Hello! It’s me, bursting through the surface of a slightly murky pond and taking some deep, vital, life affirming breaths: Holy sweet moly it’s good to see you here on the lovely other side of a slightly traumatic, near drowning-in-chaos event. That sounds dramatic but when the contents of one’s house is being carted up the road by a booze of year twelve leavers in a cloud of dust, there is a bit of drama involved*.

We have moved into our new, beautiful house. And it’s marvelous. We have managed to move every last tiny bit of our lives from a house by the sea, 6 km up the road to a house on the hill. And then I unpacked those bits and put them in their place. Actually that’s not quite truth. There are still boxes and sundry shite in the garage, which I will leave there for a bit in case any passing burglars decide to pop in and clear it out. Failing that, I’ll get to it one day.

For the moment, with the washing machine chugging away after a week of being unhooked, the telly finally tuned and my clothes hanging in the WALK IN WARDROBE (I’m a bit in love, with the wardrobe, not the clothes, they are frankly awful next to their lovely new home), I feel a tiny bit in control. I even discovered my smart phone wifi hotspot (imagine saying that 10 years ago, people’d think you’re some sort of kinky weirdo) so I can RECONNECT. Go the hotspot.

I’m not good at disconnection. I’m not good at change either.

It’s not that I don’t like change. I appreciate a bit of refreshment and get-out-of-ruttage. I like a good declutter, much like a really good poo. But I find it hard to move on. I get attached to places and people and then can’t imagine things being as good. I was heading to the house we dreamed up and built from scratch, but still I was on the verge of tears for a good month whenever I thought of leaving our old, grumpy, creaky old home behind in favour of a sparkly new one. Still am.

In the midst of moving, I watched as my dear Mum was sworn in as Tasmania’s first female Governor. With trumpets blazing above her, she was heralded into the grand ballroom or Government House and welcomed with thunderous applause. It was a moment I will never forget, and treasure forever. My children’s eyes danced and smiled and mine filled again with tears. Proud tears.

Mum and Dad leave my family home, the place where Dad was born and where I was married. Another change. Another ending.

At the children’s school, we said farewell to the beloved principle, the man who first introduced my twins to the alphabet when they were two and the one who saw the school through the fires that burnt it to the ground. We also said goodbye to their kinder teacher, to their wonderful drama teacher and to their cooking teacher. More tears. Funding cut angry tears, and sad goodbye ones.

In our new house where I can see the sky change above Marion Bay and Maria Island catch the light; where I can watch the sea rise and fall and the cows come in for milking, I cry again for all the beauty and the luck of it all.

And when the hills hoist goes up I wonder at how I love being an Aussie and again feel moved. At this point I have to slap myself and get on with things. Imagine getting dewy eyed over a clothesline. Moist over the hoist. (Not that kind of moist, that would be weird. Must stop saying moist).

There are so many things to get on with, like unpacking bloody everything. And a new home is not all that conducive to getting anything done. There is no rhythm yet, no working patterns. So I do a lot of unnecessary walking and pacing and back tracking as I try to find my way around the space, find things, get things away. Everything takes longer. And there’s that sky to watch, that’s an endless task.

So things end and things change and people move on. Then other things begin and new things happen and stay until they’re not new anymore. Before too long I’ll be attached to them and things will settle for a bit. I can feel the settling. It’s a way off, but it’s on the way.

Oh wait, there’s Christmas first. When is it? Next Thursday. Holy shit, that’s a week. I have a week to get organised and I haven’t started yet. To think I used to make shortbread and puddings. Right, must make a list. On top of it will be to stop getting bogged down in sentimentality and nostalgia and wist. It’s so time wasting. Nothing like Christmas to focus the mind, get things in order, and to make a house a home.

But first I need to watch the twilight in the sky.

20141213_203349*Huge thank you to our moving team, you were all brilliant. If a bit stinky.

Things That Get Me Through

I am living through possibly the busiest time of my life. We’re about to move out of one house (and leave it in a civilized state) whilst trying to finish another house that we’ve built to move into, it’s nearing Christmas which brings social occasions, obligations, cards, shopping and general panic. I have deadlines to meet and two end of year concerts to prep for and get to. And this on top of the normal busy-mum-washing-cooking-cleaning type stuff. I sort of know how Father Christmas feels.

