A Christmas Thriller

It appears we still have some work to do when it comes to the story of Christmas.

Last year we had the Easter story conversation in the car; you may remember the First Little Traveler announcing with great confidence that she knew the names of Jesus's parents "Lilly and James". When I raised an eyebrow she thought for a moment and then clicked that she had Jesus confused with Harry Potter.

I want The Little Travelers to understand the story behind Christmas rather than just chatter about Santa and Christmas lists. The elder three travelers appear to have grasped the concept of the story, but the youngest traveler is still trying to get his head around it all.

After reeling off his list of "wants" for Christmas we made our way back to the Christmas story and the true meaning of Christmas once more.

We began agains with the story of Joseph and Mary and their situation with Innkeeper.

"But why didn't the Innkeeper have any room for them?"

"Because it was full"

"Was it because Mary was pregnant and really fat and she couldn't fit?"

This lead to a whole other conversation about pregnant people and why they are not fat and why fat is not a term that we like to use when discussing people.

And then we got back to Mary and Joseph.

The questions that followed were exhausting. They were exhausting because I really didn't have all the answers and the more I stumbled the more details seemed to be required. I was being drilled, the room became smaller and I was feeling the need to ask if I could have a lawyer present.

"Who were Mary and Josephs brothers and sisters?"

"Did the wise men have any children of their own, did they get gifts as well - because that wouldn't have been fair if they took all of those gifts to Jesus and didn't given any to their own kids"

Did Jesus have hair when he was born?

I decided to handball. We agreed that Aunty Susie would be much better with all of the questions and we should write them down for her. And then came this last little gem.

"So when did Jesus die?"

"Remember we talked about Jesus on the cross at Easter time? When he came back from the dead?"

His eyes widened. He couldn't believe it.

"Jesus was a ZOMBIE?!"

I resigned today. I QUIT!

I resigned today. I quit. I did it like you see in the movies, I shouted "That's it! I'm done. No one here appreciates me and I'm OVER it".

There was silence. 

The day hadn't started well. It was nothing big, just a series of small things. There was a disagreement at breakfast, someone "accidentally" threw a brush at someone which resulted in tears and a cut lip, someone "forgot" to brush their teeth so we ran back upstairs for the third time after getting in the car. I quickly went to pour a cup of coffee for the trip. No milk. They'd drank all of the milk.

As I made my way through the supermarket with the same vacuous expression on my face as those I passed in the isles, I heard an announcement over the speakers. "In just a moment one lucky winner will receive all the items in their trolley for free".  I raced to checkout 6 at what appeared to be the perfect time "3...2...1...spin" the chocolate wheel flicked through the numbers "the winner is checkout number 7!!" The woman next to me jumped in the air and screamed.

I paid the bill and then realized I'd forgotten the milk.

I had two of the little travelers with me in the school cafeteria while we waited for the girls to finish their after school activities. It was just me and the boys, until 10 minutes before it was time to leave and I realized I only had one son. "Where did your brother go?" I asked the 4th Little Traveller. He was as clueless as I was. We did an entire lap of the High School, I screamed out his name across the oval, made my way to the basketball courts and then wondered which phone call to make first. "I'm up here" he was giggling "I've been watching you the whole time".

I made eye contact. I did not speak. I was too angry to speak. I began walking.

The next 10 minutes are a bit of a blur but these are the things I remember. The fourth little traveler hit the third over the head with his lunch box. The second little traveler outed me to the music teacher as being untrustworthy with information, when she made me publicly admit that I may have lost the details to the choir concert next week. The third traveler returned the lunch box favour. The music teacher made me follow her to her classroom so she could find me *insert sigh from second little traveller here* another choir concert form. The fourth little traveller tried to trip the third traveler over on the way to the car. The second traveler then locked the doors of the car and didn't let them in and once she did, she didn't let them sit down on their seats. 

"I quit! I'm done. Noone appreciates me" screamed a heinous voice from the front of the car, I suddenly realized it was coming from my mouth. My hands were shaking, I could feel the blood pulsing through a vein next to my right eye. "It's all over. I don't want this job anymore. Tomorrow you can all get yourselves to school".

