By the time you’re eighty years old you’ve learned everything. You only have to remember it. – George Burns.

My girl walks proudly on to the stage clutching her trumpet. She beams when she sees me in the audience and does one of those little low wagging of her fingers, a wave just for me. She takes her position up the back, which is disappointing because it’s difficult to see her; she’s a shorty … just like her mum. But I’ll know I’ll hear her—loud and clear. And I know what she is going to play, because I’ve heard her toot it over and over the past few weeks in preparation for the recital.

“Nonno says practice makes perfect,” my girl tells her dad and I one evening after we’d commented about a particularly long and particularly loud session of tooting. As she walks from the room her ponytail swishes, flicking up at us.

We joke about it later, when she is in bed, “Of course he wouldn’t mind all that tooting …” I say. I don’t need to continue, my husband is already laughing, knowing full well how deaf his father has become in recent years.

The conductor raises his arm and the grade four band lift their instruments into position.
Deep breath.
The concert begins.

A quarter of the way through I notice an odd noise. The old man next to me has fallen asleep. His head leans forward slightly casting a slowly rocking shadow on his neatly-pressed brown shirt. He is snoring. Breathy, old man snores. I glance over at his wife who is watching the children play, she looks at me and shrugs her shoulders a little.

There was a time in my past when I would have been impatient with someone doing such a thing. Falling asleep during my daughter’s concert. I would have found it offensive. I would have been embarrassed. I would have probably made some kind of coughing noise or clapped a little loudly in an effort to jolt them awake.
But now I feel different.
I feel a little chuckle welling up inside me. But I suppress it because I don’t want to disturb him.

At the end of the concert my girl runs up to me. “Did you see me Mum?” she says brandishing her shiny instrument. “Yes, I’m so proud,” I say. “You were brilliant!”
“Nonna, did you like my duet?” she asks.
“Yes bella,” Her Grandmother replies. “You played so well and I can tell it was Nonno’s favourite part too.” She leans in close to her granddaughter and whispers, “I know because he stayed awake for that part.” They laugh and Nonno smiles. But I don’t think he heard … because he isn’t wearing his hearing aid today.



Tonight when the sun goes down I will be raising a glass of Italian dolce Spumante to my Father-in-law. Proposing a toast to the gathered family and friends on the occasion of his 80th birthday.

I usually spend ages crafting what I will say at events such as these. But this time it was easy. One sentence is all I need.

To Dante,
I’ve never met a man who cares as much, or has worked as hard for his family, as you.
Buon compleanno.
Happy 80th birthday.





This post was inspired by the writing prompt: “What’cha goin’ to do when the sun goes down tonight?!” from Scott Peters. Thank you.
Memories are life.

There are now seven screwed up bits of paper to my side.



Last year as we were packing a little suitcase together for the big-grade-three-camp my daughter asked me a simple question.

Will you miss me Mummy?

Of course, I answered.
Her face crumpled a little as she placed her left gumboot into the case.

It’s funny, I said as we folded the prescribed number of size-eight sweaters into neat rectangles, when you love someone and they are headed off on a grand adventure you have what they call mixed emotions.
She stood, looking up at me while wringing a pair of High School Musical Socks between her fingers.
I feel sad, I continued, that you will be away from me and yet also blissfully happy knowing that you are going to have such an amazing time.
She rolled her socks into a ball and stuffed them into a runner.
There, she said ticking off the last item on the list-of-things-you-must-bring, all done. She smiled.
Then she zipped up the case.

In front of me is another sheet of blank paper.

I can’t quite get the words out of the thicket that is my head, down past elbow, wrist and finger tip and out through the pen onto the page. I’m stuck on I’ll miss you.

I try again. She is only nine years old. She doesn’t require an elaborate message. I’m pretty sure she’d be as happy with a page of red-biro love hearts as with perfectly worded sentiments.

I hold her camera for inspiration.

My plan is to photograph the note.
I know my daughter. As soon as she shoots a few frames the first thing she will do is turn the camera around to marvel at the images she has captured.
She’ll flick past the cheesy shot of her Daddy trying to hold the leaning tower of Pisa aloft with the palm of his hand, and the three shots of Nonna and Nonno smiling over their short black espressos in a cafe on the Piazza dei Miracoli and she will reach the end of her snaps…

and find my message.

If I can actually ever figure out what I should write.



