So, we are sitting at the dinner table, just starting the main meal. It’s a roast (lamb!) with roasted spuds, real gravy and a green salad. Geek boy has been on camp all weekend – laser skirmish with the scouts – hence the roast. It’s a ‘real meal’ after what’s usually a weekend of little sleep and skipped meals because boys of 12 and laser skirmish take precedence over remembering mum’s instructions to eat, stay dry and change your jocks and socks.

And, just before dinner, the other ritual that follows camp – a long bath followed by ‘mum can you check me for ticks, please‘.  The checking for tick ritual always yields at least one tick – as it did again this time – and always involves a goodly mother look at all intricate bits of anatomy. Those little buggers hide in secret damp bits of 12-year-old boys – hence mum’s instructions of ‘eat, stay dry and change your jocks and socks.’

However.

This time, when said mothering look was taking place, something else was visible to the mothering eye. Something I wasn’t quite ready for. First fuzzies, to be a little graphic. Not just under the arms, to add detail. My little boy is growing up.

Trying to remain nonchalant about said fuzzies, I make some lame comment about hair and powder and washing growing up and flee to the tending of my sheep. In the oven.

There is my first heart attack of the day. I was not ready for that. I need some time to think. I tell myself, this is expected, your baby is growing up, time marches forward, blah blah and etc. Deep breath, mental note to self about personal hygiene discussions ahead.

Back to the story at hand, we are sitting at the dinner table, just starting the lamb (remember that?) and just as I am about to ask the usual ‘how was camp, tell me all about it?‘ type questions, geek boy drops clanger number 2.

“So, I meant to tell you mum, on Friday, we had that lady from Fawlty Towers come to school and have that talk with us”

“What lady? What talk?” Penny drops. “WHAT talk?”

“You know, the lady who sits in the office all day on the phone and says BAS-il“. Her“

“SHE came? You sure it was her? What talk?

(Prunella Scales visited my son’s school to give the puberty talk? This I must look into. It would have been on the note. Should I have received a note. Was there a note? I do not recall a note.)

“Was there a note about this?”

“Yeah I gave it to you… Didn’t I?”

“Ummmmmno.  No note.  Tell me about the talk“

“Oh yeah. Oh well, it was just, you know, growing up and what happens  to your body and why it changes and stuff. She was funny but good at it. I kept waiting for her to say BAS-il.”

“Oh. Hmm. How long did it go for? The talk I mean. “

“Oh, all day. Except for the afternoon went we did PE. The girls and the boys went together for the first half and the boys had to go and play soccer while she talked to the girls and then the girls had to go and play handball while the boys had their turn and then we had some time all together again”.

“Oh. Right. That’s long time.  And what did you talk about?“

“Oh, just pimples and skin and bodies and stuff. Then the girls had their turn and I don’t know what they talked about. She wouldn’t tell us. Probably babies and stuff. Then we had lunch and it was our turn. And she talked about bodies and hair and changes and stuff.”

“Oh, and wet dreams.”

I seem to have a piece of lamb stuck in my throat. I chew the lettuce leaf earnestly and clear my esophagus.

“Uh huh. It sounds interesting.” (Here, I launch into parental spiel and questions about bodies and changes and so forth but wondering what else was covered at school).

“We talked about other stuff too. The boys had to say what they thought would be the hardest thing about being a girl was. Some kids said it would be hard having boobs, having to have  babies, giving birth, feeding babies with your boobs, that type of stuff. Oh – and having to buy so many shoes and needing all so much money to buy so many handbags and stuff”.

“Oh, OK.  Anything you would like to talk about, from all that?”

“Yeah”.

Silence.

I have given up on my dead sheep. It can graze in the salad.

“Yes?” I have on my most open face,  radiating encouragement for tricky questions and confident of I-am-an-educated-teacher-and-can-deal-with-your-questions  type responses. From somewhere.

“Can I tell you something, now?”

