The Wilsons of Oz

Part 1- Sydney to Melbourne

Well, it’s done! We have packed up our lives again and we’ve waved goodbye to Sydney. The garage was emptied of all the things we had shipped to Australia that we haven’t ever touched. Tim kept saying “do you think it’s time to get rid of the baby clothes?” And “do you think we’ll ever need this bit of wood Monty found when he was three?” Look, I am sentimental about things, and I’d rather the golf clubs went than the first stick Poppy ever found! 
Luckily everything managed to get squeezed into the removal truck so our garage in Melbourne will be chockablock too! Maybe we should have just come to Oz with a back pack each! 

It was a lot more emotional than I think we had predicted. We had only been in Sydney 19 months, but it truly became home, and was possibly the place we have been most happy! “Why on earth are you moving then?” I hear you say! Well, we like the adventure I guess.

We drove out of Sydney, the car was pretty silent. Everyone sort of staring out of the window, pretending they weren’t crying. Monty didn’t seem to give a stuff, he was more worried about the mentos mint he had dropped on the floor and couldn’t reach. 

The journey from Sydney to Melbourne is about 1000km so we were well prepared with snacks, DVDs…. earplugs! To be fair the children are really good in the car, it’s only the odd moment of “muuuuuummmm, Poppy’s lying down and her HAIR IS ON MY ARRRRM”. I suggested eye spy, but Monty wanted to change the rules to “I spy a singlet”, so we all had to look out for men wearing singlets. This would have been an awesome game if we weren’t hurtling through the forest seemingly alone. It was like Christmas when we arrived at a petrol station 500km into the journey and the cashier was donning a brightly coloured singlet! That’s 1 point to Monty!

Our first overnight stay was in a beautiful little town called Merimbula. It’s famous for its pristine beaches and its production of Sydney Rock Oysters. 

As you know by now, I have become an avid fan of motor inns. So we managed to bag a room at the Ocean View Motel. On arrival we checked in, the lovely owners were very welcoming. We told them we were moving from Sydney to Melbourne the lady choked and said “poor you”. She must have seen the horror on our faces as she quickly backtracked and told us she was from South Australia, as if that made it ok! The weather is the only reason people think we’re nuts relocating. It’s just a rubbish reason to miss out on the opportunity of living in the worlds most liveable city! (Keep your eyes peeled for my next blog where I’m wrapped in my thermals, crying into my soup.)

The journey so far has been a real treat. We have driven through the forest, along the stunning coastline, through tiny remote towns; all with a bottle shop I may add. One little “tucker shop” we stopped at a few hundred kilometres into the journey was like something out of a movie. Not a soul anywhere, just one very grubby chap (think horror movie) with an awkward stare. Thank god we hadn’t broken down, (cue horror movie music). He had a bizarre selection of stock. It was mainly a bottle shop, but also had two meat pies keeping warm in the oven, a couple of racks of fishing equipment and a range of lollies and sweeties like no other shop I’ve ever been in to. Check out our Instagram feed for the Camels Balls gobstoppers! Delightful! 

These of course were an instant hit with the children who promptly made up a song about camels balls which they sang for the next 100k. They weren’t at all tempted to create a musical about the beautiful peaches and fresh apricots we found along the way!

So we’ve made it to Lakes Entrance and the children have already insisted we head straight for mini golf! Look out everyone, Mr W is very competitive. 

My girl,

I came in to watch you sleep this evening. So peaceful. My own little girl, as still as the night. I looked at you and wondered what you must be dreaming about. I hope you are happy my darling. I really do.

I wonder if you’re dreaming about our  impending journey to another place, I want to wake you to tell you it’ll all be fine. I want to tell you how proud I am of you. I want to wake you, and hold you because I know deep down you’re still just a little girl who is feeling a few butterflies in her tummy. I am writing this letter to you, hoping you can store these words in your mind for the times you feel like it’s all too scary.

I remember when we told you we were leaving the only home you had ever known. I remember the look in your eyes, the look that said “I’m not sure if I should be happy or terrified”. I remember holding your hand on the way out of school for the last time, everyone saying goodbye, hugging and kissing you. I know it was a huge step for you. It was a big one for me too. I know you found it hard to leave everything you had ever known to move somewhere completely alien to you. My darling, we all found that hard, I promise you that.

I know you found it tough being the new kid, introducing yourself over and over again. I found that tough too my darling. But we did it! And look at us now! Look at how far we have come! Look at how you have grown. Can you see how much you can achieve if you set your mind to it?

You were shy at first darling, but you soon made beautiful friends. You went to wonderful parties, you shared secrets, you became part of an awesome team, and you played on the beach until the sun set. This is all because you made these friendships. You chose them and they chose you.

As our house is packed up and the “for lease” sign is put on the gate; I want you to know that what ever we do, wherever we go, we’re doing it together. It’s all for you. We want to show you just how awesome the world is, we want to show you it’s possible to go wherever you want and that you can be happy wherever you are.

I know you can make friends, I know you can get through the “new girl” stage. I know that you can find your feet again, and we’re going to help you.

We’re about to set off on another adventure, we’re almost ready to go. We’re starting our goodbyes, and giving out our new address, all the while I have my eyes on you. I’m wrapping you up in endless hugs, wishing I didn’t ever have to let go.

Can you believe we’re coming to the end of another awesome chapter in our own little book? I told you my darling, I told you this would be a good one. I promised we would have a brilliant time. Just imagine what’s ahead!

So my dearest, most precious, brave girl, let me tell you again. I promise you will love our next destination. I promise I will help you settle in. I promise that you will find your feet in no time at all. Most of all, I promise I will be there, holding your hand and helping you all the way.  And when you’re grown up, and your own children have worries and fears, you can tell them all your stories and the tales from your book.  You can tell them how brave you were, how you stood tall, and how that helped you have the most wonderful life in all these different places. They will listen intently to you as you story tell about the different faces you saw, the journeys you went on and the people you befriended. You’ll have friends all over the world my girl, and I have no doubt at all that they’ll be friends for life.

My lovely girl, it’s nearly time to go. It’s time to take a deep breath, hold your head up high and believe in yourself. A new adventure awaits my darling and I know you’re going to be just fine.

