Once upon a time . . . the 2000s started

When I was 9 or 10, I remember thinking about the year changing from 19-something to 2000.  I remember working out how old I was going to be then (24 years old on New Year’s Day; I’d celebrate my 25^th birthday in the year 2000).  I remember thinking how very, very ancient that 24 and 25 sounded to that much younger me.  I remember hoping that I wouldn’t be too old to realise how cool the turn from 1999 to 2000 was.  


There is no way that 9 year-old me ever envisioned exactly where I would be in the first moments of the year 2000.  Through a combination of finally managing to save enough to go back to Brasil, a host sister who was studying in Rio and a family member with a massive apartment three streets back from Avenida Atlantica, I saw in the New Year with three million other people on Copacabana Beach in Rio de Janeiro.  

There were six of us our group, three Brasilians and me (who all spoke Portuguese), the English girlfriend of one of the Brasilians and my then-boyfriend, now husband, both of whom only spoke English.  We had dinner in the aforementioned apartment, sharing drinks and food on the balcony as we watched the people gathering at the beach in the evening.  We walked single-file through the crowds at the beach, all holding hands.  We wedged the English speakers each between a pair of Portuguese speakers, figuring that even if our group got split up, the English speakers would be with someone who spoke Portuguese.  We picked a landmark (a church with a tall, neon sign out in front) to meet up in the event of getting separated.   


I’ve never seen more extraordinary fireworks before or since.  It was an extreme, intense, overwhelming 30 minutes of light and colour and sound, all around.  The climax was a cascading fireworks explosion down the side of a hotel, which looked like the building was about to erupt into the sky.  After the professional show (which would never, ever have met safety requirements in Australia), people (including those out on boats in the water) set off their own fireworks.  When we walked home, still holding hands in a single file, it took us over an hour to walk three blocks within the crowd of millions. 


The next morning, my husband and I (with complete disregard for the potential calamities that the millennium bug could have caused), caught a flight from Rio to São Paulo.  We’d had no more than three hours sleep, and as we drove to the airport, we saw hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people asleep or passed out on the beach.  It still smelled like fireworks and beer.


And so that was the start of the year 2000.  It was the year we got married, which makes it a very important year to us.  2010 was another one of those turning point years – the year we became parents.  And now as we stare down the barrel of 2020, I can’t help but wonder what this year will bring.


And so, in rough order of occurrence, I give you the list of Important Things that I have done to date in the 2000s:

• Got married
• Bought a house
• Moved across the country
• Became an aunt for the first time (and now have two nieces and three nephews)
• Bought a second house, sold the first one
• Finished my PhD
• Moved to halfway ‘round the world to Canada for work
• Learned to speak French
• Visited the US, Brasil and Greece for work purposes and had Christmas in Cuba
• Moved back around the world, from Canada to Australia
• Renovated our house (which proved that renovations are not our thing and that we’re never doing that again)
• Was a bridesmaid (first and only time) at my sister’s wedding
• Had a baby
• Bought a third house and moved house (with a nine-month-old baby)
• About six weeks after we moved into our new house, made it through a flood, which damaged large numbers of homes around us (we were lucky to not be flooded)
• Had another baby (and determined that we were done with babies)
• Had two family weddings seven days apart – my husband’s sister got married on a beach the Friday before my brother got married on a river bank
• Found out I was pregnant the week before my 40^th birthday
• Had a third baby (definitely done with babies NOW)
• Was made redundant from my job

And in amongst all that, was the nitty-gritty of every day – pushing children on swings and reading stories, laughing over dumb jokes that we’ve been telling each other for 20 years, eating and drinking and being merry with friends and family.  There are the countless pictures that have been drawn for me, the songs that are sung to me, the letters that get left on my pillow.  There are the people who tell me they love me, the people I say, “I love you” to.  There are the friends who can be counted on in emergencies just as much as in the regular day-to-day.  There are photographs and memories and songs and paintings on the walls.


