Great month so far – ear ache, back spasm, reaction to penicillin. (sigh).

I am not sure who did this. Perhaps it was the delivery person, perhaps the person who received the delivery – but who(m?)ever it was, they leaned the meter high, flat and very heavy package against a column of boxes, with another column of boxes to the left.  This left the high, flat very heavy box disguised and unseen.

Boxes are exciting, when I go work to find them in my office, I tell my Preppies something exciting had arrived and ask them to help me open the cartons. They love this, and it’s a great math exercise as we sort, count and work though items. So, one by one we carted the cartons into the classroom. Fortunately, I am very strict about the children not entering the office where all sorts of things are stored. Because after moving and removing one of the columns, that long heavy flat carton stored on it’s side slipped over, pushing a carton out of the way before landing with an almighty crash.

On my foot.

It’s a shame I am not so strict about keeping my footwear on when I am in the classroom. Turns out that carton contained a metal hook on rock climbing wall fixture that annexes onto the gym equipment. Only it was annexed onto my foot instead.

After removing the carton and standing speechless for several minutes – there are no words sometimes, and especially no words to use in the company of five year olds – Jack stood in front of his friends and looked at me quizzically.

“Are you OK, Mrs Rhubarb”?

“I think so Jack. That box really hurt my foot”.

“Mrs Rhubarb, your foot looks squooshed”

I take a look though my half closed eye. “You’re right Jack, My foot does look squooshed.”

“Mrs Rhubarb-  I think you need some ice”.

“You may well be right again, Jack. Can you find Mrs C and ask her to help me please?”

“Will you be alright if I leave you, Ms Rhubarb? I can kiss your foot if you like?”

“Jack, you can kiss it through the air (demonstrate kiss and blow) and I will kiss you if you go and get Mrs C  just now for me”

“OK, Mrs Rhubarb but don’t go anywhere on your squooshed foot. Oooh look, it’s getting fat now, Mrs Rhubarb. And it’s turning burple….”

“Jack – it does look that colour to me too. Can you find Mrs C …please? “

(Seconds elapse)

“Mrs Rhubarb, I getted Mrs C and I kisseded your foot, now can I go and open boxes?”

“Oh, please do Jack, that would be a great help”.

… Later…  “Mum, Mrs Rhubarb squished her foot and I  helped her and kissed her foot only it wasn’t smelly and and she getted ice and when we go home now she’s going to go home too. And mum, mum, Mrs Rhubarb says I was very helpful and am  using my words really well and I could be a doctor when I get big only I am Jack the brave and Jack the brave can do anything ‘cept fixed a sqooshed foot. Mum, did you know Mrs Rhubarb’s foot wented all purple and she had to go to the hosbable? Mum?”

Mrs Rhubarb has 3 broken bones in her foot and has today off school. I hope Jack gets the rest of those  cartons open for me.

Have you ever had cause to experience the feeling of betrayal? That awful, sick feeling that spreads from the pit of the stomach outwards. It affects each and every nerve end, it stirs up acid in the belly and it breaks the skin filming it in cold sweat.

A few years back, there were a group of girls who all hung out together, chatted and met when they could. Even the distance of miles was traversed in the cause of a good cuppa and a chin wag. Capital Cities and State borders were nothing more than places to meet and greet before marvellous 3 day weekends and trips to flea markets, antique fairs and junk shops. The group was close, and very often we would share news or things about ourselves and our families that was private – stories that came from deep places or tried to hide in dark recesses of our hearts.

Essentially, we reminded each other regularly that we were, collectively a ‘safe harbour’. That no matter what we said or shared, vented or spat, we were all accepted for who we were and that indeed venting safely was what we were all about.

As the years passed, something happened between a few of those girls and I never really knew what it was or why it happened. Everything we shared just stopped and we all drifted away. It was sad, and it was all ending about the time my dad passed, so it was quite sorrowful as I was not able to share with those whom I had supported at times.

But, such is life.

At times, I have thought fondly of those girls and of the things we shared. We were all so different and yet sisters within the group, it was something quite special. I do miss what the group was all about and what it was, in essence, a safe place for women, with women who cared.