Mumma xx

‘Daughters hold our hands for a little while and our hearts forever’

Lennox Head and Byron Bay seem like a long, lost distant memory from someone else’s life. It seems so long ago, that we were dragging the children out of the Big Banana gift shop, insisting that there were bigger, better things to come. I heard Poppy mutter to Monty… “What on earth could be bigger and better than the big banana?”  If only we could all see the word through her eyes.

Another three (ish) hours in the car was the first hurdle, but thanks to the DVD players and all the crap we had purchased in the gift shop, the children managed to keep themselves busy. Obviously they still found plenty of time for arguing, bickering and snarling at each other. We just turned the music up and left them to it in the back. Every now and again Tim would be rammed in the back of the neck by the inflatable banana, I just kept telling him to “breathe” and that seemed to take the edge off his anger.

When Poppy and Monty were younger we used to do the “super travelling parent” thing. We would print out maps and laminate them, all ready for the journey’s we took. They “map read” through the lava fields of Iceland, and along the fjords of Norway. We made up quiz’s for them to do when we were walking through the streets of Hong Kong. We always had a fun ,”time filling” game for them. Now they’re both older and able to argue and irritate the hell out of everyone, we stick the blinds on the car windows and pray that they have enough DVD’s to last them the entire trip. We charge and charge and re charge our phones so as they have something to keep them quiet, if god forbid we need to stop somewhere for a caffiene break and it isn’t a Macca’s with a play area. Oh yes, my children will have square or I phone shaped eyes by the time they are 14, and an inability to entertain themselves without a screen. I did try to point out the odd Koala sign, or the big diggers on the journey to Lennox Head, but just got “ugh (irritated removal of headphones)…..Oh yeah” as a response, so I gave up, and stopped trying to make conversation. Thank you modern technology.

So a few hours passed and we arrived at our sweet little cabin at the North Coast Holiday Park  . I am still not sure about sleeping in a tent in Australia, just yet, so we compromised and booked a cabin, with a shower, a kitchen, and bunk beds for the children. Looking back now, I think I would have preferred the children be in a tent, and Tim and I in the cabin. They were up and down the bloody bunk bed ladder about 700 times before we had even unpacked the car. Can you imagine what bedtime was like?

The campsite was perched on the banks of Lake Ainsworth ; a beautiful tea tree stained lake which apparently has healing powers. Suffice to say, despite the nippy temperature of the water, I managed to hop, skip, jump, shout at Monty for splashing me “before I was ready”, and finally submerge myself into the dark, mysterious water. So dark in fact that you had no idea what was lurking underneath the surface. Tim reassured me there was no way a crocodile would be hanging about in Lake Ainsworth. Well, when I say he “reassured” me, what I mean is he laughed, guffawed, chortled, winked at the kids, and then said “Crocodiles don’t live in lakes like this” as if I was completely mental. I almost wanted to be eaten by a crocodile just to prove a point. However after a little swim, and a wobble on the paddle board, I decided that crocodiles or not I was ready for a warm shower, and a teeny bit of me time. I got the shower, but not the me time, as they all decided to come back with me.

We managed to fit in quite a lot over the five days we were away. Byron Bay is just filled with beautiful shops, great restaurants, happy people enjoying life, wonderful beaches, and the best Skate Boarding School in the world. Byron Bay Skate School is run by Flavio; whose huge infectious smile greets you before anything else. He is super cool, and incredibly enthusiastic about skateboarding. Flavio was like a local celebrity. The kids in the skate park all knew him and high fived him, and the mums came over to tell me how awesome a teacher he was.  He is , without doubt the reason Poppy is now an avid boarder. She saw his passion, connected with him, and just went for it. She was doing the limbo on a skateboard within an hour. Monty wasn’t as keen, he fell off within two minutes and promptly headed for the swings. He was probably a little young, and a little bit of a party pooper. This was fine by Tim, as it meant he only had to purchase one skateboard that day.

We headed to Nimbin on the second day. The drive from Byron to Nimbin is the most wonderful drive past field after field, filled with Macadamia trees. The farms seem to go on for miles. It’s truly stunning scenery. We stopped and bought some beautiful Macadamia nuts, and promptly gobbled the whole bag.

Nimbin is ‘Australia’s most famous hippie destination and alternative lifestyle capital’. As you drive in you automatically start to feel chilled out. It’s a busy little town, with lots of cafes, galleries, and shops. The galleries were a mixture of awesome aboriginal art, and crazy cat lady art  (in my humble opinion). I nearly convinced Tim to buy a beautiful painting by  a local artist, but he reminded me of the very little space we had in the car with the banana and the two children. Damn them.

Almost every gift shop in the town was selling the same thing; lots of incense sticks, beads, and tie dye outfits. We managed to go in nearly all of the shops despite not really wanting to get Monty a t-shirt emblazoned with “If You Puke, Faint or Die, it wasn’t the weed”.   Nimbin is a great little place, we had an ace day, finished off with a swim in the local pool which the kids absolutely loved.

Our final morning was an early start. I love those mornings when you have to be up at ‘crazy O’clock’ so you can wake the children. I almost look forward to waking them up so much that I barely sleep. The little buggers have woken me up almost every night of their little lives, so I bloody revel in the thought of standing by their beds, staring at them for a while, (that uncomfortable stare that kids do at your bedside in the night), then I just go, “Monty….. monty……..MONTYYY” and pull on his arm. YES! He’s up!! Then I begin again on the top bunk… Stare………..Stare…………….. “Poppy….Poppy…. POPPYYYYY” Boom… Everyone’s up and we’re off to watch the sun rise over Cape Byron Lighthouse.

The road closures and dead ends that the “fucking” Sat Nav knew nothing about, made our sunrise chasing journey toward the lighthouse a little more hairy than we had prepared for. Luckily the children were plugged into the dvd players so missed out on the choice language their father was using. We screamed into the car park and realised it was full. (There was a little more X rated language.Oh I love a family holiday).There are only about 8 spaces (if you are planning to go.. be prepared), so Tim dropped us off, and drove back down the hill to find a space. 10 minutes later we spotted him puffed out, half jogging towards us. Thank god he made it in time. We all stood together to watch the sun rise. This was a truly awesome experience. A huge, beautiful, orange sun on the horizon, rising so quickly. The ocean was lit up almost as if it was on fire. Bright orange. It was truly spectacular.  Monty was more interested in the lady sat on the cliff edge, he was horrified. “Hasn’t she read the sign here?”

Once the sun had risen, we walked along the path to the most Easterly Point of Australia.

