I'm dreaming of a Wet Christmas

Am I the only person this side of the equator who rugged up in a big woolly cardigan and ugg boots on Christmas day?

I had imagined we would spend Christmas afternoon on the beach, as we usually do, running quickly on tippy toes across hot sand to the cool spot where the waves fizz out on the shoreline and snoozing sporadically under the shade of our beach umbrella, a few ham sandwiches chilling in the esky and the kids digging holes to China in the wet sand.

Instead, we put Francesca to bed, snuggled up on the sofa with a cup of tea and some fruitcake, and watched movies while the rain pelted down outside. Did I say pelted? I mean pelted, bucketed and poured from the sky. Rain, rain and more rain. Flowing like tequila at a hen's night.

And it was lovely.

This Christmas was always going to be different, our first without John's mum, our beloved matriarch who passed away in March. The rest of the extended family were scattered around the country, hunkering down in their own family units. We were happy to hunker. The weather was perfect for hunkering.

We had a big dinner on Christmas Eve with family and a few friends, our giant timber dining table groaning on it's railway sleeper legs under turkey, ham and all the other usual gastronomic suspects. I made a coconut and brown sugar pavlova and our friend Susie made a batch of wicked chocolate ice cream and some white chocolate champagne sponge cakes. We were sitting out on the deck when the rain started drumming  on the tin roof overhead; it was going to be a wet old night for Santa and the reindeer to be going about their business.

Our mornings always start with a 6 on the clock due to early rising offspring and Christmas morning was no different. We let the kids open one present each and an early morning bike ride in search of a swing, a surf and a coffee seemed in order. We are fortunate in that the local bakery is owned by some friendly neighbourhood Cambodians whose religion doesn't include an immaculate conception and a home birth attended by shepherds, and therefore have no problem making we Christian folk a cappuccino and a chocolate croissant on Christmas morning.

But because I actually do think that it's important to acknowledge and celebrate the real reason for Christmas, off to 8am mass we went. I love the Christmas Day service, not least of all because one gets to sing Christmas hymns unabashedly at the top of one's voice. But it's also a beautiful time to reflect on the year ahead. Christmas, the birth of Jesus Christ, celebrates a new life.

New life.

To me that means we all get another chance. To live gracefully. To love fully. To forgive wholeheartedly, including ourselves. To be the best possible person we can be. That's what I reflected on as I belted out Silent Night and tried to stop Francesca from licking the coins for the collection plate.

I usually get a little bah-humbug and nervy around Christmas. I think it's the general sense of being overwhelmed - trying to choose the perfect gifts for everybody, making sure I remember everyone and stashing away a few extra generic gifts to reciprocate unexpected gifts from someone else, negotiating menus and grocery lists for the big day, and the night before and the day after when all the supermarkets will be closed - it all leaves me feeling a bit short of breath and jittery. I blame the mall. I once got stuck in the car park at the local shopping mall for 45 minutes, unable to find a free space and unable to leave. In my nightmares I'm the fourth wise man who can't find a spot to park my camel in crowded Bethlehem and baby Jesus leaves town without my gift of tinned shortbread.

I'm kidding. Sort of. I do get overwhelmed and nervous though. By December 24th I'm desperately seeking Christmas, determinedly humming carols while wrapping presents and trying to find the Christmas spirit in the faces of Lisa Wilkinson and Karl Stefanovic as they host Carols by Candlelight on the TV. Every year I feel I have to hunt Christmas down and wrestle it to the ground, pinning it down and sucking the spirit out of it by force.

It always come to me eventually though, the spirit. Usually when the TV and all the lights are off, except those of the slowly blinking Christmas tree, and I'm writing messages of love and hope on the cards for my children and husband. The stillness, the specialness, of Christmas creeps up on me then and wraps itself around me and I realise I didn't need to chase it down after all.

This year, with all of its strange difference to Christmases past - no big trip to the family heartland in Melbourne, no Dorothy, no massive lunch to prepare - was certainly calmer in the lead up, but I still had to wait for the spirit to come to me. This year, however, I decided to let it in without the mad chase.

How was your Christmas? Do you feel the same as me or are you simply bursting with Christmas spirit from the moment those chocolate coins appear in Coles? If the latter, tell me your secret. I'll pay you. In chocolate coins.

