4 kids, 20 suitcases and a beagle

Get a Job.

2012-02-24T01:28:00.001-08:00

In my twenties I sheepishly returned to my hometown with my tail between my legs, I'd dropped out of University and really didn't have anywhere else to go. My parents were not particularly impressed with my return, don't get me wrong - they were always happy to have me home but even I was getting a little sick of myself. I was big on ideas, sporadic with execution and dismal at completion. After finishing school I'd wandered from job to job, course to course. It was an exhausting way to live. Probably more so for my parents than for me.

It was made very clear to me upon my return that I needed to go and get a job. Any job. Just get one. I'd worked in various professional offices with a background in HR and Industrial Relations, but in my hometown of eight thousand people these jobs were non existent. Good jobs were held on to, only a fool would let a decent position in a comfortable office slip through their fingers.

I put my name down at various fruit packing/distributing companies and within a week or two I was working. Nepotism worked in my favour, my sister was reliable and hard working at the local fruit co-operative, my father was the Managing Director. I'm sure there were a few giggles when my application made its way through the office. All those dollars spent on a private school education and here I was desperate for a job sorting mice out of apricots or hunched over, packing oranges in to a box.

Every day was the same, make sure your walkman (remember those) was charged, put your apron on and try not to get too sea sick as the fruit whizzed by. The noise was deafening, it was dark and damp. A quality control inspector sat at the end of the line looking at what was going through to be packed, there was pressure to move quickly, keep your eye on the ball. If you didn't move fast enough you let everyone down and it was obvious when you couldn't keep up. I had a continual feeling of dread that I wasn't any good at the job. If I couldn't do this. What could I do?

When the suits from the city came to talk of enterprise bargaining and spoke about our careers, we stifled giggles. No one was there for the job satisfaction, no one was there by choice, we all needed to be there, there was no alternative. It wasn't a career, it was a job. You clocked in. You clocked out. It didn't mean we didn't have some fun in the process.

At lunch we'd sit at laminated tables on uncomfortable chairs and talk about what we'd do if we won the lottery. When we'd exhausted that conversation it moved to the mundane. The factory was full of women, there were a couple of token men thrown in to work on the machinery and help with the heavy lifting. People talked about wanting to buy a house and struggling to get a deposit together. Those that did have a house spoke of the struggle to pay the mortgage, feed kids and maybe go on a family holiday to the city or the Gold Coast.

We talked about the footy, the weather, the Union rep and the local gossip around town. There were lots of jokes, lots of laughs.

I look back at that time of my life and realize how much it changed me. In particular it was a time that I got to spend with my sister. As I sit here typing from my desert surroundings, it's hard to imagine that there was once a time where we worked in the same town, in the same building. If I knew how much our lives would change it's possible I would have greeted her with a hug each morning, cherished it all a little bit more. In a few years I would be gone, back to the city and eventually out of the country.

When I was packing oranges I was physically exhausted. At age 24 I would come home and fall asleep in the bath at the end of the day. My back hurt from standing hunched in the same position. In the winter I seemed to constantly have a cold. I stood next to women in their forties and fifties that were faster and stronger than I was. I often wonder if it was just because they had more at stake - a house, children, a dream of retirement.

I wonder what the conversation would have been this week in my hometown when a certain Australian politician flew all the way to Washington only to then resign from his role. Maybe they wondered what it was like to fly to Washington for work? Maybe they wondered about what he was actually meant to be doing while he was there? Or maybe they just thought you'd have to be a bloody fool to give up a job like that.

This week I've been surprised by how many people have spelt Labor as Labour. I'm not sure the two have anything in common.

* For those outside of Australia here's a link for some background.

Anyone else as tired as I am with the current state of Australian politics?

The Field Trip

2012-02-21T10:57:00.000-08:00

In my early years of parenting I went on every field/class trip, I was new to the game - or as my Kindergarten teacher girlfriend once said "fresh meat". I thought a trip to the zoo with forty or so, five year olds sounded like fun - a chance to connect with my child and her new friends. I pictured it as an opportunity to get to know the teachers and other parents, and maybe gain an insight into my child's life away from home. Does that really sound as tragic as what I think it does?

On my first class trip I distinctly remember boarding the yellow bus and giggling at the deja vu moments the setting was capturing. There was a lot of excitement. A little bit of giggling, a bit of squealing. After a further 10 minutes on the bus, when we'd hit the road with forty children, I realized that maybe I'd overlooked a few things. Things like the total lack of suspension a big yellow 1970's school bus provides and the noise that forty screaming children can create.

And then you arrive.

There's a format to class trips. Initially it begins with an immediate scramble, particularly when little people are given a target of finding two giraffes that happen to be located three kilometers ahead of you. You will hit the ground running while calling out "boy in the green shirt STOP, boy in the green shirt STOP". Don't feel bad about not knowing his name, at some stage you and he will have plenty of time to exchange details, it will be either when you're wiping the blood off of his shirt after the I saw the zebra first give me the pencil incident or perhaps while you're both stuck in the fire exit of the Art Gallery (true story).

Of course not every field trip is open air, maybe you'll visit the police or fire station. On one of these occasions you may be lucky enough to become the mother who gets pushed forward to wear the fireman's outfit after no one else puts their hand up. It's an opportunity to provide great hilarity for both teachers, students, and the entire division of your local fire department when your arse doesn't fit into Fireman Sam's overalls. Soggy sandwich anyone?

I know I probably sound a little jaded, but four children at school has provided me with a lot of bus rides, zoo visits, science fairs and ten pin bowling shoes to lace.

However, today as I made my way to the fourth little travellers field trip it occurred to me that this was possibly my very last Kindergarten Field trip. All of a sudden my feelings of dread moved to nostalgia - and as sure as motherhood schizophrenia exists, melancholy joined me on my shoulder.

If it's true we should live each day as if its our last - it's also possible the same rule applies to field trips. I really loved today. Henry Hotdog tells me it was the bestest day of his life. As I began to type today's post he was sitting next to me asking what I was going to write and asked if he could "have my blog to talk".

I am about to type word for word, from the mouth of the 4th little traveler, here he is:

Today was the best Tuesday ever! It was my first ever field trip in my life. We went to Katara and Mrs H gave us a list of buildings and things we had to find. We did it super fast because we looked so good.

The best thing we found was the Golden Mosque because it was Golden. The second best thing was finding the biggest door in the whole wide world - it went into the amphitheater which I thought was called the echotheatre.

The blog is finished now. Mum you don't have to write that. Mum, stop writing. You are sooooooo not funny.

Live each field trip as though it's your last.

And take your own vehicle.

The Rise of The Expat Mummy Blogger

2012-02-20T07:08:00.000-08:00

In my first few weeks of blogging I wrote solely to tell stories of our experience moving to Doha. I then shared those posts (while cringing at the grammatical errors) on my Facebook page with family and friends.

I figured that was what a blog was for, kind of like having your own web page. I also thought it killed all of those group emails that I'd sent over the years. Remember receiving an email from cousin Tom with photos of the new baby that took an hour to download? There's the baby's nose, there's the baby's mouth... I've been cousin Tom once or twice.

I'm not sure how it all pieced together, I imagine I probably googled "expat blog", but eventually I began reading other blogs and realized there was a whole lot of chatter out there on the internet. The way I wrote began to change, the stories moved from right now to last year, to last decade.

Expat Explorer posted a link the other day titled "The Rise of the Expat Mummy Blogger" - it's possible that I squealed out loud when I saw my picture pop up on the screen, but as I made my way down the list it just got better and better.

Over the past 18 months of blogging I've read/commented/spoken to a lot of the people listed. People I class as good friends, people I genuinely care about. I know that's hard to understand but through reading their blogs I've witnesses their ups and downs and frustrations with making a move abroad. Some of the women listed below are traveling spouses, some are women who fell in love while traveling and some are women who just picked up and relocated one day. We may have all arrived at our expat destination in a different format but the the font is pretty much the same.

Here's a link to Expat Explorer.

And here's the post.

The Rise of the Expat Mummy Blogger

Yesterday in The London Evening Standard there was an incrediblearticle about exercise shorts that help you lose weight. Zaggora HotPants have been on the market for just six months and their revenues are set to hit a staggering £10 million this year! With no advertising budget, Dessislava Bell, creator of the HotPants, attributes this amazing success to sending out a free pair of the shorts to each of 500 bloggers, many of whom where Mummy Bloggers.

From The Evening Standard

But where did these Mummy Bloggers come from? Dave Lee and Snezana Curcic, BBC World Service Reporters, say that, “For the mums, they provide a discussion and support network”.

Clearly, if this is the main reason for blogging, this can only be amplified for Mummy Bloggers living abroad where a support network may not be immediately underneath them in their expat posting. Writing a blog can be a way of connecting with people in a similar situation, although may not be in a similar geographical location.

So to celebrate all the wonderful Expat Mummy Blogs out there Expat Explorer has compiled an A-Z of the Top Ten Expat Mummy Bloggers.

4 kids, 20 suitcases and a beagle

In her own words: Kirsty is an Australian writer and Blogger currently living in Qatar. After calling 7 countries home over the past 11 years she's embarrassed to admit she still can't pack a suitcase properly. Kirsty is currently writing a book about having 4 children in 4 different countries while trying to remember her new telephone number and where she packed the can opener. You can catch Kirsty on twitter @shamozal

Bringing Up Brits

In her own words: Meghan Fenn is an American expat and mother who has lived in England since 1999. After graduating from university with a BA in English and Art, she became an English teacher and lived and worked in Prague for two years and then in Tokyo for two and a half years. She moved to England to complete her Masters degree in Design Studies and then worked as a web designer at a company in Nottinghamshire. After being made redundant whilst pregnant with her 2nd child, she set up her own web and graphic design company, White Ochre Design Ltd.

