My Weekend Ungrateful...

Do you remember the days when you were young and you were the last one sitting, waiting to be picked? Be it sport, or debating, fun or competition, how many of you can still recall that horrific hard, solid lump of sadness in the pit of your stomach as the last to pick goes "I guess you are on our team then..."

Frday my heart broke a little. Friday I had to let go of a another slice of my preconceptions. Friday I watched my son in that very position at a school excursion.

I am struggling to think of the greatness of this week as those horrible memories flood back over and over again. I need to remember they are MY scars, not his, and hope that times like this are not forming their own deep within my wonderful son.

For whilst his buddies ran around the theme park, having fun, laughing, for the most of it my son remained with me. Forgotten by his peers.

If his best mate C had been there, this would never have happened. But he does not go to this school.

My child's achievements are incredible. His last report card of Grade 7 was flooded with A's in achievement and behaviour, the comments were wonderful, positive, even a little awe flowed through the words.

His book is looking more and more like it WILL be published - he is 13... who manages to get a book published at 13???

He is happy, settled in his own skin, content to be him... because to be him is pretty awesome!

I need to realise that this pain and anger and frustration is my own, born of my emotions and feelings. Hell, I do realise it BUT it is so damn hard not to let it flow onto his situation.

I need to remember my ending... the fact that those kids in primary school who always picked me last were the very ones who clamoured for me to be their first choice in high school as both my athletic and academic abilities soared.

I need to listen to my son, who when asked if he felt left out or lonely replied "Why would I Mum? I love being with you, we laugh so much and have such fun."

My scars, not his. I love you Boy 1, and really am trying to let your generousity of spirit flow into my essence... but whilst it is still slowly permeating I will  hide my tears.

This is my weekend really wish I was grateful.

Sorry.

Memories Of A Lost Friend.

I am meant to be doing my exercise for inkpaperpen's Write on Wednesdays, but as the house is silent for once I have no hope of being a dialogue detective at this moment. Instead, the doors of my mind have opened into a room of faded memories and I am writing of the night my last such a writing exercise took place. Of someone who has a place in my heart permanently reserved; one day we will meet again.

A Winter's Night

It is the image of him I am left with. The two sandy blond heads together, leaning forward, engrossed in the game on the phone. It is the image I wish I had thought to photograph, though I know by that point he abhorred having any images taken. It is the last night I saw Simon.

It is cold on the mountain, it is always so very cold in mid-winter. The fires burn on day and night, heating frozen rooms, warming the homes of all who reside in this rainforest paradise. Our mouths propel jet bursts of steam as we stomp up steep external stairs to the house of friends, which hovers on the edge of the hilltop drop. Tonight it will be a gourmet indulgence, rich, white sauce drenched crab lasagna with lots of tasty sides and extras, tonight it will be a meal fit for a king, for our king has returned at long last.

My children whine, hating leaving the cosy comfort of our residence. The oldest dreads social interaction with this bunch of boisterous boys, his brother included, and the one tomboy girl attending. For him, at age 9, this type of gathering is a living hell. As it is for one other, the one for whom this feast is in honour.

Laughter, hugs and garbled greetings meet us at the door. But eyes are drawn to the taut figure sitting in the large recliner. The chair swamps him, and if I hadn't had the chance to see him briefly on his journey home from hospital, I doubt I could have hidden my anguish. So frail, so thin, so tired. So sick of it all, and sick of being sick. He is 39, but looks decades older.

We sit, eat, talk.  The noise level ramps up and conversation and games become rambunctuous. Five children laugh, giggle, joke. One child covers his ears and cowers from the noise. The man has returned to the large leather recliner, sitting quietly drinking it all in. He sees the boy, my oldest. From across the room he senses the distress wafting off the child in waves, smiles. Pulls from the pocket of his now too large jacket a shiny new gadget - his phone. Waggles it, smiles, and beckons. The others come too, jumping in, wanting to grab, investigate, intervene. Simon shushes and sends away, it is not a toy, he tells them.

