The last week.

The 4 Little Travellers

By this time next week, our currently bustling and busy house will be packed up, locked and lifeless. The fridge will be bare, the hot water service turned off and the outdoor furniture will be awkwardly stacked inside. The Little Travellers shell collection will lay dormant until next year.

It is our last week.

I really don't like this week. I've done this week before. I know how it ends and it's not pretty.

As sunny as it may be, a large grey leaving cloud will hover over our heads this week. The sun will peek through cheerily as people arrive for last minute catch ups and boozy lunches, but eventually the time will come. The final goodbye. The leaving cloud will sink lower, a little closer, a little darker. 

I have a shopping list on my refrigerator of last minute things. Things I haven't seen in Qatar that I can find here easily. They're not important, but they can be, particularly when you don't have them.  The hundreds and thousands for the fairy bread, the tins of passion fruit for the pavlova, the Delicious magazine and the pink ear plugs for swimming lessons. We can live without all of these things, but having them might just save us from that homesick moment that arrives when you just wish you could duck down to Woolies or Coles. 

Over the next week we'll become desperate, like those on the last day before starting a diet. We'll gorge ourselves on as much of Australia as we can.  The last appointment with the favourite hairdresser, the last trip to the bakery, the final visit to the winery around the corner. There will be long trips to the beach, lengthy chats with the nice lady at the local library, the pharmacist, the guy at the petrol station. People that we have seen on a daily/weekly basis for the past three months, people who have become friends. All conversations will end with the same theme. 

Goodbye.

I know we have to go back. I know this is the right thing for us. I know that I'll be sad, then happy, then sad, then happy. I know that the cloud will lift and I will once again embrace my geographical schizophrenia and be thankful for all that it offers. In the meantime though, I really don't like this last week.

I really don't like goodbye.

How about you? Any tips on farewells?

Special Agents

I'm the Head of the Agency. Well, that's what the Little Travellers are calling me. They call me that or "Boss". They are a team of special agents, each with their own special personality. The eldest tells me she is the crazy leader "Oh, like Gadaffi?" I asked, "no, I'm much more fun". The second is the brainiac, the third and fourth have super powers and do whatever their older sisters tell them "it works better that way" they tell me.

They are all living in the car. By the amount of what I've seen be carried out the door, it looks like they will be there for the remainder of the year. It appears to be cold where they are going, everyone is wearing a hat, gloves and scarf. Strangely, they are all wearing t-shirts. The third and fourth travellers have laid the seats of the van back, turned their car seats upside down and are pretending to be spacemen. They have their heads pushed back against the seats, ready for the impending G force. Every now and then, they begin to count back for "take-off" and are abruptly reminded "NOT YET" by their leader.

They've have all just been inside for what they have called an "emergency meeting" or what I would call "lunch" and have filled me in on the story as I've worked on their sandwich requests.

They received a call from Head Office, the dinosaurs have entered our world, they got in through the portal. It is their job as special agents to head in to the portal to "shut it down". They are armed with torches, a map of Parliament House (except of course it's not Parliament House it's the portal), and a tube of lip balm.

I know at some stage there will be a fight. My guess is Gadaffi will probably remind the team at a crucial point that it is not a democracy, that she is in fact a dictator. If history is an indicator, there will be an uprising and the second little traveller will organize a revolution. The third and fourth little traveller will follow whoever is offering the better bribe. The words "I'm telling Mum" will set off a chain reaction and I will have four little faces in front of me, all sharing their version of how it all went terribly wrong.

In three weeks we will be back in Qatar. The 'portal' will have been returned to the car rental company. The little travellers and I shall walk back in to the school gates and find our new teachers and classrooms. Swimming lessons, basketball and music classes will begin. They will re-unite with their friends from school and talk of homework, future birthday parties and tag games at recess.

While all of this happening, I will continue on with my geographical schizophrenia. It will be great to be back in to a routine, to catch up with friends, to watch the travellers reunite with theirs. A little piece of me though, will be at this table, looking out at a portal, full of secret agents hunting dinosaurs.

Gwendoline Gleeson

I didn't know Gwendoline Gleeson.  I don't know if people called her Gwen or maybe Gwenny. I know she was a mother but I don't know how many children she had. I don't know if she worked outside of the home, volunteered or cooked a mean lamb roast. All I know is that she was an 89 year old lady, living in a nursing home. An 89 year old lady who was strapped to a toilet and then left for two hours. Forgotten.

She died.

Yesterday I went to see my GP. For various reasons, I had had a series of blood tests last week and I was going back in for the results. It turns out I'm fine, but I'm showing some signs of age. I was saying how unfit I was after breaking my ankle and my GP replied "yes, and some of it is probably your age, you're just getting older". I forced a smile, reminded myself that she too was my age and decided it was time for glass of wine.