Meghan currently lives on the Southeast coast of England, is married to an English man and has 3 young children, all born in the UK.

Bringing Up Brits is her first book and she is currently working on another book about raising a family around a business (and vice versa!).

Dubai’s Desperate Housewife

In her own words: Dubai’s Desperate Housewife has lived in Dubai for 11 years. She quit her high-flying job to be a full-time mum to a 4-year-old and a small baby – something she wrestles with every day. Although she loves being there for her kids, she lives a parallel life in her head; one where her career continued its upward trajectory and her days are not spent on the school run and dangling rattles for a baby to swat.

Expat Mum

In her own words: Quite simply I'm a Brit who was whisked off by a knight in shining armour (well, an accountant) to live in the USA some twenty years ago. We now have three kiddy-winkies and a mutt with selective hearing.

My days are filled with writing for various things on the web (see next tab), finishing another book, running a charitable organisation to fund a school in Ghana, and of course, being a devoted wife and mother to my adorable family. (That would be British sarcasm in case anyone's now a little confused.)

I was brought up in the northeast of England (God's own country), went to university in Bristol and worked for the rest of the 80's in London. When I first moved to the States, I lived in Dallas, but the rest of the time has been spent trying to come to terms with the oppressively hot summers and unbearably frigid winters of Chicago.

Happy Homemaker UK

In her own words: Follow my journey as it unfolds as an American mom living in England. Often featuring local locations and tidbits, I love photography & a good story.

Note from Lapland

In her own words: Note From Lapland is where I write about whatever the hell is on my mind, whether that’s Finnish supermarkets selling vibrators or more serious posts about dealing with life after children and discovering who you are but hopefully always in an entertaining manner. I swear, I rant and rave, I make you laugh and hopefully also make you think.

Mommy has a Headache

In her own words: Who am I? Displaced Londoner now living in the States with my two little girlies and long suffering husband. Co-author of hilarious parenting book Cocktails at Naptimewww.cocktailsatnaptime.com My mom's an Austrian, my dad's a Brit, which makes me a Britaustrian, or possibly an Austrish?

The American Resident

In her own words: The American Resident is written by Michelle Garrett, an American expat making a home in Britain for over 20 years.

I am a freelance writer who enjoys being creative in an interactive way during my free time. That’s why, besides blogging, I also love cooking, gardening and hosting parties–all creativity enhanced by interaction with others. Sharing makes most things more fun.

As a freelance writer and professional blogger I have written for magazines, websites and larger projects. I am currently working on two eGuides for expats.

If you’re curious about my back story, click here: How I Got Where I am Today

If you would like one cool fact about me: I can do that thing where you run up to a chair, stand on it with one foot on the seat and one on the back, and slowly tip it over. Can you?

The New Diplomat’s Wife

In her own words: The plan was to become a diplomat myself, but I somehow ended up marrying one instead. We started out as a duet and recently became a trio, just to spice up the spirit of adventure. Previous post: Vienna, Austria Current post: Washington, DC

Vegemite Vix

In her own words: Well not all about me obviously, this is the internet.

I moved with my three kids, my dog, cat, a guitar and twenty boxes of books, from New Zealand to North Hampshire in the UK in August 2008. Why in God’s name did I swap beautiful beaches for Blighty, pavlova for pork pies and sand, surf, sun for …. snow… and sleet…

You’d be surprised how often I’m asked that question, but in truth, I did it for lots of reasons – work opportunities, opportunities for my kids, but mainly for the love of my Englishman this crazy man I met and fell in love with in Paris in June 2007.

This is the story of our experiences, of our brave adventure. Sometimes they’re funny, sometimes they’re sad, but always – at least I hope so – meaningful.

This is our story about how to really live – wet-paint-on-your-fingers-live – in another country as an expat, a long way from the places, the people and the land you call home.

And a final word for any aspiring bloggers out there (expat, mummy or other), here are 25 Top Tips for Bloggers from Expat Mummy Blogger, The American Resident, Michelle Garrett.

Are you an Expat Mummy Blogger? Get in touch and share your blog, tell us why you love blogging!

The Other Stuff

2012-02-18T15:36:00.000-08:00

Our house in Libya was one of my favourites. Sure, it had a resident rat living in the clothes dryer pipe, a very inconsistent electricity source and random pipes that would burst causing water to inexplicably shoot through a wall at any given hour of the day - but I loved that house. A lot happened in that house.

When our shipment arrived in Tripoli it was a mess. It appeared that the container had been opened by customs, searched and then squashed back in sideways. Chairs were broken, picture frames smashed and ornaments misplaced. For months we'd find ourselves remembering something that was no longer with us "where's the silver teapot from KL?" And then we'd realize it didn't make it.

As the furniture made its way off the truck and was carried in to the house, even in its disheveled state, I automatically felt like we were settling. I think it's a natural thing when you're traveling, as soon as that container/shipment arrives there's a feeling of calm. Photos are placed on mantles, clocks on walls, beds are made with familiar sheets. The change table and cot that were in Jakarta and then in KL were now in Libya, it was familiar - it was going to be okay.

The minute the dining table was up we began entertaining. I taught myself how to bake and in between breastfeeding, toilet training and bum wiping I'd usually manage to coax a few extras into our lounge room each week. G and I learnt how to make our own alcohol, yes Mr Ghaddafi we did, and after working through some supply issues, soon enough we were having dinner parties and curry nights resulting in our house being known as the Australian Embassy.

When we moved to Canada, bought a house and became settled we began the routine again (minus the grog making). The children were tiny, we became experts at child friendly events, feeding little people on arrival and attempting an adult meal that usually resulted in at least one child being passed around as each of us finished a meal. In Houston we had a fairly constant stream of people either around the pool or at the dining table, we cooked ribs and G barbecued the side of the house, but that's another story for another time.

And then we came to Qatar. And we stopped entertaining.

When we moved here we came with a container full of flat packed IKEA furniture, it was all shiny and new and without the scuffs and memories of 10 years of travel it suddenly felt soulless. The other "stuff," the "stuff" that we scoured through furniture stores in Jakarta and picked up in markets in KL and discovered in the Souq in Tripoli was all sent back to Australia.

When the shipment came off the truck and was all assembled I looked around our house and said to G "it doesn't feel like our home". I wanted to sit at our dining table, I wanted to see the framed Libyan wedding jewellery and the big blue bowl that had been with us everywhere. I'm embarrassed to admit this, but when people came to the house I would find myself explaining what we'd left behind "we have this great dining room table, but it's back in Australia".

Really? Who cares?

I drove G crazy. Every time he'd suggest having a group over to dinner I'd say the house wasn't up to it. I found excuses, we didn't have the right table, we didn't have enough plates, when really the underlying problem was I wasn't house proud. Which is just dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Some of the prettiest houses are filled with the ugliest people.

We bought some new plates (I love my new pink plates, that's them up the top), some new cutlery and little bits and pieces, but more importantly I finally got over myself. Our house is just fine and I'm a tosser for thinking otherwise.

Last night we had ten people come over for dinner. In the afternoon G and I stood in the kitchen together and cooked, we argued over time constraints, did some passive aggressive mumbling and nearly divorced over entree plates, and then we sat down to a really fun evening. This morning we began planning the menu for next weekend and the weekend after.

I like the other stuff, but I can live without it.

The Slow Dance

2012-02-15T11:28:00.000-08:00

I can't remember who passed me the note, but its impact was similar to a swift blow to the stomach with a pick axe. "We don't want you to sit with us anymore" they'd all signed it. As I read the words the blood drained from my twelve year old face, I immediately felt ill. I quickly stuffed the note into my pocket, I wanted it to disappear. It was lunch time, where was I going to go? Who would I sit with? The dread sat in the bottom of my stomach, it grew with each second that passed, tick, tick, tick. I made my way to the library, I walked with purpose, like I had somewhere to be, people to see. I couldn't let anyone know I was alone, friendless. I needed a friend. Who was going to be my friend?

It was my turn to be to dumped. Next week it would be someone else's. I spent my time with a group of girls that turned note writing into a sport. Each week there was a new drama. Who had a bra? Who liked who? Which team did you get in to? Who would be the Captain. The wrong jeans, the right top. While standing in line to hand something to a teacher, one of the girls gestured to a boy lying on the floor reading a book "look how he's clinching his bum cheeks together" everyone giggled.

I fluctuated daily between kid and teen. One weekend I'd be riding my bike to the corner store to get an ice-cream, the next I was laying on a towel sunbathing at the local pool talking about boys. So much of what I did depended on who I was with. In the old language I would have been called immature, in this era I would be counseled, there would be conversations about providing me with the "necessary tools" to come up with "strategies"to make "smart choices".

It's not about mean girls, it's about a particular age and a particular time.

It doesn't matter how much we change the words, the lessons are still the same.

I picked up the first little traveller from the school dance last week, it's her second dance, she has the cutest sweetest friend that she goes with and I love LOVE the conversation in the back seat on the way home. The first time I picked them up they were giggling, I had to ask.

"OH MY GOD Mum! It was so funny! We were all dancing! And then the music changed! And a slow song came on! And then people started pairing up!"

