To jab or not... just freaking jab.

There are outspoken members of society declaring childhood vaccinations nothing more than a farce, snake oil and a conspiracy.

Unfortunately, the bi-product has been an online saturation of misleading information. Anti-vaccination groups have begun to win ground scaring some parents away from vaccination with naught more than propaganda, antiquated data and anecdotal figures, rather than heeding the advice of government authorities and those with years of University education and experience.


Such is the concern that on April 11 this year, Mr Steve Hambleton from the Australian Medical Association (AMA) made comment that it should be made difficult for unvaccinated children to attend school and sent home in the event of a disease outbreak. Further, Mr Hambleton has suggested that ‘there should be some sanction for spreading misinformation’.

The ‘misinformation’ that Mr Hambleton was speaking of includes claims that vaccines are harmful because they are full of mercury, formaldehyde and cause autism. 

New South Wales has just passed a ‘no jab, no play’ piece of legislation that requires children attending childcare to be immunised or provide proof of conscientious objection exemption signed off by a medical officer.

The concerns;

Vaccines are full of heavy metals like mercury and toxic chemicals such as formaldehyde.

The truth is mercury in pure form is not found in Australian vaccines. Even though clinically insignificant amounts are used in the preservative form (thiomersal) in a few adult vaccines, there hasn’t been any included in any childhood vaccines since 2000.

As for formaldehyde, you’ll find more in a single pear than any scheduled jab.

Vaccines cause autism.

Autism? There appears to be a stronger link in the age vaccines are offered and the age of diagnosis rather than the vaccine actually causing the disorder.

It’s probable that the misinformation gained momentum when A.J. Wakefield linked the measles, mumps and rubella vaccination and autism in The Lancet in 1998. (A paper later discredited, retracted by the journal and proven to be fraudulent).

Vaccines lower your immunity to other viruses.

This concern is wrong on so many levels. Vaccines do the very opposite.

What is true is that we are born with an immature immune system. The thymus educates your white blood cells from the day you are born and tapers off from around the age of fourteen. Hence, you get sick more while you are young, and why vaccinations are given at a young age.  As you become exposed to viral antigens, the body goes about making antibodies (cells that fight foreign bodies) in order to extinguish the attack/illness. After the illness symptoms are gone, your body is left with an antibody ‘memory’.  The next time you come into contact with the same antigens/virus, the attack is mounted quicker and the symptoms are less severe. 

Vaccinated individuals are given a head start on attacking these viral antigens as their immune system is given an artificial dose of antibodies needed without having to catch the actual illness. We are giving the body a cheat sheet/memory if you like. So then, just for example, when that child becomes infected with the pertussis virus (whooping cough), if he or she presents with any symptoms at all, then she/he will be able to overcome the illness better than a child who has not been vaccinated. Indeed, possibly saving their life. 

Immunisations are just a money grab from big pharmaceutical companies and the government is paid off.  You can avoid or cure any of these issues with clean water, good hygiene, great nutrition and alternative medicine.

The government spends millions on childhood immunisation schedules to lessen the burden and risk to public health. Big pharmacy stands to lose money by way of lessening the need for long term medications. Think polio. Thousands of baby boomers still require Prednisone to this day. Letting us be ill from preventable diseases would be a great investment in actual fact. So let’s disregard that concern!

Secondly, do you know what we call alternative medicine that has been proved to work? Medicine. We just call it medicine! And to go on to say that these companies do not make money from peddling their wares is outrageously biased. In 2008 America spent $34 billion on alternative medicine, and whilst I couldn't find the figures for Australia – I’m sure it’s no cheaper here!  So why then do we need to vilify those companies who spend millions to billions of dollars providing academically approved literature to show the benefits of their medicines – a ridiculous over inflation of the tall poppy syndrome? 

Whilst clean water, good hygiene and great nutrition play a vital part in every beings health status, it will not completely eliminate the risk of contracting viruses.  Having said this, since antibodies are primarily protein based, if you are lining up for your next flu jab, try keeping your protein intake up the weeks before and two weeks after. You’ll be doing your body a great service, and should notice minimal side effects. You can’t live on French fries and Coke and think that your body will receive medicine well!

I’ll just treat the illnesses as they come.

Good luck with that. Vaccination is most effective because we have very limited resources to treat a lot of these illnesses. Remember, antibiotics do not work on viruses. Anti-viral medications given after the show of any symptoms are often too late and some of these diseases are now so rare, but still a risk, that most clinical triage teams are not of use to seeing their presentation. Do you know how to treat or recognise Diphtheria? No? 

Immunisation is a matter of public health. We need 93% of the population to be vaccinated in order to prevent disease outbreak. It’s easy to forget how serious some of these illnesses have been in the past and why we try to lessen the severity of an infection, or prevent it all together.  We do it to protect ourselves and our more vulnerable members of the community.

We are all entitled to our own choice, but make it an informed choice based on real data.  Your information should come from credible sources, not from the first page of a Google search. Start with your doctor or nurse, and if you’re still not sure, try the government’s well referenced and current documentation at http://www.immunise.health.gov.au/.  

The Man in Red

SIX SLEEPS!    There are just six sleeps until children around the world start waking up their parents at unpleasant times of the night, or if you’re lucky, frightfully early times of the morning.

Master Four is determined to catch the man in red landing on our roof this year. I’m not sure his stamina will allow for such a sighting and I shall be thankful of this.

Coincidentally, I have it on good authority that after Miss 6’s uncharacteristic night time wandering last year that this year’s presents won’t be arriving until Santa is quite sure that the children are in deep R.E.M. sleep. He won’t be having any surprises foiled by wandering children this year! 

