mega

It's been quite a week. We had all our usual commitments—band, art, tennis, friends, dog walking, music lessons, meal making/eating, sleeping, playing, and homeschool learning—plus one massive rehearsal and concert on Thursday night.

Every year, for the last four years, my husband has organised and put on a concert featuring over 100 kids from all around the area, playing in a Megaband with a featured artist. The first two years they played jazz with James Morrison. The next year they played funk with Fred Wesley (former sideman of James Brown), and this year they played latin music with a Sydney salsa band called Mucho Mambo.

This year more than 120 kids registered for the Megaband. My husband woke up early, morning after morning, week after week, to arrange the music, create the scores, organise the venue, get t-shirts printed, organise posters, tickets, registration, manage the website, etc etc. His work hours were long and full. Yes, he was helped, but a lot (most) rested on him getting the job done. We haven't see him much and one morning this week, I heard him go down the driveway at 4.47am.

I don't know how he did it. It was a huge task. I often get overwhelmed by my day, sometimes daily. The responsibility of being a parent and "learning facilitator" all day, every day, plus the getting to and from places on time, plus the making of meals (sometimes so daunting!!) and the keeping happy—it can be exhausting. Beautiful but exhausting.

But then, when I think about it for even a short time, I actually do know how my husband did it. He is passionate about music, passionate about education. He's an inspiring teacher and you can tell he pours his whole heart into it. He isn't paid much, but it's the only thing he can imagine doing. He loves, with all his heart, what he does. That's how he does it. As stressful as it is. And the kids (and their parents, and the community) love him for it.

And he is inspiring to me. Because I think, well, if he can do that, then I can do what I do, too. Because his passion is infectious and because he never says, "I give up." Because I, too, can't imagine doing anything else. And because it is incredible, the learning journey—the learning of your children, the learning of young people who are so vibrant, quick, and real, and the learning you do yourself as you travel through your days.

He (and the kids!) pulled it off. The concert. They had a day to rehearse 5 charts. The kids ranged in age from 9 to 19. Some were total beginners, and some were seasoned performers. My husband had arranged different charts for every instrument and every ability. Every child was challenged and excited and after the show, exhillarated beyond belief.

It was an amazing night. It was inspirational.

blurry rehearsal,

blurry dancing!

(The night was a family affair—

My husband led the band.

My son played percussion in the band.

I designed the shirt that 120 kids wore.

My girl got to wear the band shirt, because Daddy promised she could.

My mother drove 1 1/2 hours to come watch.

And my professional salsa-dancing sister came (driving 2 1/2 hours) to dance,

and encourage the audience to get up and move. Which they did, with gusto!)

Things I learned today

Today…

I learned about fact families. For those who don't know, “Fact families are 3 numbers that are related, just as the people in a family are related.” (thanks, mathcats.com) I didn't know that's what these numbers were called—it sounds so friendly, so cosy. You want to snuggle up with them at night and watch t.v. on the couch together.

I learned about rules for identifying Prime numbers and Composites. I knew about prime numbers but I never knew the alternative was a “Composite.” Names like that sound so Official. They remind me of all those grammar terms we're supposed to know, but can never remember. (Or is that just me?)

I learned that we have 23 pairs of chromosomes in our dna. I think I was taught that once but like many schooled things, it didn't stick. I learned that if you show an animation about single-nucleotide polymorphism to your kids, they actually want to watch.

I learned that carmine (a red pigment) is made of bugs. We can't ever paint with it, says my son, because we are vegetarian.

I learned that if you go to a Paper Plane Academy workshop in the city with your kids, they will need to run their own academy the next day, teach you to make a plane or planes and fly them through the house all morning.

I learned about lines of action in art. You can picture the line going through a figure, say, in a painting; if it's angled or curved—it shows movement. Vertical or horizontal—stillness. I learned that if your kids learn about lines of action in art they will get an irrepressible urge to draw and draw and draw.

I learned how much joy you can give your kids by being delighted in what delights them.

I learned that if you take your girl out of school because she is miserable and afraid and love her to pieces and let her be as close as she needs for as long as she needs, one day, on this day in fact, you'll see her running around with kids she doesn't know, much older than her, playing soccer before her brother's band practice.

I learned that making cookies with brown sugar is better than with white. And to flatten them before putting them in the oven. And to eat them warm. With milk. I may not have learned the warm and the milk part today, but each time I take the first bite, go get the milk, take the first ice-cold sip, I feel as delighted as if it's my first time.