The boy walks quietly over and gazes into Simon's eyes. They smile, understanding the importance of such technology, each relishing the abilities of this one little cold metallic item. The boy does not see the illness, he does not see the frailty, the shadows of pain. When he looks at the man he sees only a kindred spirit, another technological addict. And someone who understands. He moves to the chair, slides in beside Simon, shuffles his bottom to make room. Unselfconsciously he leans into the thin body, snuggles deep. They bow over the phone, engrossed, absorbed, happy.

Simon glances up, catches my eye, smiles, joy emanating unsuppressed. For right at this minute, this child has made him feel whole, just for a while. The two tousled heads lower again over the phone. The boy moves closer, looks up into Simon's eyes and beams. Simon beams right back.

It is the image I remember him by. My son, my different, quirky outsider completely content and calm, nestled as close as one human can be to another. The man, feeling special, wanted, strong. I just wish I had taken that photo.

Flog Yo Blog Friday - Life As It Was...

The Rules

Follow the Random Ramblings of a SAHM.  Not that any of this is her idea anyway- FYBF is MummyTime's brainbaby. RRSAHM stole it.
Grab the bubbly button and post it on your sidebar. Link your First Name and/or Blog Name and URL of your post or blog.
Add a short description (max of 125 chars). It could be a description of yourself, your blog or a teaser to your latest post. 
Follow at least 1 linkyer/blogger (Be nice and spread the love).
The list will be open for linkyers on Fridays (and for the foreigners Friday as well).
A new and fresh link list will open every Friday. And you will have to link up AGAIN. The previous link list does not carry over to the following week.
And lastly, have lotsa fun.
 

Warped realisations that a Wise Woman would appreciate.

My mother was a lady through and through, but there still was this slightly mad, quirky, mischievous side to her (where did you think I got my weirdness from, huh? Huh?). In my earlier years (and remember I have just turned forty seven, so by early years I mean in my early twenties) WW and I used to shake up the house of my childhhood by boogying our butts to two songs.

This one:

Sadly, looking at the clip now I can see a lot of similarities between it and my hometown... Whoopsie.

And this one:

We would crank up the volume and run around like a pair of silly buggers as Grumblebum used to complain. Now, these were always our songs. Whenever we heard them we would automatically be transported back to those fun afternoons bopping in the lounge room. And so, me being the Madmother I am, I was tempted to succumb to my warpedness with Wise Woman's burial. The funeral director asked me if I wanted music played at her graveside as the casket was lowered. And I was so very, very drawn to request - have you worked it out yet -

Workin in a coal mine

Goin down down

Workin in a coal mine

Whew about to slip down...

She would have loved it. Been slightly horrified and a little mortified, but laughing behind the hand covering her mouth. And no, I didn't. Our older relatives would have been rather unimpressed.

I miss you Mum.

Memoir Monday - Roo Bouncing.

An Aussie list on a couple of other blogs has stirred the dusty old memory banks once more. Item number whatever... Have you ever hit a roo?

I have. Two of them in fact. But this Memoir on Monday is about the first. So buckle up that seatbelt and hang on tight. Grip the old JC bar if it helps.

A Roolly You Beaut True Blue Roo Rant.

I'm taking you back... Back into the dim dark days of my once wild youth. Back to a time when fun was easy, all you needed was a mate by your side and the hot blood of invincible teenage years. Oh, and a car with a bit of grunt.

Nooooo - not that one ->

<- This one!

It is early evening. Me, aged seventeen, and my BFF are meant to be studying for an HSC exam. No idea now which one it was. We had done some study, honest. But the brains were feeling foggy so we decided to go for a quick burn in my little blue Mazda. Now my BFF lived on a farm in the boondocks. Lots of deserted roads to take for a short drive and some fun. We head onto the beach road. No lights, dark starless night, thick bush either side of bichumen, no other traffic.

Smart arse BFF dares me to see how my little car flies. The hoon in me happily accepts the challenge. Please note: I am only a P plater.

Foot hits the floor, car easily glides up to 100 k's, then 120. We fly along through the black night, over hills, around curves. Common sense kicks back in, I slow down. Sitting at around a safe 70 k's on a straight stretch, BFF grins over at me in the dim interior and says: "Jeez, we would have been mincemeat if you had hit a roo!"

