'But The Book says...'

Between us, my sisters and I have nine children. They are aged six, nearly six, nearly five, four, three, three, nearly two, one and one. They go boy, boy, boy, girl, boy, boy, girl, girl, and boy. When they get together, it’s like swimming in a washing machine – you go round and round in circles, are occasionally overwhelmed, and every once in a while it all bubbles over. Good, clean fun.

Now that we’ve moved to the Fibro and left them all behind in the Big Smoke (bereft, pining…not really, they seem to be thriving without us), the opportunities for washing machine moments are not as frequent. Particularly now that we have three at school. But Saturday was one such occasion.

As I watched them all rampaging around the house, it occurred to me that, between us, we have covered many of the issues that beset new (and not-so-new) parents. We’ve had The One Who Won’t Sleep (and still doesn’t), The Ones Who Wouldn’t Sleep (and now do), The One Who Has Nightmares, The One Who Won’t Eat, The One Who Broke Her Leg, The One Who Had Emergency Surgery, The One Who Gets Ear Infections, The One Who Is Allergic To Panadol...

Then there's, The One Who Didn’t Want To Toilet Train, The One Who Turns Up In His Mum’s Bed Every Night, The One Who Became Very Attached To Teddy, The One Who Wouldn’t Give Up Her Dummy, The One Who Got Early Teeth, The One Who Teethed Late, The One Who Wouldn’t Breastfeed, The One Who Wanted To Breastfeed Forever...

Along with, The One Who Had The Imaginary Friend/s (no prizes for guessing that one), The One Who Walked Early (then stopped), The One (actually there were many of these – must be genetic) Who Walked Late, The One Who Didn’t Talk Much, The One (again, there are many of these) Who Never, Ever Shuts Up… and so on and so forth.

When they were born, we (the sisters) all – because we are alike in many ways – read a lot of books. Whichever book we were reading at the time became The Book. As in ‘But The Book says’… We all had clear, expert advice on how our children should behave and when they should do things. We did our darnedest to make it happen, to nurture those textbook babies, and then threw up our hands when it didn’t.

Now that I know all these children, beautiful individuals that they are, I can’t imagine why we ever expected things to be different. They were never all going to behave the same way.

There’s no such thing as a textbook baby, and certainly no such thing as a textbook child. They’re all works in progress. Wild, creative, imaginative works in progress. And as I sat in the midst of the washing machine on Saturday, I realised how much I’m loving every new chapter.

And the song goes on and on and on and on

I’ve got a song stuck in my head. Going round and round and round. Last time this happened, it was the Star Wars theme (just mentioning it brings me out in a sweat). But this one is even worse.

To set the scene for you: last November, Fam. Fibro went on a South Pacific cruise with 36 of our closest friends. You read right. Forty of us. On a floating palace of pleasure in the south seas. Blue skies, blue seas, cocktails with pink umbrellas.

I’m not sure where you sit on the whole cruise debate. You’re either into them, or you’re not. I’m not. I wasn’t before I went and I’m definitely not now. Which is not to say that I didn’t have a good time. I did. We were with great friends, we sang karaoke, played bingo, ate too much, drank too much and told the same stories over and over. Good times.

I’d just never do it again.

Something about arriving at a deserted island with 2000 people with matching towels just didn’t work for me. Or perhaps it was just chasing Mr3 (then two and not – I repeat not – old enough to go to Kids Club on his own) around and around the unfenced pool. Or the fact that the boat got smaller and smaller and smaller as the days drifted by…

Tick that Cruise off life’s To Do list and move along.

(Are you now beginning to wonder what my song is? “Theme from the Love Boat’ perhaps? I wish.)

Every group of friends has a recorder (by that, I do not mean a woodwind instrument learned in second grade). The guy with the camera. Our guy, M, is fantastic. He not only captures every unforgettable (and some you’d rather forget) moment, but he takes them home, edits them and sends every family a DVD copy. I love it. They are funny, touching and will be an invaluable jog to my memory when I forget all about our cruise (next week, probably).

Unfortunately, M is a one-track soundtrack kind of guy. Every single DVD he’s ever made for us features, for example, Summer of 69. Every one. Despite the fact that the main players in our action flicks were either born in 1968 or somewhere south of 1999.

The cruise DVD arrived in the mail on Tuesday. Fam. Fibro watched it together, reliving every moment (and some we’d forgotten – see, it happens so soon), and survived the inevitable onslaught of begging from the boys to go on another ‘big boat’ soon. (Did I mention they loved it? Loved it.)

Along with the inevitable Bryan Adams track, this DVD featured a selection of sailing-related tunes: Sailing by Rod Stewart and, um, others. I’ve forgotten because every single one of the music receptor thingies in my brain has been engaged in replaying Cruisin’ over and over again.

Yes, Cruisin’. That smash hit by Gwyneth Paltrow (pre-haircut) and Huey Lewis. “This is not a one-night stand… We’re goin’ to fly away, glad you’re goin’ my way, I love it when we’re cruisin’ together…” You with me?

Why am I sharing this? I’m working on the theory that if I tell enough people about it, the song will magically transfer itself from my brain to yours. So right about now, you should be humming along with me.