Silence.

"Your behaviour today is unforgivable. You are the naughtiest children I've ever met!"

Silence.

The third little traveler thought for a moment and then decided to dispute the "unforgivable" but the second little traveler shot him a look that said 'stop talking right now - she's not herself'.

"I'm done. I'm going home and I'm handing in my resignation. I will not be taking you to school anymore. You will need to make alternative arrangements"

Silence. 

The fourth little traveller looked up from his lap "I guess this means we'll need to find another Australian mother" he volunteered to the others.  By the look on their faces I could see they were as perplexed as I was on why the new mother had to be Australian.

More silence. 

When we arrived home I announced the new changes. "Help yourselves to snacks guys. You may remember that I recently resigned? This will also apply to dinner and homework. Good luck, I wish you all the best".

I left the room.

The apologies came one by one. I tried to keep up the facade but I wanted to get the homework out of the way and set the table. We made snacks, we began to see the humor, someone giggled and we talked about why Mummy went a little crazy in the car. "You were a bit scary Mummy - I was getting a bit sad".

A wave of guilt ran over me and then I remembered watching her push her backpack in to her brothers face as she straddled the seat to make sure he couldn't sit down. "You were a bit scary too darling - I'm not sure it was our finest hour - not for any of us"

This was my first and last resignation. If I tried it again I imagine it would pass by unnoticed, they'd call my bluff. I checked on my conditions of employment and it appears that I'm in the role until I'm made redundant. 

I've bought extra milk. I'm not doing it tomorrow without coffee.

Have you ever turned in to scary Mummy?

The wardrobe doors

A few months ago G made a not so subtle comment about me ALWAYS leaving my wardrobe doors open. If we were 5 years old I would have turned to him and said "do not, you do" but we're not - we've been married for 13 years so I said "rubbish! YOU always leave YOUR wardrobe doors open"and left the room. That's how grown ups say "do not, you do".

Subsequently, over the past few months you may have heard G or myself letting out a deep and exaggerated sigh as we've gone through the horror and despair of having to close each others wardrobe doors. We have both reached our own personal point of ridiculous. G's came after watching me close his doors the other day "I'm not finished with my wardrobe yet thank you very much" he said, and then he stood staring in to his wardrobe looking for something to do for the next minute or two.

But this morning - I took it to a whole new level.

I emailed my husband a picture of his wardrobe doors with a subject line that said "would you like me to close these for you".

I know. It's so sad.

He didn't reply.

I promptly forgot about it (after having a giggle with a couple friends about it over coffee).

Two hours later he sent me a text asking if we could have *Bob for dinner on Saturday night, I replied "sure" and asked if he had tickets to an event we're meant to be going to tomorrow. There will be a point very soon in our relationship where the wardrobe doors become a distant memory, something else will take it's place. I know this because before the wardrobe doors it was the pile of papers on the desk, before that it was the tomato plant holder that was hanging right at the back door so you hit your head on it every time you walked outside. The papers are still there, the tomato plant has been moved - you win some, you lose some. And you remember to be thankful that this is your biggest worry right now - or that this little worry can distract you from the bigger ones for awhile.


A love affair that has lasted 61 years - by Doris and Max from ABC Open Sunraysia on Vimeo.

"Over all the years she has never altered"

"He was a real hunk"

"I could never ever give sufficient praise or whatever's necessary to express my thanks, appreciation and love of my wife"

"We were just so very happy". 

I want to be married to G for 61 years. I want to tell the world he was a real hunk and that he made me so very happy - particularly when he closed the wardrobe doors.

*his name's not really Bob - but you knew I was going to say that didn't you.

Thanks for voting for me in the Circle of Mums comp. Oh? You haven't had a chance? I just happen to have a link right here :-)

Snouts in the Trough

The rumors had been circulating for months. Pork was coming to Doha. The non muslim population began speculating over the possibility of bacon and eggs for breakfast. They salivated while thinking about sausages on BBQ's. There would be no more turkey bacon, or chicken masquerading as ham in sandwiches.