All of this is told to me within fits of giggles.

"So, what did you do when people started pairing up?" It was one of those questions that I wasn't sure I wanted the answer to.

"WE JUST RAN!" they both said in unison.

This is the fun part, the part where you dress up, where you giggle and eat popcorn and have sleepovers and listen to the same song one hundred times in a row. And then you go to soccer practice and instead of just handing out coloured bibs to identify teams, someone yells out "can we pick our own teams?" And you find yourself standing alone, the last person to be chosen. Don't cry, don't cry.

Instead of telling me exactly what happened she complained about her lunch box. Later that night, when I asked again her bottom lip began to quiver. As she relayed the story, my eyes began to fill with tears, I didn't have any solutions. All I could say was "that's completely shit and I so wish you didn't have to have this happen to you." And then I told the truth. "It might happen again, it might happen next week, but this will make you stronger. Years later when you start work and you either do or don't get the promotion, you'll handle it that little bit better. You'll be tougher because of this." I'm not sure if she believed me.

This week they chose the teams on their own again. Her name came up early in the procedure. I walked by the field, pretending it was a coincidence, she was laughing with a friend and gave me an absentminded wave.

I've listened to "This American Life"in the snow, the swamp and the desert. I first discovered it in Canada. I'd get caught up in a show on a drive to the supermarket and end up having to sit in the car park for the next 30 minutes because I couldn't bear to miss the end of the story.

Here's their take on Middle School, if you have a child anywhere near the age of 11 onwards you have to listen to this. For those of you with younger children, this quote is for you;

"The terrible twelves are a complete analogue to the terrible twos, they're just not as cute"

Linda Pearlstein - Author of Not Much Just Chilling, the hidden lives of middle schoolers.

Take a listen:

Can you "take" a listen? Maybe have a listen?

I like it.

2012-02-13T15:03:00.001-08:00

The eldest little traveller is eleven. This means she has entered the world of the tween and is beginning to speak another language.

It's a language I'm picking up in snippets.

I find it's much the same as learning French or Arabic, apart from the fact there are no books and every time you get something wrong your teacher rolls her eyes and tells you you're sooooooo embarrassing!

The other challenge is I can never receive a set lesson time, it's important that I catch what she's said the first time around as having to repeat yourself to your mother is about as annoying as a mosquito in a sleeping bag. Don't even bother trying to schedule a lesson in the morning.

Apart from the usual gangsta talk, I'm learning a whole new concept of "like". Gone are the days of just "liking" something, you have to "like, like" it. As in "like" it online.

Ms 11 is not on Facebook and doesn't have a phone, but she's a keen Instagram fan.

"Can you post that so I can like it?" has become a regular request.

"But I know you like it?"

"Yeah, but I want to like like it.

Every time we watch a link together on my laptop I receive the prompt.

"You need to like it".

"But I'm not sure if I like it that much?"

"You should still like it"

This appears to be a universal issue. A girlfriend of mine who has a household of girls, refereed a recent argument over a picture on Facebook "I posted it and you didn't 'like' it" announced the eldest to her younger sister. She'd said she liked it, but she hadn't like liked it.

It's important to "like" it.

You may have noticed there's something new on 4 kids, 20 suitcases... today.

I have a Facebook page. It's up there in the top right hand corner. I turned a 10 minute exercise in to about three hours of blogging template hell - it wasn't pretty and I will not be heading back in to the world of html code for awhile.

If you like, you can like it.

Don't Mention the Blog

2012-02-12T02:14:00.000-08:00

"Is it ok if I treat your blog like I will your suicide note, and just skim it looking for my name? "

Trish Slade-Diotte

Trish is possibly one of the funniest women on the planet, when I asked if I could put her name to this quote she said "You must! So I can skim it".

Last year I went to see Media Futurist, Gerd Leonhard. I sat on the edge of my seat while I listened to him present his thoughts on Media and where it's heading in the future. I love listening to this stuff. I know it bores the crap out of some people, but I love it.

With a background in the music industry Gerd is acutely aware of what can happen with the introduction of technology. Musicians now grapple with copyright and the sharing of material. I heard people in the audience gasp when he said that print media was dead, that it would be gone in the next seven years.

I sat nodding away, madly tweeting and writing notes.

I went to speak to him after the presentation, I had a question about blogging. In his thick German accent he said "everyone will have a blog in the next 10 years, it's no longer special, it will become normal." For a futurist I thought it was a short sighted answer. I'm not sure if everyone will have a blog, they might have a Tumblr, or a page of some sort, but a lot of people hate blogs. REALLY hate blogs.

I love writing 4 kids, 20 suitcases... but I really dislike talking about it.

Weirdly I did the same thing when G and I got married. I really wanted to get married but anytime someone wanted to talk about the dress, the shoes, the menu or the ring I'd immediately shut down. I began to dodge certain people and learnt how to keep a fixed smile on my face when asked by colleagues on a daily basis if I was excited. I felt like I suddenly moved from Kirsty to "the bride to be". By 11pm on the night of the wedding, I looked around the room at everyone in full party mode and thought I need to get this dress off and join in. The minute I changed in to a little black dress, I felt like I'd returned. Am I weird? Did anyone else feel like that? Like they were in dress ups, playing the role of the bride?

I did the same when I was pregnant. All conversation appeared to revolve around my bump. "When are you due?" "What are you craving?" "How do you feel?" I found myself urging these new conversations to change back to the old ones. "How drunk were we on Friday night?" just disappeared. Once again I was really excited about the baby, I just didn't want to do the small talk.

I have to learn how to talk about the blog. It's not going away, it doesn't have a due date.

I need to learn how to say thank you when someone tells me they really enjoy the blog. I need to learn the right sentence to say when the kindest, sweetest woman leans forward and whispers at a party "I read your blog, I'm a subscriber and I love it! I read it and just feel I can relate."

I've got better at saying thank you - it's the next stage I find tricky.

It's the dinner party conversation, the coffee shop, the school yard, it's always in a group. "Have you met Kirsty, she writes the most HYSTERICAL blog" and then you're just not hysterical at all. In fact you're really bloody boring.

And someone says "what exactly is a blog" and your throat goes dry and you wait for someone else to jump in and explain, but you have somehow just been appointed the unwilling blog expert. You begin to say that all blogs are different and are done for different purposes, but the words don't come out right. They want to know how and why and when and what exactly is it that you write about - and all of a sudden you're feeling like the most narcissistic egomaniac on the planet, because for the past 5 minutes a lot of your words have been "me" and "I" and really you just came to watch the grade 2/3 soccer team.

"You're not a journalist though are you?" says a woman who is a journalist. And then she says she'll "try" and remember to read it and you think no, no please don't, I didn't ask you to and I don't want you to because you'll probably hate it and it's just going to be uncomfortable. It's at this stage that want to remind everyone that it wasn't you that mentioned the blog, remember, you asked?

On a different evening you walk in to a party and after introductions are made her very posh accent slithers its way towards you "Ive heard about you - you're the blog lady" she smiles and goes on "everyone says that I should write a blog". You nod and agree wholeheartedly and suggest sites for her to go to. She looks down her nose and says "Exactly how did you get in the New York Times?" and "Who are these Mamamia people?" and "Why do you think the London Telegraph approached you?" You've tried to steer the conversation in five other directions but she's not going to be happy until she has the answers she's looking for. There are other things in play, you are a mere convict and she is from the Empire. You wrote in her newspaper. An Australian!

I love writing this blog. I have hundreds of emails in an inbox, full of beautiful words, written in many different accents. Usually they are from women but occasionally they're from men who are married to women like me, one man said "my wife made me read this, I've pinned it up in the office, I won't ever make that joke about expat wives again". I began writing him the most heartfelt thank you letter and then decided I sounded like a wanker and deleted it.

I don't know what a blog is. I don't know how it works. I do know though, that if you don't want to talk about it and you don't read it, it probably doesn't make any sense to spend thirty minutes asking someone about it.

Is your blog a secret? Do you read them but don't write one? Is everyone really going to have a blog?

Power Walking.

2012-02-10T01:23:00.000-08:00

Our morning routine has involved a few adjustments this year. We are now spread across several sections of a very large school which means three separate drop off points. With changes in security, getting in and out of the school has become somewhat similar to making it through the Los Angeles airport with a swiss army knife and set of pruning shears. Lets just say there's been a few glitches.

This week I asked the third little traveller if he could walk the fourth to his classroom each morning. I think the third traveller misunderstood me and thought I was asking for him to donate a kidney as he was, well, not impressed with the idea.

"But he walks sooooooo slowly" followed by "you don't understaaaaaaaand - I'll never get time to play with my friends" seemed to be the top two grievances with the new morning request. I delved in to my personal parenting strategies and sound parenting ideas and thought about the best way to handle things.

I bribed him.

We made a deal, a week of walking his little brother to class and there would be an extra treat at the weekly visit to the corner store. He was allowed to have an extra lolly.

As I dusted off a little piece of parenting guilt from my sleeve, I thought about why this particular bribe was making me feel a little more dirty than some of my others. It wasn't just the bribing bit, but more the fact that one child couldn't even manage to walk the other to his door. I want the little travelers to care about each other. I understand that they're not going to always like each other, but was I seriously bribing one child to walk next to another?