And overall, there is the knowledge that in amongst all the rest, we have made ourselves a very nice life that suits us, and that we are very happy to have.  We are lucky, and we know it.  And that has made the 2000s better than 9-year-old me could ever have thought.                                                                                                                                                                  

On Children and Hot Cars

About a decade ago, a friend told me a terrible story.


One of her colleagues, a father of one, had changed his routine, just for a day.  Both he and his wife worked full-time and both took the train to and from work. To makes sure that their nine-month-old son was in care for the shortest possible time, they’d come up with a plan.  He started work early; she took the baby to day care later, starting work several hours later than him.  He work till mid-afternoon, picking up their son on his way home from the train station.  She worked until the early evening but she would always be home in time to kiss their son goodnight before bed.  And this worked beautifully.


Until the day that his wife had an early morning meeting that meant she had to be in the office a few hours earlier than normal.  It was no great drama; they simply swapped “shifts”.  She would go to work early; he would drop their son off at day care.  She would come home to pick their boy up in the afternoon; he’d be home in time to kiss the baby good night.


And so, one day, she went to work early.  He got ready, later than normal, dressed their son, packed his bag, put their son in his car seat and drove in the direction of the day care.  He caught a later train to work.  He was in the office till early evening; caught the train home.  And he never, ever realised that he’d forgotten to stop at the day care; never dropped his son off for the day.


When his wife arrived at the day care, she discovered that their baby had not been dropped off that morning. She sped back to the parking lot of the train station, arriving to find the back window of her husband’s car smashed open, paramedics still in the parking lot.  Her son was not there – he’d been transported by the first responders to hospital, but he was pronounced dead on arrival.  He’d died in the back seat of his father’s car; had probably fallen asleep and then never woken up after leaving home that morning.  His father, acting outside of his usual routine, had forgotten their son, asleep in the back of the car.


This was a loving father, a caring man.  The little boy was a longed-for, much-wanted, much-loved child.  His parents had adored him, had both been doting, devoted, caring parents.  And a simple change of routine had led to his father, operating on auto-pilot, to forget to drop him at day care.

When my friend told me this story, I was six months pregnant with my first child.  And the whole idea terrified me.  Would I ever forget my child in the back seat of the car?  Could I do something like that?  My husband and I shared a car (we still do), and I really don’t drive much.  Could the change of routine, me driving the baby somewhere, mean that I forgot that the baby was there?


The answer to that question is, quite clearly, yes.  It is possible to forget a baby.  It is possible to not remember that you’ve changed your general routine.  It is possible that you may, while loving your child utterly, forget that you are actually responsible for a particular task that day, just because it is outside of your regular routine.


From the day my friend told me this, I made a change.  I started to put my handbag in the back seat of the car.  I purposely put it into a place that I couldn’t reach from the front seat, in the foot well of the seat where the baby’s car seat was strapped in.  The only way to get my bag was to get out of the car and opened the back door, leaning over the car seat as I reached in.  By the time my first baby was born, it was an ingrained habit.  I continued it through my eldest daughter’s entire babyhood and throughout my second pregnancy, even after we owned a much bigger car; a van in which you could clearly see all the seats (and car seats) in the review mirror.  Most days I still do it automatically – the girls are long out of car seats and put their own seatbelts on, but when I strap my son into his car seat, I leave my handbag on the floor beside him.  My kids are all older, the girls are able to get themselves out of their seatbelts and out of the car unassisted, and they are all unlikely to be asleep in the car and extremely likely to call out, “Hey!  You forgot me!” if I tried to get out of the car without them.  


And yet I still do this one small thing, just in case.

Once Upon A Time . . . I had a son

I already had two daughters.  As is common during pregnancy, once you hit the “obviously pregnant” stage, random strangers will suddenly start chatting to you about your baby-to-be.  “Is this your first?” “How are you feeling?”  When it’s your first pregnancy, people are generally inclined to offer advice.  If it’s your second, they’ll tell you all about dealing with a toddler and a newborn at the same time.  Once you’re up to three, I think they figure that you’re sufficiently crazy already, so you don’t need any further advice.  Either that or they have less than three themselves and don’t have any further advice to offer.