Here's our Christmas in pictures:

Bowling & Babycinos

I'm indulging in a bit of "alliterative title poaching" from my friend Mauz, whose blog Mauz & Sparky is hilarious and clever in the extreme (hers is one of those wine-worthy blogs - you know, the ones where you pour yourself a cheeky chardonnay, settle in for a good read and end up snorting said chardonnay through nostrils as you guffaw through each post). Mauz loves a bit of alliteration as her most recent post Bridges, Brides & Bucket Lists will attest. I daresay she is also partial to the occasional rhyming couplet (Manbags, Gypsy's Rags & Wet Stags anyone?)

Anyhoo, don't go visiting Mauz just yet. I've got stuff to tell you!

As I mentioned in my last post, we decided to partake of a little Barraclough-style therapy and head up the coast for a week with our two youngest kids. It's been quite a year, with the death of my beloved mother in law in March being the lowest point, and some other issues that we will just put under the heading of "What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger (and Drunker)".

We also discovered that there is a juvenile equivalent to the Fat, Forty & Fired mid-life crisis that some men go through. It's called Nine, Nervous & Not Quite Right and our Jack was the poster boy. But instead of solving it by getting him a younger wife and a Ferrari, we loaded up the car with fishing gear, surfboards and Minties and went to Crescent Head.

Apparently, this can be a tough time for boys. Who knew? But doing a bit of reading and talking to other mums of nine year old boys, there are some common themes. Transitioning into middle primary school, where the workload is ramped up, mixed with a little hormonal action and a whole lot of the chest-beating alpha male stuff that goes along with it left our fella with some very real physical symptoms that, after numerous trips to the doctor and various tests, can now be attributed to anxiety. Because when we took him out of school and up the coast, the symptoms - crippling stomach cramps and a persistent vocal tic (a sort of grunting hum littering his speech) that had both plagued him for six months - disappeared in 24 hours.

I'm now wondering if my crippling case of procrastination on 'work' days could potentially be solved by a trip to Florence. I'm thinking YES.

But I digress.

Crescent Head is one of those tiny coastal hamlets somewhere on the Australian coast, boasting a pub, a club, a butcher, a baker but, as far as I know, no candlestick makers. You can, however, get a decent Thai meal at the local motel and the chemist does a good line in buckets, spades and other colourful sand moving equipment. You can play tennis or barefoot bowls, and there's a fab little 6 hole golf course on the headland that will have you teeing off the edge of a crevasse while the rolling swell of the Pacific belts into the hard slate walls of the rocky inlet way below. Many a golf ball has been sacrificed to the briny below that crevasse and I can imagine whole cities built of bleached white golf balls by the sea creatures that live there.

The main attraction, however, is the beach. It has, so they tell me, a totally bodacious surf break, full of bangin' bad ass barrels and rad right-handers that go on forever. Man.

(Wow, see that? I totally channeled a Californian Rastafarian just then)

But what I really love about the beach is the lagoon. With its little pools and sandy edges, it's toddler heaven and protected by the fiercer easterlies. Then when the tide turns and the water rushes in from the ocean, everyone jumps into the middle of the swelling lagoon to be swept upstream to the upper reaches of Killick Creek - a great spot to hang out as the sun goes down and throw a line into the middle of a school of bream. We did that and Jack caught the first fish. I hunt! I am male! Hear me roar!

As far as your eye can see to the north, it's just miles of wild, uninterrupted beachscape - broad blonde sand dunes and scrubby trees against a backdrop of low-rise mountains. Classic Aussie coast.

We spent hours on the beach every day, ate flaky fresh vanilla slices at the bakery, drank G&Ts on the barefoot bowling green and dined out most nights. Nearly every day we all ended up in the spa together with Francesca playing baristas, making us 'chinos' at the tap by jooshing the 'milk' in a plastic jug. (Does our daughter spend too much time in cafes? Don't be silly. But while the other kids are making cups of tea, she does a fairly mean double macchiato. Just saying.)

John and I tag teamed on kid duty so we could get some time alone; he went for surfs and massages, I ran down the golf greens, did yoga every day and read three novels.

But the best thing of all was that Jack, our gorgeous blue eyed boy, found his mojo and we couldn't have asked for more.

Embarrassing Side Note:
As the only photographer on the holiday, there is only one picture of me. Somehow, and certainly not on purpose, I've managed to give my unflatteringly shaped shadow a fancy little bikini wax. That's what you get for trying to be arty!

Holiday Hookey

John and I decided to play hookey with the kids this week and head up the coast to indulge in a bit of fishin', surfin' and relaxin' . . . (and a whole lotta eatin' and drinkin' too if truth be told!)