Miss Six already smells a rat in the ranks after the local Children’s Centre Christmas party anyway. We need to be extra careful with this child now, she's duly suspicious! 

 After meeting Father Christmas, who arrived on a motorbike only minutes after the children had sighted a much skinnier man in red wearing no helmet, hat or beard on a bike similar, she did turn to Nan and say, ‘Santa smells like Uncle Marc’. Then, after sitting on his lap and enduring an amusing sham Santa voice, she suspiciously remarked, ‘Santa sounds like Uncle Marc too’.

 It’s not to say she wasn't fond of this man in red, I mean who wouldn't like a Father Christmas who smells of ham and fritz?

Lucky for us, I've had plenty of practice making up cover stories from my rebellious high school days, and the magic is still alive in Miss Six. I’m happy to say she is still a believer.  However, I’m not sure how Santa fared with the kindy staff after that visit though; gossip has it that they may have put him on their naughty list!

I guess when people talk about the magic of Christmas they could be talking about random acts of kindness, small gestures of giving that mean the world to another, or something like this. For us, it’s keeping the excitement and joy of believing alive in our child for at least another year. Another, sweet, magical year.

 Have a merry and safe Christmas everyone! 

family gatherings

I love Christmas. I love family gatherings and traditions and the opportunity to spread a little cheer. I’m not so much a fan of organising such events though.

My maternal family is somewhat dysfunctional at times. Organising anything is akin to embarking on a journey of impossible obstacles and challenges in order to reach a semi amicable result. The biggest disagreements come about organising gatherings, but once we’re all together things are often quite lovely, fun and memorable.

However, dysfunction isn't necessarily a bad word. This isn’t a public rant about family, but an observation of how we are educated.

 In life we’re often faced with groups of people we’d rather feed to the lions than reach agreeable terms with, so it might seem that family negotiations are fantastic practice for life. Not that I’d like to feed my family to the lions, well not normally, but sometimes the fusion of diverse personalities does provide an opportunity to learn.

Holding your tongue when Aunty Betty moans and gripes about things from six years ago, or artfully guiding the conversation back to point when Uncle Bert starts pointing out that Betty could do with a shave and a good root is all didactic really. It’s not just table manners and morals that family impart upon us, but the abilities we need to interact within society.

 At this rate, I should be a shoe-in for the role of human resources manager at the United Nations!

Alas, I’m not known for having a lot of tact (or keeping my mouth shut to start with). It’s something that I’ve had to learn and I’m continuing to learn. I mean really, sometimes it’s all too hard to keep it shut for the sake of honesty, but on the whole it’s hardly helpful.

While a few witty remarks can make heated exchanges more interesting, I’ve finally realised it doesn’t always bring tempers down to a simmer. Which is a pity really. I’ve amassed a few good retorts in my arsenal of late.

This year I’m asking Father Christmas for more tact, more patience, and the ability to see things from another person’s point of view. I’m asking that family just gets on with being just that, family, and I wish you all happy gatherings!

Cats

The thing about cats is, the more you dislike them, the more they are attracted to you. You give them the cold shoulder; they rub up against your pants. Usually you’ll be wearing dark ones, showing up the hair they've left all over you. God I love that... not. 

We have no ‘official’ pets at the May household, however, recently we've become the adopted home of a very clever Tom cat whom the kids have named ‘Gordon’.

Gordon is also known as Mars at his original home, and ‘That Cat!’ at another house down the road. He has been quite successful at soliciting ear scratches and a lap to claw from each of the families, and doesn't seem the least bit bothered by noisy Master Four and his many wheeled objects which often come at him at great speeds!

Gordon the cat has been a great source of entertainment for the kids.   That’s as useful as he is though. He’s not motivated enough to run after rodents. You will however see him run towards his house… for store brought food!

Another thing, cats and humans apparently use the same region of the brain for emotions, which is why I suspect they are so effectively calculating at getting humans to do just exactly as they please.

It’s true. Gordon’s soft little paws flicking under the closed sun room door appeal to my sensitive side, making me feel positively mean for not allowing him to join us.  Oh, and you think the resident farmer is immune? Nope. Cats purr at the same frequency as the diesel engine of a tractor at idle. Coincidence? I think not.

But you know what happens when you let a cat in? They take over everything. It's all about them. They're mini drama queens wrapped up in soft fur and cute little noses.  Trying to type? They’ll sit on the keyboard. Trying to read? They’ll sit on the newspaper.  Oh, and patting is on their terms only, and boy do they tell you when they've had enough! Who the hell thought it was a good idea to give them such sharp claws anyway?

I have decided these traits are all part of a cunning feline master plan, set to secure their domesticated popularity and remain in our homes despite their very obvious lack of interest in actual humans.  It’s a cat conspiracy! 

Beauty products gone bad

When I think of the Balaklava Cup I think of diverse fashion and beauty. Where else but at a horse racing event can you see high street fashion and champagne glasses standing right next to singlets, football shorts and beer cans?  In the past I’ve gone to some crazy lengths to look my best on Balaklava’s busiest day; and so it got me thinking about beauty products.

One thing I won’t try again is sanding my legs. I’m not kidding guys.  Some bright spark folded a piece of low grit sandpaper up into the shape of a glove, whacked a pink package around it and marketed it as something like ‘velvety legs’ or some such other gimmicky name. It promised to smooth my skin painlessly. I think we can all predict that this cunningly disguised hardware sundry promoted as a hair removal tool did indeed ‘smooth’ my skin. And by smooth, I mean scrape the epidermis from my limb and leave it looking a rather frightful sight.  

