4 kids, 20 suitcases and a beagle

Dear Diary...

2013-05-22T20:46:00.000+09:30

How far can you go back without losing the details? Which ones do you push to the back of the shelf, the memories that are quickly flicked by as you make your way to the old favourites. Which details have received a sand down and a buff, a little gloss added to give it more shine.

When we head back to Granny's house each year, I return to my room. A room that has the old bridesmaid dresses hanging next to the year twelve school uniform. A room with t-shirts I can't bear to let go and jackets that might come back into fashion. Every year I flick through the contents of drawers in the hope that I've missed an undiscovered gem. I cringe at old photographs and then place them right back where I left them. I have my own house in Australia now, but these are the things I choose to leave in limbo, in the old, old life. Perhaps it's a feeble attempt of keeping a little piece of me in my hometown, or maybe I don't want to take those memories with me. I like them to stay tucked away.

In the back of one of the drawers was a diary. A diary full of self absorbed, highly anxious, teenage angst. A diary that has been there forever but rarely opened. A quick glance at the handwriting and the names had me pushing it to the back of the drawer. Thirteen year old Kirsty. I didn't want to go there. It wasn't that great the first time. I didn't really like that girl very much. And I'm still confused to how I feel about her now.

This year I took the diary with me. All the way back to Qatar. It wasn't a conscious decision, it just came along with a few other bits and pieces. It was here that I found another drawer, and once again there it went, straight to the back. I couldn't throw it away, but I didn't want to revisit it.

"What's this?" the second little traveller asked while looking for a pencil.

"Umm, it's an old diary of mine."

"Can you read it to us? She was smirking at the PRIVATE that was written in block letters on the back cover. Instantly being able to sniff out the idea that something was happening without them, her two younger brothers arrived in the doorway.

"Can you read it Mum, what does it say?"

"Erm, let's see, let me have a look and see what I can find" I knew if I said no, the diary would instantly become more of a must see item.

"Dear Diary..." I fished my way through the pages, plucking out the moments I wanted to share. The netball games, the swimming carnivals, and the cleaning of rooms and washing of dishes was emphasized. The purchase of eyeliner, and the sneaking off from the skating rink to head to the party that was held under the Paringa bridge was omitted. There were so many names, names that were then a part of every day life. Names that signified a vibrant existence of weekend sport, school, swimming and a life growing up on the river. Names that are now attached to bodies that are older, adults who have mortgages and drive their kids to sport on weekends. People who I now run into at the local pub or the service station who look at me with a vague passing interest "So where are you living now?"

I had forgotten. I'd forgotten how confusing thirteen was. My diary serves as a reminder that if the details are blocked for long enough they slowly fade. "Tania and I bludged assembly and had a smoke in the toilets". I was unknowingly auditioning for the lead role in Puberty Blues. "Stinky told me he just wants to be friends". I liked Stinky? Really, I liked Stinky?? I was constantly terrified of what I was about to do, but exhilarated that it wasn't what I was supposed to be doing. I was hovering on the edge of childhood. Balancing precariously between being so excited about the upcoming netball grandfinal and the school play, but knowing that the boy who wanted me to get into his ute with him at Nicole Morgan's farewell party wanted more than a quick pash.

The diary stayed tucked away because just like thirteen, it felt embarrassing, I didn't like going back there. The bad grammar, the poor judgement, the brutal evidence of complete self indulgence. The diary took me back to an awkward place, a town where I felt I belonged in the scrum yet was constantly trying to jostle my way into the huddle. Who said that? Why did they do that? He doesn't like you? She wants to be with him.

My 44 year old eyes have now skimmed each page, this time I managed a giggle at my "secret codes" and shook my head at my lack of understanding of what was really going on. I read pieces out to G, and made a mental note that I had to make sure I made more time for proper catch ups instead of quick fly by's this year. And then I pushed the diary back into the back of a drawer, where it belongs, in the past. Things have changed, I'm not sure who that girl was exactly, but she's gone now.

Do you have an old diary?

Football, Meatpies, Kangaroos and What?

2013-05-21T17:54:00.001+09:30

I launched myself at Australia's Foreign Affairs Minister last night. I was so enthusiastic with my hand shake and my gushing "I'M SO GLAD THAT YOU'RE HERE!" that poor Bob Carr didn't quite know what to do with his newest devotee. He appeared to almost recoil with my fanatical and spirited greeting.

Frightened, it would be fair to say he looked frightened.

After a couple of quick sentences he made a hasty retreat muttering something about being glad to hear our thoughts and taking them on board. I was left grinning like a crazy women at the back of Bob's head.

It would be easy to blame my fervent greeting on the woeful display of early appetizers and the abundant supply of white wine. But I think it was more than that. We had a special guest from Australia last night, a real live Australian who spoke about Australian things. And in one quick speech he carefully touched on all the things Australians abroad like to hear. We know you're here, we're learning about this place and we're trying to grow more business. A connection has been formed. And of course the usual patriotic confirmation of what we've been thinking for years, that there truly is no place like home.

It's a question I love to ask people. What makes you identify with being Australian? I've asked the children again this morning and I know I'll do it again before the year is out. Their answers fascinate me as they change. I really love to hear the answer from new immigrants, it's all about optimism and new lives being started. If you haven't been to a citizenship ceremony, please go, I defy you not to cry as you watch someone with a huge grin on their face and a tear in their eye complete a leap of faith.

If I ask the question of any other middle class Aussie of my age the answer will be invariably littered with references to sport, beach, Anzac and weirdly, Olympic memories. Last night a friend talked of his Dad taking him to rugby, someone else talked of heading "down the coast".

Earlier in the day a twitter conversation had taken me back to a commerical that played on high rotation in Australia in the 80's I remember hearing my Dad sing it around the house. Football, meat pies, kangaroos and Holden Cars. Can you remember it? Is there anything that could be any more Australian in 1981?

Can you hear that sound? That's the sound of South Africa saying "Hang on, I've heard that tune before?"

Oh wait. Uh Oh. That's not how it goes at all! 1974. America.

Hmmm, anyone else know this tune?

Suddenly it doesn't feel so quintessentially Australian anymore. :-)

You're An Expat

2013-05-20T16:50:00.003+09:30

Travelling is often a very selfish act. You choose when you want to go, what you'd like to see and how long you'd like to go for. Often as travellers we underestimate just how much our arrival is going to affect the local population. If you've ever stood at the bottom of the Borobodur temple in Yogjakarta and watched a bus load of tourists arrive - you'll know what I mean. Like fresh meat ready to be devoured, key rings, bicycles and postcards are pushed into faces with the hope of a quick sale to feed a family. We clamber over ancient ruins and shuffle through historic tunnels, visit markets and drink on side streets - trying to learn the rules as we go along. And then we disappear with a memory stick of selfies and a suitcase full of washing, ready to head back to our everyday lives.

Unless you're en expat.

Things are a little more permanent when there's a resident stamp in your visa. The locals are your work colleagues and fellow parents at the school. You have a vested interest in the price of gas and what's happening with the roadworks out near the new business district. You're following the news of the virus that's now confirmed to be transmitted by humans just over the border with great detail, and your decision to tip the waitress is not a one off moment of generosity - she's become part of the weekly routine, you know the details of her family.

The expat is the opposite to the one night stand or the quick fling - she/he's the long term relationship. The one you're going to have to introduce to your parents and choose a new couch with. There's the usual honeymoon period, the flutter of excitement and the sweaty palms of new discoveries - and then things inevitably begin to get comfortable. You've sat in your expat location in your tracksuit pants watching series three of Downton Abbey while scoffing imported chocolate from home.

You could be anywhere.

As you load the next lot of podcasts full of accents just like yours because you can't bear the local radio, you begin to wonder if technology has allowed you to be so connected, that you've disconnected from this local life. The call to prayer distracts you from your thoughts as you watch a man in a thobe make his way in the desert heat to the mosque.

No. You've just settled in, made yourself more comfortable. You're not a tourist, you're not a local - you're a little bit of both. You're an expat.