On Sunday I saw a Facebook update about freezers being installed and then the photos started coming. People were taking photos of themselves holding bacon like it was prize, a trophy. I haven't gone back and counted but I think I read roughly 50 Facebook updates that all mentioned the same thing. Have you seen it? Is it true? What sort? How much? When shall we go there? The proverbial snout in the trough was racing on all four trotters.

If there is anyone left in Doha that it isn't aware, pork arrived for the first time at QDC this week. And for those who don't live in Doha, QDC is the one and only outlet to buy alcohol in Qatar. The two products have now been combined. Can you imagine Homer Simpsons delight? You need a licence to enter  QDC and there is a limit as to how much alcohol you can buy (10% of your salary).

So how does EVERYONE feel about the latest development?

All you had to do was look on Twitter last night to see that not everyone was happy about Qatar's newest import. #PorkinQatar was the hashtag and it was busy. Avatars were changed to pigs in red circles with lines through them.

Quite a few people put it down to the World Cup:

"You want to continue to be a conservative country AND have a World Cup? I don't think it works that way."

"Those who were celebrating the world cup just woke up today to realize the most direct consequences"

But there was so much more to it than that. Comparisons were made between Bahrain and Dubai (both provide pork to expats, neither have held a World Cup). I asked a friend to translate some of the tweets for me and also enquired as to what his take was on the discussion between Qataris.

"Qataris all agree that religious beliefs shouldn't be violated to comfort foreign residents. Not out of disrespect in the majority but because it's their country and they should live in it by their rules. The Qataris who don't mind say it's because the liquor has been sold here for years and nobody complained even though as we know, drinking alcohol is a bigger sin than eating pork."

Someone suggested it had nothing to do with pork at all "People don't get it. It's not about the pork - it's about us feeling more and more like a minority - in our own country".

As I read through each comment I thought about a colleague of mine in Calgary, he saw himself as a very lax muslim which was confirmed by his intake of Grey Goose vodka each week. I made the comparison with pork and he quickly stopped me. "It just grosses me out Kirsty - I look at pork and it turns my stomach, I think of it as filthy, I can't bear the smell or even just to look it". Suddenly ordering the bacon became a little uncomfortable.

I am as guilty as anyone when it comes to get overly excited when discussing pork products. I can't tell you how many times I've opened a cookbook over the past 2 years and had to dismiss or substitute items because of a lack of proscuitto, ham or bacon. On our arrival in Australia our first purchase has always had something to do with pork, but I guess that's all over now. I'm actually feeling a little melancholy about it though, it's the end of an era, it feels like Qatar just became a little less unique.

Perhaps as expats we need a little reminder that yes we can be overjoyed while remaining culturally sensitive. While we're enjoying our breakfast of bacon and eggs this weekend, just remember it's not everyone's cup of tea.


*Translation for the picture at the head of this post

"Dear pig! Your Doha visa has arrived! Now you can be friends with their chickens and fish"

What do they think they are?

• I'm often asked if The Little Travellers are confused about where they're from. It's a popular question, particularly when being interviewed about the blog and our expat life. "Is it confusing for them? What do they think they are?"As a parent it's very hard not too sound defensive when answering "What do they think they are?" 
  
  
  The Little Travellers were all born in different countries and have a variance of vague to incredibly strong ties to all of their previous "homes". Each has a favourite house, a fondly remembered best friend, favourite park, local pool and ice-cream shop. They all carry Australian passports (some of them are on their second edition) one of them has 2 passports - we call him our little Canadian. But he's not. He's Australian. 
  
  
  They're all Australian. And there's never been any confusion on the issue.
  
  "How many sleeps until we go 'home' to see Granny"
  
  "Are we are going to go 'home' for Christmas?"
  
  "If we have a bath and brush our teeth really quickly is there time to watch McLeods Daughters/Masterchef before bedtime?"
  
