To write or not to write?

The act of writing is a delicate balance. There needs to be the time to think and process - time to formulate a story around a funny moment or an event that has happened. Although, sometimes the busier I get, the more I feel compelled to write. Not sure why, but perhaps there are more stories to be told when there's more chance for chaos. Though being too busy can result in not enough time to write and so the cycle continues.

I'm not sure I've found the balance yet. The chaos of moving house gave me many inspirations for blog posts, though when life settled down a bit and I had time to write, I found it hard to find things to write about.

Now, after living the life of a kept woman for two and half months (I can hear the chortle...no such thing as a 'kept woman' when there are children to get to school!), I have been catapulted back into the land of the working mum. A financial necessity at this stage of our family's journey, I found a part time job as a medical receptionist with a lovely team in a medical diagnostic clinic. Having not worked in this industry before, there is a steep learning curve. Gargantuan. I know nothing, but having fun learning.

So will I keep up with blogging? Who knows? The eight hour days are a hard slog, and enjoyable as this job is so far, I'm sure the time away from home will take its toll in some way or another. The flip side is, the ensuing chaos might give me more fodder for funny stories and I may need the occasional break from using numbers and acronyms as a form of communication.

I have adored writing so far - thank you for being a patient audience! It has been such a great place to process the events taking place in our family's journey this year.

And you never know, life might get chaotic enough again that I just have to write about it.

The Quiet Life...NOT

Just imagine....on a picturesque weekend away, strolling down the main street of town. browsing and marvelling at the price of houses compared to the city. The crisp, clean air gives clarity and the momentary question of 'could we live here' rests in conscious thought. We could be content in this calm, serene existence for the rest of our lives, right? Mmm, not quite.

Don't get me wrong, I am really glad we moved - it has been categorically the best move we've ever made (and we've made a few). However, there is a moment where the idyllic is replaced with the reality of getting on with life in a busy family. That's the stage we've have reached now.

It's been two months or so since we moved to the country. At first, the clear air and sweet smells of pasture grasses were intoxicating. I had to keep pinching myself - all those holidays where we entertained the idea of moving out of the city and we finally did it! Every drive was another exploration of this new town we call home; every discovery exciting.

This has now been replaced with school drop-offs, emergency trips back to school to deliver forgotten items, soccer training, birthday parties and the usual errands that go along with family life. While we haven't yet discovered half of this beautiful location, children still need to get to school, groceries still need to be purchased and cleaning still needs to be done (sad, but true).

Of course, a holiday location will seem amazingly serene and perfect because life is left behind while visiting. Sometimes it involves someone else cleaning the hotel room, and eating food someone else prepared and subsequently cleaned up. The holiday weekend is just about the here and now; a few belongings and a beautiful town. Have you done it? Imagined yourself in the place of your holiday destination, living a life of simplicity and serenity? Easy to do without thinking about work, school and general demands of family life. We did it - every time we left the city!

Moving to the Southern Highlands has highlighted to me that no matter where I am, life still happens. It demands attention and won't take no for an answer. For example, I am indulging myself time to spout my musings to you all, while the washing still sits in piles (well they were in piles two days ago; regretfully, now a sea of clean, crumpled clothes masking the presence of a couch underneath). The bathrooms are silently protesting, while the floors are screaming to be relieved of yesterday's crumbs. I can bury my head in the scenery and idyllic lifestyle, but it will be at the expense of a family that is cared for and can locate their uniforms when they need to (hard enough on a good day).

However, there needs to be a balance. We can equally bury ourselves in busyness (apologies to spelling aficionados, but I think the 'y' makes more sense), but there needs to be some escape, some sort of balance, to help recharge the soul and focus on the blessings in our lives, even if for a short time.

I saw a post on social media today, which is an important reflection in the chaos of life.

 "Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes...including you" (Anne Lamott).


