Our family bathroom has a mirror that measures roughly 5 feet along and 3 feet high.
It’s a beauty.
All I can say is that the previous owner/builder of the property must have had slight narcissistic tendencies, but I’m not going to complain; not when there’s enough space to stand two children and a husband side by side at the sink with enough elbow room to avoid small scale conflicts.
Most of the time.
But any time I attempt to utilize the thing myself, I swear there is toothpaste covering every square inch of it! I know- I’ve just cleaned the thing again. And no one seems to see it but me…
There are a lot of home truths I’ve learnt since bringing my babies home:
1. Boys smell*. They really do. And no amount of washing, changing, and deodorizing seems to keep it at bay for any great length of time. Must be that Y chromosome.
2. Children are under the impression that being bored is the same thing as being hungry. It doesn’t matter if they’ve just eaten you out of house and home and have just sat through the latest family friendly feature film…they are like a crevasse in living form.
3. Kids are also under the assumption that Colonel Sanders makes toilet paper, as they seem to expect a ‘magic barrel’ with a neverending supply. As a friend of mine says: there is nothing that can come out of a human bottom to require that much paper to clean it. But apparently both she and I are wrong.
And
4. One small pea-size squirt of toothpaste (as recommended by dentists everywhere) can create enough white specks to cover previously mentioned 5 x 3 foot mirror! (And have you ever noticed that it doesn’t matter what colour the toothpaste is going in, it always comes out white?)
Luckily I’ve also discovered some nifty new wipes designed specifically for mirrors and glass-fronted furniture that promise to get “rid of streaks and leave your glass and mirror surfaces sparkling”. Unfortunately, there’s no guarantee that these wonder wipes will also leave an invisible coating of something akin to Teflon™ so that next time the offspring are on dental duty any sprays will simply go away.
Of course it doesn’t help matters that on the last visit to the dentist the nurse gave the “helpful” suggestion that - in order to brush teeth correctly every time- one should give ten decent ‘flicks’ in every direction. Now, you and I both know that by definition of ‘direction’ that she meant top, bottom, and side to side, in order to ensure every little nook and cranny and wobbly tooth gets a look in. Seems my children took her literally and literally flick the toothpaste in every direction!
I kid you not, this time it was even on the fluorescent light above the mirror!
Anyways, at least the entire bathroom region is looking spick and span and shiny again, thanks to my nifty new wipes. But I bet not one of the aforementioned family members will notice.
Now all I need to do is finish scrubbing the toilet bowls which also seem to be almost permanently sporting splatter no matter how clean I try to keep them (*see point #1 above), and replace yet another toilet roll.
Before I get back into it, I’ll just leave you with one of my favourite jokes of all time, which I think you’ll agree ties in rather nicely with the topic.
Sister Mary Margaret bursts into Mother Superior’s office with the complaint that the kids have been at it again and the boys’ toilet in particular was in a shocking state:
“The little devils have been having yet another competition about who can get highest up the wall above the urinal! I had to send for the cleaner yet again, and just as we were going back to tidy up the stinky streams, more of the bedeviled little creatures were in there having another contest."
“And what did you do?“ asked Mother Superior
“I hit the roof!!”
Jx
©2011
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Trouble Afoot
I had an unfortunate incident on my last visit to hospital for so-called “routine day surgery”.
Somewhere, somehow, the routine went wrong. The day turned into weeks. And counting.
After being last on the list into theatre, I woke up in Recovery to discover that not all of me had recovered. My right foot felt asleep. Make that my entire leg from the knee down.
The nurses were at a loss to explain what had happened, the doctor apparently didn’t think it serious enough to visit in the wee small hours of the morning to investigate, and the hospital seemed a little less than enthusiastic to let others know what was afoot (pun fully intended) so simply stuck me in a room at the end of the corridor and left me to it. Not even a name above my bed.
I wasn’t happy with that arrangement for some strange reason, and kept on asking to see someone, anyone, who might be able to tell me what was going on.
After the physio took a look, to no avail, my surgeon did his post-op visit, and the neurologist was called. He immediately diagnosed ‘foot drop’ at the very least and suspected a nerve had been pinched in my spine in the time I was under anaesthetic.
As the condition can be permanent and bring about other problems, and in order to see if more surgery was on the cards for me, the neurologist thought an MRI was in order. Easier said than done.
Since the very reason the imaging was ordered was due to my lack of mobility, the logistics of getting me to the MRI machine were pretty involved.
After going through the motions of my morning shower (which for the best for all concerned I won’t go into here) I had to manoeuvre myself out of bed into a wheelchair for my friendly transport driver to, well, transport me. Down the lift, clutching a vomit bag as my newly-discovered motion sickness kicked in, and into the ambulance where he loaded and locked me into the back, then left me shivering for a few minutes with all doors open while he went back in for more VBags…just in case. (Just quietly, I love these things- best thing since sliced bread- I buy them in bulk for my son’s adverse reaction to a certain medication, children’s travel sickness, the list is endless!)
Things got a whole lot more interesting once we got to the medical centre. Due to their regulations the wheelchair I was in could not go into the actual imaging room- I had to use one of theirs- so I was wheeled off to a changing cubicle with just a threadbare curtain separating me from the technicians in the room and informed I needed to take off everything except my knickers and put on yet another inglorious paper gown.
In the process, I had to transfer myself from the wheelchair to a little bench seat, get changed, somehow doing up the gown at the back, then pull another (OH&S-approved) wheelchair into the cubicle and wriggle into that. Of course I did the age-old female trick of whipping the bra off out my sleeves at the last minute as I really didn’t trust the curtain and quite frankly have bared enough of my bod in recent days.
