We all try to make a mark on the life that is given us. Whether it be a learned skill or business prowess, each one is intent on being better than the generation before us and leaving an indelible impact on society. Many hours are expended, well into adulthood, as we forge ahead to create a path (and perhaps an income to match).
Today, the nation has stopped in horror at hearing of eight prisoners who won't get that chance. Sure, they made bad choices (who hasn't?) but at the end of the day, their lives have been taken far too early and in many eyes, unjustified for the choices they made. Labelled as common prisoners, these men have left this earth without the chance the make their mark.
Or have they?
The Sydney Morning Herald posted an article today on the Bali executions. I have been digging my head in the sand over this whole issue. Whether it be because it's so dreadfully terrifying that people can so willingly take another life, or that the sensation it's caused has inadvertently overshadowed a greater tragedy in Nepal, as far as lives lost. Either way, I have been trying to avoid the articles but with the innumerable accounts in various media, it has been almost impossible.
Today's headline 'Eight prisoners refused blindfolds' caught my attention. I was expecting furore, or political outrage, but the perspective of this article was intriguing. I read it and was humbled by the account I was reading. Refused blindfolds. They faced their killers. Not only that, but sang 'Amazing Grace' until their last moments, choosing to show no fear. How is that even humanly possible?
What struck me today about the Bali prisoners was the legacy they left.
Taken way too soon, these young men left this world, making a statement within the situation they were given, that most of us spend a lifetime trying to attain. They didn't design the latest contraption, or write a best-selling novel. They chose to face their consequences and their fears, sought reconciliation with God and sang their way to the end, with courage.
Not all of us will have the chance to do amazing things with our lives. Amazing things, that is, by worldly standards. However, each one of us has the option of being able to leave a legacy where we are, within the constraints we have been given. Whether we are in a wheelchair, or a working mum or a single dad, we can make an indelible mark right here.
Each one of you is a gift to this world, and the world is waiting for you to make an impact. What will be your legacy?
Wednesday 29 April 2015
Friday 24 April 2015
Face Value
There's nothing like a seven year old exclaiming he doesn't feel part of the family to put a halt on the morning's proceedings. Needless to say, it turned my morning upside down in the few seconds it took him to utter those words (which he did... very loudly).
The first week at the new school had passed somewhat uneventfully, and we even remembered the correct uniform on the correct day. Seeing as I got it wrong more than once at our old school, even when employed as a staff member, this is a victory for me! All three children seemed fairly settled and perhaps enjoying this new adventure.
Until this morning.
Despite being a little down over my own sadness at missing the constant contact with friends (who became like family to me over the nine years at the last school), this morning dawned a new beginning. Fully rested after eight and half hours sleep, I aimed to tackle the morning with a fresh perspective. I was organised, I was motivated and darn it, these children would get to school on time (not one of my strengths) if it killed me.
And organised I was. Hot breakfast was served (instant porridge - I'm no Nigella), lunches made, all with time for me to shower before leaving. I even tackled Master Seven's turned up nose at my food offering and made him toast instead, figuring if he was happy about his breakfast it would make the whole morning routine go more smoothly. All he had to do was get dressed which I thought was easy enough. How wrong I was.
On emerging fully showered and dressed from my room, I found Master Seven folding paper aeroplanes. In his pyjamas. Five minutes before leaving. Now I did have the leaving time as ten minutes earlier in case of unforeseen catastrophes (which happen to our family regularly) but even fifteen minutes was cutting it close for Master Seven to get himself organised. So, I whisked my 'Admin Assistant' hat on and I started to dress him myself. Maybe I was a little tetchy, but I was conscious that Miss Nearly Fifteen loved being late as much I as loved warm pineapple (blech).
My slightly strong tone struck a dissonant note in Master Seven and he revolted. He wanted to tie his own tie 'I'll just Google it, Mum!' and there was a great deal of flapping hands from both of us. I tried desperately to get him ready while he tried desperately to stop me.
Needless to say, it ended with both of us shouting and he uttering 'you're so mean! It's not fair! I don't feel part of this family'. You could have sliced my heart with a knife and it would have been less painful.
We did make it to school on time (just) but the stony silence in the car was downright depressing. The ten minute journey was enough for me to (silently) berate him for his belligerence, justify my own position, then chastise myself for being so damn introspective and a terrible parent. By the time we got to school, I was set to apologise for being 'mean' (as he put it) and start the school day on the right foot. I couldn't bear it if I left him with the memory of harsh words for the the entire day.
I helped him put on his shoes (not finished in the haste of getting out the door) and spoke gently. He kept saying how tired he was and I kept saying how he'll pick up when he gets into the classroom.
I don't know what prompted me to ask the next question. Some may say 'mother's intuition' but it certainly wasn't a thought that had come into my mind at all that morning. I actually prefer to think that God, who I believe knows and loves me and my children, put that question in my head as He knew what Master Seven needed more than I did.
'Are you missing your friends, sweetie?'
I watched his big eyes fill with tears, and his bottom lip falter and I had to quickly hug him so he wouldn't notice my eyes following suit. The poor little dear was in such an emotional state about how drastically new everything was, that it had been manifesting in an angry defiance. New friends, new teacher, new routine; it was all wearing him out. Having touched on the source of his emotional anxiety, he and I both melted. I knew then what was needed - a mental health day at home, complete with a milkshake for him and a much needed (large) latte for me. It appears that he doesn't like being the 'Newbie', any more than I do.