You can understand that the offending glove was tossed out with other failures such as the lip gloss that didn’t last eight hours, the mascara that did last 48 hours (even after trying to remove it) and of course, the fake tan in a can which was the most remarkable shade of orange.

There are items I’m terribly thankful for though. I was blessed with hair as coarse as a scourer, and with all the condition of discarded wool frib. Enter my new best friend, the hair straightener. In minutes my boof was tamed to a manageable mass of brunette hair. Indeed so effective that I went down a hat size!

So what will I try next?  Well, given that I have my Italian father’s generous brow line, I might try ‘threading’. Have you heard of threading? It’s one of the more recent trends to hit Western culture, possibly started in India. Harder to explain than to do, it’s a hair removal technique that involves cotton thread anchored in the therapist’s mouth, and another two pieces of cotton which slide against the groomee’s hair like a guillotine. You can watch a youtube video of it here.  Women’s eyebrows and the beards and hairlines of men are the common targets.  Quick, relatively painless (they always say that!) and very accurate. Anyway, I’m feeling brave. Watch this space. Or face…

Spring

This morning I was woken by birds I’ve not heard since warmer weather was last here, and when I finally rose I was met with yet another foggy morning and dewy lawns.  The pear trees in our drive are blossoming and I’m certain I heard a fly yesterday. The days are getting longer and the sun, between the showers, is gaining warmth.

The cereal crops are standing glossy and tall, dancing in the wind while the canola is illuminating the roadsides with its pungent, bright yellow flowers. Gardens in the towns are starting to get more colourful and the lawns are starting to grow again. It’s like the land is awakening. As much as a farmer’s wife knows we need a cold, wet winter, I also know we need the spring. If seasons had emotions, spring would be a happy one.

It won’t be long and the kids will be swapping footballs and hockey sticks for basketballs and cricket bats. Winter sports start to get to the serious end of their competitions and farmers begin to ready for canola cutting, hay season and the ensuing grain harvest. The real estate market begins to bloom with the flowers and people start finding the inspiration to exercise just that little bit more. Long pants will make way for shorts and dresses, and Ugg boots for thongs and sandals. The horses will have their big days and so to the carnival folk. Spring is the time for action.

I’ll be enjoying the sunny afternoons with the windows and doors of the house open, eating my lunch in the warm spring sun and cherishing the cool nights practically designed for the most perfect sleep.  We’ll take the kids to the local show and navigate it at a pace much slower than Miss Six would like as we stop to catch up with friendly faces we’ve not seen in a while. We’ll make the most of bonfire season; eating eucalyptus tainted toasted marshmallows from a stick and sausages from the hotplate. The kids will play outside longer. Master Four will find bugs to collect and Miss Six will probably chase more butterflies and pick any bloom daring to show in our garden.  

Lastly, with any luck, the cold and flu season will finally slow right down (and be replaced with hay fever season I suppose!). Yes, spring is nearly here and I am ready to enjoy it. 

Fancy Food

Fancy food has become the norm these days hasn't it? It’s much publicised in the media and we love it.  Shows like Masterchef, My Kitchen Rules and Heston's Feasts have us believing that we need to aim higher with the family meals. Bangas and mash has been elevated to ‘gourmet herb and mince casings served with delicate arrangements of milk saturated whipped Desiree potato and butter’, all garnished with a hint of pompous! The May household has not been spared.

Miss Five graduated to ‘Miss Six’, two birthday cakes were in order. One cake for the maternal family dinner, and another one for the paternal family luncheon.  

According to Daddy Cool, this was cause for competition.  A cake off! Battle lines were drawn. The contest for the best kiddy cake was on!

Gone are the days where a little bit of sponge mix popped in the oven will suffice. No. Thanks to all these television shows and glossy cook books, kids think anything is possible. Some cake designs call for all the skill of an architect and sculptor.

So just how far would this competition go? Comprehensive internet searches for the perfect accessories and methods were conducted. Whole day outings were spent foraging for the perfect ingredients, serving boards and recipes to compliment the cake design.

Much ado was made about cake choice, design, flavour and size. Miss Six didn’t give me much choice. I protest that the selection she made for me was very ‘brown’. An echidna with chocolate sticks for spikes. You can’t do much with that.

Daddy Cool on the other hand, carefully coerced the birthday girl into a more aesthetically pleasing choice. All of the kid’s cake books were placed in front of her with plenty of ‘gentle suggestions’ made. Finally a ladybug design was settled on. Both cute and symmetrically pleasing to the eye with bold vivid colours. Daddy Cool had the upper hand this year.

But who really won this battle of the cakes? Whilst Daddy Cool has long since staked his claim to victory and run a mile with it, it was Miss Six that really won. Two cakes – that’s a great day for any six year old!

The winning cake - owners of the Women's Weekly Kid's Cakes book will recognise this one. But maybe not my phallic looking losing cake...

the dreaded flu!

 We’ve been in bed a lot lately. There’s been lots of horizontal action, with additional bodies in our bed and plenty of sweating and moaning. Yes. Our family has had the dreaded flu for the last two weeks.

It’s a long standing issue of mine that being a classy lady doesn’t come naturally to me. I’d like to be of class and grace like the Queen, but it eludes me. Indeed there is photographic evidence on our wedding day of a bride reaching deep to retrieve undergarments from whence they should not have rode. Classy.  Influenza does not help my cause.