When I got my breath back the tech wheeled me into the waiting MRI machine where I then had to get up onto the teeny tiny table. Lifting myself up with a muttered “Stupid right leg” the assistant asked me “Is that the medical terminology for your condition?” “No, it’s the layperson’s term,” I replied, “usually accompanied by an expletive or two.” Still laughing he left me lying on a table that definitely made my butt look big.
Once done, I had to repeat the performance and end up back in my original clothes in my original chair so that the original transport driver could transport me back to hospital.
To give you some idea of what was required, imagine if you will a sick and twisted version of the itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini song:
♫ From the bed to the wheelchair, from the wheelchair to the floor, from the floor to the table…I guess there isn’t any more. ♪
At least, there better not be today anyway.
Jx
©2010 & 2011
Somewhere, somehow, the routine went wrong. The day turned into weeks. And counting.
After being last on the list into theatre, I woke up in Recovery to discover that not all of me had recovered. My right foot felt asleep. Make that my entire leg from the knee down.
The nurses were at a loss to explain what had happened, the doctor apparently didn’t think it serious enough to visit in the wee small hours of the morning to investigate, and the hospital seemed a little less than enthusiastic to let others know what was afoot (pun fully intended) so simply stuck me in a room at the end of the corridor and left me to it. Not even a name above my bed.
I wasn’t happy with that arrangement for some strange reason, and kept on asking to see someone, anyone, who might be able to tell me what was going on.
After the physio took a look, to no avail, my surgeon did his post-op visit, and the neurologist was called. He immediately diagnosed ‘foot drop’ at the very least and suspected a nerve had been pinched in my spine in the time I was under anaesthetic.
As the condition can be permanent and bring about other problems, and in order to see if more surgery was on the cards for me, the neurologist thought an MRI was in order. Easier said than done.
Since the very reason the imaging was ordered was due to my lack of mobility, the logistics of getting me to the MRI machine were pretty involved.
After going through the motions of my morning shower (which for the best for all concerned I won’t go into here) I had to manoeuvre myself out of bed into a wheelchair for my friendly transport driver to, well, transport me. Down the lift, clutching a vomit bag as my newly-discovered motion sickness kicked in, and into the ambulance where he loaded and locked me into the back, then left me shivering for a few minutes with all doors open while he went back in for more VBags…just in case. (Just quietly, I love these things- best thing since sliced bread- I buy them in bulk for my son’s adverse reaction to a certain medication, children’s travel sickness, the list is endless!)
Things got a whole lot more interesting once we got to the medical centre. Due to their regulations the wheelchair I was in could not go into the actual imaging room- I had to use one of theirs- so I was wheeled off to a changing cubicle with just a threadbare curtain separating me from the technicians in the room and informed I needed to take off everything except my knickers and put on yet another inglorious paper gown.
In the process, I had to transfer myself from the wheelchair to a little bench seat, get changed, somehow doing up the gown at the back, then pull another (OH&S-approved) wheelchair into the cubicle and wriggle into that. Of course I did the age-old female trick of whipping the bra off out my sleeves at the last minute as I really didn’t trust the curtain and quite frankly have bared enough of my bod in recent days.
When I got my breath back the tech wheeled me into the waiting MRI machine where I then had to get up onto the teeny tiny table. Lifting myself up with a muttered “Stupid right leg” the assistant asked me “Is that the medical terminology for your condition?” “No, it’s the layperson’s term,” I replied, “usually accompanied by an expletive or two.” Still laughing he left me lying on a table that definitely made my butt look big.
Once done, I had to repeat the performance and end up back in my original clothes in my original chair so that the original transport driver could transport me back to hospital.
To give you some idea of what was required, imagine if you will a sick and twisted version of the itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini song:
♫ From the bed to the wheelchair, from the wheelchair to the floor, from the floor to the table…I guess there isn’t any more. ♪
At least, there better not be today anyway.
Jx
©2010 & 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Movie Magic
You have never had the full High Definition movie experience until you have experienced watching a movie with my kids.
Never the shy and retiring little wallflowers at any rate, they are especially vocal on any and every excursion to the cinema, not even the dimming of the lights can dim their enthusiasm. My role in every movie is to sit with one child either side so that I am within easy reach for any scary or sad bits, also well placed to provide regular reminders that there are others around us also trying to watch the film and can we please keep it down?
Oh no, my two children (one of either gender to ensure a fully balanced picture) are natural born critics and take it upon themselves to give running commentary on the events unfolding on the silver screen, along with the requisite attempts to guess what is yet to come, even pontificating on the moral of the story or underlying theme. Sometimes their efforts are so vociferous I fear that we won’t get to see how the story ends if the ushers decide to show us the exit instead.
So any time we actually see a movie when first released -as opposed to waiting until it’s on DVD and “on special” as what is usually within our budget (my goodness some cinemas are expensive!) - I barely get to ponder the plotline so busy am I plotting how to keep my kids quiet for the duration. (Just quietly, I sometimes have to purchase said DVD once it goes on special anyway, just to find out what the heck happens!)
On that note, you can tell just how much my two have enjoyed a movie judging by how quickly they ask “Can we please buy a copy when it’s available?” so they can watch it again in the peace (and I use that term loosely) and privacy of our own home. The better the movie the faster the request- a really good movie doesn’t even get us as far as the front door of the theatre before going on our 'gotta buy' list.