And now I'm playing hookey on the holiday (don't tell John!)

I've just had to duck into the Crescent Head post office to do a couple of bits of business and thought I'd do a quickie blog post too. Just because I can. And please don't fall off your chair in disbelief. Two blog posts in one month! Ye Gods - the woman is prolific!!! What can I say, I'm inspired. But don't get too excited. It really is a quickie.

We're in Crescent Head on the mid north coast of New South Wales - a little coastal hamlet we've been visiting for 12 years together (and John for many more years before that). I'm going to post some pics when we get back as well as a few more details but suffice it to say that the weather is fine, wish you were here!

The smile on this kid's face is exactly the outcome we wanted from this holiday

How good is this holiday? Well I'll tell you . . . as I sat in the spa bath in our holiday house with the kids before lunch, soaking my sun-kissed body in what was no doubt a cocktail of sunscreen, mint bath gel and toddler wee (I swear none of it was mine!), listening to Jack under-arm-fart the Transformers theme song and having endless 'cups of tea' poured for me by Francesca, I thought "it doesn't get better than this". Then John brought me a glass of cold sauv blanc and it did.

See ya x

A Lesson In Courage from a Warrior Mummy

So last Monday, I tweeted . . .

The marriage between a tissue and a laundry load of darks is not a happy one. But just you try and convince them to divorce!

Because I was having such a hard day, and getting tiny pieces of tissue all over the washing was such a disaster. Yeah right.

On Tuesday I discovered what a hard day is really like. 

I was fortunate enough to attend a Melbourne Cup fundraiser for Motor Neurone Disease at my son's school. The guest of honour was Lisa, one of our school mums who has been living with MND for many years. 

Just writing that sentence seems too trivial. Living with MND. But once you meet Lisa, once you hear her story, you can't help but be blown away by how this amazing woman is not only living with MND, but really living. And not just with MND, but with cancer. Life has thrown this gal curve balls that would make David Beckham look like a straight shooter. 

And then there's the strength of the woman! Look up guts and determination in the dictionary and you will see this picture . . .

The beautiful and amazing Lisa in her Melbourne Cup finery

Like many people I didn't know much about MND. But as I discovered last Tuesday, it's a progressive disease that attacks the motor neurones, or nerves, in the brain and spinal cord. This means messages gradually stop reaching muscles, which gradually affects how you walk, talk, eat, drink and breathe.

In short, it affects every single thing you do, from taking your first breath every morning, to walking to the bathroom, to speaking to your children. But Lisa not only has MND, she has a whole lot more on her plate right now. More than you or I could ever imagine having to deal with.

In her own words, taken from her blog Diary Of A Warrior Mummy, this is Lisa's story . . .

First and foremost I am an incredibly proud mum of two awesome children, I’m also a wife of the most magnificent husband who has stuck by me through thick and thin, better and worse.

I happen to have some health challenges but that is not who I am, it is what I have.  I have been defying Motor Neurone Disease (MND) for many years, 18 months ago I was diagnosed with Breast Cancer and had a mastectomy and chemotherapy and was cleared only to have the cancer return in my brain this September.

Currently I am having whole brain radiation and I intend to kick cancer in the arse!

My first encounter with cancer was at age 22 when I was diagnosed with Stage 3B Hodgkins Lymphoma which was treated with extensive chemotherapy.  It was at this time that I decided that any future health challenges would be counteracted by setting myself a personal goal to aim for.  This was my positive way of coping.

During this part of my life I refused to let it stop me from pursuing a career in the fitness industry so I strapped my wig on and taught aerobics all the way through.   Once I went into remission I thought I was invincible and could do anything so applied to university and achieved a Bachelor of Sports Science, this was my personal challenge.  I worked in health and fitness for 25 years.

When I was diagnosed with Motor Neurone Disease (MND) my personal challenge was to raise my children to be confident, independent, fearless, compassionate and kind individuals that never thought of my health as an issue.

When I was diagnosed with Breast Cancer my personal challenge was study to become a Catholic.  Over the next 9 months I completed all my sacraments with the final Eucharist held in June this year.

My personal challenge after my recent diagnosis of metastised breast cancer (brain) was to give back to all the people that have helped me, in particular the Motor Neurone Association who have provided unlimited support.

See? Amazing or what?! And these are not just a few brave words. On Tuesday, we heard from Lisa's closest friends and she really is this positive. Every single day.

