Anger.

The second little traveler wanted to wear a blue headband this morning. She had a pink one, a purple one, and a rainbow one in her hand - but she didn't want to wear them, she wanted to wear the blue one. We couldn't find it. I could see by the expression on her face that it was about to become an issue. The second little traveler is not known for her skills in anger management. If she's cross, it's just best you get out of the way. Fast.


The storm cloud above her head was growing as she moved from one room to the next. She pushed her brother off the couch so that she could once again search under the cushions. Stupidly I suggested she just wear the pink hairband. I won't be doing that again.


I gave her the look. The look that said if you lose your shit like that again you'll be spending the weekend in your room. She knew she'd taken it too far. She looked at the ground and said "sorry Fred" and took herself to her room to calm down. Five minutes later as we made our way to the car, I noticed she was wearing a blue headband. She'd found it. Once she'd calmed down, she was able to remember where she'd left it.


There was a moment yesterday where I made eye contact with a friend and saw something different in her face. Through clenched teeth, with tears in her eyes she said "I'm just so angry, so sick of it, just REALLY angry". She'd expressed herself on an online forum that day, she was talking about safety issues in nurseries and her disappointment about safety not being taken seriously. In a moment of pure anger and frustration she'd written something that she was now having to explain. 


In the five stages of grief, anger is number two, and although many of us remain in the fog of sadness and shock - many have now moved towards anger. Anger is all about retaliation and negativity. There is no good that can come from anger - it eats at us, it engulfs our thought process, it stops us from seeing clearly.


In an open letter published today in the Gulf Times, Martin and Jane Weekes spoke with incredible calm and wisdom over what steps needed to be taken next.


"We hope people will refrain from criticising the growth and ambition of this friendly country that we have called home for five years. This process should not be about blame regardless of the hurt we all may feel now.  This must be about learning so that no person need feel this pain again."


Anger is ugly. We all know it, we've all done it. In Doha, we've all been the ugly expat at some stage. I've stayed away from the online forums because I knew people would feel the need to vent, to attack. I understand why they need to, but I also know that it won't bring me any peace. There needs to be discussion - we don't need finger pointing. We can't judge by a sentence posted late at night, or a rushed 140 characters. Sometimes our languages don't translate how we wished them to.


At school this morning the little travelers and I arrived dressed in white. I watched them walk across the sports field and form a love heart with their teachers and friends. I stood side by side with other parents, and watched tears fall from faces as we observed a moments silence. There is nothing more soothing in a time of grief than community coming together as one. Just as there is nothing more destructive than a community tearing each other apart.


We've all talked this week about how we will make our own changes. The little travelers and I now know exactly what we would do in a fire. I now look at rooms differently, where would I get out, which exit would I take. I've learnt this week that even though Doha can look like many different and individual communities, if we have to, we can come together as one. 


There are things that need to be changed, we can do them together. It's easy to get angry and frustrated, but it won't help us find the solution. 






What have you learned this week? 

No Words

We wandered around as if we'd been sedated. Grocery shopping and school drop offs were done quietly, hugs at the school gate lasted longer. I stood in the vegetable section of the supermarket and watched people cry with strangers, they shook their heads and agreed that there were no words. A girlfriend of mine sat down next to me and said "I'm not talking". I immediately knew what she meant, I'd been thinking the same thing all day. Talking about it, made it somehow sound flippant. I walked behind two women as they recounted the absolute tragedy of the Spanish family "they lost three, they only have one now".

I thought about my four little travelers. About talking about them like dinnerware. "I used to have four of those plates, I only have one now". I tried to imagine one of them left, but you can't, you can't imagine.

A girlfriend sent a text "I'm sitting in the school car park crying", we arranged to meet. As we sat together outside of the coffee shop, our conversation somehow lost its timing. Intermittently one of us would stop mid sentence, unable to finish. There were conversations like ours happening all around us. Qatari men shook their heads, the staff behind the counter told me they were going to church that evening to pray for one of their congregation.

A women walked past in a dress that made me look twice, and in amongst the unspeakable I found myself thinking the ordinary. "I love her dress" I said it out loud without thinking. She disappeared down the escalators. I noticed her again, twice, she wandered by from one direction and then another. Was she lost? We made eye contact and I attempted to smile "I really like your dress". Her french accent wasn't surprising, she was the perfect stereotype, late forties, sophisticated yet casual and elegant. She told me she'd made the dress herself.

"Ive watched you walk past several times and each time I've admired it"

Her eyes flickered, she was about to cry. She shook her head.

"I cannot concentrate this morning, I keep forgetting what I'm meant to be doing. I cannot stop thinking about the children. This fire, it is too..." her voiced trailed off.

"We all feel the same" I said.

No words.

There it was again. No words.

As we made our way across the park this evening I couldn't help but look back at the people making their way to the vigil. Abayas and thobes, skirts, suits and headscarfs, we were a multitude of skin colours, accents and origins - all gathered for the same reason. We needed some way of showing support, we needed to share our grief. Many of us sat in silence, and then the words came in the form of prayer and a Haka. We held each other tight. The second little traveler looked over towards the parents of the angel triplets.

"Why is the Mummy holding the stuffies?"

"They belonged to her babies"

No words.

Numb with Grief

When the first little traveler was nearly two I decided to search for some child care options. My pregnancy with the second little traveler was proving to be a physical challenge that I wasn't winning. Each morning I would kneel in front of the toilet while the first traveler patted my back saying "You okay Mummy? I sing you song?" I'd lost about 8 kilos and my energy levels were at their lowest when I decided it was time to outsource, the first little traveler needed someone to play with who wasn't running to the toilet on a half hourly basis.

I found a fabulous child care centre at the local mall, it was up on the 3rd floor and even though the first little traveler wasn't keen on attendance, we persisted in fronting up everyday. Our morning routine was always exactly the same. After arriving in the car park, I would walk roughly ten steps towards the door, throw up in the bin, wave to the security guards, who would then smile and wave back, and then the first little traveler and I would continue towards the escalators. Every. Single. Day.

When I was choosing child care my criteria was pretty standard. I wanted it to be clean, I wanted good staff, great facilities, fun activities, and most of all I wanted the first little traveler to enjoy it.

These are the things I didn't check for.

I didn't ask to see the emergency evacuation procedure. I didn't ask if the staff were trained in the event of a fire, and I didn't ever once consider to check the exits or stairwells. I just assumed that of course they were trained, of course they knew what to do! I didn't once consider that I would find myself racing to that mall pleading to get inside to find my baby girl. For that is the unthinkable, the unimaginable.

Today may well be remembered as one of Doha's darkest. For those who have announced to friends and family that Doha is a wonderfully safe place to raise our children, today will perhaps be remembered as the day that innocence was lost. As a community, we are, as my friend Erika said this evening "numb with grief". Stories were stolen, history that had been formed in the shape of a grandparents dream, was erased. The unthinkable happened.

