I've been meaning to paint the outside of my house for years. About six years ago when I was single my father said he'd help me, so we prepped and sanded, and I trialled a few colour patches... and that is as far as it went. There was always some reason or another why we never finished the job. One reason was my dad confessing to me after a few Christmas drinks a couple of years ago that he hated house painting! So poor little Private Jetty* has been sitting in all the elements with no protection, and now it looks really really shabby, in the way that only ex-govie houses in Canberra can look. When the grass is long I feel that it just needs a couple of broken down cars on the verge to complete the picture.
Best Beloved is not a home handyman. He is a jam-maker. I am the home handy-woman, but I'm not very diligent because I happen to be fairly lazy and prefer to read than be up a ladder. I do like a power drill, and I do have my favorite screwdriver set. I've come to terms with the fact that I will never paint the house on my own, so my New Year's resolution this year was to bloody well just pay someone to do it. And so I have.
I looked in the local community paper and picked out two nice-looking ads. One turned out to be an older Scottish man who has been painting for years, and gave me a whole book of references, most of which were written in old-lady handwriting proclaiming how much of a godsend he was and how nice he was to their disabled husbands. He gave me lots of free advice, warned me against young guns with cheaper quotes, then gave me a horrendously expensive quote and said he couldn't start for 8 weeks.
The other was a young gun with a brand-new van, his name on the personalised number-plate, and a buff physique. A new Australian (Turkish), he was very keen and puppy-like. We liked each other immediately, and even though BB was wary, I thought he deserved a chance. And he gave a reasonable quote and could start the next week. BB wanted me to get a third quote, but something about R just appealed to me (and it wasn't the thought of muscles on a ladder!).
Two days into the job, I know my instinct was right. The older guy would have been very irritating, with constant 'Dearie's and free advice. R is very friendly, much more savvy than I originally thought, and we have fun chats about his wife and two small girls. He's been in Australia for 5 years, had his own business for 3 years, and is very grateful to Australia for the opportunities it has offered him. although he finds Canberra a bit boring (heh)! He then said that Canberra was a good place to save money. I don't think so. I spend all mine on movies and house repairs! Mind you, I haven't seen a movie made for adults for ages, thanks to the school holidays.
Ooh, have run out of time, and must dash. Sorry, wanted to wind this up in some funny, interesting way, but never mind. I'll try harder next time.
*Most people refer to my house by the street it lives on, but I hung on the front verandah an old sign I found on a beach saying 'Private Jetty', so thats how I think of it. A lot of people walk past and ask where the boats are. Be patient, my creatures. I plan to find or make a few quirky garden feature boats to snuggle into my projected sea of blue-flowered plants! Once Bumblebee has grown out of the swing set.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Monday, January 23, 2006
Fancy!
Ten Top Trivia Tips about Duckie!
- A sixteenth century mathematician lost his nose in a duel over his love for Duckie, and wore a silver replacement for the rest of his life!
- Duckie has little need for water and is capable of going for months without drinking at all.
- Duckie kept at the window will keep vampires at bay.
- Duckie was invented in China in the eleventh century, but was only used for fireworks, never for weapons.
- If the annual Australian Duckie crop was laid end to end, it would stretch around the world seven times.
- A lump of Duckie the size of a matchbox can be flattened into a sheet the size of a tennis court.
- Duckie is only six percent water.
- You would have to dig through four thousand kilometres of Duckie to reach the earth's core!
- Duckie can only be destroyed by intense heat, and is impermeable even to acid.
- It's bad luck for a flag to touch Duckie!
A tip o' the hat to Ladycracker!
Sunday, January 22, 2006
On a lighter note...
It's been a hoot of a weekend!
First, Zoe and I went to a fitball class at the Australian Institute of Sport. I've always been told that Fitball is a gentle way to reintroduce my BFFA* to exercise. Gentle my arse! Wobbling around falling off a huge inflated ball is a completely undignified way to reintroduce my body to exercise, and it is NOT gentle. Ok, ok, gentler than walking down the frigging Giant Stairway, but only because it spreads the pain around my body evenly! The class was hilarious, and I think it deserves a joint photo-essay in the next few weeks. Zoe and I will work on it between gasps.
Secondly, Padge discover a cache of poisoned rats in the next-door neighbour's garage and painstakingly carried them over to our backyard for a play. Thank goodness we discovered him before he ate them. We thought he'd caught one, and then saw two others scattered nearby. He was very disappointed when we took them away. I'm sure the neighbour was very pleased that we cleaned them up for him!
Two happy cats, about to divvy up the spoils
Three dead rats, three dead rats, see how they, um, flop...
Then we went appliance shopping! What fun. I love making cash deals with pimply young things in major appliance franchises. We bought a huge food processor (for BB to make his preserves), a new toaster (finally, no more turning the homemade bread slices around to brown both ends) and a NEW TV! Actually, I'm not that excited by the idea of a new tv. Our old 34cm screen was quite serviceable, but it was very old, with no remote, and the routine for turning it on and watching a dvd or video rivalled something out of a Douglas Adams book. The new 51cm tv is still only cathode ray, but has all the relevant AV ports and we can now just turn on the tv and watch whatever we want. My father will collapse in relief next time he visits.
Of course, setting up the new tv took most of this morning, and meant that I had to rejig the whole living area. Having a more up-to-date tv meant that I could move the digital set-top box off the top of the stereo and I could reinstate the record player! I pulled out some favorite records and Bumblebee said 'Are you going to play that! How quaint!' I told him it was very hip to have a turntable. When I turned it over to the other side he was gobsmacked. He didn't know that records had two sides. Sigh. I feel old. He was equally delighted when I showed off my baby-pink vinyl of Elvis's greatest hits, and the red-vinyl double Beatles album. he's out there now, listening to 1982: Out of the Blue which I think is an essential education for anyone who wants to know about 80s music. Best Beloved pulled out his extremely funny and I'd say fairly rare copy of JJ's 'Dr Poo'. All Cisterns Go! It's Dr Poo in his Turdis, accompanied by his brainless assistant Dana Sock and Denis the Denim Cat!
We listened to albums and watched odd bits of tv on our alarmingly bigger screen while BB made tomato relish, rhubarb and orange marmalade and spicy plum sauce. Having heated up the house and ourselves to the point of heat exhaustion, I think we're off to the local pool for a while.