I woke up on the day of my last exam shaking like a leaf, with a throat that felt like I might have gargled acid and with a head which throbbed with every step. My voice had changed too. It was a cross between an aged lady who’d smoked a pack a day all her life and someone who worked for one of those $4.95 per minute call centres. Hot.

It’s such an unattractive illness. There’s the cough. A hacking cough which has bystanders witnessing the sound of phlegm ricocheting around your airways. Sexy.

Then there’s the vomiting. Pulling my car over to fertilise the roadside near Roberts’ on my way home from the exam wasn’t on the agenda, and I don’t think I’ve ever blushed and wretched at the same time before.  No class points there.

I hopped back in the car and imagined that if I was a cartoon character they’d draw me with a red bulbous nose, bloodshot eyes, white skin and a sick green haze trailing my infectious bag of aching bones. What a birthday present!

My biggest nuisance is boogers. As a student nurse and mother I am comfortable with most bodily fluids, blood does not faze me. I can change a colostomy bag as if I were arranging a vase of flowers, but boogers, oh boogers really are a cruel thing to make a lady suffer. Does the Queen even have a sinus cavity? Or is it that she is afforded the time to hide in these situations? I argue it’s an impossible task to emulate her highnesses ladylike qualities otherwise. But then, a lady probably wouldn’t discuss any of this anyway!

So to those who are suffering with colds and flu’s right now, bless you; get better soon. I know how you feel!

Bacon. The third vegetable.

Vegetarians, look away now. For the last three months I’ve been on one of those health kicks toted by a popular television personality. It’s been great, and I’ll go for another twelve weeks, but one thing I’ve missed is meat from the magical animal. You know which one I’m talking about… the pig. Oh dear bacon, how I’ve missed you. Oh juicy rasher of artery narrowing goodness, let’s never separate again.


You can always find bacon at our house. There is nothing that can go wrong with bacon; it is good in any form. Our whole family agrees and it’s not just us. I hear a farmer down near Owen Parks even calls bacon the third vegetable!


How do I love thee bacon, let me count thy ways… Well first of all there’s good old bacon and eggs. What Sunday didn’t end up great after a big fry up? Then there is plain old goodness to fatness rashers wedged between two sodium laden pieces of fresh bread with sauce. Too pedestrian? Well let’s dice that swiney goodness up and fry it before sprinkling it over an oyster. Swish piggy!


I’m not done. Bacon bone soup? Yes please. A big bowl of hearty bacon soup can solve a whole head full of worry, and I have heard tales that making it brings the rain. Miss Six would make a pizza entirely from bacon if she could, and I personally can’t go past a good Caesar salad.


I know I’m not alone. The bacon fans out there are already thinking about their next taste. Apart from ethical reasons, I see no rational reason someone could be adverse to it. Maybe they haven’t had it cooked nicely; maybe their first experience was an inedible barbequed egg and rubber band rind-on piece of bacon served on stale bread? Heck, I nearly had my perfectly cooked bacon sandwich stolen by a horse recently, yet further proof that bacon is hard to resist.


We live on a farm here in Balaklava, sans swine. I suppose that’d be a little bit like letting Imelda Marcos run an online shoe emporium. None would ever leave the warehouse! Local industry can count on our family to keep purchasing (and really enjoying) product from sources close to home. Hurrah for bacon!




*This column published in The Plains Producer 06/06/12

Anzac Day

Most Australians will know the date April 25, 1915. Anzac Day. What does it mean for you? What do you know about the day which inspires the public holiday?  Miss 6 thinks it’s the day we remember the men who went to war and died, and that we lay wreaths on statues to tell them we remember.  Her gorgeous little friend at school knows it as the day that, ‘men had a fight on the beach in Turkey and died.’  I suppose that’s the brunt of it.

Why April 25?

The French and British had many ships damaged in 1914 by the Turkish Army (known as the Ottoman Army back then) whilst using the Dardanelles in an effort to try and capture Constantinople (now known as Istanbul).  It was decided by the allied forces that the only way to gain control of the Dardanelles and re-establish communications with Russia, and the release of wheat and shipping in the Black Sea, was to invade from the shores first and occupy the Gallipoli Peninsula. This would hopefully subdue the Turkish fire and hopefully provide a better outcome.  A lot of men were going to be needed.

So, Andrew Fisher, our then Australian Prime Minister, vowed to defend Great Britain to, ‘our last man and our last shilling.’ It’s appropriate to remember that in 1915 Australians thought themselves more British than not, so loyalty was understandable.

On April 25, 1915, at 1:00am the Anzac men were woken and fed a hot meal, ushered quietly into boats, ready for the now infamous Gallipoli landing. Just before dawn, they arrived. 

For those who haven’t seen pictures of the peninsula, we’re not talking about a beach covered with long stretches of flat, soft sand. No, the troops were met with unforgiving terrain occupied with cliffs that seemed to rise immediately from the water’s edge, and whilst the intended place of landing is still hotly debated amongst historians (it is said that a much more topographically sympathetic landing point was intended), we now know this place as Anzac Cove.

 Today, we commemorate all Australian and New Zealand troops serving across all conflicts, all humanitarian missions and all peace keeping duties. .  

Anzac Day for the modern Australian is largely about giving thanks, remembering past hardship, and for me, about encouraging my children to learn that peace and happiness has come at a price, and should not be taken for granted.  

Their Name Liveth For Evermore

This memorial is dedicated to the South Australian servicemen of the Vietnam War, 58 of whom made the supreme sacrifice, depicted here with a Vietnamese Comrade. On April 25, we remember all conflicts, all contributions, all sacrifices. 

not being up the duff!