I am realising that moving to the country doesn't give me a magic pill for a quiet life; there are still the same amount of hours in the day and the same amount of things that need to be done. How time is spent is largely by choice so it's up to me to find the balance. I can choose to do the washing, or choose to write a blog, as long as I'm ok with living with the fallout (clearly, I am). Somehow, somewhere, there needs to be a balance between the productive and the reflective.

In the quest for finding that balance (which is a constantly moving set of scales), I feel like the overriding theme that keeps coming through is how to remain content, even when life doesn't quite turn out as first thought.

I think one of the chief elements of contentedness, is gratitude. Dwelling on the 'busy' is frustrating, (I know because I do it) and sometimes I just have to take a moment, a deep breath and remember all the things I love about being here. Not naturally a trait of mine, I'm trying on optimism for size (my husband will be rejoicing).

 (Lake Alexandra, Mittagong)

Dr Caroline Leaf, a brain scientist and campaigner for positive thought, posted this yesterday on social media:

Saying "I can't change my way of thinking" is just as much of a decision as "I can change my way of thinking". The choice is yours. (Dr Caroline Leaf)

I'm thinking social media is trying to tell me something.....

In any case, I am on my second coffee (thinking about how much I love this liquid gold) and about to tackle the housework (thinking about how great it is to have a warm house in this cold climate).

Busy? Yes. Optimistic? Trying to be. Content? Absolutely.

Ten things I've learned

It's been almost two months since our big move to the country, so here are ten things I've learned about our new area (and climate!):

1. No one is in a hurry, which makes driving a calm experience.

2. Although, no one is in a hurry, which is kind of annoying when you're waiting to be served (you can take the girl out of Sydney....).

3. Hair dryers aren't just to style hair, they prevent hypothermia on cold days.

4. Having the heater on during the day isn't a luxury, it's a necessity (I can almost hear it making the noises of a cash register, cha-ching, cha-ching).

5. Woollen garments are underrated - you learn to live with scratchy because it's a whole lot better than cold.

6. Parent meetings could have you driving on an isolated country road. In the dark. In the fog. If that scares you, better get over it real quick.

7. Almost every outing involves a picturesque drive - and you never get sick of it (well, not in two months, anyway).

8. Time for ordinary errands needs to be doubled to accommodate long chats with random strangers.

9. You learn that you can survive with cold toes, just as long as your ears are warm.

10. You're not on candid camera - everyone is smiling at you because they are genuinely nice (I did wonder .....).

New Shoes

There is one way that I contradict the stereotype of my gender - I'm adverse to shoe shopping. I can't stand it. Of course, I will do it if I absolutely have to, but if there's a chance those boots of mine can be mended by the boot maker one more time, I'll do it. (Until they say it can't be done, which has regretfully happened to me more than once!)

Comfy shoes are way underrated. I would probably wear slippers or ugg boots everywhere if I could get away with it, so when I have a pair of shoes that I have worn in till they fit superbly, I don't like to part with them. Many years ago in my studying days, when money was scarce, I purchased a pair of men's boots (why pay extra to make a fashion statement?) and wore them everyday. Comfortable they were, but worn out they became and by the third trip to the boot maker, he could only look pitifully on me and shake his head. (True story.)

I didn't throw them out at first. When I was wearing in my new boots and trying to get used to the fit, I'd just put on my old boots for a moment, familiarity and comfort enveloping my feet. Then I'd remember that with a bit more time, my new boots will be the same. It kept me persevering.

I'm realising since moving to the Southern Highlands, that friendship can be a little bit the same. I have met some wonderful people since moving, and am looking forward to being part of this new community. However, I am dreadfully missing the trust and familiarity of friends that really know me, warts and all.

Which explains why, in a moment of madness, I decided to travel to my old suburb, on two separate occasions this week. People looked at me like I was wearing mis-matching shoes, wondering if I was joking or truly choosing to do it on purpose. But that was how desperately I needed to feel that comfort and belonging. To have conversations or share memories that need no explaining. To feel the trust of years in confiding our innermost thoughts and feelings. During this process, I was struck with the realisation that these long standing friends were also once new and time had allowed this wonderful bond to develop. It gave me energy and patience to continue building friendships in our new area.

