Not much is off limits in my house. Conversationally speaking. I have this idea that certain topics should be like wallpaper; as in always there.
Sex, puberty, death it’s all on the table and up for discussion.
I’ve never had ‘the talk’ with my kids. But, as long as they could talk and ask questions I’ve answered them truthfully.
A series of chats. When talk turns to a tricky subject instead of leading the talk away form it I tackle it. No point hiding from it. To be honest I’d rather be the one doing the telling. The misinformation in the schoolyard is ludicrous. I should know, I still remember some of the stuff I was told – and my parents were forthcoming and truthful; so I knew when told that when you have sex bright green stuff comes out your bum, that perhaps the bearer of this information had their wires crossed.
On Sunday I watched Compass on ABC1. At the moment it’s a series about hospital chaplains, often touching on palliative care. So this weeks my kids and I talked about what that is. As well as what a hospital chaplain is. And spirituality. On a cold Sunday evening I folded socks and we watched a woman in the final stages of her life. Watched her son as he dealt with this fact alone. We watched, we talked, and now my kids have some idea of what palliative care can look like. They know too that sometime talking to someone outside the immediate situation (like a chaplain) can be good.
Wallpaper. Always there.
Death is (as obvious a thing as it seems to say) part of life. Death, tax and all that. I have more hope explaining the complexities of death and palliative care with my kids than I do the tax system. Same goes for sex.
I am of the belief that it is best to have the hard talks when opportunities arise rather than a preplanned talk at an allotted time of parental choosing. I also think it’s best to not wait until a certain age. If you think it’s happening – the talk is too late. Give your kids the knowledge in readiness is my theory.
It works for me. It works for us. Getting my period, scary as it was, was no great mystery to me. Granted, the fact it coincided with my confirmation and first communion was all a little too Brides of Christ for my liking, but I survived none the less. Survived because I had all the information.
My kids know that there are no questions off limits. Not that I think they will ask me or their father everything, but they know the option is there.
Wallpaper.
I’m not saying I have all the answers. I don’t, not by a long shot.
Sometimes I go off on a tangent and catch the kids giving me the geeze Mum, what are you rambling on about now look. The, I only asked you if I could have this app on my phone, stop talking about condoms again.
The point I’m trying to make is, don’t be scared to talk about this stuff. Yes there will be some embarrassment and shuffling. But it is so, so worth it. If you are thinking about your kids and the talk, chances are it’s time. Chances are they have heard stuff in the school ground. Growing up is tricky enough without having decent information on sex, on puberty, on masturbation. Oh, and by the way both my son and daughter get the same information about everything.
As for death and dying, my children’s first remembered experience of this was a friend’s child dying. At some stage everyone is confronted by death. I’d rather it not be a taboo subject in my home. It comes in many forms, in many ways, from the very young to the very old and everyone in between. We use words like dead, dying, death. It’s personal, but passed away to me sounds like something that should be kept quiet or swept under the carpet. I’m not that person.
This is how it is in my house. Two parts honesty, one part rambling and one part Oh my God Mum Shut the hell up! Like all wallpaper, it’s a little tatted around the edges, but it does the job.
How do you tackle the tricky topics at your house? Do you know that shut the hell up now for the love of God look as well as I do?
I know, I know. I still have a cold. Still. It’s been a gazillion years now. Gazillion is medical speak for three weeks. True.
The thing is, I can function enough to go to work, but that’s about it. Everything else is just going by the wayside until I am well enough to be on top of it all. And that goes for this blog space as well.
Thoughts and posts are there, just waiting for the fog to clear and get out. Soon I hope. No doubt you hope so too. Apparently I have become a cold blogger.
Or is that a whine blogger? Asking the question; is it whine o’clock yet?
I am still waiting for a PR email offering me sponsored post opportunities too good to pass up on various vapour rubs and cold easing herbal products. Seriously, I have taken to rubbing vicks on my chest and neck at night. Because clearly it’s 1977. Next I’ll be requesting a spoon full of sugar and packet chicken noodle soup.
In a bid to clear the fog, and because I have been staring at a funding document for several hours yet have written little more than my name, I have been YouTube surfing. I figure I can clear the fog, the funding document will suddenly make sense and I will know what to write if I get a little music fix.
This may be flawed logic, but its my flawed logic. My foggy headed flawed logic.
Like a version is a favourite radio segment for me each Friday as I drive to work. The only problem being that the second song – the version – is played after 8am. So I miss it every single week. Enter YouTube.
I’m not sure the fog has cleared, but I have sure had a good afternoon.