Pregnancy is a 40 week commitment with a special surprise at the end. The surprise is that even after you drop the baby, you still look pregnant for a little while after. Mum never told me that. Probably a fitting retaliation for all the years of torment she suffered with me as a teen in her house.

Some other things they don’t tell you? Swelling. Our first pregnancy came with some unwelcome fluid. Actually ‘some’ might be an understatement. Let’s replace that with ‘copious amounts of’. Yes. Much better.  

Other Mother’s will know what I’m talking about when I say you can go up a shoe size or more during pregnancy.  Your slim little ankles with the little blue bird tattoo and feminine chain delicately adorning your bony little talus? Yeah, well they’re now called ‘cankles’, and there is a distinct possibility that your blue bird will grow into a vulture.  Only, for me, it was only one foot. Awkward.  If only I hadn’t have eaten all those salty snacks in the first trimester, maybe the salt wouldn’t have invited the water into my ever ballooning body!  ... but the salt. Oh God how good was the salt!

You will, undoubtedly, spend a small fortune on products you’re sure were designed for overweight men and the elderly and infirm. First its heartburn medications, then its heat packs, padded seat covers and compression tights. Oh, and sexy underwear? It's rare. Think brassieres that could be mistaken for some sort of sunshade, and that’s not even the embarrassing stuff! 

Well, no matter. Sit down and have a glass of wine and chill out with a bit of Brie on a biscuit. HaHA! You can’t! Salmonella and Listeriosis are now your silent enemies.   Best you play it safe and pour a cup of raspberry leaf herbal tea instead. No, wait. That’s going to induce early labour. Best you have dry crackers. If you can keep them down!  

Have I made pregnancy sound terrible?  It’s not. Well, not for most people. The reality is that it's what you make of it. 

It’s such a short time in your life, but yet in that time you trump any other attempt you’ve had at doing the whole ‘homemade’ thing and create a person.  Is that not amazing? Some women manage to turn out perfect little humans in less time than the standard 40 weeks, quicker than a house can be built!  You make a whole little human, and all the nourishment they need for their time in the womb and then the six months thereafter.  Be amazed people! If Houdini could perform such magic we would have knighted him.

So… all the little things like swelling, not eating soft cheese and laying off the wine? Worth it. So, so worth it. 

The liver detox diet... 

Well that’s it. I’m on a health kick. Well, more of a health twitch, but the bottom line is that alcohol isn’t a part of my diet in the next few months. It’s probably not such a terrible outcome. 

Unfortunately, I turn into a bit of a foolish drinker. As though my brain regresses 15 years.

I think somewhere around the age of 17 or 18, somebody gave me my first nip.  Probably an old fairytale style witch in a hooded cape I should imagine, creeping out of the shadows she may  have passed me a small potion bottle with an iridescent elixir of schnapps. She would have pointed a bony finger at me and promised that if I drank it I’d be empowered with endless wit, charm, dance potential, and the ability to sing.  Like all evil witches, she may have deceived me...

Dear Evil Witch,

You promised this elixir would make me funny. When did making other people smell the lint from my belly button get funny exactly? 

You suggested this magical potion would make me charming. I refute the definition includes dressing up in sleeping bag covers and wearing pretzels for glasses. Who exactly am I charming? Captain Snooze? The elixir also gave me some gas. Again, charming for whom? We haven’t even touched on the swearing. I mean really, how appropriate is it for a lady of 33 to exclaim, ‘for fuck’s sake Max!’ every time she spills a drink down her soiled top? Hm? I suppose I should be thankful that I didn't moon anyone should I?

Dancing. You said I’d get good at dancing. I thought I looked like an African-American booty dancer in a Snoop Dogg video clip. But no, I return the elixir with the complaint that it seems to always inflate my arse and send it circling into neither a sexy or rhythmic pattern, almost as if it were a giant butt sized sparkler trying to write its own name in an imaginary dance floor sky.  I look happy though, I’ll give you that.

And then there’s the singing…

I drank the elixir. I even had a few extra doses to make sure my voice was pitch perfect. I believed it was.  So why after my fabulous rendition of ‘Hit Me With Your Best Shot’ did the staff at the footy club tape up all the glass wear in preparedness for my next turn? Only I didn’t get another turn on the Karaoke stage did I evil witch? No, instead when I lined up they bonked me on the forehead with the microphone and said, ‘no music for you! You’ve curdled all the milk in the udders of all the cows in a 100km radius and newborn babies have started to attempt ‘re-entry’’.

You win Witchypoo, this round anyway.  I’m going to be so sober for twelve weeks that my liver might even come out from hiding. I know it’s in there somewhere, I can feel a certain tenderness on my side…

Yours sincerely,

Karla

Free Giggles

They say laughter is the best medicine. And unless you’re incontinent, they’re right.

So as it turns out, I’m in great health. I suppose you can rack that up to the bagful of giggles I capture from Miss 5 and Master 3. Now, don’t get me wrong here people. They can also give me a closely associated version of incontinence, but primarily they make me laugh. Our kids are no funnier than yours or your friends, but you have to take time to 'hear' what they say to appreciate it. 

Often it’s the most innocent of actions or reactions that yield the best comedic value. One such example was Master Three’s reply to me when I said, ‘good thinking 99!’ Clearly uninformed about spy shows from the 60’s, he replied, ‘I’m three. Not 99, you know?’

 I found this slightly more funny than the time he did rounds with his basket on wheels in the local supermarket, stopping to quiz a man who was dwarfed. This didn’t make me laugh, but sparked another conversation that did. It went a little something like this;

Me: “Ben, God made earth interesting by putting lots of different people on it. If you think someone looks different to you, perhaps ask Mummy or Daddy quietly first and we’ll help you understand.” (There is a rookie parental error here, did you spot it??)