Next instant  -

BANG

You guessed it. Out of the bush a lone roo with suicidal tendencies leaps in front of the car. Slam brakes on, roo bounds away seemingly unharmed. BFF looks at me, we both crack up. Still laughing, we get out of car to survey what we think will be minimal damage from the light impact. We stop laughing. It was not minimal. It really was not minimal. We were both very quiet on the return trip. And I had to think up an excuse for being in the middle of nowhere when I should have been studying.

Bloody roos. Well, maybe it was just a big wallaby. But it was large enough to cause some mighty expensive extensive damage.  *mutter*mutter*curse*curse*

Memoir Monday - Everyone Needs a Monty.

Now Trav seems to have dropped the MMs again, but I like 'em and just in case he doesn't make an appearance AGAIN this week, am adding a Linky here for anyone who want to join. So look at the end of this week's speil and jump on in if you wish.

I am finding inspiration from other bloggers for a lot of these posts. This week it is the turn of Maggie over at Mind of a Mad Woman with her beautifully poignant post on caring for the elders of our lives. Go read, and take tissues. As for my Memoir Monday, I give you:

The Full Monty

Once upon a time there was a young Madmother who had a loving family with a cast of regular characters. Parents, sibling, Aunts, Uncles, cousins, grandparents. But this little girl was blessed. She had someone that no-one else she knew had, and that everyone needs. She had a Monty. Now, what is a Monty, I can hear you ask. A Monty, in this story, was the close friend and business partner of Yeeha Grandma. A man who never married, had no close family living, whose life revolved around work and making sure little Madmother and the flame-haired hellraiser were protected, loved and happy. He was family.

Now, I could at this point tell you lots of little stories made up of memories of days long past. Things like how little MM and her pals would run and hide giggling in the sandhills of deserted beaches as the Monty climbed and searched, calling constantly, becoming more and more agitated. Secure in a child's blissful ignorance of the predators that could steal innocence, they would wait until his yells had reached fever pitch before launching themselves from their secret spot and into his strong,safe arms. Or of how he would lean over little MM's bed in her Grandma's house and pretend to dribble, waiting until that long thread of drool would almost land on her contorted face before sucking it back into his mouth (yeah gross, but hysterically funny to a five-year-old tomboy).

Of the many words of wisdom and long counselling sessions as Madmother grew older. He was the one who would sit and listen without judgement, hold her hand as she cried, cook MM bacon and home-made chips to heal her bruised heart  and to eat whilst they'd watch The Bill.

Of how he played a solid, constant role in her life as she studied, travelled, grew up. How Monty was always there when MM needed him.

But that is not what this Memoir Monday is about. No.This is about when lives are reversed and the carer becomes the one who needs care. It is about being elderly in a largely  indifferent world. It is about the cruelty of aging.

He suffered a stroke, but after sucessfully fighting back via rehab, he contracted pneumonia which caused permanent damage. The Monty with incredibly high intelligence and possessed of rapier sharp intellect became irreversibly confused and frail of mind. The adult became the child.

As time passed he no longer recognised many, but MM was lucky to be a constant in his thoughts. She came home as often as she could, keeping visits as close to fortnightly as possible. His dimmed azure blue eyes would clear of the clouds when she walked into the nursing home that was now his place of residence. He was one of the very select few permitted to abbreviate her short name, and he would stroke her arm, crying, saying "T**y, you're home, you haven't been to see me for so long." And over the weekend each time she returned it was to be greeted with the same refrain. Time had ceased to have meaning for him, which was a blessing in some ways, a curse in others.

He regressed into another world, another time. Sitting in his massive water chair (like a king on his throne) he commanded the other patients in the common room, directing the mayhem.
Some days the Monty of old would appear, wanting to wheel and deal. He would advise MM, teaching her how to strike a bargain, usually imagining the purchase of the furniture in the room, though he confessed to be concerned over "How to get the old ducks to move out of our chairs..." Other times they were in his old truck, and he would patiently explain how to double-clutch up the hill with the full load of frozen prawns. And of course MM would be lectured long and hard on not parking in the sun with those damnably expensive seafood items in the rear.