Looking out we saw umpteen whales playing in the ocean. The children were wonder-struck by the huge tails smashing on the waters surface.  It truly was magical. Their little eyes lit up every time they caught a glimpse of the spray. I really think they’d have been happy to stand there all day. I say that, but Monty did do a runner chasing a bunny rabbit toward to rocks. This was one of those “would I really jump down to save him?” moments. Luckily Tim managed to get a hold of him before he scurried off down the cliff. I carried on snapping selfies with Poppy.

We headed off down the hill to the car, our journey back home to Sydney was underway. 775km to go and I really wanted to get a few beach stops in on the way. We only got as far as Ballina (27km) and I spotted ‘The Big Prawn’ so we had to stop and grab a photo. The children were far too engrossed in ‘ The Cat in the Hat’ to get out and join me, probably because the big prawn is in the Bunnings Warehouse car park, and you cant buy a 40ft inflatable prawn in there. Australia’s Big Things have become quite a treat on our journeys. If only the children thought so too.

We drove through Macadamia farms, we ate beautiful seafood at The Balcony , we stayed up late to party with the ‘high’ travelling set who were doing circus tricks on the beach. We drank beer at the Byron Bay Brewery , where we wished we had left the kids at home. We watched the incredibly talented buskers really earning their money, we shopped at the markets, we immersed ourselves in everything ‘Byron’ and had the most magical time.

I know I say this every time we go somewhere but….. We were genuinely sad to leave it all behind. That feeling of being free… We absolutely loved the trip. We loved the fresh air, the relaxed beachy lifestyle. We loved the bedtime stories on the beach, the ice creams on the rocks, the people watching, and the peace.

As you drive into Byron, the sign says “Cheer up, slow down and chill out!”

Oh we did Byron, we did!

 

When I started this kind of “diary blog” I didn’t really expect that I would a) have so much I’d want to write about and b) have so little time to write.
We packed up and left the UK, on the trip of a lifetime 19 months ago. It felt like an adventure, like we were intrepid explorers,  like we were the bravest family out there. Even with Monty vomiting into Tesco carrier bags on the way to Heathrow, and Poppy begging us not to go through with it, I felt like Michael Palin, I felt free, I felt brave, I felt excited beyond belief and I felt pretty damn magnificent. “I’m going to write a blog about our new life” I announced at check in, whilst holding another bag for Monty and rubbing his tummy.  Tim looked at me as if I had just announced I was having twins,  Monty vomited again and Poppy rolled her eyes. We checked in our bags, and found the play area in terminal 3. This was my chance to start my “adventurers blog”.

We hadn’t really packed up our lives and decided to travel the world with four backpacks and the kids (that would be awesome).  We were off to Australia to “live“. Although this was a massive deal for us, and pretty gutsy in such a short space of time, we were by no means the first family to do this, nor will we be the last.  I am now starting to realise that in order to “adventure“,  annoying little things like work, school, grocery shopping, wiping bottoms, laundry and various other mundane things must get done first, which in turn, gets in the way of exciting and vibrant blog posts. Having said that, Monty is becoming a dab hand at wiping his own bottom, so that will soon be a job I don’t have on my daily list!

 

 

So, the wait is over and we are fresh back from our latest trip to Lennox Head and Byron Bay. I have written this over and over again, editing away, trying my hardest to take out the 37 “Awesome’s” and 12 “OMG’s”.

New South Wales is just breathtaking. A few kilometres out of Sydney and everything comes alive with beauty. We decided to drive the 777 km instead of flying so we didn’t miss anything at all. The children were plugged into the DVD players, Paw Patrol was spinning madly, and we were cruising toward our first stop. We managed to nail 550km and we stopped overnight at The Bentleigh Inn in Coffs Harbour. The beautiful owners had stayed up late to let us in. We were hoping that we would be able to transfer the children from the car straight into bed, but no! They were full of beans, tearing open the complimentary cookies, laughing hysterically, and dropping crumbs in all the beds, whilst demanding we put cartoons on the TV. How no one had a smacked bottom I will never know. Motor Inns always fill me with dread. The anticipation of what the room and the neighbours will be like. I always imagine they will be like something out of an american horror film, where someone in the next room is blatantly hiding out after dismembering a young girl… “I’ll never be able to sleep”, I said to Tim as we drove into the car park. 30 minutes later, I had swept the crumbs out of the bed and I was snuggled down in between the crisp white sheets, fluffy pillows, and was away with the fairies. Best nights sleep in AGES! I have a new love for Motor Inns. More Motor Inns for the Wilson’s.

Waking up a newly refreshed, calm, happy, super mother, I unpacked the croissants and made a mini breakfast for the children. Croissants + Children + motel room = a typhoon of crumbs and “Get in the bloody car, we’re going” . Luckily we wanted to get up and out early to make the most of the short amount of time we had before hitting the road to Lennox Head. It was 8:20 and we were driving through the morning traffic to see some sights. Now, you can’t go to Coffs Harbour without visiting the harbour. The weather beaten fishing boats were just in from a night on the seas, surrounded by Pelicans waiting for a morsel.

 

 

The fishermen showed us what they had caught and handed us freshly caught and cooked prawns to try, which were just magnificent. They showed us the squid, the balmain bugs, the octopus and the whiting, it was spectacular.

 

The children we given umpteen fish to feed the pelicans. Such special moments on our first day of the holiday. Monty spent most of the time wiping squid ink all over his hands and shouting abuse at “Mr Fat Pelican” which was nice.

Once we had managed to get rid of the squid ink that was all over Monty, we headed for The Big Banana. Oh yes. The Big Banana. Mainly because Tim wanted to ride the toboggans they have there, but also because we needed to tick off another Aussie Big Thing. You can’t go to Coffs Harbour and not see the Big Banana!

 

The toboggan ride was going well, lots of young families, all sticking to the rules. That was until Tim and Monty got on. They ended up getting berated by a terrified mother for driving too fast up behind her and her daughter. The boys were “Go Pro”ing themselves, not using the brake, and the poor lady had the fright of her life when two pommy nutters almost careered into the back of her. She was not a happy bunny. We finished up our visit in the gift shop, trying to gently persuade Monty that he choose a magnet rather than the 10ft inflatable banana, or the $60 Banana/monkey monstrosity he “needed” for his bedroom. This felt like a midnight phone call in the Oval Office, and I was Obama, desperately trying to stop some world atrocity from happening. Monty could have blown at any moment, and I was trying my best to secure peace in the parent trap that is “The gift shop”…..  Why will we never learn?  We walked out with a magnet, a 10ft inflatable banana, a $60 banana monstrosity for Monty’s room and yet another bloody pencil case full of MORE BLOODY PENCILS for Poppy!

