Ah, AHEM, it’s my birthday this month too you know.  It came and went without even a purr this year.  That was noted, my lovely family, oh yes, it was noted.  I am not happy.  Not that this is news.  I am pretty much always at least marginally pissed off.  I don’t like, well, anything much really.

The four things I do like:

• Peeing right on the edge of the path, so when I dig it in, a bit of soil goes on to that path- it gives the Woman something to sweep up.
• Rubbing against the Woman’s legs when she is wearing black pants- the fluffy bits that stay on her leg are very pretty.  I try to make patterns.
• Scratching on the bedroom doors at night until I hear the Boy and the Girl stir a little- such a satisfying noise (Both the scratching and the waking.  Zing.)
• Staying awake most of the night and making things mysteriously fall from spots on high, then sleeping on the Man’s pillow most of the day.

That’s about it I think.

The Man and the Woman really don’t like me much, and that’s fine, I don’t like them either, but they are warm.  So I usually try to sleep on either one’s legs most nights.  I used to sleep on the Man’s chest, until he launched me right into the full-length mirror one night.  I got just one glimpse of my own startled eyes before I whacked into it.  So I’m more cautious these days.  More stealthy too.  It’s good for my instincts, because God knows I’m bloody hopeless at catching wildlife.  So far all I’ve managed are a few geckos and cockroaches.  I can take or leave the geckos, stupid clickity-slimy things they are, but the ‘roaches are bloody lovely.  All crunchy on the outside, with a gooey centre.  I can’t come at the wings though, so I leave them lying around for the Woman to clean up.  Reminds her of what a useful pet I am, in case she is getting ideas, if you get my meaning.

So, about the birthday celebration, or lack thereof.  I heard the Girl ask if she could get me something, and the Woman said no, I wouldn’t even know it was my birthday, I was “just” a cat.  The Girl secretly took me off into her room and gave me a tea-party anyway.  It was a bit shit really, no actual tea, or party, for that matter, but at least she didn’t dress me up in that ridiculous pink hat and make me sit in the doll’s pram. (I’m too big for that thing.)

I started my vengeance last night: knocked over an ornament and climbed back onto the bed every time the Man kicked me off. You should’ve seen me, I was relentless.

And this is just the beginning, dear friends, just the beginning….

Tonight: my bum and the kitchen bench have a meeting.

I’ll keep you updated.

You.Just.Wait.

Do you have an evil pet?

Dear Liam,

First of all, I want to wish you a wonderful birthday.  I hope you love your present, and even more, I hope you love the meaning behind it.  We wanted to get you a grown up present, because we can see how much you want to enter the adult world, and how gracefully you are starting to do so.  We think you are ready.

We have talked about how turning nine is a big year- it’s the start of you really becoming the adult you will one day be.  We have had glimpses of this over the years, and I imagine we will see even more in this year ahead.  We love that we get to watch you.

You came into this world in your own time, you were a surprise to me, and like all surprises, you have been so much more than I ever would have expected.  I remember saying to the Obstetrician at my six week check up that I really liked you.  And as the words were out of my mouth I realised that I was surprised by that, and they were true.  I knew I would love you, but I wasn’t prepared for just how much I would like you.

And of course, what’s not to like?  You are clever and funny and quirky and serious and strong.  You have a great sense of justice and you know just how you like things.  I admire how well you know yourself.  Most of all though, you have a good heart, and that my gorgeous boy, is what will carry you through the days, to become all that you can be.

Thanks for taking my heart, softening it, and placing it on the outside, where everyone can see it.  You have been the making of me.

I love ya mate.

Love, Mum

Happy 9th Liam

This kid.

He turns nine this week.  The age when you really start to figure out the difference between yourself and the outside.  Straddling the worlds: the adult realm, with all it’s practicalities and demands, and the dreamy internal world of the child, of imagination and possibilities.

He has a quicksilver brain, this kid.  Sharp as a tack, and one step ahead of most of us.  Always figuring, sorting and seeing things from a different angle.  I can’t wait to see the things he will think, the ideas he will create.  His life stretches before him with so much potential, so many choices, so much yet to do.

He shares his birthday with another great man.  A man who has built a life around acts of service.  A man who is highly respected in his field and in his life, not only through the work of his clever hands and clever mind, but for the way he gives his full heart into everything he does.  He cares about the true core of people.  You know this by the way he looks into your eyes as you tell your stories.  He connects.

But now some of the connections in his brain have gone awry, and it takes longer for him to share his thoughts with you.  It’s not as easy for his dextrous hands to perform tasks that used to be so simple.

So just as my boy has his path stretching out in front of him, with so many forks, and so many possibilities, this soft spoken man has had some of his paths cordoned off.  New roads will be more difficult to travel, the well-worn ones will be safer and surer.

Until, well, who knows?  Medical advancements, new technologies?

But until then, his potential is restricted.

You are well loved, both of my birthday twins.  And you have both loved well.

Happy Birthday to all the Virgos.

Life is a funny thing.  We take it for granted, mostly.  We zoom around, dotting all the i’s and crossing most of the t’s, getting things done.  And then we’re done.  John Lennon is reported to have said, “Life is what happens while we’re busy making other plans.”  And I guess that sounds about right.

Often, it’s only when we are faced with death, that we even stop to consider life.