The hardest times were when he was frustrated, and the anger would bubble forth. These were the times he accused her of leaving him stranded on the train platform, or of having a fiduciary motive for keeping him locked up. These were the days she paced the hallways letting off steam and trying to dredge up the good memories. These were the moments the staff would pass and mutter :"Bad day. Always remember they lash out at those nearest and closest to their hearts." And whilst it was not home, and privacy or personal space were a thing of the past, the caring staff made life bearable in the public fish bowl. A kind word, a fleeting touch, the joy in a worn face as they listen to the same story again and again. MM was truly grateful for the care and respect shown under such difficult circumstances.

It was heartbreaking to watch the slow mental and physical decline of a man who was a well-respected part of the business community. Madmother's memory was full of the times walking down a busy city street when they were stopped three or four times by well-dressed men who shook Monty's hand in reverence and awe. Now that same hand shook uncontrollably as he attempted to spoon thickened soup between trembling lips.

Two long years he lingered in his own personal twilight zone. At the very end as he hovered two or three days, MM remained by his side, sleeping in a chair by his bedside at night. During his rare lucid moments she sat, stroked his hand and talked of all he had given her over the years. And talked of Grandma waiting patiently for her congenial companion to cross to her side. He left this life one bright, sunny day, with a deeply contented sigh as if signalling "My work here is done."

Whilst his loss was felt so very much, Madmother also gratefully realised how very blessed she was to have a Monty in her life.

And when her children were small she'd lean over their beds, kiss them goodnight, then raise herself up and allow a long thin string of dribble to lower nearly but not quite onto their hysterical faces...

Memoir Monday: Yee-ha, Grandma!

Yada, yada, you know it. I have copied this, as always, from the Trav's blog:
Hey y'all. This little thing is called Memoir Monday, and I'd be thrilled if you gave it a shot. Just jot down a story about yourself, grab the code down there, and I'll link you up to be read by all my wonderful blog buddies. The only rule? It has to be true. I am personally doing what I can to help cure your case of the Mondays. Thanks for playing along!
Comment on Trav's blog post if you want to be linked. Cause I ain't doin' it for ya!

Now, I must thank the gorgeous, bubbly one, Melissa for giving me my Memoir Monday inspiration. I didn't have one of those fairytale Nanna's either Mel. Not like this:

Or this:

No siree. My grandmother, known as Grandma, was flamboyant and funny, extremely bright and opinionated, loving and devoted yet tough. I wrote about her many eons ago, of her love of driving, her Pied Piperesque attraction for the neighbourhood kids, her loss, but someone as large in character as Grandma could not be captured in one post. And so for today's Memoir Monday tale I give you:

Yee-ha Grandma!

Now, you're probably wondering about the red, right? There is a reason, but you guessed there would be, didn't you. Right up until her death, I never saw my grandmother without her face on. This consisted of pancake foundation, loose powder, and Revlon's Red Red lipstick. Even today, twenty years after she has been gone, when I see someone with those truly red lips I think to myself: "Wonder if it's Revlon Red Red?"

On any other elderly woman it would have looked ridiculous. On Grandma, well it suited her. She was strong in personality, and strong in her beliefs. She also maintained her curly blonde hair until her passing, managing to fit in a perm a few weeks before she was hospitalised.

I grew up constantly being told I, as a woman, could achieve anything I set my mind to. Now this, you need remember, came from a woman who was born in the late 1800's. A woman who left and subsequently divorced my grandfather in the 1930's. A lady who sold dresses door to door to farmer's wives who hid the egg money from their husbands. Who went on to become one of the first female Real Estate agents in New South Wales, and who set many a sales record which were unbroken for decades. This woman, who at nearly 91, still was a practising agent, and sat up and signed the business cheques from her hospital bed.

