But they'll think I'm a girl!

 My son has long hair.  It’s beautiful hair – golden brown with a slight curl at the end.  His hair is thick and glorious and (when brushed properly) very, very smooth.  And it has grown past his shoulders.  His fringe is non-existent – the front of his hair hangs to just below chin level.

He’s always had a lot of hair.  His sisters were both essentially bald as babies – they both had their first haircut at almost three.  He had so much hair that he genuinely needed a haircut at nine months, but his temperament did not allow for that – he had his first haircut at one.  I’ve cut his hair myself a couple of times, using the clippers that I cut his dad’s hair with. 

When he was younger, he didn’t really have an opinion on his hair.  I kept it short, clipped to the number 3 setting on my clippers.  My husband has a zero (almost completely shaved), so I didn’t really think that the 3 was particularly short.  For the longest time, he was happy with that.  Then lockdown happened, and he didn’t want me to cut his hair.  And then he didn’t want to have a haircut at all.  And then he was immensely pleased with the beautiful, long hair that resulted.  He is less pleased about brushing said hair, mind you, but I have made that a condition of the long hair – to keep it, it must be brushed daily.

My other requirement is that it needs to be tied back off his face.  He’d wander around with it hanging in his eyes, but I don’t like that, plus he is forever running into stuff (or getting his hair into his mouth or his food) if it’s not tied back.  He likes his ears covered, so we have arrived at a compromise – the front “fringe” of his hair is pulled back into a small pony tail on the top of his head, the rest is left down.

Over the last few months, we have been discussing school and what we’ll do with his hair.  Although the school he’ll be going to has no official hair policy, I have an official I-despise-nits policy, so long hair will be tied back in a proper pony tail to limit the chances of him bringing those nasty little suckers home (as a sidebar, I made it through my entire childhood without ever having nits.  The first year that both my daughters picked them up, I managed to acquire them from the same girl-child TWICE.  I have almost waist-length hair.  It’s fine, but there is lots and lots of it.  Getting a nit comb through my hair is an absolute epic drama.  Nits suck).  We have talked about having all his hair tied back in a pony tail at school.  He seemed cool with it.

So, cut to his Prep step-up day.  This is the day where he goes to school, meets his teacher, sees his classroom, gets to meet a few of his classmates.  He was super excited.  In school uniform by 6am.  Kept asking if we could leave now (our step-up time was 10am).  About 20 minutes before we were going to leave, I told him I wanted to put his hair in a pony tail.  He lost his mind about it, insisted that everyone would think he was a girl with a pony tail.  Cried and cried and begged to have his hair down.  In the end I said that the front had to be tied back.  He requested a jaunty pony tail on top of his head, with the rest of his hair brushed down.

We got to school and were talking to another family, a mum and her daughter who’d arrived at the same time as us.  The teacher arrived and announced, “Oh, we’ve got two girls here first!” My son, who had spent ages telling me a pony tail would make them think he was a girl and how he didn’t like that, just grinned at her and did not care at all.  I said he was a boy.  We moved on.

Compounding the long-hair-means-girl issue is the fact that my son has a gender-neutral name.  It’s not even one of those names with different male/female spelling (like Peter/Peta), so it can be a little confusing for others sometimes.  Entertainingly, my eldest daughter (who has relatively short hair and has been mistaken for a boy on many occasions) also has a gender-neutral name. Unlike her brother, her name has male and female spelling, so when it’s written down, it’s clear she’s a girl.  My middle kid has a very definitely female name.  I don’t believe there is even a male equivalent to her name (like Julian/Juliette or Andrew/Andrea).  There is not even a nickname possible that could even hint at being male.  And she has waist-length blonde hair, loves a dress and sparkles and favours hair clips and bands (the more the merrier).

As an aside, two days after his Step-Up day, it was ridiculously hot and humid here.  I told my son I was tying his hair in a ponytail to keep his hair off his back and neck and maybe let him cool down somewhat.  He moaned and whined all the way through the hair-tying process.  Once I’d managed to get it all tied back (it took four times longer than necessary because of the whining), he looked at himself in the mirror and announced rather smugly, “You know, I do look pretty cool.” And ran around with a ponytail for the next three hours, happy as a bird.

On Healthcare

 My parents have always had private health insurance.  Always.  When I was younger, if you were a full-time student, you were covered under your parents’ private health insurance until you were 25.  I was still a full-time student at 25, so I was covered by their plan until then.  The day of my 25^th birthday, my then-fiancé/now-husband transferred his single-person private health to a couple one, and I joined his.  I’ve never not had private health insurance.  Not even for a day.

Our private health insurance currently costs our family of five $560 a month.  My husband’s company pays just over half of this as part of his salary package, so our cost for our insurance is about $250 a month.  It’s pretty good insurance, covering most things.  The only exceptions to our insurance level is joint replacements and dialysis.  Neither of these are covered. 

Private health insurance in Australia also does not cover the cost of a visit to your doctor (general practitioner or specialist) or the cost of any medications.  Medical visits are covered by Medicare, which is available to all Australian citizens and residents, and the cost of some medications is subsidised or reduced (also by the government), particularly for those on lower incomes.  Medicare may not cover the full cost of your doctor’s bill, but clinics will advertise if they are “bulk bill” (they only charge the standard Medicare fee per visit) or if they are not.  My local doctor, for example, charges approximately double the standard Medicare fee.  You pay the cost for the doctor’s visit, and then they process the Medicare rebate electronically.  The rebate money is in your bank account immediately.  The difference between these amounts is referred to as “the gap”.

Private health insurance does cover the cost of dental visits (regular check-ups and orthodontic work), glasses (although the actual eye-test is covered by Medicare), private hospital care and a variety of “complementary” therapies (think physiotherapy, massage therapy, chiropractor), although the type of therapy and cost covered depends on your plan.  Similar to Medicare, private health has a fixed cost for each service covered, and if you chose a place that charges more than that, you have to pay the difference.  Payment is made directly to the service provider – they will process your private health rebate electronically, and then you pay any difference owing.  Most health care funds will also give you a list of providers who charge the “standard” fee, so you can choose someone whose rates are fully covered.

I had three babies as a private patient.  My regular obstetrician’s appointments were subsidised by Medicare, with me paying the gap.  My obstetrician’s office provided a list of all costs upfront (including regular obstetrics visits, pregnancy ultrasounds, any extra blood tests), so I knew what I would need to pay, and what Medicare/private health would cover.  My private health cover has a $500 excess for obstetrics, which meant that I had to pay the private hospital $500 up front.  All other costs were charged directly to my health fund.  All of my children were born at the same hospital and I had a private room with each.  I stayed for six nights with the first, three nights with the second and four nights with the third.  Although four nights was the standard stay, they let me stay six with the first because she was in the Special Care nursery for the first four nights.  Both my obstetrician and her paediatrician wouldn’t discharge me without her.  For each of those three stays, I paid $500.  My health insurance paid the rest.

