We did some (more) bike riding, as you might guess from the photo. (I like my new cycling glasses -they have interchangeable lenses, so that you can put clear ones in on rainy/cloudy days (or very early mornings!). A very handy, just before the Big Ride purchase. Sometimes I feel like we can be gear freaks, but good gear is good gear! - they make it for a reason.

Marc and I did the early morning get-up again on Saturday morning, so as to go into the community ride. This time we couldn't ride in because he had to stay in town and go to work. (We left about the same time as we did to ride in, because of having to factor in time to get the bike off the car!). Still, we rode about 35km we wouldn't have done otherwise, and got to chat to people afterwards. Sometimes, yes, I am social.

Today we dragged our poor overworked and over-challenged kids out again on a BUG (Bicycle User Group) ride of 40km - a ride from the Pacific Highway (south of Coffs) to Bellingen, but via secondary roads that more or less follow the banks of the river. It was a terrific ride; not much traffic, great scenery, and even through a fair bit of shade! There were a few hills, but nothing to daunt us. (The legs are feeling it a bit tonight though - so it means we must have worked at it!)

So I am feeling good that we have done "some exercise", and slightly less guilty for partaking of the lemon delicious quick mix cakes Cait made yesterday.

In between the activity, I am feeling weary, and I'm looking at the clock right now wondering if we might beat the older two kids to bed tonight. Despite my week of slothful sleep-ins, the 5 am start yesterday hit me mid-afternoon. I went upstairs with the idea of perhaps vacuuming our room - lay on the bed 'for a minute', and ended up dropping off. I don't usually do the daytime power nap thing - have never been able to - even through the sleep deprivation of night feeding of 3 babies. And it doesn't usually work as a housework avoidance strategy. Marc can recharge his batteries with a 10 mins power down which he implements within 5 seconds of deciding to do so - a talent I am just slightly envious of. Normally I only sleep in the daytime if I am sick. Hmmm, maybe I AM sick! Or perhaps the early mornings are beginning to reprogram me, proving that changing habits and routines is entirely possible. Not that long ago I would have laughed if you'd told me I'd be voluntarily getting up at 5 am to go and do some exercise. Now I am doing it more often than I care to admit, and I can even now mostly eat breakfast at that time without feeling sick!

I had very weird, intense dreams last night though. I felt like I'd been through the wringer; at 7.00 I didn't much like the idea of waking up. One of the dreams involved me trying to see a counsellor, who kept getting interrupted, and other staff from the kids' school kept trying to sit in on the appointment. When I got assertive and demanded they leave somehow it ended up with a whole heap of people trying to get me into a hospital (like being committed), and I was on the run, and flying overseas to escape them, and trying to tell my youngest that I loved her, that I'd be back, and that I really wasn't mad. Sheesh.. some strange stuff happening "upstairs" here.

Still another week of school holidays - perhaps I should attempt to achieve just a teensy bit more than last week.

Labels: bike riding, daily, reflections

I was feeling a bit of a fraud with this Thinking Blogger award, you know. Going on my more recent posts, a Whingeing Blogger award might have been more appropriate.

So I decided that today I should address an issue that has been bothering me for some time. It's a domestic issue - but not one that is confined to families - although the problem is indeed amplified by the sheer turnover of washing generated by each extra person in the family. I am sure it will get you thinking! (Even if it is just so you can think 'hey, at least I'm more on top of the laundry than SHE is!)

But, in all honesty? If you do the laundry, you must surely have dealt with this problem. (Please tell me you have!)

Socks!

Socks that don't stay together with their partner! The rate of sock separation in our house is akin to the divorce rate in this country! I'm serious. And I have, upstairs, a basket of deserted socks... washed up and left high and dry by their partner. Many are old - they have lost their tone, their elasticity, and they will end up in the rag bag for old single socks. Some are young, though.. they haven't been together long, so it's harder to determine what has happened to their other half.

At times I have suscribed to the black hole theory, where single socks disappear into a sock focused vortex or time warp. At other times I have sworn there must be a sock goblin at work.. insidiously kidnapping single socks at various stages of the laundry cycle.

My latest theory, however, is that the socks are simply doing the sockly equivalent of the seven year itch or the mid-life crisis. They need a break, they want variety, and they will get it any way they can.. skiving off at any stage of the laundry process. Hiding underneath the washing machine, or behind the dirty clothes basket. The kids' socks even scramble away and lurk in dark recesses of the bedroom, watching their sucker partner get whisked out and into the dirty clothes piles.

My husband swears it is my laundry system to blame- and the poor thing does despair when at times half a dozen single socks find their way back to his drawer. (Where are their mates? Off having a good time somewhere, no doubt.)