Another telling trait of a winning film is whether there are any trips to the bathroom while the show is showing. My daughter has the uncanny knack of needing to pee a mere ten minutes from the end of the flick- and we all know by now my son’s habit of utilizing public restrooms at every available opportunity- but if the movie is that good, they can miraculously manage to hold on until the end credits roll. Sometimes it’s a mad dash after that, but at least we get our money’s worth up to that point!
What’s even better than seeing new movies with the children, is watching old flicks through new eyes. And quite an eye-opener as to how much I missed the first time around. Or maybe I just wasn’t paying enough attention.
While exposing our offspring to the earthly wonders of ‘ET’ one weekend, my Beloved and I found ourselves locking eyes more than we have since the early days of dating; only this time we were exchanging gazes of amusement at the narration coming from the critics on the couch between us (Oh yes, the seating allocation remains the same at home as in the theatre).
For example, when Elliot ventures out in the dark in search of their unearthly visitor, Critic #1 observes “Oh look, he’s gone outside after his mother told him not to!”
“And only in his socks!!” exclaims Critic #2.
Then when Michael boards the bus for school with some rather raucous classmates our safety-conscious daughter declares “They really shouldn’t be standing up on the bus like that.”
“Yeah,” our son says, “distracting the driver is dangerous!”
At another point, when the mom dashes out the door to collect an apparently intoxicated Elliot- leaving 5 year old Gertie behind at the house- Critic #1 cries out: “You would never leave us at home alone would you mum?”
“Why didn’t she just take her with her?” is the perfectly logical rejoinder from critic #2.
Now, I was 12 when Mr Spielberg’s masterpiece was first released, 4 years older than my oldest is now, but darned if I was aware of details like that. I never seemed to notice just how much swearing there was in some of those apparently ‘Family Films’ either. I just went along for the ride, and like the rest of the audience cheered when Elliot and ET rode away from Mr Keys and the bad-guys on that magically airborne BMX.
Maybe it’s true what they say, that kids are growing up too fast these days; It certainly seems the aging process is working its wonders on me too: I have turned into my mother, inwardly cringing every time someone says or does something on screen that is somewhat inappropriate for small children.
While not yet resorting to the repertoire of “Tsk”s and tiny gasps of horror that my mum has gotten down to a fine art, I try to pre-empt any nasty bits with a tried and true distraction technique – offering the kids the popcorn or lolly bag at the crucial moment.
When it comes down to it, I’d take their innocent (if ongoing) narration any day over them incorporating some R-rated vocabulary into their PG world.
And as far as watching flicks with the kids, I’d give the experience 5 stars every time.
Jx
©2010
Never the shy and retiring little wallflowers at any rate, they are especially vocal on any and every excursion to the cinema, not even the dimming of the lights can dim their enthusiasm. My role in every movie is to sit with one child either side so that I am within easy reach for any scary or sad bits, also well placed to provide regular reminders that there are others around us also trying to watch the film and can we please keep it down?
Oh no, my two children (one of either gender to ensure a fully balanced picture) are natural born critics and take it upon themselves to give running commentary on the events unfolding on the silver screen, along with the requisite attempts to guess what is yet to come, even pontificating on the moral of the story or underlying theme. Sometimes their efforts are so vociferous I fear that we won’t get to see how the story ends if the ushers decide to show us the exit instead.
So any time we actually see a movie when first released -as opposed to waiting until it’s on DVD and “on special” as what is usually within our budget (my goodness some cinemas are expensive!) - I barely get to ponder the plotline so busy am I plotting how to keep my kids quiet for the duration. (Just quietly, I sometimes have to purchase said DVD once it goes on special anyway, just to find out what the heck happens!)
On that note, you can tell just how much my two have enjoyed a movie judging by how quickly they ask “Can we please buy a copy when it’s available?” so they can watch it again in the peace (and I use that term loosely) and privacy of our own home. The better the movie the faster the request- a really good movie doesn’t even get us as far as the front door of the theatre before going on our 'gotta buy' list.
Another telling trait of a winning film is whether there are any trips to the bathroom while the show is showing. My daughter has the uncanny knack of needing to pee a mere ten minutes from the end of the flick- and we all know by now my son’s habit of utilizing public restrooms at every available opportunity- but if the movie is that good, they can miraculously manage to hold on until the end credits roll. Sometimes it’s a mad dash after that, but at least we get our money’s worth up to that point!
What’s even better than seeing new movies with the children, is watching old flicks through new eyes. And quite an eye-opener as to how much I missed the first time around. Or maybe I just wasn’t paying enough attention.
While exposing our offspring to the earthly wonders of ‘ET’ one weekend, my Beloved and I found ourselves locking eyes more than we have since the early days of dating; only this time we were exchanging gazes of amusement at the narration coming from the critics on the couch between us (Oh yes, the seating allocation remains the same at home as in the theatre).
For example, when Elliot ventures out in the dark in search of their unearthly visitor, Critic #1 observes “Oh look, he’s gone outside after his mother told him not to!”
“And only in his socks!!” exclaims Critic #2.
Then when Michael boards the bus for school with some rather raucous classmates our safety-conscious daughter declares “They really shouldn’t be standing up on the bus like that.”
“Yeah,” our son says, “distracting the driver is dangerous!”
At another point, when the mom dashes out the door to collect an apparently intoxicated Elliot- leaving 5 year old Gertie behind at the house- Critic #1 cries out: “You would never leave us at home alone would you mum?”
“Why didn’t she just take her with her?” is the perfectly logical rejoinder from critic #2.