Even though being back for a short time was wonderful, there was still a sense that it wasn't mine any more; no longer my inner circle. These friends will always be family to me (and hopefully I to them) but my home and my heart were elsewhere. My high excitement for the short journey back to old (sorry, I should say long standing) friends was now in competition with my tremendous anticipation of returning 'home'.

So I now face the next stage of our relocation with renewed vigour, motivated by the memory of all that my long standing friends have contributed to me. Unlike the old boots, these won't be tossed (hearing lots of sighs of relief right now!), but get to be a huge part of my journey. And I have the fortunate chance of having double what I had before.

The Whirlwind

And with that the Whirlwind had gone.

Living life with a travelling husband is taking some time in adjustment. A new sales role, in a territory that covers all of New South Wales and ACT, has taken Mr D away from the family home for longer than he has ever been before. Coupled with that, a Sydney house that needed work before advertising on the rental market and you have a family with the shadow of Mr D that occasionally appears on small backlit screens before bedtime.

Let me clarify, that this arrangement doesn't please him, in fact, I think he misses his family more than I do when I'm away (or maybe I'm just not away often enough to miss them) and always pines for the day when he can be at home and enjoy spending time with us.

So hence the aforementioned 'adjustment'. We both are treading new ground in this arrangement and having to change our ways slightly to accommodate the new normal. Rather than family time at the end of each day, all our family time has to happen during the days that Dad is home, which is mostly weekends.

Let me give you a little background on the dynamics. I'm not a control freak. Housework is there to be done if it really needs doing, and if it can wait till tomorrow then all the better. There are a million things that are mentally captivating for me than putting random things in their places (again, for the fortieth time that week) and cleaning bench tops. I don't mind cooking (baking is probably my favourite task in the kitchen) but please don't ask me to decide what to make for dinner. Again. Cheese toasties sound good, don't they?

My previous job of Office Assistant in a busy school office was the perfect excuse for procrastinating on the things that needed doing at home. I did the bare necessities, but sorting that overloaded shelf and vacuuming the blinds didn't emerge on my 'must do this weekend' list. Usually that list comprised of 'buy food, wash uniforms and tumble dry' - the last item was to avoid having to add 'ironing' to the list. I wiped over the bathroom mirror when we had trouble seeing our reflection but I confess I couldn't tell you the last time I washed the floor. To be honest, (and I'm sure I'm not alone, though I need help if I am) work was far more exciting than keeping the house.

Having said all that, my new found employment of 'Project Manager - Move House', as it says on my LinkedIn profile, has left me with no other option. This is my role now, to look after the family and keep order in our rented house; it's an amazingly huge role when done properly! And I have to say, despite a reticence in having to say to my mother that she was right, there is a great sense of satisfaction in a tidy house. I have battled my prejudice that house work is dull and should be avoided at all costs, and am getting it done with contentment in the order it leaves.

That is, until Mr D arrives home.

I've seen houses much tidier than mine, but just before he walks through the door it's pretty good. Floors vaccumed. Clean sheets, space (not ever seen at our last tiny cottage) and dust-free surfaces (also not seen before). My house is becoming a home, much to my own surprise.

It lasts for a nanosecond. Not just because of the paraphernalia that accompanies the returning traveller, but my lack of care of the house when he arrives. It becomes a much distant second...actually, maybe tenth... in line of priorities. Not only distracted myself by having the love of my love at home, the kids are also distracted from their usual jobs in the presence of 'the fun time guy' and I'm neglectful in my observance of missed duties. One of the adoring qualities of my husband, is his sense of fun and how when he's home the mood is suddenly so much lighter. There is rarely a moment passed without a joke, funny face or laughing child being thrust into the air. Housework? Pfft, who'd want to do that?