He is an advocate of pairing of the socks on the line when you hang them out. On the few occasions he hangs the washing out (a reflection only upon the division of labour in our household - he works, I stay home, so the laundry is my job!) he pegs the socks out in pairs. As he did when I left him with washing to hang out on Saturday.

"Did you see how I pegged the socks out together?!" said he righteously "And then when you get the washing off the line you fold/roll them up together!"

I just snort, thinking how rarely he retrieves the washing from the line. I'm usually doing it in a hurry, so folding and sorting as I go doesn't really happen. 'I'd like to see you do that day in, day out' I mutter under my breath. Besides which, there were still 3 singles in that batch of washing!

Me being me, I see no point in rooting around the wet clothes just for sockly clothesline togetherness. My M.O. is to try to reunite them when sorting the clean, dry washing. After all, if they've missed the washing machine load, then what use is it to discover that there are renegades when out at the clothesline? May as well just hope they turn up together when I sort several days washing at once. (So now you are getting the picture of my domestic slackness!)

If I was an Alpha Mum, I'd probably have them paired and sorted before the washing machine phase. But I'm not, and I can't see myself changing. Besides which, I'm convinced they have a mind of their own, and at various times they will stray from the paths of righteousness and togetherness, no matter what I do.

A lot like humans, really.

Labels: daily, reflections

Well, why wouldn't it be, with this being the week of the Festival of Overpriced Roses and all? I wish I could take credit for that tag, but I picked it from an article by some other cynic in the paper on the weekend. And, at the risk of offending the romantics out there, I like it! It just so happens to click with the way we do (or rather "don't do") Valentines Day around here.

I'd been debating whether to attempt a post on the topic of "Love" since reading other entries to Scribbit's Write Away contest. I'm not prone to waxing lyrical about romance, and keeping it 'non-mushy' is fairly critical when I know that my Other Half might be reading my blog. (Hello Mr Unromantic!). But when I read that the judge was a 'love-cynic', and then I checked the world times and realised that the earth's rotation and placement of the international date line gave me a few more hours till the deadline, even though it was already Monday here, I figured fate had sent me a last minute invitation.

I'd already tossed around a few ideas in my head about how I might describe our particular 'love story'. I was working on dinky titles like "A double canoe, and a bicycle built for two", because that pretty much describes us. But, now that I've mentioned it, the "Festival of the Overpriced Roses", is a very apt starting point, and a pertinent theme.

As fate would have it, indeed, I happened to be chatting to him yesterday morning, as he tinkered with one of our tandem bikes. Somehow the topic of Valentines Day came up, and I mentioned how he freaked me out when the first February 14 of our relationship loomed way back in 1986.

"You told me you had something you needed to talk to me about, and so of course my heart sank, because I thought, 'Oh no! He wants to break up! Only 3 months after I finally got over my fear of ruining our friendship with a 'relationship'!' "

"And then you said, "I just wanted to let you know that I don't believe in buying overpriced flowers for a commercial thing like Valentines Day.' "

"And I said 'Oh thank God, is that all? I couldn't care less about ridiculously priced cut flowers that will die in a few days.' "

"But you did give me a Valentines Day card that year. It had a little van pictured on the front, which you added a VW logo to, so it looked like Mex (the Kombi he had at the time - numberplate MEX-... ) ... and it said "Looking for love, Valentine?" And on the inside it said"I deliver". " ....

"You don't remember that do you?"

"Nup.... Geez, how do you remember all that stuff?!" he asked.

I just shook my head and rolled my eyes. Is it a male/female thing? Or just him? It's not that he has a bad memory per se. He could probably tell you who was playing in the Australian cricket team at that time, and describe any significant run chases, or close clashes. To be fair though, I can't remember exactly what I gave him, so I suppose I should be careful of double standards! (Probably nothing because he'd just announced he didn't do Valentines Day, but then he went gave me a damned card! Which I remember well because the romantic within has saved the few things like that he ever did give me. They're.. um.. somewhere.. stashed away. For our children to find when we're old or dead, and to exclaim "Oh my god, can you imagine Dad ever writing that to Mum?!" )

Needless to say, it is now 21 years down the track, (nearly 18 of those married) and we have continued our unromantic trend of not supporting the florist industry - in February, or any time of the year. Nor the jewellery, or diamond industries. The first gift he ever bought me was an abseiling harness! I did buy him a watch once, but he lost it when we were rafting one time! We have really always been more interested in buying items (either together, for each other, or for "us") that enabled us to do stuff together. (The snow-rated sleeping bags that zipped together were a wonderfully romantic idea that backfired because we got too warm.) And we tend to buy them whenever; not necessarily dictated by birthdays and christmas, and definitely not Valentines day. We are a bit rebellious, practical and unsentimental like that.

