I'd taken a few minutes to steal away from everyone.
Just me and my book. I'm a big re-reader of books. My husband thinks it's odd that I would want to read the same book over and over again, but I find a delicious familiarity in revisiting words, pages and stories.
This may make me weird, but I'm okay with that.
So I was on the beach with the biography of Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt and blithely ignoring the rapidly arriving clouds in the sky.
I'm also the eternal optimist. I was going to keep reading out there until the first raindrops fell.
A human sized shadow loomed over me and I sighed inwardly. Clearly break-time was over.
It was my darling Miss Medium.
"Can we build sandcastles mum?"
Another deep inward sigh.
But in fairness I'd read the book before and this was clearly going to be the chance for some special time with my daughter. Now she is in school full time, any moments I get where it's just her and me are important.
So I agreed.
I gave her my book to take back to our little hut and she skipped off to get her bucket and spade.
She came back with two little giggling girls in tow. I had suddenly become surplus to requirements.
And the sting was mighty.
I sat there on the sand watching them. They debated the merits of which fairy was the best one to be. The rainbow and tooth fairy were nominated joint first winners.
And then suddenly the two little girls flitted off. They'd been called in for lunch.
She looked at me lovingly and gestured to the unfinished castle.
We worked together on completing it. I listened closely as she chattered away.
I may no longer be her everything.
But I will always count for something.
That means the world to me.

Here are some fans waiting to get John's autograph during the shooting of "How I won the war" in 1966. Lucky!!!!

The world shifted over the weekend. Not metaphorically, but literally. And like so many others, I have watched the news with disbelief. The images are incredible in their ferocity, and in some way all the more terrifying because this is what happened.
It was real.
And I do what I always do when the horror of it all is overwhelming.
I scrub.
Not because I don't care, but because I care too much and fear the horror of it all will overwhelm me.
So I fill a bucket with soap and bleach and really hot water. And I get down on my hands and knees and scrub.
And then I go through room by room, systematically cleaning and polishing my house.
The offspring are like a line of worker ants, all on stand by ready to help out.
Husband takes off outside, and is seen sweeping up leaves and dusting off the cobwebs.
The music is cranked loud and occasionally we conga line the rubbish bags outside.
And for a while at least, order in my universe is restored.
I take comfort in the frangipani scented candles burning in the house and the liberal sprays of cleaning polish throughout.
It's beautiful and safe.
And then we all go out together.
We did so this weekend. We went on a glorious school picnic, we visited animal refuges and we tasted sushi and pasta. We laughed and played together.
And now the offspring are running round the garden as husband sprays them with the hose.
It's safe and beautiful here.
I know elsewhere it isn't.
The world shifted irrevocably on the weekend.
But I was so lucky. This weekend was our oasis. Our time away from it all.
My heart is with those who had no such escape.

The last couple of months have seen some sucky decision making on my part. But Feb 28th was definitely the nadir.
At least I sincerely hope it was.
Here's to March being a new month and I will see my decision making skills rise phoenix like, out of the ashes of previously poor decision making.
Remember how I blithely talked about if I was going to be community minded it would involve cute and fluffy things? Because at heart I am supremely shallow.
Well our most recent foster placement was a mother and her two kitties. All sweet and furry thus far.
Except the mother got cat flu which she promptly passed on to her fur babies.
There was one white one and one black one.
We spent the weekend shovelling antibiotics and fluids down the throat of the black one and she started to turn the corner on Sunday.
Sadly her little white sister became ill on Saturday. By Monday it was clear to me that even without a degree in vet science and with only rudimentary skills in kitten care that she was very ill.
So Mr Small and I trundled back down the to Cat Haven to consult with the vet.
The vet was lovely and kind, but we reached the same painfully sad conclusion. Little kitten had no reserves to fight the pneumonia and she was struggling to breathe.
The vet gently took her from my hands, while Mr Small provided some distraction by choosing the same moment to fling himself round my ankles in a rugby tackle. (Thank heavens for small boys!)
I couldn't look as she took her next door into the theatre.
Instead I sobbed behind my dark sunglasses while Mr Small helped me carry the remaining kitten back to reception.
The kind staff there passed me tissues as I pulled myself together and stopped Mr Small from systematically disembowelling various cat toys.
Decisions like this one are very tough.
They are a reminder that right decisions are often very painful.
I never envisaged this as being one of the elements of foster caring.
And I know for the short time she was with us, she was loved and cared for.
It still sucks though.