Our family dynamics have changed. No longer are there are few moments of family time each day with order in between; the days when Dad is home become a frenzy of conversation, updates, questions and laughter. The usual order of each day (meals, homework, bedtime routine) that has been put in place to manage in his absence, is tossed aside like a teenager's washing (I was going to add 'dirty', but then I realised that for teenagers, both dirty and clean end up in the same place).

Now I sit, trying to cast a blind eye on the chaos behind me, patiently waiting for attention. Trails of textas and unfinished homework, crumpled shirts needing ironing, a kitchen bench displaying evidence of the past two days' culinary enjoyment. I will get to it eventually, but for now I indulge in the memory. For as much as it pains me to constantly say goodbye to my love, we have had an amazing two days with our family together again. And, in having the best of both worlds, I know that in his absence I will have a house that will stay in order (more or less), as much as I desire.

Till the next Whirlwind.

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 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.

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?....

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.

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.

Stress or Strength

Watching myself cope with high levels of stress is an interesting exercise. I'm not having any weird out of body experience or anything, but I have noticed my behaviour toward certain things is affected by the anxiety of the task we have before us.

Moving house is always traumatic, and having moved four times since getting married I can say that with all certainty. In actual fact, one move I comment to my husband that he was taking me out of that house in a body bag because I was determined to never to go through that process again. That was two moves ago.

However, moving house AND moving away from the people that you respect and love is one of the most excruciating processes. The idea of a tree change is very romantic, and the promise of relief from the financial pressure of city living encouraging....but saying good bye to dear friends is the toughest part of all. 

As we get closer to the move day (five days away), the enormity of our journey is starting to reveal itself in an ugly tug of war. Excitement of a new beginning in a picturesque part of the country is being pulled by a deep sense of guilt at leaving everyone behind. Relationships have been forged over years, in some cases decades, and as each day passes it becomes harder and harder to say goodbye.

The school community are increasingly aware of this. After resigning from my position in the School Office (a decision I made with tears), I have frequented the school almost daily since - unable to make that last good bye. These are people I love dearly and I am moving away? Just one last conversation, one last coffee, one last farewell hug.... I think they are wondering if we are actually really going (I think I am in denial myself). Even though I know the decision to move is the best one for our family, and one we've been wanting to do since the beginning of our marriage, the parting is the most stressful part of all.

Which is why I went out yesterday to buy shoes. I don't really like to spend money ordinarily (one pair of men's boots, and regular visits to the shoe repairer, kept me in shoes for about five years in the early days) but for two days in a row I have felt the desire to spend money on specific items that I might need in a cooler climate - totally out of character for me. It's as if my big picture brain is taking a leave of absence and I now am surprisingly concerned with the finer detail. 

Like the paper shredder that stopped working last night. With the length of the TO DO list like the one I have, most people would just toss it in the bin. But no, I needed to take it apart, screw by screw in attempt of a surgical resurrection with a pair of tweezers and a bamboo skewer. After an hour and feeling completely satisfied that it was cleared of all jams, it still didn't work so I had to toss it anyway. 

Sometimes the realisation of a character trait is half the battle to help overcome it. An American philosopher, William James, once said "The greatest weapon against stress is our ability to choose one thought over another." (Read more quotes here)

So I choose now, not with my own strength but with the strength of a Creator God who I know loves me intensely and is just waiting for me to ask for help. Just like a father, watching his daughter trying to battle it out; waiting for her to remember him and ask for his help which he is delighted to give. So I choose to put aside that natural instinct of avoidance and I will face the task before me, with His strength. "As soon as I pray, you answer me; you encourage me by giving me strength." (Psalm 138:3)

After all, there are only about fifty-something boxes to go....

Embrace It

Today's chaos is brought to you by 'News'. Not the informative, six pm kind but the presentation a seven year old gives to his class once a week. The presentation that is heavily influenced by peer perception and incredibly important to get right. So when our young man mentioned that his friends hadn't met our dog before, of course I volunteered to bring our dog to News.