Taken at face value, Master Seven was a troubled little soul today, but there was a deeper issue that without that one question I would not have been able to draw it to the surface. I would have continued on with my day, oblivious to his anxious heart, angry and probably researching family therapy or child psychologists. Whereas my day so far has been chatting over coffee and milkshake, cuddles and watching Master Seven finish his most sort after level on Geometry Dash. And a piece of humble pie...there's nothing like it.
The first week at the new school had passed somewhat uneventfully, and we even remembered the correct uniform on the correct day. Seeing as I got it wrong more than once at our old school, even when employed as a staff member, this is a victory for me! All three children seemed fairly settled and perhaps enjoying this new adventure.
Until this morning.
Despite being a little down over my own sadness at missing the constant contact with friends (who became like family to me over the nine years at the last school), this morning dawned a new beginning. Fully rested after eight and half hours sleep, I aimed to tackle the morning with a fresh perspective. I was organised, I was motivated and darn it, these children would get to school on time (not one of my strengths) if it killed me.
And organised I was. Hot breakfast was served (instant porridge - I'm no Nigella), lunches made, all with time for me to shower before leaving. I even tackled Master Seven's turned up nose at my food offering and made him toast instead, figuring if he was happy about his breakfast it would make the whole morning routine go more smoothly. All he had to do was get dressed which I thought was easy enough. How wrong I was.
On emerging fully showered and dressed from my room, I found Master Seven folding paper aeroplanes. In his pyjamas. Five minutes before leaving. Now I did have the leaving time as ten minutes earlier in case of unforeseen catastrophes (which happen to our family regularly) but even fifteen minutes was cutting it close for Master Seven to get himself organised. So, I whisked my 'Admin Assistant' hat on and I started to dress him myself. Maybe I was a little tetchy, but I was conscious that Miss Nearly Fifteen loved being late as much I as loved warm pineapple (blech).
My slightly strong tone struck a dissonant note in Master Seven and he revolted. He wanted to tie his own tie 'I'll just Google it, Mum!' and there was a great deal of flapping hands from both of us. I tried desperately to get him ready while he tried desperately to stop me.
Needless to say, it ended with both of us shouting and he uttering 'you're so mean! It's not fair! I don't feel part of this family'. You could have sliced my heart with a knife and it would have been less painful.
We did make it to school on time (just) but the stony silence in the car was downright depressing. The ten minute journey was enough for me to (silently) berate him for his belligerence, justify my own position, then chastise myself for being so damn introspective and a terrible parent. By the time we got to school, I was set to apologise for being 'mean' (as he put it) and start the school day on the right foot. I couldn't bear it if I left him with the memory of harsh words for the the entire day.
I helped him put on his shoes (not finished in the haste of getting out the door) and spoke gently. He kept saying how tired he was and I kept saying how he'll pick up when he gets into the classroom.
I don't know what prompted me to ask the next question. Some may say 'mother's intuition' but it certainly wasn't a thought that had come into my mind at all that morning. I actually prefer to think that God, who I believe knows and loves me and my children, put that question in my head as He knew what Master Seven needed more than I did.
'Are you missing your friends, sweetie?'
I watched his big eyes fill with tears, and his bottom lip falter and I had to quickly hug him so he wouldn't notice my eyes following suit. The poor little dear was in such an emotional state about how drastically new everything was, that it had been manifesting in an angry defiance. New friends, new teacher, new routine; it was all wearing him out. Having touched on the source of his emotional anxiety, he and I both melted. I knew then what was needed - a mental health day at home, complete with a milkshake for him and a much needed (large) latte for me. It appears that he doesn't like being the 'Newbie', any more than I do.
Taken at face value, Master Seven was a troubled little soul today, but there was a deeper issue that without that one question I would not have been able to draw it to the surface. I would have continued on with my day, oblivious to his anxious heart, angry and probably researching family therapy or child psychologists. Whereas my day so far has been chatting over coffee and milkshake, cuddles and watching Master Seven finish his most sort after level on Geometry Dash. And a piece of humble pie...there's nothing like it.
Wednesday 22 April 2015
The Newbie
I don't have many aversions in life, apart from the usual impatient car drivers and eating warm pineapple. I consider myself a fairly easy going person who can let most of the irritations in life roll off my back. As the Pastor of our previous church says 'like Teflon - let the offences slide right off'. However, in moving house recently, I've noticed one important aversion that I can add to my meagre list.
I hate being the 'newbie'. And I don't use the word 'hate' very often.
Australian slang for being a new person, it's not really a bad thing to be called such. It just means exactly what it says. A new person. And I can't stand it.
Yesterday, my three children were the 'newbies' at their new school. There were a few little emotional outbursts in the morning, but not really more than any other school morning (parents of school children will be nodding in understanding right now). Their ability to just face a new situation as it comes was in stark contrast to mine. I fired questions all morning, sometimes with no pause in between. 'Are you going to be warm enough? Do you have your thermals on? You might need them today. Is that going to be enough food for you? Do you remember how to tie a tie??' I realised I was more nervous than they were.