My third pregnancy was a surprise, but very much welcome.  It is probably best to describe it as a non-planned conception, but a very much planned and wanted pregnancy that we were happy and lucky to receive.  It was boring in its normalcy, except for the part where the baby refused to turn head down during my third trimester.  By the time I reached 36 weeks and he was still not head down, my obstetrician explained how unlikely he was to turn (less than 5% chance), and so we booked a caesarean.  I had lots of questions about this to mentally prepare myself; she was awesome in her responses to all of my questions.  While I was less that happy with the notion of surgery for the delivery of my third child (I am a boss at labour and delivery), I made my peace with it as the safest option for the delivery of a healthy baby.  For the record, anyone who says that a caesarean is the “easy way out” has clearly not considered the specifics of the process of CUTTING OPEN THE ABDOMEN of a woman who will then need to care for a newborn while she’s recovering from a significant surgery.


Anyhoo, after what was a horribly uncomfortable seven days, I went for my 37 week appointment.  During the appointment, my obstetrician did a scan, and it became completely apparent that my horribly uncomfortable week had been caused by the fact that my son had finally decided to turn himself head down. At 37 weeks.  Because he is contrary like that.

And so, after all my mental preparation of a caesarean, I wound up going into labour naturally at 38 weeks and 6 days.  Six hours labour from start to finish; the longest of my three labours.

I gave birth just after three in the afternoon, which happened to be shift change at the hospital.  This meant that I had two midwives (day shift and afternoon shift) present at the birth, as well as my obstetrician.  Both of the midwives had clearly read my medical notes, and they were aware that we had two daughters already.  


Once our son was born and we’d both held him, they took him across the room to weigh him, and they put him in a nappy.  When they bought him back, Midwife #1 looked at me and said, “When you put a nappy on a baby boy, always point his penis down.”  Midwife #2 nodded sagely and said, “Definitely.  Point it down, or he’ll spray out the top of the nappy”.  It was, quite literally, the only piece of advice I was offered by anyone for my third child.


A few days later, I was speaking to my sister, who has two sons.  I was telling her about this single piece of boy-specific advice.  She started to laugh and explained that no one had told her that when she had her first son, and she found that his clothes were always wet when she changed him.  She mentioned this to a friend (a mother of two sons) and her friend said to her, “Didn’t anyone tell you? You need to remember the rule: always point the doodle down.”  My sister and I had a giggle over this.


A little later, my husband was changing our son’s nappy, and I said to him, “You need to remember to point his doodle down.”  My husband gave me a strange look, so I explained.  “So he doesn’t spray out of the nappy when he does a wee.  That’s the rule – doodle down.”  My husband gave me a very considered look, and then he finally said one of the most entertaining statements he has ever uttered.


“In other words,” he said, “you’re telling me, ‘Don’t cock up’.”

When I see a yellow car . . . and other things that I do now that I have children

When I see a yellow car, I say, “Spotto!” even if there’s no one else around to play the game.


When we go past a McDonalds, someone in the car must point at the Golden Arches and say, “Big M for me!”, with everyone else in the car then following suit.


When I am enjoying something (be it food, a tv show, good behaviour from said children), it requires two thumbs up as well as the declaration, “Two thumbs up for good!”


When the answer to the question, “What are you doing?” is, “Nothing!”, or, more frighteningly, “None of your business!”, I must immediately look for the child/children who answered me.  When the answer is silence, find them even quicker.  And be prepared to clean up a mess.


When the children assure you that their rooms are tidy, ask them, “Will I think it’s tidy?” If they still say it’s tidy, ask them, “Is it tidy enough that if I sweep the floor I can throw all the swept things away?”  All things of value (to them) will then be tidied up (or at least hidden away).


When I have my hand on the handle of a pram or a shopping trolley, I will rock it gently back and forth while standing still.  There doesn’t need to be a child in the pram or trolley.  I’ll just rock it empty.