This Is What I Had Hoped For You

2013-05-18T17:55:00.000+09:30

The first words I heard were from the medical student. He was new to the baby business, not new enough that he hadn't seen the process before, but new enough that he hadn't been told that "Woah, that's a big one!" was perhaps a little enthusiastic. He was right. You appeared to be about three months old when you were born. Shortly after this shot was taken you crawled out of the delivery ward and ordered a steak from the bar next door.

A little bit later in the day you had an introduction to what was in store. You were to realize that you were not an only child, that there were others and they were noisy. After the initial excitement of your arrival you were relegated to the corner. Everyone wanted to hop in the bed with Mum.

Can you see that your eyes are open? I have my suspicions on your thoughts at the time. Nobody puts baby in a corner. *you won't know but that's a Dirty Dancing reference*

It was chaos for the first few months. Daddy had to go away for a few weeks and a girlfriend came to stay. At one stage I ducked over to the neighbours, when I came back I found the second and third little travelers hanging from the garage door while the first little traveller pushed the button to make it go up and down. She was doing me a favour by providing some games.

This is what I had hoped for you. I wanted chaos and narrow misses. I wanted fun and the camaraderie that comes with a big family. I wanted you to feel surrounded and engulfed by us. We were to be inescapable.

I've watched the others drag you across the floor. They've picked you up to carry you over the snow. They learnt to skate while pushing you in the stroller, you were their anchor keeping them upright. They've all taken you as show and tell in class, you've sat next to them while they've explained how things worked and what to do. And when you finally decided to learn how to ride a bike, it was them cheering in the middle of the road while you weaved your way back to us.

Last night at dinner we talked about your birthday, and how it was your final night of being six. The second little traveller suddenly gasped with excitement as her idea made its way from her head to her mouth.

"Shall we have a sleep over, like now, all four of us in the playroom?"

"Can we? Can we? Can we?" you pleaded.

And in one swift moment you all disappeared, a mass of hysteria amongst pillows and mattresses. You all talked over the top of each other while arrangements were made on who was to go where with whom.

This is what I'd hoped for you.

Football Season

2013-05-16T21:15:00.001+09:30

My father lived in a house full of women. It never seemed to worry him that he was the sole provider of testosterone. There was never an "If I had had boys" conversation. He now has grandsons and I've not seen him display any favouritism towards a particular gender, he manages to ignore them all equally - especially when the footy's on.

Of course I'm not serious. Gramps is very much into his grandchildren but yes, when the football is on I know from experience that unless you're either passing him a beer, or heating up a pie, the only thing you should be doing is sitting by his side watching the game. I grew up in a house where we screamed at the television. "C'MON!" "BAAAAAAAAALL" and "YESSSSSSS!" were popular, as was "WHATYADOIN" and "NOWAY" and "BLOODYGRABTHETHING".

We cheer, we throw our arms in the air, we become assistant coaches and clairvoyants. Someone needs to move him to the forward line, he'll kick it from there - watch him.

Thursday is the day that my reminder email arrives in my inbox regarding football tips. There are weeks where I have put more thought into my tips than I did over our house purchase. I then spend the weekend trying to inconspicuously look at my Australian Football League app on my iPhone. I say inconspicuously because it drives G crazy. He'll be mid conversation when he'll notice my frown, "What's wrong - everything alright?" You can imagine his joy when I explain that Freo is currently 19 points up.

It was a couple of weeks ago though that I really did the serious damage. Divorce possibly crossed G's mind as he skidded across the floor narrowly missing the side of the cupboard.

He was in the shower when he heard the initial screaming. It got worse, louder and louder "Noooooo, Noooooo, Nooooo!" Convinced that there was an incident involving a knife and an intruder, he came racing out of the bathroom naked and dripping wet "what's wro...."

He realized the moment he heard the television.

"You've got to be bloody joking?" he said looking in my direction and then towards the game on the television.

"But it's so close! They're a point in front!"

He shook his head and followed the drips back towards the bathroom.

We've got another twenty weeks to go.

"C'MON!"

This Blog Was A Complete Accident...

2013-05-15T21:01:00.001+09:30

On the 27th November 2009, I did two things. The first seemed far more monumental at the time - our move to Doha. The second was a last minute haphazard decision to start a blog. I figured that rather than send a group email out to friends and bombard them with large files with family pictures, I'd leave the decision up to them. Here's what we're up to, come and check it out if you'd like.

I chose a blogging platform and began to write my first post. It was a mash of weirdly placed capital letters and my usual style of clumsy punctuation thrown onto the page without the respect it deserves.

"We've made it! We're FINALLY here in Doha." I was sitting in my hotel room after a 17 hour flight with 4 children, a barking beagle, and G.

"What will you call it?" G asked while looking over my shoulder at the empty title box. I looked around our disheveled hotel room, the little travellers we asleep side by side, surrounded by suitcases. It was a complete shamozal. I began counting. "How about 4 kids, and lets see, 17... 18... 19... 20 suitcases and a beagle?" The name didn't matter, it was just a personal blog. I mean it's not like I was going to have to fit it on a business card or a letterhead anytime. Ha! It would just be us, and our updates.

That's how I'd thought it would be. A selection of posts with photos of the family with updates similar to something you might receive in a Christmas card. Trombone lessons, a basketball grand final, a trip to the zoo.

It was never like that.

The minute I opened the page, I began to think and write in stories. Just little stories, nothing monumental, nothing groundbreaking. Whatever popped up in my head that day: motherhood, travel, mobile relationships and the occasional feeling of isolation that comes with the geographical schizophrenia of having many homes. I wrote ten posts that year, forty seven the next, ninety five the year after, and then last year I decided to begin blogging every day.

For over a year now I've been asked if I'd like to advertise on the blog. I've spoken to PR companies and businesses about sharing my space with you. Nothing felt right. I've talked about writing a media kit for months but I kept finding reasons not to finish it. Something felt weird about it all. I'd spent years working in Account Management and writing proposals but this was different. This was my space, you've become my friends and my support and what happens here is genuine.

About a month ago G and I had the talk. The career versus blog versus returning to the office. I can make money from freelancing but was it time to return to what I knew? I realized that I really wanted to keep writing this blog. That it was much more than a hobby. It's not just about recording the stories of our family, I also want to share the stuff I've learnt along the way. The tips for travelling with kids, the discoveries made while being pregnant in a foreign country. I love posting a question from Amy about where to sit on the plane with a one year old and seeing a community of women jump in with advice. That's what this blog has become, it's a community of women all over the world who pop by each day or maybe each week to have a laugh or a cry.

So, this is what I've done. I written down a list of international brands that I've used and trusted over the past thirteen years. I've started talking to them about what I like about them and how my experiences could be shared. I don't have to tell you this, but I want this process to be as authentic as it possibly can. When I tell you that there is absolutely no way that I will ever talk about a product I don't feel comfortable with, I want you to know it's genuine.

I'll continue to tell you about the bowls at the souq and the "highbrow" pencil I've fallen in love with. I'll let you know if someone gifted something to me - but I promise you, you won't hear about it unless I love it. Any post that is sponsored will be labelled as such, but please know that my intention is that these posts will continue as stories.

Thirteen years ago I landed in Jakarta, green as grass to the expat experience. A beautiful English woman came to collect me, she was a part of an organization that had a "welcoming" committee. I was five months pregnant and was standing in the hotel lobby with a similar expression to that of a child on their first day at school. "Do you get paid for this?" I asked her cluelessly. "No my dear" she was horrified. "Expat women have been helping each other like this for years, this is what we do." I apologized and we moved on in silence for a moment. And then, I guess maybe after considering the fact she'd rushed her children off to school and given up a morning to sit in traffic halfway across town to then show a complete stranger around Jakarta, she said "we probably should get paid though, yes bugger it, someone probably should pay me for this!" We both laughed at how she reached her indignant conclusion.

This blog was a complete accident, an accident that has become a daily ritual and something that is just there, with me always. It's not just a record for my children, it's also about connecting with others and hearing their stories, your stories, while enthusiastically nodding away at your replies and comments. This morning I've heard from someone who was also in Libya, I've run into a blog reader at the supermarket, and I've emailed someone who is moving to Houston with advice on housing. I've also spoken to a PR company in Dubai. The blog seems to weave itself into my day, it has become the everyday, the ordinary. I've been lucky enough to meet people who have read this blog, people at parties who have instantly become friends. Really gorgeous women who have been very kind. Women who have encouraged me to keep coming here every day.