It's just not the same.
*Big Fat Flabby Arse
First, Zoe and I went to a fitball class at the Australian Institute of Sport. I've always been told that Fitball is a gentle way to reintroduce my BFFA* to exercise. Gentle my arse! Wobbling around falling off a huge inflated ball is a completely undignified way to reintroduce my body to exercise, and it is NOT gentle. Ok, ok, gentler than walking down the frigging Giant Stairway, but only because it spreads the pain around my body evenly! The class was hilarious, and I think it deserves a joint photo-essay in the next few weeks. Zoe and I will work on it between gasps.
Secondly, Padge discover a cache of poisoned rats in the next-door neighbour's garage and painstakingly carried them over to our backyard for a play. Thank goodness we discovered him before he ate them. We thought he'd caught one, and then saw two others scattered nearby. He was very disappointed when we took them away. I'm sure the neighbour was very pleased that we cleaned them up for him!
Two happy cats, about to divvy up the spoils
Three dead rats, three dead rats, see how they, um, flop...
Then we went appliance shopping! What fun. I love making cash deals with pimply young things in major appliance franchises. We bought a huge food processor (for BB to make his preserves), a new toaster (finally, no more turning the homemade bread slices around to brown both ends) and a NEW TV! Actually, I'm not that excited by the idea of a new tv. Our old 34cm screen was quite serviceable, but it was very old, with no remote, and the routine for turning it on and watching a dvd or video rivalled something out of a Douglas Adams book. The new 51cm tv is still only cathode ray, but has all the relevant AV ports and we can now just turn on the tv and watch whatever we want. My father will collapse in relief next time he visits.
Of course, setting up the new tv took most of this morning, and meant that I had to rejig the whole living area. Having a more up-to-date tv meant that I could move the digital set-top box off the top of the stereo and I could reinstate the record player! I pulled out some favorite records and Bumblebee said 'Are you going to play that! How quaint!' I told him it was very hip to have a turntable. When I turned it over to the other side he was gobsmacked. He didn't know that records had two sides. Sigh. I feel old. He was equally delighted when I showed off my baby-pink vinyl of Elvis's greatest hits, and the red-vinyl double Beatles album. he's out there now, listening to 1982: Out of the Blue which I think is an essential education for anyone who wants to know about 80s music. Best Beloved pulled out his extremely funny and I'd say fairly rare copy of JJ's 'Dr Poo'. All Cisterns Go! It's Dr Poo in his Turdis, accompanied by his brainless assistant Dana Sock and Denis the Denim Cat!
We listened to albums and watched odd bits of tv on our alarmingly bigger screen while BB made tomato relish, rhubarb and orange marmalade and spicy plum sauce. Having heated up the house and ourselves to the point of heat exhaustion, I think we're off to the local pool for a while.
It's just not the same.
*Big Fat Flabby Arse
Friday, January 20, 2006
Matters of the Heart (long post alert)
In the last post I nonchalantly mentioned my son's second heart op. I'm quite good at being nonchalant about his ops, because if I don't stay cool I get all emotional. But I was asked about it in the comments of the last post, and I feel like writing something tonight while BB is at a religious PhD party (don't ask), so I'll indulge myself. Apologies to anyone who has heard this story before.
NUMBER 1
Bumblebee was born in 1997, only a week early, but extremely skinny and yellow. He'd tied true knots in his umbilical cord and was so hungry he’d been using his own fat to stay alive. The hospital let him have a night with me to start him breastfeeding and then whisked him away to the special needs ward for a day or so. Apparently this is very routine and I was lucky to get that first night. We were sent home within a week, and that, as a solo mum, was very scary.
Anyhoo, for the first 6 weeks of his life I was shunted in and out of breastfeeding clinics because I had a baby that wouldn't thrive, and the finger was pointed firmly at me for not feeding properly. Being a first-time mother I had no defences. Babies don't come with manuals, and I didn't have any friends who had had babies (except one blessed friend who would come over and prop his chin up expertly). I felt cowed, and insecure, and a bad mother. My own mother was wonderful, and I think if she hadn't stayed close by for that first period of time, I would have had severe post-natal depression. Bumblebee was long, thin and very sleepy. He just couldn't stay awake to feed, and my breasts were killing me from all the milk building up. The nurses tried everything, from expressing to tubes attached next to my nipple, to bottles. I didn't want bottles, I wanted to feed him myself. They actually made me feel guilty for persisting! Sheesh.
Thankfully, because of his problems at birth, he was given a 6-week check-up by a paediatrician rather than a district nurse. He did a series of tests and discovered that Bumblebee had a heart murmur, and recommended we see a cardiatric paediatrician in Sydney, since there are none resident in Canberra. He got me an appointment as fast as he could, but none of us realised quite how serious the situation was. All I could think was 'yah boo sucks' to the Mothercare ladies – it wasn't me, it was him! A bit petty, really, but there you go.
If there had been the right facilities in Canberra, B would have been diagnosed properly, and airlifted immediately to Westmead in Sydney. As it was, we drove up the next week, and B seemed to me to be having an extra-sleepy day. He didn't make a peep the whole way. Good baby!
But! as soon as the specialist clapped eyes on him, it was all systems go. My tiny baby (about 9 weeks old now) was about to go into cardiac arrest. He was whisked away, and I was given a quick but serious chat by the specialist about Observations and Investigations and Surgery and Transplants. My mind reeled. I had only planned a day-trip, I didn't even have a change of clothes! My baby was dying! Hell!
They kept him in the cardio ward for a week, with wonderful nurses hovering, pretending that they were concerned for me, but in reality trying not to show me that they were waiting to see if B would cark it before his scheduled operation. They were trying to strengthen him a bit before doing all the tests to see what was actually wrong. I slept in a fold-out chair next to his bed, only in snatches.
Lots of nice doctors talking to me in clumps halfway through the week make my head spin. From what they could see from the outside he had multiple congential heart defects, including cor triatiatum, which means three heart chambers. There was a hole big enough to make another chamber, a blockage somewhere else, and I think a vein was upside-down. Turns out all the talk about transplants was just gumph to help me not panic on the first day, and a transplant would be impossible on someone still in 0000 size clothing. So they had to open him up to investigate, not sure what they would do, 2 in 3 chance he would die on the operating table, yada yada yada...