Ben:  “Who is God?”

Me: “He made Earth and everyone on it.” (Digging myself a hole here)

Ben: “Not me. I was made in your tummy.”

Me: “Yes, but God made me.”  (I sense I’m really losing the ability to convey my message here and start losing focus).

Ben: “Is God Gran??”

(Trying not to laugh and get off the whole failed subject)

Me: “Want a biscuit?’

Then there’s the mimicking. Want to know how you sound to your 5 year old when you give her a dressing down? Wait until she replicates your behaviour on her annoying little brother in the cubby house. If you’re not completely embarrassed you’ll laugh that this is how they see you.  You’ll hear such things as, ‘I don’t know why I bother,’ and ‘I’m going to count to three, and you’re going to eat this mud pie or it’s time out for you Mister!’ (I suggest intervention at this point, as Master Three has been known to eat the odd garden delight or two)… which leads me to;

Eating. If you don’t wretch, you’ll laugh. While attempting to get Miss Five to eat broccoli, I suggested she follow her brother’s lead and try some as he really enjoyed it. She replied, and quite accurately too, ‘yeah well Ben also eats slugs. So no, I will not try it.’ Her truth in logic was so profound that all that was left to do was laugh. Off course you shouldn’t take culinary advice from a pest eater!

Oh for sure, it’s all the little things that they say and do. Miss 5 informed me that Daddy Cool’s workmate had a daughter who went to her school, and that she was pretty sure she was, ‘in Miss Woodwork’s class’. It’s not the first time she’s gotten names confused, and sometimes we’re disappointed that we have to correct her because her interpretations are so much more entertaining. The man who mows the lawns in Daddy Cool’s harvest absence is known to our children as ‘Mr Garage’, not Mr Garrard as we write on the cheques. Our go-to agronomist is Mr Crayon, even though his email address has the name Craddock in it,  and Miss Five has enjoyed two years of dance training with the Heartburn family. I shall call them the Bernhardt’s.   And, let’s not forget Ben yelling out ‘Merry Christmas Mrs Human!’ to Mrs Neuman across the road. These giggles, often muffled so as not to encourage behaviours, are priceless and I hope we never take them for granted. 

CHRISTMAS!

18 Sleeps until Christmas!!! Ding Ding Ding!!  Is that sending you into a frenzy of mental note making? Such as;

·         Write Christmas cards and letters, and actually get them to all of the recipients this year,

·         make and hang a pudding,

·         dust off the Christmas decorations and pray you don’t find dead mice in them,

·         take the kids to the Magic Cave,

·         timing and booking your next hair cut and dye to make sure it’s fresh for the day, and for the hopeful week or two at the beach after, and

·         purchase a good supply of batteries for Christmas Day…. and what else….

·         Oh, and shopping. The SHOPPING!!!

Ah, it all sounds too hectic.

We put a lot of effort into Christmas don’t we?  Even the ‘simple’ affairs require some planning. I like it big though. It’s a fantastic time of the year, and just remember, someone was born in order to give us this privilege (I suspect it was John Sands or David Jones!).

We like the lead up to Christmas in our house. Little kids mean big excitement, and there are lots of local events such as ‘Carols by Candlelight’ and the street parade to fuel those feelings. There’s the daily fight over the Advent calendar chocolate (you’re no match for the estrogen monster kids, back down now if you know what’s good for you!), and then the count down in the unit of ‘sleeps’ and an abundance of Christmas music.  And if you’ve got a joker in the house, singing carols with alternative lyrics. Although, I’m not sure our kids will ever know what TAA was or, who Wonder Woman is, and what she lost!  

On Christmas eve, there’s the special sacrificial offering to FC of one of Daddy’s favourite beers, and one of Mummy’s favourite biscuits.  You know it’s appreciated kids, and I’m just waiting for someone to suggest that Santa actually really loves a bottle of champagne for the trip home. He’s probably a bit flash too, so best it be Bolly!

The traditions vary from family to family, but the sentiment is always the same. Unity.  It’s about coming together and celebrating life, breaking bread and sharing the day. It’s about remembering those who can’t be with us for Chrissy, and not punching the ones that can.  It’s about making ridiculous jokes over slightly blackened pork, pudding and bon bons. It’s about still laughing at the Uncle that manages to find a $10 note instead of a coin in his dessert, even though you’ve seen it 30 times before. And, it’s still funny. I still love it, and I can’t imagine never looking forward to it.

Then there’s the post lunch snooze off between the Dads.  It might be from staying up all night to put together trampolines and bikes that ‘have instructions written in foreign languages’ or ‘need another hole drilled here!” Or maybe it’s because the little people of the house wake before you’ve even entered that deep REM sleep to see if the big man in red has been?  Sometimes I feel that jolly old man gets far too much credit.  Did he get up at 2am for the toy sale? Did he suffer the trolley rage and smashed ankles in the race for the last of the good cheap ribbon?  No, nor did he have his perfect parked swiped at the last turn, or his feet swell up to look like puffer fish trapped in Langdon’s new season summer sandals. (Actually, maybe that’s why he has to wear those awful black gumboots – there are no elves, he’s been hitting the toy sales and has fat feet like me!)