 

Say yes to adventure!

Onwards to Byron…….

 

What is it about Grandad’s? Is it the unconditional love they have for their grandchildren? Is it their huge hugs when you’re small?  Is it the way they spoil you no matter what?  Is it the extra pocket money they give you without anyone knowing? Is it their kind hearts and open arms? Is it the tales they tell? What is it? What is it that makes our Grandad’s so special to us?

For me, it’s every one of those things all rolled in to one, and some more too. I have always completely and utterly adored my Grandad. He has always been my most favourite person in the world. From when I was tiny and he was playing with me in the garden, to when he was there at my wedding, crying tears of joy.

I have such fond memories of times we have spent together. I have always adored his company. Even when he is quiet, or completely enthralled in a game of rugby on the TV, I just like being in the same room as him.  He has always been very laid back with me, and in my eyes he is perfect in every way. Grandad is a big man, tall and strong, but the best thing about him is how gentle and kind he is. He is a gentleman in the true sense of the word. He is old school through and through, and that’s what makes him extra special to me and to everyone else that knows him.

I had a phone call this evening. A conversation that I will always remember. I will remember the call because I heard the words I knew were coming but just didn’t want to hear! “Grandad saw a photo of you and he didn’t know who you were!” My heart sunk, then broke a little, sunk a little more, and I slumped into my chair. How does he not know me? How does he not remember me? Not even a flicker? Then I felt myself getting cross. Why am I so far away? If I was just a bit closer I could jog his memory myself. Maybe if I pop home and see him, just sit with him, just sit and hold his hand and hope that’s enough to make him recall some memory of me…..

This has to be one of the worst things about being so far from home. No matter how wonderful the adventure may be, there’s nothing that prepares you for the longing to go home when something is pulling at your heart, almost pulling it out of your chest, insisting that you get yourself to the airport before it shatters completely. That sick feeling, knowing that really, there is very little I can do, and even if I was there, what help would I be?  Would it make leaving again, even harder?

With Father’s Day around the corner, I am obviously thinking of my father, but I just can’t help but think about Grandad too. It’s so hard to watch your hero grow old, and it’s not just that; it’s so hard to see the sadness in my fathers eyes as he tries to make plans for his father in the winter of his life. No matter what a “good innings” anyone has had, it’s never the right time to lose your memory, or have your body slowly fail on you. And this is my grandad, my invincible grandad who was once as strong as an ox. My Grandad who was once an awesome rugby player. I guess I had never imagined he would become an old man, and maybe need more from us than we can give him. Naively I just imagined he would always be strong, and continue to be the head of our family no matter what.

My Grandad has had such an interesting life, he’s is a bit of a legend in the town he lived. Grandad was a big rugby player, the local policeman and everyone knew him. Not only did everyone know him, they all loved him, and had buckets of respect for him.  He worked in the coal mines when he was just a boy. He had so many wonderful stories. I fondly remember him driving us around the villages he used to cycle through on his police bike, telling us his tales. His stories would transport you to a time, well and truly forgotten, and I would hang on his every word. Even as an adult I would ask him time and again to tell me about his life, and he always would. He always had a story to tell.  Now, with his memory the way it is, and me being 10,000 miles away from his warm heart, I feel like I should have asked even more questions. As I sit here thinking of him, I wish I had spent more time with him, more time learning about who he was and where he came from. Sadly now, I’m here and he’s there, and all those wishes have become an impossible dream.

(Second in from the bottom left)

Why does this happen? Why in our old age do we lose that short term memory? How do we forget our family members? Why do we forget the everyday things we do on repeat? Why can he remember the guests at his own wedding over 60 years ago, yet he doesn’t remember me or his great grandchildren!? How can I jog his memory when I am so far away!?

I long to be home right now, just to try and remind him of when I introduced him to Poppy, and he cried! Or the time we played mini golf in his kitchen when Poppy was three; she was so delighted to be playing an outdoor game in Grampy’s kitchen. Or when he used to play in the garden with me as a child, and secretly pass me toffees. I want to remind him of all the letters he used to write to me when I was at boarding school. I would eagerly await the mail, and it was always a delight to hear from him. I still treasure his letters, they’re here, with me in Australia. Letters that are over 25 years old, I just can’t bear to part with them. I never will.

When we think about Father’s Day, we all obviously think of our dads and all the wonderful things they do for us, all the things they sacrifice so as we don’t go without. But this year, in this house, I will be thinking about my Grandad. This is the man I need to thank for knowing the love of a father. He is the man that gave me my dad, how can I ever thank him?

So even now, with his failing memory and his terrifyingly blatant honesty, he is still the head of the Thomas’s, and needs to be treated to a special Father’s Day this year.

On Sunday, I will be celebrating my dad and my husband, but most of all I will be celebrating my Grandad, because without him my world just wouldn’t be the same!

 

* Grandad, I know you’ve loved me as long as I’ve lived, but I have loved you my whole life

So, we headed off to the snow last weekend. Seems like a lifetime ago now, and I think I am still recovering from all the activity. Well, maybe just all the laughing.

As with all Wilson adventures, the trip started with an epic rush to leave the house. Shoes being flung, hats winging across the living room, shouts of “are we going now, are we going now, when are we going muuuuuuuuum”. These shouts obviously coming from the only people who have done absolutely bugger all to get ready for this trip into the unknown. Tim was doing really important jobs like wiping out the inside of the washing machine, followed by a quick sort out of the shelves in the garage. Poppy was crying because her “Stupid, bloomin, converse wont go on properly!” (less than 24 hours old, stupid,  bloomin Converse I may add). Meanwhile, I am loading yet more food into the back of the car, just in case there is some kind of apocalypse in the Snowy Mountains,  and we’re the only survivors, resulting in the IGA being closed. At about 2pm we finally managed to get everyone squeezed into the car, with Monty snuggled up to 27 loo rolls. Better to have too many than not enough.