But if I'm going to keep coming here, and not going back to the office, I guess I should probably think about how I'm going to get paid.

Does that make sense? I hope so. I'm counting on you guys to tell me when I get it wrong.

Cheers,

Kirsty x

Arctic Desert Warriors.

2013-05-14T19:02:00.001+09:30

Remember last week when I spoke about the weather? The heat was yet to arrive. We were too busy with sandstorms, hail, sprinkles of rain and lovely cool weather.

Well that was last week, this is now.

Accordingly to my car temperature gauge it was 47 degrees yesterday afternoon. The heat has arrived, and like labour pains and cracked nipples, the minute it returned the memories came flooding back. As I made my way across the sand swept school car park, I peeked out through my squinted eyes at my fellow arctic desert warriors.

Arctic? Yes arctic.

It's currently 45 degrees and I'm wearing jeans and a long sleeved shirt. My feet are frozen and the hairs on my arms are pointing towards to the sky. Why? I stopped for a quick coffee with a girlfriend. Coffee shops in Doha mean that all cappuccinos are instantly frapped. Would you like that latte frozen? Well, just wait around for a couple of minutes and our air-conditioners (set to ice age) will get that happening for you. If the power was to shut down I imagine even Walt Disney in his cryogenically frozen state, would take a few days to begin to thaw.

In a few minutes I'll head off to pick up the little travellers from school and receive the defrosting sandblast. Glasses will fog, perspiration will appear and the perpetual squint will arrive as the sand swishes by. The feeling of one hundred hairdryers that are set to both high heat and full air will follow me as I make my way to the car.

Welcome to May.

The best excuse for ice-cream consumption, sparkling drinks, and poolside fun. Pass me the tonic, I'll grab the ice-cubes, come with me my fellow arctic desert warriors it's time for summer.

*I think it's just a rumour that Walt is frozen, but it's kind of cool to think that somewhere in a back room somewhere there's a real Disney on ice.

It's Not A Journey To Be Endured

2013-05-13T16:29:00.002+09:30

This is the road that falls smack in the middle of my hometown and the beach house.

In the past week I've been forced to reflect on the process of writing, initially there was an interview for a magazine and then a questionnaire that was finished while the house was silent and my family slept at 1.30am this morning. It's funny how you can tap away at the keys without really thinking about what you're doing. Here's the topic, here's the idea, can you have it done by Monday? I've had days where I've unfortunately concentrated on the word count as much as the words. Those are the days when I think about returning to the office.

The days where sentences refuse to form and paragraphs are indecipherable. Words clumsily fall out of my head in slow motion and blot the page as they land. They blur as I read them back to myself. Delete, delete, delete. And then there is the beauty. The words that skip and dance, and without any conscious thought you find the answers right there in front of you. Of course, it all makes sense now. That's exactly how I feel.

G and I were stuck half way up the ladder. We weren't sure where it was headed anymore, we'd lost sight of its end, and we didn't wan't to keep going. He hated his job, and I'd not seen him this unhappy. We worried constantly about how it was all going to work. The mortgage, school, groceries, and child care. Would we ever have a home in Australia? How would we get back? How long should we stay away? Were we doing the right thing?

And then in the midst of it all I received a call from a friend. Cancer. Our lives had been so similar, both on the move, children the same age, friends in the same home town. "You'll be okay though? Right?" I was full of stupid questions, it was my first time. Her diagnosis changed everything, all of our commonalties almost disappeared as there was something so much bigger going on. G and I went to visit her and realized how every tiny problem can immediately be erased when you're faced with mortality. And then as the year went by, domino by domino, the bad news arrived. The death of a child, a father who lost his wife and children, a family who lost their daughter. It was perhaps the saddest year I'd ever known.

We were driving someone home. We'd only met him that night at a function, he was also Australian and he was telling us why he was in Qatar. He kept talking about the "journey", he listed country after country like they were badges he'd received at boy scouts. He'd got through them, "survived" them. I sat in the back seat and stared out the window. My friend was gone, families were devastated and you "survived" living in Morocco in a five star hotel. I wasn't perhaps my best self at the time.

I tapped away at my keyboard in the darkness, answering the questionnaire. What has your blog taught you? What's been your biggest lesson? The words that had been swishing around in my head as I listened to "the journey" from the back seat of the car, made their way onto the page.

"It's not a journey to be endured, its an adventure to be enjoyed."

Let's enjoy it.

Tomorrow, I'll Be Better At It Tomorrow.

2013-05-12T21:21:00.000+09:30

We were half way to school when Henry Hotdog mentioned that he hoped G could come along today.

My brow creased as my eyes darted in the direction of the rear view mirror. I was confused. Dad? Coming? Where? What was on today?

"Where's that darling? Where are you hoping to see Daddy?"

Daddy was already sitting at his desk in the office.

"To the thing. The poetry thing"

Welcome to Sunday morning. First day of the week, ten minutes in and we're already clueless as to what's going on.

"What poetry thing would that be darling?"

"We're doing a thing"

"Are you sure its today - I don't think I know about this?"

Henry Hotdog's teacher has a blog with all sorts of useful class information. I constantly forget to look at her blog. Yes, I know, the irony hasn't escaped me.

"Is there an invitation?"

The fourth little traveler nodded proudly "Yep"

"And where is the invitation?"

"In my bag."

And it was. It had been there all weekend. I'd pulled out the library books, the lunch box, the remains of the paper airplanes. I'd missed the invitation.

What: Poetry
Where: At school
When: Sunday

"Do you know what time it's on?"

I looked at my hair which was in desperate need of a wash. The jeans I'd had on all weekend seemed to be holding up well, I figured no-one would look at them as my white bra under my black tanktop was probably stealing the show. Thank god I'd brushed my teeth.

We all knew what needed to be done. We needed to ring an organized parent. A parent that was never late, a parent that never forgot. Almost in unison the little travellers said "ring Krista".

Forty minutes later and I was sitting in a class filled with parents. I watched the mother of much loved child commando roll over a small table to get a better vantage point to video tape her child. I pictured her syncing her phone with her calendar weeks ago with a reminder notice about the poetry reading.

Tomorrow. I'll be better at it tomorrow.

"What Do You Think Of Being A Mum?"

2013-05-11T21:30:00.000+09:30

Mother's Day in Norway is celebrated in February. In the UK it's the fourth Sunday in lent. In Mongolia, it's in June, and in Russia it's in November. Indonesian mothers have to wait until December. Mother's Day in Qatar this year fell on a Thursday in March, I seem to remember something coming home from school from one of the little travellers, but Thursday is the end of our week and in the midst of lunch boxes being emptied from backpacks and the arrival of the weekend - we may have missed it.

Mother's Day in Australia is tomorrow, a Sunday. For Aussie mothers in Qatar this means a school day, a work day, an everyday day. Which is why I woke up this morning and was told by the third little traveller "Stay right there, Dad's at the shops, we're working on something. It's a MDBS." My Mothers Day Breakfast Surprise had just became a Mothers Day Breakfast.

I stayed upstairs for as long as humanly possible and when the fourth little traveller arrived with a latte from the store I figured it was safe to come down.

Not yet! You're not meant to be here yet!

A girlfriend from the States posted a picture of her Mother's Day breakfast in bed, it looked delicious. She had fresh fruits and yoghurt with a cup of tea. My girlfriend looks fabulous in a bikini.

My breakfast arrived.

You know the saying "you are what you eat". Imagine that sausage squashed into a bikini.

There was more.

Breakfast conversation turned to holiday destinations, favourite food memories, and how we were going to get the enormous knot out of the second little traveller's hair. When we were finished and everyone was packing the dishwasher, it was just the third little traveller and I. The guy with all the questions.

"How long have you been a Mum for?"

"Nearly thirteen years" I said with dismay.

"What do you think of being a Mum? Are you amazed you've got so many kids? Did you think you'd have this many kids?"

I told him I loved it. I told him I loved being his mother because he was beautiful and funny and kind. That's what mothers say, particularly when they're looking into the eyes of their child and their child has made them breakfast.