Similarly, when you’re holding something baby-like (a doll, a teddy, someone’s cat), there is a need to bounce or rock gently, patting the baby-like thing on its bottom, and potentially shushing it.  For extra points, your friends won’t even comment upon this, because they’ll just accept it as normal behaviour.


When watching TV, I know the names and voices of all the characters on my children’s favourite shows, plus the general backstory of whatever it is they’re watching.  I will not know what is going on in most grown up shows.


When someone complains about something, my standard response is, “You get what you get and you don’t get upset,” even if I’m talking to an adult.  I’m also quite likely to suggest to a loud grown-up that they “use their inside voice,” rather than asking them to be quiet.


I am more likely to find out gossip from my children than my friends.  My children’s gossip will contain at least one nugget of truth.  My job is to work out which part(s) are real.  Some days, this is a real challenge.


And finally, when you ask your children, “Are you ready to go?” and they all say, “Yes,” don’t ever believe them.  As soon as you say, “Let’s go!” someone will suddenly realise that she needs to change her shoes because the ones she’s been wearing for the last hour apparently pinch her feet, someone else will need to go to the toilet (for the third time in twenty minutes) and a third someone will wipe their dirty hands and/or face on your clean clothes, just to make it fun.

Once upon a time . . . I was never having children

I always liked children, but never had any desire to have any of my own.  When we got married, it wasn’t that children weren’t high on the list of things to do . . . they simply weren’t on the list.  With a couple of exceptions, our friends fell into two categories – those who got married in their early twenties and had kids pretty soon after, or those who got married in their mid-thirties and had kids straight away.  We were both 25 when we got married, and we were upfront about the fact that kids weren’t our thing.  Everyone (especially older female relatives) told us (read: me) that of course we’d change my mind about kids.  Of course we’d have them.  I was equally as certain that I would not change my mind.


Of course, what all the other people said came to pass.  Living in a foreign country, happily travelling through my early thirties . . . and then a friend had the most adorable baby that ever there was.  Looking back, it was the perfect storm of events – my age probably led to me (unconsciously) considering the fact that I was skating towards the point at which conceiving a baby might be a lot more difficult, we spent a lot of time with our friends and their new baby, and he was just such a sweetheart.  One summer’s day, I was flying out of town on the same day as my friends, and I was seated behind them on the plane.  Their son was standing up on his father’s lap, reaching through the seat to me and giggling and gabbling at me.  It was at that moment that it hit me.  I want a baby.  At that particular point, let us all recall that I was ten years into a relationship that was never going to include children.  So, I gave it several months before I mentioned it to my husband, thinking that this baby-longing might just be a passing fancy.  When we did start discussing children, it took a while for us to decide that yes, we would try for a baby.  By that stage, we were both in our mid-thirties, so we also considered the possibility that, even with trying, we might not be able to have a baby.


It turns out that it was a very good thing that we’d been conscientious with birth control when we were younger, because conceiving a baby was not an issue for us.  Within four months, I was pregnant, and our eldest daughter was born six weeks before our 10^th wedding anniversary.  It was a fast labour (just over two hours from start to finish, and I am not kidding), and she was born with pneumonia and not breathing.  They took her out of my arms and rushed her to Special Care, where she was intubated, ventilated, hooked up to all number of machines and put in a humidicrib.  When I got to see her, about an hour later, it was sad to see a tiny, tiny little person with all these tubes and wires and things all over her little body.  Emotionally, I still hadn’t processed the idea that this was my daughter, yet here she was, under constant medical supervision because she was very unwell.


That night, sitting in my hospital bed while she was in Special Care down the hall, I suddenly realised how lucky we were that we’d gone straight to the hospital when I woke up in labour.  She was my first baby – they always say how labour takes longer the first time.  What if I’d thought that it was just the start of labour?  What if I hadn’t woken my husband to drive me to hospital?  What if she’d been born at home, not breathing?  That night, my daughter’s first night in the world, rates as one of the scariest nights of my life.  The realisation that one small change in what we’d done could have seen her die on the day that she was born.