Thirteen children were trapped inside the nursery, it is believed their exit, a staircase, had collapsed from the heat of a fire. Where exactly the fire began is yet to be confirmed. The nursery was in the interior of the mall, meaning you walked through a virtual rabbit warren of corridors to get there. From what I understand, when the firefighters arrived at those corridors they were considered impenetrable and too dangerous to enter, it was decided the only other way to get there, was through the ceiling. By the time the hole was cut, it was too late, they were gone. Thirteen beautiful children, four teachers and two firefighters. Smoke inhalation meant that their little bodies were carried lifeless from the building.

As you can imagine there is heartbreaking story after heartbreaking story. Families who lost more than one child, children that weren't meant to be there today, a family has lost their beautiful angelic triplets. There were moments this afternoon when the community joined together trying to do anything they could while there was still hope. People sent prayers and wishes to mothers who were desperately waiting for answers. The unthinkable, the unimaginable.

As newspaper reports were filed this evening, journalist have felt it necessary to break us down into nationalities. Three children from New Zealand, three children from Spain, Northern Arab expats and Korean expats were all listed. And why not, as expats, we do it ourselves. We are constantly reminded of our homeland, we ask each other regularly "where's home for you?" "Are you heading home for the Summer?"

What is often forgotten though, is the fact that we have two communities. We work together, form committees, work at school fairs, play golf, go swimming, camp in the desert and share birthdays, Ramadan and Christmas. We form friendships and bonds that last for lifetimes. We are our own community, no matter where we are from. We become one.

Today I watched what can only be described as an explosion of grief. We hugged in the school yard, we cried in car parks, we made calls from the office with our heads in our hands. We put ourselves in the shoes of those that will never be the same again. We are all horrified. We are shell shocked, but before we lay blame, before we get angry, we must all come together to support the families affected today.

There are many questions tonight. Questions about fire alarms, sprinklers, emergency staff and evacuation procedures. All are valid and all need to be answered. The most important question though is "What can we do?"

We can show our support. We need to front up. We need to be there.

In a time of grief and great tragedy we need to do what expats do best. Get on with the job. Join together as a truly international community and show that it doesn't matter where you're from, or which God you pray to, we are all in this together. We all have the same wish. To come home to our families at the end of each day. To be safe.



*Tomorrow at 5pm in Aspire Park there will be a gathering to support families who have lost loved ones in the Villagio Fire.

Would You Like Forks With That?

In the olden days, when I was a girl growing up in a small country town in South Australia, Friday night was the night the town came alive. In a world before weekend trading and online banking, farmers and fruit growers would make a special trip in to town to do the banking and shopping. The highlight for me was not the quick stop we made at the supermarket, but more the possibility of take-away food. 

For my mother, Friday's were the end of a long working week, which meant there was a chance she'd say yes to the suggestion of take-away dinner as a treat. I loved it, I'm a creature of habit (one of those annoying people who scans the menu for fifteen minutes, only to end up ordering the same old same old every time). At 'charcoal chickens' (do you think they spent hours brainstorming the name?)  it was always the same, a 'hot pack'. A quarter of chicken, chips and gravy, and maybe a stray carrot or pea here and there.

There was no McDonalds or KFC, actually there was no franchise fast food of any description. In our little country town take-away food meant lining up and and waiting for your hamburger to be cooked from scratch. If it was fish and chips you unrolled the paper at the table, sprinkled the salt and added some vinegar. If it was chicken and chips you ate it out of the container it came in. The whole purpose of take-away food in our house was that there were no dishes and definitely no preparation. A night off.

Everybody feels that way right?

Everyone except G.

My husband somehow manages to turn takeaway food, leftovers, or a quick and easy boiled egg into an occasion. If it's KFC he feels the need to make a salad, if it's fish and chips he's likely to whip up an asian cabbage slaw while throwing in a few extra bits and pieces to cook when he gets home "just hang on while I gently dust these scallops in flour - do we have kosher salt?"

I realized earlier in our relationship while visiting G's parents, that I had no hope of changing him, his condition was hereditary. After arriving back from KFC I was confused to see the tablecloth out and dinnerware fenced in by cutlery. There was a selection of condiments in the middle of the table. G's mother was tossing a salad in the kitchen. I didn't understand, if we have to cut, dice, prepare and then wash the dishes what was the purpase of take-away? The world wasn't making any sense.

It was only the beginning.

Over twelve years of marriage, I've discovered that bacon and eggs are never just bacon and eggs, there is always a trip to the store for freshly squeeze juice, "good" coffee must be sourced, and bread that will ideally still be warm will also make an appearance. Pancakes will often be offered in a couple of different formats. A simple sandwich is never simple. An "easy" roast chicken has to be stuffed with at least seven ingredients, and leaves will be gently plucked from homegrown herbs. Why make something simple when you can consult the gourmet traveler? Why go to the supermarket once a week when you can go every day?

I was chatting to my mother on Skype over the weekend when G walked in to let me know he was heading to the shop for milk. "Do we need anything else?"

There was a quick discussion about dinner and the decision was leftovers. We had chicken curry and lasagna in the refrigerator that needed to be eaten. It was going to be a simple matter of reheating. After getting to bed at 3.30 that morning we were looking forward to a lazy night in front of the telly. Lazy.

Forty five minutes later I found G in the kitchen making guacamole. He was dicing the red onions when I asked what was going on.

"I saw we had olives"

 I think that was meant to explain the reason he was now making guacamole from scratch.

"And the haloumi cheese?" I was struggling to make the connection.

"I figured I'd fry it in olive oil, it'll be perfect with the lebanese olives and the baba ganoush.

"The left over curry?"

"We can still do that, I thought I'd just throw a few things together first"

Those little things above the olives are figlets (delicious with gooey cheese)

I've missed a few things from the picture but you get the general idea.

The children miss their father very much when he travels.



How about you? Do you serve a salad with take-away pizza?

Will Chopped Liver be There?

It was week one of Kindergarten, parents had been invited in to the school for an information evening with their respective teachers. We entered the classroom, all dressed in our daily attire, a mixture of business suits, exercise wear and uniforms. Many of us were new to full day school and you could tell; we were the ones taking notes while asking detailed questions about exactly which type of drink bottle was required.

Our dignity disappeared the minute we sat down. With our knees up around our chin and our bottoms precariously perched on the edge of the miniature chairs, it was hard to take anyone seriously. Except the teacher, she had her own chair, the chair of power. She ran through a few house rules. Bags go here, shoes here, coats are hung here, the red folder goes home on Wednesday, the blue on Thursday, Art is on Friday. There were rules for snacks, rules for lunch, and suggestions were made about healthy alternatives. We were told if sugar was listed in the first five ingredients of a product, it would be sent straight home. I began to break out in a sweat thinking of anything in our pantry that may have deemed me an unworthy mother. "You should be considering hummus, carrots and cucumbers rather than anything in a wrapper". No-one disagreed, in fact, no-one said a word - we were all suddenly back at school and doing as we were told.

