A little dude from Japan has come to stay at The Asher’s for a couple of weeks.  I call him Watters.  He looks at me blankly when I do, even though I have explained that Aussiefying is name is imperative.

He has a little English at his disposal, and we have virtually no Japanese, despite the Evils (they shall no longer be called Geniuses) learning it attending classes in it for five and three years respectively.  My Mum gave us a translation book, which has been both useful and a source of great mirth, as he pisses himself every time we speak Japanese to him.  Personally, I’m a little affronted, as I’m pretty sure my pronunciation is excellent.

I have reverted to doing what I find most useful when someone doesn’t understand me: talk loudly, so they can now not-understand me with sore ears.  As an added bonus, I also use sign-language.  My grandparents were deaf, so in my family that’s what you did if words didn’t suffice: Auslan.  So, yeah, I was signing my little fingers to the bone for Watters, until Liam said, “He’s Japanese Mum, not deaf.”

We were also using a translator App on our devices, but have given that the flick since I used it today to ask him, “If there’s anything else he wants to do in Noosa?” and he nearly wee-d in his Abercrombie and Finch designer jeans.  I suspect I may have asked him something to do with my substantial mammary glands or Nathan’s gastrointestinal ablutions.  He wouldn’t say.  But every time he looked at me for the rest of dinner, he giggled.

He has a great laugh, our little Jappy Chappy, so we try to do things to make him giggle.

So far we have made him laugh at: urinals in male toilets, sparklers, meat pies, toasted marshmellows, a heat bag in the bed at night, kangaroo spit and koala poo, gravy, peas, Coco’s violin playing, five minute showers, the spa at a local resort, warm Nutella on ice-cream, Vegemite, weird rocks on the first Groyne, pelicans, driving a boat, Cheezels on fingers, ‘cranky’ tacos, blue-tounged lizards, our kids not eating their dinner, bacon and eggs cooked on the barbie, Woofa the shitcat, our footy team’s score today (we were NOT laughing), Nath’s singing, various Aussie stuff in shops, Liam’s speedos, pretty much everything at Aussie Zoo and my use of chopsticks.

However, the thing that has made him laugh the most is my dancing.  Again, I’m shocked.  Because I’m pretty sure that my dancing is tres fantastique (I may not have any Japanese, but by gawdy I know me French).

Last night we got out the “deck” which is a pumpin’ little speaker with a DJ function.  We logged in our iPods and went to battle.  Watters has a penchant for songs that are newer and boppier than a woman of my maturity can safely boogie to, and still keep the contents of her bladder retained, but after an aural arm-wrestle over “Blurred Lines” (Him: Yes, Me: Hell NO) we found common ground with Michael Jackson.  Turns out this stylish, crazy, funny little dude from Tokyo knows the words to Thriller- including the Vincent Price bit- almost as well as me (not bad considering it takes fifteen minutes to find out where he went on his last holiday), but, even better, he knows the dance at least as well as The Wacko himself.

So Watters laid out the moves, and The Ashers followed along as best we could.

And his gutsy laughter rang out across our blue, blue seas.

GoodonyaWatters

…From The Ashers xx

Coco:  There are two ways to have a baby.  The gross way and the hospital way.

Me:  So is the hospital way a caesarean and the gross way a vaginal birth?  Which is incidentally, more common.

Coco:  Ewww, you’re gross. I can’t believe you said vaginal to me.  I MEAN how the baby got in there.

Me:  Huh? What is the hospital way?  *Has visions of doctors and nurses shacked up in equipment cupboards*

Coco:  You know, a test-tube baby.  When a baby comes from a petri-dish. (Duh)

Me:  And the gross way is….?

Coco:  I’m not telling.  Liam knows, ask him.  *runs off*

Coco:  *yells over shoulder*  And you and Dad are gross.

So it appears my work here is done. Gross out people. 