Here is a story they told that is typical of Lisa. When one of her best friends was heading off for a holiday, Lisa said her farewells and asked her friend all about her upcoming trip, neglecting to mention that she, Lisa, had broken yet another bone in her fragile body earlier that day. She didn't mention it because she didn't want to spoil her friend's holiday. Holy ouch! I've broken a bone before. It's agonising. But for Lisa, it's a regular occurrence. Just another annoying little glitch and another example of how she pumps her fist at the universe, not shouting "why me?" but proclaiming "lucky me" instead.

But Lisa's message is strong. Do not pity her. Do not feel sad. Instead, Lisa wants her story to help anyone who is dealing with anxiety or negative thoughts in their life. That's why she started her blog which I urge you to follow. Lisa is finding it difficult to speak at the moment due to the oral thrush she's contracted - a side effect of brain radiation - but her lively, positive, fun personality leaps out at you from her writing, which her carer and friends help her to type.

Lisa and her two miracle girls

I'm so glad I attended our school Melbourne Cup lunch. I have a toddler and a business and life is crazy busy. I could so easily have found a reason not to go. But I would have been so much the poorer for it. Lisa and the beautiful, generous women who surround her like a personal army wielding the big guns of love and support, gave me a lesson, not only in courage, but in the power of love, friendship and positive thinking.

And the next time I hang out a load of washing full of tiny white flecks because someone left a tissue in the pocket of their jeans, I will remember Lisa and be grateful; grateful that I have those 'someones' in my life; grateful that I can hang out washing; grateful that there is a next time.

Thank you Lisa xx

There are two causes close to Lisa's heart - the future education of her two gorgeous daughters and the MND Association. You can donate to either here at Lisa's Wish.

Our Special Melbourne Cup Lunch (oh, was there a horse race???)

Some more snaps of Lisa and the yummy mummies from our school at our Melbourne Cup fundraiser. Photographs by the amazingly talented Danielle Fleming of Pandanus Photography. For the most incredible family portraits for all your relatives this Christmas, or as a very special gift to yourself, run don't walk to her website now.

Lisa and her sister Kerri

Lisa and her carer and friend Cherloe

Photographer Danielle Fleming (left) and Lisa's army member Angela (right)

High tea indeed!

Choc covered strawberries (of which I ate at least four! In the interest of fairness I felt I had to try one of each kind)

Event planner extraordinaire Donna (right) and Leanne (a fellow school mum who is not only lovely but also responsible for keeping my roots under control!)

The guest of honour arrives!

Your blogger and the ever-glamourous Felicity

Lisa's army of BFFs

Angela (left) and our fabulous MC for the day Melinda Gainsford-Taylor

More gorgeous mums

Our fantastic & supportive principal Josie (right) and Leanne (mother of 4 including twins & therefore a superwoman!)

Lisa's friends Ange and Elizabeth holding hands on stage during an emotional, funny, inspiring speech

Your blogger (far left) thinking that getting the heels off is a marvellous idea!

BFF Cindy gives a tired Lisa a cuddle

Don't forget to donate here if you want to support Lisa and/or MND. You can also follow her blog here.

Bye Bye Lullaby

You CAN stop the music. Apparently.

 John and I have always sung to the kids at bed time, sending them off to the Land of Nod on dulcet waves of softly crooned lullabies.

With Jack, my train-obsessed boy, I could do no wrong with a little engine action via Morning Town Ride, the Thomas theme song and, at Christmas time, a medley of both popular and historical carols. In fact, even at age 9, Jack still insists on a couple of tunes before I'm allowed to leave the room each evening.

But that's it! I am only allowed to sing at night, in the dark, and very quietly. At any other time, singing from Mum is not allowed. I'm not sure whether it's because my singing is embarrassing, or unpleasant to the ear (gasp!), or he's just envious of my fabulous singing voice (possible but unlikely!), but Jack really, really dislikes me singing along to the radio in the car, the ipod in the kitchen or ANY OTHER TIME. He tries to be polite about it, bless his Catholic-school-manners, but judging by the way he cringes/grinds teeth/leaves room/turns radio over, my singing voice is somehow equivalent to nails on a blackboard to my first born.

Which is fine. I'm still the boss of him so I'll sing if I want to. Suck it up kid. Besides, I have to put up with his endless (ENDLESS I TELL YOU!!) renditions of Gangnam Style so I reckon a little pay-back is in order.

But it makes me wonder, is my voice less melodious and more malodorous?

