tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87970349763462583402024-03-14T21:37:58.854+13:00Wondrously OtherJourney of a bike riding, ink loving, vegan eating, working mother and woman in STEMNat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.comBlogger466125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-38747822803486335232022-05-17T19:48:00.002+12:002022-05-17T19:48:00.175+12:00Am I a warning or an example?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit5O6XkNH51xyFRk7DHBAE3DrgzgEdj9z-CdYnKvCnhxcuCzLmcQZSgcWM_dMInyTy64LcivuTzLCTfknnACfKfwcCjRhdqgJewUGDblrJnxjkKWmQzdowuQr7EcptDkjNn2Fe_eOrolwvKzNBEClWitU91h3XSHQ4YD0tlR9rin80q_2ibvBdd8wKdA/s3752/20220508_160609-01.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2814" data-original-width="3752" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit5O6XkNH51xyFRk7DHBAE3DrgzgEdj9z-CdYnKvCnhxcuCzLmcQZSgcWM_dMInyTy64LcivuTzLCTfknnACfKfwcCjRhdqgJewUGDblrJnxjkKWmQzdowuQr7EcptDkjNn2Fe_eOrolwvKzNBEClWitU91h3XSHQ4YD0tlR9rin80q_2ibvBdd8wKdA/w640-h480/20220508_160609-01.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">I had nightmares the other night. I don't get them often, but when I do it's because I need to sit with something for a while, maybe make a mental adjustment or remind myself of something I've lost sight of.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">This particular nightmare came at the end of a difficult weekend with the offspring. When I say 'difficult', I mean all three were balls deep in some big ass feels: Esme lashed out when she heard I was going to the UK without her. Alfie got mad because I interrupted his gaming to make him come and eat lunch. Olive was having a "fizzy" day - Imma leave that one there because it's a whole ass post in itself - The point is, it was open season on mama bears.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Did I feel like being an <a href="https://www.attachmentparenting.org/principles" target="_blank">attachment parent</a>? Nope.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Did I feel like attachment parenting was working? Also nope.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">If I'm being honest, I felt out of control, disrespected, unappreciated and very unloved. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">It's not hard to parent with empathy when you're in that headspace, but it is hard to believe you're making the right choice.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Anyway, back to my nightmare and my overall tearful demeanour thereafter. </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">The old me would have worn that self-doubt like a cilice for days. The new me picked up the journal the children bought me for Mother's Day and doodled out all the thoughts and feels I had in my head. After that I cried (again) because it felt good to see the person I have become and because I wanted to be really sure that my face was, in fact, a hot mess.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Satisfied that I had suitably dehydrated myself, I jumped onto my phone for some distraction and was promptly presented with a video from Kerwin Rae that said: </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><blockquote>Every single thing that you're doing in front of your child, I want you to ask yourself this question: Are you OK with them replicating that? Cos they're gonna. And if you're not, what would you change? And if you did want your children to behave in different ways when they're of age, how would you want them to behave? What behaviours would you want them to demonstrate? And start showing those behaviours now. You're either passing down wisdom on how to live a better and healthy life, or you're passing down words and showing people that you're a warning. You're either a warning or an example.</blockquote><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Well damn.</p>Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-36911502487252933932022-04-24T17:51:00.002+12:002022-04-24T18:02:36.265+12:00Baking With Not So Small Children<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeq1B_V5bTD-xPlTggAznw3T2z3-6ToIqdTm_VIaJyVhu4vo4F31f_7X7sr1nYs35hhv4pfd8-JY1Q6E0Sc5EqtpjLtVjufRWfDZIc1TKh3q8LlrIjad50OIITZ24hULz-QzyLpQ98C0d8hwa-ZkcX5GwxwKkKHf4QHM5gCymyfczJw3tfh5_qLO1rTQ/s4000/20220424_125815.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeq1B_V5bTD-xPlTggAznw3T2z3-6ToIqdTm_VIaJyVhu4vo4F31f_7X7sr1nYs35hhv4pfd8-JY1Q6E0Sc5EqtpjLtVjufRWfDZIc1TKh3q8LlrIjad50OIITZ24hULz-QzyLpQ98C0d8hwa-ZkcX5GwxwKkKHf4QHM5gCymyfczJw3tfh5_qLO1rTQ/w640-h480/20220424_125815.jpg" title="Eight years on and some things never change" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">It’s a testament to my optimistic nature, the triumph of imagination over reality, but somehow <a href="http://www.wondrouslyother.com/2014/07/baking-with-small-children.html" target="_blank">the stupidity of baking with a two year old</a> became the joy of baking with a ten year old.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div>The children are in varying stages of COVID recovery at the moment, so before they arrived for the holidays, I stocked the house with Christmas Holiday levels of comfort food, games, and film-based distractions. </div><div><br /></div><div>One of the things I had planned was some baking because after three years in La Sombra I am just getting to grips with the oven ... and misery loves company.</div><div><br /></div><div>In my defence, my oven is gas-powered and had the added spice of being delivered without a single number on the temperature dial: It has all the character traits of a blast furnace.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, I decided to enlist the help of the erstwhile hazard child in perfecting a brand new vegan cake. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ironically, looking back at the previous baking post, this cake did contain tinned pears. Long gone are the days of "they're my favourite" but eight years of cooking with Esme has refined her reactions to perfection.</div><div><br /></div><div>She is the master of understatement, has the nose of a bloodhound and the discernment of a Michelin inspector, and her approval is now measured by a single deadpan nod. </div><div><br /></div><div>I live for that nod.</div><div><br /></div><div>Esme is my favourite kitchen buddy. She's calm, creative and inspirational, and very, very emo.</div><div><br /></div><div>So when I invented a cake involving chopped pear, cinnamon and nutmeg I wanted Esme's help to perfect the recipe.</div><div><br /></div><div>Once we had done our chores, as I did eight years ago (and many times since) I laid everything out on the counter, turned on the oven, took a deep cleansing breath and called Esme into the kitchen.</div><div><br /></div><div>What happened after that moment is a blur. </div><div><br /></div><div>My mixture was wrong: I had gone too hard on the nutmeg and not hard enough with the salt. There was milk where there should have been pear juice and not enough floof powder. </div><div><br /></div><div>I felt suitably chastised as I spooned the mixture into the cake tin under her disapproving stare.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I turned around from the oven though, the emo had fallen away from Esme. There instead was the two year old with a passion for unbaked cake batter, violence and pithy banter.</div><div><br /></div><div>And she was right about the cake. It was the best one yet.</div></div>Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-62833224692503898002022-03-12T22:06:00.000+13:002022-03-12T22:06:47.155+13:00To Alec, on his Baptism<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUFpkJPNCep7B0oN1c1PA1Oj1xdgBk1klIxkfkmbkODnBlBgMWFg8LU0bFy76i46SDMZaIfOUmOiCjoFRxplN-P18oH_mNDhtJVNhc54a5FtahbXXJtX4XbuPa9hrG7zqz9spWACK9KLFOnNP6c15l6v5mwsaH1GtmvrXDRCaoO89JBW626uVZ2Wh7Kg=s1600" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1253" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUFpkJPNCep7B0oN1c1PA1Oj1xdgBk1klIxkfkmbkODnBlBgMWFg8LU0bFy76i46SDMZaIfOUmOiCjoFRxplN-P18oH_mNDhtJVNhc54a5FtahbXXJtX4XbuPa9hrG7zqz9spWACK9KLFOnNP6c15l6v5mwsaH1GtmvrXDRCaoO89JBW626uVZ2Wh7Kg=w502-h640" width="502" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My darling Godson Alec,</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I have not yet had the privilege of holding you in my arms or seeing your smiling face in person, but I hold you in my heart every day as I see you grow from across this pale blue dot that we all call home.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">You won’t recognise that reference yet, the “pale blue dot”, so let me explain. Once, an incredible man called Carl Sagan suggested that a departing spacecraft turn around for one last look at its home planet. The photo that it took shows a vast dark universe and one tiny pale blue dot, caught in a beam of light. That dot is the planet Earth. When Carl Sagan saw that photo, he wrote the following:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><blockquote style="text-align: justify;">Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there--on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.</blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;">You have the privilege of joining our pale blue dot at a time of great change. If I were to travel from my home to yours, I would pass great floods, unholy wars and pandemics. I would also witness the human race coming together for each other in ways not seen in either of our lifetimes to fix what has been broken.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I write these things to you today not to scare you about what is happening in the world, but to reassure you. Because when I look at Carl Sagan’s words, it reminds me of the infinite possibilities of the life you have ahead of you in a world that is ready for change.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It is my prayer for you, as your Godmother, that you take the love of God given to you today as you are reborn into our church and hold it close as you begin to discover what this incredible life has in store for you. It is my hope that you take God's love with you on your journey through every day. It is my dream that your life means our pale blue dot will shine a little brighter in the darkness of the universe.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Your loving Godmother</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Nat</div>Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-75389553104391957802020-07-09T20:53:00.002+12:002022-04-24T17:53:59.643+12:00Learning to Sing<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EPjQ0D3sSkY/XwbanQI3paI/AAAAAAACmqM/g6PO3UW6h18iEL0dZOFQBVOass0Y7j_tQCK4BGAsYHg/s1080/This%2Bone%2Bhas%2Bmusic%2Bin%2Bher%2Bheart.%2BThis%2Bmasterpiece%2Bwas%2BI%2Bdon%2527t%2Bwant%2Bhim%252C%2BI%2Bdon%2527t%2Bwant%2Bhim%252C%2BI%2Bdon%2527t%2Bwant%2Bhiiiim%2B...%2BBUT%2BI%2BWANT%2BHIM%2521%2BI%2Bdidn%2527t%2Bwant%2Bto%2Btell%2Bher%2Bthat%2Bmay%2Bwell%2Bprove%2Bto%2Bbe%2Ba%2Bsentiment%2Bshe%2Brevisits%2Boften%2Bi.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="607" data-original-width="1080" height="360" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EPjQ0D3sSkY/XwbanQI3paI/AAAAAAACmqM/g6PO3UW6h18iEL0dZOFQBVOass0Y7j_tQCK4BGAsYHg/w640-h360/This%2Bone%2Bhas%2Bmusic%2Bin%2Bher%2Bheart.%2BThis%2Bmasterpiece%2Bwas%2BI%2Bdon%2527t%2Bwant%2Bhim%252C%2BI%2Bdon%2527t%2Bwant%2Bhim%252C%2BI%2Bdon%2527t%2Bwant%2Bhiiiim%2B...%2BBUT%2BI%2BWANT%2BHIM%2521%2BI%2Bdidn%2527t%2Bwant%2Bto%2Btell%2Bher%2Bthat%2Bmay%2Bwell%2Bprove%2Bto%2Bbe%2Ba%2Bsentiment%2Bshe%2Brevisits%2Boften%2Bi.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I live beside a misunderstood community. What is locally known as The Hippy House, is, in reality, a shared house filled with some of the most supportive and creative people I have ever met.<br /><br />It's rare to visit the house without seeing someone drawing, writing, whittling or playing an instrument, and it's an addictive force to be around. <br /><br />The first to be swept up was Olive, who disappeared one afternoon while I was chatting in the kitchen, only to be found lying across an armchair on the back porch with one of the guys playing his guitar. He was daydreaming while he played the same set of chords over and over, while Olive's teeny angelic voice sung the words to the chorus of Wagonwheel (her favourite song) over and over again. How he discovered that about her, let along get her to sing along with him is a mystery I never chose to unpack. Instead, I pulled my head back through the sliding doors and silently tiptoed away grinning to myself.<br /><br />It never occurred to me that a few months later, the same household would weave the same magic on me, and I would find myself singing in front of people for the first time in my life.<br /><br />I've spent a lot of my life singing in the shower, with my headphones on, and on rare occasions in front of people when I have consumed enough alcohol to be brave. Most of those occasions have resulted in me being told to "SHUUUUUUT UUUUUUUUUP!!!!!!", and so, for a long time, I did. <br /><br />I stopped singing in the shower because I was just trying to get through it before The Offspring Wars escalated to literal bloodshed. And as a side note, I would like to point out that my going to the shower is never announced. I sneak into the bathroom with the same ninja skills I used to sneak out of my bedroom as a child, but they know, OH THEY KNOW. Even if all three children have been quietly enjoying activities in different time zones, I can guarantee that I won't have finished shampooing my hair before the first screeches are echoing through the house. <br /><br />I stopped singing with my headphones on because I live in a house with no Wifi and, frankly, I'm bored of the music I have downloaded on my phone these days.<br /><br />I stopped singing with other people around because, well actually, I didn't, there's just never anyone else around.<br /><br />The point is, lockdown happened and I was blessed to be in a bubble with the guys across the road. And I'm a strong person, Lord knows I'm stubborn, but after a month of all that support and comradery, they snuck in behind my defences and a few beers into the evening, I started singing. Like singing along to someone playing the guitar. With nobody else singing with me.<br /><br />Hands down, the most terrifying thing I can remember doing.<br /><br />Especially when other people turned up. Other people, as in AN AUDIENCE. My brain took one look at the situation and had a full-scale Hulk Smash tantrum. The only saving grace was that we were singing a song that has three verses in it and that I'd listened to it for three days straight while I was in labour with Esme, which is to say, that song is indelibly lodged in my brain until the day I die.<br /><br />The thing was after I'd told my brain "Sun’s gettin’ real low" a few times (geeky Marvel reference for you there), I actually started to enjoy myself. Okay so I had to stare at lyrics on my phone to avoid making eye contact, and I had to be given the most obvious of cues to start singing in the first place, aaaaaaand yes I fucked up more times than I got it right, but nobody cared, nobody told me to shut up, not once. They were having so much fun they made ME start to have fun too.<br /><br />Right up until the point someone suggested an open mic. Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-52499929920134288512020-04-10T15:21:00.001+12:002022-04-24T17:58:18.531+12:00COVID-19 away from my children<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CGaulOWl7X8/Xo_lYWGqziI/AAAAAAACkzI/w5KtZsY0We4u4EBzK_Xw7jvur5Wt_tW7gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/20200116_004255.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CGaulOWl7X8/Xo_lYWGqziI/AAAAAAACkzI/w5KtZsY0We4u4EBzK_Xw7jvur5Wt_tW7gCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/20200116_004255.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Sometimes there are world events that come crashing into your life and change everything. They give you so many chances to be humble, be selfless, be grateful, even while your heart is breaking into a million tiny pieces.<br />
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COVID-19 has taken the world into the <a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/blog/2018/09/14/visitors-guide-to-dantes-nine-circles-of-hell" target="_blank">First Circle of Hell</a> and the NZ government took one look at the raging cluster fuck, rolled up its sleeves, and came up with an effective plan to shut that shit down but FAST.<br />
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And I'm grateful for that, in every sense but one.<br />
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Part of the hard decisions that were taken, was that children of separated parents could only move between households within the same community. For the NZ unfamiliar, La Sombra and Keith's household couldn't be said to be in the same community even when viewed from space.<br />
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There was no question in my mind in the run up to lockdown that Keith's was the better household for them to weather the storm, but did that come at a personal cost to me? Yes. And how large a cost, I would have no idea.<br />
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For weeks now we have had regular video calls, through patchy signal and ever restless children, hearing of trips to the beach and plans for lunch and Fortnite wins, and the ever-present declarations of love.<br />
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"I love you Stinky Face", I'll say to Olive, and for a second I see her eyes change to hurt, just a flash, like a nictitating membrane, that reaches through the internet and strangles my heart.<br />
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"I love you Alfredito", I say to my son, and in return, his mouth moves with words unsaid, his eyes and mine desperate for the warmth or arms wrapped tight and faces smooshed together.<br />
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"I love you Sassypants", Esme shouts mid-sentence as she runs from the room, my middle child being as uncomfortable with goodbyes as I have always been, brashness and humour covering the pain of nights missed where her hand would otherwise be resting on my heart as she drifts to sleep.<br />
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And what of me? Lately, the weight of our separation has begun to seep into my very bones. I find myself touching the screen of my phone hoping that if I can only push hard enough I might reach them.<br />