What a drive from Sydney, through Canberra and all the way to Adamiliby. Where? Adaminiby? Abadiniby? Abadibiny? Oh bloody hell, none of us ever got it right while we were there and I’m pretty sure we wont ever get it right first time again. It’s the home of the ‘Big Trout’. Literally a huge plastic trout, not my old PE teacher. Adaminaby is a tiny little town of only 234 people and is one of the highest towns in the whole of Australia. That’s about all it has going for it. Having said that, we were too shattered to visit the pub, so maybe I haven’t done it justice.  It has a bakery (nothing like a french boulangerie, think Greggs 70 years ago) , a grocery store with more fishing equipment than grocery items, a trout, a couple of petrol stations… a school….and hardly a person to be seen. It was so cold, the Picnic bar I bought in the petrol station was frozen. It was rural Australia, and despite my sarcasm I really, honestly loved it. There was no phone signal, no wifi, no, it was untouched by modern man. Literally. They did however have their own golf course, and race track, with a huge sign advertising the upcoming horse racing. The bowling green looked to be in good nik too, although we were told that it takes four hours for your food to arrive when you eat in there, so we didn’t investigate further.

We managed to nail the journey in around 5 and a half hours without too many dramas. We had a near miss with a Kangaroo the size of 2 Mike Tyson’s and then another one with a wombat the size of a small car, but hey, that’s no major thing here. We kept everyone happy with a stop at Macca’s followed by the drive through bottle shop. It was pretty late when we arrived so we unloaded our ton of food, and suitcase and got set to getting the kids to bed. Thankfully someone had been in and lit the log burner for us as it was bloody Baltic. The cottage was…. cute… almost like a time warp. The house that someone forgot…. to dust. There was all sorts to be found, which Brenden discovered when he hid behind the TV cabinet during a game of hide and seek. The highlight in Curries Alpine Cottage had to be  the video player. There were lots of old videos which the children found utterly bizarre, including the must have box set in every Aussie house; the Sydney Olympics box set. There seemed to be hundreds of teddy bears and one eyed dolls hanging about in the cottage too, which Monty spent three days flinging down the stairs. Needless to say there were lots of one eyed teddies, and no eyed dolls when we left.

We were warned by a keen bean regular of the ski community that we needed to be at the ski hire shop at 7am, as the queue would be immense and it would take at least two hours for us all to be fitted. 9 of us were up, and out, in the cars, hurtling toward the high street at 6:55 dreading the wait with the manic children. We had the whole of the towns parking to ourselves, and there was not a soul in sight, apart from Cole, the terrifying, ski hire dude, who just happened to dislike children VERY much. In fact, I think he disliked people very much, but children very, very much. Oh and boy did he smile when we piled in with 5 wrestling, hyperactive, overtired kids in tow. Ah well, here goes nothing. Cole is the kind of “shop keeper” who makes you feel really on edge, and asks you trick questions which you nervously answer praying he like what he hears. He likes you to think he is doing you a favour, forgetting that customers are paying for his service. If my son wants to strangle himself with the laces of his trainers, whilst in your shop, then please just let him die quietly in the corner, without being berated. Having said that, we were pretty happy with the tired, uncomfortable boots, and the wonderful customer service.

So long and the short of it was, we were in and out of ‘Ski Works’ in a winky, and heading for the mountains. Well, for a couple of minutes, until I looked in the wing mirror and saw Poppy and her buddies pushing Tam’s car off the road. The garage owner looked at us and  laughed; “who the hell runs out of fuel these days?”… That’d be our gang.

Hooray, slight mishap sorted and we’re back on track, albeit with a very smelly thigh from the Jerry can. Monty and his mate were in the back of our car having a burping competition, well Monty was having a burping competition while Riley gagged with disgust, but it was all very jolly. To get to Mount Selwyn Snow Fields it took about 40 minutes from the dust box cottage. It was just like driving through Dartmoor, or even parts of Iceland at times. It really is amazing just how varied the landscape is in Australia. We had left a beautiful 25 degrees in Sydney and we were now shivering in about 1, driving through the mountains which could have been anywhere but Australia.

We grabbed our lift passes from the grumpy girl on the desk and shoved all the kids into ski school. Hoorah, we headed for the slopes. Tim has never skied before, and I haven’t skied since I was about 11, so I was anticipating a massive disaster. Or at least a couple of arms in plaster, and a helicopter rescue.

(Me aged about 7 on a family skiing holiday)

I made sure I rang the health insurance folk whilst we were dodging wildlife in Canberra. Thank the Lord, it turned out pretty well for me because when I was skiing I wasn’t too bad, and when I stopped, it was only because Tim had had some kind of spectacular fall and I was having to cross my legs for fear of peeing myself. You know that laughter that gets so out of control, the one that takes over your whole body, the one that gets a hundred times worse when your husband is head first in the snow, with one ski on, shouting. “just go, just go, if you’re going to stand there laughing just go”… (Even as I type this I can feel that laughter about to bubble up and burst out of me again). Oh how I wish I could control that laughter, it has done nothing but get me into trouble all my life. It took over me again when a robust little woman thought it would be good to slowly ease her way through my dear friends legs, resulting in Tam doing some sort of faced down, snowy starfish. I had to ski away as I was terrified I may break myself through uncontrollable, involuntary bodily movements whilst laughing with every inch of my being. I could not control myself. A total stranger told me I was a “great friend” in a very sarcastic tone.

The highlight for me though, had to be in the queue for the chair lift when Tim started to slide on his skis and very slowly and almost seductively pushed up against the woman in front of us. This slow slide seemed to go on and on, until the poor woman was pinned up against the fence, with Tim sort of smirking/grimacing/cringing and shooting daggers at me. In between hysterical giggles, and whilst gasping for air, I helpfully told him he should have at least introduced himself;  all I got was a look, and again I was reduced to a bag of jelly, hysterical, tears streaming down my face, with a very grumpy other half.

Having said all that, Tim and Tamatha did an awesome job. To be able to hop on a pair of skis and just get going is pretty amazing. Not sure Tim felt so amazing when he was careering down the black run, alone, heading toward to beginners ski school, but he did do a great job of avoiding the 6 year olds who were crying and screaming, waiting for him to smash into them. No, he was really good. Annoyingly. After day one there were far less falls, and I only had strangers to laugh at, which isn’t half as funny.

Its amazing how the children picked it up so easily. All of the kids on the slopes were great. There were hundreds of little people on skis and snowboards, all whizzing down the mountain cool as cucumbers. Our lot went into ski school for three hours then came out and put us all to shame. They absolutely nailed it!