  "I need new ugg boots - maybe Granny could get them from 'home'"
  
  "Can I take 'Dougald the Garbage Dump Bear' to school to read to the class. I have to take a book from my country"
  
  "Can I buy 20 koala key rings for the class? Everyone always asks what a koala looks like"
  
  "Toot toot chugga chugga big red car"
  
  
  I often wonder if The Little Travellers think about their "Australianess" more than the average Australian kid. When you attend an International School "Where are you from" is a regular question. Lunch rooms and playground walls are adorned with murals of maps and international settings. I listen to them talk about Australia to friends in a way that would have you believe that they had personally been appointed by the Australian government to act as mini ambassadors. They love to brag about how they've sat on the Opera House steps, seen the socceroos play a game and how last time at Granny's the kangaroos jumped straight through the backyard. "Seriously! They did!"
  
  Henry hotdog has three Australians in his class and one across the hallway, each of their lockers currently has a "mini me" in national dress with their name on it. Have you ever tried to do national dress as an Australian? We did an Australian shirt with shorts but the surf life saver and the akubra with moleskins were the definite winners.
  
  There are 74 flags in the school cafeteria acknowledging the 74 nationalities that are represented at the school and I'm sure that each child in that cafeteria could proudly point you in the direction of their own.  I watched them playing a game the other day, it was tag with a twist, you could untag yourself by answering a question "how do you say hello in Spanish" someone would ask or "how do you say the number 7 in Arabic". I could see the Third Little Traveller's mind working overtime on what question he could ask from home "how many eggs do you need to make a pavlova" he giggled.
  
  If you were to ask me what I thought they were, the answer would be lucky.
  
  
  

The Mystery Bag.

By Wednesday of this week I had realized I was not going to win the mother of the year award.

We forgot the mystery bag. When I say "we" I mean "I". I left it at the front door and when we were half way to school the 4th little traveller shouted from the back seat "The Mystery bag!" and without thinking I muttered "shit" under my breath. The first little traveller, who see's her role as second in charge, shot me her best tut tut look.

The Mystery bag involves bringing something from home, it remains a secret in the bag while the other children in the class try and guess what it is from the clues you provide. There would be no mystery bag today- and it would be my fault.

As we sat at the lights I began envisaging myself fessing up to the Kindergarten teacher. The shame of the excuses, the look in her eye. Would I tell the truth? That we forgot the mystery bag because the 4th little traveller had his hands full carrying his breakfast to the car, and yes, that breakfast may very well have been nutella on toast. Mother. Of. The.Year.

"What did you pack in the mystery bag?" asked the Second Little Traveller. 

"Da Boomerang - I was going to to tell them about da Australian Aborigines"

All of The Little Travellers nodded in nostalgic agreement. The boomerang was always a winner. It was a leaving gift from Aunty Bianca and has had a special place in every house that we have lived in. The boomerang has been to every school The Little Travellers have attended. It has travelled in the form of show and tell, it's a popular choice for Australia Day and a regular accompaniment for International Week. It would be remiss of me to not point out that at all of these events the Boomerang has always come back.

"Don't feel bad Hotdog" says the Third Little Traveller "I was going to sing Advance Australia Fair today but Mum can't get the printer to work so I don't have all the words"

Bang - there it was - my second dose of mothers guilt and we were only half way to school.

The First Little Traveller raised a judgmental eyebrow in my direction "Don't worry I'll print it in my first break and bring it to your class". At this point I could no longer see her in the front seat as the high horse that she was sitting on had elevated her position. 

"It's Wednesday Mum - do you have 10 riyals"said a voice from the back seat.

Cue the sound of crickets. I blinked and kept staring ahead while thinking of my empty wallet.

"I've got money" sighed an exasperated Second Little Traveller  "I'll cover it this week.

"Where are you getting all of the money from?"

"It's my tooth fairy money, remember when she forgot to come but then came the next week"

Bang bang - 2 more shots of mothers guilt.

As I dropped them at the gate we had our usual strategic afternoon discussion. I feel like Churchill hunched over a map while we co-ordinate someone being collected at gate 5 at 3 o'clock, some else will be there at 4, some one else will need to be at gate 10. I notice a homework folder sticking out from under the seat on the floor of car and tuck it into its owners backpack.

