Things our kids argued about in the car today, before my first coffee:

• Whether or not google is actually a number.  (It kind of is, but it is spelt googol)
• Who knows the most.  (Me: About what? Them: Everything.   Okaaaay then.)
• Who is better at violin.  (Hard to say, they are both shit and sound like tortured cats)
• Who is better at Minecraft.   (Depends how you define better of course.  So they devised a competition, of which I will judge, where they will each craft a thing- say a castle- in a set time-frame.  I already know how this will end.)
• Whether or not Liam brushed his teeth properly.
• What exactly Coco meant when she said they do “skill building” first up on Monday mornings.  (By now I was shouting: You know what skills are, you know what building means, so “skill building” is both of those things put together.)
• Whether or not Loom Bands are better than Pokemon Cards.  (They are both shit and I’m close to banning both.)
• Whether or not One Direction used to be Coco’s favourite band.  (They were, briefly, in 2012.)
• Why Coco should refer to other kids called Liam by their first and last name.  (Apparently our Liam gets confused.  For example:  Coco: Mum can I go to Liam’s party?  Liam: What party?  I’m not having a party.  My birthday is in September.   I shit you not, this was an actual conversation.)
• Who the cat likes more.  (No-one.  She’s a cat.)
• Whether or not Coco meant to hit Liam with an ugg boot when she hit it with her tennis racquet.  (I don’t think so.  It’s unlikely at this skill level that she would have dared even think of connecting.  However I think she was overjoyed with the result.  Which, of course became the problem.)
• Who is better at the six times tables.  (Who cares, I still rule, so suck on that, under 10s.)

Somewhere around about here I told them both to shut-up.  I may have mentioned that they were both hopeless at everything, and that I was better, and would always be better, and they should both stop talking to each other immediately and look out their own windows, or else there would be no ‘devices’ for the whole week, including the weekend, if I heard just one more peep.

We drove along in blissful silence for at least thirty-seven seconds, as I hummed along to some young-person’s song on the youth network.  Some young person with no kids or mortgage, who was probably at this moment stressing over mid-year exams, or whether the beer-can wall would get completed before the next house inspection, or planning a snow-boarding trip to Perisher.  Mmmmm, yes, Perisher, with schnapps and sore bums from falling onto the the icy-snow and sore knees from, well, nocturnal activities…

A tiny voice from the back, broke my reverie.  “Mummy, Liam just looked out my window.”

Do your kids argue about bullshit?  Do they have their “own” window?  (And why did I say that?  Because now, there are “own windows, of course)

…From The Ashers xxx

I usually have very short hair.  I like it that way, and I guess it suits me, in that I don’t have to do anything much to it- just wet it, add some product, and voila, I look like I’ve just stepped out of the salon.  Or the pool.  Or it’s very humid today.

Either way, I’ve had this crazy ageing thing happening to me, in that I have been getting older.  It’s been happening for many years now, but I’ve only just realised.  So I thought I should grow my hair a little.  To soften my look a little.  To something not quite so severe, befitting of my advanced years.

The gusto in which my hairdresser agreed leads me to suspect this was a thought she had long been having herself.  So I grew and grew and grew my very short hair over the hot Queensland Summer, until I could stand it no more, and I went back to Jules with the command: cut it all off.  You see, I have A LOT of hair, and it was driving me slowly insane.  Jules refused to comply.  She said I was doing so well, and I had grown it so long (not even to my shoulders) that I had to reflect and wait another six weeks before doing anything rash.  You’d think I was Sampson, with how adamant she was about two inches of hair.

In the meantime she coloured and cropped and thinned and slashed at my tresses until she was satisfied that I had a ‘do’ that I could live with until next we met.

Everyone has been sweet and encouraging, calling my new style feminine, pretty, and lovely.  They have said that I look more like my daughter (who is seven and jaundice, so I’m not sure what than means), that I look younger and like a Hawthorn Mum (again, not sure if I’m happy with that, ROSE.)

This is kind of how it looks:

It’s a bit thin, but it might be okay in a few months…

I have been coping (just) with all the extra styling and attention that having hair requires, until this morning.

This morning something horrific beyond mention occurred.

And no, I didn’t burn it all, Michael Jackson style with the straightening rods.

First I must explain: in the beautiful pictures you see of me on this blog, I am only showing you part of the story- I am wearing contact lenses, because, frankly, I am extremely short-sighted, and my glasses are as thick as the bottom of a schooner.  The frames?  Well I purchased them about a year or so ago when my hair was short, and thick black frames were all the go.  They really were, I promise.

This morning I was getting the kids breakfast, when I happened to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and this is what I saw:

…a strange man/lady looking back at me…through my glasses…

Well, not precisely that, but the thing looking back at me was strikingly similar:

I think I’d rather look like Wayne…

And quite frankly, the Garth look is not really what I was aiming for.