If you've been lucky enough to escape a serious illness,  ageing in your twenties can mean a slower recovery from a hangover or perhaps a need for the occasional early night. In your thirties you might end up needing an arthroscopy, moles removed, or if you're unlucky you might do your back in.

In your forties, things start to get a bit more serious. People begin to suggest you get your cholesterol checked, you notice your teeth don't look the same and then one day you realize your ears are still growing but your head's not. Why is that?

My girlfriend commented the other day that her husband had a stray hair growing out of his nose, not the inside, the outside. Right in the middle of his nose. "I think you might be sleeping with an old man" another girlfriend joked. Everyone laughed but the truth was, if he was an old man, we were all old women.

I think most of us don't want to get old, not just because we gain a sense of our own mortality but we can see what's in our future. We're an ageing population, we see the decline of the human body and mind all around us. Walking frames, meals on wheels and incontinence pads are not sexy.

Nobody wants to be reminded that one day we may find ourselves in the same position as Gwendoline Gleeson, completely dependent on the kindness of others. We don't want to be reminded that we won't only lose the ability to do certain things, but we may also lose our dignity in the process. Or perhaps, like in Gwendoline's case, we'll have our dignity stolen. How do you want to die? How do you want to be remembered? I imagine it's not strapped to a toilet.

Gwendoline Gleeson, died of a heart attack last August. If that was all there was to the story, it wouldn't have become a news item. I wouldn't know her name.

I know her name because she was strapped to a toilet and left, she had a heart attack and then died. She was found on the next nursing shift, two hours later. The nursing home that she was living in, had a total of 30 beds. It doesn't sound very big does it? Thirty beds.

I didn't know Gwendoline Gleeson but I hope it's a long time before her story is forgotten. She should never be forgotten again.

Road trip

We've been back in Australia for just over two months now and I think about a month of that has been spent in the car. Between the various check ups and catch ups,  we've also made many long haul trips to Granny's house. Granny is a four hour drive away and her home made milkshakes are worth every kilometre.

In order for a four hour road trip to be successful when traveling with children, I stick with one rule. It's a rule I learnt from my Father, perhaps you could call it a family tradition. It is this:

If you are under the age of 21, all rights are surrendered upon entering the vehicle.

You will travel much like a hostage, your gag may be invisible but trust me, it's there. Your vote is null and void. Don't bother suggesting a radio station, a toilet break or a possible chance of hot chips. Do not ask questions, do not ask about the music. All suggestions are futile.

For me, a road trip means a chance to turn up the radio, maybe listen to a bit of Richard Fidler, grab a take-away latte and enjoy watching the The Little Travellers tortured faces in the rear vision mirror. If I want to crank up the pain factor I only have to find a classic rock station and belt out a few favourites from the 80's, preferably at the traffic lights with the window down.

Although, my favourite part of the journey is listening to the conversations coming from the back of the car. Someone will inevitably try to pick a fight to liven up the trip. "Stop looking out of my window" is a personal favourite of our youngest little traveler. This, of course, will ensure the other three travellers will find exciting objects only visible through his window for the next two hours.

The second little traveller will torture the third with the fact that she still has her electronic game while he has lost his. She will not share. With a perfect exhibition of I'm willing to make myself look like a complete idiot to get up your nose, he will tell her "I'm wearing your underwear". She will ignore him until he backs it up with "I just farted in it". She will raise her eyes only long enough to give him the death stare. He will then be forced to go for the jugular. His best shot. "And I used your toothbrush....while I was farting in your underwear".

I know I should find these comments frustrating and juvenile, but I actually really enjoy them. Perhaps because they take me back to my own childhood, of drawing a line in the middle of the back seat that was never to be crossed....and then crossing it. Guessing the colour of the next car to drive past, the number of licence plate, the next piece of road kill. Pretending to see a streaker running on the side of the road (that was my personal favourite).

I agree that sometimes when the noise level escalates and the "Mum he's touching me"  is on high rotation, a road trip can be about as much fun as a pap smear, actually a pap smear is far more relaxing. However, when it comes to family memories, those trips to Granny's house will always be about more than just the milkshakes.

Just remember the rules.









Do you have any memorable road trip stories? Or your own set of rules?

It's almost perfect.

It's almost perfect.

The table that I'm sitting at, while I tap away on my laptop, is on the side of a cliff. As much as I focus on the screen, the sound of the waves is a regular, constant reminder of where I am. The waves are in time with the sounds of The Little Travelers, crash, squeal, crash, squeal.