“Of course, you can tell us anything. Go on…”

“Can I tell you about laser skirmish camp now? See, there was this kid and….”  and the rest of the conversation about lasers and guns and being dead and shot and targets and mud and leeches and snipers in the trees and so on carried on. I know I punctuated it with various umms, and wows and cools.

I just don’t remember.

The skipper did take part in this discussion, I just can’t recall a thing he said, for the life of me. And, you know, although we have not had the talk before, and we have always been very open and honest about bodies and sexuality and stuff.  If the question arises, it’s answered.  The level of depth of the question determines the level of depth of the answer.  I was as surprised by my response and reaction to the dinner table discussion as I was to the discussion itself.

Tomorrow, I am off to look up Sybil and see what advice she has to give me.

Excuse me, could you say that again?

Oh – you think so?

I am the one buying the clothes, therefore I am the one that gets to decide if this looks acceptable or not.

I am NOT the one who sews, stocks or surmises that dresses for women should only have enough fabric in the bustline to look attractive on the hanger or in the display window, rather than actually cover the breast tissue area. The area where my gazoongas are so publicly displayed in this dress, out there for the world to see.  

Never, ever go all Susannah and Trinny and tell a big breasted woman the new dress she is buying would look better ‘with decent underwear on, especially a decent bra’.

Because, honey, looking at you, let me tell you. YOU HAVE NO IDEA.

I want you to go down to the toy section and find a balloon.

Off you go.

Now, I want you to take the balloon into the staff room and inflate it with water. Not air – you hav enough hot air of your own, you are venturing into my world now. G’head, inflate with water, to roughly the size of  a small soccer ball.

Soccer ball?

Now – for any of you that think this exaggerated - try this. (If you have gazoongas, use your own. If not, phone a friend and use hers. Once she knows why you are doing this she’ll happily comply.)  Right – gazoongas at the ready? Good-oh. Now, place one hand at the base of one gazoonga, where the underwire sits. Now place the other hand at the top of the gazoonga. The real top, where the breast tissue finally eases away into your shoulder or upper chest.  Now, keeping your hands steady – steady… move them away from your body and take careful note of the huge airspace between. See? soccer ball. Do the same excercise in width – gazoonga equals pye squared.  And look – much bigger than the fabric decorating the bust line of the summer dress I am trying on.

However… back to the balloon we go for. Take careful note of the balloon. Feel the weight. Note how it is not steady, it rolls around under your hands, slips to one side or the other. It moves, doesn’t it?  Like a living object?  Place it on the table. See how it goes flat on the bottom?  And the top? And sort of squished out at the sides?

It is NOT perky. It is NOT jaunty.  IT’s not even properly round for gawd’s sake, is it?

Now let’s pretend for a minute – bear with me here – the tied up-end is a nipple.

I want you to put that balloon on the table and try and make the nipple align to the ‘correct’ place for one of these pretty little dresses - front and centre, pointing directly ahead. Whaddyamean it won’t stay there by itself? No shit.  It wants to point downwards, doesn’t it?

Now, let’s nip over to lingerie and find a bra. A real one, not one of those one-g-string-joined-to-another and disguised as an object smaller than an ear canal – one with at least 4 hooks at the back, underwire,  shoulder straps the width of a garden hose and constructed of fine mesh, concrete reinforcing, girdle material and bungee cord. Oh yeah, sex on a hanger for sure. What do you mean it looks like a torture device?  Try wearing it!  Now take your balloon, and carefully manipulate it into the cup of the brassiere. (I don’t know why they call it a cup either, it’s more reminiscent of  a salad bowl). Now put it on.

Now most big breasted  women cheat. They turn the bra upside down and inside out and do the hooks up first, then spin it around their torso,  pull it up over the ganzoogas and slide one then the other arm through the straps, then manipulate and arrange the front  as required. The only time they don’t do this is when they are trying on new bras and want to appear knowledgable and sophisticated in front of the salesgirl and struggle to do it the ‘right’ way, which is front first and then do the hooks up in the back. Which would be a piece of cheese if you were an octopus and had eyes in the back of your head and 15 fingers on each hand and could manage to manipulate four hooks in the back and support the weight of those  puppies in the salad bowls at the same time without breaking into a sweat and testing the limits of the Mitchum 24 hour anti-perspirant that you KNOW you should not use because of the aluminium content and the link to breast cancer and all but you’ve done a full workout by the time you manage to get into your underwear and Jesu….