My memories of my grandmother are true and strong today. She had a huge role in forming who I am, and I love it when people (her daughter, Wise Woman included) comment "Oh, you are just like your grandmother!" even when they do not mean it as a compliment. I am a formidable foe, as she was. I have a strong sense of black and white on moral issues, as she did, and I am a loyal and true friend like her.

This incredible woman chose her own way out. Admitted to hospital for a minor health issue (though nothing is minor in your nineties), I did not realise she was ready to let life go. I had completed my degree, was employed in a prominent, successful company, in her eyes I was settled. I was by her side when she went in, and kissed her goodbye before driving back to the city. It was in the days before mobile phones, and so it was early the next day upon my arrival at work I received THE call. Grandma had slipped into a coma and was not expected to live.

I do not know if she realised by instilling her strength of will and ability to fight adversity that I would not accept this lightly. I sadly missed an urgently booked flight by ten short minutes, and instead drove the four and a half hours crying and praying for her to be alive upon my arrival.

We were met by her doctor at reception. "She will not survive the night," he proclaimed to my mother and I. I think now I must have given him the Grandma look of total disdain, for he stepped back, alarmed. I know my thoughts were stupid man, if you think that you do not know my grandmother at all! By this time it was mid-afternoon and outside of visiting hours. Nobody attempted to stop me as I took my place by her bedside. For the next three or fours hours I sat and argued with her in a one-sided debate.

"You cannot do this to me, what will I do without you."
"I love you, if you love me don't give up. Fight, for me if not yourself."
"I won't be okay with this, I can't cope with losing you, please, please come back."

Yes, I was a very self-focused young woman, and looking back it was incredibly selfish an attitude, and really quite arrogant of me. I think the nurses thought I was mad, I know the doctor believed I was delusional. But I believe you may be already aware of the outcome.

It was early evening, and dinner was being served to the other patients. Once more I squeezed her unmoving hand, and said: "I love you" with all the fierceness I could muster in my exhaustion. Her warm fingers tightened around mine, and her frail, dry voice croaked out a cracked "love you too." Yes, my Grandma came back out of love and concern for me.

For the next five days she counselled me, explained her desire to be free of this world where her body was failing her. She did not want to be here if her mind did too, and she explained I needed to let her go. Time to grow up a little.

In one of our last conversations I asked her: "What if you change your mind? What if you get close and decide you want to live?" She gave me THAT look, probably very similar to the one I had given the doctor on arrival. In her words: "I came back for you once, what on earth makes you think I couldn't do it again if I chose?"

Unbenownst to me she had told her daughter, Wise Woman, and niece, that she would not go if either myself or her business partner and dear friend were present. She quietly slipped back into a coma on Saturday morning, and waiting until myself and her partner had left for a brief time, she sighed and slipped away. My Mum and her cousin were there together to support each other to the end. Just as Grandma had decreed.

Sorry if this is not the usual light and funny MM. I had intended it to be, but somewhere along the way it became a post from the heart.

I owe a lot to this incredible, formidable woman and thank God for allowing me to be a part of her life every single day. She is still here with me. Be it in a phrase or a look, or the passionate way I live my life. No halfway measures for the granddaughter of Grandma. It just would not be acceptable.

Oh, and to get the title - you need to follow the link to my old post about her.

Ah, Home.

You can never go back, they say. But I would disagree with them. I have now lived in three other places and travelled the world twice, but I still call the small country town of my childhood home.

I am here for only a few nights, yet already the worries of the world and the weight of tension have left me. Aaah, home.

I love this place.

We ate takeaway, drank wine and played Trivial Pursuit with old friends last night.

Manning Point, NSW

We went fishing and watched the sunset in the briskness of a winter afternoon (we caught ten very small fish: eight brim, two puffer fish, much to the excitement of all) today.

*Sigh*. Life is full of simple pleasures in the land of my childhood. I lived here for the first eighteen years of my life, and have always come home frequently. It is my life source, and all ills heal if I return. My power charger, the battery that keeps my spirit intact.

If you want to see more of the little cottage where we are staying, go here.