I was a keen swimmer for many years. Did the club thing. The early morning training for years. It was a form of meditation, a stress reliever in a way. Just the ploughing up and down the pool on my own was wonderful. Well that's the way nostalgia paints it anyhow.
So these past eight years of parenting have forced me to look at swimming somewhat differently. Going swimming has meant military planning and precision. It's meant endless changing of small, wriggly people. It's meant holding them in the pool as they find their balance, working to increase their confidence and offering a constant stream of encouragement.
It's meant being at DEFCOM 4 or something equally high alert to ensure each tadpole or frog isn't off doing something beyond their capability, or being ready to swim to the rescue if they are.
Like much of motherhood the shift in focus from me to "them" has taken a little getting accustomed to. I'd be lying if I didn't say I haven't felt resentful on occasion. Swimming used to be "my" thing. And it isn't anymore.
As most people know we are in the grip of a seemingly endless heatwave here. It's has been mercilessly hot. And today, with Nonna and Poppa back in town and their swimming pool acting as some sort of siren call, I told the offspring they were going swimming.
Within minutes all 3 were dressed and ready to go with a change of clothes by the door.
They marched out obediently clutching their towels and hats.
Today they all jumped and started swimming.
By themselves.
Oh sure, I got called in to play mermaids with one, sharks with another and to rescue Mr Small who has a pathological terror of the pool cleaner when it came near.
But mostly they did their own thing.
And as I watched them I felt a bit sad.
Empty, almost.
I didn't take the chance to swim up and down the pool. Instead I watched them play happily. Totally and utterly absorbed.
Clearly my role has changed.
And so we packed up. They all changed themselves, placed their wet things in the bags. And they ran off happily shouting to cuddle Nonna and Poppa.
Leaving me with the bags.
So I'm not totally redundant it seems.
Excellent.

Read more »

I always find it takes a few weeks into term to find my "swing."
You know the swing that lets you juggle the constant round new things. Including, but not limited to extra curricular commitments of swimming, tennis and music.
Because right now so much of this is brand new. From teaching Miss Medium how to tie her shoelaces, through to the borrowing of a keyboard from the grandparents for the piano lessons.
It's figuring out what will stick and what will fall by the wayside.
Already I can see Miss Medium loving the music, while Mr Large counts down the days to his next swimming lessons. Meanwhile Mr Small doesn't care what we do as long as he is front and centre with the action.
It's constant checking and rechecking the diary. Yes I can do that meeting as long as so and so is here and x and y go there.
And sometimes it all falls in a heap.
And I take a deep breath and we start of over.
But really at the end of the day. Amidst the ferrying, the juggling of deadlines and the incessant almost relentless heat
they know this.

I will do my utmost to fill their life with love.
And sweet surprises.

V-J Day in Times Square, a photograph by Alfred Eisenstaedt, was published in Life in 1945 with the caption, In New York's Times Square a white-clad girl clutches her purse and skirt as an uninhibited sailor plants his lips squarely on hers.

Dear Lori

So much I wish I could say to you.
I just want you to know you are surrounded by love.
And those of us on the internet are keeping you and Tony in our thoughts, prayers, and sending warmest wishes.
And our family lit these and prayed for you.

If you aren't already aware a donate account has been set up for Lori and her family. Please help if you can.

Keeping you, Tony and your family in our hearts.

love

Sarah

There are half unpacked suitcases strewn throughout the house. The offspring are playing (mostly) happily with their toys, and finally there is some time to reflect.
After the months of stresses, the last minute flurries and anxieties, suddenly it was upon us.
Christmas Eve. And so, with our offspring in tow, we went to the children's mass at the Cathedral in Sydney.
It's hard to hide tears when you watch three little heads excitedly bob up and down as they join in the singing of the carols. Husband and I exchanged grins as they exclaimed over the Nativity Scene, and we helped to steady nervous little hands, as they lit candles to honour the memories of family members who were and always will be absent from our Christmas festivities.
The pang of sorrow I will always feel about my aunt and godmother was ever present. But we have learned to co-exist this pain and I. She may be gone, but the love? That was and will always remain.
Christmas day itself was magical.
My brother and sister in law opened their heart and home to us. This was despite the fact they had become parents again only days before.