Having just left Libya where I had been living under a dictatorship, it occurred to me that there seemed to be a lot more rules in Kindergarten than Tripoli. Gadaffi could have learnt a few things in this room.

"We will have a number of events throughout the year - it's always nice if parents can come along". I nodded along, I had plans of getting involved with the school, it was a great way for someone new in town to make a few friends. A women's voice came from behind me "Umm, will we have much notice when it comes to events, what sort of lead up can you give us?"

The teachers eyes darted in the direction behind me, did we have a dissident amongst us "usually we give a few weeks notice - why?" I immediately felt uncomfortable for the mother, it was obvious by the teacher's tone that she was going to need a very good reason for her question.

"I'm an obstetrician, getting away from the hospital can sometimes be challenging"

"Oh - I see, well maybe you'd like to come along one day and speak to the children about your career, we love to have the parents come and discuss what they do".

And in that moment, that mother was excused from every field trip, class party and bring a plate of veggies event throughout the year. The rest of us though, we were still fair game. It appeared that if we weren't removing babies from people's vaginas, we were still required to front up with a fruit platter and six pack of juice.

It's been a busy week at school. Poetry readings, art displays and kindergarten concerts have meant that G has joined me and hundreds of others at the school, with cameras at the ready. This morning as G flicked through his calendar he realized he'd doubled up, he had a meeting he didn't think he could move and was going to miss the choir concert.

I broke the news that he may not be there to the second little traveler thinking she'd be understanding - not so much. There were tears, blame, and when I reminded her that I would be there, she said "but you're always there!"

Please feel free to address me as Chopped Liver.

I can't remember my father being at school, not once, and not because he didn't come, but because he wasn't asked to. With two working parents it was always understood that we said goodbye in the morning and hello again in the afternoon. If my mother arrived at school to help coach netball, or deliver chocolate crackles for the fete, it was usually after 3.30. Amazingly, we managed to get through the day without them.

I have watched many parents squirm while they've explained their impending absence to teachers and fellow parents. Pilots and nurses rearrange schedules, and anyone paid on an hourly rate will go to extreme measures to not miss the forty five minute music concert, in which their child will play a recorder for approximately two of those minutes. No-one wants their child to be the one without a parent. So why do we make it so hard? As a working parent you cannot go to everything, and if you can, please feel free to share your secret now, because I definitely couldn't when I was working full time.

An hour ago, G rang to confirm the time of the concert "have to be quick as I've got someone with me, I think I can make it - can't talk, see you there".

I can't wait to see her face when she see's him.

I just hope she remembers this, and when he can't make it to the next event, she understands that he just can't come to everything. What do you think?

Is there someone out there who has made it to every field trip, poetry reading, winter festival or science exhibition?

Keeping Up With Your Job Description

The little travelers play a game when they're stuck in the car. They call it submarine. They pretend that the car has the capacity to turn itself into an underwater vessel that if necessary, can easily "hide" itself in the ocean. Immediately after someone decides to start a game of submarine all four travelers become animated, everyone begins to get excited, rules are made, changed and argued as they go along. The sight of another car is an octopus, a bus is a killer whale, people are puffer fish and motorbikes are sharks.

"Oh my gosh! I don't like what I see. Look over there. There's a huge killer whale coming our way!" All four will immediately duck and squeal, someone will attempt to steer the submarine in a different direction, someone else will suggest a better route while dodging a school of jellyfish and a coral reef.

I could listen to them play Submarine for hours. Not only are they hysterically funny but it's the insight I gain from their imaginations. The fourth traveler likes to fill his underwater world with mermaids, they often have names of people in his life with matching personalities. I can tell exactly who's in the good books and who's hogging the play equipment at recess within five minutes of being submerged. The first likes to be in charge - she's always the captain of the vessel. The second traveler injects humor while remaining a fan of the underdog, the shark is misunderstood, the killer whale is actually a really nice guy. The third will aim for chaos and feel the need to either harpoon or run something down.

Each time they play I gain a glimpse of their internal thoughts, thoughts that I may have never heard. And like most mothers, I enjoy that brief moment where everyone is happy, where they giggle together and form one solitary unit against the world. I bask in my happy family moment, where everyone appears to feel loved and lucky. I quietly congratulate myself on my wonderfully happy little family. Look what I've done. How clever am I.

Which is maybe why I struggled when I found the poetry on my iPad.

It was titled "Lizzie's poem about sadness". As I began to read the words I felt the familiar proud parental chest puff. At age eleven my poetry consisted solely of roses being red and violets being blue (which is dumb because they're obviously violet) whereas she had written a real poem, with real emotion. My proud moment felt tarnished though by the pre teen angst. Within the words I felt a sting. Was she really that sad. Did she really feel alone? How could I not know this?

As I lie in my bed,
life goes on and on.
I watch it go by,
people come and go.
I rest my sadness on my elbow and look out of the window.
I'm all alone in my own little world,
happy as can be in there,
until someone taps my shoulder and I look out the window.
I'm watching, not living.
I live in my own world.

I approached her with caution. I told her how wonderful her poem was, how clever I thought she was, how I could have never written anything of that quality at age eleven. And then as gently as I could, I asked "are you really feeling that sad?" She looked confused for a moment, and then she put it all together, my worried face, the poem, the concern. There was an eye roll. "The poem is about sadness, what it feels like to be sad, I wrote what I feel like when I am sad".

"Do you feel sad very often?"

"It wouldn't be normal if I didn't feel sad Mum. It's not like the movies. If I was happy all the time then it would be fake. No-one can be happy all the time. You have to have the sad moments to be truly happy"

She had quoted me. I roll out that last sentence on a bi-weekly basis, usually in the middle of someones personal drama, whether it be not making the basketball team or chosen for the talent show. My nearly twelve year old had just shared a piece of my own advice with me.

When she was a baby consoling her was as simple as a feed, or a cuddle. As a toddler it was an offer of a bandaid or a promise of a trip to the zoo. As a tween it's getting complicated. Sure, there are still the quick fix options of a download on iTunes or popcorn at the movies, but emotionally she's beginning to work through things on her own. Before running to me it's possible there will be journal entries, poetry, music played on high rotation, and conversations with good friends.

I'm not always the first option. It's no longer an automatic reaction to run to Mum.

I always knew my job description was going to change, I knew there would be new skills required. I'm learning that it's not just about being there at the right time. It's about knowing when I don't need to be there. Stepping back and letting her grow.

