

Mr3: "It's not leopard, anyway."

Silence.

TB: "What is it then? What, other than a leopard, starts with L, is yellow and has spots."

Mr3: "A fence! AH-HA-HA! I was just joking you."

Just when you think you've got them all figured out...

{image: funnyoldplanet.com}

Hitting the high notes: I like to sing

When it comes to relaxation, I'm not an A student. I've tried yoga - it made me angry. My friend L, long time yogi, informed me that this was good. That I was physically venting my spleen. Strange, I thought I was just cross because it hurt so damn much and my teacher was insistent that I hold my poses much longer than I thought was humanly possible. Like five seconds or something.

I've tried meditating. It made me realise that my mind is very, very noisy. Concentrating on the space between my eyebrows proved difficult. Mostly because there's not a lot of space there. Just noise. I did learn one thing, though - that I should never, ever sign up for one of those 10-day 'no speakies' meditating workshops. I could very easily drive myself crazy.

Usually, if I'm feeling a bit anxious or uptight or stressed, I walk. Miles, if necessary. Something about the rhythm of it allows me to work through my current crisis and I often find that I can dream up some ideas or an interesting plot point at the same time. This only works, however, if I'm on my own. Walking with Mr3, for example, is like meditating. Very noisy. Only the noise is coming from outside my mind, not inside.

Tonight, I went back to choir. I've had a couple of terms off, for various reasons, but today I was hit with a sudden desire to return. I'm so glad I did. I feel soothed. There is something about hitting a few high notes (and even a few off notes) that relaxes me in a way few things do. It is impossible to worry about anything when you're trying to learn a new song. You can't sing soprano without breathing deeply and often, and you don't have to think about it too much. And there is the pure joy of just letting it all out. Melodically speaking, of course.

I climbed into my car for the journey home and thought carefully about my soundtrack. I needed something I knew and could belt out, but not something too loud. I have been reading Together Alone, Jeff Apter's biography of Tim and Neil Finn. It's a story I've long been fascinated by - so much talent in one family, so many opportunities for sibling rivalry. I've always thought Neil Finn a genius, but have realised in reading the book that I have under-appreciated Tim's contribution to Australian music. All of which is a long-winded way of saying that I chose a best of Crowded House CD and drove home singing harmony with Neil.

In some ways, the car singing and shower singing I do are just as therapeutic as the choir, though without the camaraderie, or the sheer two-hour intensity that the choir offers. I do my best performances in the car or shower, though. No pressure. Never under-prepared. It doesn't matter if I forget the words (which, given my memory, is something I often do).

I have arrived back in Choir Land at just the right time of year, though. We will soon begin our Christmas Carol preparations and, unfashionable as it is, I just love singing Christmas Carols.

All in the name of relaxation, of course.

Are you a singer (be it car/shower/choir/karaoke/covers band)? What do you love to sing?


{image: etsy/annarubyking}