The Selwyn Ski School is brilliant. The teachers were wonderful, and it was really well organized. Just being able to have those three hours to find your feet, without being ridiculed by your kids was awesome enough, let alone all the hard work the staff put in to getting the kids going.  Tim and I spotted Monty on the slopes and spent about fifteen minutes spying on him learning to ski. We took some smashing photos of him on his little ski’s with his instructor, cooed when he did a little turn, gushed with pride when he turned through the cones. We were proud as punch, until  I went to collect  him after the 3 hours were up and was told he had slept through ski school. Ah, shit….we panicked, and Tim promptly deleted the photos he had taken of someone else’s child before we were arrested for some sort of crime. And to think we both scampered about hiding behind trees just to avoid him seeing us. Little did we know it was a small, very tanned, beautiful girl under the helmet and matching ski clothes.. We did toy with the idea of keeping the photos as it really could have been him and Grandma would never have known…..

Apres ski for us ended up being a bag of Doritos, a glass of red wine and two hours of the Rio Olympics. We were all up for games, booze and shenanigans, but what with all the skiing, laughing and inappropriate photography we were exhausted. So I’d love to tell you we stayed up all night, drinking champagne and playing party games, we didn’t. We laughed at the “fast walkers”, and passed out.

Our weekend couldn’t have gone any better. It was a very last minute booking, which I think are always the best getaways. No time to fret, just go go go!

We had truly awesome friends, a warm house, plenty of food, no apocalypse and two full days of snow. The exhilaration you feel whilst zooming down the mountain is better than anything else. If you’ve never been, even if you’ve never thought about going, book it. Get your friends together, especially ones that will be rubbish, and hit the slopes. You’ll thank me when your tummy hurts from laughing so hard.

Here’s to the next trip….

* Life Begins at the end of your comfort zone- Neale Donald Walsch

 

 

 

 

 

I emailed my Dad yesterday to ask him to send through some photos of me competing in some sporting events! Perhaps a hockey match, or a photo of me smashing it at the high jump.

I wasn’t going to post the photos I received, but here goes…..

My sporting debut started well, with my brother showing me how to leave the blocks correctly…

Then this tragic egg and spoon race, the lady in the background manically clapping and cheering, desperately trying to hide her hysterical laughter at my wonky legs, frizz ball hair and blatant lack of sporting potential…. (Thanks dad, these are just what I was after!)

Then this one came through. I looked and thought wow, I was good at cricket. I’m obviously waiting to bowl someone out? Oh no, sorry my mistake, this is the walking with an orange in your hand race. Can you see where this is going?

And to top it all off (no pun intended) my darling Dad sent this… This apparently is the topless Cup and Saucer race….Thankfully in my grandmother’s back garden so not in public. Looking at this today, I am honestly thinking this would be more fun now than at age 4. Anyone?

I think the fact that these are the most sporty photos Dad could find, proves that I wasn’t a sporting legend at school, college or anywhere else… Well……maybe I was, in grandmas garden.

I’ve always wanted to enjoy sport, but I’ve never been particularly good at any one thing! I guess I took part because I had to, or because someone else dropped out! I had an awful PE teacher (think Mrs Trunchball) who had really hairy legs, enormous hands and used to threaten to hang us from the ceiling by our toenails! (That is true!). Safe to say she never filled me with enthusiasm when it came to sport! I was always too terrified of letting her down, or worse, making her cross, that I don’t think I ever chose to join a team. I was pushed to do gymnastics which I was terrible at, forced to take part in athletics, in which I was always the loser, and hockey, well that’s just a sore subject! Not only that, all these sports were to be endured whilst wearing itchy, scratchy gym knickers. Mine were always missing (or hidden) so I could be seen trying to pole vault in my Marks & Spencers age 6 frilly panties. Oh don’t worry, it gets worse.  In Lacrosse I was always goal keeper, full body pads with a helmet on, just waiting for the 80mph cricket ball to hit me; terrifying is not the word! The older girls used to stand behind the goal singing the “teenage mutant ninja turtle” theme tune at me, laughing their heads off. I would dodge the ball every time it hurtled toward me, therefore letting the other team score. Oh how my teammates would sigh, Mrs Trunchball would glare and I would just carry on crapping myself! Maybe that’s why I didn’t really feel any love for sport. It was the teacher, the horrid girls and the awful outfits.

Since moving to Australia we have a lot more sport in our lives and I have been determined to get the children involved, and for them to enjoy it. The Aussies are sport crazy, and it seems we are becoming the same. Friday night footie, Sunday night sport, Tuesday night footie, that’s the TV not me. Poppy seems to be involved in lots more sport than ever before. This isn’t to say that there weren’t the opportunities back home, but here ,there’s no real way of avoiding your children being on a team! Aussie life is more sport than anything else, well maybe sport and coffee. I mean, the Aussies have public holidays the day after major sporting events!!!! That’s dedication.

For Poppy, I thought this new sporty life was never going to be easy! Two left feet, painfully anxious, and a real butter fingers! I was dreading the try outs, praying she would rather take up Algebra club.

After trying out for a few different things, I suggested she play netball outside of school! Mainly because indoor soccer was a bloody disaster, but also because as a child I was forced to wear the itchy netball knickers (scungies) and play in the drizzle, so I figured now it’s her turn!

Well, I am glad to report it hasn’t ended up being a negative experience for her! Far from it. Her coach isn’t hairy at all, doesn’t have gigantic hands and is one of the kindest people I know. (Secretly gutted, as I thought having a  ‘Mrs Trunchball’ would be character building). So, it turns out..  My daughter, who is properly related to me, yes my daughter, my flesh and blood,  is bloody brilliant at netball!!! (In your face Mrs Humphreys/Trunchball!!!!) I wish I could take some of the credit for that, but no, it’s all down to her hard work, and nothing to do with my “egg and spoon” prowess.

There are so many reasons I am thrilled that she’s a superstar on the court, not just because I was shit at everything. Mainly because this is the first experience for me where I have seen first hand, just what  team sport can do for a child’s confidence. It’s no secret that we have had emotional issues with Poppy! She doesn’t like to be away from my side. She has always been like it, even more so since moving here! It’s been such a challenging time for her, for me, for the school, for everyone in our lives! However, since joining the netball team she has completely come out of her shell. In fact, Mr W and I were only saying this morning she is almost unrecognizable from the girl crying in the car before the first training session!