The end of the week arrived and there was much excitement on the way to the corner store. The third little traveller ran through his list of wants and needs and everyone trotted in to the store together to do their usual five minute perusal of the shelves, before picking the exact same thing they picked last week. As I loaded the water in to the back of the car, the fourth little traveller walked out of the store with a look of devastation on his face - something terrible had happened to the third little traveller.

"He's crying Mummy, he put his drink on the counter and it tipped on the floor and its all over the ground"

The third little traveller came out of the store with tears running down his flushed cheeks. He was in a flux of embarrassment and disappointment. His sisters followed behind him.

"The man said you could have another one" said the first little traveller.

"I'm too embarrassed" his head was in his hands as she stroked the top of his head.

"I'll go and get it for you!" said the second little traveller as she ran back in to the store.

I watched them all fuss over him. When the second little traveller emerged from the store with the new drink he smiled through his tears, "thank you". She smiled back at him.

I watched their faces as they moved instantly from that moment, on to the topic of who was going to the park, and who got first dibs not the computer tomorrow.

They care about each other. They might not always like each other, but that's okay.

Stranger Danger

2012-02-08T18:39:00.000-08:00

There's been some "security issues" at a school just down the street from ours, and a warning was sent out to parents about keeping an eye out for suspicious behaviour. As you can imagine, the community got talking and within days I had about three stories to choose from. All involved a man, a car and a proposition to a child.

The little travellers have been warned many times about not getting in to cars with strangers, but I thought I'd better return to the conversation. I'd always felt reasonably confident that they wouldn't get in to a car with a stranger, but a couple of minutes in to the conversation, I now wasn't entirely convinced.

As we drove to school we talked about things a stranger in a car might say to you to get your attention. I began with "he/she may offer you sweets". In my rear vision mirror I saw the second and fourth little traveller's ears prick up, the chocoholics of the family were instantly interested in exactly what sort of lollies might be on offer. I moved on "another thing they may say is that I sent them to pick you up" suddenly the first little traveller could see how it could happen. In her self appointed role as deputy mother she reminded everyone about the family password. I hadn't heard a word from the third little traveller, I looked in the mirror and said "They may try and make you feel sorry for them, they might tell you they've lost a pet or need help".

He couldn't see how any of this applied to him. It wasn't getting through. I went for the jugular.

"They may tell you they have a playstation or Xbox at their house" He immediately became interested. We don't have either an Xbox or a Playstation and because of this the third little traveller feels he's playing the role of a deprived young child in a Dickens novel. We are ruining his life.

"Exactly what would the person do to us?" His brain was ticking over. I could see him weighing up his options - asking himself if it was worth getting in the car? I mean how bad could this place be if it had an Xbox or a Playstation?

And that's when I decided to tell them.

In that moment I could see that I needed to go further. They didn't get it.

I told them about the man I once worked with, the man who I believed was a really lovely man. A man I went to the pub and had beers with. A man who would then spend his weekends convincing children to get in the car with him by telling them he was a talent scout.

"Did he hurt them?"

"Yes he did, very very badly. And it took the police awhile to find him, but when they did, when they saw the videos, they were incredibly sad that he'd managed to get those children to come home with him"

No-one asked for more details and I wouldn't have given them, I could see the message had been received. There was no more contemplation of Playstations or chocolate.

And then I felt like the worst parent in the world. I felt like I'd stolen a little piece of their innocence, that I'd made them start thinking about creepy people who were out to steal them. What if I'd scared them? What if I'd really damaged them? I pictured them laying on couches in therapy, working through their distrust of strangers and having their "breakthrough moment" when they remembered the conversation they had with their mother in the car on the way to school.

This popped up in the SMH this morning;

The Sydney Morning Herald reported today that there has been a 30% jump in the numbers of Australians arrested for child pornography since 2010.

The head of the federal police's cyber-crime unit, Assistant Commissioner Neil Gaughan, said there might have been no increase in the number of adults sexually assaulting children but, ''we are seeing those sexual assaults being recorded, and those sexual assaults being uploaded onto the internet''.

''There's no empirical evidence of an increase in child abuse, but we're seeing an increase in the number of violent images that clearly have not been commercially made,'' he said.

There was a 30 per cent jump, from 136 to 180, in the number of Australians arrested for child pornography offences last year compared with 2010.

Mr Gaughan said: ''I think there's two schools of thought here, one that there's been a proliferation of the image-making and the image dissemination. There's also a school of thought that the reason why we're getting so many more referrals is that law enforcement and industry are working better together and we're discovering a lot more.''

I'm hoping more arrests means better police work.

In the meantime I'll return to the fine balance of parenting while I pop another few dollars in to the future therapy fund jar.

What do you think? How did you/would you warn your children about stranger danger? How much do you need to tell them?

5 tips to slow it down and make the most of your day.

2012-02-06T12:17:00.000-08:00

I'm trying not to begin the countdown. Last night at the dinner table everyone started making their calculations. How many weeks until our guests get here? How long until Easter? And then it came "well how many weeks until we go back to Australia for school holidays?"

Last year we began the countdown at 17 weeks.

This meant that every Thursday morning (the end of our working week) we would drive to school and talk about exactly how many sleeps and what we would eat and where we would go and who we would see when we got there - which was all fine. However, it was all in the future.

This year I am living in the present.

I've wished away far too much of my life. When the children were babies I wished mostly for sleep, but I had milestones along the way that broke up the time. I wished away pregnancies "only 12 more weeks". I couldn't wait until she she would sleep through the night or sit up on her own. I couldn't wait until he could hold his own sippy cup. I couldn't wait until she could crawl, walk, talk, buy me a beer.

Still waiting.

I began sentences with "imagine when they can bath themselves" and "imagine when they can brush their own teeth". We counted down the days for every holiday, days until G came home, days until Granny arrived. And while I was marking the days off the calendar, I never stopped to realize that I'd just lost another day of my life.

I'm not losing any more days. I'm slowing it down. And I've come up with 5 ways to do it.

1. Get offline.

Anyone else sit down at the computer and look up to discover they've just lost an hour of their life? From now on there are set times for surfing the web, scanning Facebook and giggling over Twitter. I set very strict screen time for the little travellers but not for myself? Ah, the sweet irony of parenthood.

2. Put my phone in my handbag.

I carry my phone in my hand, this means I am constantly looking down. I do it without thinking, I glance for an update, a message, an email. I glance while I'm at the cash register, I glance while I wait to pick up the children. I glance when I see someone else glance. Have you ever noticed that technology is as infectious as a yawn?

3. Schedule my day and stick to it.

I work from home so my time is a little too flexible for my personality. It's time to stick to the schedule. I can drag anything out. Whether it's the gym, the grocery shopping, a "quick" coffee, or cleaning out the kids cupboards. My calendar now has a timetable of blog/book/articles/communication. It also has the fun stuff like coffee and gym but no more wondering around over to get a towel and striking up a lovely chat with the elderly man who's going skiing in Switzerland with his wife in a few weeks. They have three children and six grandchildren, scattered all over the world. Their daughter had some health problems but all is well now. They like it here, they think they'd like to stay, they just bought a new car..... twenty minutes later! I really didn't need to spend those 20 minutes shooting the breeze by the water cooler. Which brings me to my next point.

4. Shut up.

Over the years it has become apparent that I could strike up a chat with a basketball hoop if I was in the mood. If I've ever wondered where the time went it was usually because it was unproductive time. If I've written 3,000 words that morning I know exactly where the time went - if I've spoken 3,000 words, not so much. I can still chat, I just need to remember to keep an eye on the time.

5. Stop and look.

I am determined that I will look each child in the eye at least once a day. I know this sounds ridiculous, I drive them to school and pick them up every day. We go to activities, talk in the car, I lean over homework and wash hair in the bath that night - but there have been evenings I've laid in bed and wondered if I actually stopped and took the time to see the little travellers. I am going to really try to not rush them in and out of the car, to the bath or the dinner table. It doesn't make it any faster when I clap my hands and raise my voice. But let's just say, ahem, for arguments sake that we ARE running late and consequently in a bit of a hurry. I will take the time to see their faces when I kiss them goodbye.

Everyone needs to be seen.

What do you think? Any tips? How do you make the most of each day?

My Little Brother - The Endurance Race.

2012-02-05T13:10:00.000-08:00

I have often been told, by the two eldest travellers (the two girls) that I don't realize just how lucky I am that I don't have a little brother. In fact, the eldest little traveller has told me on several occasions that I should ring Granny Max and thank her for sparing me.

"If you knew how annoying little brothers are - you'd ring her. Actually you'd send her flowers with a note saying THANKYOU Granny for not putting me through the pain of a little brother".

This evening when I was putting the girls to bed they had a visit from one of their little brothers. He was proudly showing off the front tooth that he'd bought home in a bag from school. And just when we all thought the sole purpose of his visit was to brag about being "cashed up" in the morning and that his sisters of course would be bereft of any visiting fairies, he outdid himself. As they stood around him looking at the tooth he began to laugh and then said "oops, I just cut the cheese - in your bedroom!" and made a quick exit while they screamed.

"Heeeeeeeeeeeee's soooooooooooo grooooooooooooos" said the first little traveller.

"You didn't get me - I can't even smell it" said the second little traveller with her head under the quilt.

The beagle left the room.

"Oh come on - he's so sweet and he loves you, what's the worst he could do?" I was trying to calm things down.

"He breathes" said one.

"He's alive" said the other.

I shut it down. We weren't getting anywhere and the aroma of Fart number 8 was lingering, the timing for the family love chat wasn't good.