She tells me about future apartments in Paris, about University and travel. I am in awe of how beautiful she is but I've learnt to stop telling her on a half hourly basis. And even though I can see her braces, her ponytail and a hint of lipgloss, her face is exactly as I remember it at three years of age. I have to stop my mind from wandering back to a different a time, a time where she made me promise that we would be together forever. "I want to live with you and Daddy forever, you have to promise, pinky swear" and I did, because I knew it wouldn't be me that would have to break it.

We have to have the sad moments to be truly happy.

Who Does She Think She Is?

At thirteen she filled in her first personality test. Who do you think you are? Tick a, b or c. She was sure the crumpled teen magazine would expose the truth. Her pen hovered over the options. What would the person I'd like to be say? If you were to scratch the surface of her skin, you could almost see her nerve endings twitching with anxiety. Too many freckles. Her knees were knobbly. She was never the best, she desperately wanted to be the best, just once. She was sure she was nearly good enough - nearly. She pretended not to care, it was only when you looked her in the eye and asked a direct question that her voice would shake, her eyes searching desperately for an exit strategy.

By twenty, she'd become an expert at pushing the self doubt from her head to the bottom of her stomach for just enough time to be deceiving. Jobs were gained at the first interview and offered on the spot. Six months later she'd move on and repeat the process in a messy concoction of self sabotage and apathy. She knew she wasn't meant to be there. She just wasn't sure exactly where she was meant to be.

At twenty three, she realized that time was her luxury, life appeared to stretch on for endless miles. Days went forever. Weekends were lived by the minute, which made them last for weeks. Conversations with new and old friends continued throughout the night. Confidence grew with debate and conversation. She was okay, which was better than nearly good enough. She began again and once, maybe twice, she was convinced that she was on the right path. The other times, the darker times, she concluded that she was underserving. Who did she think she was?

By twenty five it was becoming clearer, she was still making mistakes but she could see them coming. She watched them happen. Why do I always do that? I chose that. I don't want to be that.

By twenty eight she had the answer. The right job, good friends, there was peace. She loved breakfast with girlfriends dissecting first dates over coffee, dinner in groups and weekends at the markets. "If this is how it stays forever - I'm okay with this. This is good" she said to a friend. "I'm okay with this".

There is no forever. There is always change. And sometimes it will come with a force and speed that has you running towards a noise that you don't recognize or understand, you just know you have to be there. Change can be both exhilarating and wonderful, but it can also leave you lost and unsure until you find your way toward the comfort of familiarity.

She was briefly lost. She stumbled.

At thirty five, as a mother of small children she looked in the mirror and was almost surprised to see her reflection. She was sure she was invisible. Wasn't she meant to be doing more? How did you do more? She needed to sleep. She needed to laugh, a raucous thigh slapping, I have no oxygen left and there is no noise coming out of my mouth laugh. When was the last time she did that?

She asked herself is it possible I've spent half of my life trying to work out who I am, only to spend the next half trying to reclaim who I was?

And then finally, she realized, it was irrelevant. She was better than okay. More than she ever thought she could be. She would continue to change and evolve. There would be more mistakes.

There was no category. No a, b or c. She would remove the labels. Wife, Mother, Home, Office. She was the same woman no matter the role.

At forty she felt that maybe she could finally claim the title.

She had become a woman.

You Just Know When You're Done.

We were sure we didn't want another child. I sat outside with our neighbours in Canada, baby monitor in one hand, glass of wine in the other and declared "We're done, three is our limit". Everyone agreed, one of the neighbours said "you just know when you're done, don't you" it was a statement, not a question. And I did. I was done.

For about six more months.

And then I wasn't so sure.

As I looked through the camera lens at the three little travelers, snapping away as the third traveler was being dressed in a tutu by his two older sisters, there was a feeling I couldn't quite put my finger on. Later that night as I loaded the photos on to my computer I stared at the pictures again. Something didn't look right. And then I realized, there was someone missing.

It made no sense when I ran through the logistics. We had three perfectly healthy children, four would surely be pushing our luck that little bit too far. We were exhausted and living on a very tight budget, having a baby meant less sleep and a couple of extra items on the shopping list each week. I wanted to go back to work while I was living in a country that I could. I'd worked in recruitment for years and was yet to see a job description that included "candidate must be pregnant, about to give birth and in need of maternity leave and modified hours".

So why was my mind in a state of constant silent debate with itself over the pros and cons of another baby?

I was living in a world where I complained on a daily basis about being sleep deprived, about having little people pull at my shirt mid sentence demanding "now" and "want". How could it be that I was considering adding to the chaos?

We were sitting in the park watching the three of them run up and down a hill, when I decided I couldn't keep it to myself any longer "Do you ever feel like there's someone missing?" I asked. As G tends to do, he thought for a moment, looked towards the hill, and back to me. He knew the question was loaded. It was a question that would begin a chain of events that would gain momentum and have us once again sitting in front of that bloody excel spreadsheet, trying to budget for four flights to Australia instead of three. It was another car seat, another school uniform, another doctors appointment, another set of teeth to be cleaned.

"Yeah, I do..." his voiced trailed off "but there are some days that I'm so exhausted and so scared to mess with what we have that I'm just not sure". I felt exactly the same way.

And that's how it began.

For a month I would ask the same question at the end of each day. "Is today a day you could have another baby?" G would give a definite yes or a definite no (or a definite corny 'today's the day I'd like to start practicing'). At the end of the month, we tallied our responses. It was a definite yes.

We were back outside with the neighbours, once again there was wine and a baby monitor. A family that lived a few doors down had three older children than ours, they were ten years further into their story than we were. They were talking about when their children were younger, they'd had a death in the family right at the time that they would have considered a fourth child. The overwhelming grief over the loss of a parent meant that a piece of time had slipped by, they felt they'd missed their chance. With the benefit of time and hindsight, our neighbour said something to us both that cemented the decision.

"You may regret not having another baby - but you'll never regret the baby that you had".

We decided to complete the picture.

And of course, now we can't imagine a picture without him.

The Missing Piece

I keep feeling like I'm missing something. Like there's a piece of the puzzle that's fallen under the table and I haven't noticed. That one day I'll be wandering past and I'll see that the piece is right there, camouflaged in the berber, and it'll make sense. It will click. Oh, I get it! That's why gay couples can't legally marry. Now I understand.

I'm waiting for someone to explain the technicality, the legal ramifications, the money it would cost the government to change. I mean there has to be more to it, right?

Surely if we can now recognize and openly discuss that our community is a mix of both gay and straight soldiers, nurses, teachers, doctors, farmers, lawyers, hairdressers and politicians  - we can also now accept that everyone in the community has equal rights.

For the longest time I assumed it was because Australia was being run by a conservative government. And then the government changed. I figured things would change in time, and as a heterosexual married mother of four, I have to admit I was complacent. I mean, it didn't mean anything to me, it wasn't going to change my life at all.

And then I realized that was the missing piece.

It was the complacency.

My very clever Aunty put it this way "this is not a matter of opinion, this is a matter of human rights".