The reason I felt compelled to write about sport was because it was the last game of the netball season at the weekend and I’m feeling all emotional about it coming to an end!  It was the last game of an incredible journey for my darling daughter, and for me too! When I say that, I don’t by any means believe that I put half as much energy into playing netball as Poppy and her team mates, but we have both had the best time. And now I have a new happy, confident girl, who is nicknamed “The Destroyer”, and some pretty awesome friends who I truly adore. Win, win…

As cliched as it sounds, netball has literally changed my girls life, and truthfully, that’s down to one person. The coach has loved her, taught her, encouraged her, been patient with her, corrected her, believed in her, supported her, praised her, put her in her place, and given her the confidence I think she needs to move further in netball and in her life. The coach has been everything a truly wonderful mother would be if we weren’t all too bloody busy with life.

Who knew that so much could change from a season of netball? Who knew I would stand, teary on the sidelines as my previously anxious child is elbowing her opponents out of the way so that she can slam the ball toward the goal? Who knew I would make some precious lifelong friendships whilst cheering the girls on? Who knew how strong the teams friendships would become? Who knew we would feel so deflated when the last game had been played? Not only that, and most importantly for us, who knew just what an incredible impact the love and dedication of a coach could have on a child’s outlook on life? 

When we send our children out to play sport, I think we dismiss just what goes into coaching the team. We brush over the fact that these people are volunteers. We’re asking them to prepare our children to put themselves out there on the line for their team and to perform at their best, every week;  that’s a serious amount of pressure for a little one, and imagine the hard work that goes into giving them the guts to do it. I don’t think we realise how daunting that must be for some of them as we joyfully sign them up for umpteen clubs. We really must praise these coaches, even more than we already do,  for taking our children on this magical journey; praise them for getting them out there, every week and for being dedicated. Praise them for being the biggest part of the team, winners or losers, for listening, for teaching, guiding, caring, sweating and for doing it all in their free time. We need to show them we respect them, and love that they teach our little ones that it’s not all about the game, it’s so much more than that, it truly is about all the other wonderful things they can get out of being there.

This season really has been a heart warming journey for all of us mums watching on, watching the team grow. What a privilege to be able to witness the girls journeys too. To see the shy child completely come out of their shell, the child with no voice hollering for the ball, the naughty one turning it all around and becoming a real team player, the girl who has her head in the clouds becoming completely focused and nailing the game every week! 

I’m completely amazed that all this can be achieved in a relatively short amount of time. I am more amazed that all of this, really is down to one person. The person who gives up their free time, not once a week, but three times. She gets up extra early to train the girls, stays late to get that extra half hour of training in. The coach is by far the most awesome member of the team. She’s the one who puts all the pieces together, plans the games, leads the girls, not only that, she guides them in a way that maybe us mums just cant do. She does all this for our children for no reward other than awesome results and a huge amount of respect from us all. There aren’t many places you will find such dedication given to your children free of charge. Thanks to her, I can finally see myself getting my hands on an Olympic Gold, not mine obviously, but Poppy’s. I can see a great future in sport for my girl, I can see her sporty photos are already better than mine, and it’s all down to an awesome season of coaching.

So next time you’re cheering from the sidelines, next time you’re dropping your little darling off to sports so you can have an hour of peace, just remember all the little things “The Coach” is adding to your kids life. All the things that maybe we miss whilst we’re chatting amongst ourselves on the sidelines. All those precious skills that only a coach can teach, all those great life skills our children will rely on forever, and the lessons they will turn to over and over again.

As Magic Johnson (basketball ) once said “All kids need is a little help, a little hope and someone who believes in them”; and boy I am one happy Mumma that my girl got this and more from her coach! Here’s to our wonderful coach and to some proper Aussie indoor netball really soon.

I was thinking about my family today. The sun was shining, we were enjoying a beautiful day out, and I thought to myself “wow, what a lucky bunch we are”. Lucky because we are happy and healthy, and lucky because we are together. In this particular moment when I was thinking about my family, I was only really thinking of the four of us. I wasn’t thinking about the rest of the family we have. Then this evening, while I was sipping my tea, I got to thinking about what the word ‘family’ really means to me. Has its meaning changed now that I am a mother? What does it mean to me and anyone else who may be living far away from their relations? What does it mean to people who don’t have any relatives?
If you happen to look in the dictionary, you will see that the word Family is described as; “a basic social unit consisting of parents and their children, considered as a group, whether dwelling together or not”. This explanation doesn’t cover the extended family, the grandparents, uncles, aunts, great grandparents, all the other people we often refer to as family.

When you live away from your family, you very quickly feel the need to attach yourself to others. I guess this is the survival instinct embedded deep inside us all. We like to be around people, we like to be in groups. So how do we cope without having our family near? How do people get through tough times without their relatives? Am I just a very lucky person to have a family that I have become so reliant on?
It’s true, I am very close to my family. Before I moved to Australia, I would speak to my parents on the phone every day, often more than once. I would regularly talk to my brother, my grandparents, god parents, and my cousins. I may not have been calling for any particular reason, maybe just to connect, to let them know I was thinking about them, and sometimes to just ask mum to give me a hand with the pile of ironing sat in the basket! This is what you suddenly miss when you move away.
I can honestly say, I rarely considered just what I got from my family, until they were no longer within arm’s reach. They were a huge part of our existence until we couldn’t easily pop in and out of each other’s lives. Then suddenly, when we were separated, I began to feel a little perplexed, maybe even anxious, lost and I hate to say it…. alone. All those times I have called on my brother because he turns everything into a positive, all the times I have asked for help from my mother, because she never says it’s too much trouble, and suddenly it was just us four. This is when it hit me. This is when we truly needed to rely on our very new friends, like we would our family.

Moving abroad means we are far away from all those last minute helping hands, we’re far away from the ‘Grandparent time’ our children used to love, it’s all the little things we miss, and all these things we needed to find in someone else. So, not only have we had to build our new lives, we have had to go out and find our new family. We all need that group, those special people we are close to, we bond with and who we can turn to, no matter what. Now we’re asking our friends to help us in times of need, we look to them when we need someone to have the children for an hour, and for emotional me, I use their shoulders when I shed a tear, and I talk to them when I simply need someone to listen.