By the time that "first" Valentines day occurred I had already landcrewed for him in a couple of canoe marathons, and decided that running around looking after him while he got all the 'glory' wasn't as much fun as it looked, and, hey, I'd rather paddle too, thanks very much. So during 1986 we bought a double kayak, and started paddling together in canoe marathons, convincing friends or relatives to drive cars between check points, feed us, massage us, shake their heads at our insanity, and send us on our way.

Somehow our burgeoning relationship survived my very steep learning curve in the art of long distance paddling - with some excruciatingly slow times, and even me once having to withdraw halfway through day 3 of a 5 day marathon. (I got back in and did the last two days.) We got better. Our technique improved and our teamwork improved, and we even became competitive in our class in the (shorter) state marathon series races. I even discovered that I was a bit competitive too! I couldn't say we never argued, but we certainly formed a close bond with our paddling, and got to the point of having a chuckle at other couples who didn't seem to have quite the same non-verbal understanding and intuition. And if we were still talking to each other after 500km in a canoe, then perhaps we had something going for us.

We were also doing a lot of other outdoor activities - canyoning, bushwalking, cross country skiing, rafting, and even a bit of bike riding. He probably also doesn't remember one Feb 14 when we went canyoning overnight, floating on airbeds in a narrow, cave-like canyon, with glowworms twinkling above. Well he probably remembers that, but I doubt he remembers a quick kiss in the dark under those 'stars'. "Valentines Day, eat your heart out," I thought. There couldn't be anything more perfect than sharing this. This was my kind of romance.

Don't get me wrong. In the early days, there was what you'd call passion. Well, parked cars, and kissing, long telephone conversations, and gazing into each others eyes. He doesn't remember the gazing bit either, of course! Or so he says.

But I do, and I also remember an article I read many many years later where a woman described her relationship with her husband has having transitioned over the years from 'starry-eyed' to 'steadfast'. (Her story had an impact on me as her experience was similar in that with her husband she discovered the joys of camping, roughing it a bit, and challenging herself.)

It describes perfectly what we have. Well I think it does. Somewhere along the line, you realise that your love has transformed from the stars in the eyes, to something that runs much deeper. Perhaps others are able to maintain the fireworks over many years, but we aren't in that category. I just simply cannot imagine anyone else that I would want to be with for 'as long as we both shall live'.

I do recall probably the only other Valentines card we ever bothered with - somewhere in there, in the early days. It went something like 'For you I would climb the highest mountain, swim the deepest ocean,... collapse exhausted and muddy on your carpet..." Very apt. (Especially when it's me doing the collapsing.) Maybe they just don't make Valentines cards like they used to, or maybe we just stopped bothering to look, because really, we don't need them. I can't explain why it is so special to me, but actions speak louder than words on cards, and what we do together, as a challenge, forms the glue that binds us, and which seems to work quite well at repairing the sort of surface cracks that are bound to appear in any relationship.

We still own the double kayak, and we've had a few paddles in the last ten years but it's not the easiest pastime to balance with family commitments. It'll keep.

The latest chapter of our lives involves bicycles. Bicycles built for two, and even a bicycle built for three, as we envelop our three children in our steadfast "passion" and our "love".

And, so, while noting its occurence this week, we will continue to eschew the Festival of the Overpriced Flowers. He left today for 2 weeks working overseas, but in no way would I expect any delivery of flowers or the like. (I always reckon that if he started giving me flowers, I'd start thinking he had something to hide!)

Me...? I'll take a tandem over roses or diamonds any day as a declaration of his commitment to me and his commitment to "us". I don't think we need any more of them right now (we have 4 at the moment!).. But last week he bought a new cluster - gears that is, not diamonds! - for the tandem that I ride with our eldest daughter. (So we can go up hills easier!) And this week's special purchases will involve new bike knicks and gloves to make sure everyone in the family has the right gear to ride 500 km (in just over a month's time) on our bicycles built for two and three.

And, to prove my commitment, this week I should stop rabbiting on on this blog, and get up to date with the posts on the more important blog. The one about us, and our bike riding. Together.

Labels: introspection, reflections

Each year about the time that I finally get stuck into 'creating' the one 'tradition' I do at this time of year (ie. the photo of the girls, and then the 'blurb') I usually read some article or blog post or comments on blog posts that slam them as self centred, pukey, obsessive pieces.