I chose to interpret that as he had a 1 in 3 chance of making it, and focused all my energy on really noticing how beautiful my son was. I borrowed a video camera from a friend, and documented him before they took him away. I remember the morning of his operation, I discovered how to use the fade button. I shot a small film of him smiling at the fishtank in the foyer, faded out, and then thought
'Oh shit. If he dies, I just faded out my last view of him on film. Was that an omen? Will that be the final tear-jerker? oh shit.'
Poor little Bumblebee spent 5 hours under the knife. I was given a pager and told to go out for a while. My parents and I wandered the streets of Parramatta listlessly, and went to the movies to try and distract ourselves. The only thing available was Jim Carrey in Liar Liar. I can't even bear looking at the video cover in shops now. It was such crap! And the pager keep giving out mournful little bleeps because they hadn’t bothered recharging the batteries and it was dying.
We dashed back to the hospital, just in time to greet the surgeon. He rushed up to me, a huge exhausted grin all over his face. Success! He was jubilant. Apparently they had no frigging idea what they were going to do once they'd opened him up, so they made it up as they went along, and they customised his heart. Closed one bit up, used a bit of his own flesh to patch another bit, carved a little bit of this. The surgeon's face was all shiny and proud. I was so grateful I kissed him, and he turned beetroot red! I was so happy, he was so happy, my parents were nearly fainting in relief. I still write him letters.
Small children are amazing. Because they are growing all the time, their cells are constantly multiplying, and they heal very fast. (Adults heal a lot slower, because we fear pain, and hold ourselves back from movement. Middle-age men take months to achieve what a baby manages in a week.) Bumblebee was in intensive care for about 4 days, then in the cardio ward for about 3 days, and then they sent him home with me. He was a completely different baby. He was hungry for the first time in his life. He stayed hungry. He's still hungry. And he's still thin! He had so much energy. And he needed lots of attention.
While I was away my father and friends had moved me into a new house, the house I'm sitting in writing this. All my things were arranged beautifully ( it took me over 6 months to find everything). I had stayed strong and positive throughout the whole experience, but the first night alone in a new, familiar yet unfamiliar house with my new, familiar yet unfamiliar changeling was just too much. I sat on the lounge-room floor and cried. I cried for hours. I kept weeping sporadically for weeks, then I pulled myself together again. Bumblebee just got stronger and stronger. They said he would be a slow developer, but he was running by 11 months and no-one's discovered an off-switch yet.
NUMBER 2
When he was 3 and a half, his biannual heart check-up discovered another glitch. This one, surprisingly, was nothing to do with the first. There was a growth in one of his valves, a ring which would thicken over time like orange peel. Most kids are discovered with it when the membrane thickens so much that it impedes blood flow and they look sick; Bumblebee was lucky that he had a specialist check him regularly and carefully. So another operation was scheduled for just after his 4th birthday.
This time I was prepared. but this time B was a lot older, and more cognizant. I had to read him books, talk about it, prepare special toys, and also prepare his Dad, who missed the first operation because we were at war. This time he wanted, and fair enough too, to be involved.
My auntie (a Chinese medicine doctor) offered us a gift of a Qigong treatment with a special practitioner in Sydney. This was to strengthen B's physical resources and give him enough energised Chi to help him through the operation. whilst not quite sure what to think of it, I said yes with an open mind, and we visited the fellow on the day we were due to go to the hospital.
Qigong (pronounced Chi-Goong) is all about spiritual energy, and the Qigong master (Z) reassured me that it was a quick, simple procedure, which consisted of B lying still and he would do a laying on of hands. A bit like raiki, I supposed. A few minutes into it, B was saying 'ow', 'ow', OW OW! HE'S ZAPPING ME! Apparently Z's touch was full of electricity! B got up and started wandering around the house and garden. Z quite calmly followed him around, placing his hands on B's head periodically. B was yell 'OW!' and take a swipe at him. It was quite hilarious. After about an hour we all said goodbye and B and I drove to the hospital. I don't know how much the Qigong worked, but he was full of beans in the cardio ward, dashing up and down the corridor and being very hard to settle. So much energy! Eventually I got him to lie in the bed while I read him Dahl's The BFG. We were both so nervous about the next day that we read the whole book from start to finish, and by the end I think all the kids and parents in the ward were quietly listening too.
Even though the odds were better this time, and I was familiar with the environment, it was still really hard to say goodbye. This time I let his dad carry him in the to anaesthetist, and I let his dad sit up all night with him in intensive care, because even though I was aching to be with B, I knew his dad wanted to make up for not being there the last time, and it was only fair to let him play his part.
(That sounds like all was happy, but in reality, his dad had said he would be there the whole week, and so I told my parents to go after the first few days. Straight after they left he decided the crisis was over and he could go home too, and so I was left at the hospital by myself for a few days, with no-one to tag team when I wanted a loo break and B was being clingy. Bloody Albatross. Deep breath.)
Again, being a cool kid, and maybe with the help of the Qigong, B physically recovered really fast. Here's proof:
And by day 7 he was sent home.
Unfortunately, when kids are old enough to be conscious of pain and retain fear, the mental healing takes a bit longer. To stop him from pulling out his drips and other cords, the nurses had tied his arms down to the bed. With just cause, because as soon as they released him he ripped his drip out. But he felt so angry and fearful of it happening again that when he got home he would wake in the night screaming, for the next 6 months at least, and each time was totally different. I could hug him to sleep one time, and the next he would hate to be touched. It was tough. But we got through it, with a lot of talking, and some lightsabre therapy. You see, while he was healing I introduced him to Star Wars. It was a life line to power and strength and dignity that he is yet to let go of. And I have no intention of dissuading him. He is still a very scared boy. He has a lot of rage in him. He would make a good Sith. Lightsabre battles are very cathartic!
There is no guarantee that he will never need further heart surgery. But he's been given the all-clear for 5 years now, and he's as healthy and normal as the next kid, probably more so because he carries no spare fat. He's checked twice a year, and that keeps my mind at ease. I have taught him to be proud of his dramatic scar, because he wouldn't be here without it. I encourage him to make up dashing stories about it.
The thing I learned from the experience of nearly losing my child a couple of times is to love him hard, but to be prepared to let him go at any time. I'm a conscious mix of fun mum and tough mum, because it would be so easy to smother him in a blanket of fear and concern. If I lost him tomorrow, I'd be in pieces, but I'd also be halfway to acceptance. Every day is a gift. And I appreciate it.
