Long time between drinks or 'long time, no effort'

Well, didn't my undertaking to write in this blog regularly really take off...

'Excuses, I've had a few, but then again, to few to mention'... with apologies to Frank Sinatra for bastardising his famous song lyric for the purposes of my self-flagellation. There are extenuating circumstances of course; moving house, um, moving house... cyclone... which had absolutely no impact on us and through which most of us slept...

So the actual reason I haven't written on here for so long is fear. As I shall explain to you, dear reader/invisible silent therapists.

I have become a Twitter addict. Reading them moreso than writing them as I have very few followers. In recent weeks I am finally beginning to feel normal(ish). The baby/feeding hormones that have shrouded my ability to think logically (as much as I ever thought logically) have begun to lift and I am damn thirsty! Thirsty for knowledge, information, ideas... anything my hitherto deprived neurons can get to mull over. And Twitter is perfect because it allows me to follow any number of people in any number of areas and get tidbits of news, information, gossip etc. I can feel I am across all things but only need to have the attention span to process this information in 140 characters. Perfect!!!

Recent highlights include that infamous night before K-Rudd was ousted. Twitterers were on the ground, advising of any and all news they could glean. Jokes flew thick and fast - it was exciting (in a 'schadenfreude' kind of way). Any night of MasterChef and QandA is perfect for the mind-separating act of watching and Twittering. And with QandA - rarely do the very witty, accurate or ascerbic tweets make the banner along the bottom.

Anyway, I digress... (as I do, which is another reason there's so few blog entries, but that's for another entry/confession).

But then there are those I follow with their own blogs, and I click the link to their blogs and then I read. In admiration, enjoyment, interest, enthrall but mainly complete and utter envy. I envy their ability to write like they know what they are talking about. Envious that they are 'where its at' and not atop a hill in a rural area of a regional city (which with technology as it is should mean nothing). I envy that they are able to take the time to sit down to research, investigate and compose. And its not like I don't have that luxury. I do. But then I think of all the things I 'should' be doing; as a mother, a wife, etc etc etc. And this isn't imposed on me by my husband or kids. Purely self-imposed. I really have to stop thinking of writing as being too self-indulgent because I need to do it to get the practice to get really really good and to write a best-seller and become extremely wealthy... or something to that effect.

I probably have that 'first born child syndrome' that I see in my own first born. H loves Thomas the Tank and he and his brother have a box full of track pieces. At 4 years of age we think that he should be able to put the track together himself. Use his imagination, learn spatial reasoning, logical thinking, yada yada yada. But of course, just like his mother he sees the tracks that have been made by his Dad - really impressive ones with bridges and hills and multiple tracks that wind around and join up. He looks at the big picture and tells himself and us 'I can't do it'. So after months of getting frustrated with him and telling him he should be able to do it, I sat down and explained that he just needs to take it piece by piece, and slowly it will form itself. That with a little practice and patience you will get there.

'Aha' moment for Mum. So cliched that I can just see that being acted out on some sitcom or Hallmark production movie. But its true. I look at all the highly intelligent, beautifully crafted pieces of writing that others have produced and think to myself 'I can't do that'. And I won't be if I don't start, piece by piece, paragraph by tortured paragraph. I have to give myself the right to fail - that thing that parenting experts say we should allow our children in order to grow to be resilient adults.

So, in all that, while I parent (by the seat of my pants) my own children I am also parenting myself. Learning those things I missed the first time round.( Thankfully the physical functioning things are all down pat!)

You're welcome to read along, shake your head, nod your head, laugh or not laugh, whatever. But if you have the time to provide a little feedback then I'd appreciate it, whatever it is.

Meanwhile, I'll be off chasing my two barefoot ragumuffins down the road, as they chase the neighbour's dog, through long grass potentially crawling with poisonous snakes, spiders, grumpy bandicoots...

Wish me luck!

We need ch-ch-ch-changes...

Ah Tony Abbott, God Bless you (because I won’t be). Your timing is not so much impeccable as it is despicable. This is the week of that long awaited for Copenhagen Conference to address climate change. The week where those of us who want to see our planet protected, are hoping against hope that governments of the world embrace the idea of changing our current ways and take big, brave steps.