I’ve never had a disagreement with my health insurer over payment of a bill.  The closest it came to this was after my eldest daughter was born.  Because she was born not breathing, they did a number of tests (swabs and blood tests) to determine if she had an infection.  Over the course of the six days we were in hospital, they did about a dozen such tests.  The first two tests were done in the first minutes of her life.  She wasn’t actually registered as a patient at the hospital until after they’d intubated her and got her breathing (a course of action that I fully support), and these two first tests were therefore technically performed on an “out-patient”.  Consequently, they had a different code on them to the others, and the insurance didn’t cover these particular tests on an out-patient.  When I went in to get my rebates processed at my fund’s office, the woman helping me explained this.  I explained why she’d technically not been a patient at the time.  The woman gave me the details of what I’d need to get the tests recognised and covered (several forms signed by at least two of the doctors, information from the hospital), which sounded like a lot of effort to me.  I asked how much the rebate was worth.  She looked it up and told me $15.  I told her not to worry about it.

Let me please point out that I’d have gotten the same level of care if I’d been a patient in a public hospital, not in a private one.  The difference would have been in the room type (possibly a shared room) and in the length of stay (usually 24 – 48 hours for a regular birth, with a midwife coming to your home to check on you and the baby for a couple of days later).  I’d also have been allowed to stay longer in the public system with a baby in special care, just as I was in a private hospital.

To point to the strength of the Australian medical system, particularly in big cities – I’ve only ever had to call for an ambulance twice.  Both times were last year.  The first was for my son – he slipped and fell off the bed and hit his head.  The ambulance was there within ten minutes.  The paramedics did a full range of checks, even though he was very clearly all right by the time they arrived.  They offered to take us to the children’s hospital for observation and reminded me to call immediately if anything changed.  There was no charge at all for this.

The second ambulance was for me.  I had extreme dizziness, to the point where I couldn’t stand up.  Again, the ambulance was at my door within ten minutes.  The paramedics did all the standard checks, plus two separate ECGs in my living room.  They took me to a public hospital (they offered me a choice of three; I chose the closest) and I had to provide my Medicare details.  No one asked a thing about private health insurance.  I was in the waiting room for about three hours, during which time a nurse came round to do observations (blood pressure, temperature, etc) on everyone waiting there.  I saw a junior doctor (who did all the same things as the paramedics, plus another ECG and a pregnancy test).  The consultant (senior doctor) then came in and ran through all the same stuff (minus the ECG, although she did study the results of both the paramedics’ and the junior doctor’s ones).  By the time all this was done, I was feeling fine, and there was no obvious cause for my dizziness.  The consultant recommended I see my GP to have some bloodwork done. 

Total cost of my trip to hospital and all of that?  Zero.  The only thing I paid for was the taxi ride home.  I could have paid less (there is excellent public transport between the hospital and the suburb where I live), but given my prior dizziness, I figured a taxi was a better choice. 

We’re lucky to live in a place like we do, with accessible and affordable health care, with or without private health insurance.  Yes, we pay taxes to cover this privilege, but it’s something I’m perfectly willing to cover.  There are a lot of places in the world where health care isn’t as easy to get to or to afford.

Once Upon A Time . . . We moved to the other side of the world

A stroke of luck (or good timing) saw us offered an international secondment in our early thirties, and we decided that it might be a good idea to move halfway ‘round the world for a few years. 

My husband and I are both scientists; we met at university.  At the time, we both worked for the same company, and we relocated to a refinery and lab that the company owned in Canada.  I was offered a job that was similar to the work I’d been doing previously; my husband’s new role was as an engineer, not as a scientist.  We moved from the east coast of Australia to a town in the province of Quebec in Canada. 

And did I mention that we were both expected to carry out our new roles in French?

We’d both been learning French for a few years beforehand – our company was headquartered in Montreal, so a number of the English-speaking sections of the business offered French classes to employees.  We’d both started classes when they were offered to our group.  The classes were two hours long, once a week. If you’ve ever learned a language, you’ll understand that two hours a week is not really a lot.  Unless you’re a linguistic genius, two hours a week will not teach you to be fluent.  At best, after a year or so, you’ll be able to read basic signs and documents (like menus), book yourself into a hotel, order your dinner and tell a taxi driver where you’d like to go. 

So, we moved to Quebec.  My husband did a week of intensive French classes before we went; I did not.  When we arrived, we went straight into the language school at the local college – I had a three week course, my husband did four.  The language course that we did was the course that was done by government officials who were required to be bilingual, so they were fairly intensive.  Seven hours a day of one-on-one lessons with a teacher, living with a French speaking family during the course, two after-class activities per week with other students, visiting places of interest in the local area, speaking only French.  My husband and I elected to live with different families for the duration of our study, so that we didn’t speak English to each other.  Everyone around us (teachers, other students, home-stay families, our employers) thought this was either hilarious or crazy (or both), but by the end of the course, they all agreed that we’d done the right thing.

Even after our language course, we were both extremely basic French speakers.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  Our speaking was not the issue; the ability to understand a conversation was the bigger problem.  One-on-one, when the other person was speaking slowly, choosing their words well and NOT using slang, it wasn’t too bad.  In a meeting (or in a lunchroom full of people speaking in slang with their quite different regional accents), it was far more challenging.  Conversations on a telephone, absent of the non-verbal cues that you get through face-to-face interactions were horrid.

Three months into our three-year stay, my French was good enough to do my job, but it took an extra three months to feel confident on the telephone.  By the end of the first year, I could hold my own in any meeting, have high-level technical discussions with other scientists and write short technical documents in French.  It took my husband six months to reach the “good enough” stage, and the telephone took a little longer.  Interestingly, while my husband’s French was never anywhere near as good as mine, both grammatically or with regard to his ability to discuss technical detail, he easily developed the ability to understand his plant operators, speaking in their local accents, over a walkie-talkie with plant noise roaring in the background.  I remember listening to him argue his (technical) point with an old-school operator over a “Mike” (walkie-talkie/phone) one afternoon.  My French was far better than his, but I struggled to understand the operator over all the noise in the background.

Once we had the language under control, working in another country became far easier.  We both enjoyed the work that we did and the people that we worked with were interesting and (in general) accommodating while we were first settling in.  We travelled a lot in our free time, saw much of Quebec province and Canada in general, and managed to fit in several trips throughout the USA.  

Unlike others we knew who’d been on secondment, we had two very distinct advantages – firstly, we were both employed as part of the secondment, which meant that while we were working, we were both out and about, practicing the language, meeting new people and setting up our social networks.  One of us never relied on the other for our social connections, to organise activities, to translate anything in the day-to-day.  The second was that we didn’t have kids at the time.  So many of our colleagues had done the whole secondment thing once they had kids, and aside from the fact that the primary parent usually stayed at home and didn’t get a chance to have the same work interactions, there was also the negotiation of schooling (which was not a trivial thing in French-speaking Quebec) and your kids’ friends and all the rest, all in a language that you and the kids may not speak.

Our time in Quebec was our last great adventure in our lives before children and it serves as a very real marker of the point between “couple” and “family”.  It was an amazing experience to have had, even with all of the challenges it posed.

Dear Australia

The following was written and sent to Australia Post's "Dear Australia" project.

Today is the 13^th of June, 2020. There have been 7290 cases of COVID-19 in Australia, with 102 deaths. There are presently 405 active cases – 403 of these are classified “mild”, two are “serious or critical”. Roughly 1.75 million COVID-19 tests have been carried out. We’re in Level Two of re-opening. In Queensland, this means that up to 20 people can gather indoors and outdoors. Restaurants and cafés are open, non-contact and outdoor sports are permitted. Schools are open. Social distancing is still in place, and there are additional precautions, like giving your name and contact details at a restaurant. Unlimited travel within Queensland is permitted. The Queensland border is still closed; if you return from interstate or overseas, you must quarantine for two weeks.