NUMBER 1
Bumblebee was born in 1997, only a week early, but extremely skinny and yellow. He'd tied true knots in his umbilical cord and was so hungry he’d been using his own fat to stay alive. The hospital let him have a night with me to start him breastfeeding and then whisked him away to the special needs ward for a day or so. Apparently this is very routine and I was lucky to get that first night. We were sent home within a week, and that, as a solo mum, was very scary.
Anyhoo, for the first 6 weeks of his life I was shunted in and out of breastfeeding clinics because I had a baby that wouldn't thrive, and the finger was pointed firmly at me for not feeding properly. Being a first-time mother I had no defences. Babies don't come with manuals, and I didn't have any friends who had had babies (except one blessed friend who would come over and prop his chin up expertly). I felt cowed, and insecure, and a bad mother. My own mother was wonderful, and I think if she hadn't stayed close by for that first period of time, I would have had severe post-natal depression. Bumblebee was long, thin and very sleepy. He just couldn't stay awake to feed, and my breasts were killing me from all the milk building up. The nurses tried everything, from expressing to tubes attached next to my nipple, to bottles. I didn't want bottles, I wanted to feed him myself. They actually made me feel guilty for persisting! Sheesh.
Thankfully, because of his problems at birth, he was given a 6-week check-up by a paediatrician rather than a district nurse. He did a series of tests and discovered that Bumblebee had a heart murmur, and recommended we see a cardiatric paediatrician in Sydney, since there are none resident in Canberra. He got me an appointment as fast as he could, but none of us realised quite how serious the situation was. All I could think was 'yah boo sucks' to the Mothercare ladies – it wasn't me, it was him! A bit petty, really, but there you go.
If there had been the right facilities in Canberra, B would have been diagnosed properly, and airlifted immediately to Westmead in Sydney. As it was, we drove up the next week, and B seemed to me to be having an extra-sleepy day. He didn't make a peep the whole way. Good baby!
But! as soon as the specialist clapped eyes on him, it was all systems go. My tiny baby (about 9 weeks old now) was about to go into cardiac arrest. He was whisked away, and I was given a quick but serious chat by the specialist about Observations and Investigations and Surgery and Transplants. My mind reeled. I had only planned a day-trip, I didn't even have a change of clothes! My baby was dying! Hell!
They kept him in the cardio ward for a week, with wonderful nurses hovering, pretending that they were concerned for me, but in reality trying not to show me that they were waiting to see if B would cark it before his scheduled operation. They were trying to strengthen him a bit before doing all the tests to see what was actually wrong. I slept in a fold-out chair next to his bed, only in snatches.
Lots of nice doctors talking to me in clumps halfway through the week make my head spin. From what they could see from the outside he had multiple congential heart defects, including cor triatiatum, which means three heart chambers. There was a hole big enough to make another chamber, a blockage somewhere else, and I think a vein was upside-down. Turns out all the talk about transplants was just gumph to help me not panic on the first day, and a transplant would be impossible on someone still in 0000 size clothing. So they had to open him up to investigate, not sure what they would do, 2 in 3 chance he would die on the operating table, yada yada yada...
I chose to interpret that as he had a 1 in 3 chance of making it, and focused all my energy on really noticing how beautiful my son was. I borrowed a video camera from a friend, and documented him before they took him away. I remember the morning of his operation, I discovered how to use the fade button. I shot a small film of him smiling at the fishtank in the foyer, faded out, and then thought
'Oh shit. If he dies, I just faded out my last view of him on film. Was that an omen? Will that be the final tear-jerker? oh shit.'
Poor little Bumblebee spent 5 hours under the knife. I was given a pager and told to go out for a while. My parents and I wandered the streets of Parramatta listlessly, and went to the movies to try and distract ourselves. The only thing available was Jim Carrey in Liar Liar. I can't even bear looking at the video cover in shops now. It was such crap! And the pager keep giving out mournful little bleeps because they hadn’t bothered recharging the batteries and it was dying.
We dashed back to the hospital, just in time to greet the surgeon. He rushed up to me, a huge exhausted grin all over his face. Success! He was jubilant. Apparently they had no frigging idea what they were going to do once they'd opened him up, so they made it up as they went along, and they customised his heart. Closed one bit up, used a bit of his own flesh to patch another bit, carved a little bit of this. The surgeon's face was all shiny and proud. I was so grateful I kissed him, and he turned beetroot red! I was so happy, he was so happy, my parents were nearly fainting in relief. I still write him letters.
Small children are amazing. Because they are growing all the time, their cells are constantly multiplying, and they heal very fast. (Adults heal a lot slower, because we fear pain, and hold ourselves back from movement. Middle-age men take months to achieve what a baby manages in a week.) Bumblebee was in intensive care for about 4 days, then in the cardio ward for about 3 days, and then they sent him home with me. He was a completely different baby. He was hungry for the first time in his life. He stayed hungry. He's still hungry. And he's still thin! He had so much energy. And he needed lots of attention.
While I was away my father and friends had moved me into a new house, the house I'm sitting in writing this. All my things were arranged beautifully ( it took me over 6 months to find everything). I had stayed strong and positive throughout the whole experience, but the first night alone in a new, familiar yet unfamiliar house with my new, familiar yet unfamiliar changeling was just too much. I sat on the lounge-room floor and cried. I cried for hours. I kept weeping sporadically for weeks, then I pulled myself together again. Bumblebee just got stronger and stronger. They said he would be a slow developer, but he was running by 11 months and no-one's discovered an off-switch yet.
NUMBER 2
When he was 3 and a half, his biannual heart check-up discovered another glitch. This one, surprisingly, was nothing to do with the first. There was a growth in one of his valves, a ring which would thicken over time like orange peel. Most kids are discovered with it when the membrane thickens so much that it impedes blood flow and they look sick; Bumblebee was lucky that he had a specialist check him regularly and carefully. So another operation was scheduled for just after his 4th birthday.
This time I was prepared. but this time B was a lot older, and more cognizant. I had to read him books, talk about it, prepare special toys, and also prepare his Dad, who missed the first operation because we were at war. This time he wanted, and fair enough too, to be involved.