I learned that it's lovely to share—the cookies, the icecold milk, the warmth, the learning—with your two happy kids. All of us discovering together.

All of us delighted.

clearing

So I thought I was in trouble this week. I felt sad and I didn't know why.

And then I felt sad for more days than one. And then I thought, I've been feeling sad a lot, that's not good. And then I suddenly couldn't decide anything, and my memory seemed to go "Poof!"

I panicked. I thought my depression was coming back.

Just thinking that sent me into a mental tailspin.

Which made me sadder.

And more scared.

And more hollowed out.

I tried to feel about to see where the sadness was coming from and my mind said, "Everywhere."

I tried to grit my teeth and fight it, and the sadness came anyway, at night when the kids had gone to bed and the dark had crept in. And worry came anyway, in the moments we were late for something, or had to be anywhere that was out of the house. And the need for perfection came, in the days leading up to running the first writers workshop of the term. And the overwhelming anxiety that I wasn't homeschooling properly came, in the days when the kids found their work hard, or didn't know what to do with themselves.

And then I felt lost.

So.

What did I do?

I talked about it.

I talked to my husband and he listened. And I talked some more and he listened some more. And he said things that were wise, and kind. And he said I was amazing. And he reminded me that he loved me, always and no matter what.

I talked to my girl about the night. I finally admitted that I didn't like it either and that yes, Life is in fact much better in the day. Which she loved because that made us twins. She went to sleep so easily then.

I talked to my boy (or perhaps he talked and talked and talked to me). He said, so many times I lost count, "I love you, Mum. You're the best Mum ever." He gave me hugs and we talked about puns and comics and ideas and he made us all laugh so much we cried.

I "talked" on a homeschooling forum where I am a member. I said, "I'm afraid" and I raised the "D" word. That was incredibly scary. I thought, "I don't know all these people, what if they think…" But I got kind response after kind response. All saying, "We understand. And we feel those things too, and have fears just like yours. Thank you for talking about this." I felt stronger then.

I talked to my friend and cried a little, and talked some more. And she listened. And gave me a whole thumbdrive of inspirational words to listen to at night when the dark seemed largest. Another lifeline.

I went to the beach and rang my sister. I sat and watched the waves roll and told her my doubts but also my instincts. And she said my instincts were so much stronger than my doubts. And to trust them. I love my sister.

I posted some writing, real writing of mine on my blog, and remembered I was a writer.

I took my kids up to the city today, and we spent the whole day together. We did an art workshop that we loved. And we spent the day laughing, sharing, talking. I remembered how much I adore being a mother, being around my kids, homeschooling them, watching their joy.

And my head cleared.

And I felt less afraid.

And I realised that being afraid of sadness seems to let it in more. So I may as well accept it. Accept that some days are harder than others. Just gritting my teeth and pushing sadness out doesn't always make it go away.

Finding the joy does, but also finding the opposite of fear. Which is love. Corny as it sounds, it's love. Loving the paths I choose, my heart, my instincts, my kids, my husband, my family, my friends—all this is bigger than the part of me that is scared.

And when I realised that, I was suddenly okay.

I don't know if I'll feel sad tomorrow. I might. But, in this moment, I believe I won't be afraid.

serendipity

I wrote a story once, years ago, as part of a novel-in-waiting. I don't think now it has a place there, but a friend recently wrote about what tea means to her in her blog (yet to be publicly shared, so I was lucky). And just by chance I found this old story tonight. Serendipity, I think it's called. "The discovery of things not sought." But, of course, it's so much more than that.

And I thought, Let us have tea together, you and I. Your tea story and mine. With their little fingers crooked, and the steam curling over the cups. That seems only right…

A cup of tea.

First I fill the jug and switch it on. While I wait for the water to boil I have to make some decisions. Which tea? Which mug? I am thinking Rooibos. A bush from a tiny province in South Africa. It has no caffeine but you can drink it with milk and sugar, so it’s like a regular tea in disguise.

If I had caffeine I would go crazy. I was at a friend’s house the other day and drank two cups of English Breakfast. I never drink black tea, but this day I thought, Goddamn, I’m tired of depriving myself. I’ll just have a little. After the second cup, I told her my life story. It took about five minutes, the words leaping over each other like animals in flight, animals trying to outrun a fire. My head buzzed, my skin tingled. I couldn’t stop talking. When I left, I had to walk out backwards because I was still going, my words ricocheting against the walls, the windows, tangling up in my friend's hair. And the stories were sad and dark, all of them, and her eyes went wide.