From the delicious cinnamon rolls Kenna baked for us, through to the pecan pies my brother made as well as my mum's cooked turkey and hams, there was a veritable feast for all.
It was of course, served on plastic plates and eaten using knives and forks of the same vintage. When you're moving house in a couple of weeks and the house itself is about to be knocked down, it's the perfect way to eat.

There was an amazing wine tasting session and the introduction of a new family tradition called "Dirty Santa." And naturally there was  a continual stream of jokes that left my sides aching from laughter the next day.
We watched as the offspring and their cousins played on the "slip and slide"outside, and all day I felt total contentment.
That this Christmas, that was spent on the other side of Australia, in a house that will be demolished in a few short weeks was the perfect place for us all to be.
In some way, this rundown, almost ramshackle home symbolised exactly what Christmas means to me. That it doesn't matter really what it all looks like at all, it's the love we are surrounded by that really counts.
I hope you and yours had a wonderful time

xxx

We've only been there twice, but we refer to it as "our place."
On Saturday we spent the day clattering helter-skelter from one place to another. We had a divide and conquer policy going on.
I did the swimming lessons, the birthday party drop off and pick up, the two, yes TWO trips to the local fete. This was so that all the offspring got to experience the fun of lucky dips, rides and the sheer pleasure of the crowds wandering around in pursuit of a bargain, or just enjoying the pleasure of a family day out.
He did the renovation preparation for the start of Stage 2 of the works. Much messier, dustier and involving shifting innumerable items from one room to another.
Suffice to say we'd have both happily crawled into bed at 6pm for a dreamless sleep for 12 hours if we'd been able to.
But we'd booked the restaurant, the babysitter and my dress was hanging, freshly ironed in the cupboard begging to be taken out.
So amidst great yawns we dressed up and headed out.
To our place.
The little Italian restaurant that's tucked away just streets from the beach. And we enjoyed delicious food, wonderful wine and remembered.
We remembered how to laugh again. We reminisced, we planned and we dreamed together.
And I thought as I always do after a night out how exceptionally lucky I am.
And the week ahead seems filled with promise and happiness, instead of dust and delays.
That's what date night always does.
Well at "our place" anyway.

My memories are fleeting. One of two little girls in swim suits running giggling through sprinklers, another, of two little girls playing dress ups.
The closest I ever really came to having a sister.
It was reading Caroline Overington's powerful book "I came to say good-bye" that sparked the recollection.
A brief time, during the halcyon days of my childhood before it was marred by our own tragedy. For a period of time my parents fostered a little girl.
It was an emergency situation. The little girl's regular foster carer wasn't available and the social worker was desperate to find her a temporary home. Neither of her parents could care for her, both of them inconveniently being sentenced to jail at the same time. Previously, they'd both managed to stagger their jail time. Regardless, Keenie spent much of her time in care.
And so, she came to us.
A frightened, almost mute little girl who my father was warned not to attempt to hug. The legacy of her abuse meant that she was terrified of men.
Within days she joined in the rough and tumble of play with me and my brothers.
We laughed and giggled and played endlessly together.
And for weeks, every night my father would tuck all of us into bed and cuddle us, with the exception of Keenie. He would wave or wish her a warm "good night!"
Until the day when having embraced us all, he turned to leave the room only to be asked by Keenie: "Where's my hug?"
It was, he said, like winning the lottery. Only better.
My parents would have adopted Keenie. Like us, they loved her.
But the system doesn't work that way.
The regular foster carer returned.
The parents, or one of them anyway, was released from jail.
Keenie was forced to leave us.
Weeks later when my parents saw her they greeted her lovingly.
She turned away.
My parents never fostered again after that. They had loved too much and even now the pain of that parting is evident. It takes an incredibly special person to do it.
All these years later I wonder what happened to Keenie and her family.
I told my parents I hoped the love they'd shown her during the time she lived with us helped sustain her. They didn't seem persuaded.
Sadly, neither was I.

