Category: family

Easter Sunday morning

I am not a morning person. Except, on the morning I lifted my head to see my two boys both sitting up in their beds looking through the uncurtained windows of our now bat-proof, but unlikely-to-ever-be-powered shack, windows through which I had, the night before and for several February nights, watched the waning moon rise, windows through which my boys were silently watching the sun come up over the almost-deserted bay where we have, and will, walk and fish and play and whose extremeties we will surely one day find…for that moment, while the soft round cheeks of the round-cheeked one glowed fading shades of gold, and the brown-eyed one held a pillow in his lap, for that particular moment, I was.

A happy tale of woe

The printer, once turned on, makes a soft, but annoying, whining sound and nothing more. No lights, no whirrs, no beeps. I have unplugged it, shifted it, hit it with varying degrees of gentleness, but all to no avail. It’s stuffed.

This limits my choice of readings to those pieces of which I have a clean and readable copy. This simplifies things to the point that I don’t have to think, and I do often like it when life works that way. When the universe says here is how it is. Hopefully, the Easter shopping will be dealt with similarly. Unlikely, I know, so I have started the shopping list.

Of course when I take the printer to the shop, they will say it’s cheaper to buy another one although I am very happy with this one, and at this stage, can’t really justify buying myself another one which also does photocopying.

In the meantime, I have been flicking through a photo album with a man who sighs and says ‘more forgetteries than memories these days’. And then he laughs and so do I, because we both like our own jokes.

And does the person know you’re ringing on their behalf?

This is a question I have been asked many times this week as my family – or at least one branch of it – enters the time when a loved and cherished part of the family begins to grow too old to live the independent life he – and, on his behalf, we – enjoys.

All families have their own nuances to be negotiated and so we have ours. In particular, the natural order of things has been disrupted, for both of his children have died. And so we are a loving, but cobbled crew proud to be called on, soulfully sad that this is how it is.

One thing in our favour: we are all in general agreeance. One thing not: we don’t know what is right.

‘But,’ I want to say to all those who ask does he know you’re calling on his behalf, ‘I fully understand why you ask, and I fully agree that you should. But you can trust us. We are not trying to take control of his life. We respect that he has cared for himself all these last 30 years. We know that we should not impose the values of our life onto his. We understand. But like I said, we wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t right. You can trust us.’

There’s no one answer to age (though if you have it, you will let me know, won’t you?).

Meanwhile, my children have invented a game. It is a simple game where one or other of them drapes himself across the bath in various unsafe ways generally involving bridges made of legs. Then, the other one of them rolls metal marbles from the set of magnetic sticks and balls from one end of the bath to the other while the draped one tries to catch or jump on them. Occasionally, they get cross with each other and one or other of them throws a metal marble at his brother. Unlike me, they are quite good shots. The whole thing is as dangerous as it is loud and I say they can play it as long as they close the bathroom door.

I think it’s called feng shui

shoes.jpg

In order to clear my mind, we (yes, the whole household has come along for this particular ride) must first clear the study – a fancy name for a room with two doors, one directly across from the bathroom, the other leading off the kitchen, and together forming a most excellent circuit for young boys, with or without underpants on their heads, chasing each other around and around around.

In order to clear the study, we must first clear the studio – a fancy name for a lined, but leaking shed.

And in order to clear the studio we must first clear the shed – a fancy name for a small toolshed down the back, unlined and also with a leak.

Boxes which have moved from house to house to a shed in the Riverland while we were overseas, then from house to house to here, have been dealt with. Finally. Treasures uncovered. Boyfriend catchers from Mexico and the shoes I wore on the trans-Siberian train. If I blog them, I say, then I can throw them out. Long-standing what-should-we-do-with-these puzzles solved. The towels are rain-damaged now and put in the hard rubbish pile. A box of glasses we got as a wedding present. Who did give us those? No, no, I’m sure it’s our wedding, not your twenty first.

So, that’s the shed. Next week, the studio.

lost and found


lost and foundOriginally uploaded by adelaide writer.

‘Did you pick the necklace up from the windowsill?’

Unfortunately, he didn’t ask until we were back in our own loungeroom, half a continent away from said windowsill. When I woke up the next morning – still not sure whether ‘housekeeping’ had found it, because by the time I rang they’d ‘gone for the day’ – I had that dreadful feeling you have when you know there is something you wish were different and as soon as you wake up a little bit more you’ll remember what it was.

I’ve had this – not sure what to call it, necklace? chain? – for a long time now. Seven years, or maybe eight. It is one of the loveliest pieces of jewellery the mister has ever given to me. Maybe the loveliest. It came from a significant place and he gave it to me at what I thought was a significant time.