Sorry, I became sidetracked there.

Now remember – the nipple has to point politically correctly outwards. You need to keep the balloon tissue IN the salad bowl, not let it spread under the arms or under the underwire. Yes, I know it moves around, you have to manipulate it yourself. You have to hold your breast and lift your breast and arrange your breast and align your breast and then start again with the next one. Using your hand, yes. Inside your clothes, yes.

Now the nipple has to align perfectly on the convenient seam there – the one they sew right across the nipple line in oh so natural breathe-able triple strength  itchyasshit  nylon thread. Just so you can have  inflamed milk ducts for the rest of your life. Even though you stopped breast feeding 12 years ago.

Finally, stand up straight – yes, those puppies are heavy – and look at yourself in the mirror.  Do your balloon breasts point skywards?   Do they impede over the side of your body? Jump up and down – go on. Never mind the sloshing. Do those balloons jiggle prettily? They what? Throw you off balance?  Now you know why gazzoonga endowned woman do not jog, they lurch. Or lunch.  And drink wine.

Now, lie on your back and look in the mirror.  Can you see what’s happening to your balloons? Take note of where the water has gone. And where the nipple is. Or was. Or isn’t. And that’s with a bra ON. Let me tell you, if they were real breasts you would  never lie on your back during sex again – at least not unless there was a power outtage or you were married to Stevie Wonder.

Now, stand up and try on one of these slinky black numbers. No? You are exhausted? You can’t breathe and your boobs hurt? Your nipple is itchy and your back aches?  You are hot?

No freaking shit.

So, sunshine, don’t tell me this dress would look fabulous if I had ‘decent underwear on’. It looks fucking fabulous because  I am fucking fabulous, my gazoongas are fucking fabulous and because your shoulder blades are on the wrong side of your body, you will never get a cleavage like this in your whole goddamn life no matter how many chicken fillets you buy.

Don’t bother wrapping it – I’ll wear it home.

I came home today a little maudlin.

A parent I have worked hard with all year has decided to decline the opportunity to have her little one repeat another year.

In my job, I wear several hats.

In a day, I can be teacher, support worker, guidance counsellor. I have spent the year listening, guiding, writing referrals, offering support.  The parent, although open to listening, remained a contradiction. Seeing what we see without accepting, hearing what we hear without perception.

This afternoon, I watched little P struggle with another issue after class.  The parent deflected to me to pacify and settle P once more, and finally, using a strategy that works with the youngest of toddlers, P was able to stem the tears and collect her belongings. As I stood and watched her walk away, another parent who is a close friend of the mother, said softly to me “She just doesn’t get it, does she?”. There was no malice in the question, just simple concern.

It’s not my role to judge the actions of a parent. Nor is it my role to question, criticise or belittle. I believe I am in the role of supporting her choices, whether I agree with them or not. In this case it’s very difficult. Everyone sees what one can not.

As for P, she may struggle no more or no less than  some others who move on next year.  But unlike some of the others, she will have been in a position where she was given an opportunity that may have made a world of difference to how she manages the next decade of schooling.

Watching her struggle still, in November, with simple instructions and interactions evokes sadness. Child advocacy is not just about talking the talk. It’s about walking the walk. Sometimes, there’s an elephant on the footpath.

It is because of today, I sip my wine, reflect on my day and tell myself again: You do what you can, and then let it go.

Just let it go, Rhubarb.

You better watch out, you better not cry,
You better not pout I’m telling you why:
The Christmas hype will take you right down.

Look at the calendar, go on check it twice
You know you are right it’s the date not your eyes-
it’s the first week in November, right now.

Westfield are quite sneaky, they get you by surprise
they have up all their strings and things to make you spend and buy – Oh!