Penny Wong showed incredible dignity when the issue was raised on the ABC's 'Q and A' recently. How would you react to a colleague telling you that he felt that you weren't providing "the very best circumstance" for your children?



"Is it hurtful?"

"Of course it is - but I know what my family's worth"

Watch her face, see her wince. Yes. It's hurtful.

I was interested in what the little travelers thoughts were on marriage equality and what they felt would be the very best circumstance to be raised. They were all surprised to hear that you couldn't get married in Australia if you were gay "but you can in Calgary?" said one of them.

I asked what they would prefer, two Mummies, two Daddies, or a Mummy and a Daddy. The second little traveler rolled her eyes in a stop wasting my time kind of way. "You wouldn't care would you, because you would want whatever you were born with, because they were the people that chose you".

Couldn't have said it better myself.

Two Hours and Fifty Two Minutes

The conversations that were filled with nothing, but meaning everything, began when I went to boarding school. I would gather the 20 cent pieces from the side of my school bag and make my way through the poorly lit corridors towards the office. When I wasn't ringing her, she was ringing me, a voice would carry through the stairwell "phone call for Kirsty Riiiiiiiiiiiiiice".

"How are you?"

"Good"

"How's school?"

"Good"

"Did you manage to buy a new shirt?"

"Yep"

My questions in return were "how's the dog?" and "did we win the football?" All the while I'd be picturing my childhood home, my bedroom, the posters on the wall and the blossoms that would be in full bloom outside my bedroom window. My homesickness subsided with the feeling that I was there, I wasn't missing a thing.

A care package would arrive with a pair of wooly socks for the winter, a bag of lollies and a newspaper with the sporting results from the weekend. I'd scan all of the pictures looking for clues on the life that was going on without me.

When I finished school the phone calls continued. I began work and moved house several times, but the regularity stayed the same. Invariably I needed help, I was hopeless. Something was always about to get cut off, the phone, the electricity, the rent was overdue. The requests for help were staccatos in a banal chorus of "have you been back to the dentist" and "when does Dad get his new car".

When I moved interstate the phone calls were made late at night for cheaper rates. I would walk in to the bedroom with a glowing red cauliflower ear after talking for over an hour, sometimes two. With a look of disbelief G would ask"What do you two talk about?"

When I was completely lost, new in Libya without a car, a phone or a friend to talk to, she would send me emails to match our calls. She'd planted petunias, a tree had fallen down in the backyard, the dog next door had finally disappeared and Barry from work was going in for an operation next week. "Do you remember the Smith boy, he married the girl from Woolworths, they're having a baby." In the absence of care packages my news was now coming via daily email. She knew I was struggling, she knew I needed the ordinary, the everyday; nothing too deep, nothing to thoughtful, just enough to hang on. Keep going, one foot in front of the other.

Yesterday, after two hours and fifty two minutes of nothing but everything, I said goodbye. I had eaten lunch, gone through some paperwork and made a coffee while we chatted. And although it was nothing it was very much everything. She was right there, close enough to disagree with, close enough to giggle over the mispronouncing of a name. When you have lived with the distance, you understand how close it can make you feel.

After two hours and fifty two minutes, of nothing but everything, I forgot to say what I rang for.

Happy Mothers Day Mum.

Spoons with Hair.

Last year when I returned to Australia for the school holidays, I turned on the television and was greeted by a large number of spoons with hair. Women who I had identified with for most of my life, were looking a little "unusual". They were shiny, smooth replicas of themselves. The men? The men looked exactly the same, just a little older. Oh hang on, Shane Warne looked a bit weird, as did Sam Newman, but when it came to reading the news or presenting a television show? It appeared that age was actually quite endearing for a man, yet catastrophic for a woman.


I am not anti plastic surgery, anti Botox or anti whatever it is that makes your skin puff out. If that's what you feel you need to do, I think you should do it. What worries me though, is I'm struggling to find women in media, television and film who aren't doing it. Which means it's becoming normal to look like a spoon.  I don't need women to look like spoons, do you? I want women on the telly to know I appreciate their age and longevity. More importantly, I want my daughters to know that you can age, grow and remain respected in whatever you do, with wrinkles.


On twitter yesterday I asked for suggestions on women we admired with wrinkles. The same usual suspects popped up over and over again, you guessed it, Dame Judi Dench and Helen Mirren. And then the ball started rolling, suggestions came thick and fast. Tilda Swinton, Salma Hayek, Rachel Ward, Meryl Streep, Julie Waters, Greta Scacchi, Kristin Scott Thomas, Jodie Foster and Francis McDormand all made the list. My own personal favourites were Australian food author and restauranteur Maggie Beer and Film photographer Brigitte Lacombe.


It was Brigitte Lacombe that got me thinking about this.


On Thursday night I was out to dinner with a few friends and noticed Brigitte and her sister Marian were in the same restaurant. After I'd finished hyperventilating and gushing over my discovery, I sat and admired them from afar. Two sisters out for a meal, both incredibly successful in their careers. In their working life they are surrounded by movie stars, media moguls and highly influential players in the film industry. I watched them giggle over their sake. Brigitte is always recognizable by her visual simplicity. Looking like she has just stepped out of one of her iconic photos, her face is devoid of makeup, her hair long and silver, her black heavy rimmed glasses come on and off as she peruses the menu, her clothes are as always, black and white. She is a la naturel. She looks comfortable in her skin, her responsive, pliable skin. I like her skin.


I like her skin because she looks comfortable with growing older. I want to be comfortable with growing older and selfishly I need women like Brigette Lacombe, Francis McDormand and Kristin Scott Thomas to confirm that's it's okay to look older. 


Jamie Lee Curtis who describes herself as "anti anti aging" said in March this year 'We are ALL going to age and soften and mellow and transition. All of us, if we are lucky enough to make it through this hard life into older adulthood..."
I'm lucky enough to still be here. 


For a little inspiration I've made myself a board to look at. A little reminder of the women I want to see more of. The writers, directors, actresses and foodies that pop up on my television and smile with their eyes. The ones that say look how smart I got, look how clever I am. See, I got older and wiser. 


I'm lucky enough to still be here.


Who do you want to look at? Do you care? Any suggestions on who to add to the board?


Here's one of Brigitte's photos of Meryl Streep. Just gorgeous. Both Merryl and Brigitte's talent.

*Update* There's been some controversy over my addition of Meryl, so I thought I'd add another photo.

You're going to have a hard time tackling in that dress

Three little girls sat in the back of the car. They were going to the same venue. The school social. There was an air of excitement. The excitement that comes with being twelve and heading out after dark. Indonesia, Australia, South Africa, it's amazing how three little girls born in three different countries all end up speaking the same language - the language of tween.

One of the girls is in a dress.
The other is in shorts and is carrying a rugby ball.
The one in the middle, is just that, somewhere in the middle, she has a sparkly top with a jeweled hair clip, jeans and converse sneakers.