I have a unique talent it would seem. One that you will, no doubt be jealous of. Just as I began to get over the head cold I kept banging on about another one took up residence. Skill. I have it. I am determined to get rid of it. Determined to get my head out of the foggy haze it is currently in. I am endeavouring to do this by spending a day on the couch watching romantic movies while Hubby bakes bread, biscuits and cooks a stew. He’s a keeper.
Being a true love believer I have quite the range of romantic movies. Some are great, some are trashy, but they all get a few plays a year at least. Top of the pile is Love Actually. It’s hard to beat. For me it’s the fact so many different forms of love are represented in it. I am though still waiting for a mainstream love story where main characters are gay. It will happen. Soon I hope.
So, what are your go to romantic movies? I have a whole weekend to watch, and an online movie store at my disposal, so hit me with them people!
Tuesday night as I went to bed, as is my habit, I turned on the radio. It was 11pm and the first chance I had to hear the news all day. This was how I heard that Maurice Sendak had died.
Aged eighty-three is was a given this day would come. I was not though ready for the way his death affected me. This man was responsible for some of the most loved books from my childhood, and in turn my own children’s. Not to mention the many, many children I have taught that love his stories.
I wondered what it was about the books, about Where the Wild Things Are in particular that meant so much to me over the years. Wondered why it was still my go to story for children. I realised as I wrote a status update on my facebook page, that it was because we are all Max some days. We are all Wild Things along the way. As parents, we are the ones who leave the supper out, even when we have said there would be none. And we all of us, want to be where someone loves us best of all.
So then… for the Max in all of us, for letting us be Wild Things, and for knowing at the end of the day someone loves you best of all I thank you, Maurice Sendak.
This meant I really didn’t sleep, not the usual run of the mill full moon not sleep. But the super moon version of it.
I think I’ll blame my cold still hanging around on it too, and the fact my throat is on fire. And my lack of motivation. And the fact that the floors need a good vacuum. And the fact I have started the last three sentences with and.
I’ll blame it for the weekend going far to quickly. I mean I could have sat and held my sleeping new nephew for many hours more. As for spending time with other family members and my Pam… well, it was just a ludicrously short amount of time.
I will blame it for that I- think -I -might- cry- at- any- moment feeling too. May as well.
And now, because the moon is gone and I can’t blame it any more I will get on with the day. Because I have to. Because that is what we do. It is life. We go on, even when we don’t want to. And that, it’s Ok too.
So, super moon, see you next year. Perhaps when you come again I’ll remember to go out and dance under your light.
When I began this blog I had no intention of blogging recipes. None. Like all good intentions it has gone by the wayside as of today. Never say never really should be my life motto.
Having said that, don’t expect it to become a regular feature. It you want good recipes then Gourmet Girlfriend is your girl. Seriously. She is the shiz.
Earlier this week I posted about my chicken soup. People began asking for the recipe. It’s tricky, because recipe is a loose term when this is made. And I can’t really claim it as my own. My sister made it for us when she was staying and we all loved it. The Green Eyed Girl asks for it all the time, and when it’s such a fantastic family meal it is hard to say no.
So then, here goes my attempt at recipe blogging.
Forgive me.
Chicken soup for the soul.
For the stock:
About 750g chicken bones.
One brown onion, quartered.
A 3-ish cm piece of fresh ginger, sliced. For the stock I don’t bother peeling it.
2 carrots broken in half
1 stick of celery, broken into a few pieces.
Whatever leftover herbs you have, such as parsley or coriander that need to be used up, stems, roots and all.
For the soup:
2 chicken breasts (this feeds four of us with hearty after soccer training appetites)
Another piece of fresh ginger.
2 cloves of garlic
Half a red chilli with or without seeds, depending on your taste
Half a bunch of fresh coriander, roots, stem and leaves
A pack of wonton wrappers (in my supermarket they are in the fresh pasta fridge section)
Bok Choy
1 cup of frozen peas, or snow peas if in season
Fresh bean shoots
Noodles. I use organic Japanese somen noodles (easy to find in most supermarkets.) These cook super fast, hold their shape and don’t get sticky or gluggy.
Soy sauce.
Extra coriander, fresh chilli or pickled chilli (my personal favourite) for garnish.
For the stock add all the ingredients to a large saucepan and cover with water. Simmer (with the lid off) for an hour and a half or so - told you recipe was a loose term! As it simmers skim the surface of the scum so the end stock will be nice and clear.
I try to make the stock a day in advance. So it can then sit in the fridge and any fats rise to the top and solidify, making it easy to skim off before using. But in the real world this just doesn’t always happen, so skimming as you go is also good.
When the water level has reduced (in my pot when it is about 3/4 full after beginning with a full pot) take from the heat and strain the stock. All the bones and veggies have done their work and are removed.