When I went to kiss the boys I found the cheese cutter tucked up in bed with a satisfied grin.

"Sometimes they just make my job so easy" he was genuinely pleased with himself.

Perhaps little brothers were put on this earth solely to torment their sisters?

Here's the thing I've noticed about older sisters though.

Older sisters are allowed to "cut the cheese" whenever they like, it can be loud, it can be soft, it can be deadly - it never really happened.

Older sisters can be told by little brothers that their home-made cookies "are the best cookies in the world" and their response will be "you only get one" before swiftly sharing them with the entire neighborhood.

Older sisters can dictate which school gate is entered, which car seat is sat in and who gets how much popcorn for movie night.

Older sisters will always win the death stare, occupier rights in the bathroom and the who gets to hold the money argument.

Older sisters have the power, the control and the instinct to make a little brother the size of an ant in a moment. Hearing your sister shout "Are you wearing underpants?" across a playground. Followed by a "remember how you forgot to put them on yesterday" is enough to dent any mans ego.

And finally, older sisters will not notice who the first person was to run towards them at the end of the basketball final, the very same person who stood on a chair to cheer when they scored their first goal. They will not see the look of adoration that only a younger sibling can provide.

A siblings love can seem like a series of quick scores. A she did/he did event. I wonder what age we are when we realize it's an endurance race - that you'll both be there until the end?

How old were you when you realized your siblings were some of the best friends you were ever going to have? Or are you pleased not to have any at all?

I live in the desert.

2012-02-04T03:15:00.000-08:00

I live in the desert. Is it just me or does everyone have to double check the spelling for desert/dessert every time they type it? The reason I mention the desert is because it's very easy to forget you live in the desert in Qatar. When you're situated on the Persian Gulf, surrounded by water and modern architecture, it can slip your mind that just outside the city limits is sand. Lots of sand.

Until it gets windy.

For the past two days the wind has been crazy. Sand drifts across streets in purposeful waves, the sky is the colour of a butternut and a city view becomes a distant memory. My hair is full of grit. My skin has an extra layer and my eyes are in a state of permanent squint.

As I made my way across the school car park yesterday I watched mothers clutching the hands of their children. Someone was walking backwards trying to lessen the impact. A girlfriend of mine stopped talking mid sentence and said "I can feel the sand on my teeth".

Most of the houses here don't have carpet, it means the children can draw and sketch with just an index finger and a kitchen floor. Me? Exaggerate?

Okay, but I can feel the sand on my feet as I walk from room to room. It's on my laptop as I type, it's on the plants, the windows, the cupboards and it piles up in miniature dunes at the front and back door.

Here's the view through our back window.

My laptop.

I live in the desert. Not the dessert.

Take a picture in your mind.

2012-02-03T22:21:00.000-08:00

In the week leading up to our wedding a good friend of mine, a guy I'd known for years, quietly offered a suggestion for the big day. Momentous occasions such as weddings, births and deaths seem to attract well meaning recommendations - sometimes they don't apply, this one I've kept and reused.

"At some stage during the evening, walk away. Find a minute for yourself. Find a spot where you can just stand and take it all in. Look at everyone from a distance and take a picture in your mind. A snapshot for your memory. It'll go so fast, before you know it, it will be over - but you'll always have that picture".

He was absolutely right.

I still have that picture. I was standing in my parents back yard, about 50 metres from the marquee - looking in. I could see G talking with his sister, a friend was playing the guitar while others sang along, my parents were at a table with their friends, friends that have been in my life forever - all of it is crystal clear. I haven't looked at our wedding photos for years, but that moment is mine. It's embedded.

Often when the little travellers are doing something special, they'll see something they feel is picture worthy. Sometimes it's not special - it's an event out of the blue. This morning it was a group of men in uniform on camels. "Take a picture in your mind" someone screamed, and in an instant I saw them all close their eyes as if that moment was being captured forever.

When I watch them do it, I wonder how differently their pictures will translate. For some it may be the camels, for others it will driving to school in Doha.

I grew up in a small country town in a little house where my Grandparents lived next door, my Aunt and Uncle next to them. It felt safe. It was reliable and warm. There was always someone watching. The kindergarten I went to was 100 metres from my back gate. The primary school, one street away. The high school - right next to the Primary School. If someone would have told me to take a picture I would have told them there was no need. It was always going to be there. It would always the same.

The little travellers couldn't be having a more different childhood than mine. Each one of them was brought home to a different house, in a different country after their birth. Obviously, I think about it. Will they feel safe? Will they feel secure? Has life been too disjointed? We bought the beach house with one plan - they wanted somewhere that stayed the same, a base, a home.

In my picture of the wedding there are only people. I remember the marquee was pretty, I remember how long it took friends and family to tie the bows on the back of the chairs. But in my picture, the focal points are the faces - my G, my parents, my friends, my family.

Sometimes the location is irrelevant. It's the people that make the picture. Houses can be painted, extensions added, kitchens renovated. My fathers smile has always been the same, my mothers laugh has never changed.

Take a picture in your mind.

Many, many books.

2012-02-01T01:29:00.000-08:00

I have purchased "many" books over the past six months. The reason I'm saying many is I really don't want to confess to exactly how many, many is. Some might say my many is too many, some might tell me it's a little extreme, some might go and check the credit card bill. And yes, I may be referring to my husband as "some". One of my book purchases was a hard copy - it was a Christmas present. All of the other books were bought via amazon, on my kindle app for iPad.

Without exaggerating, for someone who's been traveling for the past twelve years, the kindle has been life changing. I have lived in several locations where books were either censored or virtually impossible to buy. Now, with either a kindle, iPad, or whatever device floats your boat, you can line up in your online store with the rest of the world and download whatever takes your fancy. If you're sitting in a coffee shop in Azerbaijan scanning through the New York Times best seller list, it's highly likely you're going to feel a little less isolated from the rest of the world - well, until they serve you your Ovdukh.

Ebooks to those in remote locations mean you no longer have to wait for the next trip to the city, or if you're overseas - the next trip "home". You can join the conversation now. In my book group in Libya we would pre plan who was hosting the next meeting, to match with trips out of the country e.g. "I've got a doctors appointment in Malta in May - so I'll host in June". Those days are gone. I will never have to hand carry 12 copies of "The Slap" on to a plane again.

As much as I love my new technology though, there remains an underlying feeling of guilt.

What about the book stores? What about the REAL books - the ones we like to smell and touch. What about that lovely English lady in the book store in Calgary, who read to the little travellers every Tuesday morning. She read with more conviction than Kevin Spacey in Richard III. The same woman who introduced us to the Gruffalo. A book I no longer need as I can now recite it word for word, on my own.

I was reading an article in the New York Times over the weekend, about the struggle of the The United States largest book retailer Barnes and Noble, in a world that has moved towards ebooks and online purchasing. They've come up with a device called the Nook. I'm not sure how it will compete but I really want them to be successful, and this is where it all turns hypocritical. I'm a fraud, a user, an empty customer.

I was chatting to a girlfriend recently and we both admitted the same guilty affliction. We love to go to the book store and look - and then we go home and purchase online. I love bookstores (particularly ones that sell coffee). I want to look at all the covers and open and read the dedications, the foreword. I want to disappear in to obscure sections that I wouldn't usually go to. Sadly, I then want to then go home and purchase my findings on my iPad.

As much as I love paper books, the iPad is so much easier to hold in bed. It fits in to my handbag easily and I can have my email, audiobooks, Facebook, Twitter and newspapers all in the same location. For me, this move is a logical, practical move. It's paperless and environmentally friendly, it's available for those in remote locations and ebooks are usually a little cheaper than their paper counterparts. And it appears I'm not the only one feeling this way - ebook sales have now outgrown in store book sales and the figures are rising. However, ebooks aren't for everyone.

Yesterday at the Hay Festival in Cartagena, award winning novelist and essayist Jonathan Franzen had this to say,

“Someone worked really hard to make the language just right, just the way they wanted it. They were so sure of it that they printed it in ink, on paper. A screen always feels like we could delete that, change that, move it around. So for a literature-crazed person like me, it’s just not permanent enough.”
"My problem with e-book readers is that one minute I’m reading some trashy website, the next minute I’m reading Jane Austen – on the same screen."

I've read one of Jonathon Franzen's novels - on my iPad. I managed to get through it without having to shoot off to a trashy website and getting confused. I even managed to listen to Franzens interview via podcast with Richard Fidler without switching to 102 classic dribble FM. Technology, for me, has opened my world to more art, more discussion and more books.

Many, many books. I just can't tell you how many.

So if the book shop is gone where will I go to browse and relax, somewhere with the same community feeling, somewhere where the little travellers can sit and explore. Is it possible that we will all head back to the library? Or will that be online as well?

What do you think? What's the future of book stores? What do you prefer?

Just call me Mrs Turkey

2012-01-26T08:34:00.000-08:00

We were meant to have a little Australia Day party tonight. I was going to dress up as Dame Edna, G was going to be Keith Urban (we were going to have the BEST hair). I wasted a good part of my day yesterday "sourcing" outfits. I had the Edna hair, the glasses, the feathers and the gladioli. I'd put together a play list that involved 9 hours of Australian music, really good music. We'd stocked up on supplies, made lamb pies, bought prawns, and fished the flags and decorations out of the back of the cupboard.

And then everything turned a little pear shaped.

It began yesterday. G had been complaining about not feeling well. I seem to remember hearing the words hot, dizzy and fever. And then, while attempting to change the toilet roll, he lost his balance and nearly wiped himself out on the towel rack.