Afterwards, when I came down, I thought, What have I done? I apologised the next day, and she said, No. It was okay. I didn’t mind at all. But perhaps she was merely being kind. In that gentle way you might treat a feral cat stuck up a tree.

The kettle makes a murmuring sound that grows louder, an approaching train.

The mug. We have two enormous, truly gigantic mugs from a trip to a tourist shop in San Francisco. They are a committment. You have to be ready for a lot of liquid. You have to be prepared to get up to pee over and over again. If I know I will be writing upstairs for a long time, I think, The big mug. But then they are in the dishwasher sometimes, or still with my husband’s coffee on the bottom, the sediment like tar. Washing a mug this size takes time, more time than I might like to spend.

So I might pick one of the mugs I have been given for Mother’s Day, one for each of the last five years. They show my childrens’ evolution. The first has my daughter at six months old, holding a watermelon rind and peering over it with her big eyes. On the other side is my son who, in this photo, is nearly three. He is playing a toy guitar, but the guitar is huge and heavy, so the strap bears him down and he bends his knees. He is strumming a serious rock riff—his face is contorted with effort, or joy, or both.

Another mug shows the children lying over the dog, smiling up at the camera. The dog lies placidly. He is so gentle, so smelly. On another, the children hold up home-made signs saying, Happy Mother’s Day. I love you. And their eyes squint, because the light is bright outside, so they look worried even though I am sure they were happy. Another mug is fading, the smiles of the children holding fast like Cheshire cats, but the detail becoming blurred. And I think, One day, they will turn white.

The last cup doesn’t exist. Now I remember—my husband missed a year. The shop closed down and he searched through the Yellow Pages with no luck. So he bought me a plastic vase that looked like wood and a box with leather squares on the top. I thanked him but I knew I didn’t want these things. How to explain that it wasn’t things I wanted on this day, but him, and my children, around me, adoring me, keeping me alive.

The kettle has boiled. Today, I choose a butterfly cup given to me by my mother. I put the teabag in, and pour the water. I put in a spoonful of sugar and I stir, with one hand wrapped around the mug. I love this moment. It is pure, here, the time slowed. The cup starts off cool, and as I stir, the tea brews and the cup warms, the china slowly absorbing the heat. Until the delicious moment when the cup is too hot to hold, and I have to move my hand away. I don't mind the almost pain, and sometimes, I see how far I can travel into it. I go with my eyes wide open and I am not afraid.

Once, I burned my fingers badly on the stove. I held them under running water for forty-five minutes. While underwater, my fingers felt fine—in fact, they felt nothing. But I couldn’t stay there. I knew at some point, I was going to have to turn off the tap and face the pain, get in the car, be driven to the doctor to dress the burns.

I took my fingers away. The pain was breathtaking. It hit me as a solid wave, enough to knock a person over, enough to make a person scream. But then something curious happened: I let the pain in. I embraced it. As the pain took over my body I felt I was on the sea. I lifted and floated and held the pain close. So it could not scare me. So it owned nothing. It was almost beautiful.

The tea is ready for the milk. I take out the bag. I pour in just enough milk so the tea is creamy, not too dark. Not too light. Then I sip it. Because it might need more sugar, more milk, more…something.

But today it doesn’t. Today, it is perfect.

for my friend over yonder

A friend just reminded me of an album that I love. It defined a huge time in my life. A time when I fell in love, found myself so happy I could burst, and just felt alight with inspiration. I used to listen to this album constantly. I'd listen while I wrote, while I walked, while I lay on my bed at night. I'd sing along, harmonise; I breathed the music in.

And eleven years later, my lovely, inspirational friend who lives over the sea, so far away and yet so close, without knowing just how much I love this music, posted a video of one of the songs on her blog. She loves this song—it means countless beautiful things to her and her family. And reminds me of one of the most precious times of my life.

I listened to the song and thought, "Yes, of course. Of course you love this music too."

This is my favourite song from the album (which is called Mermaid Avenue, by the way). It's Way over Yonder in the Minor Key by Woody Guthrie and is performed by Wilco, Billy Bragg and the beautiful Natalie Merchant.

And I'm posting it for you, Jennifer, with love and smiles. So many smiles!

on getting things wrong!

Stop the presses.

I made a mistake.

It's happened before and will one day happen again, I am sure. Maybe, like, over and over again.