Probably wouldn’t cut it as a Wicked Camper writer.  Go over and sign this petition

…From The Ashers xx

Some days, when you have a kid who has a thing, and when the thing gets too much, she can cry because your extra sensory perception wasn’t working properly, and you gave her porridge instead of corn flakes, or too much honey, or not enough honey, or the wrong coloured straw to drink her smoothie (that you really want her to drink, because she needs every bit of help she can get right now), or you are helping her to get dressed because she is so damn tired, and you choose the mauve knickers instead of the pink, all before your morning shower.  These are the days that you know you have to tell her.  It’s time to tell her.  Really, it’s unfair not to tell her, that today will be the day when she gets the blood taken for a cross-match.  But still you waver.

These are the days that when all the other kids are jostling around, and straggly lining-up to go into class to start the last day of school, you will be sitting in the school car-park after dropping the big one off, applying Emla to the tender skin of the inner arm.  Looking at the those thin blue streaks and hoping one of them will be plump enough to puncture.

These are the days when all the other kids are sitting on the mat in a circle, perhaps thinking about who they will play with at little lunch.  Your kid is sitting in a hospital waiting-room that smells of chlorhexidine and the ghost of urine, hopefully also thinking of who she will play with at little lunch, but more likely thinking about nurses and tourniquets and things that pierce vulnerable flesh to get to the life blood beneath.

So these days are the some days when you think it could all go pear-shaped.

And then it doesn’t.

You tell her that it’s today, and she doesn’t lose it.  Instead she looks at you, eyes so big and blue, innocent and wise all at once, sclera so yellow it’s almost green with the funk of excess bilirubin, and says, “Yes, I think I am ready for a transfusion, I pulled my eyelids down yesterday, and looked at my conjunctiva, look, they’re really pale.  I must be low.  Even though I’m not really that tired, only when I have to stand up for too long, then my legs get all wobbly.  And what is the plural for conjunctiva anyway, do you think it’s like the word octopus?”

These days, your heart leaps and lurches all at once.  It zings with relief, at the miracle of adaptation.  That the plasticity of the brain, and the wiring of the body, can allow a human adapt to almost any situation, given time.  Given the right conditions.  And in that very same moment, your heart feels denser than element 117 and just as unstable, as you yearn for a life for her that doesn’t know anything about haemoglobin or conjunctiva or local anaesthetic creams or blood typing or even hospitals and their strange layered smells.  You wish all there was was little lunch.  And then big lunch.  And shithouse spider craft.

Okay, this could be the last in these transfusion posts for a few months. Thanks for humouring me. 

…From The Ashers xx

I had a bit of a big day in the office today.  Lots of people in a bit of bother, lots more hoping to get in this week.  I’ve been a bit busy.   I got upstairs just in time to see the final reveals of the House Rules gardens.  Phew.

I was sitting quietly at the kitchen table, inhaling my dinner, when I happened upon an egg carton cut-off.  You know the bit where the eggs sits?  That bit.  It appeared to have some kind of pink glittery crap smeared haphazardly over it, so I knew from experience that, in this house, it would be known as “craft”.  In addition there were eight green bendy straws roughly taped to the cardboard.  I say roughly because only half of them were really securely attached.  I counted the straws again, yes, definitely eight.  Which led me to believe that this craft was indeed something specific.  I think it may be known as “spider”, or possibly “octopus”.  Hard to tell which.

I held it up gingerly between my thumb and forefinger. Not ginger because there was any realism- I was not afraid of being bitten by the thing that I shall refer to as spiderpus, as it was in fact the shittest piece of craft I have beheld in quite some time.  “What, in the name of all that is holy, is this crap?”  I asked Nath, who had been present at the time of presentation.

He looked at me deadpan, “It is in fact Coco’s spider.  She has been constructing it at school for quite some time.  Today there was a gallery of all of the mini-beasts, where the parents could view such monstrosities.  It is an egg carton with eight straws un-securely attached.  I suspect she will not get an A.  I also suspect we will not be accused of providing assistance, or craft hot-housing our child.”

At which point we started pissing ourselves.  Perhaps I was delirious from overwork and hypoglycaemia.  That could be part of it, but I shit you not, this spider is truly the worst piece of craft I have seen thus far, surpassing even the Liam designed tuna-box, cotton-wool-ball and pipe-cleaner scorpion of 2012.  We laughed until we had tears.  Tears of joy at being such crap parents, that not only have we not provided sufficient craft-nurturing for our children, but also that we would find their ineptitude so hilarious.  We laughed until I might have almost done a little bit of wee.  Wee of relief that our kids obviously hold craft in such low regard that it is unlikely that we will be requested to create crafterpieces over the looming school holidays.