I’ve laid out all her summer clothes on my bed. I am the mixn’match travel Queen. Everything has a purpose. Anything unnecessary is ruthlessly dumped.
She looks at the outfits I have selected… we are negotiating whether to bring pink runners as well as white ones. She decides one pair is enough.
Besides, she says, that leaves more room for souvenirs.
Clever girl.
She smiles as she zips up the case.



I think it’s the amount of time that she will be away that is causing my brain to seize. Over one month. Four and a bit weeks. Nearly five. Exactly thirty three days.

The little white squares of August suddenly take on new meaning.
I shut my calendar.



I unfold my seven attempts and smooth them out in front of me.
I see the same three words written over and over.
I’ll miss you. I’ll miss you. I’ll miss you.
Three words.
Three words.
Three
words.
oh.
I stop.

Three words.

I just had the wrong three words.


I write with conviction. I love you. It’s perfect. It’s simple. And it won’t make her cry.
And she will know it is woven, richly, with all of her Mother’s mixed emotions.

I frame the shot, take the pic and throw away the written evidence.


I put the camera, with its secret embedded message into its little protective bag
and I smile.
Not a very big smile. It’s a bit wobbly round the edges.
But a smile nonetheless…

Then I,
very carefully,
zip up the case.

In the spider-web of facts, many a truth is strangled. ~Paul Eldridge

I’m standing in the reservations line of the campus library.
Behind me are two undergrads involved in a cracking-conversation.

The first one, who is wearing leggings-as-pants, is asking the second one (who is also wearing leggings-as-pants) how she is doing at Uni. The second Ms-leggings-as-pants laughs and says to the first Ms-leggings-as-pants:

Well… I’m just scraping the bottom of the barrel (oh, I think to myself, with metaphors like that I’m not surprised dearie…) but I don’t care, she continues, as long as I just pass.

The first Ms-leggings-as-pants thinks this is hysterical and laughs loudly. One of the librarians shushes her, as only a librarian can do, and I think the other one may have suppressed a snort, but I’m not sure because I get beckoned to the counter and become engrossed in flashing my ID card at a nice young lad, who toddles off to fetch my book.

The book is Sol Stein’s: Stein on writing, and as the librarian places it in my hand I catch a whiff of library air… or rather, odour.

It’s a heady mix of old paper and unwashed socks… with a bottom note of, something… hmmm what is that aroma… ? I sniff deeply… oh… yeah… it’s weed.

Paper and things-unwashed and pot… it’s a smell most particular to University Libraries. And as I maneuver my way into the slipstream of students heading to classes, I take a deep breath of fresh air and I examine the book I’ve just received.

I feel the weight of it in my hands. It’s impressively library-like.
The old, black hard-back cover is greying on the corners. There’s no title on the front, the look-at-me dust-jacket has been discarded long ago. I rest the spine in my hand and allow it to fall open to a random page.

“…Let’s be sure we understand each other… A flashback must illuminate the present story in an important way. Otherwise, why bother?…”

Cue: wavy, shimmery flashback effect from any 70’s tv show…

My little Miss has a homework assignment.

She yells from her room, Muuuuummmm I need a dictionary.
I yell back… it’s in your brother’s roooooooom.
She replies: Can yooouuuuuuu get it?
I say… Noooooooo get it yourself (and, to be fair, I may or may not have tacked on the words ‘lazeeeee-butt-cheeks’ to the end of that sentence… I’ll leave it up to you to decide.)

A minute later I hear a very muffled:
Muuuuuuuuummmmm I can’t find it.

I’m not surprised.

More often than not I’m positive yellow-crime-scene-tape over big brother’s door would not at all look out of place.

I venture in, step over a nike runner, the guts of a hard drive that he has pulled apart *juscos I wanna see what’s inside* and a box that contains semi-precious stones (otherwise known as rocks from the garden) and I have a poke around his book shelves.
But, I concur- I cannot see the dictionary with its clunky green spine anywhere.

I look at the little Miss and she looks at me.
Then she shrugs and says… don’t worry mum I’ll use the online one.

Fabbo! Problem Solved! I think as I head back to the blank monitor I’ve been staring at for the past hour.

I’m trying to write.
Trying being the operative word.

I’ve convinced myself that if I sit looking at the whiter-than-white-whiteness of the monitor for just a few more minutes the words will come… any second now… I say to myself… soon… maybe…
wait-a-tic >insertsoundofscreechingbrakeshere< “the online one”? What?

I go to Miss 9’s bedroom and there she is expertly clacking away on her laptop “looking up” words via an internet dictionary. She looks like she knows exactly what she is doing.