And in this very week where boldness, innovation, and thinking-outside-squares is of vital importance, Tony Abbott drags back from the brink of extinction old, conservative, stultifying MPs to his front bench. Bishop, Andrews, Ruddock - *creak creak, groan groan*. Anyone wanting a vibrant and forward looking opposition to move our country forward can only gape in amazement, disbelief and dread. It feels a little like we are scuba diving and on our ascent, with our oxygen running out, needing to break the sea’s surface to take big deep breaths. And instead being caught and held around the ankles by thick, toxic, seaweed. We need lungfuls of revitalising, fresh air and instead we are given salty water.

Is this indicative of a general fear of change around the country? Why do we fear change when such change is exactly what we need and perhaps, what will save us as a species? Why, for example, do we fail to focus on the opportunities that climate change can ring in and focus only on what we’ll lose? Do we not have enough faith in our own intellectual stock that we don’t think we’ll be able to find new resources (albeit intellectual ones) to export. We have the brains to do it – and so far, other countries are reaping the benefits. Aussies seem to only to be able to trust and rely on those assets we have which are tangible, and for which we are in fact, just lucky to possess, i.e. coal, LNG. Living in a regional town whose prosperity is reliant almost solely on coal and other mining, I understand the costs that could result if such mining was restricted or ceased in order to reduce carbon emissions. However, is it too simplistic to think that our prosperity and high standard of living are pointless if we have no liveable climate to survive in?

Those of us alive today and in the generations to come are lumbered with the slowly failing earth that we have been given by our forebears. It is just our bad luck, really, that the ‘buck stops with us’. Handing this problem on to generations and generations to come is cowardly and unethical. We as a nation and a global community need a little tough love. We need to stop sulking, cease denying that we have to be the ones to make the difficult decisions and find new ways of living.

I’m not saying it will be easy. When we compare a general fear of change with an inability to change ourselves or our own immediate environment we can perhaps understand the reluctance. So often we personally know what part of our own lives or families or homes need changing or improving, yet taking the impetus to change it eludes us. It could be losing weight, teaching a non-sleeping child to sleep better and hence putting up with the week(s) of unsettledness and sleep deprivation that will entail (as in my case). We maintain the status quo, no matter how unhealthy or dysfunctional it is because we are unsure of the outcome of change or don't have the ability to think clearly enough to know how to create that change. But what opportunities are lost? Instead of seeing the exciting, healthier possibilities which grow at the top of our ruts, we dig in deeper and deeper. Denial is easy and seductive, but slowly, almost invisibly, destructive.

We need to be excited about changing; personally, locally and globally. We need to be shown the infinite possibilities, not the finite losses. Yes, responsibility can be a frightening weight to bear but it means also that we can be the creators of brave, bold and beautiful new worlds. Let’s move forward and leave the stick-in-the-muds behind. Up to their necks in it.

Wii wii wii all the way home

We now have a Wii. Or should I say more correctly that the Wii has us. By the proverbial short and curlies. Now I have been anti computer games for most of my life. As far as I was concerned my children would have to be in their late teens before I acquiesced to purchase them a mind-numbing, muscle dysmorphing computer game. But alas, in the constant compromising and selling out that is parenthood (at least in my case) we got a Wii. Really I just wanted the Wii Fit, in a delusional thought that I would be able to get fit 'in the comfort of my own home' rather than try to go walking with a 2 & 4 year old in tow. Of course, the reality is so vastly different from the dream. I have exercised twice in the month we’ve had it, yet the Wii has kindly advised that we (primarily the 4 year old) has now played Super Mario Bros Kart 600 times. I’m not sure whether they are congratulating us for that or admonishing me for allowing my son to play their game so many times. It could very well be the latter. The Wii Fit is astonishingly passive aggressive. Really , it is.

The second time I managed to wangle myself an hour on the Wii Fit one of the first messages was ‘Hooli (my Mii), have you been busy?’ Translation: it’s been a week you slack bitch, where have you been? And any time that you end an exercise session early you get a ‘hooli, is there something wrong’ – so not only are you remonstrated for not finishing what you’ve started, you now feel bad for hurting the Wii’s feelings! Like they have any! Seriously,you might as well get a Catholic priest or a Rabbi to be your personal trainer if you want to be motivated by that level of guilt. And the rating system is also fantastic for your self-esteem (just as catholicism is, not!). Apparently my ability to hoola hoop, follow a step routine, and knock out a punching bag is rated at a level called 'simmering fire'. This would be fine as a porn name or lap dancer name (now there's a new Wii Fit game potential, along with pole dancing ... hmmmm) - but as a level of skill it leaves a little to be desired. I wonder what the top level is? 'Catastrophic Fireball'?