Now, I was 12 when Mr Spielberg’s masterpiece was first released, 4 years older than my oldest is now, but darned if I was aware of details like that. I never seemed to notice just how much swearing there was in some of those apparently ‘Family Films’ either. I just went along for the ride, and like the rest of the audience cheered when Elliot and ET rode away from Mr Keys and the bad-guys on that magically airborne BMX.
Maybe it’s true what they say, that kids are growing up too fast these days; It certainly seems the aging process is working its wonders on me too: I have turned into my mother, inwardly cringing every time someone says or does something on screen that is somewhat inappropriate for small children.
While not yet resorting to the repertoire of “Tsk”s and tiny gasps of horror that my mum has gotten down to a fine art, I try to pre-empt any nasty bits with a tried and true distraction technique – offering the kids the popcorn or lolly bag at the crucial moment.
When it comes down to it, I’d take their innocent (if ongoing) narration any day over them incorporating some R-rated vocabulary into their PG world.
And as far as watching flicks with the kids, I’d give the experience 5 stars every time.
Jx
©2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Small Steps
In June 2003, my 13-month-old baby boy stopped trying to walk, stopped cruising, stopped crawling, and started crying and clinging.
So began our journey with juvenile idiopathic arthritis, or JIA – a long, hard, often lonely road, with no end in sight just yet.
We'd known since he was six months old that something was not quite right; at that time, he'd been diagnosed with iron-deficient anaemia and cow's milk protein intolerance.
Then, at 13 months, our son's left ankle swelled up right before my eyes. But it wasn't until B was 19 months old that he was diagnosed with JIA, which the doctors in hindsight say was probably causing his symptoms when he was six months.
B didn't start walking until he was 21 months old. Now, nearly five years later, we are still treading carefully with this disease.
JIA is a cruel, chronic, sometimes crippling childhood illness. The term refers to all types of arthritis that affect children.
Too many kids with JIA are written off as being whingy, lazy, or slow to grow. JIA is often misdiagnosed as 'growing pains'.
At first, B was diagnosed with 'pauciarticular' juvenile rheumatoid arthritis, a type of JIA that affects four or fewer joints. His diagnosis has since been upgraded to 'extended oligo JIA', since the disease has spread to more joints.
JIA is felt by every member of the family. The affected child often cannot describe what they are feeling, since the average age at onset is just two years old.
Parents may go through a guilt and grieving process as they blame themselves for either causing it, or being unable to cure it.
And siblings have their own emotional rollercoaster ride as they see their brother or sister getting extra attention for their pain.
But since JIA is not hereditary, it has the added effect of making one feel incredibly alone.
Now, I am not one to sit back and suffer in silence – I want to know the answers, and will keep asking until someone can give them to me. I want to share my knowledge and support with others too.
If I did not turn the despair that I have sometimes felt into positive energy, I would just be a little saline puddle on the floor.
I'm still trying to find the answers to many questions, but I've spent a lot of time on the phone sharing what I do know with other parents of newly-diagnosed children (what can I say, I like to chat!).
And I've set up an Australian online support group for JIA, which now also has members from all over the world. Anyone, at any time of any day, can post a query, or have a cry, and someone is 'listening'.
There is little real awareness of JIA in our community, either among the general or medical population. So I designed a logo with the message that "Kids get Arthritis too!".
We wear it every day, as a kind of walking billboard. It starts a lot of conversations!
When I learned that JIA is actually more common than type 1 diabetes, cystic fibrosis, or cerebral palsy – yet was not automatically eligible for the Centrelink Carer Allowance like these other illnesses – I fought for it to be so.
When I realised there was no branch or organisation specifically to help JIA children and their families, I bothered our state Arthritis Foundation until there was one.
When I saw how far many families have to travel to get treatment, I started working with my state and federal politicians and our local children's hospital, to get regional JIA clinics operating.
And when I heard about some awesome parents in the United States who'd set up the American Juvenile Arthritis Organisation (now JA Alliance)– which has an annual conference that brings together families from all over the USA – well, I knew we had to start fundraising and get a passport!
Our trip to Pennsylvania in June-July 2007 convinced me of two things:
• Australia is not so far behind in its medical management of JIA – in fact, in some ways we are ahead. (B's health team is fantastic!)
• We still have a way to go to get a national organisation and conference such as the AJAO happening here.
(I also learnt that five-year-olds are intrigued with public rest rooms, but that's a whole other story!)
In amongst this advocacy, I work two other jobs, and I have the everyday demands of being a wife and mother.
I dread having to give B a needle in his little tummy every week, and struggle with the fear of side effects of the various medications he must take.
I hate having to hold him down for blood tests and other medical procedures. I get tired of rounding up the kids for yet another trip to hospital. And I despair at the stares in the street, and the bullying that B suffers at school.
But while I absolutely despise this disease, I will not let it stop us from loving life.
I try to enjoy every day. I relish every time I hear my kids laugh, or see my son try to run.
And at the end of the day, I feel a kind of humble pride that I can make a difference.
Jx
©2008
So began our journey with juvenile idiopathic arthritis, or JIA – a long, hard, often lonely road, with no end in sight just yet.
We'd known since he was six months old that something was not quite right; at that time, he'd been diagnosed with iron-deficient anaemia and cow's milk protein intolerance.
Then, at 13 months, our son's left ankle swelled up right before my eyes. But it wasn't until B was 19 months old that he was diagnosed with JIA, which the doctors in hindsight say was probably causing his symptoms when he was six months.
B didn't start walking until he was 21 months old. Now, nearly five years later, we are still treading carefully with this disease.