School drop off was uneventful, even though I don't think I will ever get used to seeing them now in green instead of the old navy uniform. The children were all taken to assembly then shepherded out by willing teachers and student 'buddies' in readiness to guide them through their first day. New timetables, new teachers, new buildings. They seemed to slot right in.
All the way home from school, the excited chatter reverberated in the confines of the car. New names and building locations spurted forth like a foreign language and I desperately tried to hang on to each morsel of detail to help fill the void of information I was used to possessing.
At our last school, all three children started there in Kindergarten, so this year marked a nine year association with the school. The buildings. The teachers. The people. Added to this, being employed in the School Office for the last six of those years and there wasn't much about the school that I didn't know. I knew the teachers, the processes, where to go on a rainy day, what to do if your child is late, who to call if someone reports seeing a snake in the school grounds (a regular occurrence in Belrose) ...I loved being such an integral part of the school's day-to-day operations.
At our new school, I know one person. (God bless her socks, she took me out for coffee yesterday so I wouldn't pine about my kids being 'newbie's. Love that woman.) I don't know the teachers, the students or where the Hall is in relation to Year 2.
There are so many things that go with being to new to anything, whether it be a school, workplace, area, house....the list goes on. All come with different things that need to be understood or mastered for the person to feel like they belong. In a new house, it might be that tricky way the front door will only unlock with your key if you pull it first. In a new job, it might finding the quickest way to get there or the fact that your boss hates coffee.
That's my problem. I can't stand not knowing all the details. Maybe my ignorance is a sign of weakness in my own mind. There are big black holes of unrealised information and I am impatient to fill the gaps. Now. Yesterday, even.
As abhorrent I may be to being the new person, my question to myself needs to be 'what am I going to do about it?'. Short of performing a Harry Potter-like flick of the wrist, there is no quick fix. Time is the only cure in this situation. Time to get to know people. Time to learn teacher's names and the subjects they teach. Time to learn all the nuances with being part of another community.
I have to realise that knowing it all isn't the answer. I can't know it all. Ever. (Insert disparaging sob here!) I need to be patient with myself (practise makes perfect) and allow the time for the transformation process from 'newbies' to locals to be fulfilled. Finding the small victories instead of looking at how far from the end goal I might be. For example, I have already worked out where Year 2 is in relation to the School Office, I remembered how to spell the Receptionist's name and that some locals don't wear a jumper even though it's ten degrees Celsius.
In celebrating the positives, the focus shifts. It changes from being what isn't, to what is. It seems like a small shift but sometimes a colossal effort to take my mind from all the things I feel I need to accomplish, to the present and what I have so far. The here and now. The blessings that I can count. If I had 10,000 hands.
In the first week of our move, I was taken by the GPS on a quiet alternate road (supposedly the quickest route to wear I needed to go). I felt a little lost and unsure of where I was going, but then turned a corner and saw the most spectacular view from the mountain ridge I had inadvertently driven over. I have driven that road three times now, using the spectacular scenery to remind myself to step out of the grey and focus on the amazing that is right where I am.
I hate being the 'newbie'. And I don't use the word 'hate' very often.
Australian slang for being a new person, it's not really a bad thing to be called such. It just means exactly what it says. A new person. And I can't stand it.
Yesterday, my three children were the 'newbies' at their new school. There were a few little emotional outbursts in the morning, but not really more than any other school morning (parents of school children will be nodding in understanding right now). Their ability to just face a new situation as it comes was in stark contrast to mine. I fired questions all morning, sometimes with no pause in between. 'Are you going to be warm enough? Do you have your thermals on? You might need them today. Is that going to be enough food for you? Do you remember how to tie a tie??' I realised I was more nervous than they were.
School drop off was uneventful, even though I don't think I will ever get used to seeing them now in green instead of the old navy uniform. The children were all taken to assembly then shepherded out by willing teachers and student 'buddies' in readiness to guide them through their first day. New timetables, new teachers, new buildings. They seemed to slot right in.
All the way home from school, the excited chatter reverberated in the confines of the car. New names and building locations spurted forth like a foreign language and I desperately tried to hang on to each morsel of detail to help fill the void of information I was used to possessing.
At our last school, all three children started there in Kindergarten, so this year marked a nine year association with the school. The buildings. The teachers. The people. Added to this, being employed in the School Office for the last six of those years and there wasn't much about the school that I didn't know. I knew the teachers, the processes, where to go on a rainy day, what to do if your child is late, who to call if someone reports seeing a snake in the school grounds (a regular occurrence in Belrose) ...I loved being such an integral part of the school's day-to-day operations.
At our new school, I know one person. (God bless her socks, she took me out for coffee yesterday so I wouldn't pine about my kids being 'newbie's. Love that woman.) I don't know the teachers, the students or where the Hall is in relation to Year 2.
There are so many things that go with being to new to anything, whether it be a school, workplace, area, house....the list goes on. All come with different things that need to be understood or mastered for the person to feel like they belong. In a new house, it might be that tricky way the front door will only unlock with your key if you pull it first. In a new job, it might finding the quickest way to get there or the fact that your boss hates coffee.