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It hits me in a carelessly discarded hair clip or a love note on the fridge as I wait for the kettle to boil. It hits me as I hold their favourite soft toys to my heart, or discover a craftily hidden snack wrapper.<br />
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It weighs on my heart that I am enjoying my time in lockdown, with the support of an amazing group of people, and that I wouldn't, for all the tea in China replace it for a second with the children while this risk to their health exists.<br />
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They are with their father, they are loved, they are safe, and for the first time, I truly understand the words of Elizabeth Stone "Making the decision to have a child - it is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.”Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-14346640753352410802020-01-28T14:07:00.005+13:002022-04-29T18:44:12.003+12:00When your crazy ends up on TV<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DqEvgLiCt0E/XiZcDDd3zMI/AAAAAAACcyc/mas0vJUERUUdDt7nI8MRRdg4OuZMy9NEgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/1574361920471.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="697" data-original-width="1240" height="358" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DqEvgLiCt0E/XiZcDDd3zMI/AAAAAAACcyc/mas0vJUERUUdDt7nI8MRRdg4OuZMy9NEgCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/1574361920471.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">What appeared in the results was a long list of tiny house builders who claimed to build family-sized tiny homes. One, in particular, stood out like a beacon of sanity as the only ones who seemed to understand the need for storage. Hand to God, Build Tiny, if it weren't for you I would never have gone through with this crazy scheme.</span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">"You and three kids in one of our houses?", they said, "hold our motherfucking drinks". Except they didn't quite put it like that because, y' know, they're professionals.</span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">Enthusiasm wise though? Totally holding their drinks.</span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">It took them four months from the time I ordered the house until the day it was delivered. The longest four months of my life.</span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">More importantly, because Build Tiny was so chill about the whole deal, it didn't occur to me that what I was planning was quite odd. <a href="https://www.stuff.co.nz/life-style/homed/houses/117521278/single-mother-moves-into-new-tiny-house-and-lives-offgrid" target="_blank">Enter TV3 stage left to ask if they could film us for a show</a>. </span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">It was tactfully pitched as a show about people making "big life changes" but you know, oh you KNOW that was code for "look at these idiots thinking they can get all up in a houseboat when they've come from a five-bed penthouse in the city".</span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">I wanted to do it though. If I'm going to call my blog Wondrously Other, you know I'm no stranger to the side-eye of strangers over my life choices. I figured maybe some other family might see it and be inspired. Or maybe less depressed about the weirdness of their own life choices. "Oh, you think THIS is bad? Check out the lady who lives in a shoe"</span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">Which is maybe the briefing they should have given the film crew because I have yet to see a face as crestfallen as the cameraman trying to get TV quality shots in a tiny house. No word of a lie, the first words that came out of his mouth when he saw the interior was "I'm gonna need a wider lense".</span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">It took all my self-control not to darken his day further by bringing up his oblique Jaws reference.</span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">Fortunately, my children took care of that particular dilemma by demonstrating why there is a saying in the film industry that should never work with children or animals.</span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">"Tash, can we just get a shot of the kitchen? Without the children? No without the ... we can still see a leg. Further back. Further. Outside?"</span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">"Tash, can you just sit on the sofa and do a quick interview with the host? Why is house rocking? Are they jumping on their beds?"</span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">"Children, can you take Kanoa up to your room and tell her a bit about what you like about living here?" .............. (insert crickets here)</span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">Not that I was any better. I derp hard in front of cameras. It's a life long burden that my father, the family photographer, has carried with barely concealed frustration. The only photo of me and my sisters ever to make the walls at home is the one where I accidentally cracked up laughing. Hey, it's that or I look like a snake, take the damn crackup, dad.</span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">Every time I had to talk to the camera my mouth moved like I'd had a stroke. I lost the ability to open and close drawers. I forgot how to put logs on the fire. I'm gonna be blunt here, I am not waiting for a phone call to become TV's next hot talent.</span></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #1c1e29; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span data-preserver-spaces="true" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">But for all that, our family's little 15 minutes of fame came out pretty well. I'm not sure whether I fell more on the side of "shoe dweller" or "inspirational free thinker" but who cares, we love La Sombra, our teeny tiny home in the country, and that's what counts. </span></div>
Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-25757329703147634072020-01-20T11:11:00.001+13:002022-04-24T17:58:58.640+12:00The sorry tale of Pugsley<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZwMSPU91fXk/XhzqFi8uGOI/AAAAAAACca8/XR_BUO12pvo4JDYy2DewTx7d30hX9kcHwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/20190401_175412.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZwMSPU91fXk/XhzqFi8uGOI/AAAAAAACca8/XR_BUO12pvo4JDYy2DewTx7d30hX9kcHwCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/20190401_175412.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
I'm a firm believer that animals make a house a home. When I was growing up, we had everything from a GSD who thought I was his pup, to accidentally pregnant guinea pigs, and, as animals do, they taught me many wordless lessons about life, love and death.<br />
<br />
When I became a single mum, my housing situation was a little ... shall we say "temporary" ... for a while, but I wanted to give the children their choice of critter on which to pour their undying affection.<br />
<br />
Alfie, being Alfie, went for a goldfish (called Goldie) and several snails, all of whom are called Gary.<br />
<br />
The girls had loftier plans in the form of bunnies. So I made them what I thought at the time was a genius deal. "You can get bunnies" I foolishly said, "when you find a pair of rescue bunnies to adopt".<br />
<br />
For weeks I patted myself on the back as trips to the pet shop remained fruitless. Then one day, as Alfie and I were in deep discussion about fish food, the girls came whooping across the shop having found the mythical Bunnies of Adopt.<br />
<br />
Muttering darkly about petards, I followed the girls over to the cutest pair of rabbits I have ever seen. The only way they were getting cuter was if they were called something adorable like, hold up, are those really their names?!?!? Pugsley and Wednesday? Are you freaking kidding me?!?!? Get your coats bunnies, you're coming home with me. I mean us. Totally not my bunnies.<br />
<br />
Well they were my bunnies when I was woken at 2 am by a local huskie trying to break into their hutch and I went tear arsing outside buck naked to run him off.<br />
<br />
Totally the kids' bunnies when they managed to dig their way out of the hutch one day. Pugsley was recaptured sunbathing outside the neighbours, but Wednesday was nowhere to be found. We went door to door all-day and by evening, the girls and I were having The Talk. The next day, the local vet called me to tell me that Wednesday had been found by a local trucker sitting in the middle of the main road. He had picked her up, and she spent the day sitting in his passenger seat while he did his deliveries. He even stopped to buy her treats and fed her grass from the verge. Hand to God, that rabbit was born under a lucky star.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately the same could not be said for her brother who was struck down by the dreaded bunny killer, GI stasis. He'd been quiet all day, so we were trying to keep him warm and get food and drink into him, but he was having none of it. Then at bedtime, just as I was settling the kids, we heard him scream and found him lying on his side half out of his bed. He was dead. Honestly, he was about as ex as a bunny could get, but then he started in with the agonal twitching and all three sobbing children were suddenly wailing that he was alive and we needed to save him. So I did what any responsible parent would do, threw the bunny back into his bed grabbed the whole sorry mess and we all ran to the car.<br />
<br />
Picture, if you will, us driving at speed through the nighttime streets of Wellington, crammed into an Audi TT, the girls crying quietly in the back and a dead rabbit lying on Alfie's lap in the front while he rubs him repeating "come on little fella, hang in there". We pull up to the doors of the emergency vet in a cloud of tyre smoke and race for the door, wearing nothing but our pyjamas, not a pair of shoes between us.<br />
<br />
Having dumped Pugsley unceremonious on the counter, I lock eyes with the nurse behind the desk. My mouth says "Our rabbit has GI stasis and needs your help". My eyes say "yeah I know this rabbit is a gonner, but for the love of sweet baby Jesus humour me here".<br />
<br />
The nurse looks from me to Pugsley, to the expectant eyes of the children and tenderly picks up the bed. "Let's see what we can do".<br />
<br />
We file past the waiting room full of anxious pet owners and into the examination room where the nurse makes a great show of listening for a heartbeat before sighing and quietly saying "I'm so sorry, your bunny has died".<br />
<br />
Olive, the erstwhile owner of Pugsley, let out a wail the like of which I have never heard. Laying her head gently on his, in deep shuddering breaths, she starts to tell her beloved how much she loved him, and how she would never forget him. She wasn't messing around either, she managed to recite every misdemeanour Pugsley had ever visited on her, which I thought was a little unnecessary considering the circumstances.<br />
<br />
Eventually, and by that I mean about five minutes later because, y'know, dead rabbit or not it was still past bedtime on a Sunday night, I told her it was time to say goodbye and we all filed out into the waiting room. The now highly traumatised waiting room who had lived through the entire drama with us courtesy of an open door and were all quietly weeping and holding their pets a little closer as a result.<br />
<br />
We all held each other a little closer that night.Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-74946978522268880082020-01-13T11:56:00.001+13:002022-04-24T17:59:12.344+12:00All the gear, all the time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jlq5-BSmI7s/XgwJN7P5hSI/AAAAAAACbAg/vFRcAAyZN0wKER907QkUg3ZdmUUuK3DqACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/IMG_20190924_115424_979.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1084" data-original-width="1600" height="432" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jlq5-BSmI7s/XgwJN7P5hSI/AAAAAAACbAg/vFRcAAyZN0wKER907QkUg3ZdmUUuK3DqACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/IMG_20190924_115424_979.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
It started with a Peewee. A clapped out, second hand, fixer-upper bought by two biker parents hoping that at least ONE of their offspring would share their passion. How could anyone have known what it would become? Especially since precognition only runs in my side of the family.<br />
<br />
Okay, saying that out loud? Should totally have seen it coming.<br />
<br />
Esme looked at that bike, set her jaw, threw over her leg and cranked the throttle. While her siblings were wobbling around like newborn fawns, Esme was getting air off the smallest of bumps, right up until the point where her enthusiasm snapped the throttle cable. <br />
<br />
So the Peewee got parked up, I failed to mend the throttle cable, the bike got stolen, and eventually, I gave in to the endless nagging and replaced it with a DR50, which, as any mini Motox parent knows, is a bit of a step up in potential A&E visits, what with having 3 gears and all.<br />
<br />
Also, like all DRs, the 50 is a needy little madam and refuses to start unless you really truly promise that she is the only bike in the world for you. Esme, not being much for needy creatures, was more for using the stick rather than the carrot, which was how she came to flatten the battery within a day of it being delivered.<br />
<br />
Anxious to save the bike from a stout beating with the nearest branch, I offered to kick start it for her, and take it for a quick ride on the drive to get it charged.<br />
<br />
Which was my first mistake. My second was forgetting the golden rule of biking, which is "all the gear, all the time" because what trouble could I possibly get into on a teeny weeny little kid's dirt bike?<br />
<br />
My third mistake was taking my eyes off the road for a split second, which was about the same time the front wheel hit a big ass stone, flicking the bike 45o right and sent me full speed off the edge of a cliff.<br />
<br />
Am I being dramatic? Last time I climbed that particular bank from the river below, it took me an hour to climb out going from tree root to tree root, on hands and knees.<br />
<br />
As with all crashes, it was over quickly, soundtracked by branches snapping as I tumbled head over heels down the bank, waiting for the bike to impale me on it's way to a watery grave in the river below. Once I stopped tumbling, I realised I was still alone.<br />
<br />
Somehow I had parked the bike neatly in a tree at the top of the bank. Somehow, I still had use of my now rubbery limbs. Somehow, I missed the slow warm trickle down my left leg until after I had made it back up the bank and breathed a sigh of relief that my rookie error had gone entirely unwitnessed.<br />
<br />
Relief that was soon tinged with panic, as I speed hobbled back to the house to inspect the damage to my leg, which was bad enough for even a stalwart like me to think "fuck, that's going to need stitches". Relief as nobody appeared while I applied butterfly stitches with one hand while stemming the vigorous blood flow with the other. And sheer bloody joy that I made it halfway back to the bike, with an affected air of nonchalance with Esme having seen nothing of the drama.<br />
<br />
Because The Fear.<br />
<br />
Not mine, but hers.<br />
<br />
It's one thing to wince as your child shimmies her way through gravel, it's quite another to have them refuse to get back on the bike because they've witnessed their mama getting fired into the scenery. <br />
<br />
So like any good parent, I dealt with the situation by overcompensating like a motherfucker and took us all straight to the nearest bike shop to spend a fortune on child-sized padding. <br />
<br />
As I learned a long time ago while racing, it's okay to do dumb stuff, as long as you throw enough padding at the situation.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, they are yet to make padding for egos.Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-22543820537678222582019-12-30T14:50:00.001+13:002022-04-24T17:59:45.848+12:00The hardest words to say<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OglJHYnjQ9M/XglXdybmRwI/AAAAAAACbAI/gl8nnEjyQ0sBMRbu22VoA3t5MGx0cJi-wCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/mbike.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="1080" height="334" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OglJHYnjQ9M/XglXdybmRwI/AAAAAAACbAI/gl8nnEjyQ0sBMRbu22VoA3t5MGx0cJi-wCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/mbike.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Over the past year, life, as I knew and wrote about, has changed beyond recognition. There is no part of my former life left, except a few treasured items and, of course, the children.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So to put it bluntly, I tried and I failed.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I've said that a lot over the last year. I tried and I failed to be a wife. I tried and I failed to homeschool the children. I tried and I failed to hold down a high flying career without a partner. I tried and I failed to look after my mental health. I tried and I failed, more times than I will ever be able to count.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So what do you do with that? How do you take failure after failure and put yourself back together? How do you drag yourself back out of the mud after each gut punch to hold your head high?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">That's not rhetorical, and I'm not asking for a friend, I'm saying these are the questions that go round my head day after day, punch after punch.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I want to spend some time going into each of the many cluster fucks of the last year, but there's time for that, and we've all just spent the festive season overeating, so I'm gonna keep the popcorn and schadenfreude quotient low on this return post. That said, I'm all about the spoilers, so here's my answer to my not so rhetorical question.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">You just do.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">You find that one thing that makes you smile today. You forgive yourself for the unending fuck ups as you learn how to be a new you. You lean on the people around you. You imagine new adventures.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Yesterday I changed my necklace from the one I have been wearing for years. That old necklace was one I bought during the worst parenting experience of my life and it reminded me that nothing would ever be that bad again.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Today I am wearing a pounamu that the children gave me last Christmas. It symbolises new beginnings. Give me some time and I'll share each of those new beginnings. I'll get brave again with my words. I'll feel safe in sharing my chaos.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I started writing this blog because I was going nuts trying to have a baby. I carried on writing because I was going nuts when I had three of them. Now I need to write because I have a crazy-ass life, no idea how I got here, and if I don't laugh about it with someone, years from now, none of you will get my epitaph even close to accurate.</div>Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-73222272093050910522017-05-05T21:41:00.000+12:002017-05-05T21:41:10.581+12:00Your values are not my values ... and that's OK<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HQLMERotSj0/WQWvRoR0rqI/AAAAAAAB3Vo/GR14pMDQY74aPWyU4oWtTGxLNGMPvPAZgCPcB/s1600/20170429_112104.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="408" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HQLMERotSj0/WQWvRoR0rqI/AAAAAAAB3Vo/GR14pMDQY74aPWyU4oWtTGxLNGMPvPAZgCPcB/s640/20170429_112104.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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One day I will look back at how challenging I find parenting my daughter and laugh: That's a rhetorical statement by the way, in case anyone feels the need to tell me I'm delusional.</div>