I say to myself, most convincingly, this proves that the internetz is quite the convenient answer to many daily problemz.

But really what I’m thinking is hang on… is convenience really the priority here?

Cue: wavy, shimmery flash-forward to current day effect from any 70’s tv show…

As I open the door to the Uni lecture room I’m debating with myself the value of online dictionaries and the love-hate relationship I have with the *check spelling* and auto-correct feature of word processors.

They are so freakin’ handy, but I’m alarmed at the rising trend of poor spelling. I’m quite convinced text-slang and spell-checkers are assisting this sad turn of events. However, I remind myself philosophically, language changes over time, ‘tis verily the nature of thine world and the natural process of social evolution… and as I’m pondering the thought of whether there is merit in deleting the question mark from the pages of punctuation books forever, I realise that my fellow post-grads are having a lively discussion of their own.

It’s that old chestnut: online learning vs. on campus learning.

One student, a shiny-sweet undergrad who has gone straight into her Master’s degree, has just denounced professor whatshisface for having a strict no-interaction policy with his online students.
As I write professor whatshisface’s name on my notepad I say loudly… this is just to remind me not to select his subject! The group laughs then the girl looks at me earnestly, helpfully and says… aha… but if you want an easy subject his assignments are basic…
I stop, a little too quickly, and say,
But I’m not here for easy.

There is a thickness in the air.

Then I laugh.
The tension is broken. The group chuckles. I hope she was joking they think collectively.

But, truth is, I wasn’t.

As I walk to my car after class, I have one of those doh-moments-of-clarity.

Online dictionaries do not require you to know that-
el comes before emenoh-pee.

I beep my car open, toss Sol Stein onto the seat and fossick around in my bag for my iphone.
I finger-flick past the page that has my dictionary and thesaurus apps searching for the voice recorder.

I press record.
And I say:

Mental note:
tomorrow go and buy the little Miss her very own dictionary.

Stein, S 1995, Stein On Writing A Master Editor of Some of the Most Successful Writers of Our Century Shares His Craft Techniques and Strategies, St Martin’s Press, New York, p 144.

My son is the family jokester.

We call him Jerry, because sometimes he channels Seinfeld… but most of the time he’s a total Lewis through and through.

He decided he wanted to play a birthday trick on his little sister, Miss A. So he concocted this (err…not very original) idea of wrapping up a pack of knickers and giving it to her, as though it was the only gift she was going to receive.

I looked at him a bit puzzled.

You don’t know your sister very well, I said.

But he was already chuckling at the hilarity of it all and he picked out a pack o’five for his joke.

In the morning we serenaded Miss A with the traditional rendition of the happy birthday song (meaning we sang it properly, not the you-smell-like-a-monkey version…) and he gave her the present, barely suppressing a smirk as he watched her unwrap it.

Undies, she smiled, thanks they’re really nice, she said flinging her arms around me and giving me a big, long hug.
Her brother waited for the question… Is there anything else? Or the expectant look around in case there was another gift waiting… but there was nothing but cuddle… glorious cuddly-cuddle.

Over her head I looked at him and I raised one… single… eyebrow.

Now if you haven’t seen this particular look before, my heart breaks for you ‘cos you were obviously orphaned at birth… as it’s a look every Mother gives her child at least once (if not, let’s face it, a hell-of-alot-of more times) in their lives.

One, very carefully raised eyebrow equals… see I tooooold you so AND why don’t you ever listen to your mother… all wrapped up in a little arched n’hairy caterpillar of maternal guilt.

Yes, the eyebrow could very well be the single most powerful tool a Mother has at her disposal…
and I can work it like a master…

On seeing the eyebrow-of-doom Miss A’s big brother scurried away to retrieve the real present he had bought, (with his very own money… yeah I have to cut him a little slack for that, he is after all only eleven…) which was a pair of prized iCarly PJ’s (what’s that I hear you say… you haven’t heard of iCarly? Ahhh sorry I can’t be fekked explaining… suffice to say she’s the latest marketable invention in the licensing spin-cycle for cash… see your local Target for more details…) and as predicted Miss A adored them.

And then I gave her my gift.

Which was something she had admired in a jewellery shop window a while ago.
But never asked for.

A plaited leather, Pandora bracelet.

Which she liked because,

a) Mum look it’s pink!

And…

b) Look Mum, money from the sale of each bracelet go to Breast Cancer research.



She turned nine today.


And she could teach a lot of kids, double her age, a lesson in grace.