And tomorrow we leave. We head to Sydney via a Newcastle luncheon, and more reunions with good friends. I will probably enjoy Sydney, it was home for the second part of my life: University, career, partying. The second eighteen years. But that is another story, and in all liklihood, another post this week.

Memoir Monday - Like Sands Through the Hour Glass...

so are the days of our lives? Yeehaw: It's Memoir Monday time again!

Oops, not that one... this one:



As the Trav says:
"Hey y'all. This little thing is called Memoir Monday, and I'd be thrilled if you gave it a shot. Just jot down a story about yourself, grab my code down there, and I'll link you up to be read by all my wonderful blog buddies. The only rule? It has to be true. I am personally doing what I can to help cure your case of the Mondays. Thanks for playing along!"


Screaming masses of stalkerish fans join this blog hop sorta thing of the fisherman. If you want to be in the kewl group then leap on over and join in. Just make sure the tale you tell is one to captivate and, of course, the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth!

And so on with my Monday Madmother Mouthing Off.

Friends often tell me: "You should write a book." Not because they adore my turn of phrase or written prose, nor due to any underlying adulation of my ability to spin a tale. No. Merely because my life has ALWAYS seemed to lurch from crisis to crisis. Just like a soap opera.

So, for today's Monday Memoir, I am going to tell you a story from my overly dramaticised youth. In standard subtle soap script style of course.

Scene 1:  Crowded Ballroom.

Our heroine, Bad Girl (prior to Madmotherdom), has just had a confrontation in the ladies room with Old Wife, who was formerly married to The Crush. Bad Girl and The Crush had enjoyed a brief relationship during a break in his marriage. The Crush had since survived a failed reconciliation attempt and now was with Boring as Batshit Woman. Bad Girl, unused to defeat, was still nursing a badly bruised ego and a lingering lust for The Crush. These unrequited emotions did not stop her from starting a new sensual adventure with the aptly named Toy Boy. Toy Boy has crashed the Ball to seek out his partner in the carnal.

TB:  "Hey. Thought you might need me, so me and Offsider decided to drop in and crash this joint."
BG: "You told me this was not your scene, you told me you weren't coming to some boring formal crapshot place."
TB: "It isn't my scene, but you are. I figured with The Crush, Boring as Batshit Woman, and Old Wife being here it might get a bit difficult."
BG: " *Sniff*, she said "Here it comes, would you look at what it's wearing!" Then her bunch of witches sniggered at me. *Sniff!*"
TB: "Whaaaaaat? Look at her? Come on - really look at her! She is a scrag. You are looking so hot tonight, how can anything she said worry you? What, didn't they have a mirror in the toilets? Do you not know how good you are looking?"
BG: "You're just saying that to get me to take you home with me."
TB: "No I am not. You look amazing. Come on, let's dance."

All eyes upon them, they take over the dance floor. At one point TC tries to cut in but is rebuffed, OW scowls from her seat, BaBW, well, is just boring as batshit.

Cue theme music.

The end.

And yes, I did take him home that night, but it wasn't the first time, nor was it to be the last.

Memoir Monday - Wandering with a Wise Woman

After a couple of more serious Memoir Monday's I am reverting back to type... And so here is the tale of the Wise Woman and Madmother Other Worldy Adventure.

For those who do not know Wise Woman is my now 90 year old mother, the matriarch of the Madmother family. In 1990 I was invited to a friend's wedding in Wanaka, South Island,  New Zealand. Wanaka, no Wanaka... not WANKER, WANAKA!

Anyhoos, Wise Woman and I decided to make a real adventure out of the trip and booked a hire car for two weeks to explore both North and South islands. Now not many people in their late twenties would relish a trip trecking around with their mother, but for me it was a great opportunity to share the joy of travel with someone as warped in humour as myself. As it turned out it is lucky I was with her because anyone else would think I was completely crazy-nuts-lost-the-plot insane.

All was going well as we checked in for our first night in a Golden Chain motel in the outer suburbs of Auckland. Have I ever mentioned the poltergeist who follows my mother and I around playing rather impish but embarrassing tricks on us? No? Ah well, I will now.

