New Beginnings

Not ever having been a fan of Valentine's Day I am a little reticent to make a VD posting (unfortunate abbreviation for a day about making love).

Reminds me of a story I once heard about Victoria and David Beckham.  Someone I knew once was a guest of theirs and had been flown in to their UK estate by helicopter.  Upon his arrival he noticed two neon signs.  One with the initial V and the other with the initial D.  I don't think anyone had ever bothered to point out the embarrassing coincidence.  Perhaps a neon heart would have been a better welcome to Beckingham Palace.

And talking about V& D Beckham it brings me to the theme of the post: BLING.  A fitting theme for Valentine's Day and a link up with  Gifts of Serendipity's Bling On Love.

Today my husband leaves for Sri Lanka.  He'll be gone six weeks for the World Cup Cricket.  I feel like I am standing at the base of an all too familiar mountain.  One that I have climbed too many times this past year and I really just can't muster the energy to do it again.  I am emotionally lethargic just thinking about it.  But I hope it's the final hurdle before we make some changes.

The upside of trips to Sri Lanka are the jewels and I have received a few over the years.  My most prized being this aquamarine.

The Lichtenstein in the background speaks volumes about my emotional state during the absences.

It seems Ceylon jewels have featured a bit in my family history.  My Grandmother had a gorgeous Alexandrite which I never actually saw, but it's a family legend.  She left it in a hotel room drawer.  Maybe it looked something like this.

My Father's step Mother had this beautiful aqua ring made in Ceylon.  It now belongs to my cousin.  I think the rose gold suits this greeny aqua beautifully.

Anyhow this trip I haven't requested jewels but rather a re-setting of my engagement diamond.  We recently celebrated 10 years.  The last few have been a tough and testing time.  But we made it.  As a symbol for our new beginnings I wanted a whole new ring.  In using the same diamond and some of the original gold I hope that this translates as respect for our past and all that we have learnt.

This is how I hope it will look. (Although my diamond is never going to look that big!)

Happy VD!

Dopey Pants

'There is no way in the world any son of mine is going to be caught dead in a pair of those dopey swimmers.'

Those were the words of the man of the house.  The fashion police.  The family style radar.  And I gotta say, those pants do look pretty 'gay'.  And I mean that in the playground sense of the word 'gay' because I reckon that any self respecting gay bloke would actually much prefer a good old tight fitting pair of budgie smugglers any day.

They can't be good for a chaps bits n bobs, let alone a wee lad whose bits n bobs are just trying to get off to a good start.  On top of that they cost a bloody fortune.  The marketing is great: World's fastest swimsuit, it says.  Less drag, lightweight, water repellent.  Aspirational stuff.  Who wouldn't want a pair?

What those swimmers say is: Hey I take my swimming pretty fucking seriously, and I am prepared to look like a complete twat to prove it.  You won't be laughing when you see what a speed demon I really am.  Shaves splits off my time?  Shaves seconds I'm telling ya.

But do they actually work?  That's what we all really want to know.

Well perhaps the marketing should add to its blurb: water propellant.  Today I witnessed the results.  Swimming in Australia is a science and a source of national pride.  We refer to our national swim team by their first names only, like members of our own extended family.  When you've been away for a while this obsession can make you feel a little uncomfortable.  A little like the smugness of the Aussie cricket team.  It's an embarrassment that makes you cringe.

Jack had his swimming carnival today.  Not being privileged (or self obsessed) enough, he doesn't own a pair of high performance swimmers (yet).  He placed third place in all his events.  The first and second places were taken by the same boys in each event.  Now don't get me wrong, I am super proud of my boys efforts.  This is a lad who didn't even swim so well just over a year ago, having spent most of his young life in London.  But what did those boys have that he didn't?

Aside from a consistent Aussie upbringing and probably having been in a pool since they were in nappies, there were two very obvious items missing from our kit.

Firstly, a swimming cap.  Jack has worked hard on his luscious blond surfing curls over the summer and my God, who wants to hide that glory under an ugly plastic cap?  He might not be self obsessed when it comes to the racing gear but he spends an awful amount of time (for a ten year old boy) in front of the mirror perfecting the hair.

And secondly, you guessed it.  The dopey swimmers.

I guess maybe there is truth in the blurb.  Maybe those swimmers really do have little propellers that pop out under water.  Or was it repellent?  Same thing.  If you wear the swimmers the water repels you, pushing you away.  Those boys were streaks ahead.  The combined streamline of dopey pants and plastic caps has to account for a few seconds surely?  All those Olympic champs can't be wrong.