I didn't tell him that some days being a mother sucks, that some days I'd like to be an Aunt or a Grandmother or just a really good family friend. I didn't say that when we had four children I hadn't considered the need for two taxis, and how many Christmas presents would have to fit in the back of the hire car to get to Granny's house. I didn't say that on a personal level parts of my body were unrecognizable, and that there had been days where I was so tired I couldn't remember my own birth date. I didn't tell him that my own children have asked perhaps the most funny yet cruelest questions.

Why don't your boobs stay up like Barbie's?
Why do your arms wobble?
Look at how I can make your arms wobble.
Your teeth don't look white to me, they look more, hmmm, yellow?
How come you have wrinkles?

I didn't tell him that when I'm mid sentence and he accidentally jumps on my foot and forgets to say sorry, or throws his backpack in my general direction without stopping to say hi, or just blatantly interrupts to demand my attention - that I don't really dig being a mother. That when they turn their nose up at dinner or complain about the latest trip to the beach, or the day that was "boring", that they suck the last iota of joy out of my motherly existence.

I didn't say any of that, because of all the things I've been given - motherhood is my guiltiest pleasure. While some of us received it as a surprise gift, others lined up at the sales hoping to grab a bargain - some missed out completely. Again and again, until they gave up trying.

We can ask for support, write painful anecdotes and share war wounds, but we all know the same thing. The moment of motherhood is the internal gasp, the switch that is flicked that immediately changes everything.

"What do you think of being a Mum?"

I think it's nothing like I imagined, and better than anything I'd perceived.

My Designs!

2013-05-09T19:00:00.002+09:30

At the end of March, Henry Hotdog (aka the 4th little traveller) arrived home with a little book he'd made for me. In the book he told me I was "grate". I was "grate" at everything. I was a "grate" cook, and a "grate" swimmer. And I had reaaaaaaaally long hair. Here's a link if you want to have a peek.

The beautiful Rhi sent me a note after reading the post, she asked if she could use one of Henry's drawings to make an applique. I couldn't beleive it, I'd been following Rhi's Facebook page and loved her work. It took about five seconds to reply with a big fat yes. Rhi's an expat, an Aussie based in Belgium. She's a bit of a star when it comes to taking a child's drawing and turning it into not only a really funky piece of homeware, but something that will make your heart melt.

Henry Hotdog fancies himself as a bit of designer. He often tells us about his future career which involves owning a string of shops side by side - he will "design" everything. The building, the layout, the fashion. His face when he opened Rhi's package yesterday was priceless, but what he said...

"My designs! These are my designs!"

"She must like polka dots? They weren't in my original work, but I like what she's done!"

Rhi has a blog and store on Etsy

Rhi, you made a little boy very happy yesterday and I am in love with what you've done.

We think you're grate!

This Is Our Suburbia

2013-05-08T21:20:00.001+09:30

I scrolled my way through someone else's morning. Mrs Woog had snapped a few shots as she walked her children to school. I looked longingly at the footpaths and sealed roads. It was a mixture of lust and envy as I eyed off the trees and flowers hanging over the front fences of the Aussie landscape. Ahhh suburbia, I remember you.

When I landed in Canada with three little travellers and forty kilos of baby crap, I was presented with a maroon mini van and the keys to a pink house in the burbs. And today Kirsty, you will be playing the role of suburban housewife.

After two years of living in a house on a rubbled street in Libya and driving a car in which the driver's door swung open each time I turned a corner sharply - my new pink life was a bit of a adjustment.

I remember walking into the local supermarket in Canada and standing motionless, mouth aghast at the hugeness of it all. The choice, the variety, the vegetables. The aisles filled with packets of brightly coloured nondescript processed food. "What's Cheez Whizz?" I called out to G while holding up a jar of orange paste. "I think it's fake cheese?" he said with both caution and disgust. We were both puzzled, we stared at it for a moment, both asking the same question. Why? We'd been deprived of real cheese for so long. Why wouldn't you just buy the real stuff? It was right there, two aisles over. Why would you eat the fake cheese?

I think it probably took about a month before I began to spend more time in the colourful aisle. The little packets of snacks for playgroup. The two minute noodles, the spaghetti sauce in a jar. Ready made curry paste was so much faster than growing herbs and getting out the mortar and pestle. All of the things we had done without. The times we'd had to return to scratch. Not anymore.

I woke up this morning to news of a sandstorm. The sky had an orange tint and the air was already heavy with the mixture of humidity and dust. It was hot outside but my arm (the arm that was resting on top of the bed covers) was freezing. The air-conditioner in our bedroom has two temperatures, freezing or geez it's hot in here. This morning provided some spectacular negotiations "I'm not going to school today, I have nothing to wear" and "I'm not going to school because the swimming teacher makes me lay on my back and do this thing that I can't do."

"You know, Mummy used to be a swimming teacher..."

"Good, you can write him a note and tell him you'll teach me another day - I won't do it today."

We stared at each other for a moment. I raised an eyebrow. He cracked. "I'll go get my bathers...but next week I'm not doing it!"

We drove out of our compound and onto the street that has been in a constant state of renewal in the three years that we've lived here. We fit four lanes of traffic into two, nudging ourselves between others. As we edged our way to the entry of a roundabout the sensors of my car beep, trucks to the right of me, and 4 wheel drives to the left. All of us waiting to launch into the first available gap. After a stint of speed with my hand purposely hovering over the horn, we made it to our final set of traffic lights. A decision needed to be made, an illegal turn or wait in line? We all looked at the clock. Once we'd made it through we careered over the curb and down a hill into a vacant block, this used to makes us squeal, now it's just a part of the routine. I wave to same faces; a man in a thobe, another in a security uniform. I smile at the policeman with the gun before watching my children make their way through the school gates.

This is our suburbia. It looks so different but somehow strangely feels the same.

What does yours look like?

A Wise Expat Once Told Me...

2013-05-07T18:24:00.001+09:30

I read this sign and all I could think was but some of them do!

Owing to the screwy way that my brain works, I am currently ninety nine percent sure that something terrible is about to happen. I've recently woken from dreams in a panic, jolted by my worst nightmares. And now it appears that my daydreams, those random thoughts that occur in the mundane are now also going to include the split second flashcard of death or horror. I've nearly been in numerous car accidents over the last week and I can't help but wonder if my number is swishing around in car accident bingo.

I've been reaching out to grab children who have stepped just that little bit too close to curb, and triple checking that everyone is out of the car before pushing the lock. There was a fire drill during the school basketball tournament yesterday, and while G myself and three of the travellers walked out onto the field I wondered if this was it. The third little traveller was at a guitar lesson, tucked away in a music room at the back of the school. Was this it?

He was fine. It was all fine.

Owing to the screwy way that my brain works, I am currently ninety nine percent sure that if I share with you that I'm thinking that something terrible is going to happen, it probably won't happen.

A game of jinx, I double jinx you. See, not going to happen. I said it out loud. It's all okay now.

I ran into a girlfriend the other morning and we played a game of what if something happened. I was talking about a friend who'd been advised by embassy staff to always keep a letter on her refrigerator explaining what would need to happen if something happened to her or her husband. Who would come to get the children?

Nothing like a bit of light conversation in aisles of Ikea on a Sunday morning.

In this expat world, it's something you have to think about. All parents need to consider a legal guardian or writing a will, but expat parents need to broaden those questions.

Who will fly in to collect the children if something happens to you and your partner?
Do you legally have something in place for that to occur?
How will they get home?
Does the office know what the plan is?
Do the children know who to call in case of emergency?
Do your children know Granny's number?

I'm making a list for the refrigerator. Both Grandparents numbers, the Aunts and Uncles, the friends, the neighbours.

Owing to the screwy way that my brain works, I am currently ninety nine percent sure that if I share with you that I'm thinking that something terrible is going to happen, it probably won't happen.

But I'm prepared. Are you?

*please add anything you think I've missed

But What About The Children?

2013-05-06T18:43:00.002+09:30

Remember Brigit's Granny Knickers? Think Floral.