"So what happens at the social?" I ask.

"We dance" says the dress.

"We play football" says the shorts.

"You're going to have a hard time tackling in that dress" giggles the little brother, he sees his role as the entertainer.

They all roll their eyes.

There is talk about high heels, they are deemed unnecessary. Someone at school has them already, will she wear them? There is talk about Facebook, one's already signed up, one "doesn't have the time" and one's Mummy won't let her until she's thirteen. "I'm not sure if I want to though" I try not to smile. For I am the Mummy.

I ask the shorts if she thinks she'll join her sister at boarding school.

"What's that?" asks the dress from Indonesia.

"It's where you go to school and then you sleep there as well."

"Oh, kind of like the movie Wild Child?"

I jump in quickly "nope, I don't think it's like Wild Child - I think it's more like Harry Potter"

Please God let it be more like Harry Potter, I'd prefer oversized snakes and wizards than mini skirts and heavy eyeliner.

I know - it's a fantasy.

Even Hermoine couldn't escape the heavy eyeliner.

At the gate we discuss times, phone calls and pick ups. They are all beautiful. I watch for just that little bit too long as she enters the gate. Her pony tail swishes in the distance. I know she's uncertain and sometimes lost, but she's determined to find out more. She's learning the language, and making her way into a new world.

It's new territory for all us. One minute I'm driving, I'm listening, I'm directing.

The next, I can only look on from a distance.

I can't delete you

I can't delete you.

I scroll past you, knowing there's no chance of contact. No quick hello. No five minute chat. I can't send out a last minute email with arrival times and new phone numbers.

"I'll call you when we get into town - I understand if you're not up to it".  I've read it over and over. "Love you B".

I didn't know that was it. My last chance.

Your name is still there. You're still a "friend" a "contact".

I can't delete it.

The irony of you being "available" on Skype.

I've hovered over your name, smiled back at your grin.

Wouldn't that be amazing? How much would a call to heaven cost?

I joined your memorial page. It helped in the beginning. I saw all of the other faces, people I'd heard you speak of but had never met. They all had different names for you. Habes, Bling, Bel and B. Terms of affection and references that can be tracked like date stamps. Different countries, different memories, the same sentiment.

I mulled over the photos. It helped. I realized that we were just a tiny part of a big life. That we were lucky to have the time we had.

And then it got quiet.

Until your birthday.

More photos, more memories, more messages. More tears.

And then, over time, it dwindled, and became quiet again.

You appeared in my thoughts because I'd put you there. A frangipani, an Indonesian soup, a new friend who reminds me of you.

My thoughts, unless technology jumped in.

I was mid sentence today when I glanced down and saw they'd been an update. A picture of you. You're in the pool. I normally would have written "Hey, I like your bathers!"

Instead, I just clicked "like" - but I don't.

I don't like.

You're here, but you're not.

I can't delete you.





Grief and technology. Is anyone else conflicted?

There Goes My Craft

I'm not really sure how it came to be, but I have a ridiculous amount of friends who either are, or have been, reporters, broadcasters, editors, and magazine contributors. As time has gone by I've watched them grow in their careers. They've moved towns and cities, networks and publications. Some have moved from politics to foreign affairs, others from local newspapers to boutique magazines. Those who no longer wanted to be part of the scrum, moved into the public service to see things from another perspective. No matter what, they all have something in common. They love a good story.

So you can imagine when I began blogging, I was a little terrified to "share" anything with a few of my Walkley nominated friends. I knew I was making embarrassing grammatical errors. I knew the story I'd written didn't always follow the correct structure. Okay, so there wasn't any structure at all. I knew that once it was out there - it was OUT there. Fodder for years to come, endless laughs at Christmas drinks, look at Kirsty over there, their and they're.

I can never adequately explain why I continue to blog. Yes, I believe I've become a better story teller, but even when the evidence of a growing audience hits my inbox each morning, my self doubt continues to sit uncomfortably on my shoulder. Was that a run on sentence? I dream of having an editor to catch the mistakes before I push the publish button. Why is it always three days AFTER writing the post that was shared 4,000 times, that we discover that we wrote isle instead of aisle?

What do I call myself? A blogger? A storyteller? A writer?

Any of those will do, but no, I would never think of myself as a journalist. It's not only that I don't have the skills nor the inclination, I don't report or gather news.

I've referred to Mrs Woog often on this blog, and here I go again. Yesterday Mrs Woog posted a link regarding a conversation on twitter. The post was titled Bloggers v. Journalists v. Writers. A gossip columnist referred to his "craft" being under threat. I agree, if you're a gossip columnist your craft probably is under threat. There's plenty of people that can gossip, and plenty of gossip to be found. Good luck with that.

However, if you are a good journalist - your craft is possibly safer than ever.

What makes a good journalist? A good journalist can live and report from the same small community for twenty years while maintaining both integrity and respect. A good journalist will tell a story that no-one else had considered. A good journalist will make sense of the annual report, the share price and the percentage drop in sales. A good journalist will make you raise an eyebrow, or snort out loud on public transport. A good journalist will report the news with a talent the rest of us could only dream of.

I heartily consume the words of Annabel Crabb and sigh at the eloquence of her writing. I head straight to my dictionary after a dose of Helen Razor, marveling at her ever expansive lexical range. I cried when I read Sally Sara's final words from Afghanistan. I dream of one day writing with the apparent ease of Angela Mollard on The Punch. If Joe Hildebrand writes it, I'll read it. If Mark Colvin tweets it, I'll look at it. And it doesn't stop there. There's a counterpart to each of the above in the US, and the UK, in fact, all over the world. My recent iPad purchase has meant that I can now carry newspapers everywhere I go. And I do. I've spent more money subscribing to newspapers in the past year, than I think I would have in the four years previous.

Which brings me back to the question of why do I write? When I now have access to such incredible talent, why do I continue to write on my own blog. When I began blogging, amongst my mother and five or six other readers, there were a few that sent an occasional private email. "I really enjoyed that one" said a friend who had worked as a journalist in both television and print. "Have you thought about writing a book?" said another who'd written a book herself. "I love your stories, please don't stop writing" said a mate who'd edited newspapers for years. When the email came from the publishing house, the first sentence said it all "*insert journalist friend here*....suggested we have a look at your blog, and we love it."

My guess is a good journalist feels so comfortable with their craft, they're happy to encourage and support those who aspire to write, in whatever form it may take. My guess is a good journalist may not refer to their work as "their craft".

Yes, the world of social media has changed the way we communicate, but the fundamental skills are still the same. If you're any good, people will read your work. What's different now, is if they like it, they'll then share it immediately with everyone they know. If they don't? I can't help you there. I'm not a journalist.

Jump Up and Down.