But hey, never let great science get in the way of great personal style, I can hear the man of the house say.  Winning isn't everything!

Grateful for.....

Today I am grateful for making phone calls.  The one's you've been avoiding.  Too afraid to confront.  I am grateful for the opportunities to heal wounds.  For forgiveness.  For leaving the past behind and moving forward.  Light and breezy.

I recently came across this fabulous blog called Brave Girls Club.  If you sign up they'll send you one of their daily truths.  Lovely little emails that for me have been quite eerily spot on.

Yesterday the message I received was this one.  There was a call I needed to make.  I took a deep breath.  Planned my words.  Picked up the phone.

It was easier than I thought.  I felt so relieved.  A huge weight lifted from my shoulders.  The burden I had been carrying for while was so simply taken away.

Be brave.  Make peace with the past.  Go forth with love and light.

*This blog post is a part of something much grander.  Check it out here at Maxbella Loves.

Beer and Skittles

I have been feeling a little off.  Unsettled.  Anxious.  At odds with myself, a little unnecessary, out of kilter.

I haven't been able to work out why and it's been bothering me.  I mean,  I should be relishing the peace and freedom that a return to school routine brings.  Aside from having to put together a very last minute mad dash short film application earlier this week that really tested my brain after 6 weeks of summer holiday vagueness, I really have nothing much to do.  But somewhere inside me I felt a panic, like there is something missing, like I have forgotten something really important.

I met a woman on the beach earlier this week and she commented on how she really dreaded the return to school.  Hates routine.  Meanwhile I was thinking, is she insane?  Who wants their kids hanging around all day, eating you out of house and home, leaving their wet bathers and towels in festering piles on bedroom floors, demanding entertainment solutions or lifts here there and everywhere?

But then suddenly it dawned on me.  I miss them.  I am not coping with the abrupt change in tempo. It's too quiet.  The energy of 3 kids in da house is palpable and when it's gone, it all seems pretty dull and lifeless round here.   I had considered dropping them at the school gate last Sunday with a sleeping bag and a sandwich, so how could I be missing them so soon?

I suspect, that somewhere within, resonating deeper than this temporary displacement, the real truth behind my distemper is lurking.  That the end of their holidays means that I have no excuses anymore.  I am pretty good at procrastination.  In fact we had a little sailing dinghy as kids which my Father claims he gave the name "Faffer" as a tribute to my most refined attribute.

The truth is that with the kids out all day, I really do have to get back into my own groove, do all those things I have been putting off till the kids are back at school.  Get back to the gym.  Make plans.  Sort stuff out.  Work out what to do with the rest of my life.  Six hours a day just isn't long enough.  I've spent far too many of those hours this week fooling around on social networking sites and blog hopping.  Hoping that other stuff might just disappear.

It was more fun when the days stretched out ahead with nothing to do but fill the hours as we pleased.  Reminds me of something my Mother used to say a lot when I was a younger girl, in fact she probably still is, wherever she is now.  Life's not all beer and skittles Sim.  Oh, but wouldn't it be great if it were?

The Story of a dog named Olly.

Olly was a part of a fantasy I created in my own mind.  He is, however, the real world manifestation of that fantasy.  And as we all know, reality rarely beats the fantasy.

Olly in the fantasy was the family pet.  A companion for us all.  A luxury we weren't able to fit into our busy schedule and small flat whilst living in London.  A part of this new Australian life we'd come back to immerse ourselves within.  Part of the Aussie dream.  Large backyards.  Trips to the beach.  Picnics in the park.  It was going to be great.

So I became obsessed.  A dog website stalker.  Looking longingly at photos of puppies.  Imagining how this little creature would improve our lives.  Fill a space that was empty.

I should mention that my husband, the errant one, was away for a total of 7 months last year.  Our first year back in what was to be our new life in Australia.  The one we'd been pining over for years.  Boring all our friends with the incessant argument of the pros and cons of life in London vs life in Australia.

Not wanting to sever ties completely with London, B spent 4 months working back there over the European summer.  For a freelancer, your regular contracts are the bread and butter that keep you going.  The other 3 months have been contracts in other locations upon the globe, usually 6 weeks at a time.  This wasn't how our life was in London.  And certainly not how I'd imagined our life to be back home.  So perhaps the dog fantasy also took root in the loneliness the separations highlighted.