Evidence For The Defence

When I was 11, I sang Christmas carols and strummed along on my guitar at the family Chrissy bash and my nan told me I had a lovely singing voice. That, in itself, is a winning testimonial but it gets better.

When my aunt then questioned where I got my lovely singing voice from because "it couldn't be from her mother", my mum took umbrage and, well, let's just say that ensuing events culminated in half the family walking out and going home while I plaintively warbled 'Away In A Manger' amidst the rapid disintegration of Christmas cheer.

So people actually FOUGHT over my lovely singing voice. I bet Beyonce couldn't lay claim to that!

In somewhat more convincing evidence, I have regularly been able to achieve SINGSTAR status ($$ka-ching, ka-ching$$) on the PS3. And everyone knows you can't argue with Singstar. It's not your Nan. It doesn't care if your feelings are hurt. It tells the TRUTH goddammit!

Evidence For The Prosecution

When Francesca came along, I decided not to tempt fate. I got in early by singing to her while she was in utero and I sang to her from her very first day out in the world. I went with the ultimate silky-voiced songstress, Norah Jones. The song of choice? 'Come Away With Me'. She LOVED it. It would always calm her down.

But then somewhere along the way, it didn't.

In fact, she would hear the opening lines "Come away with me in the night" and she'd get upset. I maintain it was due to the association of me singing that song and imminent cot-time. That song equalled being put to bed and was suddenly anathema.

Way-hay! I thought. No problemo! I'll just start the good ol' winning combination of train and Christmas songs. But no. Francesca now speaks. As soon as I start singing, she yells "NO MUMMY SONGS. DADDY SONGS!!" and continues to chant "DADDY SONGS! DADDY SONGS!!" until John comes in and rescues her from Mummy's shitty medleys and crappy singing voice.

Good grief! Is that why she came a week early? She needed to get the hell away from 24/7 contact with my voice?! Or do all kids hate the sound of their mother's singing? I bet JLo's babies cry when she sings. Really. I bet they do.*

So John sweeps in with his deep, melty Kamahl voice and croons a blend of Gordon Lightfoot, Bruce Springsteen and the Beatles and she freaking loves it! In fact, he has to go back in for an encore every single night. And even after the encore, she's still calling "DADDY'S SONGS!" like some demented One Direction fan.

Meanwhile, I shuffle off to drown my wounded vocal chords in sauv blanc and, in a little while, I smile smugly to myself. Neither John, nor Jack, nor Francesca have ever beaten me in the independent, unbiased, all-knowing, very-clever game of Singstar. Ka-ching!


* Don't take that bet. Please. I beg you. Just agree with me.

Francesca's Farm

Francesca's farm is small. There are only three animals in it so far. But even since making this video last week, a snake, a horse and a gob-smacked mama have been added. The rate at which children learn at this age amazes me. I had forgotten. What a blessing Francesca has been added to my farm to help me remember.

National Fertility Week - There's Even A Quiz!

For those of us who struggle to fall pregnant, 'fertility' is another F word. And it's not an issue that goes on for just a week. Weeks become months and months become years and those years are filled with anticipation, anger, heartbreak, jealousy. Name an emotion and infertile couples OWN that emotion. Bitterness? Own it. Denial? Got three mortgages on it. Sadness? They've put houses and hotels on that one!

But the urge to have a baby is so strong, it can't be shut down or ignored or denied. You all know about my struggles with unexplained infertility. The feeling of failure and helplessness can be overwhelming.

Fortunately we live in an age when infertile couples have more options than ever before, more knowledge at their disposal, and terms like 'barren' are relegated to the waste bin along with 'bloodletting' and 'hysteria'.

This week is National Fertility Week and I urge any of you, my beautiful parents-in-waiting readers, to have a look at the official website. You'll find information on everything from egg freezing to male infertility to assisted reproduction. There's even a Fertility Quiz which is a must-do for anyone you know who might be putting off their baby-making agenda. It's quite an eye-opener actually. For example, what do you think is the answer to this one?

In 2009, the percentage of Australian and New Zealand women aged 35-39 who went home with a baby after beginning a cycle of IVF treatment was:

• 36 per cent
• 75 per cent
• 18 per cent

The answer might surprise you*.

So spread the word. National Fertility Week doesn't have to end on Sunday. It can go on every day of the year as we tell our stories and share our knowledge, making sure the next generation of young women have the best chance of success when they're ready to start their families.

*Answer is 18 percent. Woah!