I am 45 years old. I was born in Perth, grew up in WA, moved to Brisbane in 2002. I was in some form of education from 3 until 27, including a year as an exchange student in Brasil. I worked full-time until my eldest was born, part-time until two years ago, and now I am on the school P&C, the Kindy management committee and I volunteer in the community. I started a small business last year. I speak two other languages (Portuguese and French). I am relatively introverted, I don’t like large crowds or noisy places and I think that the last time I went to a large sporting event was an ice hockey game in Montreal 15 years ago.

My husband and I met at university. We were friends for a couple of years, dated for another two and got married in April 2000. He has been my best friend for nearly half of my life.  We worked for the same mining company for years, including three years in Quebec. He speaks French. He is a qualified Kung Fu master and has his own Kung Fu school. He is more introverted than me and also dislikes crowds. He plays guitar and bass and enjoys live music, preferably at small venues.

We have three children, who were all born in Brisbane.  We all have first names that start with the letter M.  Our daughters are 10 and 8, in Years 5 and 3 at the local state school, our son is 4 and at a community kindy.  The girls do several after-school activities – drama and singing for them both, violin and art for the eldest, tennis, guitar and Kung Fu for the younger.

We live in the western suburbs. My husband catches the train to his work in the city. The children’s school, kindy and activities are within walking distance. Our home is a renovated Queenslander, four bedrooms, two bathrooms – we bought it nine years ago.  We have a mortgage, but it is almost paid out. We have one car and don’t drive much – our car is 8 years old and has done under 60 000 kms.

The last few months have been an unusual affair.  In early March, I was talking to a friend and looking at some statistics around COVID-19 transmission and infection rate.  We both have science backgrounds – she’s a vet and I’m a chemist (scientist who studied Chemistry, not a pharmacist).  This showed how quickly a health system could be overwhelmed and how many people (with and without COVID-19) could die during a mass outbreak because the hospitals didn’t have the space to treat them all at the same time.

March was disconcerting.  The government was saying, “Schools are the safest place for children!” Schools, however, are not just for children.  How many of the teachers and staff were high-risk to COVID? How many of them cared for an elderly parent, or a partner with a compromised immunity?  There seemed to be a limited concern for the staff, and more concern for the need for “essential workers” to send their children at school.  School was being discussed, by the government at least, as a glorified babysitting service, not as an important pillar in our community, staffed by people whose particular skills were essential to the continued improvement and betterment of our society. 

Our eldest daughter’s birthday is in March, and she asked for a party with six friends – pizza and a movie at our house.  We made a deal with her when we sent out the invitations – if school was still open when the party rolled around, it could go ahead.  If school was closed, there would be no party.  We discussed this with her friends’ parents; we all figured that they were together every day at school.  No parents came into the house when they picked up and dropped off their girls – we were already socially distancing.

My husband started working from home in March.  Catching public transport every day at peak hour meant that he was in confined quarters with many others twice a day, so working from home was safer.  Within a week or two, his office was shut and everyone directed to work from home.

At school, there were policies that limited contact.  Assemblies became virtual, interschool sport was cancelled, all school sports days were postponed.  Parents were asked to limit time on school grounds.  Parent-teacher night was changed to a telephone call with or an email from your child’s teacher.  It was very different to “normal”.  By week 9, attendance was down at least 30%.  I had already decided that I was keeping my kids home in week 10 when the state government announced schools would be pupil free.  Children of essential workers and at-risk children were still able to go to school.   Even with the late notice, there were still online resources available for the kids for week 10.  My girls loved the fact that they could use laptops to do their schoolwork.  My son, also home from Kindy, decided that puzzles, drawing and cars were his “homework”. 

The school holidays were not too different from normal – my husband was working (albeit at home) and we’d had no plans to go anywhere.  We didn’t do a few of our usual things – there was no train ride into the city, no visit to the museum, no trip to the Botanical Garden. 

The first five weeks of Term 2 were planned to be pupil-free.  The teachers at my girls’ school did a remarkable job of organising five weeks of online learning, including video classes, blogs and chat boards, as well as weekly uploads of their work.  Several after-school activities moved online. 

Due to the decreasing COVID infection numbers, Queensland schools reopened for Kindy, Prep and Years 1, 11 and 12 at the start of week 4.  This sent my youngest back to school, while his sisters remained learning at home.  Two weeks later, they were back at school as well.

School is different now.  Apart from school staff, adults are not allowed onto school property.  We’ve had to run P&C meetings online because we can’t use the school’s staff room. Kindy will allow you into the grounds to drop your child off and pick up, but you can’t stay more than a few minutes.  All activities, incursions and excursions are cancelled for the term.  Childcare, out-of-school-hours care and kindergarten fees are all being paid for by the government.

This is how things have changed in general.  For us personally, the impact of isolation has been minimal.  We don’t go out all that much, outside of school and activities, so having to stay to ourselves was not difficult. 

Our home is large enough that we can each have our own space.  The kids have their own bedrooms; my husband set up his office in his music room, so at the end of the day he will shut down his laptop and pick up a guitar and play for 30 minutes or so.  He has had to forgo Kung Fu (he’s been studying this for over ten years) and temporarily close his school, which was disappointing – he’d only opened in late January, and by mid-March, he was closing it up.  His school will reopen in ten days.

We have a decent sized back yard, and the weather is warm enough that the kids are outside a lot.  We have a great set of monkey bars (with swing and trapeze) that they love.  They have plenty of toys, lots of art supplies, books galore.  When they are bored or need a change of scenery, there are three parks within walking distance.  While they weren’t allowed to use the playgrounds, they could run, climb trees, ride their bikes.  Our delivery services continued with only relatively minor delays – over the two months we were at home, my online shopping included new bikes, art supplies, pet supplies (the kids have guinea pigs), books, seeds and garden products, food, wine.

Our youngest daughter had her birthday in isolation.  We have promised to host the sleepover party that she wanted later in the year.  The owner of the local toy shop personally delivered one large box of presents I’d ordered, and helpfully hid them downstairs so that our daughter didn’t see them. 

In addition to her birthday, isolation also included my birthday, our 20^th wedding anniversary and Mother’s Day, all within a three week period.  My birthday was celebrated by a home-cooked meal and home-made gifts (my husband gave me a very cheesy fake gem and promised me a necklace when he could shop again).  For our anniversary, we ordered a delivery meal from the local French restaurant and a fancy bottle of wine online.  And Mother’s Day was breakfast in bed (made by the children) and various craft activities (provided by their teachers; creation supervised by Dad).

We were very lucky.  My husband’s work did not stop, and neither did his pay.  There has been no impact to his salary, his benefits, his overall income.  While our food (and, let’s face it, wine) costs have increased a reasonable amount, he’s not paying for public transport every day or buying lunch.  He’s saving at least an hour in transit time, and he is still getting the same, if not more, work done. 