So I 'angst' about it for a while, but then I usually still do them and send them out because a) at least some friends and family seem to like them... b) I enjoy a well-written 'year that was' blurb from others.... and c) I am a spoilt brat who has the time to do them because I don't work (and like any excuse to avoid housework.)

Some detractors comment that 'if you haven't seen these people during the year then what's the point?'.. and criticise the yearly christmas card list review and cull. The "Stuff them, they haven't sent me anything for a few years." sort of thing.

I have debated this within myself a few times, and each time I've come out the other end deciding that, through life, you accumulate a lot of friends.. and it's just not possible to hook up with them in a meaningful way every year, particularly when you tend to be geographically far-flung. But there are always some that you can not see for years, and then find you can chat, chat, chat as if it was only 10 weeks and not 10 years since you last spoke!

So if Christmas means nothing else to me, it does mean letting people know that they're not forgotten. I had, at one point, a great poem that summed this up, but blowed if I can find it right at this minute.

I live in hope that others don't mind reading our news, and are maybe inspired to send me their news. And I try not to be too pukey and self-obsessed.

Last year in my xmas letter I made a 'toast' to catching up with 'old friends' in the new year; and stuff me if it didn't happen. This year has been quite remarkable in the number of old friends we have had the enjoyment of catching up with.

So I shall remain strong, and keep on doing what I do. And keep on making my toast 'Here's to catching up with new and old friends in the coming year.'

I also do it for myself, because, self-centredly, yes, I love to read back on my 'yearly summaries'. It's amazing how you forget what you did, what the girls were up to, what you did, and what you were aiming to do in the following year.

Pixie referred (in the comments here) to our 2004 chrissy photo as her favourite.. so I thought I'd share the last few years of our photos since I was capable of putting them on a webpage. Reverse chronological order. You can see the progression of graphics abilities... with variations in inspiration. And it's a chance to rejoice in our gorgeous girls - a nice change from my usual grumblings and whingeing about them!



This one for 2003 said 'Wishing you a magical Christmas...':

Labels: Christmas, reflections

Not what you think. I mainly use that term to describe what I do to myself on a daily basis. Regarding what I shouldn't eat. And what I shouldn't drink. And why I stuff it up. Ah, and I was doing well today. I stopped myself buying chocolates or coke in the supermarket - and ate a nectarine instead. Hi fives to me. Feeling very virtuous. You can do this, Tracey, you can do this. Then I got home from the shops and had 'just one' biscuit (cookie) with a coffee. I had bought a pack of these 'homemade' style ones from the bakery section of Woollies. For the kids. Because they nag about not having nice stuff for afternoon tea. It had bits of Mars Bars in them. Mmmm. Then I had another one. And then I felt ick. And tonight I've had more. And I sabotage myself along those lines all the time. Idiot!

Somehow, today, the term sabotage seemed apt for something I felt like doing to a place I passed a few times. I am a bit bitter and twisted little puppy about an experience I had [*more than a year ago now] and I wish I had had the guts to be proactive about it at the time! Yeah, yeah, so this is another woe is me Tracey moment. (In perspective of course... but sometimes it's the little things.) So.. how would you feel about a salon where the owner, when doing an eyebrow wax, took half your eyebrow off and didn't tell you. And you didn't realise till spotting yourself in the mirror that night around bedtime! When I say half, I mean laterally... ie. my left eyebrow finished about in the middle of where it should have. And after that appointment I'd wandered happily around the shops and probably taken the girls to some activity.. and THERE I WAS WITH HALF AN EYEBROW.

Now, get this. When I rang the next morning, she said she knew! She knew and didn't tell me! All she could offer me was for me to come in (yeah right, another 25km trip to town - and it was then the weekend) and she could draw it in with eyebrow pencil. I didn't go back, ever. But I did have to suppress the urge to go in during the next week and stand outside their door making a scene to warn off potential customers. If she lost even one customer then that might be appropriate retribution.

I guess that's the sort of thing that might upset anybody... but I was particularly cheesed because I felt that she didn't really care because I am not at all 'glam'. Maybe that is just my paranoia, but I'm a bit of a fish out of water in a beauty salon. I had only started getting my eyebrows done fairly recently.. believe it or not. Bit of a dag's midlife crisis to start doing that after turning 40. (I was a bit miffed that Marc never noticed that I had started getting it done! - but I suppose you do that sort of stuff for yourself more than anything.)

I may have been able to move on and get over it, except that, since then, I've seen in the local paper that this particular salon has won awards! It's in a part of town I don't go to that often, but today I happened to walk past it several times, and they have advertising out the front proclaiming proudly about all the awards they have won. And it still makes me grind my teeth and mutter to myself.