So when I realised I’d left it behind I was all those things you would expect me to be.

I wasn’t really cross with myself for taking it on our trip. I wear all my precious things whenever I want to. I nearly lost my nanna’s wedding and engagement rings forever, because I involved myself in an elaborate hiding game and still believed that my memory was infallible (which it more or less is, but not quite). My mum gave them to me for my twenty-first birthday and they were the last significant birthday gift she gave me before she died, so they were pretty precious. But I did get a bit stupid about them. In the six months they were missing, I learnt a lot about having precious things to wear. Cherish them, but enjoy them too, and never believe that if anything happens to them you won’t survive.

Anyway, I found the rings. And here, only three phonecalls, two weeks and $7.60 COD later, my necklace is back.

Smiles all round. Except for the little boy whose flu has become an ear infection. The Goddess help us if this family is ever called on in our country’s neediest hour. He will be no stoic soldier and I’m no Florence Nightingale.

Have you got your bucket out?

There is a little boy at the side of the bed. Can we put the reindeers water out? Tomorrow is Christmas Day.

I am not cross that I have been woken a little earlier than I would have liked. There are things to do. Not too many, but enough to fill the day.

The mister has already – yesterday – scrubbed the bathroom and mown the lawn. I have vacuumed the study and the hall. The children’s bedroom is a mess and I think but it will only get worse. We need to sweep the verandah and get the grevillea in. It will die if it stays in that pot.

At lunchtime, we will open the ham. The ham is vacuum-packed and has a calico bag. It is kept in the fridge at the back (plugged in on Friday afternoon). The ham comes every year. A building industry gift. People laugh – vegetarians with ham – but they gobble it up and say that’s good. The mister and I sneak pieces on Christmas night, then again on Boxing Day. FirstCat wants a piece of ham (I’m organic, not vegetarian). We said we’ll open it on Christmas Eve and you can have a slice for lunch.

Is it lunchtime yet?

I am on salads and dessert, so there is not much more cooking I can do. I will make the pesto (almond) and the dressing (sesame oil). Everything else is best done fresh. There will be a lot of Chinese cabbage left. I only need five leaves, but they weren’t selling them in halves. The bombe looks less glorious than it should and I’m worried about the meringue. How wrong can ice cream go?

The bubbles of red are chilling and there’s white for just in case. My brother will bring the beer. We will get the ice in the morning. Is it ten the bottle shops close?

The phone has rung once this morning and now twice. I had better ring my grandfather to let him know he’s with us for lunch and around the corner for tea, but the phone call must be timed. His memory is not what it was, and phone calls worry him. He rings back moments later to confirm and then again because he has written it down, but can’t remember that we spoke. He leaves messages if we aren’t here. It is a hard to line to tread. The one between patronising and what’s best. I will ring him soon.

Can you watch me on the trampoline, can we see the reindeers yet? Not yet, my love, not yet.

There’s the tent to check. First aid kit is still on the list, but mosquito nets is not. The batteries all need to be recharged. Remember what happened last trip? We have roofracks fitted to the car.

First text of the day to the granny who lives far away. Dear Nana Do you have your bucet ful of water and are you wating for your presents. We will ring her tomorrow and probably this afternoon and perhaps tonight. I told her the other day I’m making the bombe, the one you taught me. And she said really and I said yes. She said I was just looking at the crystal tree, the one you gave me last year. It was the best present I gave anyone.

I went to the advent carols service and am planning for Christmas Eve. I go – when I do – to the Pilgrim church in town and if you asked me, I couldn’t tell you why. I will catch the tram, and the tree in Victoria Square – lit in white – will make me think of Christmases that haven’t been. They’re cheesy, but I like Christmas lights.

I’m making cupcakes with my boys. The secret ingredient: almond meal. Tomorrow morning, in the quiet hours after the presents and before my nephew arrives and before we pick my grandfather up, we will ice the cakes in a shade of green which I hope is delicate. Depends who puts the colouring in. There are jaffas to balance on top.

There are presents to finish off and a mountain to wrap. We have painted canvases, put fabric paint on undies. There are glittery cards all round. The mister’s present is fabulous and I am hiding it in the boot. I don’t know where mine is. SecondCat has done his best, but secrets are hard when you’re four. We have made you a wheelbarrow he says in the way he has been taught. We’ve got you a washing machine. Oh, I say, then he says no, it’s a beautiful vase. FirstCat tells him off, the mister laughs.

At some point today – perhaps around four – when the list of things to do stretches longer than the time, the mister and I will argue about priorities and how things should be done and how they should have been. It will not last long. Tomorrow is Christmas Day.

Happy Christmas all.