Several incidents had preceded this trip: walking past a table of handbags, not within touching distance, we both looked askance as one by one each bag dropped off the edge of the table. Sorta like watching a big stack of plump dominoes fall if you get my drift. Or handbag suicide.

And then there was the time a glass cube covered shoe display (you know, one of those on those tree like things all fancy, schmantzy, looking artistic, balance beamish set-ups) decided to fall apart. Not the glass bit, but the shoes. Falling in a heap, looking decidedly unglamorous lying forlornly on the bottom of the stand. Neither of us touched the bloody thing either. Of course, as the shop assistants looked on scowling we pair dissolve into hysterical giggles. Making us look all the more guilty.

Oh, and the Christmas wrapping debacle. Standing in K-Mart, in the stationery section looking at wrapping paper. Unbenownst to us we are under a whole large group of kamikaze rolls. We look up as dozens of tubes flow like a bunch of logs in the rapids off the shelf and onto our heads, and then the floor. Damn those nasty sprites. Some mischievous spirit took great pleasure in that one.

But back to our travel tale. So, there we are, relaxing after our flight and drive, short as it was, when Wise Woman needs to use the amenities. No issue, we are in our room, shouldn't be a problem. Then, as I sit watching TV, she flushes the toilet.

Ever heard the noise an old truck makes as you stuff up the double clutch changing gears? Sorta like a grinding, groaning, put your teeth on edge moan? Well, increase the volume tenfold and then draw it out for about ten minutes, add in a sound similar to a waterfall in the wet season and you have the cacophony which enveloped our room. We didn't know whether to run for our lives, ring the desk for help, or dissolve into slightly hysterical laughter. Of course we chose the latter, and by the time we had ourselves back under control the noise had ceased. After much deliberation and mirth, we came to the conclusion that this was how New Zealand toilets sounded.

Our next incident was in Christchurch. Same sorta scenario. We settle in to a quiet night, deciding to have some toast for a late night nibble. Put bread in toaster, push down lever... Pow - room descends into darkness! Cue giggles as we fumble around in the dark, stumbling over each other in our attempts to find the door. Open door, to more darkness, whole motel is blacked out. Oh crap, only us.

Then we realise that as far as we can see is in pitch black... Uh-oh. At this point the manager comes out to chat, and tells us that a transformer has blown and blacked out the whole area. Whew, didn't think a little toaster could blow the whole street, even with the help of the WW/MM poltergeist.

I could mention far more, but then this post would go on forever. But you get the idea. Most of our trip was spent in laughter, and it passed all too quickly.But now you see why I prefer to travel with the WW. After all, only those close to you really get it when you are a slightly twisted person with your own family spirit...

Memoir Monday - When We were Very Young

I'm getting an early start this week. Memoir Mondays are (in Trav's words):

Hey y'all. This little thing is called Memoir Monday, and I'd be thrilled if you gave it a shot. Just jot down a story about yourself, grab my code down there, and I'll link you up to be read by all my wonderful blog buddies. The only rule? It has to be true. I am personally doing what I can to help cure your case of the Mondays. Thanks for playing along!


In keeping with the five family days (oops - forgot to mention that, did I?) theme this week this memoir is from my youth. Our family took off a couple of times a year for caravan holidays. Mainly travelling up the North Coast to sunny Queensland.


Now Trav, like your family ours was somewhat traditional. Mum stayed home and did the happy housewife stuff, Dad was the breadwinner and the head of the house. We two girls did what we were told, especially when the treats on holidays were dangling in front of us.

Caravan packed, kids in the back off the Holden, off we'd toddle usually about 5am as my Dad was an early departure man. The highlights of these tours included the Golden Circle factory (the smell of burning sugar still makes me wanna barf), the Big Banana, the Porpoise Pool, Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary and Santa Land with a miniature village. Real family time with Dad smoking like a chimney, and us passively inhaling in the back seat with the windows closed. Ah, those were the days!

Oh, and no comments about the plaits. I was a kid, okay. No choice given in hairstyles.

A warm and fuzzy one today, in keeping with five family days. For a more typical Madmother Memoir check the other entry on my skating blog.