It was a matter of time. It had to happen. When you have four children you can be certain of a few things.

1. There will be head lice.
2. At least one trip will be made to the hospital in the middle of the night.
3. One of them, maybe all of them, will tell you with great conviction that you are the worst Mummy ever, right when you thought you might just be the best. 

And then finally, one day, it will come. All four children will be invited to separate birthday parties on the same day.

G and I sat with the four invitations in front of us and worked out a schedule. I made phone calls to mothers "is it okay if we arrive a little later - or would you prefer earlier? I just need to be on the other side of town at the same time". Presents were wrapped and vouchers we stuck to home made birthday cards with sticky tape. We gathered towels and bathers and packed special bags for swimming parties. Socks were remembered at the last minute for the bowling party "quick, shove these in your back pocket". 

On our way to each destination the same tune was played on high rotation. The Beastie Boys. We had a few extra children in the car at different parts of the day, and each time the chorus provided the same anthem, the same head nodding, the same giggling. 

"You gotta fight. For your right. To paaaaaaaaarty". 

"Play it again Mum - Play it again".

Having left the house at 11 that morning, by 5pm when I walked through the door, I was a sweaty and disheveled mess. It was 46 degrees yesterday. G was in the kitchen, we were having friends over for dinner, I could hear the knife on the chopping board. Looking slightly sunburnt and a little weary he asked if I was going anywhere near a certain gourmet supermarket on my way to the next birthday party pick up. "Sure" I said without any enthusiasm. I knew it was going to be bumper to bumper along the road that I needed to get to. Parking was going to require the navigation and stealth of a formula one driver. G looked in my direction and said what he always says when I look like I've hit the wall "What happened to the party girl I married?"

I got back in the car. Back to the Beastie Boys. 

It was somewhere around 1989 when we drove to Melbourne to see The Beastie Boys. I was picked up from the most monotonous boring job in the world bang on 5.30, so we could drive straight there. It was a 7 hour drive. At 1am we hit our first night club. Three night clubs later and it was six in the morning, we slept in the car for a few hours, had breakfast with friends, shopped in the afternoon and then it was off to the pub for a few drinks before the show. 

The Beastie Boys were playing in a club, a friend was working there and he'd got us the tickets. We met him at a special entry point. It's really quite amazing how we did that in an era before mobile phones and texting isn't it? How we just managed to find each other. As my friend opened the door you could see a mass of bodies moving in time. The Beastie Boys had already taken the stage. I'd seen bands before, and been to much bigger venues, but there was nothing like The Beastie Boys live. They'd thrown punk and hip hop together and it worked. It was like discovering a new author with a different style, something you'd never heard. I jumped up and down for hours. Up and down. Everyone around me was doing the same thing. Up and down. No youtube, no internet, this was it. Other than the possibility of a random film clip in the middle of the night - this was it. They were boys from another land.

The first little traveler arrived home from her party at 9.30 that night. We'd served the starter and were just about to begin the main meal with our guests. As I put her to bed I told her I was jealous, "I'm so tired, I could just lie here next to you" she giggled and told me she could stay awake ALL night, she was WIDE awake. 

Later that evening, after the guests left, the dishwasher had been packed and the party bags hidden up high - I read the news that Adam Yauch, founding member of The Beastie Boys was gone. I pictured the jeans, the cap, the up and down. I pictured the room that moved to the unpredictable, the energy and force of being young and inspired. 

Where's that party girl?

You've gotta fight for your right to party - because it might all disappear before you know it. Every now and then we need a little reminder that we can't be tired. We need to get inspired, listen to something new, jump up and down, and be grateful for the chance to be busy. 

"I Give Thanks For This World As A Place To Learn And For This Human Body That I'm Glad To Have Earned"

The Beastie Boys.

Who Threw the Dog Out?

I posted this on the 4 kids, 20 suitcases and a beagle's Facebook page last week.

It made me giggle out loud when I read it.

And then yesterday - someone actually put their dog in the bin. And left it there to die.

Not giggling.

G was out walking the beagle when he heard the sound of a puppy coming from a dumpster. It was six in the morning and already close to 35 degrees. The beagle immediately became excited at the prospect of puppy for breakfast so G brought her home. He grabbed the third little traveler, some water and a bowl, and drove the car back to the dumpster. And there it was. Surrounded by garbage at the bottom of the bin. An eight week old Saluki puppy.

We'd call it a skip bin in Australia, in France it's a Benne (this is why French people giggle when they meet men called Ben), in America it's a dumpster. I have no idea what it is in Arabic but I can tell you, it's really bloody hot, dark, smelly and I imagine a pretty awful way to die.

How do you throw a puppy in a bin? Do you lift the lid, chuck it in and drive off? Do you hesitate? Do you have to explain to any children where the puppy went? Do you wake up in the morning and wonder if it's dead yet? Or do you just get someone else to do it? "Here - get rid of this for me".

The puppy needs a home. The little travelers obviously feel that that home is with us, but the beagle has other ideas. The beagle thinks the puppy needs fattening up with a side dish of beef jerky.

The puppy has been dewormed, vaccinated and had a lovely big bubble bath. It's currently spending some time at the vet, where they are referring to it as "Skip". Here it is with our very gorgeous neighbour Trish (she works at Qatar Veterinary Centre which was very handy at 7.30 yesterday morning).

If you think you have enough love for Skip - please call QVC - Qatar 44216405 or pop in to say Hi. He really is seriously cute.



*Please share with anyone you think may be interested. Lets see if we can find this puppy a home by the end of the week.

Change the Tone.

I stopped the first little traveler mid sentence. It was the tone. There was something in the tone of the sentence that sounded a little hard done by.

"What do you mean we're not normal? What's normal?"

"Well, *insert eye roll* I've lived in six countries Mum, and I've been to three schools..." The tone was dramatic, a little bit how come they all got to go to the dance but I had to stay home.

I reminded her that this could have happened anywhere. That really she wasn't quite as unique as she perhaps thought. That children of army parents and itinerate workers all have to pack up and move often WITHOUT the luxury of private schools and hotel stays.

I reminded her that she has two parents who love her. I reminded her that she has a mother who drives her to school and picks her up each day. That she is fed good quality food, sleeps in clean sheets, travels to foreign countries, learns a musical instrument, attends birthday parties on weekends and goes to the corner shop for lollies every Thursday.

And then I agreed that yes, it was hard moving around and not having continuous access to grandparents (although we probably wouldn't have that even if we lived in Australia). I agreed that perhaps it would have been great to stay at the same school all the way through from kindergarten, or perhaps it would have been bloody awful. Who knows? Just don't tell me you're hard done by.

There's a name for children of expats, they're known at TCK's or Third Culture Kids. There's been books written and you can find websites to browse, conferences to attend and all sorts of material to head towards if you are so inclined.