We were also in a fortunate situation when the pandemic hit.  We’re all in good health and rarely get ill.  None of us have any chronic conditions or allergies, and we live in a safe area with reliable power, water and internet.  We have two laptops, so our daughters could both be online schooling at the same time.  We almost own our house, we have a reliable car and the ability to buy essentially anything that we need or want.  I routinely keep at least three weeks’ supply of dry goods, so we were unaffected by panic buying.  There is a grocery store, a bakery, a greengrocer and a butcher within a five minute drive, all of which remained open.  I’ve used the same grocery co-op for years – they delivered our fruit, vegetables, dairy products and dry goods on a Tuesday. We had only just returned from a trip to Western Australia, so we’d seen all our immediate relatives recently.

I have friends and family all over the world, including places that were (and still are) badly affected by COVID-19.  My Brasilian friends and family are still mostly in lockdown, my friends in Europe are still home-schooling their kids part time.  One of my best friends lives in the Netherlands, and when her elderly father went to hospital with an unrelated illness, no one could visit him or stay with him.  I have a friend in upstate New York whose three children are all involved in theatre, singing and performing.  Between the three of them, they had six separate performances cancelled, performances they’d each spent months rehearsing and preparing for.  Another friend, a single mother on Vancouver Island, lost her minimum-wage retail job and had to work out how to pay rent and buy food while homeschooling her two young kids.

It was a weird, disconcerting time.  We were worried about all the potential what-ifs and watching the COVID numbers go up made me dread a future where the hospitals were overwhelmed, or at least at their limit.  But this did not happen, and slowly, it started to feel ok again.  It doesn’t feel normal, won’t ever feel quite the same again I guess, but things became more promising, more hopeful.  ANZAC Day, standing at the end of my driveway with my family, watching the people on my street light up the dawn in remembrance, was the perfect example of this hopeful promise.

The one hard time that we had was something that would have been a challenge even without COVID-19.  When we flew to Perth in January, my Nan was in hospital for an operation.  We saw her the day after we arrived in Perth, just before the operation.  She was cheerful, chipper and frankly annoyed at being cooped up in a hospital with “all these sick, old people” (her words, not mine).  The operation went well and she was home a few days later.  We visited her three times; she was tired, but in good spirits.  And then she had a stroke.  I saw her three more times after that; I don’t think she even knew it was me.  When we left, I knew that I had seen her for the last time.

My Nan died on Easter Sunday. She’d led a beautiful, happy, wonderful life. She died when COVID restrictions were in full force – I couldn’t have flown to Perth without quarantining at either end of the trip.  Her funeral was allowed ten mourners.  Ten mourners for a woman whose life had touched so many.  Ten mourners for 93 years.  Ten mourners, when under any other circumstance there would have been hundreds of people to bid her farewell.  My kids and I watched her funeral online.

It could have been so much worse.  In many other countries, restrictions would have meant that no one was allowed with her – she would have died alone.  The rules here allowed for family to visit on the day she died.  My mother and father, my aunt, both my cousins and my sister all saw her, kissed her goodbye, told her that they loved her.  She was surrounded by her family in the last moments of her life and she died with my mother and my aunt holding her hands, my cousin sitting with them. 

I think our government did a good job controlling the outbreak.  The initial easing into restrictions led to some confusion – people weren’t sure what they were allowed to do.  And things changed quickly – one day they were saying outdoor gatherings of 100 was acceptable; a few days later, it was 50, then 20.  New Zealand’s approach of high-level restrictions all at once was easier for people to understand and to follow – ours was a bit confusing at the start.  Schools were my other point of contention – the federal government was making statements about why they should be open, but control rested with the states.  It seemed that the federal government were trying to make the states do what they were told, and ultimately the states made decisions based on the situation within their own borders.  I think the actions taken by the Queensland government were useful and helped decrease the severity of the situation.

The other aspect that Australia has handled well, particularly in the latter part of the outbreak, is testing.  Initially, testing was only available if you’d been overseas or had close contact with someone who had.  Now, if you have even vague COVID symptoms, you can get a test. Two days ago, I woke up with discomfort at the very back of my mouth.  I called my doctor, explained my symptoms and he replied with, “It’s close enough to a sore throat.  I’ll send you through a pathology form.” He gave me the address of the closest drive-through testing facility and emailed me (and them) the form.  I drove there (two suburbs away), had the test done and was on my way home in ten minutes.  The results (negative) were texted to me and my doctor within 27 hours.

So, Dear Australia, this was me during a global pandemic.  Far luckier than most, but still impacted by it all.  It was a strange and unsettling experience, and it will have far-reaching consequences.  It will be interesting to see who we are and where we’re at in a year, five years, twenty years.  Right now, we’re just coming out of the end of it, with plans in place to “get back to normal” (with social distancing).  What our new normal will be is anyone’s guess.

A life

She was born in December 1926, the third of nine children.  Like her four sisters and four brothers, she had a proper, old-fashioned name, but for her entire adult life, she was known as Jo.  Not a shortened version of her legal name, but a nickname, given to her by the man who became her first husband, and still used by almost everyone to this day.

She was married at 19, became a mother the day before her 20^th birthday.  Her second daughter was born prematurely, by emergency caesarean, three years later.  The resulting blood loss nearly killed both of them, but somehow, against the odds of the 1950s, both mother and daughter survived.

She was widowed in her early thirties, with two daughters under 15.  There was no real social services and parental support then, so she had to get a job.  Although it was a ridiculous luxury, she always had a telephone at home, so that her daughters could call her each afternoon at work when they arrived home from school.  They were both required to speak to her, and she would give them their list of afternoon chores then, so that she knew they were both home and doing the work that she’d asked of them.

Over the years, she had many different jobs.  She worked in a nursing home and hospital, where she learned how to perfectly fold linen and organise a linen cupboard.  For years, whenever a family member moved house, Jo would come to visit and organise their linen cupboard; perfect folds and edges, all in beautiful rows.  “If I did it any other way,” she’d say, “Sister would never have approved”.  She would help lay out bodies and wash them for burial at the nursing home, doing make up for the ladies and brushing out their hair.  “There was no one else for them,” she commented once. “It was my pleasure to send them off looking beautiful.” 

Both her daughters were married before their 21^st birthdays, and she was a grandmother at 42.  Four others grandchildren followed over the next 12 years; three granddaughters and two grandsons.  She remarried in her forties, to a man she’d known for many years, a man ten years her senior and whom her daughters called Wal but her grandchildren always called Pa. 

Jo and Wal travelled to Europe in the 1980s, returning with a collection of traditional dolls for their granddaughters to go along with the almost weekly postcards from every country they visited.  They were always busy, always happy, surrounded by friends and family.

Her first great-grandchild arrived when she was 69, her last when she was 89.  There were ten in total, five girls and five boys.  Her first great-great-grandchild is due at the end of April.

Wal died at 93, just before the birth of their sixth great-grandchild.  He had been fit and well on the 1^st of January, laughing and making jokes during a visit with his pregnant granddaughter and her husband.  A few days later, he had a medical episode, which necessitated an ambulance ride to the local hospital.  A subsequent scan revealed significant brain cancer; he died on the 1^st of February in hospice care.  His funeral was so well attended that the funeral home had to open additional space for all his mourners.