Let the stock sit for a while – don’t be tempted to add salt yet, as the wontons and the soy sauce will add more flavour later on.
When ready to start cooking, put the stock on a low heat to simmer, adding the peeled and very thinly sliced slivers of fresh ginger and some chopped fresh chilli if you are using it.
Cut the bok choy stems into small pieces and then the leaves – they will go in the stock at different times as the leaves cook very quickly.
If using snow peas, prepare them. My preference is the string them and leave them whole.
If using frozen peas they can go in straight from the freezer.
For the wontons place the roughly cut chicken, coriander leaves, roots and stems, chilli, garlic in a food processor and blitz to make a fairly smooth mixture.
Grab a pasty brush and a small jug of water.
Place wonton wrappers on a dry work surface ready to add the chicken filling.
Each wonton wrapper needs to have all four edges brushed with a little water before placing a heaped teaspoon of the chicken mixture into the middle. Bring the four sides up and twist together and place on a dry surface (I like to put them on baking paper)
When all the wontons are done, place them in the simmering stock. They do not take too long to cook, less than 10 minutes. I check by taking one from the pot and cutting it open. Yeah, super technical.
After the wontons have been put in, add the bok choy stems and frozen peas or snow peas and noodles. Add the bok choy leaves in the last minute or so of cooking. Taste the soup and add soy sauce if needed.
When the wontons are cooked through, ladle the soup into bowls. Add bean shoots and chopped coriander. If you want more chilli, add some to the garnish, or like I do, a dollop of pickled chilli, like the jar in the photo above.
PHEW!
And that is my chicken soup for the soul.
Like I said, I am no recipe blogger. That was all kinds of exhausting. I bow to those who do this all the time. As well as Ruth from Gourmet Girlfriend, check out Sandra on The $120 Food Challenge for some fantastic budget friendly meals.
And that, dear readers is my first (and perhaps only) recipe blog post. I don’t know quite how to finish it… I may ramble on forever at this rate… oh look, a song…
The dreaded lurgy is upon us. Well, upon me at least. In a bid to keep it at bay and stop it from becoming man-flu, I am enlisting the help of a tried and true remedy.
Chicken soup.
Yesterday I made the stock. For a tried and true remedy such as this to work it needs real stock. From real chickens.
Wonton wrappers filled with minced chicken and enough garlic, chilli and ginger to ward of vampires and lurgies alike were added. Piles of bok choy and bean shoots, some organic frozen peas, more ginger and chilli.
This was all done under the ever present lemsip. I mean, I trust the chicken soup, but I had to be able to stand up to make it.
So then chicken soup, do your thing. Because this weekend I am off to meet my very new nephew. And while he may not care about garlic breath, he may not want a very excited and eager auntie sniffling, sneezing, coughing and spluttering all over him.
What’s your tried and true cold remedy? Lay them on me. My health and a baby nephew are eager to know.
Last year was all about finding the right high school for the Blue Eyed Boy. When that job was done, it was about the orientation and lead up to the big day when off he went. Somewhere around the end of February my shoulders eased back down and I relaxed.
It’s now May. I have had two months of little or no high school thought process-decision making. It is about to get real. Again.
You see, while the eldest offspring is pretty much set now for the next few years – please, let’s not begin the tertiary education thinking just yet – there is the matter of the Green Eyed Girl.
Next year is her final year of primary school. We need to have a decision made by May of that year. Twelve months.
I am of the firm belief that the twelve months of decision making pertaining to high school choices is a little like the twelve months between Christmases. As in, super fast.
The general assumption was that the girl child would go to the sister school of the boy child’s. He being at an all boys school she couldn’t go there. Obviously.
We were lucky with the Blue Eyed Boy. When Hubby and I went on a tour of his chosen school we were, quite frankly, blown away. When the principal spoke and made me tear up the deal was sealed. It was the perfect fit for our boy.
From this experience we learnt never say never. Here we were enrolling our son in a single sex school. A catholic single sex school. These two things were high on our not in a pink fit list of school choices. The thing is though, different schools suit different children. And from the research I did; the talking, badgering and obsessed question asking I did of locals, we found that the not in a pink fit school was actually quite good.
We are lucky in that we have choices when it comes to high school here. So now, as our baby girl gets older, and taller – seriously, her feet are already half a size bigger then mine – the process begins again.
Last week to be exact. We headed off to an open night. The Green Eyed Girl with us. She is so much a part of the decision making. As she should be. We will also be going to see the all girl school. The all girl catholic school.
That will be it. The search has been narrowed to a choice of two before we even set foot in any of them.
But it is all the same, tiring. Exciting too, watching as she navigates her way through an unknown school. Taking it all in.