JIA is a cruel, chronic, sometimes crippling childhood illness. The term refers to all types of arthritis that affect children.
Too many kids with JIA are written off as being whingy, lazy, or slow to grow. JIA is often misdiagnosed as 'growing pains'.
At first, B was diagnosed with 'pauciarticular' juvenile rheumatoid arthritis, a type of JIA that affects four or fewer joints. His diagnosis has since been upgraded to 'extended oligo JIA', since the disease has spread to more joints.
JIA is felt by every member of the family. The affected child often cannot describe what they are feeling, since the average age at onset is just two years old.
Parents may go through a guilt and grieving process as they blame themselves for either causing it, or being unable to cure it.
And siblings have their own emotional rollercoaster ride as they see their brother or sister getting extra attention for their pain.
But since JIA is not hereditary, it has the added effect of making one feel incredibly alone.
Now, I am not one to sit back and suffer in silence – I want to know the answers, and will keep asking until someone can give them to me. I want to share my knowledge and support with others too.
If I did not turn the despair that I have sometimes felt into positive energy, I would just be a little saline puddle on the floor.
I'm still trying to find the answers to many questions, but I've spent a lot of time on the phone sharing what I do know with other parents of newly-diagnosed children (what can I say, I like to chat!).
And I've set up an Australian online support group for JIA, which now also has members from all over the world. Anyone, at any time of any day, can post a query, or have a cry, and someone is 'listening'.
There is little real awareness of JIA in our community, either among the general or medical population. So I designed a logo with the message that "Kids get Arthritis too!".
We wear it every day, as a kind of walking billboard. It starts a lot of conversations!
When I learned that JIA is actually more common than type 1 diabetes, cystic fibrosis, or cerebral palsy – yet was not automatically eligible for the Centrelink Carer Allowance like these other illnesses – I fought for it to be so.
When I realised there was no branch or organisation specifically to help JIA children and their families, I bothered our state Arthritis Foundation until there was one.
When I saw how far many families have to travel to get treatment, I started working with my state and federal politicians and our local children's hospital, to get regional JIA clinics operating.
And when I heard about some awesome parents in the United States who'd set up the American Juvenile Arthritis Organisation (now JA Alliance)– which has an annual conference that brings together families from all over the USA – well, I knew we had to start fundraising and get a passport!
Our trip to Pennsylvania in June-July 2007 convinced me of two things:
• Australia is not so far behind in its medical management of JIA – in fact, in some ways we are ahead. (B's health team is fantastic!)
• We still have a way to go to get a national organisation and conference such as the AJAO happening here.
(I also learnt that five-year-olds are intrigued with public rest rooms, but that's a whole other story!)
In amongst this advocacy, I work two other jobs, and I have the everyday demands of being a wife and mother.
I dread having to give B a needle in his little tummy every week, and struggle with the fear of side effects of the various medications he must take.
I hate having to hold him down for blood tests and other medical procedures. I get tired of rounding up the kids for yet another trip to hospital. And I despair at the stares in the street, and the bullying that B suffers at school.
But while I absolutely despise this disease, I will not let it stop us from loving life.
I try to enjoy every day. I relish every time I hear my kids laugh, or see my son try to run.
And at the end of the day, I feel a kind of humble pride that I can make a difference.
Jx
©2008
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Gone Fishin'
Whoever claimed that fishing is a relaxing pastime has never been fishing with our family.
My Beloved got to do that activity a lot as a child- with the added luxury of his father owning a small runabout to run about in- so he’s a big supporter of the sport.
On the other hand, the closest I ever came to dropping a line was ‘crawbobbing’ in the creek behind our campus, and only did that once or twice throughout high school. Oh and unless you count the plastic fish with magnets-for-mouths that the kids used to cast about in the bath, they’ve never had a crack at it either.
So it was with much excitement and a little trepidation that we ventured forth the first time with our entire entourage in tow (consisting of 2 adults + 3 kids, yet strangely, enough food to sustain the SS Minnow on its three seasons lost at sea…you get that when you let kids pack the picnic).
Ironically, in spite of the fact that my Beloved had grown up with a boat in the family while I originally sat the test to impress him, we discovered that he had inadvertently let his license lapse so it was up to me to chart our course across the lake for a local fishing spot rumoured to be brimming with biters. Or so we’d heard.
Yet since it was his area of expertise, and I was worried about impaling myself on the hook given my history of hand-eye coordination, my Beloved was in charge of preparing the lines. Never mind his bait of choice was prawns and he happens to suffer an allergy to shellfish, he stoically sat and speared the soft flesh while the rest of us got our sea legs (or sea butts, to be more precise- the boat was way too small to stand up in).
We’d barely dropped anchor when the first cries of “I’m hungry” started across the stern, and barely had my Beloved got one rod ready before the chorus changed to “I’m bored”. But I was enjoying the sunshine and saltwater lapping at the sides and tried to engage our offspring in some bird-watching and sea-life spotting. That lasted about as long as it took for my Beloved to bait the next hook.
Seems the gentle bobbing of the boat was relaxing enough for our daughter at least, and she crawled under the wheel for a small snooze while the grownups tried to encourage the remaining two children to drop a line and please try not to scare the fish away. Easier said than done, especially with sons.
On the upside, we had a lot less weight to carry back across the lake as the boys proceeded to empty the esky of all edible contents, and made a small contribution to the waterline (not quite so easy for we females to achieve given the space and the circumstances). Our youngest even managed to reel in a bream and a whiting (both of kiss-&-release size) before deciding he’d had enough of this fishing stuff and was again calling for anchors aweigh. Ignoring his best efforts to frighten away anything living in the lake, we pressed on for a little while longer (if only to get our money’s worth out of the bait).