Widowed for the second time, Jo went on with the business of living.  She still travelled – visiting her older sister in Adelaide, her granddaughter in Brisbane.  Following the birth of her youngest great-grandson, she flew to Brisbane by herself on Boxing Day to meet him.  She’d just turned 89; he was 18 days old.  She still remembered everyone’s birthdays and anniversaries, sent cards herself while her eyesight allowed it, dictated the words she wanted written to her daughter once her sight had declined.  She could tell you a story from 1942 with the same clarity and attention to detail as a story about yesterday, and she always had a joke and a smile and a great deal of sass under essentially all circumstances. 

In the last year, she’d been admitted to hospital a few times, but she still lived at home by herself, doing her own cooking, dictating her shopping lists to her daughter who did her groceries, with the only assistance being a weekly cleaner.  Every evening at five o’clock she spoke to her younger daughter on the phone.  Every New Year’s Eve, she would go to bed at her usual time, but set her alarm for just shy of midnight.  She would see the new year in, toast it with a glass of bubbly, and then go back to bed.

She was born the third of nine, but was the eldest surviving sibling.  Her two older siblings, a brother and a sister, have both passed away, as have two of her younger siblings, also a brother and a sister.  Her two surviving sisters are in their 80s, her two youngest brothers are in their 70s.  There was a 23 year age gap between the eldest and the youngest in her family – Jo’s youngest brother is only 18 months older than Jo’s eldest daughter.

In December last year, just after her 93^rd birthday, she travelled with her eldest daughter to visit her eldest great-granddaughter for a gender reveal party.  The concept of a gender reveal party had to be explained to her; she found it rather amusing.  The revealed colour was pink, meaning that the eldest of each generation – child, grandchild, great-grandchild and great-great-grandchild – were all female. 

January saw her back in the hospital again, this time with gallstones.  An operation followed, and all went well, against all expectations.  The week after she returned home, she had a stroke, and returned to the same hospital.  The impact of the stroke was, as expected, quite significant, and given her age, there was limited hope for any recovery.   Three weeks later, however, she had improved enough to be sent to rehab.  She wasn’t back to her old self, but she was still Jo, even if she was sometimes telling you a story in which events from 1985 occurred at the same time as yesterday’s lunch.  She was sent to respite care, and was back in hospital after four days, following a fall and a bad case of gout. 

And she was in hospital when the Western Australian government started putting care facilities into lockdown, closing the borders and shutting the state off to try to limit the spread of COVID-19.  Jo could only have a single visitor between 10 and 12 each day, and her two daughters would come on alternate days.  She cannot understand the fuss, doesn’t remember why she can’t have multiple visitors and wonders about her siblings, her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren.  “Where are they?” she would sometimes ask.  “Why don’t they visit me?”

Jo is my grandmother.  Her younger daughter, the one who survived her premature arrival in 1950, is my mother.  I saw Pa for the last time on New Year’s Day ten years ago, seven months’ pregnant with my eldest daughter and on my way to the airport on the way home to Brisbane.  My son is the youngest of her great-grandchildren – his birthday is four days after hers.

No matter what life has thrown at her, Nan has managed it all.  My mother has often told a story that is my particular favourite when it comes to describing how Nan has just carried out throughout.  Nan had an interview for a job one day, for the sales team for a typewriter company.  When she arrived, the interviewer apologised, explaining that they were not interviewing women – they wanted salesmen only.  She told him that if he hired her, she’d be his best salesperson within three months.  He agreed to give her the chance to prove herself, and my Nan went straight home and asked my mother (who was a secretary) to please show her how to put a ribbon in a typewriter.  Even though she’d known nothing about typewriters when she got the job, she was indeed their best salesperson within a few months.

I spent much of my childhood living a long way from my grandparents, due to my father’s job.  Nan and Pa would visit us frequently, and we’d stay with them when we were visiting the area they lived.  She would write us letters, send us gifts, tell us stories over the telephone, or while sitting beside your bed, brushing your hair off your forehead while she talked.  When we visited them, she would show us all the treasures in her china cabinets, tell us where they came from.  We would always drink out of the same set of plastic cups, in 1970s green and orange and blue.  When we visited Nan with our children, they always drank from the same cups.  Every time I see those cups, I am reminded of being a child, safe and loved, in my grandparents’ home.

On Easter Sunday, my Nan died, her two daughters and eldest granddaughter by her bedside.  She was not a famous person, not rich or well-known.  She was just an extraordinary ordinary person, a woman we all loved dearly and respected deeply.  We will miss her.

Once Upon A Time . . . I was never doing that

Any mother will tell you how entertaining it is to listen to a first-time parent-to-be tell you about all the things they are never going to do with their children.  Some of these things, it must be said, are quite practical, but there are usually a few that you will know from experience are never going to work out.


So, here are my three top “I will nevers”:

• Give my baby a dummy (pacifier)
• Controlled crying
• Co-sleep

The dummy one went out the window the day my eldest was born.  She was born with pneumonia and was in special care.  The nurses told me that she was having trouble settling and sleeping (she was attached to a multitude of tubes and wires), and they asked if they could try a dummy to help her settle.  My “I will never use dummies” went straight out the window because my baby was sick, in a humidicrib and not settling.  The entertaining post-script on this is that while she did take the dummy briefly in the hospital, she wouldn’t take it once we went home.  I kept trying (because she was often unsettled and would startle herself awake), but she never took a dummy after the hospital.  I tried dummies with the other two as well, and neither of them would take one.  At the time it was frustrating, but afterwards (when I didn’t have to wean a baby off a dummy) it was actually quite good J


Controlled crying only happened with our eldest, and only because I was at the end of my tether.  She woke every two hours overnight, and wanted to feed for 30 minutes each time.  She had to be patted to sleep on her side, then carefully (slowly, oh so slowly) rolled onto her back.  Everything startled her, and every startle woke her.  By the time she was six months old, I was so tired that I tried letting her cry one night.  Let me point out that I sat right outside her bedroom door and cried along with her that first night, but it actually worked with her.  It didn’t mean she slept through the night by any means (she didn’t do that in any consistent fashion until she was over two), but it did mean that she would sleep for four hours at a time, and only wake up once during the night.  And that was lovely.


Co-sleeping (well, technically bed-sharing) just happened one night.  Our eldest was about 12 or so days old and I was feeding her in the bed.  She fell asleep feeding.  I fell asleep.  She woke up again for a feed two hours later and I freaked out that I’d fallen asleep in the bed with my baby.  But she was feeding while I was having this freak out, so I stayed where I was.  Once she’d fed, I put her back into her cradle.  We didn’t co-sleep all the time, but it did happen from time-to-time.  When she was older, she would get night terrors and it was easier to settle her when she was in the bed with us.  She rarely needed to fall asleep in our bed, it was more that she got spooked in the night and needed us then. She was also a very good bed-sharer, so it was a pleasant experience.  The only reason we stopped letting her into bed with us was because I was having another baby and we didn’t want them both in our bedroom!


Co-sleeping with Kid 2 was a matter of necessity.  It was, quite literally, the only way she would go to sleep for the night during the first three months of her life.  Technically, I suppose, it wasn’t really “co-sleeping”, since I would lay beside her and feed her till she fell asleep, and then I would get up and go about my evening’s business.  She’d wake for a feed just before we went to bed, and then she’d go into her cradle beside the bed. After three months, she moved into the cot and shared a bedroom with her sister. Once she was older (between two and three) she loved to get into bed with us in the middle of the night and snuggle in.  She was a terrible bed-sharer, and would often lay longways between us, her head on her dad’s hip and her feet in my back.  Again, we finally booted her from our room because of the imminent arrival of Kid 3.