That's my problem. I can't stand not knowing all the details. Maybe my ignorance is a sign of weakness in my own mind. There are big black holes of unrealised information and I am impatient to fill the gaps. Now. Yesterday, even.
As abhorrent I may be to being the new person, my question to myself needs to be 'what am I going to do about it?'. Short of performing a Harry Potter-like flick of the wrist, there is no quick fix. Time is the only cure in this situation. Time to get to know people. Time to learn teacher's names and the subjects they teach. Time to learn all the nuances with being part of another community.
I have to realise that knowing it all isn't the answer. I can't know it all. Ever. (Insert disparaging sob here!) I need to be patient with myself (practise makes perfect) and allow the time for the transformation process from 'newbies' to locals to be fulfilled. Finding the small victories instead of looking at how far from the end goal I might be. For example, I have already worked out where Year 2 is in relation to the School Office, I remembered how to spell the Receptionist's name and that some locals don't wear a jumper even though it's ten degrees Celsius.
In celebrating the positives, the focus shifts. It changes from being what isn't, to what is. It seems like a small shift but sometimes a colossal effort to take my mind from all the things I feel I need to accomplish, to the present and what I have so far. The here and now. The blessings that I can count. If I had 10,000 hands.
In the first week of our move, I was taken by the GPS on a quiet alternate road (supposedly the quickest route to wear I needed to go). I felt a little lost and unsure of where I was going, but then turned a corner and saw the most spectacular view from the mountain ridge I had inadvertently driven over. I have driven that road three times now, using the spectacular scenery to remind myself to step out of the grey and focus on the amazing that is right where I am.
Monday 20 April 2015
The First Day
I don't know who is more nervous.
All three children are starting at a new school tomorrow. Since moving house nearly three weeks ago, I have been able to unpack almost all the boxes (ok, maybe half) and get most of our 'stuff' (which we have too much of, as articulated in my previous post Six Days and Counting) into some semblance of order. We have had quiet days at home and have explored our new area. We've even learned to live with smaller numbers on our outdoor thermometer (so far).
But tomorrow is the day. The day that the usual routine begins again; the lunches, the pressed uniforms, the homework. The routine that includes motivating sleepy children and finding the shoes that always seem to take themselves off for a game of hide and seek right before leaving for school.
I can't say I'm not ready. Like most carers, I long for a computer that's not required for the latest Minecraft mod download. I long to have a phone that doesn't run out of battery due to the extended sessions of Geometry Dash. I long to finish a task before hearing a wailing 'MU-UM, where are you?'. To be able to buy a coffee without it costing me $30 in hot chocolates and bakery goodies.
Even though the prospect of kids going back to school renders me a dancing orang-utan, there's a small (ok, a bit bigger than 'small') part of me that is really nervous for them. New teachers, unfamiliar class times, unfamiliar faces, awkward conversations. Actually, I think I'm more nervous than all three put together. Will they make friends? Will they make good friends? Will they feel a little lost? Will they get lost? Will they be cold? (A never-ending obsession of mine since move day, as I wrote in a previous post The Yeti.)
I know only they can answer those questions as this is something they need to do on their own. Despite my desire to go ahead of them, and perform a 'security sweep', investigating the unknowns and reporting back in time for the first bell, my greater desire is for them to learn how to make new friends, how to find answers to things unknown and how to negotiate new situations. And the only way to do that is by letting them go through the process on their own (excuse me while I grab the tissues).
So I will farewell them tomorrow morning, and try not to watch the clock while they're gone. I will pray for their day and repeat my husband's adage to them 'to have a good friend, you need to be a good friend' as they head off to their first class. Knowing that the whole experience will be another link in the armour of their character and a step toward them growing into the resilient young people we always hoped they would be.
Pass another tissue, please?....
Wednesday 15 April 2015
Never a Dull Moment
Cats are ferocious creatures. Lethal hunters, there are many warnings about not letting them to wander around outside at night for fear of the destruction of our native nocturnal population. I've even heard that putting one bell on their collar doesn't distract the prey, it just makes them more efficient hunters. (By they way, two bells are needed if you really want to slow them down.)
Our cat Maisie is one of these. A tortoiseshell short-haired domestic cat, she holds all of these characteristics and has proven herself to be a force with which to be reckoned. On accepting her through a pet shelter nine years ago, I had full intention of making her an indoor only cat, figuring that at nine months of age, I could train her to be so. She wouldn't be one of THOSE cats.
How wrong I was. I worked out that she was an outdoor cat within the first few weeks of having her at home. We collected her in September; a much loved addition after a family trauma. She was very timid at first and stuck to the laundry for most of her awake time (which for a cat, isn't much). We were all hoping that she would love a quiet, indoor life and be ready to be hugged, cuddled and patted when we needed her to calm our anxieties. However, as her confidence grew, so did her speed and Master Thirteen (who was Master Three at the time), spent the entire first month on the top of the kitchen table as her galloping through the house was scaring him. The crux came when I found her in early December, climbing up the inside of Christmas tree. I realised then that I had grossly misjudged her personality and her capabilities.
From then on, she was an outdoor cat, who we would try to lock in the laundry come nightfall, if we could catch her. Occasionally, she would 'disappear' around dusk (my guess is she was lying in wait silently in the garden, to make sure I'd actually given up). In the morning she would loudly declare her 'prize' on our back doorstep. At 5.00 am. If I was going to create cats, they'd come with a volume button.