It appears it may be time to re-visit the salon, and not for a simple blow-wave.

So there you have it, my greatest secret revealed.  Me, in glasses, on the interwebs.  Don’t ever say I don’t suffer for my art on this blog.

Now please excuse me, I’m off to see if I can get a li’l sumpin’ sumpin’ from my main man, because you know I’m not gonna be getting ANY after he sees this blog….

Ever had a bad hair day?  Who did you look like?  

(One of you should start a thread with all of your comparative pics.)

…From The Ashers xx

Kid with a thing

You might already know, but we have a kid with a thing.  The thing is rare and has a long name, so Nurses write it on the backs of their hands, in order to google it later.  Doctors nod intelligently and memorise it, in order to google it later.  The thing is called Pyruvate Kinase Deficiency, and even I sometimes worry I’ve spelt it wrong.  Even though I have been well acquainted with PKD for seven years now.

This rare thing can mean nothing very much at all, and some people don’t even know they have it until they get a bit stressed, run a bit of a fever and get a bit anaemic, and it is found out, almost incidentally.  This rare thing can also mean a whole lot of drama, with operations and gall stones and blood transfusions and a compromised immune system.

We found out about this very rare thing, that was hanging out on Chromosome Number Two, when Coco was just two months old.  She had turned a vibrant shade of yellow a few hours after her birth, which calmed down with copious breast milk and UV lights.  At two months of age, the yellow came back, but this time it didn’t feel quite so jaunty.  This time it felt vile.  Or violent.  Either way, the secret part of my brain that knows things, knew it wasn’t good and started to thump.  In fact, that secret part had been whispering, “she isn’t quite right, you know” all along, but I had dug a nice little hole and buried that thought snug and safe for two whole months.  Until it came clawing to the surface like something out of Pet Semetary.

I was told that Coco has a “severe form of PKD, that we think, at this stage, is compatible with life.  She will require monthly transfusions and surgery as soon as she is strong enough”.  I buried that thought in the hole where the other one had been, and this time I stamped it right down with my boots.  Just to be sure.  I didn’t tell anyone the whole story.  Just the PKD bit, which of course, is the easy bit.  As time wore on, I let little bits of the story creep up to the surface where I could have a peep at them, one piece at a time.  I would talk to Nath, or Hayls about the bits, and then I would pack them carefully back down again.

This is Coco’s seventh year of living with PKD, and so far she has surpassed all expectations.  The only operation has been to repair the tooth enamel that her bilirubin destroys, and so far (fingers and toes and eyes and legs and arms crossed) she still has her spleen and her gall bladder, and only gets blood every three to four months.  Which is a surprise better than anything that comes in one of those special little aqua boxes.  I am now told, “She still has a severe form, and will be transfusion dependent for life, but she is coping better than anticipated.  Can we take her spleen out now please?”   I just smile and say, “Maybe soon”.  And then I get out the ol’ shovel again.  Burying, burying.

This week she is getting close to needing blood.  Already there have been tears over things small and slight, and then there have been hardly any tears over bruises large.  She is more needy of me, and wants me close, and I can hear her cough at night.  This cough will last until the day-after transfusion day, perhaps.  When I’m trying to do a neat plait in the mornings her head wobbles like one of those dashboard dogs, and we need to stop several times on the way back to the car after school for legs and heart muscles that need rest.

People at the shops will stare when they think I’m not looking, at her pale jaundice, and someone might ask, “What’s wrong with her?”  There will be tantrums over unsuitably cut up toast, or not enough carrot.  There will be challenges in getting homework done, and whinging over getting dressed.  Or undressed.  Or, anything.  I will say, “I think you’re a bit tired,” and she will scream back that she isn’t.  For tired is a sign that hospital is close.

I will have to remind myself to go easy, to relax, if we are a bit late for school or swimming, to let her know that if she feels fractious she needs to voice that in a reasonable way, rather than lash out at those who love her most.  I will have to bend a little, and she will have to flex a little, and we will get through these next two weeks or so with our hearts and tempers intact.

The countdown is on.

Are you a blood donor?  If you aren’t, please consider it.  Call 13 14 95 or click here.

Coco might just get  your claret…

…From The Ashers xx

Want to know what is wrong with the world these days?

I’ll tell you.

Kids.

And not in the way you think.  Sure they are annoying, rude (honest?), silly, time consuming, wake-up too early on Sundays, don’t eat without messing up the whole floor, make too much noise in cafes, expensive and all that, but the real reason is that they are idiots.

Last weekend we didn’t do the normal shop online because we were suffering from memory loss due to alcohols away on a mini-break, so Nathan trundled down to our local Coles on Monday arvo to get the staples.  As we mostly shop online, we sometimes go a bit craycray when we get to see all the produce up close.  Our normal two hundred or so buck shop can blow out to almost three, with Grain Waves and fresh blueberries and warm bread-type products to touch and feel.