I don’t have time for my dear blog and you my dear readers. I should be asleep or writing a list or wrapping a present (last week’s birthday presents).

But I’m here, because I just want to quickly share the two main things that help me from going completely bonkers, and that really are the most important things in the world, no matter what Father Christmas might bring.

1) My friends. Today, one of them came and helped me hang wallpaper. And when I say hang, I mean stick it on the ceiling. I know, this is slightly bonkers but I just love that pressed metal look and I rashly bought some ANAGLYPTA (love that word) paper and some paste and thought I could set the world on fire with my wallpapering skills.

It was a nightmare. The glue went lumpy, the paper went pulpy and fragile and lining up those patterns was a total fucking bastard. Plus my friend and I kept getting distracted by important bits of conversation that demanded our attention immediately (like “What are you doing for your birthday?” and “Is that a pube there on the floor?” and stuff) but kept us from other important details like MEASUREMENTS. It resulted in us using a little more paper and a little more time than expected but who cares because I love the end result, no pressed metal ceiling is perfect and we had fun. I’ll take fun over a perfect ceiling anyday. Thank you Dom. xx

2) My Family. Starting with my husband who put up with Dom and I laughing our heads off all day and almost buggering up the wallpaper while he dealt with important structural and administrative details.

Then there were my children, two of whom brought home some art work in one of those end of year bulk bonuses that you have to carry up the hill from the bus. But I love those art works, I learn something from them every time. This lot included:

  • A painted clay model of a tiger eating a deer, which at first I mistook for a pair of those creepy beetles who walk around attached at the bum (just googled  them – they are largus bugs and they are mating when joined together – eww).
  • A painting of a dead budgie.
  • A metallic robot wearing headphones.
  • A negotiated study on tigers that informed me that all white tigers are inbred.

And my youngest daughter informed me that her (occasional) imaginary friend Gemma farted. I said I couldn’t smell anything but was told that no, I wouldn’t, because the fart was also imaginary and only detected because Gemma had done it “RIGHT IN MY FACE, so I FELT IT Mum.” Needless to say, because I love most things fart, I laughed for a good while.

That aside, my wonderful mother in law has offered to feed the children for the next few days so I can get stuff done. Yipee! That’s what I’m talking about.

3) I know I said two things but I must make mention of the book I am reading – David Walch’s autobiography, “Bone of Fact”, which is often a bit over my head but a BRILLIANT distraction for an overcrowded brain. Nothing like a visit into another overcrowded brain to calm down. I’m almost finished and it’s a fascinating read.

So there we are, I must sleep, and I must apologise for the lack of any stimulating or vaguely intelligent postage of late. Don’t expect anything too non-silly anytime soon.

And I’m sorry if I’ve been late for you/forgotten you/ignored you recently – it’s not you, it’s me.

M xx





Random thoughts from today…

The Chinese President Visits Tasmania

Never mind that the Tasmanian Weather’s multiple personality disorder was in full force yesterday when today it was all, “Look at me, I’m so gorgeous”, it was a brilliant day for our little Island. Chinese President Xi Jinping and his rockstar wife Madam Peng Liyuan popped in for a short visit. They had lunch, planted a tree, patted some devils, met a load of Tassies, went up the mountain and then flew away again. And with that, 1.3 billion people (the population of China) will have Tasmania thrust into their consciousness.

I have heard it said that on China’s news channel, which has around 53 million viewers, 20 minutes will be dedicated to Tasmania. People will have booked tickets already. This is seriously exciting for local business, and that’s even before the state has struck any major industry deals as a result of all yesterday’s schmoozing.

So anyone how had a whinge about the traffic disruptions in Hobart the other day, shove that in your snuff box and sniff it.


Remember them pushing it all over the eighties? Well they will be in my back yard this New Year’s for the Falls Festival and I’ll be rocking like I’m 15 again. Mostly because my dance skills have not advanced since then. Is there a dance school for oldies? Like a cool one, not an oldie one?

