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.