From the shops he sent me this:

Want these?

Oh Sweet Baby Cheeses, you bet I do!  Snowballs??!  I haven’t had one of those babies since the great Altona Softball Club Snowball Drive of 1982.  So he got them and I dutifully doled them out to the waiting lunchboxes, rubbing my hands together at all the praise I’d be getting that night for being THE BEST MUM.  After school, I opened the lunchboxes, expecting accolades but instead finding two plump snowballs.  With nary a bite out of them.  I flew downstairs flabbergasted and fearful.  What was wrong with the kids?  Were they sick?  Dead even?  Upon interrogation questioning it was revealed that they “really didn’t like them” and “they were too sweet”.

What?

Too sweet?

What does that mean?

What good is a lolly if it doesn’t make your teeth tingle all the way down to the dentine?

Who are these children, where did they come from, and what is wrong with them anyway?

I checked the other compartments of the lunch boxes: Apple? Gone.  Sandwiches? Eaten.  Carrots and snow peas? Finished.  Crackers, cheese and tomatoes?  Nowhere to be seen.  Even all of the water out of the drink bottles was gone.

I have no idea what is going on here.  Are they taking the piss, throwing out all of the healthy food in an attempt to send me gently insane?  Or do they really not like the marshies?  Really?

I’m in the kitchen right now, concocting a little litmus test.  I’m baking them a slice made with the world’s second best ingredient (condensed milk) that will be so sweet their taste buds will bug-out and their feet will flutter.

If they don’t eat it, I’m calling an ambulance.  Or the men in white suits.  (For me).

Do your kids eat sweeties?

How huge am I gonna be now that this is happening?

Oh sweetness, mine

…From The Ashers xxx

Well, it’s been a week.  A short one, but a week of hits none the less.

1.  Fancy Champi with friends at Mum’s place.  What kind of (overgrown) kid would I be if I didn’t have a party (of sorts) at my parent’s place when she is away.  I only hope I arranged the cushions properly when we left, otherwise I’m gonna be busted…  Hope she doesn’t read the blog.

Note: Two glasses. Sorry fellas.

2.  Finding my old English assignment- what was then called an ‘Option’.  It is neither good, nor insightful, or even well put together (However, much of it IS excruciating).   But I do remember loving doing it, going through the process of creating something from nothing, and having free reign to do so.  It was probably about the only part of the work in my later years of schooling that I actually liked.  It is interesting to note that I didn’t recognise how much I loved to write until this late stage in life, and so instead went off doing science degrees and the like.  Which is not at all my forte.  Lucky I had my eyes on the career at the end of all the mindless biochemistry, or I would have been stuffed.  Finding it was a fun trip down memory lane.

3.  Cooler nights: not a hit, but uggies and early nights and watching telly under a blanket, well that was kinda nice.

4.  This book:

I’m only just wading in, but it’s pretty good so far.  Intense, but good.  I think we will be great friends.  And in other news of books, one of my patients, Allison Paterson, has just completed the finals on her book called ANZAC Sons, a compilation and story behind over 500 letters sent from three brothers on the Western Front.  Gives me the shivers just thinking about it.  I can’t wait for its release (Remembrance Day this year).  A final bit of book news: you know Anna Spargo-Ryan?  Well she is one of my fave authors, and this week she sent me a bit of her novel-under-construction to read, for which I feel humbled and honoured.  As you would expect, it is wonderful.  I am by turns insanely jealous, and stupidly excited that this will soon be a thing.  Well done both of you girls, your tenacity and ability to write such a lot of words, is frankly, quite amazing.

5.   The soccer World Cup starting tomorrow morning… NAH, just joking, I couldn’t give a shit!!  But it’s 10pm, I’m tired, I worked my tiny phalanges to the, well, phalanges today and I can’t think of another hit right now.  So go Aussies, fare you well, and in another more interesting front: GO DOGS.

P.S.  For those concerned souls who have been asking, Woofa the Shitcat’s eye appears to be fine.  Over a grand later, we called enough, and just didn’t make an appointment for yet another (fifty dollar) eye pressure test.  In all my vetinary wisdom I took her off the meds, and we went about our business.  Liam and I did the ocular testing (hung a thingy in front of her eye and watched to see if it looked like she could see it, shone a torch into her eye to see if the pupil responded- being the old school type of vets we are) and she seems fine.  So fingers crossed all is well, because I don’t suppose we can go back to that vet again…

Happy Second Long Weekend if you are in Maroochy Shire (bastards), otherwise, Happy Normal Weekend.

And don’t forget to send me some of your shit poetry as mentioned on the blog yesterday.  I know you have it saved up somewhere.. Janine and I can’t be the only ones.. Can we?