Every now and then I stand up and walk over to the edge to see them. Jeans rolled up, shoes left by the bottom of the stairs. I will find the remnants of the sand and the sea shells in the bottom of the washing machine tomorrow.

The rules are when the sun hits the sea its time to come back up. They wont. I will stand waving with both arms above my head until one of them will look up, smile, nod and tell the others “its time!”

Behind me is my favourite FAVOURITE restaurant. The restaurant that G and I went to eleven years ago, the day before The First Little Traveler was born. “It'd be great to have a place down here” said G. I wasn't a beach person. I didn't get it.

Three streets away is our little beach house. The house we waited eleven years and seven countries to have. The house with the amazing neighbours who have ended up meaning more to the Little Travelers than we could have ever hoped for. Remember that incredibly special Aunt or Uncle you had as a child? That's them. 

It's almost perfect.

As I type. G is in his office looking at a different sea, a Gulf, an Arabian Gulf. He is thousands of miles away. It's hot and the humidity is so overpowering that walking outside feels like an outdoor sauna. “It's like walking through soup” a girlfriend said the other day. I've watched those with glasses walk out of an air-conditioned building only to be blinded by the fog on their lenses.  It's like opening the dishwasher seconds after its finished its cycle. Whoosh. 

There's a chill in the air as we make our way back to the beach house. Little feet are covered in sand with goose bumps running up legs. The Fourth Little Traveler is dragging the cricket bat along the road as we walk. "It's cold when the sun goes down" he says, "How many sleeps until Dad gets here?"

"Thirteen more sleeps" I say.

Then, it will be perfect.

It's not what you say it's...

The Third Little Traveler is feeling a bit sad and I'm not sure how to fix it.

While I was cooking dinner last night he came to join me. As we peeled potatoes together he asked "why does everyone make fun of the way I speak?"

I didn't have an immediate answer so I stalled by pretending I didn't understand.

"When I talk people copy me, they say I sound American, they laugh and repeat what I'm saying". I knew what he was referring to, I'd been there for a few of the conversations. I'd laughed along with everyone else, including the Third Little Traveler. It appears he's been putting on a brave face.

I don't really understand why, but he's had more of a North American influence than his other siblings. We left Canada over two years ago, but the accent has stayed. Maybe it's habit, maybe it's choice. He's seven, I don't really think about it and I imagine his accent will change again over the years.

Others, mostly our friends from home, appear to have problem with it though.

"You need to do something about his American accent" someone said within hours of us hitting the Tarmac. An old school friend recently said in disgust "Ugh, I couldn't handle it if my child spoke with an American accent". Both times I smiled, reminded them that G was an expat child who initially spoke with an American accent. Both times I reminded them that within six months of being back in Australia it was gone and he was speaking "Queensland" again. 

Until last night I hadn't asked myself why I tell that story. Why I'm apologizing for the way my child speaks.

I'm not apologizing any more. 

My child is exactly that. My child. I would like for him to not wear his good shoes to the beach. I would like for him to brush his teeth everyday. I would like him to stop fidgeting in circle time at school. And I would really like it if he stopped making experiments that involved rockets, sand and wine corks under his bed.

Most of all though. I would like for him to speak with thought and respect. I want him to speak his mind, speak from his heart and speak with kindness. 

We teach our children not to judge others by the colour of their skin. Do we really need to then remind them not to judge on the inflection of their vowels? 

Or maybe we should all aim to be as talented as Amy Walker and flip our accents accordingly. Take a look at this, she's bloody good.

Any suggestions or experiences for the Third Little Traveler?

Teachers

The First Little Traveler began school in Libya, she went to a British school and came home saying "sweeties" rather than "lollies" and began referring to me as "Mamaaaaaaaaah".  A few years later her and the second little traveler were at school in Canada, they learnt all of the provinces and sang the Canadian Anthem in French. The Lollies that became Sweeties were now Candy. Next it was Texas, they pledged allegiance to the flag of the United States of America each morning and talked about Abraham Lincoln with stars in their eyes.

Although each education system was vastly different, there was one commonality. The teachers. Without scanning through photos I can picture each one of their faces now as I type. I can see their classrooms, the little chairs that we squeezed in to for parent/teacher nights. Rooms that began the year looking lifeless and empty and ended jam packed with window decorations and projects. The igloo made of milk containers, the paper mache dragon, the mosaics.

Whenever spending time in a classroom, I always have the same thought upon leaving.  After escaping the noise and downing a shot of something strong, I remind myself that I could NEVER be a teacher. I need two headache tablets and a vodka tonic chaser after a field trip to the zoo.  I've often sat through math homework wondering how teachers explain, explain and explain some more without the assistance of alcohol. Oh wait, there was the one teacher...