My mother had this little trick she used to do when boys came to visit. As I sat there on the front porch looking cool, my mother would arrive with a handful of washing which she pretended to be in the middle of folding. Except it wasn't indiscriminate washing, it was my knickers. And it wasn't knickers of the lacy Victoria Secret kind, it was more knickers of the floral, old, and falling apart at the seams variety.

There is nothing quite like your mother having a conversation with the hunk of your dreams while she uses your floral, waist high bloomers to make a point. So embarrassing.

But that wasn't all. She did lots of embarrassing things. She took a breath in, she let a breath out. She stood too close to me. She stood too far away. She retold stories of my youth, she didn't tell the right ones. She made me sit in the front seat, she made me sit in the back seat. She parked the car too close to the action or way too far away. She asked the most embarrassing questions in front of my friends, questions like "Have you got money for lunch?" Or "Would you like me to pick you up later?"

So embarrassing.

I write stories for a living. Some of those stories are about women, some are about traveling, others are about family. I have a personal blog that has become anything but personal. I've chosen to share and I've had to make decisions about how that impacts my family.

There are so many private events that happen within a family. When we were in Paris something happened that was perhaps the funniest unwritten blog post in history. I knew immediately that I would never be allowed to write about it. And I didn't. Some things are private, never to be shared.

This morning I woke up to read a comment on a piece of my writing that was shared on an Australian website. It was a post on over-sharing and in hindsight I guess I should have expected that someone would turn a post about over-sharing on Facebook into a post about over-sharing "Mummy Bloggers."

"...after all you in your blog you trade on your “little travellers” and their lives too (along with your “foofy”) .

Would you like every triumph and disaster of your childhood out there in the public domain for anyone who ever wants to find it. For ever.

Imagine when these adorable little kids hit tweens and teens and their ex-friends go looking for info with which to hurt. They’ll find it in droves thanks to mum (rarely dad) and her blog.

And they’ll use it with glee.

And it will hurt because it’s true and the child’s trust was betrayed.

The comment of course was anonymous. I love that my anonymous friend talked about my foofy. It's been a week since I've talked about my foofy, let's get it out there again.

I read the comment out to G. "Fair enough" he said with a shrug before straightening his tie and planting a kiss. "See you tonight."

I hopped in the car with my "adorable little kids" and asked them what they thought of the blog. "I think it's good" said the second. "It's fun" said the third. "You don't write enough stories about me" said the fourth. The blog is set as the home page on the little traveller's computer so they see it every day. I have often wondered how long it will take before someone goes through it and makes a tally on how many posts were written for each child to be used as evidence in the favourite child contest.

"Do you ever think kids might go through the blog looking for things they could be mean to you about?"

I received a look that didn't require words, a look that said why on earth would a kid want to read your old lady blog.

"I've had kids tell me their Mum reads your blog, and they've told me they laughed at a couple of the stories" the first traveller offered (two weeks away from being a teen).

"How did that make you feel?" I asked, sounding just a little too much like Dr Phil.

She shrugged her shoulders. "It didn't".

"Would you guys prefer if I just stuck to the stories about the other stuff?"

There was a resounding "No". Followed by a "Why?"

And then the second little traveller reminded me of something a very wise woman once said.

"It's none of my business what other people think about me."

And it's not.

I write stories for a living. The stories hopefully capture a moment in time, a moment that my family will look at in years to come and fondly remember. Remember when you thought Jesus' parents were called James and Lily? Remember the pirate ship park in London? Remember when we went to the souk for the first time in Qatar? Remember when I folded your floral underwear on the blog? No, me neither.

Granny Max didn't really mean to fold the floral underwear in front of the school hunk, she was just getting about her business. Her business of being embarrassing. It's my job to make sure I don't post anything that will hurt my children, and I really don't think I do - but if you do, well, it's none of my business what you think. That's between me and my children.

I think right now is the perfect time to say thank you. To those of you who are not anonymous. To those who have left all the gorgeous messages and comments and have popped by to say hi - thank you.

Now, excuse me while me and my foofy head off to the Grade 4/5 basketball Grand Final, because if I'm late for that - they'll be some serious long term damage.

Friends Who Were There.

2013-05-05T21:26:00.002+09:30

The pavlova, perched on my lap. Black pants - creamy pavlova - bad combination.

We went to a baby shower yesterday. Yes, we. G, myself and the little travellers made our way to a friend's house balancing pavlovas and platters on our laps. It was a fabulous day. Fantastic food, lots of champagne, happy children, and two very happy parents who are on the home stretch to meeting their third child and very first daughter.

On the way there the second little traveller asked about the present we were taking "But the baby's not born yet? Why now?" And before I could reply, the fourth little traveller responded.

"It's a celebration, there's a baby coming!"

It was the most beautiful, genuine answer you could hope for. It was a celebration. There was a baby coming. And yes, we were all excited.

We were a room full of parents. All of us with different styles and approaches. South Africans, English, Irish, American, Swedish and Australian. All of us far from home, not a extended family member in sight. We are the friends who are here now. Right now, it's us.

The second little traveller has a yellow giraffe from a friend who was in Kuala Lumpur. The first traveler has a book of nursery rhymes from a friend who was in Jakarta. The third traveller has a onesie from an English friend who was in Libya. The fourth traveler has a blanket, a gift from a Canadian friend who became family. They were there, at that moment, it was them. The emergency contact.

I thought about my baby shower in Canada. The faces of friends who I will probably never live in the same city as again. Friends who hold very deep places in my heart for the generosity they showed G and I. The help that was given, the excitement that was shared.

In this expat world we are often offered the opportunity to become closer than normal. I'm not sure what makes the friendships more intense, the fact that we know they can't last forever, or the understanding of their importance because of their necessity.

How lucky we've been to have the friends who were there.

Deep Breaths, Walk Outside, Count To Ten. Try Again.

2013-05-02T12:35:00.000+09:30

Many years ago my girlfriend came home from the hospital with a baby who screamed and screamed. And just when you thought she'd finished screaming - she'd scream some more. I would watch my exhausted girlfriend maniacally push the stroller forwards and backwards, backwards and forwards, willing her baby to just stop for a moment. Just long enough for everyone to catch their breath. She tried everything, everything.

When things became really bad, I sent her off to the spa and spent the afternoon pacing the floor with her little girl. It was the newborn cry, the one that sounds like a small angry motorbike revving in your ear on high rotation. There were moments of peace but for the majority of the time there was screaming. It was hardcore parenting, the kind that involves occasionally closing the door, walking outside and counting to vodka.

All options were explored: more boobs, more bottles, chiropractors, baby whisperers and massage. Nothing seemed to work. And then one sweet doctor provided some hopeful information.

"She's bored. She's a highly intelligent baby and she's just bored being a baby."

My girlfriend clung to this information like it was next weeks winning lottery ticket. My baby is super intelligent. That's the problem, she's too smart to be a baby. This will all make sense, it will all be worth it.

We've all clung to something. The first smile. The first wave, the first blow of a kiss, the first "Mum". C'mon baby, just give me something back.

It was my beautiful Aunty Laurie who once told me that we all want to be wanted, but being needed? Being needed wasn't quite as nice. Being needed usually involved some-one else's neediness.

Pick me up, put me down, feed me, play with me, tickle me, watch me, watch me, YOU"RE NOT WATCHING ME.

Now go away.

My baby, my first teen baby, had what is commonly known as a really shitty day. From the moment she didn't wake up and was late, to the moment she found herself face to face with her mother at the end of a very long and shitty day.

"We need to sort this out. If you're mad it can't be everyones problem. We need to talk about this."

Nothing. We sat in silence. As the minutes ticked past I considered ancient forms of water torture, I contemplated consulting Guantanamo. Was that my heartbeat I could hear in the silence? Nothing. We were at a stalemate. The best I could get was a shrug, an indifferent eyebrow was raised but only just, minimal effort appeared to be important in teen communications.

I had to leave the room. I sat outside of the bedroom door and took a few deep breaths. I had interviewed hundreds of people and was trained in the art of open questions. Nothing. She was giving me nothing.

We were better than this. How did we land here? In this angst ridden spot? The more I reached out, the more she retreated. I went to put my hand on her shoulder. She flinched. My beautiful girl. More time. More silence. It began to get dark.