*********

Happy Birthday Sweetheart,
Love from Mum, Dad… and… Jerry.

*********

Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them. – Mary Schmich

I’ve been waiting and dreading

And yet also dreaming of the day

You would ask me this question.

The day you would come to me for advice,

Flushed and heady, sparkling eyes,

Full of that somebody new.

What will I say to you my love?

It will be a wrench to see you all grown up

And yet such a sweet victory too.

But truly…there are no directions for this.

No instruction manual, recipe or crib notes available.

You must wing it on emotions and stirrings of lust.

Look for chemistry,

In the worst of clichés,

Such as hearts that skip a beat

And falter

And are resuscitated by warm lips.

And soft words.

But,

Don’t ever think you can time it,

Nor tame it,

It is not yours to possess,

Or to have or to hold.

It’s organic and mysterious,

And grows in dark places.

Between words,

In the rain,

And on the sea.

So the best advice I am able to give,

Is this simple message,

Without form or clarity, 

I will shrug my shoulders and say to you,

That you will just know,

You will simply just know.

Dance,

even if you have nowhere to do it but your livingroom. -Mary Schmich

 

Ladies and gentlemen… today I am taking a small break from our regularly scheduled programming… but it couldn’t be more pertinent, even if I had tried.

I’d like to dedicate today’s post

to a very dedicated little girl.

Who has jazz hands, and pointed toes, and can stretch and extend and cartwheel and smile, smile smile.

My daughter.

Miss eight.

Who has her big  Jazz  Ballet Concert this weekend.

Brava Bella!

Encore!

“Sing.” -Mary Schmich

Today I am singing the praises of small cheats.

Nothing serious of course.

A shortcut when doing chores, a quick cheats recipe when cooking dinner, time saving measures when you are short on… time.

And that brings me to my post today. Which is a cheat…because I officially did not write it today.

But from the first day I saw Mary’s word “sing” I could not get this post out of my head. It’s tune ran over and over in my mind, like a popular song that you just can’t shake off.

It was the fourth blog I’d ever written, before I learnt  how to add links or even how to socially let people know I was writing a blog.  I think it was read by three people.

But the reason I have chosen to repost it is because it really means something to me. And I think it is relevant to today’s topic of : “sing”.

So flame me if you like for cheating.

But otherwise, sit back and I hope you enjoy…

ps… I don’t think Miley Cyrus tweets anymore… social media… it’s damn hard to keep up with….

Abba and Kiss and Maths and Mercurochrome

Miss 8 just told me that my way of doing subtraction was ‘old fashioned.” On a piece of paper she jots down a two figure sum and proceeds to demonstrate the modern way of doing math.

 “See Mummy’ she said, ‘makes more sense.” I need a cup of tea.

  “Now can we practice my song for choir?”

  “Sure.” I say with confidence. Singing. I can do that.

She pulls out the lyrics. It’s an ABBA medley. She starts singing Money, Money, Money.

When I was a kid you were either a Kiss fan or an Abba chick. Abba was the wholesome choice for a teacher’s pet such as my self. I sat at the front of the classroom and my arm went up lolly-pop-stick straight when I knew the answer. I couldn’t fathom all that heavy rock, men in makeup and skin tight, ball breaking stretchy fabrics. They were all sexed-up, jagged black and white and blood red tongues.

My sister and I, along with a gazillion other little girls, pretended to be the Abba lead singers whenever we could. My Dad bought us the album where they were all sitting in the bubble helicopter. That black vinyl swirled more times on our record player than any other disc we owned. With each song play I grew more mad for the blonde, with her smooth straight, yellow hair and whispy centre part. I dreamt of owning a white jumpsuit that zippered up the front- with sequined flare pants and maybe a braided white and gold belt hung low on the hips. I wrote in my diary that I wanted to marry a man who plays the piano.

When Kiss played at V.F.L park in Melbourne’s south eastern suburbs I climbed onto the top rung of our back yard fence and listened to the low thrum of their rocked-out bass-beat float over my neighborhood. As night filtered through the dusk I slipped down off the fence and ended up with a wood splinter in my finger. Mum picked it out with a burnt needle (oh the agony) and then painted a smiley Mercurochrome face on it. In bed I pulled my pillow over my ears and hummed Abba songs until I fell asleep.

My daughter has an ipod that she likes to fall asleep with.  Her teenage cousin loaded it with songs from High School Musical and Pink and Demi Lovato. She doesn’t  know what the sleeve of the artist’s albums look like, but she knows how to Twitter with Miley Cyrus. I wonder what I would have said to Agnetha if Twitter had been around when I was a little girl?