Sorry about that.

It could be worse. It could be Summer of 69. Oh, wait…

PS: The ‘What I talked about’ post will be back next week when I resume regular scheduling. Have a great weekend!

Tips for writing features #1: find the armpits

This revelation may surprise you, but sometimes I’m not, um, fascinated by the subjects I’m commissioned to write about. Superannuation springs to mind. Supermarkets follow close behind (mostly because that’s what I’m meant to be doing even as I write this post). Budgeting. The best age to have a baby (not as interesting once you’ve had a couple). Forty thousand words on how to pay off your credit cards (the big challenge there was not repeating ‘spend less, pay more than the minimum’ 8000-odd times).

What often surprises me, however, is how fascinating some of these things become once I start. (Some. Superannuation has yet to work its magic on me.)

When I first started writing features for women’s magazines (beyond the world-famous James Reyne interview), I used to ask endless questions and take endless notes. It would often take me an hour to interview a girl for a 200-word section of a ‘Wedding Dress, Never Worn’ feature. And she’d be one of five I had to get through. I felt as though I needed to know every single thing about her, and often found it difficult to keep my word counts in check. (To be fair, there’s never a short story behind an unworn wedding dress, now is there?)

One memorable conversation with a straight-talking, well-meaning deputy editor sorted me out. I’d filed 3000 words for a 1200-word commission about why some women choose to have hairy armpits. (I know, investigative journalism hits new heights.) She flicked through the story while I sat there, nervous as all hell, and then gave it back to me.

“It’s a story about hairy armpits, Al,” she said. “Just give me the hairy armpits.”

I went home, cut out the background noise and focussed on the armpits.

My job is about finding the armpits in any subject. No reader wants to know every single thing about, say, supermarkets. They just want the bit that relates to them. The bit they’ll find compelling and fascinating. The armpits.

So I look for what I find compelling and fascinating, and try to give it to them in a way they’ll find digestible. Accessible. Maybe even a little bit amusing and entertaining.

And if I ever work out where the armpits are in the subject of superannuation…well, I’ll be rich enough not to need any.

I’m raising Buzz and Woody…

It being school holidays and me being the candidate for Mother of the Year that I am, today I took the boys to the park. As I watched them in action – sliding, climbing, jumping, fighting, throwing bread at the poor overfed ducks sinking on the pond – one thought went through my mind: I'm raising Buzz and Woody.

If you haven’t seen a Toy Story movie (and I can’t begin to imagine how this could be so), Buzz Lightyear and Woody are the space ranger/cowboy characters at the centre of the franchise. And, it appears, at the centre of my home.

Mr6 is a lonesome, sentimental cowboy singing at the moon (he'll now proudly tell you he can play four notes, one chord AND two half-chords on the guitar). He's gangly, thoughtful, a little bit serious, a little bit funny, cautious and loyal to a fault.

Mr3, on the other hand, throw himself into everything ('to infinity and beyond'). He believes he can fly – and usually does (not actual flying, but in the metaphorical sense) because he's so unafraid to try. He's a stocky little soul with an engaging smile and was at the front of the line when they were handing out charm.

You can tell they're brothers, because they share a lot of traits too – mostly cheekiness, but we won't go there now. But they emerged into the world as total individuals and that's how they've remained.

I shouldn't be surprised that they're so different. Talk to sisters B and C, myself and brother TICH now that we're older, and it's hard to believe sometimes that we were raised in the same house. Mostly because we remember it so differently. Each of us has our own perspective on certain vivid memories of childhood and (as previously discussed) I'm lucky they were there because half the time I don't remember any of it!

Again, you can tell we're all related. There's a look, a wry sense of humour, a certain cynical take on the world, that binds us all together. But we also bring our own personalities and opinions (such a lot of opinions!) to the mix.

I sometimes wish I'd had more kids. Perhaps a Hamm or a Slinky – even a Bo Peep? – to add different voices to my brood. It might have made the differences between my two less obvious. But I console myself with the fact that Buzz and Woody are best mates. To infinity and beyond.

{image: collider.com}

And so I opened The Suitcase…

Taking a deep breath – but not too deep in case I asphyxiated on the dust dancing off the suitcase – I unbuckled, unzipped and peeked inside. What did I find? A lot of trash, and just enough treasure to make the journey worthwhile.

There was the note, on a hastily torn out sheet of lecture pad, written by the only red-haired man I ever desired. I met him one night at a Uni college. We spent the night lying on the dewy grass, in the middle of a rugby oval, under a blanket of stars, talking about life, the universe and everything. I was 18, he was 22 and engaged to be married. The sun came up, we returned to our rooms and, much later, I found the hastily scribbled note shoved under my door. I still owe him a kiss.

There was a letter from my brother TICH. Only he wasn’t an Inner City Hipster. He was eight or nine, had just had his stitches removed and wanted to know if I knew anything about deserts. He signed his name with impossibly curlicued majesty.

There was a mint copy of the May 1991 edition of Countdown magazine, in which I, cadet journalist in floral frock, socks and lace-up brogues, interviewed James Reyne in all his dishevelled, denim-clad glory. It begins: “I once stood around for five hours in the pouring rain just to see Australian Crawl play…”.