That was when I stopped making jokes about Man Flu.

"Should I cancel the party?" I winced while I watched him clean up the blood from his forehead.

"I'll be fine tomorrow".

And then tomorrow came.

I went to wake up the boys and slid across the floor through something slimy and yellow. Before I could make enquiries a child provided the necessary information.

"I threw up"

Another child looked down and said in a surprised and somewhat excited tone.

"Oh - I thought that was wee!"

I found another child wrapped in her quilt on the playroom floor, her cheeks were pink, lips dry and her eyes were shadowed with dark circles.

"Go and hop in to bed with Dad - and tell him Mummy is going to cancel the party"

As I sat down at the computer to send out a message to my fellow Aussie celebrators, people who I knew were planning an evening dressed as Olivia Newton John, Merv Hughes and Dennis Lillee, I absentmindedly ran my hand under my arm.

There was a lump in my armpit.

Within the next 30 seconds, I had both breast removed, chemotherapy, was wearing a bandana and making videos for my children to keep as keepsakes.

And then I remembered I still had to take one child to school and pick up another from school camp.

I looked over at G who had just finished coughing up a lung. "There's a lump under my arm".

"Well - you better go straight to the doctors, like, now."

And then he returned to dying a slow but vocal death.

By the time I actually made it to the doctors surgery I was riddled with tumors. This lump under my arm must have been the explanation for my sore shoulder (even if it was a different arm) and that pain in my knee surely meant the disease had taken over my body. A nurse made her way in to the waiting room and looked in my direction.

"Ms Turkey?"

"Umm, no. My name is Kirsty - but you can call me Turkey if you like"

I gave a half hearted nervous laugh.

Her face remained blank. She didn't seem to find me funny. Okay, so my name was now Turkey.

When I saw the doctor we made some small talk. She was Egyptian, I was Australian. I had children, she had children. I liked living in Qatar, she liked living in Qatar, I showed her my breasts, she showed me......

She gave me a referral to the radiologist, marked it with an urgent stamp and on a separate piece of paper she wrote the name of another female doctor.

"There would usually be a wait of maybe two weeks but you need to go now. Ask to see her, I'm going to ring her now and tell her you are coming". Her conversation is sprinkled with "Yanni" "Inshallah" and "Halas".

I sat in the waiting room of the radiology centre thinking about lamb pies, children with soaring temperatures and where an appropriate location would be to arrive dressed as Dame Edna. I receive a text from G "Are you sure you don't want me to come and sit with you?"

"Ms Turkey?" another nurse appears.

Within minutes I was naked with a Nurse from the Philippines and a Doctor from Iraq. All three of us are looking at my breasts.

"You know usually I'd expect you to buy me a drink before we got to this stage" my nervous laugh returns.

Once again. Blank.

Sometimes language just doesn't translate. Particularly when it's a joke, and it's lame. When things begin to get serious we all understand each other perfectly well. We begin to speak the language of lumps in underarms and lymph glands. We speak of mammograms, cysts and growths, benign and malignant.

"There is nothing sinister Ms Turkey"

She shows me my lump, takes some measurements, explains why it's not sinister with words that make me screw up my nose, words like "fatty" and "abscess" and "cyst". And I feel like a very lucky Australian in Qatar. I tell them about the party, about Australia Day and how maybe I'll just have the party on my own. I giggle at the thought of me sitting alone dressed as Dame Edna with a bottle of bubbles in one hand and lamb chop in the other. The euphoria of my fatty cyst has me completely cracking myself up by this stage.

They stare at me blankly.

Stop talking and keep it simple.

"Thank you" I say. "Thank you so much. It is a big relief".

"Happy Australia Day" says my new Iraqi friend.

Happy Australia Day.

Arrivals or Departures?

2012-01-23T13:11:00.000-08:00

Years ago, a girlfriend of mine, confided that she often snuck off to the airport on weekends. She had no reason to go, it was purely for people watching. "I love that bit when you see people saying goodbye - I wonder where they're going and for how long. I just like to feel a part of their excitement. It makes me happy". I asked about the arrivals. "Yeah, that's okay - but the departures are more exciting".

I love the arrivals.

I've watched hundreds of people recognize the person they love as they've made their way off the plane. Hundreds of faces change from absent minded boredom to teary eyed nostalgia. It never gets old. It's that brief moment where every thing is forgotten. You've made it. You're back. You're here. We've missed you.

If you ever want to test out if Gin really shouldn't be drunk on a long haul flight - try landing in an unfamiliar airport and watching families re-unite while your own family is thousands of miles away. Unrealistic optimists such as myself always hang on to the hope that miraculously you will land in Malta/Singapore/Tripoli or Wherethehellisthatistan only to find a familiar face waving from the distance. Even though you know your Dad's at the bowls carnival in Berri, it's possible he may have found himself in Chicago on the same weekend as you. Right?

I know. I know.

Over the years I've installed a few mechanisms to cope with the disappointment. My favourite being the I'm going to pretend I'm a movie star entrance. That's the one where I make my way in to the arrivals hall and begin walking quickly to avoid the paps while wearing sunglasses. I usually wrap a pashmina around my neck for impact. Unfortunately the pile of baby vomit on my shoulder, Cherrios stuck to my bottom and broken travel stroller have blown my cover over the years. Not to mention the lack of paparazzi and the chicken little backpack hitting me in the back of the leg with each step.

My parents avoid airport departure lounges. They were there for the first one and it wasn't pretty. G and I had been married for a few weeks and he'd gone on ahead to Perth. It was time for me to join him. I was 30, it was just me and them. We hadn't lived in the same town for years but this was different, I was moving states. I think we all knew it was just the beginning. They said all the right things, but we all cried. I sobbed for about the first hour of the flight until I settled with just letting out little hiccup cries, you know the involuntary ones that come out of nowhere? Just when you thought you'd stopped crying - there it is again.

They came back to the departure lounge about 18 months later. The first little traveler was 11 days old and G and I were traveling back to Jakarta with more luggage than U2 travelled with on their last tour. My Dad was assigned the job of swinging the little traveler back and forth in her basket while we all told him how he could do it better. I could see him looking at all of her little features, wondering what she'd look like next time he saw her. My mother was looking at me, wondering if I was really alright, not wanting us to go. It was so much more than a goodbye.

We don't do departures now. We stick to arrivals.

My flight came in to Doha from Jakarta at 11.30 on Friday evening. I just presumed that G would have to stay home with the little travelers and I'd catch a taxi home. When I walked through the doors and in to the arrival hall I saw hundreds of faces looking back in my direction, it was noisy, bustling, people were holding signs. And then like something out of a movie, there was G, all 6 feet something of him, standing at the back of the crowd.

You've made it. You're back. You're here. We've missed you.

Lost in Translation

2012-01-18T02:18:00.000-08:00

The little travelers all attended a French Immersion School during our time in Canada. This meant that by the time the eldest little traveler was in Grade 1 all classes were spoken in only French. Homework was excruciating for G and I, we were both non speakers and struggled to help out. By the time she hit Grade 3 we were well and truly out of our depth. We sat through quite a few school concerts bursting with pride while being completely clueless as to what was actually going on. As parents tend to do, we envisaged that this would all make sense when she arrive home at the age of 25 and told us about her new role as the Head of the United Nations.

When we moved to Houston, we returned to an English speaking environment but kept our fingers crossed that she'd retain some of what she'd learnt. Now that we're in Doha, she's back studying French as a subject and doing well. In our parent/teacher conference the French teacher made the observation that perhaps she was sometimes a little over confident in her memory. "She knows the words but it's remembering their order and sometimes she switches them around".

Anyone who's attempted learning a language can identify with this. A little bit of knowledge followed by a dollop of confidence can be a recipe for a large serve of embarrassment.

I went back to an old haunt today. An institution for expat women in Jakarta, a place on Kemang Raya called Mil and Mat that has been in Jakarta for years. No appointment needed, its a no fuss express pedicure, manicure haven. They also do the most amazing cream bath, which is kind of a deluxe hair wash followed by an extended head massage that makes its way to your shoulders. It is heaven.

Mil and Mat hasn't changed an inch. The tiny supermarket down the road is now a three story shopping centre but Mil and Mat has exactly the same decor, same sinks, same staff and dare I say it, the same magazines. As I laid back at the basin to have my hair washed the very gorgeous Pon (yes, that was her name) smiled and said a few words that I recalled as "you have a lot of hair". I nodded in agreement and said "yes, yes, everyone says that".

She had actually told me I was very beautiful.

I am now dying with embarrassment. Can you imagine. You are very beautiful. Yes, that's right, yes I am very beautiful.

I didn't work it out until I was half way home and saw a sign for shampoo and realized I'd got the words for hair and beautiful a little mixed up. All I wanted to do was go back and tell her that no, I didn't think I was beautiful, not at all - I just thought I had a lot of hair.

G gave up on learning Bahasa Indonesia after we'd been living here for about a year. It was after we'd hit the streets looking for outdoor furniture. He instructed the driver, a man who took him to work every day and was fast becoming a friend, that he'd like to stop by the side of the road and purchase some small children. I can still picture the look of horror on both the driver's face and G's after I managed to interpret where it had all gone terribly wrong.

The sooner someone invents the language chip that we can just slot in behind our ears and magically communicate the better.

How about you? Ever been lost in translation?

Coffee and Cake.