I’d be happy to be Pepa – it’s kind of a cool stage name, but I’d feel raw prawned to get Salt. How did they decide that one? Toss a coin best of 3? Talk about unfair. Oh wait, quick google search tells me that Salt’s real name is Cheryl. Hmm, Cheryl’n’Pepa?

I have a crush on Taylor Swift

I think I really do. I mean if she tried to kiss me I think I’d draw the line but I do appear to have a fascinated admiration for her and kind of want to get my hair done like her and stuff. She is beautiful whilst still looking interesting, has a sense of humour and a good brain and I can’t stop singing her songs even though I bought the CD for my daughters.

I was singing loudly to one of the songs on her new album (1979, which I don’t yet like as much as Red but give it time) when I got some words wrong and realised that I’m THAT dorky mum singing along with her kid’s songs and getting them wrong – durrrr Muuuuum. A quick glance into the rear vision mirror showed that my children were singing loudly too and hadn’t noticed and that maybe I can get away with singing Taylor Swift with them for about another couple of years at the most.

New House, New Everything

In a few weeks I will be moving into the house we have dreamed of for the last eight years, and built in the last one. This is AMAZING and wonderful and exciting and should have no problems attached beyond the usual moving issues like cardboard boxes bursting and dogs getting confused.

But as I begin to pack up our life into said boxes I am feeling a distinct lack of enthusiasm for most of our existing stuff. The sofas are going to look shite in the new living room, I don’t want any of my daggy clothes in my new wardrobe and my charmingly mix matched photo frames are suddenly unusable in my new calm, co-ordinated interiors.

My son asked me if we will be getting a new car as well as a new house and I laughed and said, “Hey yes let’s get new everything – new house, new car, hell I might take a lover and get some new kids as well. Out with the old and all that…”

He laughed, he knew I was joking, except I wasn’t, not entirely. My volvo model is a bit on the early side for the new garage. And if the kids keep getting out of their beds I really will be coveting new ones of those too.

I’m Sleeping with Alexander McCall Smith 

At least I have been for the last week or so. I read every night to get me to sleep. These days I’m gettingemma to bed late and I last about two pages so heavy reading material is out. Which is why I picked up Alexander McCall Smith’s modernised version of Jane Austen’s “Emma”.

I read his Number One Ladies Detective Agency series and loved every minute. My mum took my sister and I to see him speak in the town hall a few years ago and again I loved every minute of his address. He is charming, disarming, unassuming, clever and hilarious. All my favourite things. If he were more my age he’d be my free ticket shag. Actually it’d be a toss up between him and Denzel Washington, whose smile melts my popsicle everytime.

Anyway, “Emma” – I haven’t yet finished it but I LOVE it. Like J. Austen, he manages to make us love Emma herself despite her snobbish, interfering ways, something I’ve always found to be a stroke of genius on Austen’s part and central to the novel’s success. The reviews in general of AM-S’s retelling are not great, but I disagree with them. I’m having fun with it and if you love a bit of English romantic comedy, you will too.

An Unexpected Benefit of False Nails

You might remember me bemoaning my decision to visit a nail bar and have plastic nails stuck to my real ones in a fit of vanity. Well the long nails grew longer and more silly looking and cumbersome BUT, my itchy skin (which is a constant for me in varying degrees depending on flare ups, triggers and other boring things) became softer simply because the thicker nails and the club-finger style are incapable of taking any skin off or getting right into itchy bits. The result – the usual itchy patches and hives but less unsightly broken skin, damage and risk of infection. Hooray for that.

So, armed with a brilliant excuse for my vanity I went in and had them trimmed, refilled and re-painted. Maybe next time I’ll get a colour.


Every Tuesday for 20 years

Every Tuesday morning after my daughter’s swimming lesson – just as I’m trying to get her knickers on and they’re rolling up into a tangle because I’m trying to beat the other parents in the post-lesson dressing thing (everything’s a competition) and haven’t dried her properly – an elderly woman comes slowly in the door and up the steps to the pool. She arrives at the very same time every time (knicker time) and wears the same large towling moo-moo.

I love those hanging pants.

I love those hanging pants.