Wii’s are a very good way of determining if your child(ren) have addictive personalities. There are many signs. If you are awoken pre-dawn by a little voice in your ear saying ‘please Mummy, can I play Mario’ then you have an addict on your hands (as well as an insomniac). If a voice comes from the backseat when you are driving and tells you to mount the kerb and hit the wheelie bin because it will earn you 10 points, then you have an addict. If they count down 3,2,1 Go at traffic lights you have an addict. You might as well enrol them in rehab now.

But I confess that the addiction doesn’t stop with the kids. One reason (that I’m sticking to) for not using the Wii Fit more often is that the room in which we have it doesn’t have enough space. I am constantly having to move the balance board to accommodate the activity. If the exercise requires hands in the air I have to manoeuvre the board away from the low lying ceiling fan (admittedly I am partial to my fingers remaining attached to my hands). If the exercise requires lying down, I have to move it away from the walls. The sign of addiction? Not only completely rearranging the furniture in the room to accommodate the Wii but rearranging rooms throughout your house. And then considering that maybe you’ll have to move house. It won’t be long till new display homes have ‘Wii Rooms’ as well as the now ubiquitous ‘Theatre Rooms’. Believe me, if you can have display homes with handbasins inbuilt into hallway walls, then ‘Wii Rooms’ aren’t that far fetched. Ridiculous yes, but far-fetched? Probably not.

Housewife? Domestic goddess? Neither?

Is the 'housewife' thing a little misleading? Are you visiting here looking for tips on how to remove rust stains from linen, lipstick stains from collars (and/or how to prevent them getting there to begin with?) and wanting to know how to convince two-year olds that sultanas and extra-strong Parmesan cheese really isn't an ideal afternoon snack (happening as I type... but hey, who am I to strangle burgeoning creativity).

If I can promise you anything at all it is that there are NO answers here.

There will most likely be lots of questions, predominantly stupid ones, often rhetorical, and perhaps, more likely than not, inane. But hey, its my blog, or should that be 'blah-g' and I can rant if I want to. And, as you know, you're likely to have far more important things to do than read guff like this.

As I said, I am a 'qualified' writer. I have the papers to prove it. Somewhere. I know I've packed them - I've seen them recently. The humidity of the tropical weather in which I live has started to peel the letters off . I now seem to be the proud owner of a '_achelo_ of A_ts', which, I grant you, is probably no less worthwhile than the Bachelor of Arts. I really should have had the damn certificates mounted and framed, but hey, who wants the extra dusting... and the constant reminder of an intellect I once had but has now been eked away by childbearing, birthing and breastfeeding.

But now the past has come back to haunt me, as it often does. My 'rationale' in undertaking a writing degree was that it would come in so useful in the deep dark distant future when I had a family of my own. A decision made when I was completely, utterly single without a marriage prospect in sight. The lord himself only knows where that kind of blind optimism has gone now...

Anyway, that time has come. I am now that wife, mother, domestic goddess/walking disaster that I dreamed of and so now I have to re-learn how to write. The sentence construction I'm okay with, the spelling has only slipped a bit - seems a little Freudian (in what way I don't know) that I seem to now confuse right and write. What I have to learn is how to think up stuff to write about, and how to write it so that you'll want to read it - and how to write so that I can whinge and bitch with style and grace and not an inconsiderable amount of humour (I only hope).

This whole blogging (blah-ging) does seem a little self-indulgent (being raised Catholic, anything remotely pleasurable qualifies as self-indulgent) but I'm hoping to scare myself into actually doing the writing. Getting whatever ideas are in my head and onto virtual paper. I need the practice.

So bear with me. Or don't. As I said, your choice. If you are at a loose end, don't completely dislike what I've written so far, and notice I haven't blogged lately - give me a virtual kick up the butt and tell me to get writing.

Cheers!

PS: already I will contradict myself and provide a hint for parents. Do NOT start a blog with a naked toilet-training two year old with free rein of the house. Thankfully most of our home is tiled and what little carpet we do have is brown (serendipitous) but still, explain to me why kids can do on soft furnishings what they can't do on a toilet??? (The questions have started...)