Oh, you better watch out! You better not cry.
Get your credit card out I’m telling you why:
Santa Claus is coming to town.

Yeah you better watch out, don’t think you’re immune,
Another few minutes you’ll be humming this tune
The economy boost is coming to town.

Shelves are stocked with tinsel, I know it’s early too
Next year I hear the Santa hype will begin somewhere in June.

Oh, you better watch out! I think I might cry,
I am sure we just had the Easter Bunny hop by
How can Santa Claus be coming to town?

Marketers are quite sneaky, subliminal messages you can’t see
ads and banners and discounts and things that make you think ‘buy me!’ - Oh!

Oh, you better watch out! You better not cry.
Get your credit card out I’m telling you why:
Santa Claus is coming to town.

Santa Claus is coming to town!

So, I’m standing in a line with around 40 or so others. Looking around, I notice many of them have the same physical appearance as the couple immediately behind me. The men are all short haired and clean shaven, with immaculate dress, shoes shone to polished shine. Women, very long haired, heads covered with a scarf or head adornment. Make up, heels, and again immaculate clothing.

Brethren.

I don’t look – or feel – anywhere near as polished as any of them. Wearily I rest my head against the side of the corridor and lean against geek boy. He hugs me tighter.
Its early morning and we are waiting to board a 747 bound for Perth, and for some reason we are all standing in the corridor in no man’s land. The place between the boarding gate – goodbye Queensland – and the silver bird, waiting to wing me ‘home’. I am emotional and tired and on my way to bury my father. It’s March 2008. It’s an endless day.

A group of the immaculate young men stand a few meters away. They are discussing the flight. I hear them joke and laugh and one particular red headed young man is quite vocal. And just as I am about to turn back and answer GB’s question about the way they are garbed, I catch the words of a sentence he shares. “.… don’t tell anyone else about the bomb on the plane“. His fellow immaculates quickly shush him.

I raise my eyes – the women behind me has heard it too. She raises her eyebrows and cocks her head – I frown and shake my head a little. Surely they are joking, right? Surely it’s the young man’s idea of a joke? I look at others around me but no one seems to have heard. The line starts to move forward and I turn, step, step again and join the herd.

But it bugs me. That sentence caught in time – it really bugs me. It sits heavy and I hear the man again, the words… bomb… bomb…

The stewardess shepherds us on. “Sorry for the delay” she chirps. “These things… oh – row 17? Just along there please… hello sir… “

Leaving her behind, GB and I find our seat amidst the usual organised chaos of pre-take off chatter. I look around. At least two thirds of the plane are occupied by members of the Brethren. All ages, all hierarchy levels. I catch the eye of a woman in the middle row – the same woman who was behind us in the cattle queue. We hold gaze for a moment, it’s clear she is still unsettled. She travels alone. She wears trousers.

A voice comes over the intercom. “Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for flying whatsit airlines – we apologise, but we will be delayed a little longer. Nothing to be alarmed about, please bear with us we will have you on your way as soon as possible. Thank you for choosing to fly whatsit. “

A stewardess approaches looking flustered. As she passes by I can feel my tummy lurch and I make a snap decision. I explain to GB that I have to tell the staff something important and that he should not be worried. He squeezes my hand and tells me he knows how important it is to do the right thing. I push the little button, and the light above my seat shines. I take a deep breath and hope I don’t look like an idiot with what I am about to do.

The stewardess approaches with a smile I ask her to lean closer. I apologise profusely for taking up her time. I start to waffle, telling her I am sure it was not meant as I heard it and I am sure it was nothing but…. this is what I heard. And I repeat the words.

The change in her is immediate. She snaps up straight like she had been held by a spring release. She asks to tell her where I was when I heard this? When? Exactly what did I hear? I tell her straight and carefully and she looks deep into my eyes. Probably checking in case I am pathological. She tells me she will be right back – and true to her word, she returns with another stewardess. I am again asked to tell of the where- what- when. The second stewardess obviously had more clout than the first. She tells me to speak to no-one until she returns. She races off like she has to be somewhere in a hurry.