I'm not a big fan of making mistakes; I'm a lot like my kids—we are perfectionists and it really bums us out when we try really hard and don't get something right.

But what I try and teach the kids is: "Don't be afraid of getting something wrong." I say, "It's when you take a risk and try something you might not get right, that you are really learning. You practice [insert whatever skill you're trying to attain—maths, piano, squirrel juggling, cooking for a party of 35] and then you get better. Don't be afraid."

All good words and important lessons to learn, blah etc blah, until they actually pertain to you. Until you write something and find you got your facts wrong.

Then the kid in me goes, "Oh. How embarrassing. Wow. How'd I get that wrong? Why didn't I check? Why'd I put myself out there? Everyone will think I'm stupid."

And then the adult in me says, "Well. At least fess up. Then you've got your head held high."

And then the kid in me says, "What if I don't fess up? Maybe no-one will notice. I mean, the only people who really know it's wrong are me and my husband. And he can be bought off."

And then the adult in me says, "It's obvious, dude. Anyone could Google what you wrote in an instant and find out you're wrong."

And the kid in me says, "Who's going to Google? They'll just think, Huh, I suppose she's right. She's the writer after all, and writers are never wrong!"

And the adult in me says, "Now, that's silly."

And the kid in me says, "No it's not."

And the adult in me says, "Yeah, it is."

And the kid in me says, "No, it's not."

And the adult in me says—

[Editor's note: sections of this blog post have been omitted because they stopped making sense]

Anyway. I will fess up, because anyone who knows anything about anything would have seen in my last post that I was wrong.

And I'm not one to run away from admitting my mistake. It can't be that hard. I see politicians doing it all the time.

So here goes:

My husband DID, in fact, write the limerick I referred to in my last post.

He made it up himself. It is his limerick!

And it goes like this:

There was a young man from Ork

Who came to earth on a cork,

He landed in pie

And now he will die

Cause he just got stabbed with a fork.

A great limerick. So great, in fact, and recited so many times by him over the years, that it had entered my memory bank in the section, "Old and Famous Limericks that Everyone knows so you don't even have to quote the whole thing in your post."

Now for the next admission:

I didn't even quote it properly to my kids yesterday. I thought he came from Cork. I thought he came on the fork. I forgot about the stabbing entirely! (Which is the pacifist in me coming out)

I got it all wrong.

All wrong!!

I am sorry, and I will never do it again. *cough*

Anyway. The Lesson Learned is this:

Don't make mistakes.

No. That's not quite right.

Risk making a mistake, but run all references to limericks by husband before I post.

After all, every writer needs a reliable fact checker.

So, husband, you're hired. I will pay you with pie.

there was a young man

Today we learned about limericks.

I don't know how it came up exactly—we were just driving to tennis lessons and chatting as we always do. The kids were asking really hard questions about things I didn't know the answers to (Note to self: must install voice-activated search engine in dashboard of car so can Google while driving)… and having heard, "Hmm, I don't know," a few too many times… my son changed the subject and said, "I liked that poem Dad told us about the man with a fork."

(Huh?)

"Um, what poem was that?"

"You know, the man with a fork… and something about pie."

"Ah!" I said. And promptly recited the whole limerick. Which, when summarised goes like this: Dude from Cork, comes to earth on fork, lands in pie, does die, and so on.

I was quite pleased I remembered it, and the kids were impressed (finally!). Then I said, "You know, Dad didn't make up that poem."

"No?"

"No, it's an old limerick."

"What's a limerick?"

And we were off and running. I told them the basic structure, and then made up terrible, I mean really terrible, limericks as examples.

There was a pretty good one about a cow and a whale, and some not very good ones about a man named Bob. Then the kids made up really silly ones about grass and…then we got to tennis. And I forgot all about limericks.

Until tonight at the kids' bedtime.

My son had minutes earlier been really distressed about a thought he'd had just before sleep (my kids suffer regular angst at night, as in: "a feeling of deep anxiety or dread, typically an unfocused one about the human condition or the state of the world in general", but we get through it).

As I was talking him down, talking him into calm, he said suddenly,

"Oh, I thought of a limerick, Mum. Do you want to hear it?"

"Sure," I said. (Not phased at all, I might add: I am used to strange and lovely mind shifts in my kids).

So, in his sweet voice my son recited,

"There once was a man named Robin,

Who lived in a shiny toboggan.

But it was too small,

So he went to the Mall,

And bought a bigger toboggan."

"Cool," I said.

Which it was. It really was.