Happily for us, the reality is that she was born in a place where she received immediate medical attention.  She recovered from the pneumonia and was allowed home six days after she was born.  She was a challenging newborn (she startled easily and woke a lot; we were first time parents who had utterly no idea what we were in for!), but there were no long term effects from her rapid (and scary) entry into the world.


After that, I was pretty happy with the idea of one child.  And I think I would have been happy permanently with only one child, but one day my husband said, “I think we should have another baby.”  And the instant those words were out of his mouth, I wanted another child.  Again, within four months, I was pregnant.  Miss #2 arrived in slightly slower fashion than her big sister (four hours, as opposed to two) on the Labour Day public holiday.  She was born breathing, healthy, normal. 


By this stage, my husband and I were skating towards our late thirties.  We figured that we had two healthy children and that the older we got, the higher the chances of some sort of issue, with conception, pregnancy or genetic issues with the baby.  One or the other of us would occasionally make a joke about a third child, but neither of us really pushed the issue. 


And then, one night, we didn’t worry about contraception.  We both figured that we were too old for an accidental pregnancy from a single throw-caution-to-the-wind moment.  And this is how, the week before my fortieth birthday, I found myself staring at two lines on a pregnancy test stick.  And at that moment, I realised just how much I wanted a third child, and how lucky I was that the universe had conspired to bring that about.


Our son arrived at the end of our eldest’s first year at school, in the very last week of Term 4.  He was the slowest of the three of them (six hours of labour) and the only one born during “business hours”.  My husband likes to tell everyone that I drove myself to hospital while in labour; he came straight from his office when I called him.  He got a call about an hour after he arrived, from a colleague asking why he wasn’t at their afternoon meeting.  He replied, “I’m at the hospital.  My wife is in labour.”  His colleague decided that was a damn fine excuse.


And now here I am, nineteen years into a marriage that was never supposed to include children with three of them – a three-year-old son and two daughters aged seven and nine.  It is true that some days I look around and the piles of books and the toy cars and the Lego pieces (oh my goodness, the Lego pieces) and I have a pang of nostalgia for those days where no one was dumping six copies of Captain Underpants on my couch or leaving dirty socks and a trail of muddy school uniform when she was sneaking into my bathroom after dinner (even though there’s a perfectly good bathroom downstairs near her room).  For the most part, however, I don’t know how my life ever functioned without these little people and all their crazy demands and their noise and commotion and stuff and activities and their, “I love you Mum, and you’re the best”.  I never realised just how much I was going to love being a mother, nor how much fun kids can be (except when they’re having tantrums.  At that point, I’m happy to sell them to the circus).

On the end of a friendship

The end of a romantic relationship has always been a story.  A romance (essentially) has heart; its end, heartbreak.  A romantic relationship, be it a coupledom, an engagement or a marriage, lasting two months, two years, two decades . . . the end of a romance is always a thing.  


“What happened?” you’ll hear people say.  


“I heard he cheated.”


“She said she fell in love with someone else.”


“He needed some space.”


There is always a story to the end of a couple’s relationship.  There is always solace.  Someone holds your hand (or your head, or just your whole self) while you cry.  Someone brings you ice cream or dinner (or wine).  Another someone will take you out to a club or a pub or a band.  Invariably, someone will encourage you to have a quick fling, “get back on the horse”, find someone for a little fun.  And, eventually, you’re likely to find another someone, develop another relationship, become another couple.  And everyone understands that story.


Friendship, however . . .


The end of a friendship, particularly a long friendship, often feels fairly similar to the death of a romantic relationship.  At least to you.  The end of a friendship, like the end of a romance, can be a sudden surprise; it can be a long time coming.  There can be something akin to infidelity (“why are you hanging out with her so much?  Fridays at the park are our thing!”); there can be a slow drifting apart, ending in something that sounds like, “We’re just such different people now.”  There can be the friendship equivalent of, “it’s not you, it’s me.”  And yet there is rarely the solace, the kindness, the compassion that you get at the end of a relationship.  Even though we all understand on some level that a good friendship should have many of the hallmarks of a good romantic relationship, we rarely think about that when someone is mourning the end of a friendship.