I have been living in the semi rural south coast of NSW.   A far cry from the life we knew in London.  But it was for the kids.  And they have benefited from all this fresh air and freedom.  A summer spent without shoes and with salt encrusted in their golden locks.  Aren't they the Aussie childhood memories we sought for our children?

In many ways the dog represents so much about the struggles and triumphs of this last 18 months.

I set to work researching the right dog for us.  Finally I took one of those online questionnaires.  They ask you all sorts of questions about your lifestyle and this results in a list of about 4 or 5 dog breeds to suit.  There was our dog.  A whippet.  Of course.  Why hadn't I though of that myself?

I have always loved the look of these hound type breeds.  I lived for a number of years in Ibiza, an island off the coast of Spain, and the local dog they call the Ibizan Hound.

It harks back to the ancient Egyptian hunting dogs and is considered one of the oldest breeds of dogs with hieroglyphic representations seen on tomb walls.  It is thought the dogs were brought to the island by the Phoenicians around the 8th century BC.  I always thought they were beautiful and majestic with quirky characters and elegant physiques.

So finally Olly became a reality.  Life would never be quite the same again.

On his first night with us he fractured his back leg.  On advice from the breeder she suggested we let him sleep in the laundry.  What none of us had considered was that quirky and slightly flighty nature of the hound dog.  Of course he freaked out.  Alone for the first time.  Pack instinct taking hold.  He desperately sought company and in the process attempted to leap on the dryer.  Six hundred bucks later we had our brand new puppy back from the vet in plaster cast from hip to toe.

Six weeks rehabilitation.  Strict cage rest.  No running, leaping, excitement.  Basically all the stuff puppies and indeed kids do with puppies.  The poor little bastard was sent back to the laundry and this time in a cage.  If he were a human it would probably cost a fortune in therapy later in life to recover from his fear of laundry.  As a result he now sleeps inside the main house and usually on the sofa.

There began the journey with Olly.  We named him Olly like the skateboard trick.  Maybe the name precipitated the accident prone nature.  Later whilst staying at my Fathers farm he tore about six holes in his skin leaping through a barbed wire fence.  Another six hundred bucks later he now sports what perhaps in the dog world could be seen as characteristic or charismatic scars.

Whippets can be highly strung and sensitive.  Olly is no exception.  They are also escapologists.  On one occasion having been left indoors alone he managed to find the only open window.  In order to access the window it required some serious shimmying along sideboards where priceless antique ornaments were smashed to the floor.  Further still some skillful creeping along window sills was required before the fly screen could be pushed out to freedom.  He was waiting calmly for us on the front porch when we returned.

His year with us is peppered with stories like these.  He once broke into my Father's house on a stormy night.  Escaping from the garage looking for comfort and human reassurance, he found a way in through a small window.  He nearly gave my poor Dad a heart attack when he felt the wet touch of a dog nose upon his cheek in the pitch black of night.

I took a break from dogs and children and went to Italy to visit my husband.  I had time to reflect on the year and found the courage to admit defeat.  Trying to raise three kids alone, as well as trying to engage in meaningful work is hard enough.  The dog was like the final drop in the cup that is too full.  At times I felt I teetered on the edge of a nervous break down.  Something had to give.

Those moments when we'd all be frolicking on the beach with the sun setting and gentle waves lapping at our feet or throwing the tennis ball down the empty golfing greens in the late afternoons, they were bliss.  That was the fantasy.  Happy family fun.

Perhaps the dog questionnaire got it all wrong.  We needed a more docile, less intelligent and agile animal.  Or perhaps the questionnaire ought to ask you a few more probing questions about your mental health and the other responsibilities you already have in your life before it allows you go on to the further stages of pet selection.

It's taken some time to find the right place for Olly to go.  I have finally found him, what I believe will be, a loving and spoilt rotten home.  A single stay at home Mum and her 12 year old daughter.  Previous whippet owners and lovers living in the hills north of Sydney.

Strangely I have grown really attached to him this last month.  He's matured and settled.  He's a great companion.  In fact he's pretty close to the fantasy I had imagined.  But we are going back to London now.  The grass wasn't that much greener.  There are always pros and cons in all of life's decisions.

Olly was a symbol of the life I had hoped to find back here.  A life I now accept isn't our pathway.  For now at least.

Grateful Four.