And then finally it came: the tears, the explanation, the conversation, the hug, the giggles, the 'thanks Mum'. We were back. She was back.

Pick me up, put me down, feed me, play with me, tickle me, watch me, watch me, YOU'RE NOT WATCHING ME.

Now go away.

To wrap or unwrap, hold her upright with her cheek to yours, she likes it if you rub her back. Take the teething ring with the fish. The book with the elephants. Don't forget to put the strawberries in her lunch, she loves them. Three books tonight, okay, but just one more. Have you asked her Mummy if she can sleep over? You can watch the movie if you've read the book. Ears pierced? Who has a telephone? Flute or trombone? I am not going to drop you at a mall.

The questions continue, their impact more frightening. Deep breaths, you can do this, walk outside count to ten. Begin again. It all has to be done with words now, no more teething rings or favourite toys, it's conversations, knowing when to back off and when to step forward.

Although everything is different it continues to come from the same place. I held her tight, we were cheek to cheek while I rubbed her back. "Today was a really shitty day, next time we should maybe try this?"

We're both learning, amateurs trying to look like we know what we're doing. Deep breaths, walk outside, count to ten. Try again.

4 kids, 20 suitcases and a beagle...and Kimmy the cocker spaniel

2013-05-01T06:20:00.003+09:30

Like many women her age, the beagle has begun to experience some, erm, delicate women's issues. What was once a small problem, has recently become a number of small problems (and a lot of washing). One of the issues with being a scent loving hound, is that the beagle consistently returns to the scene of the crime to repeat the offence. Carpets were washed, beds aired, snouts rubbed and vets visited. Nothing worked. It wasn't her fault, there was no controlling it. Finally, it was time to admit defeat.

We needed to change the sleeping arrangements.

The beagle was surprisingly good with the new rules. Although she no longer had a free run of the house, she was the new master of her favourite room, the kitchen. She had constant access to the backyard and both eyes on the refrigerator door at all times. We moved her bed and quickly realized that the kitchen is by far the busiest room, it was perfect. There she was, right in the middle of the action. The only time it got quiet, was at night.

When I first heard her crying I thought someone had left the television on. It wasn't a whimper, it was a howl. A howl could you leave me howl. In between dog sobs she tried her very hardest to form words, words from deep in her soul. Words that sounded like "I'm dying down here" and "you'll all pay for this" or "you've broken my beagle heart".

I told/asked G the next morning.

"Did you hear the beagle last night?"

His blank look provided the answer. It appeared that beagles were like babies, they couldn't be heard between the hours of 10pm and 4am.

"She was so sad, she was calling out to us, we can't leave her there."

"Just give it a couple of days, she'll be fine." And then out it came. The predictable, the obvious, the unspoken you need to harden up - "she's a dog."

I thought about it for a moment.

"I think she needs a buddy"

It was one of those moments where I knew right there and then that G truly believed he'd accidentally married the most ridiculously impractical woman on the planet. He had the are you freaking serious look.

"Another dog? You seriously believe the solution is ANOTHER dog?"

"Yes, I think she's lonely. I don't think we should get a puppy though. We need an older dog, a dog about the same size as the beagle. A dog who's trained, loves kids and is old enough to just hang."

The very next day, Kimmy the cocker spaniel arrived in my inbox. Ten years old, seriously cute, loves kids, has never been an upstairs dog. It was like she'd dropped down from beagle heaven. This was a sign. It was meant to be.

I forwarded the picture to G.

Subject: This is Kimmy the Cocker Spaniel. She is 10 years old and needs a home.
Reply: What's wrong with her?

Are there any other unrealistic optimists married to cynical straight thinkers out there? Are you exhausted?

When he came home from work that night G agreed that Kimmy was cute. He agreed that Kimmy was perfect. He agreed that Kimmy had appeared to have arrived at a very opportune time.

When we went to bed, we agreed it would be a good idea to meet Kimmy, just to see how her and the beagle got on.

And then, it happened. The beagle started crying.

I saw G's face change. Kimmy was going to have to have a personality like Cujo for us to knock her back.

When Kimmy arrived today there was more sniffing than the toilet cubicle at a bankers Christmas party. The beagle was initially confused, which quickly moved to indignation, then graduated to a small amount of interest. And now, close to midnight, after terrorizing a succession of cats with her new best friend, they are sleeping nose to nose in the kitchen.

The beagle now has something we all need, a friend.

When The Plane Descends To Land...

2013-04-30T15:21:00.000+09:30

The frangipani in my back yard this morning.

It should be stinking hot here right now. This is usually the time when friends begin posting photos of car temperature gauges to share.

"How about that heat".

"It's hot all right."

"Hot enough for ya?"

Except it's not.

It's muggy, it's a little grey, and for the past few days we have had sprinkles of rain. Rain! We're lucky to get five days of rain in a year.

I walked outside this morning and saw all the tiny little drops on flowers. Flowers that would normally be scorched and desperate for a drink.

The first little traveller and I got lost last night. We were driving aimlessly looking for a landmark when she reminded me of all the calls I used to make to G when we first arrived. "Umm, I'm not sure where I am exactly, but there's a mosque in front of me and a vacant lot next to a housing compound on my right."

When we first moved here we'd get lost all the time. I'd head out to weird locations in search of something I'd either heard or read about. I read the guide books, looked in Time Out for what was on. I hardly ever do that anymore.

When we eventually found our way home we drove past the convention centre, I thought about Kevin Spacey in Richard III. I was third in line for those tickets. That was when I pushed myself a little more to find out about what was on and how to get there.

After three years in Qatar I've recently felt the itch and subsequently dropped into the funk. The funk that begins with a holiday away that just didn't feel long enough. The funk that looks longingly for what you've left behind. The funk that entertains the idea that maybe, just maybe we could. What? Go home? Move somewhere else?

I sat across the table from a South Australian politician the other night at dinner, a group of delegates were visiting Qatar. We talked of communities, schools, suburbs, the Middle East, South Australia. The guy next to me explained his life in the Adelaide hills and why he couldn't imagine anywhere better to live. He felt it was home.

"I'm not originally from Adelaide but when the plane descends to land - I get a feeling of home."

I know that feeling. I've descended often, but it's not always the same home. I get that feeling when we land in Melbourne on our way home from Qatar. When you're overseas every piece of Australia becomes home - not just one.

I definitely get the feeling of home in Calgary. When I landed in Jakarta in February I felt that I was meant to stay, that Asia was where I belonged. Adelaide is home. Port Willunga has recently become the destination that holds a sizable chunk of my heart, something G and I have agreed we can never let go. And Renmark - well Renmark holds my soul, it's who I am. It was my first, home.

Another guest offered the formula to knowing where home was. "It's where you'd like to die."

Without thought I jumped in "No, it's where you'd like to have your ashes spread."

I could die anywhere.

"So where would you spread your ashes?"

And that's when I realized why there would always be a funk. A question. A dilemma.

"I think I'd have to have them spread in a few places...."

I haven't been fair on Qatar lately. It has so much to offer and I've stuck with the same formula. The school run, dinner with friends, a trip for an ice-cream, a swim on the weekend. There is so much going on here and I've stayed in my comfort zone.

It's not meant to rain at this time of year. There's still surprises to be found. It's time to get lost.

The Super Busy Mummy Blogger Interview

2013-04-29T20:11:00.001+09:30

We all know that when it comes to women who blog, there's really only two types. And they're both crap. By special request. Here she is again.

Anyone else get sick of being asked "What's for dinner?"

What do you say?

Block, Delete, Deny.

2013-04-28T19:24:00.003+09:30

There's a meme. One of those boxes with an almost vintage looking picture that appears in your Facebook feed. I wish I could remember the exact words. And I have no idea where to find it. Where do old memes go to die?

It says something like this:

"Remember the old days? When you cooked a meal, took a photo, and then raced to have the film developed so you could take the photographs to your friends' house and show them what you had for dinner last night? Me neither. So stop doing it."

I'll admit it. I physically lol'd (I didn't tell them though, I mean who lol's out loud these days?) I “liked” it. I didn't go as far as a PMSL or a ROFL, nor did I announce that it was amazeballs, but I liked it - *smugly* with *feelings* that I then put in *asterisks*.