Unfortunately, in the process of catching and casting, my Beloved and I got a little too close for comfort and I ended up with a hook in my finger anyway. What’s worse, he also suffered a mild reaction to having his hands in a bucket of prawns (but then slept very well that night thanks to the combined effects of the sun, the sea, the stress, and the antihistamines).
Having dozed through almost the entire excursion, our daughter crawled out from her hidey hole just as we were making the return journey, and in the confusion that followed, our son lost his hat, which made like the waves behind us and was merrily bidding farewell until I caved in to his cries and turned the boat around, went back, and scooped the soggy cap out.
During the clean-up once safely back on home soil (which also did not appeal to the children, for some reason), my Beloved and I reflected on the whole experience:
All I managed to catch was a hat.
And all he managed to catch was me.
As for our daughter, she just managed to catch a few Zs.
But you know what, we just can’t wait for the next time we can all go fishin’!*
Jx
©2010
My Beloved got to do that activity a lot as a child- with the added luxury of his father owning a small runabout to run about in- so he’s a big supporter of the sport.
On the other hand, the closest I ever came to dropping a line was ‘crawbobbing’ in the creek behind our campus, and only did that once or twice throughout high school. Oh and unless you count the plastic fish with magnets-for-mouths that the kids used to cast about in the bath, they’ve never had a crack at it either.
So it was with much excitement and a little trepidation that we ventured forth the first time with our entire entourage in tow (consisting of 2 adults + 3 kids, yet strangely, enough food to sustain the SS Minnow on its three seasons lost at sea…you get that when you let kids pack the picnic).
Ironically, in spite of the fact that my Beloved had grown up with a boat in the family while I originally sat the test to impress him, we discovered that he had inadvertently let his license lapse so it was up to me to chart our course across the lake for a local fishing spot rumoured to be brimming with biters. Or so we’d heard.
Yet since it was his area of expertise, and I was worried about impaling myself on the hook given my history of hand-eye coordination, my Beloved was in charge of preparing the lines. Never mind his bait of choice was prawns and he happens to suffer an allergy to shellfish, he stoically sat and speared the soft flesh while the rest of us got our sea legs (or sea butts, to be more precise- the boat was way too small to stand up in).
We’d barely dropped anchor when the first cries of “I’m hungry” started across the stern, and barely had my Beloved got one rod ready before the chorus changed to “I’m bored”. But I was enjoying the sunshine and saltwater lapping at the sides and tried to engage our offspring in some bird-watching and sea-life spotting. That lasted about as long as it took for my Beloved to bait the next hook.
Seems the gentle bobbing of the boat was relaxing enough for our daughter at least, and she crawled under the wheel for a small snooze while the grownups tried to encourage the remaining two children to drop a line and please try not to scare the fish away. Easier said than done, especially with sons.
On the upside, we had a lot less weight to carry back across the lake as the boys proceeded to empty the esky of all edible contents, and made a small contribution to the waterline (not quite so easy for we females to achieve given the space and the circumstances). Our youngest even managed to reel in a bream and a whiting (both of kiss-&-release size) before deciding he’d had enough of this fishing stuff and was again calling for anchors aweigh. Ignoring his best efforts to frighten away anything living in the lake, we pressed on for a little while longer (if only to get our money’s worth out of the bait).
Unfortunately, in the process of catching and casting, my Beloved and I got a little too close for comfort and I ended up with a hook in my finger anyway. What’s worse, he also suffered a mild reaction to having his hands in a bucket of prawns (but then slept very well that night thanks to the combined effects of the sun, the sea, the stress, and the antihistamines).
Having dozed through almost the entire excursion, our daughter crawled out from her hidey hole just as we were making the return journey, and in the confusion that followed, our son lost his hat, which made like the waves behind us and was merrily bidding farewell until I caved in to his cries and turned the boat around, went back, and scooped the soggy cap out.
During the clean-up once safely back on home soil (which also did not appeal to the children, for some reason), my Beloved and I reflected on the whole experience:
All I managed to catch was a hat.
And all he managed to catch was me.
As for our daughter, she just managed to catch a few Zs.
But you know what, we just can’t wait for the next time we can all go fishin’!*
Jx
©2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Food for Thought
I had a most interesting and entertaining burp the other day.
Long after I had consumed my modest little banana sandwich for lunch, but mere moments after a swig of icy cold Coke™, I was blessed with the belches (soda sadly always has that effect on me). For a change, instead of having gas with some unpleasant palate there was quite the unusual and dare I say tasty combination of flavours of aforementioned banana with the undertones of that fizzy caffeine taste we know so well.
It’s not a partnership one would normally contemplate, and correct me if I’m wrong, but no one has come up with this one before. Which is kinda odd considering the amount of edible offerings there are in the world.
Humankind sure puts a lot of thought and effort into eating doesn’t it?
Think about all the restaurants, books, blogs, magazines, and TV shows on the topic. I mean to say: last night Australia set a new record in ratings for the final of Masterchef – an estimated 4 million+ Aussies watched (that’s about one-fifth of the population!). For some it’s almost a religious experience; how many times have we heard about the face of Christ or the Virgin Mary appearing on a toast, or tortilla, or taco somewhere (and subsequently seen selling on eBay)?! I for one am certain at least one of the corn chips in my nachos platter had more than a passing resemblance to a higher power (pity I didn’t make the connection before I chowed down, or my financial prayers might also have been answered, but there you go).