In the relatively recent past, a friendship of mine ended.  The events which transpired to end it are unimportant in their detail, but important for me to determine that it hadn’t actually been a two-sided friendship.  From my point of view, we were mates; not people that necessarily hung out much, but people who got on well together, who enjoyed chatting and catching up; people who liked and respected each other and were buddies, without being best friends.  For example, we weren’t close enough that I’d have asked her to babysit my kids, nor expected her to ask me to mind hers, but we were friendly enough that I’d have been perfectly fine with her texting to say she was running late to school pick up, and could I please just hang out with her children till she got there.  Or walk them to her car, or something similar.  And I thought she considered me in roughly the same fashion.


Anyhoo, something happened.  In the course of what happened, she said a number of things that clearly indicated that she had very limited respect for me personally.  Many of the things that she said could have been due to her having had a crappy day, but she never apologised for the way she spoke, never even acknowledged that what she’d said may have been inappropriate or rude.  At the time, I thought I might have been being a bit sensitive (I’d had an epically crappy day myself and my judgement may have been off). Having recounted what she said to three people whose judgement I trust, I’m pretty confident that it wasn’t (just) me.  What she said was rude and disrespectful.  And I was completely, horribly hurt by the fact that she would speak to me like that.


It was at that point that I thought back upon our friendship.  And when I thought about it clearly, I realised that essentially any time that we’d spoken, I’d been the one who instigated the interaction.  I was the one who asked how she was going; I had wanted to know what they’d got up to on their holidays; I was the one who admired her new hair cut or asked after her kids.  To test this theory out, I decided to stop being the one who started the conversations.  I figured that we saw each other around enough that if she really did want to chat to me, she’d have plenty of opportunities to do so.  And if she actually didn’t want to speak to me, I’d know that pretty quickly too.


It’s been over six months, and she hasn’t spoken a word to me.  I see her at least three times a week, but she’s not spoken to me since.  And it’s not like she’s going out of her way to avoid me; she just doesn’t start a conversation.  She clearly has no interest in doing so.  And I am okay with that.  

Once upon a time, I met this guy . . .

I met him in an Organic Chemistry laboratory class – we shared a fume cupboard.  He had long, purple hair with one huge dreadlock in the back, had his nails painted black and wore a grey lab coat.  Everyone else had a white one.  For the first few labs, he wore a sticker on his lapel that said, “I hate organic chemistry”.  He was six weeks past his 21^st birthday; I had six weeks to go until mine.

He barely talked to me for the first semester of classes.  At the time, I figured he didn’t like me.  The truth was that he was an introvert and rarely made small talk with anyone. 

Later that year, he wound up in a night class with a friend of mine.  The class didn’t finish until nine pm, and he always walked her to her car after class, before heading to the bus stop himself.  She mentioned that apart from saying, “I’ll walk with you,” each evening after class, he rarely said much else.

He came back to university the next year, minus the purple hair and the dreadlock.  He’d worked on a mine site all summer and a haircut had been necessary in the heat and the dust.  He took to sitting on the front steps of the Chemistry building with a number of us between classes, and over time, conversations started to happen.  Once he knew you, though he remained quite frugal in his words, he was witty, sarcastic, cheeky.  He had the best deadpan expression and was extremely convincing, even when telling an outright lie.  He was pretty much always barefoot – he put his shoes on only for lab classes.  And he wore a lot of different band t-shirts.

By the end of that year, we were sharing a couple of late afternoon classes.  One of these classes featured multiple guest presenters.  Depending on the presenter, the class was either hugely interesting or tediously boring.  There was no middle ground.  Unfortunately for us, there were far more boring classes than interesting ones.  We sat together, four or five of us in a row.  During the boring lectures, we passed notes backwards and forwards between ourselves.  At some point, he’d discovered that I loved Fruit Tingles, and he would often buy a pack of them before a class and pass a note down to me with a Fruit Tingle wrapped in it.

Over the summer break, he went away to work.  A few weeks into the break, I got a letter from him.  It was in the same style as the notes that we used to pass backwards and forwards – random stories, quick comments, nothing serious.  It surprised me that he’d written to me, but I figured he was a bit bored while working away.