My auntie (a Chinese medicine doctor) offered us a gift of a Qigong treatment with a special practitioner in Sydney. This was to strengthen B's physical resources and give him enough energised Chi to help him through the operation. whilst not quite sure what to think of it, I said yes with an open mind, and we visited the fellow on the day we were due to go to the hospital.
Qigong (pronounced Chi-Goong) is all about spiritual energy, and the Qigong master (Z) reassured me that it was a quick, simple procedure, which consisted of B lying still and he would do a laying on of hands. A bit like raiki, I supposed. A few minutes into it, B was saying 'ow', 'ow', OW OW! HE'S ZAPPING ME! Apparently Z's touch was full of electricity! B got up and started wandering around the house and garden. Z quite calmly followed him around, placing his hands on B's head periodically. B was yell 'OW!' and take a swipe at him. It was quite hilarious. After about an hour we all said goodbye and B and I drove to the hospital. I don't know how much the Qigong worked, but he was full of beans in the cardio ward, dashing up and down the corridor and being very hard to settle. So much energy! Eventually I got him to lie in the bed while I read him Dahl's The BFG. We were both so nervous about the next day that we read the whole book from start to finish, and by the end I think all the kids and parents in the ward were quietly listening too.
Even though the odds were better this time, and I was familiar with the environment, it was still really hard to say goodbye. This time I let his dad carry him in the to anaesthetist, and I let his dad sit up all night with him in intensive care, because even though I was aching to be with B, I knew his dad wanted to make up for not being there the last time, and it was only fair to let him play his part.
(That sounds like all was happy, but in reality, his dad had said he would be there the whole week, and so I told my parents to go after the first few days. Straight after they left he decided the crisis was over and he could go home too, and so I was left at the hospital by myself for a few days, with no-one to tag team when I wanted a loo break and B was being clingy. Bloody Albatross. Deep breath.)
Again, being a cool kid, and maybe with the help of the Qigong, B physically recovered really fast. Here's proof:
And by day 7 he was sent home.
Unfortunately, when kids are old enough to be conscious of pain and retain fear, the mental healing takes a bit longer. To stop him from pulling out his drips and other cords, the nurses had tied his arms down to the bed. With just cause, because as soon as they released him he ripped his drip out. But he felt so angry and fearful of it happening again that when he got home he would wake in the night screaming, for the next 6 months at least, and each time was totally different. I could hug him to sleep one time, and the next he would hate to be touched. It was tough. But we got through it, with a lot of talking, and some lightsabre therapy. You see, while he was healing I introduced him to Star Wars. It was a life line to power and strength and dignity that he is yet to let go of. And I have no intention of dissuading him. He is still a very scared boy. He has a lot of rage in him. He would make a good Sith. Lightsabre battles are very cathartic!
There is no guarantee that he will never need further heart surgery. But he's been given the all-clear for 5 years now, and he's as healthy and normal as the next kid, probably more so because he carries no spare fat. He's checked twice a year, and that keeps my mind at ease. I have taught him to be proud of his dramatic scar, because he wouldn't be here without it. I encourage him to make up dashing stories about it.
The thing I learned from the experience of nearly losing my child a couple of times is to love him hard, but to be prepared to let him go at any time. I'm a conscious mix of fun mum and tough mum, because it would be so easy to smother him in a blanket of fear and concern. If I lost him tomorrow, I'd be in pieces, but I'd also be halfway to acceptance. Every day is a gift. And I appreciate it.
Taking five
I know I whinged about memes last year, but they turn out to be a really fun way to take time out from tweaking the layout of the scholarly edition of Rolf Boldrewood's Rubbery Underarms, a story I adore, no matter how many times I dip into it. However, sometimes you need to change concentration tack, just for a break.
Here's one I picked up around the tracks, and whilst similar to the 'Four' meme I did the other day, there's some fun variants.
Ten years ago:
Starting second year of art school. Playing with papermaking and etching, while plotting how to spend more time with the letterpress equipment. Unhappily married. About to break away from marriage and start living my own way, but unfortunately* fall pregnant to my rebound fling. Shaft him whilst pregnant and begin to live life my own way, with a small stowaway. Much happier.
Five years ago:
Living as a single mum and still trying to get through art school. No sex for five years. Not missing it. Son just had second bout of open-heart surgery and all looks good. Working on letter press dual-translation artist book of Anna Akhmatova poetry. Working as freelance graphic designer. Very happy.
One year ago:
Finished art school but still working there. Paid as technical assistant to do letterpress printing but asked to do much more that others would be highly paid for. Working on lots of interesting work but none of it mine. Still doing freelance work. Newly married to Best Beloved, recent miscarriage, but very happy.
Five yummy things [that weren't listed in the last meme I did!]:
- Seville orange marmalade bread & butter pudding
- Beetroot Risotto
- Lamb roast
- White shiraz
- Lemon meringue pie
Five songs I know by heart:
- Giant Squid (Baterz)
- Dog Food (Iggy Pop)
- Kooks (David Bowie)
- This Masquerade (the Carpenters)
- A hell of a lot of jazz standards
Five things I would do with a lot of money:
- Set up my own fine press
- Wear something that doesn't come from Target or Vinnies
- Live in Tasmania in a house with enough wall space for both books and art
- buy my friends nice bottles of wine
- go travelling
Five things I would never wear:
- high heels
- yellow
- skirts above the knee
- leopard-skin leggings
- a Liberal party slogan
Five Favourite TV shows:
hmmm… I had trouble with this last time.
- Teachers
- Speaking in Tongues
- Little Britain
- South Park
- The News
Five things I enjoy doing [besides reading]:
- teasing the cats
- walking around looking up
- riding my bike on a mild day
- thinking about what books I want to make
- reading and writing blogs
Five people I want to inflict this on:
The next five people who want to.
*Only unfortunate in choice of rebound fling, not in results of pregnancy.
Here's one I picked up around the tracks, and whilst similar to the 'Four' meme I did the other day, there's some fun variants.
Ten years ago:
Starting second year of art school. Playing with papermaking and etching, while plotting how to spend more time with the letterpress equipment. Unhappily married. About to break away from marriage and start living my own way, but unfortunately* fall pregnant to my rebound fling. Shaft him whilst pregnant and begin to live life my own way, with a small stowaway. Much happier.
Five years ago:
Living as a single mum and still trying to get through art school. No sex for five years. Not missing it. Son just had second bout of open-heart surgery and all looks good. Working on letter press dual-translation artist book of Anna Akhmatova poetry. Working as freelance graphic designer. Very happy.