It’s true, food is one of the basic needs of life, and aside from that little necessity for our daily bread, it’s kinda hard to escape on a day-to-day basis. Every 2nd ad on TV is selling some kind of food, you can’t drive anywhere without seeing eating establishments or their signs promising faster tastier treats (now with even better value meal deals!), or feel the urge to detour via a drive-thru. It’s the universal language of love and loss (comfort food anyone?); and way, way before we were being asked if we’d like fries with that, mankind was preoccupied with the art of eating.
The French emperor Napoleon 1 recognised that “An army marches on its stomach.” (And not just because his own was so close to the ground, either.)
Confucius say “the way you cut your meat reflects the way you live” (what does it mean if you pick up the whole steak and just chew- which I have seen someone do- I wonder?)
Even Voltaire back in his day declared that “Nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity.” Hey, I’ll drink to that.
And who hasn’t heard the old chestnut 'the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach' (but did you know who said it first? Someone by the name of Fanny, apparently, which is also a proven method for attracting a male, if you know what I’m saying…)
Nearly all the top rating television shows are food based, or feature at least one scene per episode where the characters are gathered around the table... there’s always some gastronomically-inspired movie on the menu… you got celebrity chefs right up there with sports stars spruiking this, that, and the other… so is it any wonder that cookbooks on average outsell sex-books by about 3 to 1? (Which always reminds me of the wit who wrote how he replaced sex with food to the point where he can’t even get into his own pants anymore.)
Fair dinkum.
Now, just think that all this started because of an involuntary bodily reaction to my choice of fuel for the day.
And just like that mysterious yet contagious yawn factor, all this talk about food seems to have somehow got the grehlin going in my gut and I’m now feeling decidedly peckish. Best go see what other culinary combinations I can come up with before the Borborygmus brings the house down.
We’re out of bananas as it happens, but methinks there’s a little more Coke in the fridge.
Oh, and just quietly, if a new flavour of Coca Cola turns up on a refrigerator shelf near you, just remember, you heard it here first.
Jx
©2010
Long after I had consumed my modest little banana sandwich for lunch, but mere moments after a swig of icy cold Coke™, I was blessed with the belches (soda sadly always has that effect on me). For a change, instead of having gas with some unpleasant palate there was quite the unusual and dare I say tasty combination of flavours of aforementioned banana with the undertones of that fizzy caffeine taste we know so well.
It’s not a partnership one would normally contemplate, and correct me if I’m wrong, but no one has come up with this one before. Which is kinda odd considering the amount of edible offerings there are in the world.
Humankind sure puts a lot of thought and effort into eating doesn’t it?
Think about all the restaurants, books, blogs, magazines, and TV shows on the topic. I mean to say: last night Australia set a new record in ratings for the final of Masterchef – an estimated 4 million+ Aussies watched (that’s about one-fifth of the population!). For some it’s almost a religious experience; how many times have we heard about the face of Christ or the Virgin Mary appearing on a toast, or tortilla, or taco somewhere (and subsequently seen selling on eBay)?! I for one am certain at least one of the corn chips in my nachos platter had more than a passing resemblance to a higher power (pity I didn’t make the connection before I chowed down, or my financial prayers might also have been answered, but there you go).
It’s true, food is one of the basic needs of life, and aside from that little necessity for our daily bread, it’s kinda hard to escape on a day-to-day basis. Every 2nd ad on TV is selling some kind of food, you can’t drive anywhere without seeing eating establishments or their signs promising faster tastier treats (now with even better value meal deals!), or feel the urge to detour via a drive-thru. It’s the universal language of love and loss (comfort food anyone?); and way, way before we were being asked if we’d like fries with that, mankind was preoccupied with the art of eating.
The French emperor Napoleon 1 recognised that “An army marches on its stomach.” (And not just because his own was so close to the ground, either.)
Confucius say “the way you cut your meat reflects the way you live” (what does it mean if you pick up the whole steak and just chew- which I have seen someone do- I wonder?)
Even Voltaire back in his day declared that “Nothing would be more tiresome than eating and drinking if God had not made them a pleasure as well as a necessity.” Hey, I’ll drink to that.
And who hasn’t heard the old chestnut 'the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach' (but did you know who said it first? Someone by the name of Fanny, apparently, which is also a proven method for attracting a male, if you know what I’m saying…)
Nearly all the top rating television shows are food based, or feature at least one scene per episode where the characters are gathered around the table... there’s always some gastronomically-inspired movie on the menu… you got celebrity chefs right up there with sports stars spruiking this, that, and the other… so is it any wonder that cookbooks on average outsell sex-books by about 3 to 1? (Which always reminds me of the wit who wrote how he replaced sex with food to the point where he can’t even get into his own pants anymore.)
Fair dinkum.
Now, just think that all this started because of an involuntary bodily reaction to my choice of fuel for the day.
And just like that mysterious yet contagious yawn factor, all this talk about food seems to have somehow got the grehlin going in my gut and I’m now feeling decidedly peckish. Best go see what other culinary combinations I can come up with before the Borborygmus brings the house down.
We’re out of bananas as it happens, but methinks there’s a little more Coke in the fridge.
Oh, and just quietly, if a new flavour of Coca Cola turns up on a refrigerator shelf near you, just remember, you heard it here first.
Jx
©2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
The Naked Truth
I don’t know about others, but if there ever was 4 little words that worried me it’s: “Have you lost weight?”