Kid 3 was a different kettle of fish entirely.  He hated co-sleeping.  Hated to be swaddled.  Hated to be rocked or patted or snuggled to sleep.  As an infant, he would feed to sleep, but he gave that up early on.  Kid 3’s idea of the perfect bedtime involved me putting him into a baby sleeping bag (arms most definitely free), laying him sleepy (but not sleeping) in his own cradle and walking out of the room.  The only time this because a hassle was when he was genuinely upset and needed to be soothed or calmed down.  Because he hated to be rocked and snuggled to sleep, any attempts to soothe him to sleep resulted in a far angrier baby. It was easier to let him sit up and calm down, then put him back to bed.  Like his sisters, he would come into our bed in the night (especially if it was cold).  He shared relatively well, but he always had to be touching me, which meant that I never got much sleep.  It took me several weeks at the end of one winter to convince him to stay in his own bed all night, but I did it.


So, new parents, you can have your never-evers.  Some of them might really be nevers for you.  Some of them might change by necessity or simplicity or due to oh-my-goodness-I-need-sleep!  And some of the things that were definitely going to be part of your parenting life (breastfeeding, stay-at-home-parenting, working full-time, cloth nappies, screen time, home-made baby food, whatever it may be) just might not work for you and yours.  


I was never having children, and now I have three.  I was never going to be a stay-at-home parent, and yet here I am.  My child was never sleeping in my bed . . . but that’s happened in the past and still happens on occasion now.  There is more screen time in my kids’ lives than I thought I’d be happy with, but I’m ok with that.  Things change and babies have their very own ideas about what they like, thank you very much, and sometimes you just have to go with it.

Once upon a time . . . I learned another language

Let’s be truthful, twice upon a time I’ve done this; moved somewhere where I had to learn to speak a language other than my own.  The first time, I was an exchange student living in Brasil – I learned to speak Portuguese.  The second, my husband and I took a secondment to Canada, living in a very Francophone area.


That first time, I was 17.  The younger you are, the easier it is to learn a language, and crucially, the easier it is to copy the sounds of that language.  The younger you are, the less likely you are to have a “foreign” accent when you speak.


Before I went on exchange, I was given a series of language cassettes – my cousin collected them from the Brasilian Embassy in Canberra for me.  Given that I was studying for my final exams, I didn’t really put much effort into the language-learning.  I didn’t think much about the logistics of learning the language I’d need to speak; I figured it would sort itself out.


And so it came to pass that on a hot and stormy January night, I arrived at Guarulhos airport.  I could say, “Good day”, “My name is . . .” and the phone number of my first host family in Portuguese.  My first host family had three daughters, and my host father and the eldest daughter spoke English.  The eldest daughter left on exchange herself the week after I arrived and the only conversation that my host father and I ever had in English was the one in which he said, “I will not speak English unless it’s urgent.  You must learn Portuguese.”


I never took formal Portuguese classes.  I never had a Portuguese teacher whose purpose was to teach me the language.  I learned by a technique that is usually referred to as “immersion”, and which sucks for three-to-six-months, depending on your aptitude.  During this time, one of my host sisters lent me her Portuguese grammar book, and I wrote out my own copies of how to conjugate regular verbs, as well as the long list of all of the irregular verbs.  I still have all of those handwritten notes folded up in a dictionary downstairs.


Portuguese, like all Latin-based languages, has clear grammatical rules. In the case of Portuguese, there are six personal pronoun conjugations (think: I, he, she, you, they, we) over multiple tenses (present, past, conditional, future) in both simple (“I danced”) and composite (“I have danced”) forms.  Happily, Brasilians only use four of the six personal pronouns in general conversation, so that cut down what I needed to memorise for everyday use.  There are three groups of regular verbs, and then the large number of irregular verbs.  As far as I can tell, in any language “irregular verb” is the term for “all the good verbs”.  In Portuguese, this means to be (there are two), to have (also two), to go, to see, to come, to be able to, the list goes on.  


Now, most of this made sense to me, but I could not for the life of me work out the two most frequently used verbs – ser and estar.  My dictionary told me that they were both forms of “to be”, but I couldn’t work out what that actually meant in an English sentence.  In Australia, we don’t learn grammar in anywhere near the technical way that Brasilians do, so it took me a while to work out that “to be” was the verb that gives us I am/you are/they are . . . once I worked that out, however, things moved along.  Keep in mind that the only way to learn these building blocks of a language is by repetition, practice and rote learning.  Eventually, it just sticks in your head and you know when it sounds wrong, but it takes time to get to this point.


There’s also pronunciation (can you roll your r?), region-specific words and accents, and not being able to understand a conversation when people are speaking at regular speed.  Oh, and once you can understand them, you still can’t get a response together in a timely manner to join in.  You’re left either not understanding or not being able to join in even when you understand, both of which are very isolating.


The advantage to the manner in which I learned Portuguese was what I needed the language for.  I didn’t need it to run my life – I was living with a host family and they managed the day-to-day stuff.  I didn’t have to make phone calls; I didn’t have to organise things.  What I had to do was go to school and meet people.  I’d already graduated high school in Australia, so I didn’t need to do anything in class – I was allowed to skip exams and tests if I wanted to – I didn’t need to pass the classes.  


Even so, it took three long, lonely months until I understood what people were saying most of the time.  It coincided almost exactly with my 18^th birthday, realising that I knew what people were saying pretty much all of the time.  That was an exciting feeling.  From then on, all I did was have a lot of fun.  I went traveling with friends, I went to parties, I visited places I’d heard about.  There was all the regular “family” type stuff going on too – I was hosted by three separate families over the year that I lived in the town.  


By the end of the year, I was damn good at the language.  My accent was close enough that people assumed that I was Brasilian.  I’d learned the local accent well and used the correct regional words, so people usually correctly guess the region that I lived in.  They would also often comment about a particular difference in my pronunciation of a couple of words that indicated that I may have lived somewhere else in my younger years – this corresponded to the accent of my first host family, who were from a different state and had a different accent.

When I spoke Portuguese, I thought in Portuguese.  I dreamt in Portuguese. For at least a year after I came home, I would struggle to remember certain English words – the Portuguese one would be the first one to my mind.  I could swap between the two languages effortlessly – thinking in English while speaking English; thinking in Portuguese while speaking Portuguese.  My accent and my language skills remained good enough that for many years when I met a Brasilian, they’d always ask where I grew up.  When I said, “Australia,” they’d want to know where my parents grew up.  The notion that an Australian could speak Brasilian Portuguese as well as I did always surprised people.  Even now, all these years later, there are still Portuguese words that come to mind before the English ones – I commonly call my children “meu amor” (my love), I’m still likely to say “Deixa” instead of “Leave it be”.  I can still read in Portuguese, can understand a Brasilian movie or TV show when I see one.


There seems to be a part of my brain that works in Portuguese, that stores all the information that I learned, that only needs a day or two to bring the language back to the forefront of my mind.  I went to Brasil many years after my exchange, while working in Canada.  For the first few hours, I kept throwing French words into Portuguese sentences.  By the end of the first day, I was thinking in Portuguese again, discussing technical details with laboratory staff and making notes, all in Portuguese.  It’s all still there, it seems; it just needs a reason to reactivate.