One year ago:
Finished art school but still working there. Paid as technical assistant to do letterpress printing but asked to do much more that others would be highly paid for. Working on lots of interesting work but none of it mine. Still doing freelance work. Newly married to Best Beloved, recent miscarriage, but very happy.
Five yummy things [that weren't listed in the last meme I did!]:
- Seville orange marmalade bread & butter pudding
- Beetroot Risotto
- Lamb roast
- White shiraz
- Lemon meringue pie
Five songs I know by heart:
- Giant Squid (Baterz)
- Dog Food (Iggy Pop)
- Kooks (David Bowie)
- This Masquerade (the Carpenters)
- A hell of a lot of jazz standards
Five things I would do with a lot of money:
- Set up my own fine press
- Wear something that doesn't come from Target or Vinnies
- Live in Tasmania in a house with enough wall space for both books and art
- buy my friends nice bottles of wine
- go travelling
Five things I would never wear:
- high heels
- yellow
- skirts above the knee
- leopard-skin leggings
- a Liberal party slogan
Five Favourite TV shows:
hmmm… I had trouble with this last time.
- Teachers
- Speaking in Tongues
- Little Britain
- South Park
- The News
Five things I enjoy doing [besides reading]:
- teasing the cats
- walking around looking up
- riding my bike on a mild day
- thinking about what books I want to make
- reading and writing blogs
Five people I want to inflict this on:
The next five people who want to.
*Only unfortunate in choice of rebound fling, not in results of pregnancy.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Nanny Mc... Colin!
Just took Bumblebee to see Nanny McPhee, since we've exhausted all other decent holiday movie choices (I refuse to see Chicken Little).
Emma Thompson is a smart cookie. She understands how to pull holiday mothers into a cinema. She gets Colin Firth back into longish hair, sideburns and a loose white cotton shirt. She also can pick talented children who look interesting and act well. Unfortunately she went a bit overboard on the tacky custard pie fights and silly donkeys for my taste. I'm a bit disappointed in Derek Jacobi too. He was my fantasy voice for many years (listen to I Claudius in the dark sometime and you'll understand, a bit like Fran with the shipping news) and I kept mistaking him for Benny Hill in this movie (internal voice: 'Benny Hill's dead, isn't he? I thought he was, maybe he's not? Nah, surely he's dead? Oh frick, it's Derek Jacobi').
Oh -- and I really disliked the way that characters would repeat really obvious things, as if they were in a pantomime. If another person happened to mention that Nanny McPhee had lost her first wart, I would have said 'Gah!' very audibly.
Thumbs up to the set and costume designers. There are lots of exquisite things to look at while you're trying not to think about the story and hammy acting. And the end credits are pretty spiffy too.
Like all book adaptations it just made me want to go and read the original books, in this case the Nurse Matilda books, written by Christianna Brand and illustrated by the delightful Edward Ardizzone.
But the bottom line is that Emma asked Colin to be a Mr Darcy whose Lizzy has died, leaving him with 7 gorgeous but naughty children. He did it, too. From start to finish, he was lovely. I could sit through the whole thing again just to watch him looking mock-amorously at Mrs Quickly.
Emma Thompson is a smart cookie. She understands how to pull holiday mothers into a cinema. She gets Colin Firth back into longish hair, sideburns and a loose white cotton shirt. She also can pick talented children who look interesting and act well. Unfortunately she went a bit overboard on the tacky custard pie fights and silly donkeys for my taste. I'm a bit disappointed in Derek Jacobi too. He was my fantasy voice for many years (listen to I Claudius in the dark sometime and you'll understand, a bit like Fran with the shipping news) and I kept mistaking him for Benny Hill in this movie (internal voice: 'Benny Hill's dead, isn't he? I thought he was, maybe he's not? Nah, surely he's dead? Oh frick, it's Derek Jacobi').
Oh -- and I really disliked the way that characters would repeat really obvious things, as if they were in a pantomime. If another person happened to mention that Nanny McPhee had lost her first wart, I would have said 'Gah!' very audibly.
Thumbs up to the set and costume designers. There are lots of exquisite things to look at while you're trying not to think about the story and hammy acting. And the end credits are pretty spiffy too.
Like all book adaptations it just made me want to go and read the original books, in this case the Nurse Matilda books, written by Christianna Brand and illustrated by the delightful Edward Ardizzone.
But the bottom line is that Emma asked Colin to be a Mr Darcy whose Lizzy has died, leaving him with 7 gorgeous but naughty children. He did it, too. From start to finish, he was lovely. I could sit through the whole thing again just to watch him looking mock-amorously at Mrs Quickly.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
The Illustrated Woodford 4: Making Books
1. THE WHINGE
I was so excited when I was accepted to teach visual art workshops at the Woodford Folk Festival. I worked out some fun ideas for some book-based classes, I'd given them a clear outline of what I wanted to do, and a pretty straightforward materials list, full of things that I figured they'd have left over from past years, but with a few special requirements, like the need for each participant to have a few good sheets of paper each (not just bond paper). I mean, if you're paying $30 each to make books, they might as well be nice books, non?
Anyway, I emailed a few times to add a few things, and check that all was ok, and the replies were always friendly, short, and positive. Excellent, full steam ahead! Imagine my surprise and dismay, then, when I arrived and tried to set up, to find that they had very little of what I needed, and a vague comment that 'things had been ordered, but they seem not to have arrived'! Eek! Of course, being the first day, everyone was rushed off their heads and I wasn't the only workshop to set up, but I didn't get any help. I was shown the materials storeroom, and told to find what I needed. I did, but it wasn't quite what I expected.
Don't get me wrong. It all worked out because the whole point of my classes is making do with what you can find around the house. But in the five months between knowing that I needed certain materials and the start of the festival, you think someone would have at least had a glance through the stores to see if there was stuff I could use? For instance, I asked for water-soluble relief inks in order to do some monoprinting on the tables. There was a box marked printing inks, but it contained three pots of water-soluble inks: a red, and two whites. Totally unusable, unless you like pink. There was, however, a reasonable selection of oil-based inks, probably because no-one in the last 5 years has wanted to subject their class to solvents. I didn't either, but what to do? As far as paper went, there was about ten sheets of Mi Tientes coloured paper, and a pile of cartridge paper. I was told at first not to use up all the coloured because it was expensive, but seeing as I had requested at least 3 times that much, I went ahead and used it up. I was supposed to teach around 40 people how to make books with ten sheets of paper! I had to borrow some good thread from the nice bush-basket weaving woman, and I managed to scrape up enough large needles for half the class to stitch at a time.