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My latest internal struggle has been with Esme's three-month campaign to get some makeup of her very own. My struggles are twofold;</div>
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Struggle The First - Is it Appropriate for a Five Year Old to Wear Makeup?</h4>
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I'm a product of society, just like everyone else. For every conscious thought, I have my share of programmed reactions that say that makeup on young children is wrong: Why are you in such a hurry to look older? Why pick makeup as your form of expression with its connotations of sexuality?</div>
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And while I'm normally someone who respects my gut reactions, in this case, they were wrong. They were wrong because they weren't my own, they were a subtle learned misogyny.</div>
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I've always said that I would defend the rights of women to wear to wear revealing clothes and not be assaulted. I've spoken out about fat shaming, and slut shaming, and mansplaining, and yet ... and yet. Somehow when it was my five-year-old daughter wanting to wear makeup, it was different. </div>
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How hypocritical of me to find some of her expression positive, and to judge this one. When she wanted a skateboard, I cheered her on. When she begged me for a ride on my bike, I was excited. When she got excited about something that leaves me cold, it took me months to get behind her.</div>
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I could hide behind the fact that it was a simple case of not having that shared passion to spark my enthusiasm, but it was more than that. It disappointed me to have Esme excited by something so stereotypical, and worse, a symbol of other people's expectations of female beauty.</div>
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But the subversion of a tradition can be an exciting thing, and while I'm sure Esme was blissfully unaware of my motives as we picked out her first items of war paint, there was a small part of me that enjoyed sticking two fingers at the traditional ideals of what makeup means and who should be allowed to use it.</div>
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Unfortunately, once the thrill of subversion had worn off, I was left with another issue.</div>
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Struggle The Second - She Looks Like a Clown</h4>
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I know that everyone has to start somewhere, and I fully accept that I'm no makeup expert, but even I don't strut around looking like a drag queen coming off a three-day binge. Despite me finding Esme several videos on how to apply her new makeup, she continues to ¨experiment¨. </div>
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I'm not against experimenting, as a concept. </div>
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Some of the finest musicians have created new and exciting genres of music by experimenting. But if you look at the greats of jazz, for example, they always mastered the rules before they started bending them. If they hadn't, they would have sounded like a rhino sitting on a keyboard in much the same way that Esme currently looks like she's lost a stand-up row with a glitterball.</div>
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On one hand who cares? She's having fun and if nothing else she's got her ¨zombie face" <i>nailed</i> should the likes of Walking Dead ever need to cast the role of Small Antipodean Rage Zombie.</div>
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But then there's the other hand. The one where I have no poker face to speak of, and where Esme comes bounding up to me with lipstick smeared all up her nose and eye shadow all down her cheeks and asks me with the hope-filled eyes how her makeup looks. The one where I have to find that razor thin line between honesty and kindness, between integrity and encouragement. The one where I rue the day I ever gave her access to YouTube.</div>
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P.S. I just wanted to preserve for posterity that Esme is not standing against that part of the wall by accident. Nothing ruins an ¨edgy urban photo¨ like your daughter being photobombed by an enormous graffiti penis! </div>
Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-1520103691752443742017-04-20T21:57:00.002+12:002022-04-24T18:00:02.405+12:00The Hunt for Bush Asparagus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Sc1dpQnJPPg/WPRnUG4bPzI/AAAAAAAB23M/3HtCBNOEsvYBFpN7GSyNzCbX0xA6JX7BgCPcB/s1600/20170417_120354.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Sc1dpQnJPPg/WPRnUG4bPzI/AAAAAAAB23M/3HtCBNOEsvYBFpN7GSyNzCbX0xA6JX7BgCPcB/s640/20170417_120354.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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There is a point during every holiday weekend where I feel like I am starting to petrify. Once upon a time, it was Christmas Day, with its inevitable bad weather, overeating and basic lack of movement. Now that honour falls to Easter weekend, which this year blessed us with sideways rain, too much chocolate and three bouncy ass children who needed some outdoors time in the worst possible way.</div>
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Which was when I came up with the bright idea of taking Alfie and Olive on <a href="http://rnkpr.com/ag014pi" target="_blank">a day trek</a>; in theory, a flawless concept, and in practice completely banjaxed by Keith and Esme getting a bad case of FOMO.<br />
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9am - Drag self out of bed to break up yet another squabble over the last of the cereal. Admit that early start is not going to happen since husband is still in bed and making noises about Hearty Breakfast in the shape of <a href="https://www.popsugar.com.au/fitness/Healthy-Tasty-Vegan-Pancakes-Recipe-100-Calories-35307218?utm_medium=redirect&utm_campaign=US:NZ&utm_source=www.google.co.nz" target="_blank">vegan pancakes</a>.</div>
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9.15 - Give in to pleas of starvation from children and start to make pancakes. Clean up debris from first two rounds of breakfast and mutter darkly about hollow legs. </div>
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9.30 - Admit to self that pancakes are well worth the effort for the peace that falls over the breakfast table. Wonder if I should launch a bid for Best Mum in World by cooking pancakes every day. </div>
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9.32 - Eldest child requests that I cook pancakes every day. Feel slightly miffed to have overachieving opportunity reduced to merely achieving.</div>
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10.00 - Persuade husband to stop brewing rounds of coffee, and children to put on basic clothing. Realise we are out of trail food and agree heartily with eldest son that carrots <i>are</i> just as good. Glare at husband until he takes his sceptical look away from the children. </div>
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10.10 - Corale family out of house and into car. Start car. Shout at children to stop fighting or HAND TO GOD I will turn this car around!<br />
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10.11 - Glare at husband,, who is laughing heartily at the astute point made by middle child that I can't turn the car around before we've even left.</div>
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10.15 - Smile smugly as husband has to wade in to stop children from hitting each other.<br />
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10.17 - Husband initiates Plan B discussions around splitting up the family for the afternoon. Do not resist the opportunity to say I told him so.<br />
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10.40 - Get dropped off at start of walk with firstborn son. We are filled with enthusiasm as we take lung fulls of heavily perfumed autumn air and watch the rest of the family disappear from the car park in a plume of dust.<br />
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10.45 - Set off on walk. My enthusiasm is slightly tempered by the realisation that I will spend the entire walk being educated in Minecraft.<br />
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10.50 - Stop for snack. Remind son of previous treks and advise caution in the frequency of snack breaks.<br />
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11.00 - Reach the first of many gorse patches. Help son weigh up the choices between gorse scratches and a return visit to the hospital if he plummets off the side of the path.<br />
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11.05 - Realise I am bad parent for tuning out the constant flow of chatter about how to make sticky pistons and supercharged fire arrow launchers. Resolve to listen harder as precious firstborn son shares his great passion with me.<br />
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11.10 - Nope. Can't do it.<br />
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11.20 - Stop for snack. Suspect this is less about hunger and more about the "gorse bushes" up ahead. Try to reason with son that it is actually manuka and therefore not likely to puncture any soft squishy bits.<br />
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11.22 - Indulge in some long hard sniffing as we walk through manuka patch. Fail to notice that the manuka patch ends and is replaced with gorse.<br />
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11.23 - Hold distraught son as he weeps about punctured soft squishy bits.<br />
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11.30 - Distract sniffling son with a hunt for <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B8sKQeLmax0&feature=youtu.be&t=3m41s" target="_blank">bush asparagus</a>, which he adores.<br />
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11.35 - Find a cheeky little number hiding in the bushes and hand it over to son, who finally stops sniffling.<br />
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11.40 - Continue to walk in blissful, contented, bird song filled silence.<br />
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11.45 - Get overtaken at speed by a Young Couple who are involved in an excitable debate in VERY LOUD VOICES.<br />
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11.50 - Use constant reverberating chatter from now vanished couple to talk to son about acoustics. Try very hard not to grind teeth.<br />
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12.00 - Burst from bush into a clearing, which gives us a stunning view over the Hutt Valley and the entire Wellington harbour. Can still hear Young Couple but can't see them ... or a single other path that they could have used.<br />
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12.10 - Stumble onward through bush in what seems to be the direction of Young Couple's voices. Realise there are no orange triangles, get the fear and double back to the clearing.<br />
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12.15 - Stumble along "path" marked on map to a gate marked private property. Decide to use well-worn gap in fence to walk onto Private Property. Go 10 paces, get a flashback to <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wolf_Creek_(film)" target="_blank">Wolf Creek</a> and run back to safety at speed. Realise that Young Couple are a much more likely target, seeing as they <i>still</i> haven't stopped talking, and break it to firstborn that we will have to go back the way we came. Firstborn does not care.<br />
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12.30 - Start of conversation about God ... or more accurately Gods ... in all their various persuasions. Am confused about how we could have ventured so far from the world of the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MfERdhRCUps" target="_blank">Ender Dragon</a>.<br />
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12.45 - Still talking about God(s). Have now promised to take son to church on the Sunday of his choosing: This was not how I expected this day to turn out. Pick up my pace before I discover I have been accidentally been raising the next Panchen Lama. Realise this is unlikely, but it doesn't pay to take chances.<br />
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12.50 - Ignore calls from son to slow down and challenge him to a race. He may be an undercover lama, but he's also a Batsford and cannot walk away from a competition.<br />
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1:00 - Arrive back at the car park and into the now loving embrace of the other members of the family. Realise that whoever said "absence makes the heart grow fonder" was in actual fact a genius.</div>
Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-1746461183888855962017-04-11T22:41:00.002+12:002017-04-30T21:34:15.973+12:00Experiencing the fear – and doing it anyway<div style="text-align: justify;">
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For every minute that I am excited about the idea of travelling with the children, there are at least five where I experience The Fear.</div>
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It’s not a new parenting experience for me; when Alfie was a baby I would fall asleep every night convinced he wouldn’t survive the night. Now, I’m worried that I will send my children to a fiery death by riding off the road in Mexico, or that they’ll be shot by bandits because they refuse to give up their tablets.* </div>
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These are useful fears, designed to make me think long and hard about my choices as a parent, because I am, at heart, a fearful person. That may seem surprising when talking to someone who has driven a 10-second quarter mile, bouncing back from heart failure, and immigrated to the other side of the world, but it's true. I'm Baby from Dirty Dancing, without the dancing. I'm the Baby getting all hot and breathy when Johnny says that she's not scared of anything:<br />
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Me? I'm scared of everything! I'm scared of what I saw. I'm scared of what I did, of who I am, and most of all ... yadda, yadda, dance with me ... here *pouty face*</blockquote>
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And I totally get what she's saying. It's so tempting to walk along the same easy path as everyone else; there's safety in anonymity, there's herd immunity from judgement. It's scary to deviate from that path and be the straggler at the edge of the pack that makes easy pickings for predators. But, it's also scary to think of walking that same easy path knowing it won't make you happy.<br />
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Personally, I'm scared that I'm responsible for educating my children. I'm scared of depriving them of their friends, of putting them in danger and most of all ... I'm scared of leaving this life, something happening, and never feeling again as happy as I do right now.<br />
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It’s not a bad thing for me to weigh the value to my children of travelling through countries a million miles from their own. It’s an important process in deciding whether this is the right thing for our family, not just a dream that we are imposing on them. It's the same question mark that hung over us in the UK: What if we take a leap of faith, and we fall? </div>
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I don't mind giving The Fear space in my life because it's a self-negating prophecy. Every time I ask “what if ...” I give myself a chance to research, and plan, and mitigate. That helps me avoid the most obvious and predictable of dangers.<br />
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But what about the fears that are less easy to control? The ones that Baz Luhrmann describes in <i>Sunscreen</i>:</div>
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The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind. The kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday. </blockquote>
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For someone who makes a living from turning chaos into order that thought is tantamount to an instant aneurysm. For someone with an extremely vivid imagination, it's enough to make me never want to leave the house again. As for the children, GET TO YOUR ROOM AND COME OUT OUT WHEN YOU ARE 21!!! </div>
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The truth is that there is literally no end to what crosses my worried mind. If my worried mind were allowed to spend some quality time unsupervised, it would come up with the love child of a Dr Who season finale plot twist, and an Andrea Dworkin documentary.<br />