"Thanks Mummy - you're a lifesaver" says the Third Traveller.

As the First Little Traveller departs the car I call out "Is this the pencil case you HAD to have today?" As I wave it in my hand, she blushes and mumbles "Thanks Mum" with a half smile.

A couple of minor wins amongst a few soon to be forgotten failures. It's a mixed bag. A mystery bag.

36 mosques in one square kilometre

It seemed like such a good idea at the time.

I was driving home with The Little Travellers from after school sports and it was one of those glorious Doha nights. The temperature was perfect and the sky was changing to that beautiful orange glow that I've only ever seen on this side of the world. I saw a group of men walking to the mosque at the end of our street and it made me think of an email that I received when I was back in Australia over the summer break.

I made one of those snap decisions. I thought instead of writing about it, it would make more sense to Vlog so you could see and hear what I was talking about. I raced upstairs, threw on the lippy, picked up the iPad and proceeded to make one of the worst Vlogs you'll ever see.

I rambled, I was breathless, I lost the point. I was trying to get it all in quickly but the whole time I kept looking out of the window at the people wandering to the mosque and thinking "shit - I've missed it - this isn't going to make any sense." Then I cut the last bit of it out? You may notice the very abrupt ending - it goes well with the strange movie style beginning. 

I don't think I'm cut out to Vlog.

You might also notice at the beginning of the Vlog I tell you I need sound - then I forgot to tell you why!

I wanted you to hear the mosque, but of course by the time I'd finished rambling - so had the mosque.

I think this may be the first and last Vlog I ever do.

All is not lost though, after I went to upload my Vlog I found a clip from a BBC presenter in Jeddah that I think describes EXACTLY what I failed so dismally to do. 

So now you get 2 clips - One bumbling woman talking to you with a fresh coat of lippy and one emotional journo who is moved to tears by the beauty of "36 mosques in one square kilometer".

When in Rome.

G is in Rome. He left last night, he was trying really hard to not look too excited. He's learnt after years of practice that it's better to play it down - it's safer. As a pilots wife said to me this morning "never whistle while you pack".

He arrived in Rome earlier today. I know this because the text came through while I was dropping the children at school. "Landed". If there was a permanent record somewhere of texts received, I'd say my top three texts from G would be "just boarded" followed by "landed" and "just leaving the office now". It's highly possible that all three of these texts also finish with the words "get your knickers off".

I was happy to see he'd arrived safely. I thought of him in Rome and wondered what the weather was like and what he could see right now. Did he catch a cab or a train from the airport? Are there people outside on the street drinking coffee?

I wonder if he is doing what the Romans do? When he's in Rome...

I am not in Rome. 

And that's okay. 

No. Really. It's okay.

I thought about going to Rome. I thought about the hotel. I thought about the food. I thought about G and I sleeping in a hotel room without a little traveller nestled in between us. I thought about the fashion. I thought about the boots, ahhhh the boots, I want new boots. I could see the boots and hear myself saying "These? I bought them in Rome". I thought about the pastries, the Connoli, the pasta, then I thought about the boots again.

And then I thought about logistics. Who would go where? What would happen when the youngest little traveller woke up at night? What would happen if someone had to go to the hospital like they did last month? What would happen...There were a lot of what would happens. Rugby, Basketball, Cross Country, French - How would that work? 

"Where's your Mummy?" someone would say "She left the country - to buy boots" they would answer.

The third little traveller has an ear infection, the second little traveller is ecstatic about making the school basketball squad, her tournament is on Thursday. The first little traveller is working on a major project that involves recording your voice on to slides for a presentation. I think she is presenting the project to the United Nations next week as she seems a little stressed about it. 

This morning I woke up with a panda called Noodles and a Moose called Quincy, they'd been carried in to my bed by the fourth little traveller during the night. "Where's Daddy" he asked. "Remember he had to go to Rome - he left last night, he kissed you while you were sleeping".

"I better sleep with you this week - just so you don't get lonely" he says.