And, while the idea of a rock through the window holds some merit, what I'd really really like to do is sabotage the business. Stand out the front and hand out pamphlets or something.

Pity I'm so gutless! I'd be scared of getting arrested!

Labels: introspection, reflections

Did I really just put that as a heading?

What about:
Why I am choosing to do a 5 hour return drive to go to a gynaecologist.

It does seem a bit crazy.. (and I know at least one other mum looked at me as if I was insane when I mentioned that I'd gone to Port for this minor surgery back in August instead of seeing someone locally.)

I never used to be particularly concerned about having to have a female doctor for all 'that stuff'. In the past I had my share of pap smears by male doctors, and with my first two pregnancies I saw a male obstetrician, and I thought he was great. And by far the best midwife I had (for Alison's birth) was a male. I could wax lyrical about him all day. Superlative. By far the easiest delivery of the three, and a lot of that was down to his support (despite the fact that I fainted twice when I was in labour because I'd been throwing up from a gastric bug till 10pm the night before!)

Then I moved up here.. fell pregnant with Zoe, and, seeing the previous pregnancy had only gone to 19 weeks, I was understandably just a bit fragile. And, like, super-paranoid.

The GP referred me to a particular obstetrician (who happened to be male) - who 'didn't have a good bedside manner' but was 'an excellent obstetrician'. Damn right about the bedside manner. His attitude throughout the pregnancy was pretty 'detached'. Wasn't interested in all in how I was handling the pregnancy emotionally. Then for the birth, I was, this time, only a medicare patient, and I was the responsibility of the doctor on call. He only turned up an hour after she was born. I tore pretty badly.. and he stitched me up as if I was a piece of meat.. at one point turning to the nurse (because I was reacting to the needle, imagine that...) and said 'Don't you believe in using gas around here?' and, to the registrar who was observing.. "Some use a small needle for this, but I choose to use a large one so it doesn't get lost in the vagina." Marc was sitting helpless in the corner because they'd shoved the baby in his arms. I sobbed the rest of the way through it, on gas, and so when it was over, and I was taken to my room and the nurse put his name down on the sign as my doctor, I was verging on hysterical: "I_don't _want_that_man_anywhere_near_ me_ again." (She changed it.)

The first hospital visit I got from the other obstetrician I'd been seeing was a 'nod' across the common room. (You're alive? Fine. Goodbye.) I then got mastitis; he did see me.. and prescribed stuff.. and I recall sitting in the hospital bed with him standing there, debating whether I was well enough (physically and emotionally) to go home. And he said "Well, I can't stand here talking to you all day".

Needless to say, I didn't go back to him ever again. I took myself and baby to a GP who did obstetrics for the 6 week check up.

I'd never needed a gyno again till recently... and believe it or not I didn't think much of the choice I had round here. Dr 'Can't Stand Here All Day' had retired. Dr "Blood" (as I later heard he was referred to as) was not an option. I'd heard good and bad about another .. but I just couldn't face one more male doctor.

When the Women's Health nurse recommended this woman gyno in Port, I said YES. 3 hours to Port? Who cares.

And, thank the stars I did. She is so wonderful. I could just hug her. I know when Marc drove me down there for the op in August he was wondering about this crazy choice I'd made.. but as soon as he met her afterwards, he simply said "Now I understand."

And yesterday's follow-up appointment; a pap-smear, and a 'look'.. and she ended up doing a biopsy.. which she warned me wasn't going to be 'nice'.. But she was so caring and apologetic throughout. "I'm so sorry about this..." And she said at one point "It's no fun being a woman sometimes is it?" Empathy has a lot going for it.

And she gives you all the facts and reasons. She's straight with you about the whys and wherefores.

And boy do I need someone like that.

And on top of that, the receptionist has been just fantastic in regard to fitting me in with appointments that will work with the drive there and back. I thanked her yesterday too. She was a bit taken aback, but I meant it. You don't actually come across that many specialist's receptionists that are that helpful and understanding. The total package at that place makes it worth the 5 hour drive.

Meantime, the biopsy was to be absolutely sure.. some slight "anomalies" but no other 'pre-cancerous' indicators. I asked her straight out how concerned she was, and she said 'I'm not, but it's best to be sure'. So I am optimistic. I might have to have some cauterisation type thing done.. (I hope not though.. that option means 6 weeks of bleeding, but no tampons, and so no swimming!) Fingers crossed though, that everything is ok. At least I feel like I am good hands. The total package. And that, these days, is just so underrated.

Labels: reflections