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It's a tightrope over a river of certain and gruesome death, and I walk it every day. </div>
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* That may seem like a crazy fear to have, but I have no doubt that if faced by a man with a gun, Alfie would fight to his last breath rather than risk the loss of his precious Minecraft.</div>
Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-84223287486347384832017-04-07T00:09:00.000+12:002017-04-07T00:09:03.575+12:00What Zombies Can Teach You About Motorcycle Adventure Tours<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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One of two things has happened: Either I have finally disappointed my parents so deeply they have given up on me entirely, or they are currently in awe of the majesty of my recent news.</div>
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I'm unclear on which of those it is because (so far) the grand unveiling of our new family plan has been met with stunned silence.</div>
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Yeah awe, let's go for awe.</div>
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This new plan of ours is what you'd call an inevitable conclusion: It draws together several strands of our blossoming wanderlust and combines them with the finesse and elegance of mating rhinos.</div>
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You're welcome for that mental image, BTW.</div>
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So clearly there has been an increase in the amount of adventuring that we have been including in our lives recently. Whether it's <a href="http://www.wondrouslyother.com/2017/01/anatomy-of-mountain-trek.html" target="_blank">going up a mountain,</a> spending time with our travelling friends, or just <a href="http://www.wondrouslyother.com/2017/02/Travel-UK-Gibraltar-Indonesia.html" target="_blank">planning an tiki tour while we're back in the UK</a>, it's been pretty obvious that we want to share some experiences with the children.</div>
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Also, we love motorbikes. </div>
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Both those things tend to combine in something called Adventure Biking, and it seems to be very popular with two demographics: older men who are running late for a mid-life crisis, and young men who have no sense of mortality.</div>
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It is <i>not</i> a pastime for young families, that much we discovered on YouTube. </div>
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We've watched <a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLebjQbsuu9jDfukT2wZK8c2X6Uz_U4VJe" target="_blank">Lyndon Poskitt</a> ride like a BOSS through some of the most rugged terrains in the world. Like, the dude actually got disqualified from a rally in the arse end of nowhere and risked dying a horrible and lonely death just to prove a fucking point to the rally organisers. Even as I write I'm unsure whether that is the most heroic, or tragic thing I have ever written.</div>
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Then we found <a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLGxxGrABoplkkADsgTPRpLgZ8VXxgqFYu" target="_blank">Bucky O'Broad</a> (not quite his real name) who has the sort of face - and general approach to life - that would normally make me want to punch myself repeatedly in the head. Luckily he has a couple of things in his favour: firstly he can edit a mean video, and his music choice is somehow perky, without being overly twee. Kudos for that one son, you done good. Secondly, he is/ was travelling a route which, despite Buck's best efforts to make it sound the dark side of the moon, really appeals to me.</div>
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But the piece de resistance from YouTube's normally questionable What To Watch Next list was <a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLiUJqMrz7-QNMcyiGo5mBhdqXqSM1XJQH" target="_blank">Ed March</a>'s channel. This guy is riding all over the world on a C90. Yup, I said that; a <i>C frickin 90</i>. That's basically a scooter with short man syndrome. He has no sponsorship, not much of a budget, but he does have a wicked sense of humour and the kind of attitude to disaster that makes me want him on speed dial. Every day. Just in case.</div>
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Anyway, we have wasted weeks of our lives watching other people have adventures. Other people who (I might add) do not have children. It became a sort of escape for us at the end of a hard day; Keith and I crooning over how cool it would be to go on our own adventure once the children have grown up. We got so into our nightly talks that we did that thing that couples do when you daydream a grand and expansive dream, knowing that neither of you will remember the finer detail by the time it becomes a reality.</div>
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Because we have three young children. </div>
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That's one more than the number of pillion seats normally found on a pair of bikes. If there was any thought of making our dream a reality, the choices were to rehome one of them, go native and stack the little darlings in some sort of pyramid formation, wait until they were old enough to ride themselves, leave home under their own steam ... or come up with an alternative.</div>
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Hmmm, an alternative, that's still bike like, able to go offroad, but has enough seats to fit everyone in, safely, securely, and before I die inside from corporate life: <a href="https://www.imz-ural.com/gear-up" target="_blank">If only such a vehicle existed</a>.</div>
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Well, colour me educated!</div>
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God bless mother Russia, it's a proud contribution to the world. Second only to vodka. And maybe Vasili Arkhipov. </div>
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So for the third time in our relationship, Keith and I are doing the dance of "could we? like, <i>could</i> we?!" This time, instead of getting married, or starting a family we are wondering whether, in a few short years, we rent out the house and set out on an awfully big adventure.</div>
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P.S. I was kidding about the Zombies. There are no Zombies. Only very tired parents. </div>
Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-63070778829155514812017-03-21T03:54:00.000+13:002017-03-21T03:54:05.219+13:00A week of my own<div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--brF5KAKoc0/WM3anrMSpKI/AAAAAAAB1wM/nz3U42jmWyY4Hd0bwLNP5TD2GP5gWeTJgCPcB/s1600/20170311_201543.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="382" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--brF5KAKoc0/WM3anrMSpKI/AAAAAAAB1wM/nz3U42jmWyY4Hd0bwLNP5TD2GP5gWeTJgCPcB/s640/20170311_201543.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Life is starting to return to normal now, but for a while there, things were looking hairy. The family left Harry and I home alone for eight days, and I think we have collectively agreed that was about 5 days too long for all our mental health. For some, the learning was that banking on kiwi summer weather is a bad thing. For Harry, it was a reminder of why I am not his favourite human. I'm not sure what my learning was, if anyone can figure it out, feel free to let me know.<br />
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Day 1 – Departure</h4>
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Everyone is awake and racing around the house like a scene from any given Home Alone film. <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BRU7XIagki5/" target="_blank">Harry the dog</a> knows that any time the suitcases appear, his world is going to become a lot more lonely, so he lies in the middle of the floor. We are in a hurry to get to the airport so that I can still get to work at a reasonable time, and the excitement carries me along, even though I know I will have to leave the better part of me behind before long. I’m not great with goodbyes so when the time comes I’m full of “catch you later”s and “have fun”s as I run to work. I decide that being busy will be my antidote to this goodbye; busy at work, and busy when I get home. I spend the evening cleaning and tidying the house until I’m sweating and exhausted before taking a long bath and collapsing into bed for a Skype call with home.</div>
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<br />Day 2 – Ride Night</h4>
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I’ve done the maths; the only way I can get to work on time and still walk Harry is if we run. I’m not entirely sure this is a good plan, but right now, it’s all I’ve got. The dog is even less convinced and spends the entire 1.6 miles trying to throw himself under my feet or drag my down the road. I start to doubt that tying his lead to my waist with a belt was a good move. I’m excited for my evening because it’s <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BRXq5bTghdd/" target="_blank">Lita meet up night</a> and, thanks to the “Summer weather”, we are planning to meet up for drinks and pool instead. I’m also excited for my weekly chip dinner and wonder whether I should start making notes about where to get the best curly fries Vs Kumara wedges. The beer is good, and the banter is better and by the time I get home, I’m ready for my bed. I have a maudlin moment as I walk into a dark house that immediately vanishes when I turn on the lights. It’s been 24 hours and the novelty of walking into a clean and tidy house has definitely not worn off yet.</div>
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Day 3 – Painting</h4>
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My busy work for this evening is naked ceiling painting, red wine and adventure riding videos on YouTube: The first made possible by the others. But first I have a small problem to deal with in the shape of a mouse infestation. I’m not entirely sure whether we have one very brave mouse, whether I am caught in a Matrix-like glitch, or whether a family of grey mice have moved in for the winter. All I do know is that I am spending altogether too much time looking up to see a mouse crossing the floor which the hound does precisely nothing about it. OK, maybe that’s not entirely fair. He caught and killed one of them at breakfast, and he spends most of the evening eyeballing one he has trapped in the Singer unit. I am left in something of a moral crisis over the correct vegan response to the prospect of mice shitting all through my kitchen until spring, which is why I don’t notice that I’m low on paint until it is too late. I run out with one small finger of ceiling left to paint, and I know that it will bug the crap out of me for the rest of the week.</div>
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Day 4 – Work Drinks</h4>
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I have to be in Palmeston North for meetings today, so I build Harry a little den on the front deck and wish him well against the weather. He regards me with utter disgust before turning his back on me and walking away. I get back into town and head straight out for work drinks, with that feeling of a reward well-earned that you get after an especially hard week. There’s a really good vibe about the group this evening, and I find a beer that is way more drinkable than is healthy. Eager to blow off some steam, I end up leaving the work drinks and going to some house parties, one of which makes me feel unbelievable old and sober, the other which is exactly the chilled end to the week I was looking for. Harry won’t even look at me when I get back home to him, and stalks past me to his bed. Just as I shut his door, a mouse runs across the floor and into the kitchen. I’ll give them credit for a good sense of comic timing.<br />
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Day 5 – Mooching</h4>
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It’s the weekend. I open my eyes and get a small reminder of how fabulous life was back when I was able to have a lie in. Immediately feel guilty for having a lie in and get up to Make Most Of Day. Decide that my first call will be The Beach Kiosk for brunch with my book. Run down to the car only to remember that the car hasn’t been started in several days and that Keith had grumbled about needing a new battery before he left. Utter prayer to the God of Small Pleasures as I turn the key and the car chunters into life. Decide day will involve a decent drive to get some charge back into the battery and that while I’m there, I may as well pop into a bike shop to see if they have anything I want to test ride. I order brunch, and, as I open my book surrounded by a wall of human chatter, I am suddenly overcome with an unbearable sadness that spears my heart and makes my head ache. I miss them. Luckily my food arrives fast and I am distracted by a great story and even better food and walk out ready to go another round with the truculent car. After an abortive trip to the bike shops, I find myself in the centre of town with nothing to do, and the rain coming in sideways. So I do something I have promised myself for the longest time and go to Te Papa to walk slowly and reverently around the Gallipoli exhibition. Seems like everyone else has had a similar idea and the place is slammed, but I wait, before blubbering the whole way around the exhibition. I leave feeling raw and duck into a few favourite shops to buy myself something yummy for dinner. <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BRXq5bTghdd/" target="_blank">It does the trick.</a></div>
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Day 6 – Spanner Day</h4>
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I’m excited about the idea of getting all up and greasy with my friends and their motorbikes today right up until the point I open the curtains and survey Armageddon in weather form. Meh. I treat myself to hot “buttered” toast and my biggest mug to tea and contemplate what to do with my day. I decide that weather this bleak is the perfect excuse for comfort food and put a slow cook chickpea curry on for later. Somewhere around lunchtime, the rain stops long enough for one of The Litas to paddle her way over to mine. We spend <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BRpAK2aD7ya/" target="_blank">the rest of the afternoon abusing both her bike</a> (and the Haynes manual) while streams of oil run up our arms and we fish lost bolts out of the frame with flexible magnets. I can’t remember the last time I was so happy. I hadn’t even realised how much I enjoyed working on cars and bikes until now. I make a silent vow to spend more time in the garages henceforth. Around dinner time, we are joined by another awesome Lita and spend the evening chilling with curry. Harry decides that his life has taken a distinct turn for the better when one of the Litas takes a shine to him.<br />
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Day 7 – Exhaustion</h4>
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Today was not a good day. As always happens with me, I feel like I have to push myself to fill my time in a useful way, and completely forget to chill the fuck out and take care of myself in the process. My limbs are full of lead, but somehow I manage to muster the energy to order some pizza. I decide that the only remedy is to forget the To Do list that I have dutifully stuck to the fridge, forget the mouse problem, forget everything in favour of a <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BRsSdseFvCV/" target="_blank">super long soak in the bath</a> with a beer and my book. I don’t get very far with the book because having been quiet for most of the week, Keith decides to make this The Evening of Much Communication. I’m glad of the company even if it is text based and full of longing. It’s small comfort that we have some exciting stuff planned for when the fam get home because there are still two long days to wait. Two days; it might as well be two years. </div>
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Day 8 – Malaise</h4>
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I’m done. The dog is done. We have taken to lying forlornly in the lounge allowing the mice to run around the house and claim it as their own. The weather is amazing, and we are treated to a glorious sunset that we both regard with a jaded side eye. Life has no meaning without the family, food has no taste, sunsets no beauty. Where is our noise, our chaotic meals, our trail of discarded dirty clothes? How can it be that I haven’t had to repeat myself in over a week? Harry and I trudge down the road for one last evening walk together. When another dog passes us, Harry doesn’t even have sufficient fucks left to bark at him. We both get an early night.<br />
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Day 9 - Homecoming</h4>
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I’m obnoxiously excited, almost giddy. Harry senses my mood and bounces down the road on his morning walk, causing me to call him a cow bag when he trips me up for the umpteenth time. I head out to work in a new outfit but before I close the door, I take one last look at the clean and orderly house. Next time I see this place it will be trailing in the wake of three walking mess bombs, but somehow, I can’t bring myself to care. I have come to the realisation that having a tidy house is a poor substitute for having the family around. I leave work early to go to the airport and I’m so full of nervous energy, I’m crackling. I stand at the gate eager to see my babies and desperate to kiss my husband. The moment is only slightly tarnished when they bundle through the gate arguing at full volume. All those quips about missing the peace and quiet come flooding back as they walk towards me and I wonder whether there is such a thing as a timeshare for families.</div>
Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-38799272338416758462017-03-04T21:25:00.000+13:002017-03-04T21:25:25.521+13:00Teach Your Monster To Read<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0BitMS5GQ0Q/WI6xyd7JXEI/AAAAAAABzl0/CvIIFvF6wp8302VHykxsYxaZM6pCdqCIQCPcB/s1600/20170114_121128.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0BitMS5GQ0Q/WI6xyd7JXEI/AAAAAAABzl0/CvIIFvF6wp8302VHykxsYxaZM6pCdqCIQCPcB/s640/20170114_121128.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I’m a worrier by nature. I don’t know whether being responsible for Alfie’s education make that better or worse, but I worry. </div>