It was the perfect explanation of how ludicrous we have become. Taking photos of our food to "share" without actually feeding anyone. Or "liking" the story of the disabled child without offering assistance. Or offering our "hopes and prayers" to the latest victims of crime - but not thinking to donate blood. I get it. We're all vacuous imbeciles who click our guilt away.

Except I really want to see your food.

I really do. I love the Instagram shot of the crockenbouche, or the home made attempt at the dolly vardon cake. I love the dessert that arrived at the table and made everyone gasp. And it goes further than that. If you want to post ten pictures of you and your kids at the park, I'm totally cool with that. The sports day, the first hockey uniform, the trip to the country, none of these events will offend me in any way. We're friends, right? Doesn't it make sense that I'd want to catch up?

Or is that the issue? Did you accidentally get a little bit too friendly? After chatting to Bob from Accounting's wife at the Christmas party you somehow became "friends". But you're not. You're not friends at all - and you don't care so much about her crockenbouche - or her trips to the park. You don't really want to be friends with her.

Are Facebook, Instagram and Twitter to blame for this overload of personal information? Maybe. Or maybe we've been doing it for ages, just a little more quietly.

Which came first? The roast chicken or the Instagram? A girlfriend of mine went on a six month holiday to multiple destinations in 2003 – it was then, pre Facebook and Instagram that she began taking photos of her food. At the time I thought it was an ingenious way to record travel memories. I'd never thought to take a shot of the Soto Ayam in Indonesia or the Beef Rendang in Malaysia. I had plenty of photos of our old house but none of the yellow tent, a restaurant (it was a tent in the middle of a carpark) that G and I frequented for lunch. A place we still talk about because of its uniqueness and authenticity. A scoop of rice, a drizzle of curry sauce and a lot of stray cats – I still miss that place.

"I'm beginning to hate my friends on Facebook" a girlfriend declared. "It's all bragging and oversharing".

I immediately thought of past comments of little travellers making basketball teams, and the posts I'd written about my dodgy diverticulum. If there was a show of hands on who had overshared, I'd be holding up two hands, and in one of those hands they'd be a diagram of my foofy. I think it's been a least three weeks since I've shared a story about my urethra?

"Am I on that list?" I asked.

"Don't be stupid, I really like you. I care about you. It's the people I don't care about that drive me nuts."

It was time for her to either delete, block or deny.

I understand that it's annoying when someone feels the need to tell you that the coffee they bought this morning was too hot to carry to the car. You might want to consider the block. And when they update five minutes later that they think they might have a sandwich for lunch, or perhaps a bagel, it's definitely time to "hide". But if they stopped and took a photo of the barista's handywork and the froth happened to be in the change shape of a penis – well, there's a friend to keep. Someone who makes you smile.

You can only overshare if someone's listening. Block, delete, deny. You get to choose.

Jackpot

2013-04-26T19:37:00.000+09:30

It was Canasta in Jakarta. Bunco in KL. Book group in Libya and again in Canada. In Houston we painted ceramics while drinking wine. They were all excuses for women to gather and form friendships over a wine and a laugh.

I was so rude when Bunco was suggested, it seemed so Stepford wives, so uncool. I went along unwillingly. I sat at a table with strangers, we made introductions, talked of past lives in past countries.

"You can score" said the American woman at our table trying to find a new home for the paper and pencil in front of her.

"No, I'm terrible with numbers" replied the woman in the Sari as she pushed it back towards her.

"I thought you just said you were an Accountant?" She'd mentioned it in her introduction.

"I didn't say I was a good one" she winked back.

The table errupted in laughter, part nerves, part hysterics.

It wasn't about the bunco, the bunco was the mortor that slipped in between the bricks of the friendships that were built. In the beginning it filled the awkward silences, by the end it interrupted a good conversation.

In Houston I turned up my nose to the idea of women sitting around painting ceramics. "I don't have an artistic bone in my body" I protested. That was before I polished off three glasses of wine while enthusiastically painting a cow print on my new butter dish. I love that butter dish.

In Qatar it's bingo.

"You're not really going to bingo?" that's when you know you're really uncool - when even your mother can't believe that you're off to bingo on a Monday night.

It was round two. As we stood in a girlfriend's lounge room, bingo cards in hand and all focussed on our numbers - I began to get the giggles at the absurdity. "Sit down when your number's called - last one standing is the winner". Am I really doing this? It all felt so peculiar. And then the giggles began to flow, as did the wine.

Years ago my mother and I went to bingo for a fundraiser. I was home from boarding school, young and with words constantly spilling out of my mouth. When they called "69 - anyway round" I giggled and said a little too loudly to my mother "that's a bit rude!"

She kept a straight face amongst our table of women who were all well into their sixties and calmly pointed out "No, no it's not."

Oopsy daisy. No it's not.

This past week at bingo as the night went on and the wine disappeared, I recounted my story. A Scottish woman gave me a wink and called "69 - dinner for two with a terrible view".

The room erupted with giggles.

Jackpot.

Right and Wrong. How we travelled.

2013-04-25T02:26:00.001+09:30

I don't want to jinx it, but I think I've learnt how to pack a suitcase. For the very first time I managed to go away without needing to duck into a shop for a new toothbrush or a pair of socks. It's only taken twelve years, but I reckon I might have cracked it!

There were a few things I would have done differently in our travels though. And in keeping with the over-sharing theme of this blog, I thought I'd write a little list.

Things we got right.

We flew with KLM.

KLM you were fantastic. The plane ran on time and your plane was clean. But best of all, you were cheap. You were unbelievably cheap! If it wasn't for you and your cheap flights we wouldn't have gone to Paris - so thank you for that.

Oh and the best thing about flying with KLM, if you're around my age, you won't be able to get THIS song out of your head. KLF, KLM, it all sounds the same after the drinks trolley has made its way past you for the third time. Ahhhhh bound for Mu Mu land.

What we also did right.

MORE THAN ONE BACKPACK

We took two lightweight backpacks. This meant we had somewhere to stash water, bagels, ham and a bottle of wine. Having two meant that we could balance out the weight and departmentalize a bit more. The third little traveller was happy to carry one of the backpacks as he had his eye on it for future use (possession being nine tenths of the law). Carrying food and water meant we weren't held captive to stopping in expensive restaurants. Apples were often suggested when people complained of being starving. Amazing how kids can be starving for nutella crepes and not apples. I think the medical term is Selective Starvation.

MORE THAN ONE UMBRELLA

We packed two umbrellas. I probably would have only packed one, but G was on to it. Two meant that both G and I had one to hold. Much better than one umbrella and six bodies to fit underneath it.

PACKING SMALL ON THE BIG THINGS, AND BIG ON THE SMALL THINGS

2 shirts, 2 pair of jeans, 2 hoodies, 2 t-shirts, eleven hundred pairs of socks and jocks. This is what I've learnt. You can wear yesterday's dirty t-shirt but if you can't find a pair of socks - life will be miserable. I packed multiple spencers and singlets to keep the kids warm.

Things we did wrong.

CONNECTIVITY

We'd read something about there being a Relay shop in the airport and figured we'd pick up a SIM card there. When they didn't have any and weren't particularly helpful in suggesting where we could go to fix our problem, we were a little stuck. We had plans on using the ipad to find our way to where we were staying, so those plans were quickly squashed. We ended up finding an Orange when we went into Paris that afternoon. It was no biggie but it was a reminder to have a backup plan.

WEATHER

We were going in school holidays so our dates weren't flexible, but early April is a bit dodgy in Europe. If you're thinking of a trip, try and push it back to the end of April. The weather in Paris right now is superb. We had hats, gloves and three layers of clothes but travel is harder when it's cold and wet. What's really hard though - is travel when it hails! Particularly if you're driving in peak hour traffic on a Friday afternoon with a head cold and a grumpy husband who's angry with the GPS.

Who's having fun?

SUGGESTIONS

If you're travelling with small children, think about some sort of laminated card or bracelet with your contact details on it. Last year I wrote out our name and contact number on a piece of paper that went into the kids pockets. If my guys were smaller I might want to get something that was more of a bracelet (think hospital ID), the piece of paper inevitably goes through the wash.