Rome - you and I - our timing just isn't right. Plus, there's no way I'm missing that basketball tournament. I'll get to you. I will. We will have canolli while drinking coffee and there will be boots. For you will always be there.

Holiday Expatations

If you're contemplating taking on an expat assignment, it's possible that while you're trying to work out if you can live without your favourite local Chinese restaurant, two others things keep running through your mind. 

Money and travel.

Maybe you've done the calculations on what you can save by renting out your house or perhaps you're just celebrating the fact that you no longer have to pay someone else's mortgage - finally a rent free existence.

Then there's the holidays. With a new location on the other side of the world this could be your chance to finally explore Asia, South America or the States. Which takes me back to point number one.

Money.

In our early expat years G and I went anywhere and everywhere. With only one child who was yet to start school and a role for G that required travel throughout Asia, we made the most of it. If G had a meeting in Thailand we'd all pack up and head off together. While G went off to work I'd strap The First Little Traveler in a backpack and head in search of food, trinkets and dodgy knock offs. And then reality hit.

Another child, another plane fare, another bed in a hotel room and suddenly it wasn't as cheap (or as easy) to bring the family along. 

In fact, when we checked the bank balance we realized we weren't saving any money at all. All of those "bargains" had started to add up. Turns out if you buy 5 pairs of cheap sunglasses they're actually not that cheap after all. If the grand plan of eventually having a house in Australia was going to happen, something had to change. And as close as Bali, Phuket, Singapore and Langkowi were, it was financially unrealistic to think we could do all of them.

On Thursday afternoon the Little Travelers walked out of the school yard excited about the following week of their school holidays. I listened as they said their goodbyes to friends. Someone was off to Nepal, someone else was going to London, someone had a scrapbook with their map of Disneyland that they had been working on for months. It was school holidays and there was a buzz in the air.

I thought back to my school holidays in our little country town. Someone might have driven to Adelaide and slept on their Aunty's floor so that they could go to the Royal Show. Someone else might have stayed in a caravan park in Mt Gambier where it was so freaking cold their father drove them to the communal toilet block at night. Or maybe they just rode their bike to the pool every single day knowing they'd run in to someone they knew if they hung around for long enough. Yes, all of those people might have been me.

I like to share these stories with my children in the familiar when-I-went-to-school-we-walked-5-miles-in-the-rain kind of way, particularly when they ask why we're not going to Disneyland. 

Over breakfast on Friday the third little traveller announced that he might pop over to visit a friend on the compound "you can't" said the second little traveler "remember - he's gone to Mt Everest".

The sentence above is not one I recall saying in my childhood. Someone went to Sydney once but I can't remember a passport ever being required.

I think back to the caravan holiday, the road trip to Ballarat. "Did I tell you about when Mummy was little and we stayed in the Motel in Bendigo and Granny let us have hot breakfast instead of the cereal we'd bought from home?" 

They can see where the story is heading, soon I'll mention walking to school in the rain.

I hate running

I hate running.

It's not like I haven't tried. I want to love it. I desperately want to be one of those people who smugly sits at the dinner party or the pub on a Friday night and says "I just don't feel like myself if I haven't been for my daily run". I don't feel like myself if I don't get my morning coffee.  I don't feel like myself if I've left my phone in the car.

I really want to be the other person, the running person.

But I'm not.

Running is the persistent old boyfriend. The one who floats in to town every now and then and wants to give it one more try. You know you should stick with William Walking or Eddie Elliptical, they're so much kinder to your knees and ankles but Ryan Running knows all the right things to say. And he looks hot.

It'll be fast. I'm cheap. You can do me in park, you could do me straight after school, you could do me at night. I'll be there for you first thing in the morning. You've seen the other girls who've been with Running and they're shrinking before your eyes. Five kilometres, 10 kilometres, now they're doing a marathon. Maybe you could do a marathon?

Your DD's don't help. As you strap them in to your Uni-boob bra and feel a nipple brush past your chin you wonder if maybe you're just not built for it? But you know that can't be true. You've seen the others, they've done it.

Why couldn't you make it work?