…From The Ashers xx

I’m a bit out of sorts today.  It could be the cooler weather (and we all know how that messes with my mental health), but I think today I reached my tolerance for internet bullshit.  Intershit.  I know, I know, I’m a massive contributor of intershit, in fact this entire blog, all two hundred and nine posts worth, is basically bullshit.   At least it would be revealed to be such if anyone cared to dissect each post, pull apart the words and reveal me for the self-absorbed, egocentric, contradictory, whinger that I guess I am.  But this is my blog, isn’t it?  I’m a forty-three year old, post menopausal, mother of two who has some shit to bull on about.  I pay for this hosting, so I can bang on about whatever crap I like.  Nobody forces you to read it.  Every time I press publish, and clog up your feeds with my oh-so-fascinating links, you can choose to click or flick.  Easy, right?

Well today I had one such link pop up in my feed.  It’s an old article, from 2011 by Tim Napper featured on The Drum called “Snobs and Whingers: the new Australia”.  Now before I go all ranty about Tim, I freely disclose two things: I have no idea of who Tim is, or what his M.O. is- for all I know, he might be a hilarious comedian, and his article was written to poke fun at the media and his own role in the development of the culture of entitlement in Australia.  Or not.  Apparently his piece was written in response to an article published in Crikey by a SEVENTEEN year old girl, bemoaning the lack of suitable macchiato vendors in Canberra.  Yes, that’s right, seventeen.  At seventeen I didn’t even know how to spell Macchiato (and I only know for sure now due to the wisdom of spell-check), let alone write things interesting enough to be published by some online mob.  Because of course online didn’t even exist.  Which is something I am forever grateful.  As I’m sure most people my age are.

In an effort to appear thoroughly well researched (which clearly I’m not- I can’t even be bothered finding out the background), I have found you some of the writings from my Year 12 ‘Writer’s Workshop’ Assignment.  I would love to say that the the pieces are clever, funny, insightful, or, at the very least, well written.  Alas, I cannot.  I got an A for the assignment, so I guess they were considered okay for the time, but oh.my.goodness.  There is even a poetry collection entitled ‘A Solitary Cloud’, and yes, it is exactly what you are thinking.   Of course you don’t want to read the whole thing, but I’d love to share with you a little snippet.  Beware, it might take your breath away.

It is part of a poem called: I Like

I like to hear waves pounding/ Upon the naked sand,/ I like the smell of coffee/ And walking hand in hand./ I like the sound of silence/ And the feel of polished wood./ I like eating chocolates/ A lot more than I should./ I like to laugh until it hurts/ And songs by Jackson Browne,/ I like oil slicks and the colours they make/ Upon the wet, black ground./  I like freshly buttered popcorn/ And sleeping late in bed,/ I like the ticking of my Swatch,/ And books I haven’t read/ I like to plan the future/ To hope and pray to be,/ Happy until the end/ With someone who loves me.

Hmmm.  I can neither confirm nor deny that it was inspired by a poem in a Dolly Magazine.  Nor can I confirm nor deny that I had actually walked hand in hand much at all, lest my parents bust me.  I had had pash-rash by then though, so I guess that’s something.  The best things about my writing as a seventeen year old are: the dot matrix printing, on computer paper with the little holes at the side, the fact that I saw fit to reference my beloved Swatch and, the fact that no-one other than my teacher read it.  Oh, and I’m proud of my spelling, from back in the day when there was contention over the use of colour/color.

My English teacher at the time suggested I should try and publish a few of my bits (not the poetry- strangely we never spoke of that again), just as I imagine the English teacher of the girl in Crikey did.  Except the world is much smaller now, and publication is  more widespread.  And when you are in Year 12 and have a mind-numbing excursion to Canberra and you write something amusing and write it well, with proper sentences and all that stuff, you can get it published, and someone on the internet will go berserk, in fact be “filled with rage” about “just how pathetic we are”.

Really?

Even if Madison meant every word she said, and she is truly aghast at the lack of a long Mac in our Nation’s Capital, do we really care what kids are saying on Crikey?  In fact, do we even listen to seventeen year olds (other than when they brush past me at the Surf  Club at 11.58pm and say “Steady on old girl”) and what concerns them?  Leave ’em alone to sort out their hormones and their music taste and of course their favourite coffee.  There is plenty of time for them to get all indignant and petulant and socially responsible.  And perhaps they’ll even cringe over something they wrote one day.  The crazy part is, their writing won’t be stuffed in some bottom drawer somewhere, feeding the silverfish, if we keep this kind of superior youth-shaming up, and kids like Madison will be too scared to ever voice an opinion or write something that amuses them, purely for the joy of writing.

And that would be a shame.

Did you write any teenage poetry?  Send me your worst. (I’ve got plenty more)

…From The Ashers xx