I can’t help but think of all the other parents, filing past the gallery of mini-beasts, fake smiles plastered on their faces, saying things like, “Wow, another octopus-like creature.”  And,  “Ooh, look, a snake(?), bat(?), centipede(?), ummm, thing”.  And then they would have arrived at Coco’s.  There would have been no.words.

I know what you are thinking: that I’m a bit mean.  That the kid tried as hard as she could.  That spiders can be difficult to create.

Okay then, get a load of this:

It has NO EYES. Or fangs. (Among other deficiencies)

I rest my case.

…From The Ashers xx

Post Script: Liam just saw the creation and said, “What the hell is that?”  Coco looked up from her breakfast and said with a half-smile, “Spider.”  Liam scoffed.  I braced myself for tears of outrage, or some such.  Coco replied with a shrug, “Beauty is where you find it Liam.”

And for a kid who is mostly yellow-ish and has limited enamel on her teeth, that’s not a bad personal rule.

Touche kiddo, tou-bloody-che.

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

I had a friend once, she died a little minute ago, and I was her third best friend.

I know this because I shared my Five Friend Theory with her: that we can only have a certain number of friends in our lives, real friends that is, and I had deemed that I could have five friends, maybe seven at the outside.  So we jokingly made our lists, and then, continuing on with the laugh, ranked our friends in order.  So it became the Five Friend Theory and Ranking System.

I was her number three.

Not a great result, but not bad, as I was still in with a fighting chance should number one or two get sick, die, or put one of their prancyfancy little feet wrong.  “Third with a bullet” was how I liked to think of myself.

I didn’t invent the Five Friends Theory, a friend of a friend of mine did (I wasn’t on his list).  It was revealed to me in about 1993, and I have revered it ever since.  In my life I’ve found it extremely liberating, yet practical.

Someone at work is trying to get pally, suggesting after-work drinks and the like?  Sorry mate, you’re alright, but I already have my five friends.

Someone from the kids’ school trying to meet up for coffee and  impinge on your sitting-at-home-on-your-arse-staring-out-the-window time?  Sorry, I’d love to, but you see, I already have my five friends.

And on it goes.

Having such a list also clarifies things.  For example, if you find you are enjoying a chat with someone, and are tempted to see if they want to go for a walk to the National Park, or a trip to Ikea, first: consult the list.

Do you have a vacancy?

If yes, would you like to fill the vacancy?  (i.e. Are you taking applications?)

If no, can you create a vacancy by either eliminating someone, or putting them on the ‘drop off’ list? (The drop-off list is kind of like limbo)

See?  Very simple.  Sometimes there is a need to shuffle the rankings around a little, and of course fill vacancies, but other than that, the list maintains itself.  No time is wasted, forging friendships you can’t feasibly maintain.

So you can imagine my surprise and joy when Coco came home from school with a special little letter this week.  Special because it embodies all of the Five Friend Theory and Ranking System, then takes it to a whole new level of prestige and formality.

See for yourself:

It makes my heart swell to see the Five Friends Theory and Ranking System has reached the primary levels at school, and is being employed by seven year old girls.  I suspect the Grace may in fact be a little hasty in bestowing this honour on Coco as they have only met twice, but the sentiment is admirable none-the-less.

I don’t know who you are little Grace, but you made me cr-augh today.

Laugh at your intelligence and good sense in utilising the Five Friends Theory and Ranking System at such a young age.  It will save you much time in misspent and inefficient social engagements throughout your life.

Then you also made me cry.  Because I immediately wanted to show Hayls the certificate (and demand one of my own).  And then I remembered I couldn’t show her.

Because my third best friend is dead.

Still.

I know she would’ve read that note, and made the room full of her laugh.

I can imagine it perfectly.

And today, for that small thing, I am thankful.

Do you have a list?  I have a vacancy and it SUCKS.

…From The Ashers xx