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Mainly I worry about the subjects that he doesn’t enjoy, like reading and writing.</div>
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And yeah, I have faith in the process, but what if he's the exception to the rule? Writing isn’t one of those things that you can get very far in life without, it kinda limits your options when you don’t have at least a basic grasp of your mother tongue. </div>
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I once did work as a PA and reviewed a CV of someone who couldn’t spell their own address (they wrote Bowmantlees instead of Beaumont Leys) which sort of blows my mind because this was someone who claimed to have a driving license in the days before Sat Nav was even a thing. How the hell did they find their way home?!? Did they drive aimlessly around the Midlands until they found something they recognised? What happened at night? Did they just park up until it was light enough to identify local landmarks? Or did they drive along with their head out of the window navigating by the stars?</div>
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Travel issues aside, people are going to judge you for that kind of thing … and not in a good way. Nobody looks at someone who can’t spell their own address with admiration. It’s sort of an unspoken rule of society that you should be able to write at least well enough for Google to have a crack at understanding you. </div>
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So yeah, I worry about Alfie becoming the kid that Google forgot. </div>
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It’s not that I think he lacks ability, he just flat out gives no fucks about writing and reading for himself. He’ll write things like shopping lists when he wants to cook dinner, but his heart just isn’t in it, you can tell. Mainly because he tells you. Repeatedly. </div>
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One day, probably while I was worrying about something else, I got an email from a company telling me about their application called <a href="http://teachyourmonstertoread.com/" target="_blank">Teach your Monster to Read</a> </div>
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I must have been having an angry day because I misunderstood the reference to monsters. I thought it was some “funny” play on children being little monsters and filed the email under “what fuckery is THIS?!?!” only to realise some time later that I had made a big mistake and they were being entirely literal. </div>
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As in, the game is about your child <i>designing</i> a monster and then<i> teaching it to read</i>. Which is entirely logical when you think about and/or you’re not a chronic over-reactor who shouldn’t judge children’s software so harshly just because you’re having a bad day, <i class="">NaTAsha</i>.</div>
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I opened the application and set up a profile for Alfie: I did it as quickly as I could and then backed out of the site with unholy speed before the bright colours and annoying sounds made me regret giving this monster lark a second chance.</div>
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That night, I unveiled the site to the children.</div>
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The next day I had to set up a profile for both Esme and Olive. Their <i>own</i> profiles, with their <i>own</i> monsters, wearing skirts and bows <i class="">pleasethankyou</i>.</div>
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The day after that I had to set up better security on my laptop to stop the children from logging onto the internet by themselves at 3am. </div>
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Two days after that, I had to develop a rota system to save my laptop from being drawn and quartered.<br />
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The day after that I had to start confiscating my laptop between monster teaching sessions.<br />
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Now, I have resigned myself to coming home every night to smeary fingerprints on my screen and jam on my keyboard. Because monsters.<br />
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At least the children are learning. Between the fighting over who gets to learn. You hear that? My children are <i>fighting</i> over who's turn it is to learn. Even the one who previously had no fucks to give.<br />
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I've read blog posts like this before and rolled my eyes half way to my brain because <i>please</i>, do I look gullible enough to believe that a simple website is capable of making a reluctant child have some sort of learning epiphany?<br />
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No, I am not.<br />
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I am the lifelong sceptic who laughs at the very idea until she is forced to choke on the bittersweet taste of her own words as she's torn between celebrating a newly found passion in reading and mourning the rapid destruction of her laptop.</div>
Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-925770208127993072017-02-27T01:03:00.001+13:002022-04-24T18:00:39.379+12:00Protest and privilege<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fMh-vQE7W3U/XhzHpfA5l1I/AAAAAAACcR4/-LmiYEu4w-sn3bHca8OGF5NBISrbJEYwACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/hailey-kean-zt8PJ6LT9Uw-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img alt="Photo by Hailey Kean on Unsplash" border="0" data-original-height="1208" data-original-width="1600" height="482" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fMh-vQE7W3U/XhzHpfA5l1I/AAAAAAACcR4/-LmiYEu4w-sn3bHca8OGF5NBISrbJEYwACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/hailey-kean-zt8PJ6LT9Uw-unsplash.jpg" title="Photo by Hailey Kean on Unsplash" width="640" /></a></div>
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I feel it again; the pressure of wrongdoing and inequity pressing down on me and suffocating me by tiny degrees. I feel it taking more and more of <a href="https://butyoudontlooksick.com/articles/written-by-christine/the-spoon-theory/" target="_blank">my spoons</a> to get through the day. I can tell because I hold on to the good moments until my knuckles turn white, I'm so desperate to escape the feeling of being crushed under a tidal wave of hate and abuse that I am powerless to stop.</div>
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I feel isolated from the people around me who choose to turn away from the things that aren't directly in front of their faces. To turn away, as if it were a <i>choice</i> not to see what is going wrong with the world. </div>
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Don't feed the trolls. </div>
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As if that ever made a difference, especially when the trolls rule the world. </div>
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It's a fact of my being to feel angry about the displaced and wronged; angry to the point of digging my nails into my palms while tears fall from my eyes in hot streaks down my cheeks.</div>
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When I worked with the NCT in the UK, we used to put on a pampering evening for local mums - 15 minute massages and manicures, that sort of thing. Every year, in amongst the colour and fragrant oils there was this one woman who would quietly put up her chair in the corner and help you to explore past lives.</div>
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I was fascinated by her (drawn to her even) because she radiated such an air of calm that she seemed to slow the dust motes in the air around her. The effect was magical, like watching moons bending to the will of the planet they orbit. </div>
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One year, I plucked up the courage to have a session with her. </div>
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I was pregnant with Esme and I felt out of sorts with the world. So I sat down with her and just opened myself up to whatever journey she wanted to take me on.</div>
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She placed her hands on mine, and I felt the heat of her skin as she started to talk to me about the travelling girl.</div>
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I can't remember the words she used, but the image and the emotions are still just behind my eyelids, even after six years.</div>
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She showed me a little girl in a plain grey shift dress, with two braids running down her back walking - no <i>travelling</i> - with her family. They are travelling <i>from</i>, escaping, and as she walks down an open dirt road she grips the large, strong hand of her father. There's fear, tension, of what I will never know. These are travelling people, she tells me, but this journey is different. They are moving somewhere new, not through choice, but through need, and the little girl is scared at the unknown that waits for them. I smell pine, and I'm aware of the tundra stretching away from the track on which they travel.</div>
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I have no context for these people, I have no kinship with this girl, but I can feel her emotions and see her world as clearly as I feel my own. </div>
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Maybe she's the reason why I feel so overwhelmed right now.</div>
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Or maybe it's something else. Maybe it's the simple result of an upbringing heavy on morality that I cannot see a wrong go unrighted. I am so aware of how fortunate life has been to me and my family, and I feel the weight of that every day. I feel a responsibility to my children to make them aware, to make them <i>sensitive</i> to the fact that the place they occupy in the world gives them a unique voice ... <a href="http://www.wondrouslyother.com/2014/08/raising-activist-letter-to-my-son.html" target="_blank">and a moral obligation to use it</a>. </div>
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I feel humbled when my sister sends me the <a href="https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/protest" target="_blank">words of Ella Wheeler Wilcox</a> to read, saying that they reminded her of me. But I also feel the ache in my bones, at a weight I can never put down.<br />
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Would I walk away if I could?<br />
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Who knows.Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-17833991717186246682017-02-19T01:03:00.001+13:002022-04-24T18:00:52.824+12:00Why do you go to work?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My children ask me a question that carries an impossible weight.</div>
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At some point, in the hour between rolling out of bed and walking out of the door, one of them will level me with a gaze and ask "why do you have to go to work?"</div>
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Some days I have the energy to tell them about the people I work with, about the positive change we’re trying to make. Some days I don’t.</div>
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But every day I feel the weight of the answers I give.</div>
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I want the children to understand that the life we have is funded by the work I do. That my contribution to the family may not be the fun of daily adventures, but that I contribute, and that it matters.</div>
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I go to work to earn money for us to live.”</blockquote>
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I feel the weight of explaining the value of money, not in terms of what it can buy, but in terms of how hard it is to come by. That society looks at 40 hours of my time and compares it to the same 40 hours of other people and makes a judgement on what we are worth that makes no sense. That I make a choice to use my skills to make a positive difference because that’s the only way I can make it make sense.</div>
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I go to work to help make our country better.”</blockquote>
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I feel the weight of telling my children about the privilege that we enjoy as a family. This life we lead is not something that they can truly appreciate, but somehow I need to find a way of helping them grasp gratitude without feeling the sting of guilt.</div>
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I go to the work so that we can have adventures.”</blockquote>
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I feel the weight of expressing this as a choice I make. That my work is complex and challenging and stressful, but that I enjoy it. I am empowered by it. I want them to see work not just as an obligation, but as an act of communion with my peers and an act of devotion to their futures.</div>
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I go to work because I enjoy it.”</blockquote>
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I feel the weight of all that is implied by the fact that I choose to go to work rather than stay at home with them. That somehow I prefer the company of my colleagues to them. The stark contrast with their father who, in their eyes, chooses to stay with them.</div>
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I go to work because it means daddy doesn’t have to”</blockquote>
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They ask me "where are you going?"</div>
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Some days I can only answer "I'm going to work"</div>
Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-53229294583750749032017-02-09T04:04:00.000+13:002017-02-09T04:04:07.297+13:00The Legacy of Coco Chanel<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TpoSy5bSQwY/WHgSjIIWydI/AAAAAAABy6s/lfFlaAJkf0YFAFat_pJ9QMQvapRmGHwOACPcB/s1600/20170112_210350.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TpoSy5bSQwY/WHgSjIIWydI/AAAAAAABy6s/lfFlaAJkf0YFAFat_pJ9QMQvapRmGHwOACPcB/s640/20170112_210350.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Way back in 2016, we backed a book on Kickstarter called<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/timbuktu/good-night-stories-for-rebel-girls-100-tales-to-dr" target="_blank">Good Night Stories for Rebel Girls</a>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It seemed like the sort of book we might want to have on our Bookshelf of Beauty and Wisdom: The variety of life stories, the brevity of the format, meant that on any given evening I could cwtch up with the children and get a glimpse into an incredible legacy of womanhood. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The other week, we were flicking through the book, waiting for one of these women to leap off the pages at us, when Esme stopped us at the story of Coco Chanel.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I didn't know much about Coco and her tough start to life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As we read the book it became obvious that Coco was the original creator of a silk purse out of a sow's ear. She came from nothing, she had nothing, but she took that nothing and rocked the hell out of it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Since we were sitting on the sofa, we jumped online and streamed a<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="https://youtu.be/2G88zqPxJ00" target="_blank">brief video</a> on her life story. Just to make sure we hadn't missed any of the important details.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We weren't more than a minute into the video when a small voice cut across the narrative.<o:p></o:p></div>
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"I want to design my own little black dress", said Esme with a degree of solemnity not often heard from her lips, "And I want to sew it, Mama. I want us to make it. Teach me to sew".<o:p></o:p></div>
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“OK,” I thought, “challenge accepted”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The next day I taunted Google with such search terms as <i>girl</i>, <i>body</i> and <i>outline</i> to find a template over which Esme would be able to draw her little black dress. What can I say, I like the occasional flirt with HR worthy internetting.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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That evening, giving the occasion its due pomp and circumstance, we sat down with the jar of crayons, and I presented Esme with her template before sitting back to watch the glorious black dress-ness unfold.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Esme paused, mirroring my solemnity, and surveyed the crayons before carefully selecting her weapon of choice.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As you may have noticed above, despite the promise of both brevity and darkness, the design turned out to be not so little and not quite black.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But it <i>was</i> a dress. And I had promised to help her make it.</div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></h4>
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<o:p> </o:p>Confession Number 1: I have never made a dress.</h4>
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My basic knowledge of the sticking-clothes-together process made me think the next step should involve measuring and because I am an awesome adult, I couldn't be bothered to go and find the exact junk draw that my tape measure had been stuffed into, so I went to the cupboard under the kitchen sink and got Keith's measuring stick instead.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hey, with everything else that was stacked against that dress, the accuracy of measuring was hardly going to make or break it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Plus it gave me a chance to get Esme to write down some numbers, which is a rare and wondrous thing with that child. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We also got to talk about the concept of rounding. Like "hey, mama used a straight stick to measure a curved surface, while also having to stop your siblings from stabbing each other with spoons. Let's just round up your chest to 32cm, shall we?"<o:p></o:p></div>