This week I said hello and engaged her in a chat as she got into the pool. She told me that she’s been coming to that pool at that time every Tuesday for 20 years. This means that the little people she saw putting their rolled up knickers on 20 years ago are probably wheeling their own small children in by now. Imagine all the frazzled mothers she’s seen, the tantrummy children and the bored fathers.

She said the fake hanging plants and the murals have been the same for that whole time, which by the look of them doesn’t surprise me – they’re so past it they’re now retro cool and I couldn’t imagine the pool without them.

We young people know nothing about dedication, except maybe when it comes to Denzel.








Today I had a moment.

I was sitting at my daughter’s dance practice holding a balloon and a grass caterpillar and it dawned on me that (what feels like) just the other day I was sitting at the uni bar watching “Something For Kate” and holding a beer. And I thought, is watching only moderately rhythmic dance whilst holding a grass caterpillar really what I want to do with my life?

But then the other mums and I had a laugh and joked about maybe finishing the end of year dance performance with a quick bit of us doing ballet in pink leotards. And I laughed again on the way home about the fact that the dance teacher has kindly asked for our input into the routine which means it’s peppered with Jane Fonda tributes, some sprinkler and a good old lawnmower move.

When we got home I observed my little girl take her bear’s temperature with a chop stick and announce, “He’s a bit sniffy, I’ll have to get him something to clear the snostrils”, which is funny because her bear’s nose fell off about 6 months ago and rolled into a mouse hole. He has no sniffy snostrils. I laughed and felt all awwww and wondered at how amazing my little people are.

At bedtime I read them a chapter of “The 52 Storey Treehouse” by Andy Griffiths and Terry Denton and we all laughed, particularly at the part where it’s Andy’s birthday and Terry has forgotten:

“What’s special about today?” Says Terry. “That’s what I want you to tell me”, I say. Terry thinks for a moment and then says, “Is it underpants-changing-day?”

Then I laughed again at how undies and farts and poos and wees always make us laugh. Well almost always. Dog poo is never funny. The dog is though, especially when his lip gets caught on his teeth and he switches from designer dog to dork.

Then my girls gave each other an impromptu cuddle goodnight and my son reminded me how he will give me a hug every day even when he’s a spotty sullen teen and later my little one climbed into my arms when she had a bad dream and all I had to do to fix it was hold her.

And I thought, well maybe tomorrow someone will wallop someone else and there’ll be crying and manners forgotten and broken somethings and my phone will go missing and I might roar and wish I was in Paris aged 29.

But right now, when I should be asleep and there’s some god-awful tripe on telly featuring Tory Spelling and her husband screaming at each other, I reflect on the day and my dear family and I think, well actually, right now, this mothering caterpillar-balloon-holding thing is exactly what I want to do with my life. Oh yes it is.

There is so much joy everywhere, from the big dance hall to the tiny mouse holes.

Yoo-hoo, Mousie, Bear wants his snostrils back.

Yoo-hoo, Mousie, Bear wants his snostrils back.



A few weeks ago, on a long car trip home, I broke the backseat about-to-fight tension by asking my children how the world was made. Might as well throw them a biggie.

Big Bang By Bess Bignell (alliteration rools)

Big Bang By Bess Bignell (alliteration rools)

“There was a big blow up”, said one, “An explosion. And everything broke up and a bit of it made a ball and that’s Earth, and then the trees and stuff fell down on the Earth too, and everything else. I think.” By this stage his tone was less confident. “Don’t you know this Mum?”

And I had to say no not really actually. There was some sort of big bang but other than that I’m actually shamefully dunce when it comes to the biggest question of all. I probably learnt it once, although my school was pretty Goddy so probably a bit anti-bang in favour of God having a particularly productive week but I don’t think I’ll go there. Mostly I go about walking (sometimes stomping) about on the Earth getting all busy and inward with narry a thought for the miracle of it all. Time I did think about how amazing ’tis the universe. Narry isn’t used enough, I’m bringing it back. Along with whole-room wallpaper.

Then my youngest piped up with, “Mum, can you tell us again about when the Titanic ran into the Tasman Bridge because the driver had too many beers?” And that was the end of the creation conversation because I clearly had to move on.