There was no point making a fuss on the spot, because that wouldn't have magically brought materials to my feet and it would have generated a lot of bad feelings. I will be sending a letter with feedback, because I do think it was a bit rough. My general impression is that maybe the person in charge hasn't got enough back-up help until the volunteers roll in, which is unfortunate. And she is organising LOTS of workshops. All hail to the volunteers, though. They were great. I'm hoping I get the chance to come back to the next festival, because once the classes got going it was a hoot, and my students and I had a terrific time. I think next time (if there is one) I will organise the materials myself. It will save a lot of hassle, and lift a bit of the burden, and a lot more will be achieved. As it was, I was trying to teach and rustle up materials at the same time, and it was a bit distracting.
2. THE FUN
I taught four workshops through the week, of three hours each. The first two were earlier in the week, and most people aren't thinking about art at that point. They want to immerse themselves in music. So the first two classes had about 6 people in them, which was terrific. You can really spend quality time with a small group. Later in the week I had the full complement of people, which is meant to be 10 per class. I got a few more, so we all moved up a bit and managed, even though the tents are stuffy, the weather is scorching, and you have to try to keep your paper clean whilst dropping huge blobs of sweat everywhere!
There were two different classes – the first was simple printmaking (making monoprints using different techniques) and then constructing a concertina-bound 'star' book from the prints (you sew three differently-sized concertinas together and when you sit them the right way they make a star). Unfortunately the oil-based inks didn't dry as fast as the water-based would have, but in the Qld heat they dried just enough to make some great books, albeit a bit sticky! By the way, we discovered that oil-based printing ink comes off skin easily with those wet wipes designed for removing makeup – imagine what solvent is in the wipes!
we rolled the inks out onto pieces of acetate, then laid the paper down and drew and stamped with various materials to make different effects. If the drawings were good, they worked out a way to feature both sides of the paper, but sometimes you just want to feature the print...
Trying desperately to get the prints dry before making them into a star book...
The second workshop was just simple bookbinding techniques. Because I only had a few large needles, one half of the class would make a concertina-bound book (or two, or three, as some creative types did), and the other half would learn Coptic binding, and then they'd swap. Each class went slightly overtime, because Coptic binding does take a while to learn. Next year I’ll just do one class per book method. Then they can really go hog-wild with the embellishments.
we managed to get a lot done with simple materials, plus some of the tools I'd brought along with me (and I thought I'd overpacked! heh.)
All the participants did so well! I had one fellow who had never done anything crafty before, and he fel behind the rest of the class trying to get his head around the multiple needles and thread, but when he'd finished (with a bit of extra TLC) and produced his own coptic-bound book, I was so proud of him. There were a couple of children in my first printing class, and they had a great time. One girl (no more than 9 y-o) made a terrific book about cows, called Mr Cow's Chaotic Book. She had a thing about drawing cows, and she was good at it. She also wrote a story about someone called Professor Angry Pants. I told her I knew a few of those…
Mr Cow's (Chaotic) Book, a concertina book with removable hard covers
A lot of attendees said that they come to Woodford and just spend the week doing workshops. Some were married to or children of performers (I guess it would get boring being dragged from performance to performance), and one woman said it was the only chance she had to catch up with her family, so she’d make stuff and they'd go to concerts. Others just wanted something concrete to take home with them. Everyone kindly said that they had a great time, and I asked them to tell the organisers so that I could come back! Nothing like a bit of feedback, bad or good.
So check out our little gallery of book making by my students (this is not all the books, apologies to anyone who is missing -- but some of you disappeared before I remembered my camera!):
A good example of how you can feature the drawings on the back of the prints. The front of the books have windows cut into them so that you can peep into all the layers.
Here's the front. It's hard to see the layers here, but she's cut it very creatively. The red bits you can see are actually the back layer, and the brown and blue are the middle layer.
Another 'star' book, using the theme of Woodford itself, with all the circus tents and crowds. This one has little detachable covers on each side so that when the book is folded up, it has a hard cover.
The back view of the circus book. She's used a stamp I'd carved from an old cork and the printing inks.
This woman had done another workshop which produced rusted paper. I was hoping someone would come along to my workshop straight after, because the rusting effect looks so nice. She's made a 'star' book with it, and later you'll see the coptic book she made with rusted covers.
A star! ta daaa...
most people in my book class came away with two books, a concertina-bound book with detachable hard covers, and a coptic-bound notebook. Here's an example of both side by side.
The rusted-paper cover coptic book. She's attached a piece of the thread to wrap around the book as a fastening.
This woman had brought along some nice Japanese papers and used them to great effect, don't you think? This is her coptic stitching...
...And here is her concertina book. when I say concertina, I mean that the concertina fold is the spine of the book, and you sew the page sections to either the mountain or the valley of the fold.
'Upside-down Miss Jane!' A very cute green coptic book. Unfortunately the book and its shadow looks weird when I flip the image around, so I'll keep it upside down.
Isn't it great that a room full of people are given the same instructions and come away with totally individual results? This is a lovely little slip-fastening for this woman's concertina book.
So there you have it. My account of Woodford and what I did with it. I like the thought that there is a whole bunch of people out there who had fun with me and took home a souvenir of our time together. Hooray!
I was so excited when I was accepted to teach visual art workshops at the Woodford Folk Festival. I worked out some fun ideas for some book-based classes, I'd given them a clear outline of what I wanted to do, and a pretty straightforward materials list, full of things that I figured they'd have left over from past years, but with a few special requirements, like the need for each participant to have a few good sheets of paper each (not just bond paper). I mean, if you're paying $30 each to make books, they might as well be nice books, non?
Anyway, I emailed a few times to add a few things, and check that all was ok, and the replies were always friendly, short, and positive. Excellent, full steam ahead! Imagine my surprise and dismay, then, when I arrived and tried to set up, to find that they had very little of what I needed, and a vague comment that 'things had been ordered, but they seem not to have arrived'! Eek! Of course, being the first day, everyone was rushed off their heads and I wasn't the only workshop to set up, but I didn't get any help. I was shown the materials storeroom, and told to find what I needed. I did, but it wasn't quite what I expected.