Oh sure, they’re usually meant as a compliment, but it always gives me pause to ponder “How big did I look before?”
Just quietly, I haven’t lost any weight for a long time now. Quite the opposite in fact. And I lay the blame squarely at the foot of the pharmaceutical companies with their so-called “minor” side effects. They obviously haven’t had to squeeze said minor effects into last season’s jeans (and thank God summer is still a way off- my swimsuit, and the world at large, is safe for now).
Now I know I’m not alone, the vast majority of women aren’t happy with the skin they’re in. Something like a whopping 95% of us would change something of our current body shape. And a large lot of ladies are so self-conscious they won’t even let their partner into the bathroom while they’re going about their business in there- let alone do anything amorous with the lights on (hell, who looks good under fluorescent lighting anyway?)!
One only has to consider the continual stream of advertising aimed at weight loss or exclusively female fitness centres, let alone the current fad of detox diets, to realize just how many insecure girls there are in the world. And how many companies are “trying to help” them with that.
I recently stumbled onto the show “How To Look Good Naked” whilst channel-surfing the hundred or so channels that pay TV promises (there was nothing decent on Crime & Investigation at the time). Some androgynous little fashionista by the name of Gok Wan pops up on ‘LifeStyle YOU’ and then proceeds to ambush some unsuspecting sheila with a nude photo shoot and a stroll down the catwalk (in their undies, thankfully). To be fair, he first takes her on a journey of self-discovery for the better part of the one hour timeslot, and peeks inside her closet and into her life before taking her shopping for the right style for her shape. From what I gather, the network foots the bill.
Now on one hand I wish that could happen to me. I know I wear the wrong clothes for my sort of silhouette, but damned if I have the money or the knowhow to replace my entire wardrobe on a whim! Besides, I like black. It’s the universal slimming colour, am I right?
Apparently not. According to this Gok fellow black is bad. So are tunics, maxi maxi dresses, and distressed denim (wish he’d told me that before I bought that last pair of pants).
And I know for a fact that if Gok, or Trinny or Susanna, or any of those fashion gurus were to turn up on my doorstep, I would hide behind the curtain and pretend I wasn’t home. Seriously, no one needs to see that kind of thing on prime time television or on cable. Especially if one is paying for the privilege (that would certainly qualify more for the crime rather than style channels, in my opinion)!
So I’ll stumble along with counting carbs and cholesterol, fixating on fats, and trying to swap in some preferred proteins instead; all the while hoping to get off the medication that has made my girth worse since the car accident.
See, though I know I don’t look too good naked at this particular point in time…I also know I’m not the only one.
And next time someone says “Have you lost weight?” I’ll smile and say, “Why yes I have!” and hope there’s still enough of a butt not to reveal the fingers crossed behind my behind.
Jx
©2010
Oh sure, they’re usually meant as a compliment, but it always gives me pause to ponder “How big did I look before?”
Just quietly, I haven’t lost any weight for a long time now. Quite the opposite in fact. And I lay the blame squarely at the foot of the pharmaceutical companies with their so-called “minor” side effects. They obviously haven’t had to squeeze said minor effects into last season’s jeans (and thank God summer is still a way off- my swimsuit, and the world at large, is safe for now).
Now I know I’m not alone, the vast majority of women aren’t happy with the skin they’re in. Something like a whopping 95% of us would change something of our current body shape. And a large lot of ladies are so self-conscious they won’t even let their partner into the bathroom while they’re going about their business in there- let alone do anything amorous with the lights on (hell, who looks good under fluorescent lighting anyway?)!
One only has to consider the continual stream of advertising aimed at weight loss or exclusively female fitness centres, let alone the current fad of detox diets, to realize just how many insecure girls there are in the world. And how many companies are “trying to help” them with that.
I recently stumbled onto the show “How To Look Good Naked” whilst channel-surfing the hundred or so channels that pay TV promises (there was nothing decent on Crime & Investigation at the time). Some androgynous little fashionista by the name of Gok Wan pops up on ‘LifeStyle YOU’ and then proceeds to ambush some unsuspecting sheila with a nude photo shoot and a stroll down the catwalk (in their undies, thankfully). To be fair, he first takes her on a journey of self-discovery for the better part of the one hour timeslot, and peeks inside her closet and into her life before taking her shopping for the right style for her shape. From what I gather, the network foots the bill.
Now on one hand I wish that could happen to me. I know I wear the wrong clothes for my sort of silhouette, but damned if I have the money or the knowhow to replace my entire wardrobe on a whim! Besides, I like black. It’s the universal slimming colour, am I right?
Apparently not. According to this Gok fellow black is bad. So are tunics, maxi maxi dresses, and distressed denim (wish he’d told me that before I bought that last pair of pants).
And I know for a fact that if Gok, or Trinny or Susanna, or any of those fashion gurus were to turn up on my doorstep, I would hide behind the curtain and pretend I wasn’t home. Seriously, no one needs to see that kind of thing on prime time television or on cable. Especially if one is paying for the privilege (that would certainly qualify more for the crime rather than style channels, in my opinion)!
So I’ll stumble along with counting carbs and cholesterol, fixating on fats, and trying to swap in some preferred proteins instead; all the while hoping to get off the medication that has made my girth worse since the car accident.
See, though I know I don’t look too good naked at this particular point in time…I also know I’m not the only one.
And next time someone says “Have you lost weight?” I’ll smile and say, “Why yes I have!” and hope there’s still enough of a butt not to reveal the fingers crossed behind my behind.
Jx
©2010
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