So whatever your normal Christmas is, it would seem that it is nearing, and FAST!  Indeed there are only 25 days to taunt the kids with, ‘don’t do that, Father Christmas will put you on the naughty list’ and, ‘LOOK, did you see that? There was an elf checking up on you!’   So excuse me whilst I go find merriment in the house of May, and here’s fingers crossed for a successful district harvest, a safe and happy summer for you all and a very happy holiday season, because love it or loathe it, Christmas is coming!

Shoes

I can’t remember my first favourite pair of shoes. As a child of the eighties, it might have been a tossup between jelly sandals (awful rubbery rubbing-your-heels-to-flesh summer shoes) and Bubblegummers (A ridiculously garish pair of royal blue sneakers with bright laces and assorted coloured eyelets). 

What I do remember is that feeling of absolute glee and excitement when I got something new and being so eager to wear them that I couldn’t sleep that night. And bless our Miss 5’s little heart, she’s the same, if not more excitable.

These, are $8 shoes from Kmart. Eight dollars I’d spend three times more to replicate how happy they have made Lucy.  

Pink frilled shoes with floral inserts, that’s a trifecta for a girly girl like Lucy. The fact that Daddy Cool is happy with the before-harvest price tag, or that I was pleased to have found something suitable for a majority of her outfits in her size is moot, she only cares that she has new pretty pink shoes.

And how do you test the magnificence of such shoes?  You put them on and go and stand in front of the mirror and dance to Wham’s ‘Last Christmas’,  that’s how!  (Well that’s how Lucy tested them, and it seemed to work because I got at least $8 worth of entertainment just from watching her, and she was pleased with how ‘dancy’ they were).

Daddy Cool should enjoy this purchase, relish it even. I can only imagine the price tag and the devotion for shoes will only increase with age. As will the desire for cosmetics, handbags and new outfits.  One day, shoes will be expressly for vanity, but at 5 years old, they’re so much more than that to Lucy. They are transportation devices to imagined worlds. Worlds where there are dance parties, fairies and magical wonders that only children can conger up. All this happiness for only eight dollars. I’ve hit some sort of budgetary jackpot – sign me up for ten more pairs! 

Farming…

If Forest Gump was a farmer, instead of the analogy about life being like a box of chocolates, he’d say, ‘life is like harvest. You never know what you’re going to get’.   And you just never ever do.

I know from the outside, it seems as though farmers are hard to please. One day asking for rain, the next day praying for it to stop. But let me tell you, one night of heavy garden soaking rain, or one unusually hot and windy day, can wipe millions of dollars from the state’s annual harvest.  If you think this doesn’t affect you, and unless you have a diet of air, then I’d suggest you ask your mother at what stage of pregnancy she gave up drinking. Because I suspect not only did she not give up, but indeed she upped consumption in your formative growth period.

 You see, food security affects everyone. Even if you are grain free in diet, consider that farmed animals are often fed from cereal harvests. And consider that the price of this feed goes up, so thereby, so do your meats and by-products.  The canola oil in your pantry is affected, the beans and lentils in your stew and the chick peas in your Dahl so too bear cost fluctuations.  So paying twenty cents more for a loaf of bread might be your cost, but what cost does a farmer accept?

Sometimes the cost is too huge and to heartbreaking to relay. Forgiving any unforeseeable weather phenomenon, just plain dumb luck or poor business management, modern day cereal farming in Australia has enough hurdles to make primary producer’s lives difficult as it is.

For many broad acre farms, the end of year summer crop is the primary income. That is, the success of a whole year of work and financial outlay relies on one result. Harvest. In part, it’s the driving of those big ol’diesel guzzling monsters over the paddocks and crossing your fingers and toes that the crop coming into the box passes for top grade, that it doesn’t need to be cleaned and that no dopey snails follow it in.  Now it’s not as simple as skimming a lawnmower over a lawn city folk, no sir!

First there’s the fire risk. Do the maths.  Most days the boys work 12 hours as a minimum, lots of hot moving parts and plenty of chaff flying about. Plus, the best reaping days are warm and dry with just a little bit of breeze to blow the debris off the plant as it flies in the front of the header. So there’s the CFS on speed dial.  (On the Yorke Peninsula in  2009, over the period of just one week, nine header originated fires needed the assistance of CFS appliances and neighbouring farmers evoking the farmers unwritten code of ‘all hands on deck’).

Secondly, there’s the silo system. This is where most farmers are relegated to deliver their grain. After waiting in lines (for hours sometimes) to get their trucks unloaded, the driver then has to often argue how good their grain actually is in order for it to be registered at the right grade.  That’s if they have their own truck, if not, they have to spend a few hours on the dog and bone just finding a carrier who’s free to do the job, and then relay to them the importance of them also being the farm’s pseudo grain-quality negotiator. The current system which is being used to judge the quality of the grain at the major silos has come under much scrutiny and considerable disappointment of late, and the fight continues.  Every grade counts, being knocked down just one grade could cost you more than $1000 a load, or an entire sale.

Thirdly, there’s marketing your grain to the right buyer. A mission which has been made ever so complicated with the abolishment of the single desk trading system and the influx of fly by night traders (and the old boys are all still saying, ‘we told you this would happen!). Who to trust, when to sell,  are the prices going to move, shall we sell some in advance and lock in that good price and hope we actually reap what we’ve promised, what’s the fluctuating dollar doing? Now the average farmer needs a smart phone as a necessity and a degree in commerce and marketing in order to market and sell on the run. There’s hardly another way.