Perhaps also take a picture of the kids each morning as you leave, if they're lost it'll make it much easier to track them down if you can remember what colour hoodie they had on that day.

Take your own corkscrew and pate knife. We had to borrow.

Take a photo/screen shot on your iPad or phone of the map you'll be using that day. Then if your connectivity goes down it won't matter.

If your heading into dodgy weather, think about a plastic poncho. We hopped on one of those tour busses on the very first day and the second little traveller and I eyed off the "free" ponchos. G was horrified at the idea of wearing "a human condom" around Paris and suggested we could do without.

He was even more horrified when he had to fork out 10 EUR per poncho in Disneyland when it was raining sideways and the umbrellas were deemed useless.

Travel lessons. Providing beautiful yet passive aggressive ways to say "I told you so" to your partner for the next twenty years together.

The Fruits Of My Loins Have Gone Rotten.

2013-04-23T21:57:00.001+09:30

On the day before we flew out to Paris, we headed to the shops to pick up a few last minute things. It was the usual scenario before catching an international flight: packing to be done, balancing feeding a family versus not leaving food to go off in the fridge. Things kept popping up in my head - he needs shoes, we need a new backpack. Did I check the visas? Did I tell the guitar teacher we were going away?

I love that moment when you finally get on the plane. What's done is done. Officially on holidays and eyeing off the drinks trolley. The part before that? The twenty four hours where you inevitably end up scrambling around like the proverbial headless chicken. I'm not a fan of those twenty four hours.

In the midst of the madness G and I ducked into a sports store to find a backpack, we left the little travellers by the front door with clear instructions "watch the shopping trolley".

Two minutes later I looked out of the shop window and saw this.

Shopping trolley? What shopping trolley? Sorry we're a bit busy slapping the crap out of each other in the crowded shopping centre.

They were feral. Completely hyped on a mix of no school for the next nine days and Disneyland in their immediate future, they measured a 9.9 on the revolting child richter scale. G and I did what any self respecting parent would do, shook our heads in disgust while looking around for their parents.

We had an agreement in Paris. Before we left the house each morning everyone had to help in getting everything tidy. We were staying at a friends house and the little travellers were learning a lesson in respecting other people's property. Each morning the carpet under the table was vacuumed, the dishwasher was packed. Everyone quickly learned which bin was for what, beds were made, tables wiped down, and bathtubs rinsed.

There was nagging. At one stage after breaking up a fight over who should pick the kleenex up off the ground, G completely lost his shit. "FOR GOD'S SAKE SOMEONE JUST PICK IT UP!!!"

I was getting dressed when G walked into the bedroom and said "The fruits of my loins have turned rotten."

We both laughed.

We've all been there right? When you can't believe that your angelic, beautiful child is performing a fabulous impression of Sean Penn in a paparazzi scrum.

Each day we chip away at the rules. Say hello to the adults when you walk into a room. Make your bed before you come downstairs. Don't whine. Be grateful. Today after a reasonably revolting exchange in the car over where we should get our lunch from - a TREAT that we have every Tuesday on our half day, I heard one too many moany suggestions. Someone grunted at me without raising their head from their book.

"That's it, you can all bugger off, we're going home for vegemite sandwiches."

It's a work in process. For both me and them.

Parenting challenges? What's your biggest?

She Stacked Her Soap Boxes

2013-04-22T13:44:00.001+09:30

She collected her soap boxes and began to stack them on top of each other. She needed them to be able to climb up to reach her horse, as it was up very high. She climbed up and stroked its enormous head. His name was Judgement.

As she looked out across the sea of anonymous faces in her online community, she made herself comfortable in Judgement's saddle.

"I'm going to tell you all my opinion" she called out across the Twitter forecourt while looking down at them all from her horse. "Gather around". And they did. For she was smart and witty, she had years of experience and knowledge to share. They'd all followed her after seeing her on the telly and reading her books.

"It's the blue people" she said "the blue people always think this way. All blue people are not to be trusted, they are all exactly the same" she planted her hands firmly on her hips. The crowd cheered.

"And the red people are being forgotten." The crowd nodded in agreement. She was right. It was unfair, things needed to change. They all agreed. They all felt the same way.

And then she said it again. And again. And again. And again and again and again. She was an expert in staying "on message" she knew how to sell an idea. And what had begun as a noble cause was now becoming a mantra.

Slowly, she began to surround herself with blue haters. They whispered in her ears and she repeated their thoughts loudly and often, to everyone. When the blue people responded with questions she became personal. "Go back to your blue house and hang out with all your blue mates" she spat at them.

"You know what the problem with blue people is?" they had a feeling she was going to tell them. "They think they're too good for us red people. They don't want to hang out with us."

A few people began to scratch their heads. Was it really that simple? Was that all there was to it? Were all the blue people exactly the same? They'd noticed blue people at the pub, on the bus, and helping out at the homeless shelter. Surely all blue people weren't exactly the same.

And nobody dared mention the others. Until now.

"But what about the green people?" someone whispered, they'd become too scared to ask out loud. They'd seen the woman rear up and gallop over the people who had green thoughts in the past.

"There are no green people it's simply red or blue!" she needed her army to be one colour.

"But what about if you're living in a mixed coloured household?" a man called out from behind the tree, his green tinge was camouflaged by the foliage. "It's just not that simple for all of us."

She immediately picked up an axe and threw it at his head. She wanted him silenced. How dare he question her? She looked for another soap box, a higher horse.

And that's when he realised he needed to find another forecourt, he backed away slowly. He unfollowed, deleted and left the group.

With her voice blocked, he discovered the heavenly silence, the ability to think in peace.

It wasn't always red or blue, sometimes it was different shades of green.

The Possibility of Pregnancy

2013-04-21T19:11:00.004+09:30

It began back in January, on the way back to Qatar. The first and second traveller had control over their movie choices on the plane. I was sitting too far away to notice that Pitch Perfect was playing through their headphones and filling up their screens. That was the beginning of the cups. By the following week they were practicing constantly. Flipping, clapping, clicking.

When I'm gone, when I'm gone. You're gunna miss me when I'm gone.

::

The fourth little traveller was plotting with a friend. Their voices were hushed but I knew what was coming. They were trying to organize a sleepover.

"Can we have a sleepover tonight?" Their two little faces looked up at me like puppies scratching at the back door. Tails were wagging. It was 9.00 a.m. Nothing like a bit of forward planning.

"Sure, whose house?" The fourth traveller is yet to sleep away from home (without us) so I was interested to hear the answer.

"We'll do it here, cause I don't want to sleep at anyone else's house until I'm about thirty."

When I'm gone, when I'm gone. You're gunna miss me when I'm gone.

::

I met a friend's parents this morning. They've been visiting for a few weeks.

"Have you enjoyed your stay?" I asked before thinking of the obvious. "I guess it's all about the grandchildren."

They both smiled.

"It's just nice to be able to hold them. Just to touch them. I go home in a few days."

When I'm gone, when I'm gone. You're gunna miss me when I'm gone.

::

The second little traveller has three birthday party invitations that need an RSVP. "You haven't done this yet. You need to do this today" she says while pushing the invitations into my already full hands. "And we need band-aids, you need to add band-aids to the shopping list."

I hand her the pen so she can go and add it herself, and begin to hum to myself.

When I'm gone, when I'm gone. You're gunna miss me when I'm gone.

She smiles.

::

G and I caught up with friends who are weeks away from having their third baby. He is genuinely excited about baby number three and she looks truly radiant. I know people say that about pregnant people, but she really does. I love the emotion that comes with pregnancy. The anticipation, the excitement, the slight trepidation. New life brings new rhythms, new hope. It changes everything. Two little boys will soon have a sister, they will possibly never remember what life was like without her.

I'm not sure if there is anything else in the world that brings the same emotion as a new baby. Ultrasounds, maternity ward tours and last visits to the doctor before the big day. Even when you know what's coming it's all still one big delicious surprise. The possibility of pregnancy.

When I'm gone, when I'm gone. You're gunna miss me when I'm gone.