2012-01-16T11:55:00.000-08:00

I have a friend who lives in China. She's Scottish. Her husband is English and when her children want to really drive her mad, they tell they might be 51% English. If you thought the Americans were patriotic it's possible you're yet to hear a group of Scots break in to a rendition of Flower of Scotland.

We met in the lounge room of a British nurse who had set up a clinic for those in Jakarta with new babies. We'd arrive each week and weigh in our tiny little bundles. We'd always stop for a coffee and cake, discuss cracked nipples, sleep deprivation and where to buy nappies/diapers that didn't dissolve in your hand. My friend will tell you it was my shoes that she noticed first, they were hot pink. For me it was her wicked sense of humor. I listened in on her conversation with a friend and giggled from a distance. I decided right then and there that I was going to get to know her.

As time moved on we began seeing more and more of each other. We'd get together for a coffee and put the children on a mat on the floor surrounded by toys and then somehow the entire day would just disappear. Coffee would turn in to lunch and then I'd realize that G was going to beat me home from the office if I didn't leave.

It sounds so vacuous and Stepford wives when I write it down like that doesn't it? Women sitting around having coffee and cake, imagine all the gossip, so many other productive things we could have been doing right? Well, not really. Those pesky children kept getting in the road of climbing Mount Krakatau and then there was the fact that we still needed to work out the logistics. Logistics like finding a doctor or finding out where to passport photos. We discussed doing MBA's through online Universities, where to find children's books in English and how to protect you and your family from getting dengue fever. Situations that happened with ease at home e.g. a simple trip to the hardware store could end up taking an entire day only to come home empty handed.

When I lived in Jakarta there was a group of about 10 of us that had babies within roughly 8 weeks of each other. I was neurotic, stark raving neurotic. I'd never looked after a baby and I was sure I was going to break the one I had. My disastrous thoughts ranged from her getting bitten by the wrong mosquito, needing an ambulance that would never find our house or getting swallowed by a passing python. All of these theories were highly improbable but I think I may have been on the verge of being a little post natal in that first year. I have a few people to thank for keeping me sane, people who made me laugh, shared their worries, their hospitality and their friendship. I like to think that it doesn't matter how often I see these people, they will always be my friends because we shared a time. A time that was incomparable to anything we'd done beforehand.

When it came time for us to leave Jakarta I remember driving away from my Scottish friend's house with tears streaming down my cheeks. I knew I'd see her again in KL, she would come and visit, but I wasn't sure if we would ever live in the same country again. This was nothing like my goodbyes with girlfriends in Australia. It's a bloody awful feeling, having a friend that you really adore but knowing your time is limited, that you'll never be able to just drop in casually for a cup of tea. It will always be timed, organized, people will be jet lagged and sleeping in a spare room. Children and partners will be around and then when it's all over it will end with a goodbye that stings.

I sat at a table with a group of women on Sunday night while connections were made and re-made. I looked in to the biggest blue eyes you've ever seen, eyes of a friend I made in Kuala Lumpur ten years ago. We waddled our way in to the same doctors surgery and quietly prayed that it was all going to work out. Her second little traveler is 3 weeks older than mine. We met again in Houston and now she's relocated to Jakarta. We talk about a mutual friend who has just moved to Paris and we both sigh, nod and smile. Another women at the end of the table mentions her friend who had just moved to Copenhagen, the story sounds familiar "Is she Australian?" I ask "I met her in Houston! I have her caramel cheesecake recipe - she's really good friends with my Scottish friend in China."

These are conversations I once listened to and thought were precocious - I now put them in the same basket as the conversations I hear in my home town "oh you remember Sally, she was Julie Smith's bridesmaid, she married Bob, they live out on the back road to Chowilla".

I went back to a restaurant today. I knew exactly what I wanted, it had to be Nasi Goreng. I've dreamt about going back to this restaurant for 10 years and today was the day. I sat in the sunshine and looked over to a table in the corner, it was empty but in my mind it was full. There were women with strollers, babies everywhere. My Scottish friend is giggling because her son won't conveniently go to sleep when the meal is served, she wraps his head in a muslin cloth and promises that she's not suffocating him, that this is the only way he will sleep. He falls asleep within minutes but we make sure we give her grief about her unconventional ways. The table is busy with chatter. We're asking each other questions "where did you find Avent bottles?" "Who was the specialist you saw in Singapore?" "Did you hear about the demonstration yesterday?"

Every woman at that table is now in a different country, some went home, some moved on to the next location. Each had to pack up and restart again, find new friends and ask new questions.

It's not Stepford wives, it's not vacuous. It's healthy, it's survival and been going on for years. Don't discount it. Claim it. Celebrate it. It's a skill. Here's to you and all of the women at tables around the world.

When you're finished changing...

2012-01-15T11:07:00.000-08:00

I desperately wanted to smell that smell again. Jakarta has it's own unique fragrance. In our travels I've never smelt anything quite like it anywhere else in the world. All cities have their own smells but Jakarta gets right up inside your nose. It makes it's way in to your hair and sits on your skin. While I sat writing at my desk in Doha, transporting myself back to Asia was relatively easy when it came to feelings and emotions - but trying to explain the smells and the sounds was far more difficult. I really wanted to go back and write it all down.

I walked through the airport last night like a human hound. With a huge grin on my face I sniffed and I sniffed. I didn't care what I looked like. I grinned at the stranger next to me at the baggage carousel "it's exactly the same!" he gave me a disinterested half smile. Undeterred I said it again but with even more excitement "it's exactly the same!"

The airport tiles were still orange and the uniforms on the immigration officials were still brown. There were slight changes here and there. Different signs and new technology. I moved with ease, no hands to hold or Chicken Little backpacks to pick up and carry. I looked over at a mother traveling with two children, both of them were sitting quietly at her feet at the Immigration counter - they knew the drill. I thought of my own little travelers.

The very first time I came to Jakarta was in November 1999. I was 12 weeks pregnant with the first little traveler. It was a "look/see" visit, but it felt more like a covert operation - a big secret. I hadn't told anyone at the office that I was pregnant. I said G had work to do in Indonesia and I was going to tag along for a few days. I didn't mention the possibility of relocation. I knew that both pieces of information were going to signal the end of my career for a little while. It sounds dramatic, but both of these things were life changing for me.

It never occurred to me that it wasn't the end. It was just the beginning. All I could think about was what I was leaving behind.

I read familiar words on signs, words that I haven't said for years. Kecil, masuk, polisi, my spell check keeps trying to correct them on my phone. I buy a sim card and the man asks me if it's my first time in Jakarta "I used to live here..." my voice trails away as I think about our house, our friends, a moment in time. I think of faces that I will never see again and feel a sweeping wave of sadness.

I wonder how many times I've stood in this airport. Imagine if there was security footage? Imagine if you could just push rewind? If I could just see the snippets of G and I at departures and arrivals. What did we look like?

We brought our first baby to this airport, she was eleven days old. I was terrified. It was her vulnerability and perfection that frightened me. I was sure I would break her. We had to remove her clothes at the baggage carousel, she was screaming, red faced and sweating. The all in one was perfect when we left Adelaide in late May, but not so much in Jakarta. I'd only been in town for 20 minutes and it was already a disaster in my mind. My first failure as a traveling mother.

I was different then. I was way too hard on myself, too hard on others.

It's different now.

The tiles are still orange, the uniforms are still brown - but I'm not the same.

"When you're finished changing, you're finished".
Benjamin Franklin

It's not rocket science.

2012-01-12T02:44:00.000-08:00

All four little faces spun in my direction at breakneck speed.

"WHAT?" said one.

"You can't!" said another

"Noooooooooooo" said the eldest little traveler.

"You're not allowed to go away" they chorused.

I was flattered, but a little bemused.

"Dad just went to London and no-one said a word? How come?"

"Because you're the Mum, because you're always here, we don't want you to go".

For the past week I've looked at our routine closely, thinking about what I might need to tell G. I mean it's not rocket science is it? You drop them to school at 8, you buy groceries, you try and find healthy snacks for school lunches and think of something interesting for dinner. You pick clothes up off the floor, remember to fill out consent forms and search for pictures of your child in winter clothing for the school project. You ring the orthodontist and drop the forgotten trombone in to school. You remind someone they have PE tomorrow and then remind them again in the morning when you see them putting on their sandals. You say "stop jumping on the couch" at an escalating pitch roughly 20 times. You listen to Trombone practice, clap at the end and then take a panadol or open a bottle of wine. You ask if they're trying out for soccer, hope they don't want to do cheerleading and bring a snack for the smallest traveller while you watch the others learn how to kick a ball and do the long jump.

It's not rocket science.

When she said she wanted to audition for the school play you were surprised but impressed with her courage. You heard her singing with the door closed while she practiced her lines. "Don't come to the audition" she said, "not even the other kids are allowed in - just wait in the car, I'll come find you". And then it comes, the feeling. Something's not right, she told you not to go but you're going to anyway because something's not right. While you hide around the corner you can see her through the window, she's smiling and giggling and talking to friends - but you can tell - you can see it - something's not right. She sees you and walks in your direction, her face is different, she hugs you and tells you it was fine, that it's over.

"Do you want to go outside?"

Her face crumbles.