I would love to tell you they were some horrible beasts she was slaughtering, and certainly wild rabbits were among the count, but sadly she did catch the odd possum and native bird. I used to cheer about the rabbits and introduced minor birds but it did break my heart to see nothing but a pile of brightly coloured feathers with a beak and two little scaly feet adorning our back door step.
Since moving to the Southern Highlands, I have vowed to try and keep my initial intention with this feline. Now ten years old, I am hoping that a quiet life indoors would be more suitable to her than it was back then. (After all, that's why we've moved down here, right?) So far, so good; after Week Two, she's still apprehensive of venturing outdoors, and certainly happy to stay warm and snug in her loft bed (on top of the laundry cupboard) at night. She's seems like a much happier kitty.
So imagine my surprise, when Master Thirteen bellowed (the house is bigger, so the voice had to accommodate), "MUUUM, why is there a disembowelled possum in our back yard???? MUUUMMM????" A flurry of excitement ensued as Master Seven ran outside to see if his brother was telling the truth. An exuberant yell from the yard confirmed the gruesome sighting. I made a mental note to suggest he study Biology in High School in eight years' time.
I ventured out to inspect the carnage, and carnage it was. To protect my squeamish readers, I won't go into the same gory detail as I prefer (yes, a Nursing degree is still on the cards for my next change of vocation). Suffice to say, there was a possum, blood, fur and intestines. Oh, and one leg was missing. Kind of odd, as I know Maisie likes to eat the head and leave the rest, but I digress....
It turns out, as I found Maisie snugly locked inside her laundry abode, that the culprit this time was our dog, George. I'm not hugely knowledgeable about dog breeds, but I think a Staffy cross German Shepherd means he likes to hunt. Certainly our two rabbits found that out the hard way (may their little furry souls RIP).
With gloved hands I cleaned up the crime scene. As I bagged the remains and removed the clumps of fur from around the yard, I silently wondered if I should be harvesting this expensive commodity - how much would possum fur sell for these days?
Reason overcame - the possum remains AND the fur were disposed of sensibly, with a mental note to take the dog for an extra walk tomorrow. And buy some more dog toys. And write a blog post - there's never a dull moment.
Sunday 12 April 2015
Getting out there
School holidays have always been an interesting phenomenon. The anticipation of no school gave me more staying power through the frantic pace of the last few weeks of each term. Ah, the bliss of no lunches or uniforms for two weeks! I would long for school holiday simplicity - the promise of no agenda, pyjama days and lots of baking.
Then the holidays arrive and I suddenly have three children, tired and slightly irritated at each other (ok, that's an understatement), who each have their own struggle in acclimatising to the lack of structure for which school holidays are famous. The inward battle begins - my longing for space and no agenda, fights the necessity of planned play-days and the imperative of outings where burning energy that would otherwise be used for bickering is of the upmost importance. I end up oscillating between a selfish desire to stop the world and a motherly desire to help guide my children (or rather, young people) through the adjustment to finding their own fun. Part of me wants to scream out 'where's my holiday????' and yet I resign myself to the fact that happy (young) ones equals happy mum.
Finding activities to do is the easy part - convincing Master Seven, Master Thirteen and Miss Nearly Fifteen that my ideas will be truly as exciting as I anticipate is a whole other story. Add the complexity of a six year age gap between my two boys and you have the makings of a perfect storm.
And that's in a normal school holiday. These holidays, we have embarked on moving our entire family to the country in a quest for a more affordable, slower-paced lifestyle. We have uprooted our children from their friends, some of whom they have known their entire lives, so they now have a huge number of other emotions to add to the usual holiday hangups. Yet to establish ourselves in the community, we are at home in a flurry of packing boxes and belongings that don't yet have a home. A perfect storm. On steroids. So where do all young people go to be distracted and entertained? Electronic devices, of course!
I find it incredibly difficult to motivate two lethargic teenagers to get outside and do something that doesn't involve a screen, when what I really want to do is spend time on social media and write a blog or watch a movie in the daytime. My conflict-avoidance preferences seem to take a back seat as I persuade, convince, demand (in that order) my children to get up, put devices down and get jacket and shoes on. At times I have even forgone the latter in the interest of getting them out the door.
It seems ludicrous that to go out and have 'fun', I have to spend a great deal of time in angst, creating a situation where teens are moody and argumentative and children are whiny. For the first ten minutes I wonder if I am making a huge mistake and should just go back and let them have their devices. I would get some peace and quiet then.
But as the feet continue to move, the air filters into the lungs and the eyes absorb the spectacular scenery that is literally around the corner from where we now live, the moodiness lessens and the whining quietens. Healthy banter and competition take over the previous snide remarks and bickering and then I realise that I actually enjoy spending time with my young people. And they enjoy getting out and using their body as God intended. Most of all, they enjoy each other and being part of a family. Conversation flows, questions are asked, opinions are given (exercise never removes those) and connections are forged.