Less than a 3 minutes pass before a male returns along with the 2 females of earlier. He introduces himself as the head Steward and asks me to accompany him. I stand; take GBs hand and we follow the steward along the corridor. As I head out of my seat, my cohort nods her head.

We arrive at the little alcove near the amenities. The Stewards asks me and GB to wait ‘right here’ (where else can you go on a plane?) and he will return. By now, many passengers are becoming antsy and by the curious stares we are getting from people it is apparent they think we are the problem. Or part of it. It occurs to me then that we probably are.

I look up and now there are four people heading my way, all looking very official. I have a security guard (are they going to arrest me? Throw me off the plane?) and another guard with gun and a radio (holy crap) and the Steward and another man who looks very official. The steward introduces me to the PILOT. (That’d be why he looked official then?). Once again, could I please tell them exactly, word for word, the who-where-what story. The man behind the pilot writes everything down. He writes quickly, using squiggly scribbles of shorthand.

I take a deep breath, ready to relate the info….. and promptly burst into tears. Stewardesses race over with tissues. Water. A cloth. They escort me to a seat. The entire back section of the plane is now watching me and possibly most of the front section, seeing many of them are standing or leaning over their seats, heads craning to look at the action. Even the curtain across first class is open.

I take a deep breath and gather the thoughts, suppress the emotions. Slowly, enunciating each word, I repeat once again the story. This time I explain about the woman behind me, and our eye contact. The Pilot is lovely, he tells me to take my time. He tells me to describe the man. Describe the other men. Describe the tone of voice. I apologise for the millionth time and assure them that it was probably me misreading something – just a joke made by someone. I explain I am sleep deprived and emotional and on my way home to deal with my father’s death – which immediately brings more tissues. I have an overwhelming desire to curl up into the foetal position and rock.

But the Pilot takes my hand and assures me that even if it is a joke, its way out of the bounds of good taste. He tells me how people like me can save lives – and that no matter how small, the reporting of such a statement is warranted. He tells me that no one will worry if I am mistaken. Then he asks me to walk with him, down both aisles from the front of the plane to the back, and identify the speaker. He cautions me not to speak to the person or make eye contact, but to take note of the seat number. I am so nervous by now and ask that someone take GB back to our seat and give him something age appropriate to do. (They came up with a DS from somewhere, along with soft drink, chocolates and a basket of something pre-teenish). I am terrified and it takes me two trips around the plane to finally find the red headed male who was behind us earlier. I see him; he is oblivious to me and is joking with his mates about something. I see my eye gazer cohort also touring the plane.

Right – so no one is looking at me like I am a problem are they? People are pointing and muttering and harrumphing – but the lovely Pilot is right behind me and murmurs encouragement. I discover I am holding his hand like a child.

We return to the amenities and I recite the seat and row number. The pilot nods over my head to a guard – and when I look I see not one guard any more, but 6. Six guards in airport security clothing and 4 more in deep navy garb. I swear they have brought in the SWAT team. The Pilot thanks me, the Steward returns me to my seat, all eyes upon me. I sit and wish I could crawl under my seat. My heart is hammering so loudly.

However, within seconds, no one is looking at me anymore. No – they are all looking up ahead – for along come the guards and look-alike SWAT team and they physically LIFT the young man out of his seat and carry him off the plane.

Seriously.

The young man was just plucked from his seat and ejected. His shouts of objection echo in the sudden stillness that takes over inside the 747.

For a moment, the silence continued.

Then the Brethren started. Voices raised, shouts are heard, commotion unleashes. People are standing and calling and pointing and in all this, I sit very still and concentrate on looking at the floor.

The SWAT team are back in a few moments, and politely ask the group of well dressed men he was seated with to stand and move off the plane with them. And as the group of men stand and leave the plane, my eye gazing cohort looks at me and I look at her and she gives me a smile.

And I breathe again for the first time in what feels like an eternity.

And that, dear Brethren children, is why you should never make a bomb joke while standing in a queue waiting to be seated on an aircraft.