It's been an off again on again relationship for way to long. In Calgary you took classes to "Learn to run" but after week 5 you found excuses. In Kuala Lumpur you bought a running stroller. After meeting a particularly angry snake you successfully ran backwards up a hill at record speed, remember the man who had to stop his motorbike and get off because he was laughing so hard at your style. The relationship stopped there. In Houston you began the couch to 5k program not once, not twice but three times.

So you begin again, run for 60, walk for 90, run for 60, walk for 90 - you're half way there, 1 minute left. You've heard it all before.

This time it will be different.



Are you a runner? Any tips or am I just kidding myself?

Counting goats

I drive to school twice a day, every day. Sometimes I drive there three times and on a particularly disorganized forgot-my-lunch, left-my-sports-uniform-at-the-door, volunteer-to-decorate-another-freaking-classroom day. I end up making the drive four times. No. We do not live close enough to walk.

I could put the children on the bus, but I actually really like the process of the school drop off and pick up. When I went back to work full time it was one of the things I really missed. Don't get me wrong, I loved being back in the office, but I felt a little robbed. I love those blissful first 5 minutes when school breaks up. The 5 minutes where everyone's happy to see you and still in a state of euphoria of school being over. It usually takes about 5 minutes before everything turns pear shaped.

Except on Thursdays. The world is good on Thursdays.

We have a little Thursday afternoon ritual. Thursday is the end of the working/school week here. We stop at the corner store and everyone is allowed to chose 3 things for movie night (another Thursday ritual). We also count goats. Goats in motion.

He smiled for the camera.

Fluffy goats. We love the fluffy goats.

The "corner store" is full of surprises. Sometimes they have milk, sometimes they don't. They always have bread. They always have chick peas, lentils and laban. Everyone has Laban. Laban is great, particularly if you are not putting it in your coffee when you've mistaken for milk. Yes I did.

The little travellers will peruse the lolly isle for roughly 10 minutes before choosing the EXACT same thing they chose the week before. It is never the lentils or the chickpeas.

In Australia, they're Cheezels and Twistees. These names still make me laugh:

Why don't we call them Fonzies in Australia? I'm highly partial to snacking on a Big Ring.

And on the trip home, while we're discussing what we're going to eat first, we keep counting the goats.

What are your family rituals?

Have a great weekend everyone and Eid Mubarak to my muslim friends. 

Locations are Like Lovers...

This morning I met with a girlfriend in a coffee shop in Doha, she's just moved to Jakarta but was back in town for a couple of days. We were getting together to catch up and talk about Jakarta and if I had any tips or suggestions. We ran through the usual checklist of expat questions; questions I've asked when it's been my turn to move.

Which part of the city did you live in?
Where did you do your grocery shopping?
How was the healthcare?
Would you have a baby there?

I was having trouble focussing on the conversation. My mind kept straying. The more we talked about Jakarta, the more faces appeared in my mind, more memories, more flashbacks. It was like talking about a previous relationship, an old boyfriend, but it was more than that.

If locations are like lovers, it would make sense that you never forget your first.

I pictured our arrival, our time in the hotel before moving to the house. The excitement of the first baby, decorating the nursery, the first baby group. The first little traveller was 11 days old when I returned to Jakarta with her. We muddled through so much of the experience together, some days I was terrified something would go wrong, others days I couldn't believe my luck to be there.

I thought of friends, one in particular, who I'll never see again. I could see her walking in to my house, with two enormous wet circles around each boob, a screaming baby and the hugest smile. "I can't remember reading about this in the book!" she laughed hysterically. I pictured her icing the 1st birthday cake of her little girl. I don't mention any of these thoughts while I talk about the traffic, the food and the furniture.

We talked about an area in Kemang and I thought of another friend who is now in China dealing with pollution and isolation. A friend who I count as one of my best, she has become my confidante and of late my personal trainer in writing. She sends me pictures like this:

"Ive been doing my shopping at Ranch" my newly relocated friend says and I wistfully reply "I remember when Ranch first came to Jakarta" but I'm actually thinking about a man called Jamie with a baby carrier on his back. I think about standing in the brand new Ranch and chatting about baby food and if going to Ranch was worth the drive. A stupid banal conversation now that I look back.