When it came to my second round at learning another language . . . well, I was older this time, 30 instead of 17.  My reason for learning the language was far more serious – I needed to be able to manage my life, to do my job, in another language.  I had to organise the logistics of adulthood – a bank account, a social insurance number, health insurance, driver’s licence, home and car insurance.  I had to run my laboratory, argue technical points with older, established technicians, learn to understand the differences in how a unionised workforce functions, as opposed to the non-unionised one I’d previously worked in.  All in a language I’d never really spoken well until I arrived.


My husband and I were in the same boat – we’d both learned some French over the years, but nothing beyond a couple of hours a week in a class given by a French teacher (and by French, I mean someone from France.  Which is very, very different from Quebeçois).  Neither of us were anywhere near ready to function like adults in French, and we were certainly not capable of doing our jobs in French the day that we arrived.  This was why we both did an intensive French course at first.


The course itself was very structured and was the same one that was attended by government officials.  There was a pre-course spoken examination to determine your current level of French, and your personal course was designed based on this.  You lived with a local family for the duration of your course, to ensure that you spoke French after hours.  You had your own personal teacher, who worked through the programme designed for you. There were twice-weekly visits to local facilities and attractions where only French was spoken.


Personally, I found this better than the “immersion” I’d had in Brasil.  Given that I was older, this structure probably helped my brain.  It also fast-tracked my learning, because I spent my first few weeks getting used to the language, to the accent, to the way that people spoke.  My previous experience meant that I knew the most crucial question to ask, which is, “How do I say ‘Please repeat that’ and ‘Please slow down’?”


In learning French, I had two significant advantages over my husband – firstly, I’d learned another language before and had a definite aptitude for languages; secondly, the language I’d learned previously was a Latin-based relative of French.  Even before I started learning French, I could “read” a French document and understand (basically) what it meant, as many French words are similar to their Portuguese equivalent.  This skill, it must be said, did not apply to spoken French, because of the very different pronunciation rules.  In (Brasilian) Portuguese, every letter except H is pronounced in a word.  In French, a consonant (or many consonants) at the end of a word are not pronounced at all.  As an example, the words “parle” and “parlent” are both pronounced the same, ignoring the “nt” on the end of the second word.  Of course, like any good language, there is an exception to this – when the word that follows starts with a vowel (a liaison).  So, when you say “How are you?” as “Comment allez vous?” it is pronounce “Com-muh ta-LEE voo”, pronouncing the ‘t’ on comment while ignoring the ‘s’ on vous, but when you ask it in the re-arranged form “Comment vous allez?” you would say “Com-muh voo sa-LEE?”, ignoring the ‘t’ on comment but pronouncing the ‘s’ in vous. 


My previous experience with a Latin-based language also meant that “gender” in language didn’t bother me.  In Portuguese (and French, and Spanish, and Italian), objects can be feminine or masculine (and sometimes neutral, depending on the language).  The possessive (my/your/his/her) is attached to the gender of the object, not the gender of the owner.  In English, you will say “her house” if the object belongs to a woman, “his house” if it belongs to a man.  In French it is always “sa maison” (the feminine possessive), irrespective of the gender of the owner, because “house” is a feminine word.  In a similar vein, you would say “my house” and “my oven” in English, but in French this would be “ma maison” (house is feminine) but “mon four” (oven is masculine).  My husband struggled with the illogical nature of the gender of words.  “Why is it,” he always asked, “that ‘fishing’ is a feminine word, but ‘perfume’ is masculine?  It makes no sense.”


Again, it took a lonely, isolating three months before French fell into place for me.  Three months doesn’t sound like a long time, until you’ve spent three months not quite understanding what’s going on around you.  As always, the telephone took longer, but over two-and-a-half years of my three year secondment was comfortable from the language point of view.  I continued to do language courses for about half of my time in Quebec.  My work also required me to speak (and write) both English and Portuguese.  Entertainingly, my ability to speak French and Portuguese are almost mutually exclusive – once I start thinking in one Latin-based language, the other suffers – if I’m speaking predominantly French, when I speak Portuguese I will frequently throw French words into Portuguese sentences, and vice versa.  Having said this, there seems to be a portion of my brain, separate from the Portuguese spot, which functions entirely in French.  Once it gets activated, I go back to thinking in French, speaking fluently and with confidence.


I don’t get many chances to speak either of these languages anymore.  I tried speaking Portuguese to my eldest when she was a baby . . . but it turns out that speaking a language that isn’t your own to a baby or small child is actually quite challenging.  I do throw the occasional Portuguese or French phrase into conversation, and while my children know what the phrases mean, they don’t actively identify them as a different language.  It’s just one of those odd things that Mummy does.


I do, however, remain very pleased that I got the opportunity to learn other languages properly.  When your first language is English, you can get a little complacent.  In most places, you can find someone who speaks English, so lots of people travel the world without ever having learned anything more than the very, very basics in another language.  Because I speak two Latin-based languages, I find that I can read (and often understand slowly spoken) Spanish and Italian, and I can generally make a good guess at Latin.  I’ve also learned the very basics in a non-Latin language (Mandarin), and understanding how to learn a language helped immensely with that.  And having worked and lived in a place where I wasn’t speaking my native language has also helped me appreciate just how challenging it is to live your day-to-day life outside of the “normal” constraints of language.  How sometimes misunderstanding (or even mishearing) a single word or qualifier can mean that you totally misunderstand the entire conversation.


And just so you know, the two hardest situations to be in when speaking in another language are very different things.  Number one is a medical situation – a doctor, a nurse, a dentist.  The second one?  Well, that would be the hairdresser.

And sometimes they all wear pink

For our eldest daughter’s first birthday, my husband bought her a truck.  And not just any truck.  An old-school, metal tray Tonka dump truck.

From the moment she opened it, she was in love.  Especially after her father sat her up in the back of it and proceeded to push her around the floor at speed, the pair of them cackling like fiends. 

It wasn’t always a truck, mind you.  Some days, it was a dolly bed.  Other days it was the easiest way to transport a pile of toys from one place to another.  At other times it was an ambulance with injured people (usually teddy bears) in the back.  At one point, it was even a mobile library for a week or so.  And a lot of the time, it was simply a truck.  There were many backing up and tray-lifting noises invented to go with the truck.  She worked out how to sit in the back and roll herself around the floor pretty early on.  She’s heading towards ten now, and her brother is the most likely to be playing with it these days, but she still loves it and calls it “my truck”.

Given the success of the first Tonka toy birthday present, the other two both got one on their first birthday too.  Our second daughter got a front end loader, our son a bulldozer.  Both were (and still are) well-loved, but neither was ever as successful as the truck.  I think it had something to do with the fact that a kid could sit in the tray of the truck and be pushed around or push themselves around.  Something that the girls still do with their brother, who is now perfectly capable of pushing himself around.