It contains the answers to such hard-hitting questions as “Do people recognise you in the street?” (answer: Yep), “What would you be doing if you weren’t making hit records?” (answer: I don’t know) and “Do you live in a mansion and drive an expensive sports car?” (answer: No, I don’t own a car).

I’m beginning to see why Rolling Stone never called.

What else? A letter from the shearer who was the great unrequited love of my late teen years. Gen Y may have come up with the cute term ‘Friends with Benefits’ but they sure didn’t invent the concept. I also unearthed the truly appalling poetry that spilled onto my page during that time. I would burn it, but I’m fascinated by how neat my handwriting was in those days. Now I could challenge a doctor to a Duel of Ultimate Indecipherability. Back then, I was practically copperplate.

I blame journalism. For that, and the swearing I can’t seem to lose.

Invitations to weddings (some of the resulting marriages are long over), invitations to birthday celebrations (my own) I can’t remember attending, tickets to Geoff Lawson’s Testimonial Dinner (go figure).

And, of course, the photos. So many pictures of so many faces that were so important to me at that time. Some of them I looked at and wondered why we’d lost touch. The beautiful redhead who inhaled life and dragged me along with her. The bohemian brunette with the curly hair, the flashing eyes and the Doc Martens who lived around the corner and was always up for an adventure. The flatmate I loved but lost in the ‘property settlement’ when my longterm relationship broke up. She knew him first.

Some of them I looked at and struggled to remember their names. Endless snaps of young men in tuxedos, mugging for the camera. Countless shots of gorgeous young women with big hair, big earrings, big smiles.

Then there was the inexplicable. Why would I have ever imagined I’d need the 1990 Sydney University timetable again in this lifetime? There must have been a reason, right?

Yes, there were letters from [insert name of former boyfriend], but only two and not the ones I was dreading. I was right in thinking I’d destroyed those. The two I read made me smile. More travelogue than sonnet, they described in detail a Contiki tour he’d taken, right down to the percentages of nationalities on the bus. They reminded me why I’d liked him so much in the first place – sweet and down-to-earth. I read them, then recycled them.

So now the suitcase is empty. Much of what it contained went straight into the bin. The rest is now tucked away, in a box, to be forgotten about for another 20 years. By that stage, I won’t recognise even myself in those pictures.

Lifting the curtain on childhood memories

It was a chance conversation. My friend S is taking her little girl, Miss Mouse, to the Canberra Folk Festival. Just the two of them. In the Kombi (you may remember S as the Lady Bountiful of rhubarb?).

Anyway, we’re sitting under the shady tree in the parental pick-up zone at the school (where we pick up the kids, not each other, I hasten to clarify), talking this and that. And she mentions the curtains.

She has spent the day making curtains for the Kombi. So she and Miss Mouse can perform their daily ablutions at the festival without, as Miss Mouse puts it, “showing our bottoms to everyone”. Quite. One eye on Mr3, who’s building dams in the dustbowl under the tree, I asked, offhand, ‘what colour?’.

Even before she answered, I knew they were going to be orange. It’s an unwritten rule that car curtains are orange. I know this because, back in the day, my family had a Holden Kingswood station wagon, beige, with orange curtains.

As soon as she said it, I was in the back of that Kingswood, on the bench seat, with sisters B and C, playing corners, sweaty skin sticking to the vinyl, on the endless, endless driving odyssey we used to call Family Holidays. Later, our brother TICH (The Inner City Hipster) would be peering at us over the front seat, from his princely throne in the antiquated car seat between our parents.

Dad would do the driving. Mum would attempt to keep us entertained with games of eye spy, car spotting and God only knows what else. We’d sing through our entire repertoire of songs – Country Roads and Try a Little Kindness on high rotation – at least ten times. We’d listen to Neil Diamond, Johnny Cash, Billy Joel. Ripper 76.

It’s a long, long way from the south coast of NSW to North Queensland. A long, hot way in summer. No DVDs. No air-conditioning. The windows always down, sister B claiming a window seat every single time due to car sickness. And orange curtains in the back windows.

Hell. And Heaven. All at once.

We had that car for many years. We’d had it when I was very little and my orange hair and orange outfits matched the orange dirt of the Northern Territory (where we lived) and the orange curtains. We had it until I was almost a teenager who could quote Anne of Green Gables ad nauseum about the horrors of red hair.

The soul of that car never died.

Unfortunately, the body rusted away around it. It was replaced by a bright yellow (to match the kitchen I think) Mitsubishi Express eight-seater palace. Room for all. But no room for the orange curtains.

It’s funny how our memories work. Mine is terrible. Half the time I think I was born 21 because I remember little of my life before that. My family’s always saying ‘remember when?’ and I look blankly at them and ask if they’re sure I was there. But take a small detail, like an orange curtain, and there they are, peeking out from behind it. Every family holiday we shared.

I wonder how the Camry would look with a new window treatment?

Enjoy your Easter break (orange curtains or no) and I’ll see you back in the Fibro next week!

{image: Kaboodle.com}