Living Here

Having them.

Loving him.

Sandy Bums!

Inspired by Maxbella Loves

The Joys of Noisy Toys.

The joys of toys that make noise.  I once thought it was only childless people who gave annoying noise making toys as gifts.  But unfortunately this theory has been disproved on more than one occasion.

I felt that just prior to Christmas it might be pertinent to dislodge my deep seated abhorrence for toys that make noise.  Party pooper that I may be.  Because making noise is what children are all about.  At least mine are certified professionals in the obstreperous.

I have had friends who have expressed concern as to whether perhaps my children might have hearing problems due to the combination of their propensity to make inappropriately loud exclamations and their inability to listen to instructions.  I have taken their concerns on board and spent many days sneaking up behind my children whispering things like ' do you want some lollies' just to see if they can hear me.  Of course they always can.  It is only when you say things like ' have you done your homework'  or ' can you please stop watching inappropriate videos on YouTube'  that they really do seem to be deaf.

My youngest, and I think because she is the youngest behind two boisterous boys, possesses possibly the most booming chords of all three.  She needed to find her voice early on and use it to get noticed.  Because I live within this clamorous environment where yelling seems to be the norm I sometimes find myself fantasising about how life could be in a quieter home.  I also wonder if it is our fault as parents.  Did we make them this way?  Could we have created a different environment?  Or was it all led by the energy and tone of our eldest?  Are we loud people?  I don't think we are.  I have seen and heard far more encroaching souls.

My Husband and I went on a child free weekend in Paris before our youngest was born.  We caught the Eurostar from London.  We spent many long peaceful hours meandering the streets of Paris, enjoying the relatively silent pursuits of photography, eating and looking at stuff.  On the way home a woman boarded the train with her three children.  She was loud.  Her kids were almost silent.  I think they had all realised early on that there was no hope of ever being heard above their Mother.  Each and every action was accompanied by a loud verbal commentary that filled the entire carriage.  "FREDDY, NOW WE ARE GOING TO GET THE PENCILS OUT OF THE BAG, THEN YOU CAN SHARE YOUR PENCILS WITH EVIE AND DRAW A PICTURE" and ON and ON it went.  It became akin to one of those irritating toys that make relentless noise, read; I wanted to gag her, take out her batteries, throw her on the floor and jump on her.  Some weeks later my sister commented about a tube journey she had made and reported the story of a woman accompanied by her three children.  It was clearly the same family.  She made reference to the overbearing larger than life attributes of this woman and her incessant need to shout each and every mundane activity in the midst of this very public space.  What were the chances of that in a big city?

So perhaps I am just not loud enough.  They all know that by notching it up a few decibels I will be defeated.  Perhaps the key to a silent home is being super loud and vivacious yourself.  I am certain my neighbors don't think I am meek and mild for the amount of yelling I have to do to get heard around here.  Alternatively it could be I am not quiet enough.  Do kids yell in Buddhist homes?  Does serenity breed serenity?  Maybe it is something altogether more spiritual.

The last thing a noisy family of five need is the addition of some noise making toys.  But we've been given our fair share of dementedly repetitive items over the years.  My eldest was recently gifted a vuvuzela.  Yep, one of those ear piercing trumpets made famous during the World Cup in South Africa earlier this year.  Of course my feeble request for the vuvuzela to not be blown inside the bowling centre, where his party was underway, was keenly ignored by the 10 ten year old boys.  The ear drum busting horn could be heard bellowing throughout the centre to the great delight and hilarity of the children and the anxious smiles of centre staff.  It was at this point that I was beginning to have evil thoughts towards the Mother of the child who had brought this gift.  How could she have approved this monstrous toy?  I imagined myself sneaking around to her house one morning and blowing the thing outside her bedroom window.  Or better still pack it in my son's sleepover bag with clear instructions to wake the entire household next time he went over.

The vuvuzela had a short life span before mysteriously disappearing, however not before the neighbors had a good belting.  It has probably gone to the same resting ground as all those other joyfully noisy toys .

I am guilty of committing the crime.  I put my hand up.  I once approved the purchase of a clanging noise making sword for a friend's child.  Of course it was a huge hit.  The clanging sword buckling joy became the soundtrack to the party.  At one point the frazzled Mother was heard through clenched teeth exclaiming, 'Who in hell brought that toy?'

I just nonchalantly shrugged my shoulders and said 'I know, isn't it annoying!'