I struggle a little with the concept of our hard done by TCK's. Yes, we need to acknowledge and discuss that moving and adjusting is hard work. However, we also need to acknowledge that TCK's are often surrounded by children with much bigger problems. If you've lived in Indonesia, India, Mexico, Libya or perhaps anywhere that ends with Stan, you've seen children with issues a little more serious. Problems like clean water, adequate health care, disease, and the loss of a parent. When there's a slum at your back gate, you know, just beyond your swimming pool - it should be a little harder to complain about those first world problems.

After watching the video below, I asked the children again last night where home was. Two answered without missing a beat, home was Australia. One of them was more specific, home was at the beach house. The other, melted my heart with this:

"Home is wherever you and Dad are. If we're all together it feels like home, wherever we are".

I think G and I have been lucky that we're both from the same country, the issue of where is home can be very confusing for a child if as a parent, you're not so sure yourself. What I liked about the clip below was a lot of the kids acknowledged the good bits and rationalized the bad. Okay, so you're not quite sure where you're from? Well, maybe you just haven't found it yet? The best bit is, you're the one that gets to decide.

In the back of my mind...

In the back of my mind is a little room. It has a swinging door, much the same as you would find in a restaurant leading into a kitchen. Don't be deceived by its size, its a busy little room, the phone is constantly ringing and it's full of overflowing boxes that have been stacked on top of each other. On a daily basis the door swings open, usually because of a thought, sometimes a question, other times it's a discussion.

The room is about the "when", it's about the "if". It's about "where" and "how". When we go home. If a job was to suddenly end. Where will we live and how will it work?

In the boxes are locations that never happened. Places we were certain we were moving to that changed on a whim. Boxes labelled "Nova Scotia" full of notes about living in minus degree temperatures and shoveling snow. There's another box labeled "London", another with "Singapore". These are all places that I may have never physically picked up the house keys, but in my mind I was there. The school, the house, the life. Emails were sent to real estate agents, websites of schools were visited.

Go to any expat function and listen to an introduction and I promise these two questions will be heard in the first five minutes. "Where are you from?" and "How long are you here for?" We are constantly reminded of  how we came to be here. We talk in time frames. We discuss our children's future, how we see it. What do they gain? What do they lose? What if we can't get a job when it's time to go home? More notes are made and stuffed into boxes.

Five years ago in Sydney, I sat on a wooden bench next to my father outside of a busy cafe. We were enjoying the vibe of Darling street, the children had ducked in to a toy shop with Granny Max and G. We sipped on our lattes and enjoyed sitting under the same blue sky together. G and I were home for two weeks that year but we weren't really HOME home. Sure we were in Sydney, but we hadn't made it back to my parents house in South Australia. It didn't feel the same. No roast dinner at Mums, no drinking red wine in their kitchen late at night. I hadn't seen my sister. I spoke to friends on the phone, I could have been anywhere.

My Dad and I have the same eyes, almond shaped and brown. Our distant chinese heritage shines through in our thick dark hair. A girlfriend of mine said my father and I look like a couple of black labradors when we're together. Our tails wag, we're usually pretty happy to see each other. It was one of those ordinary moments, we were making observations about people and shops and living in Sydney. Dad was making me laugh. My Dad's a country bloke, he was trying to imagine what it's like to live a Sydney life. I'm not sure if it was because G wasn't there or because we were finally getting two minutes alone, but my Dad asked me something that he'd never asked before and has never asked since "when are you going to come home love?" His voice wavered just slightly midway through the sentence.

My answer was longwinded when it didn't need to be. I talked about G and his job. I talked about housing prices and saving money. I talked about possible opportunities and the children. About the plans in the back of my mind. If it should be Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide or Brisbane. The real answer was much simpler. The real answer was "I don't know".

I still don't know - but I've changed a few things that have quietened down the noise in that little room in the back of my mind. For three months of every year we have a home in Australia. There are no more quick twenty minutes coffees, there are now sleep overs and weekends and walks to the beach. There are heights measured in door frames, toys left to return to and new friends in neighborhoods we plan to keep forever. If we decide we want to see Granny and Gramps we hop in the car and go.

The doors of the room continue to swing back and forth with more ideas, more notes and thoughts of how and if and when. It is quieter though, home isn't as far away as it used to be.



For those of you who are away from family. When is it time to go home?

Life Affirming Sumo Knickers

The first little traveler has a piece of paper strategically placed next to her bed. It has a little magnetic ball which keeps it stuck to the stand of her bedside lamp. On the piece of paper she has written these words.

"I am not perfect and never will be. And neither will anyone else! We can only be ourselves."

When I discovered the note I was really pleased that she'd chosen something positive but also realistic. I love the tone that you don't need to be anyone else, just continue on being your best self.

I asked her last night why she has it there.

"Just as a reminder - I like it."

I wondered who had inspired her to write the note.

"Who said it?"

"I said it" she smiled back with a mouth full of braces.

I'm thinking of getting my own piece of paper.

While walking through the supermarket last week, the youngest traveler saw it as the perfect opportunity to grab my bottom. He likes to grab my bottom, or my boobs, whatever is closest at the time. With one bum cheek in each hand he began making the sounds of a tuba, or maybe it was a trombone? I can't be sure. Whatever it was, it was loud and embarrassing. As I walked I could feel his hands on each cheek, the sound effect matched my stride. I stopped him several times, but each time I continued on through the dairy section, he'd grab my bum cheeks again and begin squealing.

"Boom boom boom - your bottom does BIG BOOMS" he squealed. He thought he was hysterical. I thought he was a good candidate for adoption.

Later that evening I got dressed for a birthday party. I was wearing a see-through kaftan with a tube slip underneath. I was really happy with the outfit, even when one of my daughters screwed up her nose and asked "What have you got on underneath it? Hmmm, I'm not sure if it's really you Mum?"

I thanked her very much for her input and reminded myself that my fashion advice was coming from an eleven year old. An eleven year old who was currently wearing her brother's soccer shorts, teamed with a singlet she's had for roughly four years.

"You look fine Mum" offered the second traveler. "Just change your shoes".

I left the house feeling "fine" and wondering what was wrong with my other shoes.

Yesterday I emerged from the shower to find the second and third traveler had taken up a position on my bed. As I pulled on my knickers they began giggling.

"Your knickers don't cover your bum Mummy" giggled the third traveler

"They're not meant to - they're called a G string. Have you both brushed your teeth?" I really didn't feel like I needed an audience.

"They should call them Sumo knickers. You know how Sumo wrestler have knickers that go up their bum?"

They were both now in a moment of pure hysteria. I stopped the party quickly.

"The words sumo and bottom should never be put in the same sentence when you are speaking of your mother. Now go and brush your teeth".

So, back to my piece of paper. My life affirming note to pin on my bedside lamp.

"I am not perfect and never will be, and neither is anyone else - but my bottom provides hours of endless entertainment to my very perfect children"