But I’m still bothered by the big bang thing, so join me as I embark on a cosmic knowledge quest…

And POP! goes the world-zel. By Lucie Bignell

And POP! goes the world-zel. By Lucie Bignell


Well the answer to that had befuddled my brain and caused the extended Megoracle silence (this shit takes some getting one’s head around). In all honesty, when I look at the theory itself without all the brainy-person credibility, I find it about as believable as The God Thing. EVERYTHING came from a teeny weeny particle? Really? But anyway, I will press on and keep it as simple as possible.  Off we go…

Cosmology finds that the universe didn’t, contrary to my son’s take on it, explode into existence. The term “Big Bang” was actually coined in scoffy tones by those who opposed the theory. But there was no bang. More like a whisper.

Approximately 13.8 billion years ago, the universe was contained within a single, dense and very hot point. The heat triggered expansion which allowed the universe to cool enough for subatomic particles (protons, neutrons and electrons). After a few more thousand year’s worth of expansion, the first atoms came into being, evolution began and hey presto, 13.8 billion years later we are building micro computers and worrying about the battery life of our phones. bigbang WHO CAME UP WITH SUCH A SEEMINGLY IMPOSSIBLE THEORY?

It was first hunched at in the 1920’s by Russian Mathematician Alexander Alexandrovich Friedmann, who along with Belgian Catholic priest and scientist Georges Lemaitre, tabled that a universe controlled by the theory of relativity would have to expand or contract. In 1929, Edwin Hubble (of telescope fame) was inspecting the light emitted from other galaxies when he noted that the light was “red shifted” which, as opposed to “blue shifted”, means that the source of the light is moving away.

This means that Lemaitre was able to conclude that the distant galaxies are moving away from the Earth – i.e. the universe is expanding. He published his theory which in turn helped to measure (based on the speed of the galactic movement – can I say galactic? It sounds cool so I will) how much time has passed since the universe was together as one.


Well this is what you might call a cosmic quandary. There are many theories. Einstein thought it likely that before expansion took place, time simply stood still.  Others say that the singularity or point from which the universe expanded just sprang into being. Other theories include:

  • That universe creation is cyclical and we will one day collapse back in on ourselves and cause another ‘bang’ that will create another universe. I suspect if this is true that pollutey humans have given the process a bit of a boost.
  • That the universe is the offspring of an older and bigger universe and that one day ours will throw off others too.
  • That our universe was the result of the creation of a black hole – meaning we are formed from the bit that used to be where the hole is. These theorists believe that there are likely to be other universes in other black holes.
  • That in another realm a group of giants were playing soccer with a medicine ball and one of them kicked it so hard it flew out of the stratosphere and was left so long it went mouldy and attracted flies which evolved into the world as we know it now. That’s My Theory, strongly supported by this ancient cave painting. I’m not sure who Ed is, must be an early humanoid.


Apart from Hubble’s Red Shift (Hubble’s Law), there is also the Cosmic Microwave Background. This is the heat left behind by the rapid expansion or big bang. It was been successfully measured by orbiting detectors in the 60’s. The 60’s and cosmic microwaves? Sounds a bit sus to me.

The abundance of “light elements” hydogen and helium in the observable universe are also thought to support the big bang theory.

I’d move on to the Hedron Collider and the Higgs Bosun but my brain is hurting and I can’t make head or tail of whether those things support the big bang or not. I’ve done my particle physics for this month (year). Anyone? If you can shed light on that in a sentence I’ll write a haiku about you.

In short, Big Bang is the best explanation we have so far, or at least the most popular. It still, however, has it critics, its flaws and its uknowns.

In conclusion, this is just scratching the cosmic surface and as always I am open to corrections/additions from brainy people, but I feel better having a bit of a grasp on the most likely theory as to why I’m sitting here right now. Well better in some ways. In other ways I just feel very very small. I mean 13.8 billion years – that, in the scheme of it all, shrinks the existence of homo sapiens into a little sliver on the timeline. And my life into a blip on the sliver.

There goes Meg, a blip on the sliver.