I heard a story this week, that was both the best and worst tale from this election.  It was about a woman, my age, who took her ailing father and her eighteen year old son to the polling station.

It was her son’s first opportunity to vote, the first time he would have a say in who runs this country, and the choices they will make for us, with the money and power we bestow on them.  For me, voting is wonderful exercise in trust and collectivism.  We place some numbers in some boxes, and believe those scratchings will translate into a better life for ourselves and our community.  I can still remember the pride and sense of responsibility I felt the first time I folded those green and white pages and tapped them into the oversized cardboard box.  Turning eighteen is one thing, but deciding who will govern this big-skied land, well that’s becoming an adult.  I like to imagine he was a little nervous, this young man, realising the magnitude of what he was now allowed to do.  He might have read the instructions once, and then once again, ensuring his vote counted for something bigger than himself.  He might have looked at his Mum and smiled, as he posted his papers.

I’m sure she looked at her son with new eyes that day.  His first vote.   Her boy was grown.

And then it was time for her father to vote. I imagine he shuffled over to the little booth.  He might have needed a bit of help to steady himself.  She might have held his shaking hand a little, lest he lean on the house-of-cards booth, and make it all fall down.  His eyes were probably bright with the intelligence that resides within him, but there might have been a little cloud or two dimming the lucidity.  The cancer can do that.  He might have looked at the paper for quite awhile, trying to make sense of all the  names, and all the people.  He might have had a flash of remembrance, and voted for Clive because he once knew a good bloke from work called Clive.  Or perhaps he remembered every person, and every policy, and placed his vote with care, drawing his numbers in the boxes, in a script from years gone by.  He might have smiled at his daughter for reassurance, as he posted his papers.

I’m sure she looked at her dad with sad eyes that day.  His final vote.  Her dad was almost gone.

So come what may from this election day, I know there is a woman who will be forever marked by the process.

She is not busy making other plans.  But she is seeing what happens with life.  And the changing of the guard.

Are you busy making other plans?

Do you love voting?

It seems I got a little bit off track with the blog posting schedule…

There was the Noosa Show Day Holiday, and flying foxes to be flown on.

Fun must have been had with filth like this

There was a full day of work and hands to be worked.

These are working hands…

There was a ballot paper to be filled out, and we all know how long that took.

There were embers to be stared at.

Embers from The Ashers

There was this beach to be sat on.  Not one cloud.

Noosa Main Beach… You can see my blokes in the distance.

There was this book to be read (I know, I know, it’s been out forever, but I saved it for an emergency, like a Sunday night when Nathan is watching some shit show on SBS about Easter Island, and everyone on Twitter is watching The Bachelor. Yes, I know Tim is hot, but I.Just.Can’t.)

So glad I saved you

Rest assured, I’ll be back on the keys again this week, with the new posting schedule. The evening thing isn’t really working for y’all is what I’m hearing, so I’ll post every weekday morning at 6am if I can figure out the autopost thingy.  I intend to post weekdays, and on Saturdays I’ll be sharing Hitwave Alison: my Top 5 from the week.

I hope you all had a fun weekend too. See you tomorrow.

Did you have fun voting below the line?  Do you know even one policy of the Pirate Party?

Do you think Tim is hot?

Bubbles…

My Twitter has been all a flutter with both outrage and confessions, regarding Neil Mitchell’s tweet about women in the workplace bursting into tears: “is it weakness or tactic?”  Now, there are others I’m sure who have written about this more eloquently than I ever will, but I would like to weigh in on this one: how about neither one Neil, you arsehat?  (Yes that’s right, I just said arsehat. No, I don’t know what it means either, but if the cap fits, etcetera.)

I can think of quite a few times that I have been moved to (almost) tears at work, and I don’t think any of the instances are me being weak OR manipulative…

I sometimes get teary when I hold a newborn baby in my arms and think of all potential within them, and how I get to be part of the full expression of their health.

I sometimes get teary when I have a child on my table, who I’ve known for years (probably since they were a baby) and I realise they are growing up. When I get a glimpse of the adult they will become, and I get all emo thinking about how lucky I am to be part of that trip, and how too-fast the time seems to go.

I sometimes get teary when things go really well.

When a new Mum tells me how her life has changed since her bubba has calmed down and relaxed, and now she gets to love them for their true little selves, and not try to love the bright red bundle of writhing, that just can’t be calmed.

Or when an old man tells me how he feels the spring has come back in his step, the spring that was lost when his wife died three years ago, and he descended into a world of darkness and physical pain.

Or when a teenager tells me she reckons she just aced her exams, and she was able to do so because we spent some time visualising and relaxing and breathing together, and she felt that she could think more clearly once her body was clearer.

Or like today.  When a man I regard in high esteem has finally come home.  When he was accused of things untrue, and he handled them with a calm grace.  When he moved away with his family to rewrite and rebuild his life, his work, his finances.  When he and his wife sketched out goals, and moved toward them, step by tiny step, until they could jump right into that painting.  And when today he said to me “I just can’t believe it, I just keep on waiting for the bubble to burst.”

Well, I just about thought my heart might burst.

So yeah, Neil Mitchell, sometimes I do cry at work.  But it’s bloody good.

How about you, do you cry? 

Do you cry because you are piss-weak, or are you just trying to manipulate everyone?