Sure, we've had a couple of teachers that weren't a good match, but I've also had a few doctors, accountants and sales staff that I've felt the same way about. The occasional storm makes you appreciate the smooth sailing.

The second little traveler found her perfect match this year and was beyond excited when she found out Mrs P was pregnant and due in July (her birthday month). I'm not sure what was cuter this week, receiving the email from Mrs P with the picture of her and her seriously cute new baby girl, or watching The Second Little Traveler's face as she studied the picture over and over while reading the message out loud to us all. "Make sure you practice your reading and writing every day, please send me a note and tell me how your holidays are going." Immediately the books came out.

I loved this piece in the Huffington Post this week. I love it because Matt Damon is so obviously proud of his mother, but also it reminded me that teaching is perhaps as much a vocation as it is an occupation.

I couldn't do it.

Jet-lag

A girlfriend of mine has just landed in China. It's about to become her new home. Over the past week, through the miracle that is Facebook, I've kept up with her packing the house, saying final goodbyes and then boarding the plane with her three children. Tonight's update is that they've arrived and are out to dinner. They've been awake for what feels like days and are trying to push through until they reach something that resembles bedtime. One by one, they are falling face first in to their dinner plates.

I winced as I read about the jet-lag. It came with a series of flashbacks, all providing a familiar feeling of being slightly seasick with dry skin and burning hot eyeballs. Jet-lag and I have a very tempestuous relationship. We know each other well but we don't get on. 

Yes, it's true, we've spent a lot of time together over the past twelve years, but we've never really understood one other. In fact, after having children and enduring the combination of both their jetlag and mine, I think it's fair to say it's been a highly dysfunctional relationship. 

I don't know about you, but I really think it's time someone came up with a cure. Or at least better advice than keep hydrated and lay off the booze. I mean, really, anyone traveling with children knows that booze is just as important as packing your passport.

Jetlag is like an unwanted gift. The obnoxious, loud, party gift that was handed to your child as you left the indoor play centre after four hours of party games, injuries and cold chicken nuggets.  It's the icing on the cake after a LONG journey.

At a particular stage of the trip you may begin to ask yourself if it was worth it. Maybe the question will come as you're walking with a permanently hunched over stoop, being led by your toddler up and down the airplane aisles.  As you walk past the smiling bald man for the 81st time, he is no longer smiling, and is avoiding making eye contact, its becoming a little awkward for both of you. You've made multiple trips to the claustrophobic bathroom to wipe bottoms, none of which are your own.  Have you tried wiping your bottom with a baby and a toddler on your lap?

At some stage, it will occur to you, that once all of this is over, you will more than likely receive the gift of Jet-lag. 

Each little traveler, at the end of a long haul flight (or series of flights), has provided us with the joy of waking up at 2 a.m. ready to begin their day. Sometimes, on special occasions, all four travellers have given it a whirl at the same time. Yes, that was us you saw walking down Richmond Road towards the petrol station at 3 a.m., we're not a family of crack addicts or stoners, just newly arrived Australians. Although we do display similar types of behaviour by kissing boxes of Tim Tams and Chicken Crimpies like long lost friends.

Anyone traveling with children knows that when you finally do crawl in to bed after a flight, it's highly possible it wont be for long. You see, while you were disembarking, going through customs, loading the bags and grabbing the car, that heavy weight on your shoulder, the one that has made one of your arms longer than the other, that was your child sleeping, or shall I say re-energizing. 

When your bright eyed, wide awake child jumps on the bed at 1a.m. and asks for a bowl of cornflakes, you'll realize their timing is in a bit of a mess. Later, at breakfast, when they demand spaghetti and a bedtime story, it will hit you that this is about to be the longest day of your entire life, because you know the rules, you have to stay awake. If you don't, this is about to become jet-lag groundhog day.

Don't worry about your body clock being upside down though, your face will be sure to match. Your skin will have little tracks of both the bloodshot and wrinkled variety. Your hair will remain matted and perhaps a little itchy from the friends it has made that were living in the airline cushion. Bloated? Don't worry, it should disappear in week when you get over the constipation. Whatever you do though, don't try and work out what that stuff is under your fingernails. 

If I had any tips, it would be these. It's time to shower, using every type of shampoo and soap you have available. It's amazing how much better the world is when you smell good. Pretend you've had ten hours sleep, turn the music up, call a friend, just stay away from heavy machinery, like the car, or the blender...trust me. Your biggest achievement for the day may just be that you remembered to keep putting one foot in front the other.

Oh, and sugar, lots of sugar, perhaps you should open those Tim Tams?



Do you have a jet-lag story? Or perhaps a tip?