My husband buying a truck for our daughter’s first birthday seemed to give a lot of people the idea that he really wanted a son.  An acquaintance even said one day, “Well, would he have bought a dolly as a present if you had a son?”  For the record, my husband bought her a truck because he thought she’d love it, which was 100% correct.  The truck had nothing to do with him wanting a son.  And the answer to the dolly question is yes.  Our son got a doll for his second Christmas, and he wrapped it up and dragged it about everywhere, calling it “my baby”.  He would occasionally sit on the couch and pretend to breastfeed his baby, then swaddle it up and pat it on the bottom until it was “sleeping”, then tuck it into bed (often mine).  His baby is still a popular plaything, and is often pushed around in the back of the truck.  He also has a couple of Barbie-type dolls that he plays with, and it is not uncommon to see him with a Barbie in one hand and a small truck or other vehicle in the other hand.

And then there is the colour thing.  Personally, I don’t like the colour pink.  As a result, I actively encouraged everyone I know to buy my daughters things that were decidedly not pink.  Of course, this means that both my girls adore pink anything, particularly if it’s sparkly.  Over the years, they’ve accumulated pink towels, pink sheets, pink blankets and pink toys, as well as a selection of pink clothes and shoes.  I have become accustomed to the pinkness of our house, and having a son hasn’t changed this.  He had pink towels and sheets for the first year of his life because that’s what we had at home, having been gifted pink baby things when our daughters were born. 

Nowadays, he likes to go through anything (clothes, toys, games) that his sisters have outgrown to decide which things he’d like to keep for himself. And, by his own choice, pink remains in his life.  His bike (acquired from his younger sister) is pink.  His favourite pair of sneakers were originally bought for his eldest sister and are blue with pink stars on them.  He has a pair of unicorn slippers (with extra pink and a few sparkles) that he adores, and some days he’ll tell you that his favourite two colours are “rainbow and pink”.  He probably has more pink things right now than I’ve ever owned in my life.

People told me that I’d notice the difference when I had a son after two daughters, and that is true.  My son is far more physical and boisterous that his sisters are.  What is interesting is how some people treat boys versus girls.  Very few people ever raised an eyebrow at my daughters having trucks and Tonka toys, or thought it was unusual when they would wear clothes from the boys’ section (for their own practical reasons – boys’ shorts have proper pockets for keeping treasures in; boys’ t-shirts have sleeves that cover the shoulders and upper arms, which means better sun protection).  There are, however, occasional comments from others when my son wears his pink-star sneakers, or carries a dolly around with him.  It’s as though it is ok for girls to choose boys’ things, whereas a boy can’t like anything considered ‘girly’. 

Now, even though I don’t like pink myself, that’s got nothing to do with my kids.  If they all want to wear pink, I’m fine with that.  If they want sparkles or dinosaurs or emergency vehicles or unicorns, hoorah.  And if they want pink fairy wings today and a pirate costume tomorrow, all well and good.  And if they decide that the pirate costume needs fairy wings and a sparkly wand, that’s just fine.  Unless someone starts hitting others with the wand.  That’s when I intervene.

On the miracle of pregnancy

Pregnancy is an amazing thing.  I think this is something that we can all agree on – the fact that one complete, new human can be grown by another; that it takes only nine months to pull off this feat.  When you consider all the body parts that have to grow, all the nerves and the mental wiring and all the rest that have to link up just right to result in a functioning human, it’s pretty damn impressive that it happens so often.


I came to the parenthood game later than many of my friends, so by the time I was pregnant with my first, a majority of my friends had already had a baby or two (or three).  Of all my friends, I recall one having horrific morning sickness, and a second friend suffering what doctors determined was likely the miscarriage of one twin (she carried a singleton pregnancy to term after this); I don’t remember any other friends having any major dramas.  And I had a number of friends who commented on how much they adored being pregnant.  How pregnancy made them feel womanly, amazing, extra-ordinary.


Not me.  Pregnancy was not something that I enjoyed.  Please let me point out – I had dead boring pregnancies.  I did not suffer from any significant issues.  I fell pregnant quickly, I had a normal pregnancy, I had a baby.  All three times.  I had no miscarriages, no issues with conception, not pregnancy complications.  The conception of our third child was totally accidental – we just didn’t bother with a condom one night.  Once.  Just shy of forty, and I fell pregnant.  My obstetrician told me that I was the patient all obstetricians wish for – no issues, no dramas, no problems.


And yet . . . even with a boring, normal pregnancy, I didn’t really like growing another human.  I mean, yes, I was impressed by the fact that I was growing a person while going about my daily business, but it wasn’t really a fun experience.  All three of my pregnancies followed roughly the same pattern – approximately four months of no actual throwing up, but feeling constantly hung-over, with a side-order of being unable to stomach chocolate; followed by roughly four weeks of feeling pretty sparkly, actually, and with fabulous boobs; and then finally the run-down to labour, during which the baby seemed to bounce happily between my ribs and my bladder constantly, making me either short of breath or in desperate need to pee (or both).  I had cravings only with my first – a desire for Twisties and Cheezles (neither of which I actually like) and for bacon.  Now, bacon might not seem like a real “craving”, but given that I hadn’t eaten bacon for about 18 years, it was quite weird to really feel a desire to eat it.  A lot.


I remember being horribly tired with my first; rolling my ankle when I was about 30 weeks’ pregnant and limping for the next 10 weeks because it remained tender due to the extra weight I was carrying.  I don’t remember tiredness with the second, but I had a toddler at that point, and she still woke at least once a night, plus my husband was away a lot for work that year, which meant I was already tired, so I couldn’t tell where my “regular” tired ended and the pregnancy tired began J  With the third, I was always in bed by 8.30.  I had heartburn constantly with all three, and extremely vivid dreams, often about vampires (I was a mad Buffy and Angel fan back in the day).  Whenever I was thirsty, the only thing that would quench my thirst was either soda water or tonic water – it had to be bubbly, but not sweet.  And I was constantly hungry.  I put on 13kg with the first, 15kg with the second and 17kg with the third.  I felt constantly out-of-balance because my centre of gravity seemed unbalanced with the extra weight at my tummy.


I did love feeling them move about, even when the rocking and the rolling (and in the case of baby #3, the finally turning to head down at 37 weeks) was dead uncomfortable.  But, the lack of breath, the tiredness and the constant need to pee was not fun.  But let’s be frank, knowing that I was personally creating a brand new member of the human race was pretty damn cool.  So I could deal with all of the annoying aspects of pregnancy, even though I didn’t like it.


And while I didn’t really enjoy being pregnant, I do enjoy the three very individual humans who were the result of those pregnancies.  My eldest is a bit of a perfectionist, likely to be nervous about events yet to happen, yet thoughtful, caring and considerate.  She needs time to herself, loves to read and enjoys activities that are non-competitive and creative.  My middle child is dramatic, loud and entertaining, loves climbing and any sort of gymnastics, and hates to be ignored.  She wants to be involved in everything, doesn’t like to be left out and always talks back.  The youngest plays well by himself, but loves to be with his sisters.  He wants to be included in everything, and doesn’t like to be left behind.  He refuses to accept that being smaller and younger than the others should prevent him from doing the same stuff that they’re up to.


I see aspects of myself in all three of my children, particularly the oldest one.  I see my husband in them all as well, notably in the cheekiness of the youngest one.  And most entertainingly, my second daughter often mirrors my younger sister; my son frequently reminds me of my little brother as a boy.


I never imagined myself as mother in my younger years.  Even after my eldest was born, I didn’t realise just how much I was going to enjoy being a mother.  But motherhood has grown on me, and now I can’t imagine myself any other way.