Don’t get me wrong, our boys love the lifestyle. Love the work, and they do it well. They live every little boy's dream. They drive trucks, loaders, headers, tractors and get dirty every day. But the culmination of the whole year’s effort pivots on so many factors that they cannot change by will or by force. The crops look okay this year. Not out of this world fantastic, not buy-a new-house-and-book-a-holiday type okay, but good enough to give the boys the feather of confidence back in their cap and book themselves up for another year of crazy in 2012! (…and Mum might get last year’s new pergola by next year!?! *Hint hint*)

So you see, it’s not as simple as pop a little seed in the ground, get a little rain and then sell it in an old hessian bag down at the markets.  So excuse the men of the land for a while whilst they almost lose their minds trying to wrap their seasons up. Fingers and toes crossed for good grain, good prices, and sane farmers! 

Writing letters

Maybe it’s just because I’m tired from the exam period, but I am cranky! I have a few things to say.

Firstly, where are all these flies coming from? If there was someone I could complain to, I’d write a letter!!!  And then, I’d probably write another letter about all the bugs that invade my house when a change from hot to cold weather rolls in.

If I wanted to escape these creatures, I might hop in my motor car and drive 100 km/h to a cooler location. Wait, 100km per hour???? That’s our new speed limit!?!? Whose idea was that? I’m going to write a letter.  I could write to my local council I suppose, but I hear they have other pains at present, so I won’t write a letter to them! Although, I could write a letter about the media coverage the council gets on such matters. To relive my teenage years, 'Booooooring!'

Well maybe I might just stay home then and watch some television.  Surely with all these new free to air channels there will be something worthwhile on? Ahhhh nope. I’ll write a letter to them! They might just start yet another renovation or reality show in earnest though. I wouldn't want that.  Or perhaps I’ll just settle back with a lovely book instead? No, wait, I’ll settle down with an electronic copy of a book on the stinking glow in the dark, probably giving me retinal cancer, non brand descriptive computerised tablet thingy. I’d write a letter about that, but it’d probably have to be an e-mail! What was so perverse about books that we had to eradicate our malls of the one true shop of value?

Which leads me to shopping…  I’m not even sure where to start. Yet, here I go. I am not terrible at parking. But if you park badly on an angle, then I too have to follow suit if I should choose the vacant space next to you. Then if you leave before me, everyone thinks I parked badly. Who do I write to about that???   Once parked, with an armful of woeful 'green bags', we move into the grocery aisle. . here I will groan that if the bread on the shelf is from yesterday, it should be at a reduced cost. Or it should be obvious that it’s not in its prime. If I had the time or inclination to sift through your shelves, work out the date five days from now and then select the correct loaf, I’d probably have the time to bake my own! It’s deceit I tell you. If you want to value add, make croutons, but don’t give it to me for my fritz and sauce sandwich. I’m going to write a letter about that! 

And my gripes aren’t refined to the grocery shopping; apparel has its own agenda to unsettle my nerves too.  Since when did the size of feet get so uniform that half sizes could be omitted from the production line? Now my feet either feel like they are being punished or as though they are in the shoes of the past pregnant me. I should definitely write a letter about that!

Ahh… yes. I will write a letter. I’m from a long line of letter writers. Any minute now, I’m going to write a letter. If only I could find my favourite pen, which has since been lost into the abyss that is my daughter's pencil case. And of course. BIC don’t make my pen anymore. … Can’t write a letter. Conspiracy!

Being the person that’s there…

Terminal illness sucks, for so many reasons. But it's not the time to do things alone. 

When someone in your life is facing the real battle, the battle that threatens to take their life and change those of the people that love them, people often find visiting them hard.  They ask ‘am I crowding them? Does it make them feel we think they’re sicker than they are? Am I intruding?’ Friends and family are never intruders. No it doesn’t make them feel sicker.  And maybe crowding them with love is just what they need.

It makes sense. It’s scary, it’s sad, it’s traumatic, it’s humbling and it signifies a change to the dynamic of all the relationships involved. Suddenly your strong friend, mother, dad or sister becomes an individual that has had to admit they need help. Sometimes help from yourself, sometimes doctors or nurses. Maybe for the little things like shopping, but often for the big things… like toileting, bathing and remembering. It’s a real hit to the person’s sense of self, their pride and confidence. But it shouldn’t let you forget who you are to them.

It’s very easy to forget how fragile we are as humans, until we are reminded when we see a loved one’s body failing them.  The way a disease can strip a body of the strength to swallow, or the way it tears away the pride with every need to be helped up out of a chair. The strong spirit slowly fades behind a medication fog, slowly growing the seed of doubt in the loved one’s mind… is this the beginning of the end… or just another bump in the road?

So what if it is the downhill run of a long slog with cancer? You hear the overused phrases like ‘live every day as if it were your last’ so often that it’s easy to forget that you should. Diseases like cancer can rob us of our good days so swiftly that even if something is just a clinical setback, it’s also an opportunity to ask if you’re doing as much as you could for them and their families.

I urge you to risk the anger of a person whose pride has been upset in order to show them that you care. (And damn the illness for changing the way you show you care!)  On no account do I believe it intrusive when you refuse to leave because they are so sick that today’s best views will be from the bathroom floor.

I’m not saying these times are easy to endure; in fact they’re the hardest you’ll ever encounter. But it’s actually part of the healing process. The healing process starts with accepting how sick your loved one is, and making every smile, every chance to say what it is you feel for them and every minute count.  This isn’t the time to ask if you’re close enough to immerse yourself in their pain either, because if you’re considering it to begin with, I would say therein lays the answer. The worst thing you could do, is to ‘see how they are tomorrow’, or wait for a phone call to say, ‘now is the time’. No, you want to be there before that. Swallow your fear, and they can swallow their pride. Be there, and have no regrets.