Until today.

Today I found out that the whole group and sanctity of trust that was so valued was a farce.  What I found out, was that a small selection of these women formed a group, a chat group, a publicly archived group, where they proceeded to talk about those not in the inner sanctum. They dissected the lives of the group members, their husbands, their homes, their opinions, their points of view. They used names and they were free, so free in the speech. Some things they said in jest or sarcasm were just plain nasty.  Eventually, in the way of these things, this elitist group disbanded but their messages remain, publicly archived for anyone to read if they should stumble that way.  No wonder some of the other ladies in the group were confused at the sudden and somewhat bitter disbanding of this group.

Way back in the piece, when the group was still young, a member was trying her hand at lamp making.  She made me some lamps, and although they were not quite my style or quite what I had in mind, I valued them greatly. They were hand made, by someone I valued, and they were made with what I thought was grace and love. They have sat one each side of my bed head for years.

Today, after reading some of this uncovered material and feeling great sorrow at the content, I lay on my bed and tried to unscramble my thoughts. I felt sad. Angry. Confused. Betrayed. Out of the corner of my eye I could see one of the lamps. The lamp maker was one of the main players in the script that unfolded today. Her lines were cast with such bitterness, her manuscript shallow and hollow and nasty.  I could not stand it. I unplugged those lamps and dumped them in the garage so I don’t have to see them. In fact, I am thinking of giving them away altogether. They symbolised something that I thought was special and cherished, but really were nothing more than lights and fairy dust, sparkles and ribbons designed to disguise the ugliness underneath.

There is so much more that I could say but it would be pointless, a vent not productive, a sore left to fester. So I’ll close, with words from Epictetus and know that I am a little wiser in ways of the world and women, a little sadder in my faith in people, and in need of a shopping trip for lamps.

“If you do not wish to be prone to anger, do not feed the habit; give it nothing which may tend to its increase.”

Epictetus (c. 50 – 120)

You are in for a little self indulgent mumminess.

I hope you don’t mind.

It’s just that this Easter and the accustomed chocolatiness, excitement and general family feel sort of passed me by. I didn’t really feel it until today.

You see, geek boy is away on camp (again) and has gone dib dib dobbing with several hundred other dib dib dobbers from around the State. It’s all practice for the big Australian Jamboree to be held post Christmas this year. At that stage he will be part of thousands of dib dobbers and be gone for two weeks. This little practice jaunt was for 4 nights which began last Thursday, before Easter. It earns them all sorts of terribly important badges. Like the road kill patrol badge for scraping dead dingos off the road, or the coveted scab & mange  badge, for starting a fire with two sticks and a tin of hairspray and not singeing off any eyebrows in the flame.

But it also took away my baby for the entire Easter break, for the first time ever.  A child free Easter.

It’s been a quiet kind of Easter in that respect. The biggest miss was the annual how the hell are we going to hide these when the kid’s awake 2 hours before me  go NOW   don’t stick your hand in there it’s a wasp nest – oh crap where’s the stingose and beat the dog to the eggs  egg hunt, which we have done religiously (excuse the pun) since his birth and all still get quite a kick from. Even though we are all old enough to know that the Easter bunny was actually last nights cassoulet and the eggs come courtesy of mama’s little pay cheque, in our house if you don’t believe you don’t receive.

Ummmmm… It’s chocolate. I believe.

But hot cross bun day came and went and find the egg day came and went and Church service before lunch came and went and oh-yuck-do-I-have-to-eat-fish day came and went. And today is passing slowly. Although my house is clean and I have had much (much) sleep, I still feel like part of me is missing.

So later today when geek boy comes home, he will bring with him stories of kangawallafoxes and drop bears. He will sport his road kill badge (and earn his justalittleprick sewing badge for sewing it on to his shirt by himself). He’ll cart in a lod of dirty washing containing fortyleven odd socks and clothes that are not actually his (I suspect another mother somewhere will be washing a pile of my son’s clothes) and stories of excitement and tales of spooky midnight hikes and fun.