Life is short people, make the very most. xx


I’ve spent the majority of the year in tracksuit and windcheater covered in paint. I’ve also hit the last year of my thirties and have to not smile in photos to avoid the disappearance of eyes and the appearance of crows’ STOMP MARKS on my eye corners. I haven’t seen a hairdresser in a year and as for hair elsewhere, there’s every chance the RSPCA could step in on grounds of neglect.

I have noticed a steady increase in my use of makeup, I hate my clothes and I am getting snappy when my children intrude on my getting ready time. These are all positive “I feel like shit” indicators.

So with the promise of a few social occasions coming up I decided bugger it I’m getting some shit done. (No not botox, I still haven’t been brave enough to try that, not after feeling sort of morbidly fascinated by the shiny, mask-like faces of a few of my peers. These days parties seem to have a Frozen theme, and I’m not talking about kids’ birthdays).

Hair was first. Half of my boob length hair was so dead it could sit comfortably next to the Mummies at MONA. It had to go. With time at a premium this year, I called a brilliant girl from up the road and within half an hour she and her glamour kit were in my kitchen and before too long there was a pitiful pile of hair on the floor and me in the mirror thinking I looked pretty much like Heidi Klum but without the bone structure or the beauty. This is great, thinks I, what next?

I performed a face scrub followed by a youth-promise mask, which worked brilliantly because the next day I got a pimple.

Then I visited a beauty salon for some waxing, some eyebrow fixing and hell why not, eyelash extensions. I was – I thought – fast entering the world of the glamorous. I bought myself some high heels that weren’t from Target – my first EVER – and a matching patent nude bag (tho thophithticated).

Then I decided to damn well get my nails done BECAUSE I’M WORTH IT. By this stage the reinvention budget was looking a little stretched so I opted for one of those quick nail bars – “a full set of gel nails for $20 in 20 minutes”. Can’t go wrong.

I was bossed into a chair and had my hands taken and stroked at before anyone had even looked at my face. I could have had no head for all these small bossy women knew. I was asked what I wanted and said, “I don’t know, gel nails – a full set? Maybe? Not too long”.

“White tips?” Snapped small bossy woman. No thank you. “Colour?” No thank you, just natural. She looked at me like I was wasting her time (her own nails had palm trees painted on them) but got down to business.

Business was pretty rough actually. There were loud sanding machine things and a lot of loud bossy talk between the nail artists – all of it is another language with bursts of laughter which made me feel slightly paranoid and a bit left out frankly. I felt like a school girl – were they talking about my pimple? Laughing at my ridiculous eyelashes? The red patches around my eyebrows? I wanted to go home.

I tried to get into it though. There were plenty of other patrons looking at ease. Some of them had clearly been there numerous times and were being treated like one of the gang. I tried to join in, pictured myself joking around with these deft, confident women, maybe learning a bit of their language. I admired the small bossy woman’s ring and then realised it was actually my own, on my own finger, entangled with hers. I stopped trying to be cool.

Then the small bossy woman was replaced by a slighter larger bossy woman who got a file out and starting pummeling my nail beds like some sort of dirty sock. It hurt. It really hurt. Then she stuck things on that looked a lot like talons and clipped them down slightly.

“They’re a bit long”, I said. Larger bossy woman paused and for the first time looked at me.

“You should say to me before”, she snapped.

“I did say earlier, to -” I indicated the small bossy woman but my hand was pushed back into pummel position and I was ignored.

Out came the scary sanding machine again and my talons were reduced, getting very hot in the process. I was starting to wonder if this nail thing was such a good idea after all. Or legal. They were still too long but I feared having the hot sanding thingy shoved up my clacker and god knows that was already smarting from it’s own reduction-by-wax. I shut up.

Forty minutes and $35 later (whatever happened to the 20/20 thing?) I had new, squared off, long nails that looked like they belong in a bordello.

Four hours later and my fingertips are throbbing like someone’s dropped logs of wood on them. I’m expecting to wake tomorrow to purple nails. Just this typing is painful. I had to take panadol before getting the washing out of the machine. I can no longer remove contact lenses, do up buttons pick up egg shell, play guitar or pick my nose. All essentials of life really. God knows how I’ll go wiping my bottom.