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Confession Number 2: I hate shopping</h4>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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My levels of enthusiasm were already beginning to wane with the whole deal, but Esme was determined that we would go shopping, once again proving that apples sometimes<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>do</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>fall <i>very</i> far from the tree.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Just to add insult to injury, it turns out Esme is ... I can barely bring myself to type it ... a<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>browser</i>. She actually takes <i>pleasure</i> in walking slowly round an entire shop and pondering her options (ALL of the options) before making a choice.<o:p></o:p></div>
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By the time we had talked over the prices, suitability and I had convinced her to tone down the sheer bloody <i>pinkness</i> of it all, I needed a lie down in a dark room, and maybe to stick some of my freshly purchased pins into my eyes for a bit of light relief.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Instead, we went home and I made an<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BPOXfGRA4KV/" target="_blank">accidentally ironic dress pattern</a><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>using one of Esme's very simple pinafore dresses to mark, cut and pin the new fabric.<br /><br /></div>
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Confession Number 3: I don’t own an infernal, whirry, finger stabber.</h4>
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When I wing a project, I get to certain points and want to stop. Not because I’m fed up with what I’m doing, but because when I have managed to fluke my way into making something look good, I don’t want the magic to end by blundering into the next phase in my usual half-arsed way.<br /><br />I felt a little like that about the pinned together dress, which was why it took me over a week to work up the courage to take Esme on a trip to <a href="http://www.mademarioncraft.co.nz/">Made Marion</a> to rent one of their machines. I pretty much put it off until I couldn’t stand the nagging any longer.<br /><br />When I did eventually work up the courage to go there, it was both a genuinely awesome shared experience and every bit the bloody nightmare I had feared. <br /><br />The dress went together fairly easily, thanks to having an entire shop at my disposal for when I realised I had no thread, bias tape or bloody clue what I was doing. <br /><br />The downside was that a lot of things in the shop were pink, meaning that while trying to sew Part A to Part B, I also had zips, buttons, feathers and ribbons thrust under my nose (and therefore in the path of my infernal, whirry, finger stabber) as potential additions to the dress. <br /><br />Somehow, no fingers were stabbed. Somehow the seams were straight. Somehow the dress looks ... awesome.<br />
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And I may never really understand how people can get so excited about clothes, but I think I'm a little closer to userstanding what Coco meant when she said</div>
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Fashion has two purposes: comfort and love”</blockquote>
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Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-12238524799086395942017-02-02T04:00:00.000+13:002017-02-02T04:00:19.087+13:00Travel Plans for 2017<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SIRcTs6LtZE/WHHnyfddaOI/AAAAAAABy1E/WKPpXJXNC_Eqv_IEx5wgwGS7Mdhngl1FwCLcB/s1600/z55cr_d0ayg-andrew-neel.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SIRcTs6LtZE/WHHnyfddaOI/AAAAAAABy1E/WKPpXJXNC_Eqv_IEx5wgwGS7Mdhngl1FwCLcB/s640/z55cr_d0ayg-andrew-neel.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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It doesn't seem to matter whether you're in the glum midwinter of the Northern Hemisphere, or the midsummer heat of the south, the few weeks after Christmas and New Year suck.</div>
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This year it feels extra hard because three sets of good friends have left Aotearoa on new adventures, and our family are still here. I am feeling a lot more alone right now, and if I'm honest, I'm struggling.<br />
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I don't begrudge people their adventures (quite the opposite) but when you are a stranger in a country and your friends are your whanau, it becomes hard to see them walk away. Those impromptu "fancy a drink after work" texts or the "what are you doing for lunch?" calls seem so incidental when you can count on them being there. It's only when some far-flung beach Instagram pic reminds you that those people aren't around anymore that you realise how much you really miss them. </div>
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There was a time when we were considering packing up our lives and travelling. But then we bought a house we love and built a life here, so the plan instead is to do some longer holidays over the next few years.<br />
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Last year, we based our destination on the cheapest flights and had a blast discovering Vancouver. It wasn't a place that I had ever thought I wanted to visit, and maybe it was the passing resemblance to Wellington, or the awesome locals, but I accidentally fell a little bit in love.<br />
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This year, we are taking a different approach and flying to places we <i>know</i> we want to visit.</div>
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1. England</h4>
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Ahhh the annual pilgrimage. Have I ever mentioned that Keith is one of the head honchos at an awesome car show called <a href="http://www.retroridesgathering.com/">Retro Rides Gathering</a>? No? You thought we went back to the UK every year because we missed the weather? </div>
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We don't. </div>
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English summers are a complete fallacy dreamt up by misty-eyed pensioners who believe their childhoods were spent running through fields in light cotton dresses while Jerusalem played softly in the background and Britain was Great. You know, before it joined the EU and floods of immigrants came to the country to collapse our women and steal our NHS. When bananas could be curved, prunes could be used a laxative, and jam was ruddy well called jam. Hold my drink, someone, I feel a rousing chorus of Land of Hope and Glory coming on. </div>
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So while the UK gets on with the business of Brexit, we have a short list of things to do: </div>
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- First item on our list of things to do: Run awesome car show.<br />
- Second item in my short list of things to do: Catch up with some friends.<br />
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And no offense to the car show, but my priority this year is to spend time holding my friends as close as is considered culturally appropriate.<br />
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2. Gibraltar</h4>
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Can it be true? Why yes it can! After 5 years, we are heading back to see the family, and to introduce the children and our friend to all that is awesome quirky.<br />
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I feel a little sorry for them, they have no idea what is going to hit them. I mean, I know we run a fairly Mediterranean household, but there is nothing that truly prepares you for the strength and, well, <i>volume</i> of being in a place like Gib surrounded by family. All of the family. The cast of actual thousands.<br />
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Then there are the weird cultural variations in <a href="http://fig-tree-cottage.blogspot.com/2007/05/how-to-earn-holiday.html" target="_blank">available cakes for weddings</a>. Because why would anyone want a cake made ENTIRELY OF CHEESE?! Nobody, that's who!! Especially one with no decoration of any kind and delivered IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT to a place only HEATHENS get married.<br />
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Ten years on and I'm still convinced she spat on my carrot cake.<br />
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3. Stockholm</h4>
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Once we have ruined the children by making them both fat, deaf, and terminally argumentative our flights back to the UK take us (for reasons I cannot fathom) via Stockholm for the day.<br />
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How much can you fit into a 7 hours stopover? Yeah I'm not sure, but we have plans!<br />
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My friend and I found mention of a <a href="http://www.bikesweden.se/en/sightseeing-stockholm" target="_blank">cycle tour</a> online, and Keith is determined to track down the best Gravlax in town with our salmon loving son, so I sense a frantic, and probably exhausting day between flights.<br />
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In my head, it's going down like <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Supermarket_Sweep" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Supermarket Sweep</a>, which does make me a little sad because I've always wanted to spend quality time somewhere that either has the best public relations crew in the world, or is genuinely full of stylish interiors, warm people and cracking food.<br />
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4. Indonesia</h4>
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This is where we stop travelling and spend some time chilling. We hope. At this point, I have absolutely no idea where we are going to <i>within</i> Indonesia. Our plan is to spend some time with friends who are travelling there. That's the plan. No really, that's it.</div>
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And you know what? It's kinda exciting to have that open window that has no greater structure than a vague geographical location. We are ending the trip at the opposite end of the spectrum to the place where we start. We start with a visit that is planned down to the nearest half day and end with a visit that is planned to the nearest country. <br />
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Both those things are made possible by the fact that <a href="http://www.wondrouslyother.com/2017/01/travel-with-kids.html" target="_blank">we travel light (ish)</a>, and our children are of an age where they are more help than hindrance in planning an adventure.<br />
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On paper, we shouldn't have a care in the world.</div>
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Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-22818195335484982892017-01-31T04:00:00.002+13:002022-04-24T18:01:11.486+12:00Anatomy of a Mountain Trek<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EH2g1KBV-Es/WI6xyVBMzHI/AAAAAAABzlk/6_SMSOmZzhc6L-ZoAO_u_kJ-PAh8Kl5UACPcB/s1600/20170128_131038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EH2g1KBV-Es/WI6xyVBMzHI/AAAAAAABzlk/6_SMSOmZzhc6L-ZoAO_u_kJ-PAh8Kl5UACPcB/s640/20170128_131038.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Last weekend I headed off with the children to climb a notoriously changeable mountain and spend the night at <a href="http://www.doc.govt.nz/parks-and-recreation/places-to-go/wellington-kapiti/places/tararua-forest-park/things-to-do/huts/blue-range-hut/" target="_blank">our first DOC hut</a>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I like to do these things to myself every now and then because nothing makes me feel alive like flirting with disaster. Who wants to go to a nice safe camp site with flushing toilets, and cooking shelters, when you can walk up a mountain with starvation rations, and only airplane blankets to keep you warm? <o:p></o:p></div>
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So we went and did adventuring. And (spoilers) clearly <i>I</i> got back alive, so I leave this here for any parent who has wondered whether there’s room for a little bit of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt3553976/" rel="" target="_blank">Captain Fantastic</a> in their lives ... If you haven’t seen the film, that will mean nothing to you. If you have just know that I quoted from the film at least twice on this trip. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Friday</h4>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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4:00 Leave home feeling confident, prepared, and excited.<o:p></o:p></div>
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6:30 Weather forecast is good. Arrive in rain.<o:p></o:p></div>
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6:45 Set up tent under the tree. Children insisted on climbing tree above tent just to give me the shits.<o:p></o:p></div>
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7:00 Children realise this is our first DOC site to allow fires. I realise every piece of wood is sodden and there is no chance of a fire starting. Try anyway and salute brave sacrifice of 2 firelighters. <o:p></o:p></div>
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8:00 Console distraught marshmallow hopeful children and decide it might be time for an early night.<o:p></o:p></div>
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8:15 Make bed for Alfie in back of car. Read girls to sleep with a <a href="http://www.johnconnollybooks.com/charlie-parker-books.php" target="_blank">John Connolly book</a>. Realise this is not a wise choice of book when camping in a forest.<o:p></o:p></div>
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10:00 Wind picks up and the tent starts folding itself in half and stroking me on the face at random intervals. Girls sleep fine, I do not.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Saturday</h4>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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6:00 Wake up, realise I have lost the car key. Also have no phone signal. Catch a couple about to leave and type in a message to Keith for them to send when they reach civilisation.<o:p></o:p></div>
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6:30 Decided that we might as well push on with our adventure since we weren’t going anywhere in the car.<o:p></o:p></div>
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6:45 Start down the path to Blue Range Hut trying to convince the children to at least TRY to avoid the puddles.<o:p></o:p></div>
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7:30 Stop for snack.<o:p></o:p></div>
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7:45 Find the first signpost where the tramping track parts ways with the family friendly circular walk. <o:p></o:p></div>
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7:50 Reach start of near vertical climb. <o:p></o:p></div>
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8:17 Get phone signal and start heated debate with husband about launching rescue mission with spare car key.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
8:20 Stop for snack.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
8:30 Alfie screams “THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER!” as endorphins hit. Hope he will still feel that way in 4 hours.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
9:00 Struggle for breath as we slip and slide our way up the track. Realise children look like water dragons trying to climb a vivarium. Find that humorous between wheezes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
9:15 Stop for snack.<o:p></o:p></div>
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9:20 Give up asking children to avoid puddles. Hope rumours of a wood burner at the hut are true to dry shoes before return journey.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
10:00 Stop for snack. Warn children about finite nature of snacks.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
10:15 Start having existential conversation with self over whether forcing children into 4 hour death march up mountain will help shape the “endless complaint” or the “deep fount of resourcefulness” parts of their essence.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
11:00 Stop for lunch. Reply to latest missive from husband on how to be Responsible Adult with unusual good humour. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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11:30 Find sign for hut. Promise children that hut is around next corner even though this is big fat lie. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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11:45 Now that we have reached the top of the mountain, children think it is the most beautiful sight they have ever seen. Offer mumbled thanks for endorphins.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
12:20 Children spot bright blue of the hut through the trees and find a turn of speed so far lacking in our adventure.<o:p></o:p></div>
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12:30 The hut is even more insanely cute in person: old maps on the ceiling, a bench for cooking, four bunks with actual mattresses, and old signs from a hospital. Also a doorbell.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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1:00 Build fire, and hang all clothes from the spiderweb of lines cleverly strung between rafters.<o:p></o:p></div>
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1:05 Ask Olive to please stop ringing doorbell every 5 seconds.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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2:00 Welcome a pair of utterly sodden trampers who have come much further than us and are looking for a warm quiet spot for lunch. Trampers clearly feel our welcome is a little too enthusiastic and choose to eat lunch on the picnic bench outside.<o:p></o:p></div>