I remember that the hotel was on Jalan Casablanca, the house on Pejaten Baru, the supermarket was called Hero. The health clinic was on Puri Sakti. I think about the times those address' came out of my mouth while I directed taxis and drivers to get me there. "Terus Benar, Terus Kiri." The first words I learnt were directions.

At least once a week in Doha I meet someone new, whether it's at school, sport or the pool. Inevitably the question will come up about where we've lived - expats do it in the same way people ask about schools or suburbs, they're trying to find a commonality. "Oh - we were in KL in 2003" someone will say. I always run though our locations quickly, they flash before me, I don't think about what they mean or more importantly what they meant at the time.

If locations are like lovers, I got lucky with my first.



What's been your favourite location? It doesn't have to be outside of your home country. Where would like to go to?

Look at Moi - I'm Parenting

There's a new family at our school. They're Australian and they have 5 children. When I told my husband about them, he feigned devastation. "You know what that means. We're no longer the Australians with the 4 kids, we've just become the Australians with the 4 kids who didn't try hard enough".

I have often joked that 4 children in 6 years was an exercise in extreme parenting. It was also an exercise I wore with an indulgent and oversized badge of honor. If there were awards for getting knocked up, I was lining up in the front row for mine.

Perhaps it was the reaction of those around us. Their excitement and even their horror seemed to spur me on. I once walked through an airport in Melbourne with a baby strapped to my front and another in a carrier on my back. Adding to the degree of difficulty, for a score of 9.9, I was also pushing a child in a stroller with one hand and dragging a suitcase with another. I had something else, a slightly freaked out yet smug look on my face. "Look at moi, Look at moi" my euphoric face said, I can do anything, I've just flown with 3 kids under 4 - on my own!

I know I'm not the only one. I've heard others giving themselves a pat on the back, casually sneaking the odd detail in when they think they've got it right. Maybe, it's their child's organic vegetable intake or the fact that they've managed to make the tennis schedule fit in with the soccer training and ballet class. Perhaps someone's child is finally dressing themselves. Someone started a business from home while breastfeeding twins, someone else gained a degree while weaning a baby and caring for a toddler. We're not waiting for the validation - we've already self validated. Your welcome.

Why? I'm guessing it's because we've learnt that no one else is going to do it. Sure, your partner might tell you you're doing a great job and maybe even your family. But is it as rewarding as unbiased feedback?

When my youngest child was 5 months old, I returned to the corporate world and two shocking, yet amazing things happened:

Number 1 - we were allowed to leave the office and get a coffee, all by ourselves! No one sat on my lap and not one of my colleagues pulled apart a blueberry muffin and squished it in to my pants.

Number 2 - I had fixed targets, set goals and people told me when I was doing a good job. I had performance reviews where we discussed me, me and me and the self development of me and how I felt about me and the role I was in.

There were no blurred lines. The goals were on paper, expectations were explained, performance management plans were put in place.

It was the complete opposite of parenting.

There is no CEO of parenting. No one to report to. Sure, there's plenty of books, thousands of "experts" and opinions - but no opportunity for a "parent of the month" award. Wouldn't it be nice to get a round of applause from an independent resource? An award, perhaps for the way you handled the dispute over whose turn it was on the computer while wrangling the 5 year old out of the bath and practicing for the French conversation test tomorrow.

I'm still waiting for my key performance indicators, parent strategy map and end of year bonus. But, in the meantime I'll just continue on with my regular today-I-have-no-idea-tomorrow-I-might-rock-at-this roller coaster ride that is parenting. And if you're doing well today, if you've had a win, give yourself a pat on the back.





Any ideas on what some of the key performance indicators for parenting should be? How about:

Did everyone under the age of 12 leave the house with clean underwear this morning?
Was everyone under the age of 12 wearing underwear this morning?
Did you manage to get out of the house this morning without shouting "I'm going to count to 3"

Feel free to add some of your own..