It amazes me that she has got to this point so quickly. Always one eye to the future. Always.
I do not want to keep her back. She has it all ahead of her. She is making plans, and discussing train trips and she still has this and next year to finish at primary school.
She is, all in one, so ready and yet still so far from being so. The in between it all.
The decision I think, will be made entirely by her. She will talk it through with us, knowing we are happy with either school. But she knows her own mind. Knows her own path and will make those first steps into her own life; the one in which she walks away from us, with a tentative step and a sheer will to not look back.
And us, her father and I, we will watch on. Sidelined. We will wait on the bench until called by her.
Today I cleaned the house. Cleaned like a mofo. Things were tossed. Bags of clothes and shoes were bundled ready to be taken away. Mirrors gleam. Dark wood is dust free. Washing washed. Beds made. Floors vacuumed and mopped.
Flowers have been cut and placed in bottles on the huge mantle in the lounge. Furniture had been moved. Trinkets rearranged. Music cranked. Nag Champa burnt.
The house smells all heady, earthy, clean. I walk through the rooms admiring the cleanliness.
You know, don’t you when you clean a house, I mean really, really clean it, its got nothing to do with a clean house. Right? Or is that just me.
All that cleaning. Scrubbing. Wiping. Moving. Rearranging. It’s about everything except a house that would pass the white glove inspection. Isn’t it.
Isn’t it?
I have a lot on my mind. It whirls and knocks about in my head. And you know that when there’s things to be thought on, shit gets done. Not the shit I need to really do, but all the other stuff. Like cleaning the house. Or getting Hubby to help me rearrange the kid’s lounge to include a study space for homework.
It’s been a week. You know the ones; they seem to go on relentlessly. For no particular reason and a thousand all at once I feel stretched to the limit.
It will pass. As will the neat as a pin house and, no doubt the homework area.
But for now, I console myself with nag champa and earl grey. With scotch fingers and a cleaner than clean house.
The days with their short light and cold still air will wrap me in the comfort of autumnal indoor living.
Love stories have many ways of being told. Often the one between man and woman is most celebrated. This story though is different. It’s another kind of love. But love story it is all the same.
You see I have a friend. Friend though seems too small a word for her. Too small for what we have.
Our friendship spans thirty years. Thirty. That’s most of our lives. Ten years more than I have known my husband. Actually, she introduced me to him.
Our lives are bound together hers and mine. Through shared time. Shared place. Shared loss and learning. Through a small school in a small town. High school and university. Through a year spent in the same work place and life afterwards.
Thrown together as we sat at the same classroom table, friendship grew. In a small town in the eighties we would walk to each other’s homes. Ride bikes. Roller skate. Muck around with small fireworks. Head to the pool or the river.
As we grew, we still had each other. We thought nothing of it. Small towns meant many people had the same friends they had always had. We managed to survive the inevitable fall outs. Boys, and listening to the wrong advice, and teenagers being what they are.
When the time came to leave home and head out on our own we had both chosen the same path. Though the choosing was separate from each other. We ended up at the same university doing the same course. Not that it was all that difficult, being as we were in Tasmania. There was a choice of only two institutions.
Perhaps what got us through the uni years was the fact we never shared a house.
Perhaps we would have made it anyway.
Through those four years there was love and heartbreaks, hers and mine. There were late night mistakes with too much cheap beer and shots. Mainly me. There was dancing and driving lessons and learning to be teachers.
Like all good love stories there was the inevitable break up. For two years we did not talk. I used to dream of her during that time. I would wake up sobbing and heartsore.
I think though we needed that time apart. Needed to be able to find our way independent of each other.
In the end, she wrote to me. I phoned her. We met up. And just like that, with minimum tiptoeing and dancing we found our friendship again.
We became each others greatest defenders. Still are to this day.
Her first born came the same year as my last. As we embraced in the hospital when her son was born we wept together. An unseen bond, words too many to say. Full of love. Full of hope. Full of knowing.
We are family her and I. Not in any way legally recognisable. But really, what has blood to do with family? It is what you make of it. She is part of mine. I am part of hers.
We know each other better than we know ourselves most days. And although weeks may go by when we don’t talk, text or even like a link on each other’s facebook walls, we each know the other is there.
It is a love story of two young girls and the lives they built separately, but always together.
It’s the knowing that no matter what, she is there when I reach out. Ready to drop everything and listen.
It’s the unconditional love. The not needing to be in constant contact to know the other is there.
Today it is her birthday. She ushers in a new decade. I am here to welcome her.
So Happy birthday Best Pam. Let’s book a place in a nursing home now. To be sure we get adjoining rooms. That are near the bar. Where there will be gin.