At this point, I am reminded of a dear friend, Joyce Harkness, who said recently "When families disconnect (their devices), they connect." Yes, it's hard work but the rewards are great. As tempted as I am to have some quiet time just for me, I can't ignore the potential detriment of too much screen time for our family, both as a unit and individually. Like the song 'Cat's in the Cradle', sung by Cat Stevens, I don't want to get to old age to realise I missed opportunities in spending time connecting with our offspring and enjoying their company. It would be all too easy to do this every holidays in the quest to fulfill my holiday bucket list.
So I will continue to rip off the bandaid of slothful yearnings and endeavour to motivate my children (and myself) to get out there and enjoy God's creation (in God's country, one might add). They may not like me for it initially, but like feeding them broccoli, I know it's good for them. And the dog won't be complaining, either.
Then the holidays arrive and I suddenly have three children, tired and slightly irritated at each other (ok, that's an understatement), who each have their own struggle in acclimatising to the lack of structure for which school holidays are famous. The inward battle begins - my longing for space and no agenda, fights the necessity of planned play-days and the imperative of outings where burning energy that would otherwise be used for bickering is of the upmost importance. I end up oscillating between a selfish desire to stop the world and a motherly desire to help guide my children (or rather, young people) through the adjustment to finding their own fun. Part of me wants to scream out 'where's my holiday????' and yet I resign myself to the fact that happy (young) ones equals happy mum.
Finding activities to do is the easy part - convincing Master Seven, Master Thirteen and Miss Nearly Fifteen that my ideas will be truly as exciting as I anticipate is a whole other story. Add the complexity of a six year age gap between my two boys and you have the makings of a perfect storm.
And that's in a normal school holiday. These holidays, we have embarked on moving our entire family to the country in a quest for a more affordable, slower-paced lifestyle. We have uprooted our children from their friends, some of whom they have known their entire lives, so they now have a huge number of other emotions to add to the usual holiday hangups. Yet to establish ourselves in the community, we are at home in a flurry of packing boxes and belongings that don't yet have a home. A perfect storm. On steroids. So where do all young people go to be distracted and entertained? Electronic devices, of course!
I find it incredibly difficult to motivate two lethargic teenagers to get outside and do something that doesn't involve a screen, when what I really want to do is spend time on social media and write a blog or watch a movie in the daytime. My conflict-avoidance preferences seem to take a back seat as I persuade, convince, demand (in that order) my children to get up, put devices down and get jacket and shoes on. At times I have even forgone the latter in the interest of getting them out the door.
It seems ludicrous that to go out and have 'fun', I have to spend a great deal of time in angst, creating a situation where teens are moody and argumentative and children are whiny. For the first ten minutes I wonder if I am making a huge mistake and should just go back and let them have their devices. I would get some peace and quiet then.
But as the feet continue to move, the air filters into the lungs and the eyes absorb the spectacular scenery that is literally around the corner from where we now live, the moodiness lessens and the whining quietens. Healthy banter and competition take over the previous snide remarks and bickering and then I realise that I actually enjoy spending time with my young people. And they enjoy getting out and using their body as God intended. Most of all, they enjoy each other and being part of a family. Conversation flows, questions are asked, opinions are given (exercise never removes those) and connections are forged.
At this point, I am reminded of a dear friend, Joyce Harkness, who said recently "When families disconnect (their devices), they connect." Yes, it's hard work but the rewards are great. As tempted as I am to have some quiet time just for me, I can't ignore the potential detriment of too much screen time for our family, both as a unit and individually. Like the song 'Cat's in the Cradle', sung by Cat Stevens, I don't want to get to old age to realise I missed opportunities in spending time connecting with our offspring and enjoying their company. It would be all too easy to do this every holidays in the quest to fulfill my holiday bucket list.
So I will continue to rip off the bandaid of slothful yearnings and endeavour to motivate my children (and myself) to get out there and enjoy God's creation (in God's country, one might add). They may not like me for it initially, but like feeding them broccoli, I know it's good for them. And the dog won't be complaining, either.
Friday 10 April 2015
The Yeti
I did think that moving to a colder climate would cause my obsessive tendancies to be more directed toward coffee, chocolate or even food in general (people who know me well will understand this), however, since moving to the Southern Highlands all I can think about is the temperature gauge.
It has become a bit of an obsession. I wake up ...'what temperature is it?'. I go to bed ... 'what temperature is it?'. I am sipping coffee while writing a blog...'I wonder what temperature it is?'...it's insane!
I'm not quite sure what I think is going to happen when I see that little number on my mobile phone screen (and yes, even though it's only autumn, it's already a little number). Maybe not having employment at the moment is causing my brain to short circuit. Maybe I'm daring the number to surprise me with how small it is. Maybe I'm fearful of how small it is.
Cold and I aren't friends. And that's probably because my favourite activities are writing, thinking, reading, craft and eating (note lack of physical activity here). I used to think the Sydney winter was cold and now I'm in a place that can actually use the word 'cold' with more authority. A place where autumn is already colder than the dead of winter in my last house. A place where a winter day is going to be colder than I've ever been. In my life.
A trip to the local shopping centre makes me stand out like a beacon. I'm ready to don gloves, scarf and overcoat (after all, the temperature outside is my winter) and the locals are walking around in shorts and a light cardigan or sweater. Some are even wearing open shoes! Are they mad?