Take one step back and let me give you the background. In case you haven't seen my earlier posts You've Got to Laugh and Six Days and Counting... we are moving house. And getting a deck built (three months later than expected). Sounds like I need this extra task of taking a dog to school drop-off like a hole in the head, but keep in mind one question - when on a roller coaster do you 1) grip the safety rail till knuckles whiten, or 2) throw your hands in the air and embrace the stomach churning experience?

If only embracing the extra stress was that simple! Hang on a minute, I hear you say, it's just taking a dog to school, how hard can that be? Well, in the process of having this deck built, our side gate had to be removed, though we were promised a solution so our yard would remain fenced. What they didn't explain was this process would take three days (and counting). While packing our life into boxes and trying to keep track of clean uniforms (unsuccessfully), I have a dog that either keeps escaping or we have to renege on our 'dogs belong outside' rule and keep him in. For the last few days, in addition to everything else, I have been either wandering around outside looking for him or tripping over his 30kg frame that somehow always ends up right where I need to step. And trying not to grip the safety rail till my knuckles whiten.

Back to 'News'. Of course, in the excitement of his escapades, pooch had somehow lost his collar (I am tempted to put up Lost posters for it, but then I really will be put in a straight jacket). In searching for the usual missing socks, shoes and other school paraphernalia, I am also searching for a dog collar. Life never gets boring.

Creativity won the day and Miss Nearly-Fifteen worked out a way to use the lead as both collar and lead, so 'News' was saved. Master Seven's friends were able to meet and adore our dog who lapped up the attention (sorry, couldn't resist that one). Meanwhile, I'm off to throw my hands in the air ....and have a stiff drink.

Six Days and Counting...

If ever I wished I lived in a hut in Africa, now is it. Packing boxes are deceptively small and if I was superstitious in nature I would believe that little elves are in the bottom, 'short sheeting' my box so I can't put in as much as I want. Either that, or we have overshot our 'stuff' quota by a mile. Actually, I think if we lined our stuff along a street it would fill a mile, or maybe more. Maybe we'd leave a trail of our stuff all the way to our new house....

All this stuff seemed like a good idea at the time. Unlike my 'hut in Africa' idea, I have a blender for milkshakes and quilts for each bed and for each season. I have glasses for wine and glasses for kids, Tupperware containers with colourful lids (Dr Suess can use that one with permission!). The point is, we have items for every occasion that are supposed to make life easier and more comfortable. We get used to our 'stuff' and it then takes on such an important place in our lives that we think we can't live without it. Until we start to try and fit all of these things into boxes, then we wonder why we have so much.

Packing seems to be a humbling experience for 'stuff' just as much as it is for the person doing the work. All of a sudden, our 'important' things are reduced to the common denominator of which sized box it fits in, or in which category it should be packed. Our things that have been so useful are hidden away and maybe won't see the light of day for several years (just ask those who still have boxes they haven't opened from the move before the last move). Will these things be useful or perhaps a better question to ask is - could we live without them?

Peter Walsh, a declutter expert, says

"You only have one life to live. How you live that life is your choice. As far as I know, no one has ever had 'I wish I had bought more stuff' inscribed on their tombstone. What you own can easily blind you to who you are and what you can be." (For more declutter ideas, checkout his website http://www.peterwalshdesign.com)

Moving house does give us the opportunity to start afresh and re-invent our relationship with our stuff, but I'd like to think that it didn't have to take a move to prompt that kind of change. I would love to work out a vision for each room of our new house and only move what fits into that vision. Just because it's useful, doesn't mean we need to keep it. If everyone lived with this adage then charities would have nothing to pass on.

Having said all this however, with six days till our move, I think I am a little late to be having this ephiphany! So for now I will continue to shove whatever I can into boxes and be ever grateful for a double lock up garage on the other side. And maybe one day, I might even get to park a car in there.