Don't get me wrong. It all worked out because the whole point of my classes is making do with what you can find around the house. But in the five months between knowing that I needed certain materials and the start of the festival, you think someone would have at least had a glance through the stores to see if there was stuff I could use? For instance, I asked for water-soluble relief inks in order to do some monoprinting on the tables. There was a box marked printing inks, but it contained three pots of water-soluble inks: a red, and two whites. Totally unusable, unless you like pink. There was, however, a reasonable selection of oil-based inks, probably because no-one in the last 5 years has wanted to subject their class to solvents. I didn't either, but what to do? As far as paper went, there was about ten sheets of Mi Tientes coloured paper, and a pile of cartridge paper. I was told at first not to use up all the coloured because it was expensive, but seeing as I had requested at least 3 times that much, I went ahead and used it up. I was supposed to teach around 40 people how to make books with ten sheets of paper! I had to borrow some good thread from the nice bush-basket weaving woman, and I managed to scrape up enough large needles for half the class to stitch at a time.
There was no point making a fuss on the spot, because that wouldn't have magically brought materials to my feet and it would have generated a lot of bad feelings. I will be sending a letter with feedback, because I do think it was a bit rough. My general impression is that maybe the person in charge hasn't got enough back-up help until the volunteers roll in, which is unfortunate. And she is organising LOTS of workshops. All hail to the volunteers, though. They were great. I'm hoping I get the chance to come back to the next festival, because once the classes got going it was a hoot, and my students and I had a terrific time. I think next time (if there is one) I will organise the materials myself. It will save a lot of hassle, and lift a bit of the burden, and a lot more will be achieved. As it was, I was trying to teach and rustle up materials at the same time, and it was a bit distracting.
2. THE FUN
I taught four workshops through the week, of three hours each. The first two were earlier in the week, and most people aren't thinking about art at that point. They want to immerse themselves in music. So the first two classes had about 6 people in them, which was terrific. You can really spend quality time with a small group. Later in the week I had the full complement of people, which is meant to be 10 per class. I got a few more, so we all moved up a bit and managed, even though the tents are stuffy, the weather is scorching, and you have to try to keep your paper clean whilst dropping huge blobs of sweat everywhere!
There were two different classes – the first was simple printmaking (making monoprints using different techniques) and then constructing a concertina-bound 'star' book from the prints (you sew three differently-sized concertinas together and when you sit them the right way they make a star). Unfortunately the oil-based inks didn't dry as fast as the water-based would have, but in the Qld heat they dried just enough to make some great books, albeit a bit sticky! By the way, we discovered that oil-based printing ink comes off skin easily with those wet wipes designed for removing makeup – imagine what solvent is in the wipes!
we rolled the inks out onto pieces of acetate, then laid the paper down and drew and stamped with various materials to make different effects. If the drawings were good, they worked out a way to feature both sides of the paper, but sometimes you just want to feature the print...
Trying desperately to get the prints dry before making them into a star book...
The second workshop was just simple bookbinding techniques. Because I only had a few large needles, one half of the class would make a concertina-bound book (or two, or three, as some creative types did), and the other half would learn Coptic binding, and then they'd swap. Each class went slightly overtime, because Coptic binding does take a while to learn. Next year I’ll just do one class per book method. Then they can really go hog-wild with the embellishments.
we managed to get a lot done with simple materials, plus some of the tools I'd brought along with me (and I thought I'd overpacked! heh.)
All the participants did so well! I had one fellow who had never done anything crafty before, and he fel behind the rest of the class trying to get his head around the multiple needles and thread, but when he'd finished (with a bit of extra TLC) and produced his own coptic-bound book, I was so proud of him. There were a couple of children in my first printing class, and they had a great time. One girl (no more than 9 y-o) made a terrific book about cows, called Mr Cow's Chaotic Book. She had a thing about drawing cows, and she was good at it. She also wrote a story about someone called Professor Angry Pants. I told her I knew a few of those…
Mr Cow's (Chaotic) Book, a concertina book with removable hard covers
A lot of attendees said that they come to Woodford and just spend the week doing workshops. Some were married to or children of performers (I guess it would get boring being dragged from performance to performance), and one woman said it was the only chance she had to catch up with her family, so she’d make stuff and they'd go to concerts. Others just wanted something concrete to take home with them. Everyone kindly said that they had a great time, and I asked them to tell the organisers so that I could come back! Nothing like a bit of feedback, bad or good.
So check out our little gallery of book making by my students (this is not all the books, apologies to anyone who is missing -- but some of you disappeared before I remembered my camera!):
A good example of how you can feature the drawings on the back of the prints. The front of the books have windows cut into them so that you can peep into all the layers.
Here's the front. It's hard to see the layers here, but she's cut it very creatively. The red bits you can see are actually the back layer, and the brown and blue are the middle layer.
Another 'star' book, using the theme of Woodford itself, with all the circus tents and crowds. This one has little detachable covers on each side so that when the book is folded up, it has a hard cover.
The back view of the circus book. She's used a stamp I'd carved from an old cork and the printing inks.
This woman had done another workshop which produced rusted paper. I was hoping someone would come along to my workshop straight after, because the rusting effect looks so nice. She's made a 'star' book with it, and later you'll see the coptic book she made with rusted covers.
A star! ta daaa...
most people in my book class came away with two books, a concertina-bound book with detachable hard covers, and a coptic-bound notebook. Here's an example of both side by side.
The rusted-paper cover coptic book. She's attached a piece of the thread to wrap around the book as a fastening.
This woman had brought along some nice Japanese papers and used them to great effect, don't you think? This is her coptic stitching...
...And here is her concertina book. when I say concertina, I mean that the concertina fold is the spine of the book, and you sew the page sections to either the mountain or the valley of the fold.
'Upside-down Miss Jane!' A very cute green coptic book. Unfortunately the book and its shadow looks weird when I flip the image around, so I'll keep it upside down.
Isn't it great that a room full of people are given the same instructions and come away with totally individual results? This is a lovely little slip-fastening for this woman's concertina book.
So there you have it. My account of Woodford and what I did with it. I like the thought that there is a whole bunch of people out there who had fun with me and took home a souvenir of our time together. Hooray!
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