It’s often said that you can choose your friends but not your family; I’m not sure I agree entirely. When it comes down to being on your own, without the rest of your family, your friends very quickly become much, much more than just friends. They quickly become incredibly special to you. They become your new family. So, we did get to choose our family. We got to choose the people who we spend our precious weekends with, who we share meals with, who we depend on when we have an emergency, and the people we look to when we need comfort. We have chosen the people we trust to look out for our children, who we trust to care for them in the same way we do. This is our 2nd family.
You don’t have to move 10 thousand miles away from your relatives to have a second family; I am pretty sure at some point you’ve thought, “Sarah is like a sister to me” or “gosh I don’t know what I would have done without James over the past year”. We all have those friends, those special people that become family to us, when our real relatives are not available, not close enough, or sadly just not around anymore. This is what family really is. It doesn’t have to be blood; it doesn’t have to be all about your standard family trees. If we love them, if we feel safe with them, if we know they have our back, that’s what family is; whether we share a name or not, that’s what makes a family. That’s what family means to me. I guess what I am trying to say to you is; when you think of your family, when you record all your tales and share all your photos, don’t whatever you do, forget those special family members; the ones you have chosen, the ones who have chosen you; the ones who won’t be on that ‘family tree’.
 

I got a phone call at 8am, it’s always the same person at that time of the morning. You know the time of day when you are trying to wipe Vegemite off the sofa, make a packed lunch, and pluck grey hairs out of your fringe at the same time as trying to braid your screeching 8 year olds hair. Yes, Mr W always calls me at 8 am, and wonders why there is so much background noise, and why I am only half listening.

This mornings important 8 o’clock phone call was to ask me what I would like to do for my birthday this weekend. He’s a sweet man. More often than not he has planned a wonderful weekend full of treats, we go away, we go to dinner, I have my nails done, we talk to each other with no interruptions….. But, and its a big but,  we have moved away from all our full weekend babysitters, so this morning, at 8:05 he is asking what I would like to do….as a family.

So, I did what they do in the movies. I pushed the pause button on life, everyone stopped still, and I thought long and hard for 10 seconds. I want to go to a hotel, have some spa treatments, room service, read endless piles of magazines, paint my toenails without anyone standing on my feet, shave my legs without forty questions from Monty about what I’m doing, lie on the bed without someone jumping next to me. I want to walk down the street without someone hanging off me, or walking forwards while looking backwards…  I want to eat chocolate without sharing, I want to go to the shops without going via the play area, I want to drink endless gin and tonics without worrying about tomorrow mornings wake up call… Oh and I want breakfast in bed, I want all of these things… I want to be…… On my own for a whole weekend.

Is that mean? Can I say that to him? I can’t say I want to be in silence all weekend, with no bottoms to wipe or tantrums to deal with. I can’t say I don’t want to make any meals for anyone or wash any dishes….Can I tell him I just want to have some “me time?” Does that sound better?  Oh no, that sounds like I’m leaving them! Am I an evil person for wanting to go off on my own for a whole weekend? Who cares?! He did ask the question. I pressed ‘play’ on life and said through a mouthful of toast, “I don’t mind darling, what shall WE do?” (I chickened out!)

My husband is a legend. He is a superstar. I feel bad for even writing the above. He cooks, he cleans, he is fully house trained, he’s a wonderful, hands on father, he spoils us, nothing is too much trouble…. He brought us all to Australia for goodness sake. Yet, in the midst of all his wonderfulness, our lives are chaotic. Like anyone with two or more (why would you?) children with very little help around. So, although I adore my beautiful, noisy family, on my 35th birthday I would ideally like to be jetting off to Ibiza with my girlfriends for a weekend of fun, freedom, and fake tan, not forgetting all the other things listed above.

Turning 35 is a game changer for me. I am at the point where my dark hair is no longer attainable. I spend far too much time parting my hair in the least grey way. I have started to make too many funny faces in the mirror while patting under my chin, hoping to rid my face of wrinkles and saggyness. I find loud music in shops completely overwhelming, I can’t concentrate and run for the exit, looking at the skinny teenagers through jealous eyes while tutting as loudly as I can. (Used to die when my mum did that!) I feel like I dance like an old woman when I go out, I am wearing make up like it’s filler, and am terrified to even go to the gym without it on.. Yes! I am that woman…..  I don’t think I know who’s in the charts? Do they still have charts?  When we go to the park I find dragging the “flying fox” back up for the next kids turn completely draining and will avoid it at all costs. I tell the children to be quiet while I concentrate…. I say things like “you’ll catch your death without a sweater!” I actually sigh when I bend down to pick up the dirty undies that EVERYONE in this house leaves on the floor. I squint when looking at the number on the bus…. I squint…… The list is endless. I am changing. I am getting there, I am about to get to the brow of the hill where there is only one way off … and that’s down.

OK, OK, I know loads of you will be thinking “35 is still young” or “oh to be 35 again”, and I get that. I get that if you’re 60, then yes thirty five is still a spring chicken. However, it doesn’t mean that hitting 35 isn’t a bit of a shock to my system. I’ve never been this near to 40. I’ve never had to wax my top lip so often.

When my dad turned 50 (only 15 years away for me now (see what I mean)) we thought it would be hysterical to buy him all sorts of “elderly person” stuff. We bought him denture cleaning tablets, driving gloves, a beaded car seat cover, men’s hair dye.. Oh how we laughed, I think we may have even snorted… Looking back on that I can’t help but shout “How evil was that!!” Totally unacceptable, and I am praying there are no such jokes in this house at the weekend.

So, my birthday weekend is nearly here, just the four of us. I wonder what fun is ahead. There will definitely be a cake of some sort, I wont be allowed to blow out the candles, and the children will definitely argue about who blew what and when. There are always lovely presents and cards, none of which will I be allowed to open, (I recall Monty telling me I was too weak to open my presents last year) and I am pretty sure I will get my lovely breakfast in bed, so I’m not complaining really. It’s more the number that’s disturbing me, than the crazy cats I get to spend it with.

I guess I would feel younger if it weren’t for the hair, the kids, the tummy that just won’t go flat again, the cellulite, the squinting and the desire to start a knitting circle. Maybe I should go to Ibiza! I’ll get my glitter on, dance like no ones watching, down umpteen crudely named shots and possibly try getting arrested? Maybe after all that I’ll be glad to get back to being 35 year old me, sorting laundry, doing the school run and stretching out my crows feet. That’s if I survive the trip…. Who’s coming?