Part of me thinks that maybe I should be trying to pretend that I'm ok with being only half dressed. [Teeth chattering] 'Lovely day today, isn't it? Nice and brrrrrisk'.... while feeling like I've stepped into the fridge. After all, that would save my overcoat for when I really need it.
However, the other part is uncompromisingly self-preserving. I will wear the overcoat, and hang what everyone thinks, I need to stay warm! And on with the gloves and scarves - no longer a back-of-the-wardrobe standby for that one cold day on the coast, these items are now going to get a work out.
Or I could follow these tips on how to cope with being cold...though number three may be challenging!
So if you are venturing down to the Highlands in the next few weeks, just look out for me... I'll be the one looking like a Yeti.
It has become a bit of an obsession. I wake up ...'what temperature is it?'. I go to bed ... 'what temperature is it?'. I am sipping coffee while writing a blog...'I wonder what temperature it is?'...it's insane!
I'm not quite sure what I think is going to happen when I see that little number on my mobile phone screen (and yes, even though it's only autumn, it's already a little number). Maybe not having employment at the moment is causing my brain to short circuit. Maybe I'm daring the number to surprise me with how small it is. Maybe I'm fearful of how small it is.
Cold and I aren't friends. And that's probably because my favourite activities are writing, thinking, reading, craft and eating (note lack of physical activity here). I used to think the Sydney winter was cold and now I'm in a place that can actually use the word 'cold' with more authority. A place where autumn is already colder than the dead of winter in my last house. A place where a winter day is going to be colder than I've ever been. In my life.
A trip to the local shopping centre makes me stand out like a beacon. I'm ready to don gloves, scarf and overcoat (after all, the temperature outside is my winter) and the locals are walking around in shorts and a light cardigan or sweater. Some are even wearing open shoes! Are they mad?
Part of me thinks that maybe I should be trying to pretend that I'm ok with being only half dressed. [Teeth chattering] 'Lovely day today, isn't it? Nice and brrrrrisk'.... while feeling like I've stepped into the fridge. After all, that would save my overcoat for when I really need it.
However, the other part is uncompromisingly self-preserving. I will wear the overcoat, and hang what everyone thinks, I need to stay warm! And on with the gloves and scarves - no longer a back-of-the-wardrobe standby for that one cold day on the coast, these items are now going to get a work out.
Or I could follow these tips on how to cope with being cold...though number three may be challenging!
So if you are venturing down to the Highlands in the next few weeks, just look out for me... I'll be the one looking like a Yeti.
Monday 6 April 2015
Move Day
When I started this blog, I had visions of writing comedic reflections on the reality of moving house and embarking on a 'tree change', complete with a wistful post enroute out of the city, articulating our mixed sadness at leaving, yet joy at starting our new adventure....
Move day could not have been further from this romantic idealism. I had already mentioned in a previous blog about our voluminous 'stuff' (in Six Days and Counting...) and how stressful it was to try and put it all into boxes. Added to this the renovation work needed to rent out our Sydney abode (You've Just Got to Laugh), and you have yourself an image of what moving for us has been like.
But wait, there's more.
Two days before move day, the sewer overflowed. There is nothing like the aroma of a toilet flowing down beside the house to shake things up a bit. Thankfully, the plumber was already booked to come the next day for renovation tasks, but it did mean that half of that day was taken up digging a trench in preparation (in the interest of saving precious dollars). I guess while we were digging, we weren't disagreeing about what should go, stay or how it should be packed! However, at that time, my expectations needed a swift adjustment from 'how will I get all this in boxes' to 'which of these things will be going and which shall we transport down on another day'. Sigh.
There would have been another removalist needed if it wasn't for dear friends who came over to help us pack and sort our things. Seriously, half our contents would still be in Sydney if it weren't for these devoted souls! They packed, sorted, cleaned and cleared and we are forever grateful (you know who you are).
The removalists were a stark contrast to our situation. Terribly efficient (and terribly early), they had arrived ready to load our life onto their truck. The problem was, that we weren't ready for them. Dancing around each other like the emerging dust bunnies from our departing furniture, we were frantically trying to throw things in boxes and seal them up just so the movers would take it on the truck. They had our boxes and designated furniture loaded on the truck in record time and I quickly realised I would need to leave before they'd finish if I wanted to pick up keys and try to beat them to our new house.
Driving out of Sydney was a surreal experience. With our eldest at school camp in the Blue Mountains, Master Thirteen biking around Canberra and husband staying in Sydney to finish off renovations it was just Master Seven and me, leaving behind what has been my home and my community for over twenty years. But there was no time for mournful reflections or whimsical posts on social media - only a seven year old who kept asking 'how long' and 'can I play on your phone now?'
Of course there needed to be a pit stop, and after trying to find where the real estate offices were, I had collected keys and was finally on my way to our new home. Armed with A4 sheets of paper and coloured markers to signpost each room and parts of the garage (in the name of being uber organised), I got out of the car and took a deep sigh, 'yay, I beat them'. I smiled at my own cleverness....only the see the moving truck turn the corner at that very minute and chug its way up our street. Ok, strike that, time for plan B.