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2:15 Ask Olive to please stop ringing doorbell every 5 seconds.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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3:00 Wave goodbye to Sodden Trampers and go on wood gathering mission. Wonder how long until the children fall into a coma so I can read more of my book.<o:p></o:p></div>
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3:20 Realise book is in the car, but find a pack of top trumps I hadn’t realised were in the bag from a previous trip.<o:p></o:p></div>
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3:25 Ask Olive to please stop ringing doorbell every 5 seconds.<o:p></o:p></div>
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4:00 Welcome Lads who have walked up for a night of beers and banter. Lads clearly feel our welcome is too enthusiastic and choose to set up camp at the picnic table outside. <o:p></o:p></div>
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4:15 Ask Olive to please stop ringing doorbell every 5 seconds.<o:p></o:p></div>
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4:20 Regretfully decline offer of beer from Lads and instead start to cook dinner on the top of the wood burner.<o:p></o:p></div>
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5:00 Welcome Family of Four who greet us in awe having heard en-route from the Sodden Trampers tales of the family-with-small-children who have walked the hill. Feel like minor trekking celebrity.<o:p></o:p></div>
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5:10 Ask Olive to please stop ringing doorbell every 5 seconds.<o:p></o:p></div>
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5:15 Offer to share the 4 available beds with other family and am instantly rewarded by the mum engaging all the children in a game of Hit the Deck. Am in awe of super organised trekking family.<o:p></o:p></div>
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5:30 Ask Olive to please stop ringing doorbell every 5 seconds. Eldest son from Family of Four offers his screwdriver to remove bell.<o:p></o:p></div>
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5:45 Have cheerful discussion with Family of Four and Lads about sleeping arrangements. Lads agree to sleep outside and depart to build a campfire for warmth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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5:50 Mass exodus of children to help with fire building. <o:p></o:p></div>
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7:55 Take moment to acknowledge how fricking awesome the children are for making it up the hill. <o:p></o:p></div>
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8:00 Stare misty eyed out of window to see Alfie showing his butt to a horrified looking Family of Four (and amused Lads).<o:p></o:p></div>
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8:05 Decide to change dynamic of group by putting smallest children to bed after long day. Realise manically over tired children are hard to herd in open spaces.<o:p></o:p></div>
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8:30 Finally get children to sit on the bed and read from an abandoned Trekking magazine in best monotone voice.<o:p></o:p></div>
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8:32 Feel smug as children fall asleep in record time. <o:p></o:p></div>
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8:35 Re-join camp fire and take Lads up on offer of victory beer.<o:p></o:p></div>
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8:45 Apologise to Family of Four that Alfie is eating them out of house and home. Lament awkwardly that children always like other people’s food better than their own.<o:p></o:p></div>
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9:00 Alfie reaches moment of evening where he turns grey and decides he needs to go to bed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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9:15 Take Alfie to bed and decide to join him. Enjoy an hour of solid sleep before Family of Four come into hut.<o:p></o:p></div>
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10:15 Spend next 8 hours listening to the sound of Other People’s Noises. Wish I had brought more blankets.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<h4 style="text-align: justify;">
Sunday</h4>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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6:30 Wake up next morning feeling surprisingly human for so little sleep.<o:p></o:p></div>
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6:45 Throw on clothes and usher children out of hut ahead of Family of Four so not left with cleaning duty. Do not feel remotely guilty.<o:p></o:p></div>
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6:50 Realise we have no water left for journey. Feel like dreadful parent.<o:p></o:p></div>
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7:00 Start off down mountain. Realise down is harder than up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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7:15 Fall on arse. Watch children fall on arses. Start repeating “walk it off” at 30 second intervals, just in case.<o:p></o:p></div>
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8:00 Teach Olive to get down large steps by sitting on butt and sliding off.<o:p></o:p></div>
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8:15 Watch in awe as children turn into mountain goats before my eyes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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8:16 Instigate emergency protocol to deal with Alfie disappearing into the distance.<o:p></o:p></div>
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9:00 Watch in pride as Alfie becomes Amazing Big Brother as well as Monster Explorer.<o:p></o:p></div>
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10:30 Discuss future trips. Esme is clear that there will be no future trips.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
11:45 Reach bottom of hill and burst from forest into scalding hot campsite.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
11:50 Retrieve spare car key from Secret Non-Obvious Hiding Place<o:p></o:p></div>
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11:55 Throw kids in car and leave for home<o:p></o:p></div>
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12:00 Realise children will not make it far before falling asleep.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
12:30 Stop at golden arches for Happy Meal treats.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
12:45 Drive home in the stunning sunshine shovelling McChips in my face and when <a href="https://www.google.co.nz/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwj3zODh8ujRAhXMn5QKHVtgDbAQyCkIHDAA&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D596qaxm-u4o&usg=AFQjCNGRRX6C4jI6KztQ6Qm0bVIi8uPu4w&sig2=Z3DUnustKUnoZkT16351QQ&bvm=bv.145822982,d.dGo" target="_blank">Cake’s I Will Survive</a> comes on the stereo, feel at one with the universe.<o:p></o:p></div>
Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-6327538972681556552017-01-24T04:05:00.000+13:002017-01-24T04:05:20.131+13:00Engaging different ages in learning<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-th9HZi2xGTU/WHHkc1BHf2I/AAAAAAABy00/1pIuxYGvs2UYiU4SKeL7jFN0E8pzf3sWACPcB/s1600/20170107_204410.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-th9HZi2xGTU/WHHkc1BHf2I/AAAAAAABy00/1pIuxYGvs2UYiU4SKeL7jFN0E8pzf3sWACPcB/s640/20170107_204410.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
One of our learning intentions last year was to bring a little more structure to how we tackle the basics. Not too much structure, because our approach to learning is very much "here's a seed, you go plant it and let me know if you need any help with the watering", but a little structure. The challenge is that the children are all at different ages and stages, and finding common ground can be a bit of a challenge. </div>
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Armed with <a href="http://readmestoriesapp.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">an app that Keith discovered</a> the children are now treated to a new book every day. </div>
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Like a lot of other apps, this one gives us options about how much "help" the children get with words, meaning we can give all three children what they need. Oh yes, I said three, because if Alfie and Esme are doing it, Miss Olive needs to be all up in the learning too! High fives for unschooling three children!</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
Anyway, the app is great, but what the children really enjoy is the worksheet that you unlock at the end of each story. </div>
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I remember from my own school days how much I enjoyed cutting and sticking and annotating these sorts of workbooks. I enjoyed the quiet comradery of sharing scissors and glue and colouring pens with my table. I enjoyed creating something far better than my artistic talent would allow. In fact, I pretty much hung out for days when we did worksheets.</div>
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I had guessed that my children might enjoy worksheets too, but I had missed how much they would enjoy the shared experience. I had missed how amazing it would be to come home in the evening and line up three lovingly crafted pages, each one screaming at the author's strength. </div>
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Alfie who's colouring is precise and careful, but who cuts out shapes like he was forced to use his teeth.</div>
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Esme who shows a flamboyant disregard for the constraint of lines, but writes precisely and carefully.</div>
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And Olive, who lives her life according to the laws of blue, and who is so proud to be able to identify her sheet with an "Oh-for-Olive". </div>
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There's something about slowing down and observing differences side-by-side like that.</div>
Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-20390789373220809402017-01-17T04:00:00.000+13:002017-01-17T04:00:01.936+13:00When in a ditch …<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jhWLuifnTIA/WHQuV3tJVNI/AAAAAAABy10/ds9AIE2dBZQg7lAE75qTvRDI8BNkVEuxQCLcB/s1600/_vpciuxl2he-li-yang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jhWLuifnTIA/WHQuV3tJVNI/AAAAAAABy10/ds9AIE2dBZQg7lAE75qTvRDI8BNkVEuxQCLcB/s640/_vpciuxl2he-li-yang.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I have always lived by the Third Rule of Life: When in a ditch, stop digging. </div>
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After 2016, that saying no longer seems enough to deal with the endless onslaught of woes and doom, so I've started to wonder whether the time has come to change it around a little. </div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
My biggest problem last year was that I dug myself a ditch (or a rut I suppose) and while I was doing some stuff to keep me happy and healthy, the majority of my brain was taken up on the hamster wheel of work stress, child stress, and WTF WORLD?!?! stress. </div>
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For me, the back end of last year was a really introverted space. I watched YouTube videos every evening to catch up with world events in the same way that I might pick at a scab, I scrabbled around trying to be the parent the children needed without direction, and I ran round at work putting out fires in an enthusiastic but ineffective way.</div>
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So my revised Third Rule of Life: When in a ditch, dig sideways. That way, you turn a ditch into an interesting undulation in the ground you can call a "feature". </div>
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I’m still working on the wording. </div>
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My plan for 2017 is to get all up in some different stuff, focus on what I can influence, and do lots of things that I enjoy. Or that I might enjoy, if I stop worrying so much. Especially about shit I can't change. 2017 is my year of getting some perspective y'all. </div>
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<br />
My list of not-resolutions for this year so far involves:<br />
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<h4>
1. Learn the Ukulele </h4>
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I really wasn't thinking that I needed to add another layer of crazy to my life, then <a href="http://www.water-log.com/">our amazing friends</a> bought us a ukulele for Christmas. I've lamented for many years that I'm not cool enough to play the guitar. I gave it a try at school, hoping that it would turn me into the sort of salt haired, effortlessly waify surfer chick I always wanted to be. Disappointingly, guitars aren't possessed of magic powers, so instead of improving my appeal, it just made me look like <a href="http://reddwarf.wikia.com/wiki/Duane_Dibbley" rel="nofollow">Duane Dibbley</a> about to break into an enthusiastic chorus of Kumbaya. I've accepted that, but I'm giving our new ukulele the side-eye and wondering if I might just be weird enough to give it a crack. </div>
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<br />
Maybe I am, maybe I'm not, but I've downloaded an app so I figure it's worth a try.</div>
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<h4>
2. Read some parenting books </h4>
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I'll be honest, this parenting thing is really fucking haaaaard and I'm not sure I'm doing it right at the moment. Actually, I'm pretty sure I'm NOT doing it right at the moment. I know with every fibre of my being that I am an attachment parent, but that's a bit like declaring yourself to be Japanese, jumping on a plane and wondering why the hell you can't understand a word of the language or the first thing about the culture. Gesturing and blind luck will get you so far, but for the most part, there'll be a lot of floundering around. Well, I'm <i>over</i> floundering around, so I'm going to read a few books written by people who are better at adulting than I am.<br />
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The first one is called <a href="https://g.co/kgs/GIv5Z5">Raising Boys by Steve Biddulph</a> which I need to read because I need to find a way to deal with the utter boy-ness of Alfie's behaviour. I need some context for the rough housing and I need some tools to handle the testosterone fuelled brain farts. Judging by the reviews I'm either going to love it or have to explain to the library why I burned one of their books.<br />
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Second up is <a href="https://g.co/kgs/nf0zzc">The Highly Sensitive Child by Elaine Aron</a> which I think is going to give me a whole new insight into both Esme's personality, and my own. I also think this is going to be a deeply personal book to read and I fully expect to need a lot of hugs and tissues.<br />
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The last one is <a href="https://g.co/kgs/uOzxHS">Childhood and Society by Erik Erikson</a> which has been staring out of my bookshelf for the longest time. I feel embarrassed by the length of time it has sat, forlornly, as other books have come and gone. The time has come, my friend, I need some 1950s societal context in my life. </div>
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<h4>
3. Ride my bike more … with Keith </h4>
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Towards the end of last year, I started riding with a group of women called <a href="http://www.thelitas.co/wellington">The Litas</a>. Look at them, aren’t they badass? I have no idea why they let me ride with them, but they do, and thanks to them I have already pushed my riding <i>way</i> past my comfort zone and rediscovered my passion for being on two wheels.<br />
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One thing I didn’t do enough of in 2016 was to ride with Keith. We never made it to the track day we’d promised ourselves. In fact, the last time we rode together was out trip out to Castlepoint for Keith’s birthday last February. </div>
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Which sucks. </div>
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It especially sucks for me because nothing gets my vixen on faster than seeing Keith on his bike and I’ve been denied that pleasure for nearly a whole year. A year dammit! Where’re m’damn perving opportunities, husband? How am I supposed to check out your cute, leather clad butt if you’re never out riding with me? </div>
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Only joking kids, your father and I sleep in separate rooms and we found you under rocks. </div>
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<h4>
4. Swim in the sea</h4>
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I'm almost ashamed to admit that in the 18 months that we have lived in our house, I have yet to take a swim in our sea. Yes, when the sea is <i>literally your front garden </i>you get to call it <i>your</i> sea.<br />
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In my defence, that shit looks cold! Like all year round hypothermia levels of cold. And I don’t care how many people tell me that it’s good for my health, if I wanted to be miserably cold, I would have stayed in the UK.</div>
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Anyway, this year I’m going to swim in <i>my</i> sea, because over our Christmas tiki tour, I invested in a <span id="goog_112903348"></span><span id="goog_112903349"></span><a href="http://www.ripcurl.co.nz/womens/clothing/swimwear/lsl-boyleg-uv-surfsuit.html" target="_blank">surf suit</a> and if I don’t make good on my pathetic justification for spending that amount of money on fancy swimming togs, I suspect Keith will throw me into the sea without it.</div>
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Plus I need to get in some practice because in a few months the dolphins will be back in our bay and when they arrive, I’m planning on grabbing our body board, the Go Pro, and communing the hell out of that nature.</div>
Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-57925319807462288822017-01-09T06:00:00.001+13:002022-04-24T18:01:37.434+12:00Travel with kids – The very late 2016 edition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-If83Q9UCxUU/WG2YCT_R_vI/AAAAAAAByZw/uOzl2qPk8Co2pION4daeuc_SJeDTnseEwCPcB/s1600/First%2Bstopover%2BAuckland.%2BTrunkis%2Bwere%2Ba%2Bgreat%2Bidea%252C%2Bas%2Bwas%2Bdownloading%2Ba%2Bnew%2Bfilm%2Bfor%2Bthe%2Bkidlets%2Bto%2Bwatch.%2BThe%2Btireds%2Bare%2Bstrong%2Bwith%2Bthese%2Bones.%2BWill%2Bthey%2Bmake%2Bit%2Buntil%2Bdeparture%2B%2523travels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-If83Q9UCxUU/WG2YCT_R_vI/AAAAAAAByZw/uOzl2qPk8Co2pION4daeuc_SJeDTnseEwCPcB/s640/First%2Bstopover%2BAuckland.%2BTrunkis%2Bwere%2Ba%2Bgreat%2Bidea%252C%2Bas%2Bwas%2Bdownloading%2Ba%2Bnew%2Bfilm%2Bfor%2Bthe%2Bkidlets%2Bto%2Bwatch.%2BThe%2Btireds%2Bare%2Bstrong%2Bwith%2Bthese%2Bones.%2BWill%2Bthey%2Bmake%2Bit%2Buntil%2Bdeparture%2B%2523travels.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: justify;">Over the last 4 years, we have crossed the globe 7 times as a family. I know a lot of travellers who will scoff at that, but personally, I'm very impressed with us. </span><br />
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I would also say we've done a pretty good job of <a href="http://www.wondrouslyother.com/2014/09/this-is-why-you-should-never-fly-with.html" target="_blank">learning from our travel mistakes</a> and given another 4 years, we may even have an approach that doesn’t require medication to survive. </div>
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And since a year is a long time between trips (and I forget things) I'm making a note of my big three learnings from our 2016 trip for future reference:<br />
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1. Luggage is everything.</h4>
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I have decided that there are two space-time laws of travel: Everyone (and kids especially) run out of legs on a long trip, and luggage actively multiplies in transit. </div>
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If I might translate that to my experience of long haul journeys, it means that for every flight, you will have an extra shoulder strap, an extra piece of clothing and another person to carry off the plane.</div>
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So in 2016, we took a bold step; each person would have one piece of hand luggage, and they had to be able to fit everything they needed into that one case .... and look after it.</div>
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I don't mean one piece of hand luggage, but that's OK because we will have a huge suitcase checked in as well. I mean each of us had ONE BAG TOTAL. </div>
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In my case, my bag had to hold all my clothes, camera kit, shoes, makeup, paperwork, to be away from home for 3 weeks. For the children, their cases had to hold all the random bullshit toys they couldn't live without for a few weeks, as well as enough clothes to deal with an English summer and a Canadian autumn.</div>
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Enter stage left <a href="https://www.trunki.co.uk/" target="_blank">Trunki</a>. </div>
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Since this was a bit of an experiment, I bought three of these little guys second hand so they wouldn't cost me too much if they were a total flop. I also waited until Christmas to give them to the children (even though they were more for my benefit) because I'm evil.</div>
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I'm also very foolish for not having bought these earlier. </div>
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You ever see those families who have to borrow a crappy airline pushchair to get their children through transit? There's one exhausted child sitting smugly in the seat, a couple of siblings trying to climb over them like puppies because WHY AREN'T THEY IN THERE TOO?!?! and a shit tonne of coats and bags balanced on the handles? </div>
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Normally, that's us. </div>
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This time, we had three exhausted children perched atop their own plastic horned steeds. Each one gliding gracefully down the <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/BKATnHtAS6Y/" target="_blank">halls of the airport</a> behind their cautiously optimistic parents while fellow passengers smiled, pointed, and then flagged us down to ask all about them. </div>
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Was I wearing a T-shirt that said: "Stop me and ask about luggage"? No, I was not, but such is my love for these little cases I did it anyway. You're welcome Trunki, you're welcome.<br />
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2. Sleep is everything-er.</h4>
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Unlike every other fucker on the plane, none of my family can sleep more than five straight minutes in an airline seat. That means that after the first lengthy flight, we all feel like we've been turned inside out. </div>
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It is also a family rule that someone has to vomit copiously throughout the night, at just the right interval to make sure we all stay sharp. </div>
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By the time we got off that plane, I just couldn't even pretend to be a hero about how I felt. So I did the only adult thing I could think of, and sat down in the middle of the airport and refused to move until Keith agreed to give up on the idea of sightseeing for the day.</div>
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Luckily, nearly ten years of marriage has taught my husband a few things about me, so he had already scoped out the local facilities, which included pay-by-the-hour-massage-offering-rooms inside the terminal building. </div>
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It was my first experience of a No-Tell Motel, and I'm pretty sure it was the receptionist's first time checking in a family.</div>
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That's just a guess, based on the tone of her voice when she asked us if we wanted a massage. Despite my post flight demeanour, I could clearly hear her unspoken words. "Please," her voice was saying "I'm doing my job by asking you, but I'm not a bad person, so just say you hate any form of physical contact and we can all go home tonight with our lives unblemished".</div>
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Having established that we weren't into anything that would lead to a police investigation, we were led down a corridor that (I shit you not) was straight out of The Shining. </div>
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At one point, a cleaner ducked out of a room and shot the receptionist a look that read "Dude! What new level kinky shit is this?!" </div>
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The replying glare from the receptionist virtually screamed "DUUUUDE!!! Remember the memo!!! We're a Respectable Establishment!!!!"</div>
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Respectable or not, there were beds in our room which meant I got a solid 4 hours. </div>
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#NanaNap<br />
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3. Routines are not a cut and paste deal</h4>
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I'm not even sure how to write about this without weeping quietly into a glass of wine. Even now, five clear months later.</div>
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Until last year, we had sort of just made the assumption that when we travel as a family, the basic shit kinda just stays the same. I'm talking about the <i>real</i> basics here, the sleeping, three squares a day, passing interest in doing cool shit sort of basics.</div>
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It was a bit of a shock to find out that none of the above was necessarily true.</div>
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There are some of us who just seem to keep kicking along, regardless of time zone or hemisphere. There are others who hate the <i>shit</i> out of travel.</div>
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I'm talking specifically about Esme.</div>
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In Esme's world, change is literally the worst thing that could happen to her. She hates to travel so much, that when we landed in Vancouver, she began to lose her mind on a daily basis. These weren't your average jet-lag grumps, she would get so worked up, people would stop and stare. </div>
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One man even offered her money to get her to stop screaming. $5 to be exact, to be spent on sweets, toys, or a phial of unicorn blood if it would help. It did help for a short period of time, right up until the point that Esme realised that $5 didn't buy her very much unicorn blood, at which point she stopped traffic in China Town for a straight hour.</div>
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I say this without any judgement on Esme, by the way. The fault (such as it is) lies with me and with Keith. We tried to get her to power through what we thought was a simple case of jet lag, and as a result rendered the downtown Vancouver area unable to hear themselves think for sizable chunks of the day.</div>
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This is usually the point where I start to write about our beautifully crafted solution, which I would gladly do if I had one. I <i>could</i> write something trite about just having to listen harder, or be more responsive, but that would be a total fabrication. </div>
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The truth is that nothing we tried made the blindest bit of difference. Nothing. And we tried everything we could think of to help Esme cope with the changes brought about by travel. The only truth I have is that Esme does not enjoy change. The only coping mechanism we have right now is the dim flame of hope that somehow, we'll work it out.</div>
Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-54541381343960275822017-01-04T16:32:00.002+13:002020-07-09T21:36:02.232+12:00The Next Orange Triangle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MsafXj0iOwk/Xwbk97QJbfI/AAAAAAACmqs/22DtnugkyBUZzCnfrTmDZwbaJgWUXJm_gCK4BGAsYHg/s1080/Danger%2BNap%2BWhen%2Byou%2Bfail%2Bto%2Bstring%2Bout%2Byour%2Bchild%2Btil%2Bbedtime%2Band%2Bwalk%2Bin%2Bat%2B4.30%2Bto%2Bsee%2Bthe%2Blittle%2Bblanket%2Bburrito%2Bpushing%2Bout%2Bthe%2BZzz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="608" data-original-width="1080" height="360" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MsafXj0iOwk/Xwbk97QJbfI/AAAAAAACmqs/22DtnugkyBUZzCnfrTmDZwbaJgWUXJm_gCK4BGAsYHg/w640-h360/Danger%2BNap%2BWhen%2Byou%2Bfail%2Bto%2Bstring%2Bout%2Byour%2Bchild%2Btil%2Bbedtime%2Band%2Bwalk%2Bin%2Bat%2B4.30%2Bto%2Bsee%2Bthe%2Blittle%2Bblanket%2Bburrito%2Bpushing%2Bout%2Bthe%2BZzz.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;">So 2016 wasn’t the best year. AmIright?</span></div>
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Around about the time I was getting over jet lag on our annual trip to the UK, a few things happened that tipped me into the abyss of Not Fucking Writing Anymore. While I was down there, someone dropped a grand piano of work stress on my head, ripped up my faith in humanity with their “protest votes” and left me doubting both the authenticity and the authority of my voice.</div>
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Which is another way of saying I felt like I needed to spend a bit of time listening to the insanity around me, instead of trying to talk all the time. So that’s what I’ve been doing for the last few months.</div>
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I still don’t feel ready to start speaking again. I still don’t feel like I have anything worth saying, or any right to be saying it, but writing was always a form of therapy for me, and I have missed it in my life.</div>
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Over the Christmas break, we packed up the car and got away with friends. When I say that, I mean we ventured into the land that 3G forgot, living under canvas, adventuring in caves, washing in rivers and <a href="http://rnkpr.com/af4m1xf">walking trails marked only by small orange triangles</a>.</div>
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These orange markers are nailed to trees on all but the most obvious trails, and as my experienced walking friend commented, you may start each walk feeling confident of your direction, but by the end, you hold on to every orange marker triangle like they are your lifeline.</div>
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Actually in<a href="http://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/news/article.cfm?c_id=1&objectid=11753514"> some cases</a> they are your lifeline.</div>
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I bring this up, because while I was dragging my sorry ass around trails that no office worker should attempt, it struck me that these orange markers were probably quite a good analogy for getting back into writing; no grand plan, no expectation, and no fucking analytics.<br /><br />Just talking about stuff that I care about, as if nobody is listening.Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8797034976346258340.post-57806856158191394352016-07-30T01:23:00.000+12:002016-07-30T01:23:00.695+12:00Learning Diaries: Obsidian<div style="text-align: justify;">
Alfie is, by nature, a secret learner. He likes to turn a concept over in his mind and try and idea on for size before he brings it out into the cold light of day.</div>
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For us, as parents distracted by juvenile female carnage most days, it can sometimes appear to us like Alfie just woke up one morning and vomited knowledge.</div>
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Last week, we were sitting at the dinner table having a fairly average mealtime. Olive was crying because her water was in the wrong cup, Esme was trying to gross me out my doing disgusting and unspeakable things with her food, and Keith was trying to keep some kind of order, using a tone of voice that clearly indicated he knew that he was fighting a losing battle.</div>
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Through this chaos, Alfie suddenly piped up:</div>
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"D'ya know, obsidian is lava that has mixed with water and cooled very fast."</div>
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Keith and I looked at each other with suspicion, and then at Alfie with scepticism.</div>
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"Say that again, Alfie"</div>
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Affecting a look of indifference, he pushed some vegetables around his plate and repeated himself.</div>
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"Obsidian. It's made from lava that has cooled very fast".</div>
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I'll be honest, I fished out my phone and did a search for the definition of obsidian at this point. It's not that I have an inherent mistrust of the things that my children tell me, but this was about as far outside our usual sphere of existence as I could imagine him getting. I would have reacted in a similar way if he had rocked up to me and recited the Lord's Prayer in flawless Mandarin.</div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WKvbwV2A48I/V5rMHxP8hDI/AAAAAAABofE/OiLnsLTllxglQYgh5-ZGDON24Ql8XWCOQCLcB/s1600/photo-1465415513839-55341da57a98.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="420" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WKvbwV2A48I/V5rMHxP8hDI/AAAAAAABofE/OiLnsLTllxglQYgh5-ZGDON24Ql8XWCOQCLcB/s640/photo-1465415513839-55341da57a98.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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It turns out, Alfie's is almost a dictionary definition, which led to my two default follow-up questions in all matters parenting</div>
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1. Where had he even heard that word?</div>
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2. What kind of monstrous mother am I, that I instantly doubt my child?</div>
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The answer to the first question was "Minecraft". Because OF COURSE Minecraft. Apparently, you make swords from obsidian in Minecraft. They're hard to make and precious, and Stampy told him all about it. Thank you <a href="https://www.youtube.com/user/stampylonghead" target="_blank">Stampy</a> for delivering yet another teachable moment to my first-born. Should Alfie ever find himself giving an acceptance speech to some great academic institution, I will make sure you are rightly credited as his first, and greatest, inspiration. </div>
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I'm more than happy to play a supporting role to Stampy and Minecraft because my real joy comes in being a partner in Alfie's learning, rather than his leader. </div>
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Alfie and I talked about why this weird pixelated world he inhabits might pick glass to make a sword. We both thought it an odd choice, especially considering the amount of glass our family can get through in an average week. We looked at how obsidian might be different, and if those differences might be applied to changing other materials too. </div>
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I'm such a knowledge geek, these learning adventures often leave me with thoughts buzzing round my head for hours and days. </div>
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One such thought jumped me later that evening (in the shower if you must know) about why the name Obsidian seemed so familiar. As any self-respecting Brit will know, is from <a href="https://g.co/kgs/wmLY0T" target="_blank">Ripper Street</a> which has a shadowy company by that same name. Which is how, the following evening, I came to be explaining the concept of a metaphor, and how obsidian being an opaque glass was analogous to the shady dealings of Obsidian Estates.</div>
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I'm not sure how much of this he took in because at the time we happened to be walking home on a stunningly clear night, and we both kept getting side tracked by the milky way, whether there might be life on other planets, and the concept of infinity.</div>
Nat Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08424799085246705560noreply@blogger.com2