Miss 8 has started singing the Waterloo segment of the medley. I stop to correct her melody and then look closely at the words,

…..The history book on the shelf is always repeating itself…

She’s singing with her sweet high pitchy voice, swaying in time to the beat.

I go get us two hairbrushes (after all- it’s the only honest way to sing Abba) and join in.

Wa, wa, wa, wa,

Waterloo

Finally facing my Waterloo

Ohhh Oh Oh Oh

Waterloo

Finally facing my Waterloo

 My daughter had a homework

assignment to do.

Brainstorm a BIG list of all the words you can think of that represent Australia.

She started off strong…

Melbourne, Victoria, koala, wombat, footy, meat pie, kangaroo, southern cross, sydney opera house, Barrier Reef, Ayers Rock, boomerang…

the list went on and on… until we started faltering, scratching our heads and wondering what to put next. Suddenly my darling girl said:

“I know! Santa!” 

We all looked at her…Santa??

“Isn’t he Australian?” she asked, “Oh no silly me-” she said slapping palm to forehead, 

“He’s not Australian, he’s  North Pole-ian.”

Behind the Hall of Preserving Harmony is the largest courtyard of the Forbidden city.

As some of our group, sweaty but determined, headed up the grand marble staircase I was distracted by a gathering of folk who seemed intent on trying to fan themselves while catching two wild children.

These kids were slippery indeed.

They sped up and slowed down to taunt the grownups who had now drooped- either exhausted from the chase or from the heat or quite possibly both. As I got a little closer I realized that the pair of terrors were dressed identically and were obviously twins. I’ve read that triplets and quadruplets were considered bad omens in Ancient China, but in a nation of family life governed by a one child policy I suddenly realized that a multiple birth would now be a different kind of omen.

Attention turned in our direction as the group watching the twins, act out all kinds of naughtiness, spotted my daughter. With her long dark-blonde hair and fair skin she had been treated as somewhat of a celebrity in Beijing. Every where we went people asked if they could take her photograph, posing with her and intrigued by her ability to speak rudimentary phrases of Mandarin- thanks to three years of weekly Chinese lessons at school. The Mother of the twins smiled broadly and waved her camera at us pointing at my daughter and then in the direction of her girls. Miss 8- who had begun to enjoy the Miley Cyrus treatment struck a pose and waited patiently as the Mother called her girls over.

The twins however weren’t all that interested in obeying.

They ran around their Mother, black plaits whipping the stodgy air and cackling at their own defiance. Everyone looked a little embarrassed and our guide looked away muttering  “spoilt princesses”.  The Mother- maintaining a composed face grabbed at the little boy standing next to her and pushed him into frame. He obliged instantly and beamed into the lens.  I asked if this was her son mistakenly now assuming that the twins were actually a trio, but got told no he was “just a cousin”. The girls did eventually saunter over and pose, curious perhaps as to how attention had so suddenly shifted away from them.

Miss 8 is now in our lounge room adding the final touches to her suitcase for her next big adventure- tomorrows grade three camp to Mt Eliza. Her big brother is giving her all kinds of advice like:

Don’t be scared of the flying  fox- it’s a blast.

And…

Just eat everything they give you or you don’t get any dessert.

And…

Watch out for the snakes and tigers (chortle, chortle).

She’s listening intently and throwing him a playful punch when she knows he is teasing her. He suddenly gets all serious and says “You know I’m going to miss you?” she gives him a quick hug and throws in another punch just to place the sentimentality firmly back where it belongs. “Muuuuuuum” he screeches “she punched me…”

My instant reaction is to think of the heavenly quiet that will transcend our home over the next three days. Ahhhhh no sibling rivalry! But then I flashback to those  twins, and China, and the One Child Policy.

As I continued my walk that hot, hot day I found it increasingly difficult to align modern day China’s family policy with that of the world of the Dynasty Emperors. In front of me lay Palaces- one more sumptuous than the last, erected to house the abundance of Empresses and Concubines whose sole purpose was to seed as many descendants as possible. These walls would have contained a bounty of brothers and sisters. Spoilt and plump and plotting. But now mostly families with only one child walk through the courtyards to sightsee the old ways.

And of course there are those families lucky enough to have twins.

Three days of peace and quiet will be lovely.

But to be honest I’m also looking forward to hearing my kids argue with each other again on Friday afternoon….