I was doing quite well with intercepting furniture as it came into the house, but as the items got smaller, the faster they became at unloading them. I found it increasingly difficult to keep up. They divided forces to try and get the job finished and like little worker ants, they poured our items into both doors at once so I had a 50:50 chance of telling the respective removalist which room that piece belonged. Once all the furniture was unloaded, and quite a few boxes, I looked around and thought that this house was bigger than I thought; all our stuff in and we've still got room to move. The movers then said there were about eighty five boxes left to be unloaded from the truck.....
Never in my life have I been more thankful for a double lock up garage, which has since become a store house for packed boxes. Stacked in rows, the place where our cars should be now resembles a warehouse. It is overwhelming, but each day brings one less box in the garage as our life emerges from the cardboard.
Now there's a different kind of chaos. Instead of the chaos of packing boxes around renovations, now we have the 'which box was that in again' kind of chaos. Or my favourite 'I've seen it today but I can't remember which cupboard I chose'. The best one, was the tiny bag of attachments for the bike pump that I shifted four times because I thought I'd lose them...and then I lost them anyway.
And then I take a moment (and another coffee) and sit on our day bed on our deck. With feet in the sunshine, Master Seven, Miss Nearly Fifteen, the dog and myself all sprawl out, and just enjoy being still for a moment. No sirens, no traffic (and for a moment, no boxes). Just the sounds of native birds and a deep exhale. I realise this is why we've done it. All that stress, the chaos, the packing and the moving are for more moments, just like this one.
And then I realise, we're home.
Move day could not have been further from this romantic idealism. I had already mentioned in a previous blog about our voluminous 'stuff' (in Six Days and Counting...) and how stressful it was to try and put it all into boxes. Added to this the renovation work needed to rent out our Sydney abode (You've Just Got to Laugh), and you have yourself an image of what moving for us has been like.
But wait, there's more.
Two days before move day, the sewer overflowed. There is nothing like the aroma of a toilet flowing down beside the house to shake things up a bit. Thankfully, the plumber was already booked to come the next day for renovation tasks, but it did mean that half of that day was taken up digging a trench in preparation (in the interest of saving precious dollars). I guess while we were digging, we weren't disagreeing about what should go, stay or how it should be packed! However, at that time, my expectations needed a swift adjustment from 'how will I get all this in boxes' to 'which of these things will be going and which shall we transport down on another day'. Sigh.
There would have been another removalist needed if it wasn't for dear friends who came over to help us pack and sort our things. Seriously, half our contents would still be in Sydney if it weren't for these devoted souls! They packed, sorted, cleaned and cleared and we are forever grateful (you know who you are).
The removalists were a stark contrast to our situation. Terribly efficient (and terribly early), they had arrived ready to load our life onto their truck. The problem was, that we weren't ready for them. Dancing around each other like the emerging dust bunnies from our departing furniture, we were frantically trying to throw things in boxes and seal them up just so the movers would take it on the truck. They had our boxes and designated furniture loaded on the truck in record time and I quickly realised I would need to leave before they'd finish if I wanted to pick up keys and try to beat them to our new house.
Driving out of Sydney was a surreal experience. With our eldest at school camp in the Blue Mountains, Master Thirteen biking around Canberra and husband staying in Sydney to finish off renovations it was just Master Seven and me, leaving behind what has been my home and my community for over twenty years. But there was no time for mournful reflections or whimsical posts on social media - only a seven year old who kept asking 'how long' and 'can I play on your phone now?'
Of course there needed to be a pit stop, and after trying to find where the real estate offices were, I had collected keys and was finally on my way to our new home. Armed with A4 sheets of paper and coloured markers to signpost each room and parts of the garage (in the name of being uber organised), I got out of the car and took a deep sigh, 'yay, I beat them'. I smiled at my own cleverness....only the see the moving truck turn the corner at that very minute and chug its way up our street. Ok, strike that, time for plan B.
I was doing quite well with intercepting furniture as it came into the house, but as the items got smaller, the faster they became at unloading them. I found it increasingly difficult to keep up. They divided forces to try and get the job finished and like little worker ants, they poured our items into both doors at once so I had a 50:50 chance of telling the respective removalist which room that piece belonged. Once all the furniture was unloaded, and quite a few boxes, I looked around and thought that this house was bigger than I thought; all our stuff in and we've still got room to move. The movers then said there were about eighty five boxes left to be unloaded from the truck.....
Never in my life have I been more thankful for a double lock up garage, which has since become a store house for packed boxes. Stacked in rows, the place where our cars should be now resembles a warehouse. It is overwhelming, but each day brings one less box in the garage as our life emerges from the cardboard.
Now there's a different kind of chaos. Instead of the chaos of packing boxes around renovations, now we have the 'which box was that in again' kind of chaos. Or my favourite 'I've seen it today but I can't remember which cupboard I chose'. The best one, was the tiny bag of attachments for the bike pump that I shifted four times because I thought I'd lose them...and then I lost them anyway.
And then I take a moment (and another coffee) and sit on our day bed on our deck. With feet in the sunshine, Master Seven, Miss Nearly Fifteen, the dog and myself all sprawl out, and just enjoy being still for a moment. No sirens, no traffic (and for a moment, no boxes). Just the sounds of native birds and a deep exhale. I realise this is why we've done it. All that stress, the chaos, the packing and the moving are for more moments, just like this one.
And then I realise, we're home.
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