And while he will be one step closer to that big Jamboree, the independence and all it represents, he will also be one step further away from the little boy who would never, ever dream of missing his chance to find eggs dropped by the Easter bunny in our family egg hunt and share toasted hot cross buns with butter for breakfast by the beach.

If I close my eyes I can still see the 2 year old in bright orange ‘bright bots’ burrow head first into the parsley patch hunting for eggs. Although the plus side is no colourful tin foil tinted doggie poo dotted around the yard.

Tell me, where does the time go?

Anyone who knows this book knows the opening line.

Our roof leaks.

Drip.
Drip.
Drip.

You know the one?

I have a cake eating hippo that only I can see, just like Hazel Edwards. The hippo first appeared on my roof in 2004. He must have been a lot more heavily built back then, because he took the whole ceiling out during a storm. Too much cake, perhaps. Since then, (and thanks to the hippo) we have had the ceiling rebuilt, the roof replaced and a whole new insulated area put in.  The men with the ladders came. Bang, bang, bang. No more drips.

He went away for a while.  5 years, to be exact.

He came back several months ago.

I have no problem with that hippo, or his cake. But I do take great umbrage at his antics that lead to the drip.

Today, he took it a step further. The drip became a stream and the steam became a tributary and whilst I was at work, he soaked my lovely couch and aubusson cushions. So much water passed through the couch that there was a puddle left underneath on the floor boards. My couch is a soggy, hippo soaked mess.

The men with the ladder came again late today. Bang, bang, bang. No more drips. They didn’t see my hippopotamus.  But he’ll be back, I know he will. And then I can say, there’s a hippopotamus on my roof eating cake. Again. Maybe he should start eating fish cakes instead.

(For anyone not familiar with the eating cake books, feel free to take a look here)

I have a GPS in my car – a Garmin to be exact. I have the voice command option set to  Karen, who is happy to direct me around the roads using a British English dictionary for pronunciation, using an Australian accent. (What’s that? We don’t have an accent).  I have other options of course. Apart from a variety of multilingual voices, the other primary option is Lee, Karen’s partner in crime and speaks in an ‘Australian’ accent. His voice gives me the irrits, I found myself wanting to throw him out the window when he would pompously instruct me to make a U turn now  in the middle of a six lane highway.  No sense at all. Besides, there is something quite condescending about being told where to go by a male, even if he is virtual and holds the map in his hands. Anyone worth five cents knows males don’t use maps and rely on instinct to get lost  find their way around, so not only does Lee irritate me but he is just not trustworthy.

The skipper owns a Navman. He chooses a female voice too. (Notice that? Even he doesn’t trust an Aussie male with a map).  His Lolita does more than Karen, she beeps at traffic lights and speed cameras. The skipper knows it’s illegal for Lolita to do this, but he can’t figure out how to turn her off (I could offer something here, but won’t) and being female she is clever enough to read maps AND watch the lights.

My mother has a Tomtom. She prefers a male companion, and her and Tom (of course) have found their way around tricky parts of the State together on many a dark and windy night. She says, though, he sulks when you don’t do exactly what he tells you to. He just stops speaking to her and stares glumly through the illumination screen until he’s ready to add another direction from his helpful list.

My friend Julie’s husband recently purchased a new car with a built in GPS. The first time Julie took it for a drive was to a country town, transporting girls to basketball finals. Her teen daughter, sitting in the passenger seat was struggling to get the righteous British accented Lloyd to accept the arrival destination, so rang home to get husband to explain how to get Lloyd working properly. The British voice refused to co-operate no matter what input was given, and the husband was finding himself frustratedas he was getting feedback from Julie, teen daughter and the righteous Lloyd, all down the telephone line. In desperation, teenager re-programed the GPS to an Australian accented Mary, who calmly tells all three of them exactly where to go. This is then followed by series of alarm bells from the GPS. Husbands voice comes over the phone line: “And tell your mother to stop speeding“. It seems that this Aussie Mary cannot only read maps, watch lights, look for cameras, but also has the ability to keep to the speed limit.

Navigation systems. Soon, they’ll be driving the car, and we’ll be able to sleep through the ride and arrive at our destination unharried. And we can get back to telling each other where to go.