Social engagement number one is coming soon and I haven’t yet had a chance to get used to my new shoes. I can sense a day of sore feet, falling over and fumbling finger food coming on.

Why can’t I just learn that vanity gets you nowhere? This is up there with the time I got a spray tan and took ‘pat dry with towel’ to mean ‘wipe dry with towel’, had to get a double spray to cover the smearing and finished up looking like a cross between an orangutan and Mr Tickle.

Oh well, if you were to look at my fingers and took my head off you could mistake me for Heidi Klum. But without the class.



Hey Mum, Mum, Mum, Mum, Mum, Muuuuuuuuum.

Here are three habits my children have got into that are quite adorable for the first little while, then really bloody annoying thereof:

1) Hey Mum, watch this. 

It plays out like this:- I am in the middle of a very important and highly dangerous feat of brilliance (such as chopping an onion or catching up on Bachelor revelations) when 1 or 3 children arrive in the middle to shout:

“Mum, watch this Mum, Mum? Mum? Muuum? Look at me Mum!”

At this point I watch as they perform something really amazing and potentially dangerous like a little skippity thing or a bit of a wobbly somersault. Both require some wowing. Too much wowing leads to numerous repeat performances of said skippity thing from more children and the chopping of onion getting so dragged out that the fumes have rendered you blind anyway, which leads to a complete frenzy of:

“Mum, Mum, Mum, Muuuum, look Mum, look, watch, watch, look, look at this, Mum, Mum, Mum, Muuuuuuuum, look at me, Mum, you gotta watch, Mum, Mum, Mum, Mum, MUUUUUUUUUUUM!”

Until you are forced to yell something bad motherish like, “STOP YOU BOGAN HOOLIGANS, I WATCHED THE FIRST TIME”, and thinking something worse like “Come back when you can do a perfect backflip” and they all slouch off leaving you feeling awful but not awful enough to call for an encore.

2) Hey Mum, what’s your favourite…?

This one is mostly fine. I do like it when they switch their favourites to be like me. And I don’t mind the usual, What’s your favourite ice cream, what’s your favourite film type ones, but they soon run out and we’re left with:

  • “Hey Mum, what’s your favourite rock?” – this while looking at a beach covered in thousands of rocks.
  • “Mum, which is your favourite ant?”
  • “Which is your favourite toe?”
  • “Which is your favourite way of eating your sandwich?”
  • “What’s your favourite Mum, penises or chinas?” This followed by squeals of laughter.

Sometimes, after a long day and way too many favourite questions, I can no longer pick a favourite because my desire to screech, ‘I don’t actually give a fuuuuuck’ gets well in the way and I want to add, “What’s your favourite – shoosh your gobs, shut your cake holes or shut the fuck up?”.

3) Hey Mum, can you do this?

This is one closely linked to trampolines I find, but is being wheeled out more frequently, often when I’m in a public place and trying not to appear bonkers. A small person who looks quite like me but whom of course I don’t know will approach me while I’m in the medicare queue and say,

“Hey mum, can you do this?” and then hop madly on one leg with their head at a crazed angle, to which I smile a patient smile and say, “I don’t think so, it’s so clever,” which prompts them to try a bit of an on-floor leg-in-the-air thing and shout, “Can you do this Mum?”

I wish I was the sort of mother who would give the on-floor leg-in-the-air thing a red hot crack right there on the purple patterned medicare carpet, but I’m more of a, “Darling, would you like a little sit down and a shutupachup?” type. Unless I’m at home. At home I’ll try most things – the on-couch head stand, the crawl through chair legs trick, the dance with the dog, the make your hair stand up with shampoo trick…

Sometimes though, I wish they’d lie on the couch with their eyes closed and say, “Hey Mum, can you do this?”

But of course, I will embrace all these questions as best I can, love the askers and answer them with as much patience and understanding as I can muster, because really I do want them to continue for as long as possible.

One day in the not too distant future they will switch their favourites so as to not be like me and they will grow out of wobbly somersaults and not be in the slightest bit interested in what I can or can’t do and possibly go for long stretches without asking me anything or even talking to me at all. And then I’ll whinge and moan about that and do lots of silly flippety things in the hopes that they might see me.


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