Now you all know me well enough by now to know that I am usually pleased when things go well for others. For instance, if you get a promotion at work, or a book deal, or even find the perfect outfit on sale, you can tell me and I'm going to be delighted for you.
Occasionally I might be tiny bit envious. But only a wee bit.
Mostly however, I'll be plain glad.
Now this past week has been a busy one. I've had deadlines, a house move, a certain offspring who is crying at the drop of a hat. Actually, the hat doesn't even have to drop for her to start crying, it's getting her to stop that's the problem. Trying to work out strategies for someone who won't stop crying is quite stressful.
Each night I have had nocturnal visitors at least 3 or 4 times and gravely listened to their woes and snuggled them back to sleep.
There have been swimming lessons, tutoring, sunburn and playdates.
In a word, it's been busy.
Now in all that time Husband has not been idle. He has been very busy too. I know that.
He has a job that demands long hours and occasional travel. That's fine. Well usually it's fine. He's an awesome father and great partner. We've worked really well on this renovation together and have loved the challenge of it all.
But yesterday, after a long and tiring day I recieved a text.
It did not say: "Darling, I know how hard you've been working. Tell you what, I'll book you into the local day spa and have whatever relaxation treatment you want."
Wouldn't that have been nice?
Instead it said he had been invited to a corporate golf day the next day and he wouldn't be home for dinner.
I immediately texted the reply tired and overwrought wives the world over will understand.
"Whatever."
Immediately the reply came through plaintively asking why I wasn't happy for him. After all it was the first time he'd been invited and he was very excited at the opportunity.
So I bit my tongue and tried to hide the fierce jealousy I had. Not very well as it happens. I sulked most of the evening and watched the news by myself.
Now this next bit may make you think I am a VERY BAD PERSON. But actually I am merely a very tired person who is not at her best right now.
In the end I persuaded him I was happy for him and to go play golf and have a great time.
I'd seen the weather forecast by then.
Yes.
Just as his group teed off today we had the first rain we've had here for months. And it was torrential.

PS I do love you honey. You just need to work on your texting skills.

At the risk of sounding like Pollyanna I'm going to say it anyway. This weekend I am thankful for the wonderful people who rallied round and ensured that my daughter had a blissfully happy birthday.
Thank you to everyone who emailed, messaged, gave advice, endured my tearful phone calls and chipped in. I can't say tell you how much your kind words and practical help meant. Because of you this is what happened......
My daughter had a really Happy Birthday, which was all I ever wanted for her.

Little organza goody bags and lunchboxes were adored by all the miniature guests and opened with squeals of excitement.




I love my girl.
Thank you all so much. It was the happiest of birthdays!

Recently I have discussed whinged constantly about sleep deprivation. Before you think I am horribly ungrateful I want to explain that I have always adored my offspring, my lambies.
When they were newborns I would leap out of bed at their first murmur, c-section stitches be damned.
Having lost a brother to SIDS there were nights where I would sit for hours by their cots watching their tiny chests rise and fall, knowing they wouldn't silently slip away from me. Not on my watch.
I tell you all this because I need you to know I'm pretty good on surviving on limited sleep. I happily and willingly do it.
BUT
In recent months as Mr Small has morphed from babyhood into the equally adorable toddlerhood; where he runs around looking like Donald Duck with his white nappied bottom constantly disappearing round corners, well, things have started to change.
I've become used to sleeping all night.
It's been lovely.
Bliss.
So recently when Mr Small started waking nightly I carried on.
Cuddles, kisses, a drink and back to bed.
Then things spiralled out of control.
He was in and out of our room no less than 15 times a night.
He was even turning on the lights in his bedroom and upending EVERYTHING in it.
We tried all the right strategies and some wrong ones too. Well wrong for him anyway.
I simply had no clue what was wrong with my lambie, and quite frankly I think I went slightly demented. I was seeing life through a fuzzy coloured lens. When my children asked me for ice-cream I would say yes. When they asked for second helpings, I would say yes, and thirds. You get the picture.
When husband phoned to say he was on his way home and did I need anything picked up, guess what I would ask for? and no, it wasn't green salad.
There is also the fact that this is my THIRD child. You'd think I'd know what I was doing by now. But I never had this problem with my older two. Or maybe I've blocked it out.
Anyway I'd laugh and chat with people during the day, only occasionally letting my neurotic angst overflow. Please also bear in mind I'm pretty physically tired. I'm only a week or so out from my final exams for the Bronze Medallion, and it doesn't matter how many times I was up in the night I still had to be at the beach some days for a couple of hours hard training.
So when my mother caught up with me the other day I told her despairingly of my woes and sorrows.
And she suggested a solution.
And I immediately tried it.
It was painless.
It was old fashioned.
And we don't talk about it in polite society. Apparently ever.
Everyone got to partake.
And since then?
Mr Small has slept soundly.
And so have I.
Can you guess what her solution was?
Turns out
mother ALWAYS knows best.
Well mine does, that's for sure.
ETA I will supply the correct answer in the comments section in the next day or so, unless one of you gets it first!