Once he was back in the city for university, he invited me to his place to watch The X-Files.  He knew it was my favourite show, and he also knew that I didn’t have a TV of my own.  He also cooked me dinner.  Technically, I suppose, that was our first date, but it took a little longer for us to be officially together.  My plan for that year (my Honours year at uni) was to not have a boyfriend and to focus on my Honours work.  Of course, making that decision guaranteed that I would definitely find a boyfriend.  And so I did.

Somewhere in the wee hours of New Year’s Eve (probably New Year’s Day by then . . .), there was a proposal.  Actually, calling it a ‘proposal’ is probably being generous – I said to him, “You should marry me”, and he said, “Ok”.  Not long after that, he got a job on a mine site in the middle of nowhere.  It was what Australians refer to as FIFO – Fly In, Fly Out.  In his case, it was a two-hour flight into the closest airport, followed by a three or four hour drive to the site.  He worked four weeks on, two weeks off.  His boss was a man my father had known for years, and the boss wound up employing quite a few of the scientists we knew over the years.  The second time he came back, we went out and bought an engagement ring.  He told me that since I’d proposed, I should buy him one.  I replied that I was quite happy to, but I wanted a ring too J  In the end, we bought just one.  My engagement ring never had its own box – I left the jewellery store wearing it and have rarely taken it off since.

The first person we told was my grandmother, who was in hospital after an operation.  She was a carrier of the staph infection, so she was in an individual room, and everyone who visited had to scrub on the way in and out, and wear a gown, gloves and mask while visiting.  My husband loves to recount the story of the first time I showed someone my engagement ring – by peeling back the latex glove I was wearing in my Nana’s hospital room.

We were married early the next year, nine days after my 25^th birthday.  We bought our first house late the year after, then moved across the country a year after that, buying house #2 and selling #1.  We lived in Canada for several years after that, then moved back to Australia in our mid-thirties.  After our eldest daughter was born, we bought our third house together, and we’ve been here for over eight years, the longest we’ve ever lived at the same address in all the time we’ve been together.  In my case, prior to this, I’ve never lived at the same address for eight continuous years.

Over half my lifetime ago, I met this guy.  He had a grey lab coat because that was what his mother bought, not realising that lab coats are usually white.  He had a dreadlock, which his mother showed to our kids last time we visited – she kept it after he had his hair cut all those years ago.  He still likes band t-shirts and refuses to wear shoes unless it’s absolutely essential.  He told me many years later that the reason he’d barely talked to me in the beginning was not just because he was shy, but that he’d always thought I was cute and he didn’t really know what to say to me.  He still dislikes organic chemistry, and is more likely to be working in the geology or engineering fields than chemistry these days.  He still doesn’t like making small talk or meeting new people, but he’s still a cheeky bugger if you know him well.  I can’t remember the last time he gave me Fruit Tingles, but he still leaves (rude) notes (generally as “suggestions” on the shopping list or my to-do list for the day) around the house.  He has to be careful where he leaves these notes now, since our daughters can both read.

After twenty-three years, he still thinks I’m cute, still likes hanging out with me and is still my best friend.  Twenty-three years haven’t changed that.  Multiple relocations across the country and around the world haven’t either.  And neither have the three children we’ve had along the way.  Some days (many days) we drive each other crazy.  Some days, we barely have time to talk to each other.  Sometimes, out by ourselves without children, we purposely sit and enjoy the extreme silence that comes without children.  Especially at a dinner table.  He can still make me laugh at the stupidest things.  He will do stuff sometimes that is so funny and yet so totally inappropriate (or done at such an inappropriate time) that it immediately goes on the list of “crazy stuff my husband says that I can never tell anyone about”.

And out of all of this, please let me tell you the one thing that I know makes for a good marriage.  Be kind.  Because he is a different kind of person to me, my husband has a different take on this motto.  His would be along the lines of Don’t be an asshole.  Both of these are equally useful mottos to live by.