"I couldn't do it, I got scared, I couldn't do it, I just walked on the stage and said I'd changed my mind" she's sobbing and you're looking for a place to sit. You listen, you try and ascertain if you need to gently push or hold back. You find a tissue. You smile. She smiles. You walk to her locker while talking, you tell her that it's your job to make sure she won't be disappointed later on. You talk about Granny and how she held your hand at the piano recital. You remind her about the swimming carnival, how you dived in and got out at the ladder because you were scared. You ask if she thinks she'll regret it. Shall we go back? She just wants to go home. You think about your other children. You hope they won't notice her flushed cheeks and say something stupid. After homework, dinner and bath time you sit on her bed while she tells you her plan. She'll help out this year, audition next year and she'll make sure she gets a role the year after.

It's not rocket science.

Because rocket science is all about mathematics, formulas and expected outcomes.

Every day this week, there has been an unexpected outcome. One of my children told me he hated me and threw himself on the ground because I didn't let him leave the house to play at 6 p.m. Another told me my chicken schnitzel was stupid. There was a conversation with a teacher, regarding someones behaviour that day at school. It's highly possible that person may have shared privileged information, like the underwear they were wearing! There was math homework that created a fully blown melt down. There was social studies homework that went missing. Philosophical conversations were had "I'll never be able to do this." "Why do they make me do this?" They expect an answer. An answer better than "because".

On Saturday morning I will leave for Jakarta for 5 days of uninterrupted writing. I will not drive to school, pack a snack, find a pair of soccer shorts at the back of the wardrobe or carry a musical instrument to the car. The beautiful G is in charge. And he'll be spectacular, because he always is when it comes to these things. He will provide better food, he won't be late, he'll follow the list and play by the rules and the teachers will all love him, he will be just fine.

It's not rocket science - it's a little bit more complicated.

The Facebook

2012-01-09T12:22:00.000-08:00

Last week Facebook informed me that one of my "friends" was having a birthday. That friend was my father. We've been friends for awhile now, I guess our friendship really bloomed when he drove me home as a newborn from the hospital.

With his brand new iPad for Christmas, my father became the final member of my immediate family to enter the world of Facebook. Or as he refers to it "The Facebook". Occasionally I'll mention an event and he'll say "oh yes, your mother showed me the pictures on The Facebook".

He'll be using his iPad mostly to read the newspaper. For the past 50 years he's had a choice between the daily tabloid which is printed in a city 300 kms away and a twice weekly local newspaper. He will now move to a virtual explosion of icons and app subscriptions. In the palm of his hand will be hundreds of links to literally thousands of stories, newspapers from all over the world. As a bloke who has spent his entire life living in a rural community in South Australia, technology has made the world a shed load smaller. I can't imagine him ever giving up the local paper (I still read it myself) but I can definitely see some additions to his reading.

It was late 2005 when I signed up for Facebook, our relationship has changed a lot over the years. It began as a way of keeping in contact with friends on the other side of the world and sharing photos of the little travellers with my family. When I went back to work it was used as a recruiting tool, and then it became all about sharing and receiving information. What I enjoy the most about Facebook now is the links, the information that gets forwarded, the jokes that are made and the insight provided perhaps from a complete stranger. I can choose to ignore or choose to read, but it's my choice. In the past fifteen minutes I've read why I shouldn't text and walk, watched the worlds coolest flight attendant, and seen a picture of the fog in Beijing this morning - it was taken by a friend as she cycled with her children to school (I used it for this blog post).

For a traveller, social media can perhaps become a little bittersweet, while it's great to scroll through the photos of the wedding, the new nephew and a close up of the Sunday roast - it's another reminder of what you're missing. If you're a long term traveller though, you'll remember the days of waiting weeks for the next letter and gasping at the telephone bill after that drunken international call was made. If only you could remember what you said.

I remember making my way through the ABC store on each trip home, clunky video tapes were stuffed in to suitcases, we were desperate to hear a familiar accent and be able to contribute to the "have you seen it?" conversation on the next trip home. Now, for half the price, it's a matter of a download and we're watching Paper Giants, The Slap and Red Dog.

Can you remember waiting for 15 minutes for the pixels to download? Last week after watching my parents push their faces up against the screen while singing Happy Birthday on Skype, I felt an immediate urge to send Mr and Mrs Skype a thank you note. I wanted to explain what they'd given me when they came up with their marvelous invention.

Thanks to social media there have been times I've seen and read about events in Australia before my parents and friends have. Election results have arrived instantly, sporting events are streamed live and thanks to Mark Colvin, who I don't think ever sleeps, I'm provided with constant news links from his @colvinius twitter account. The Daily Beast, The New York Times, The Huffington Post and The Guardian provide constant information, and a neat little application called Flipboard has rolled it all in to one and made me the editor-in-chief of my own little social media magazine.

Facebook may not be for everyone, but perhaps like anything social we just need to our clique, my glass of bubbles is your vodka tonic. If Twitter and Facebook are not your thing it's possible you're like my husband who scoffs at the idea of time lines and status updates but makes a daily pilgrimage to Linked In. Or maybe you're like my girlfriend Penny who barely "switches her Facebook on" but is a regular on Words with friends.

Whatever you're up to, there's no doubt that social media is here to stay.

I am a Writer.

2012-01-08T03:01:00.000-08:00

I'm writing a book.

It began with an email from a publisher. They asked if I'd "consider" writing a book. I'd been writing the blog for about 6 months and I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I was seriously flattered, I went to a party that night and told anyone that would listen. I'd also be lying if I didn't admit that I wasn't really sure if I could do it.

I loved the idea of writing a book, the reality though was a little scarier. I started speaking to people who had written books, who were very patient with my questions and incredibly kind with their advice. I began a memoir, it was terrible. I hate the word memoir. I started thinking of themes. I stopped. I wrote chapters and then deleted them after reading them a thousand times. Sentences that seemed hysterical one day would have me wincing in self consciousness the next. And then I started to actually make myself sick - heart palpitations, sad thoughts and insomnia all came to join me at the keyboard.

I'd hear peoples voices, but they weren't in my head, they were from my past. "Who does she think she is?" I stood frozen in the toilet cubicle while her and her friend giggled about my outfit and made a judgement about my IQ.

"Aren't there a million of those travel memoir books?" said an obnoxious man with a terribly posh English accent at a dinner party.

I went home over the summer, signed with an agent and struggled to write a blog post.

Too many children, no husband, access to good wine and fabulous friends is not conducive to book writing (it's bloody good fun though).

And then it came.

An email from a woman in a hotel room. "I've been sitting in this hotel room for two days, wondering why I came here and feeling like I've lost my identity. And then I found your blog. I've just read every post and suddenly I don't feel so alone. I can do this. Thank you".

No. Thank you.

I heard someone ask "when can you call yourself a writer?" and the answer was "when you get paid for it". I've been paid many times for writing, if you suffer from any form of self doubt or anxiety, it's still not going to make you feel like a "real" writer. You'll just feel like you got lucky, you snuck in, they didn't realize it was terrible until after publication. They probably won't ask again. It was a one off, the article was topical, yes, you just got lucky.

I have to get past this. This self doubt. The two days of agonizing over the fact that you accidentally wrote self depreciating instead of self deprecating. Move on. Keep writing, keep trying. Yes, it's awful that you have to do this so publicly, but you have to do it.

I'm writing a book.

I am a writer.

Miss Representation - The Reality.

2012-01-05T01:11:00.000-08:00

The first time I noticed Kim Flanagan, I noticed her jeans. They looked great and I wanted them. We were in Calgary. As I walked behind her in the school corridor I realized her son was on his way in to my daughters class - perfect - I could corner her at the school lockers.

We'd never met, we were both relatively new in town, we were both sleep deprived and we were both in those early years of parenting. My initial nervous "Umm, Hi, I love your jeans" conversation starter, turned in to an hour long chat in the car park. In that hour I fell in love with Kim's self deprecating humor and I made a friend for life.

We were both in baby and toddler mode, I was consumed with the Little Travelers and my days were spent negotiating nap times with grocery shopping, toddler music class and preschool pick ups. I was struggling to remember who the pre children Kirsty was, actually I was struggling to remember to shower and apply deodorant. I was tired, I felt stuck in a rut. There were days when G would leave for the office and I wanted to run after the car calling "take me with you - I want to go back to lunch and learns, conference calls and breakfast meetings". Instead I'd walk back inside and spoon weetbix in to someone's mouth while the Wiggles tried to wake up Jeff.

We'd both left careers behind, Kim was from a different city, I was a from a different country. We both had plans to return to work but worried about the logistics and the fact that we were beginning again, without any contacts.

Kim had a way of being able to pull an outfit together, not in a desperate housewives way, there was no big hair, high gloss nails or Jimmy Choos. Kim was groovy, she was comfortable, everything she wore seemed functional but cool - no Mum's jeans. Fashion was definitely her thing. I wasn't the only one who'd noticed.

Her own experience with being pregnant and emerging with a new body at the end of it, had got her thinking on how the process affects us as women. She wanted to start a website with a consulting business attached.

"Id love to start a site for woman to reclaim who they were. I want to give women permission to rock it, no matter the age, no matter the body. I'd love to inspire women to get their groove on, young or old, different body or the same body"

Can you see why I loved her?

Over time we both got to it. I went back to work, first part-time, then full time. She started to organize fashion events for women, real women. She went to people's houses and performed "closet interventions". She managed to be honest without being mean, people loved her. Then she got a gig on TV. The morning I switched on the television and saw a group of women from school acting as models on the breakfast show, I squealed out loud. Mothers from the 1st little travelers kindergarten class, even one of the grandmothers that worked in the tuck shop. They were all standing there while Kim talked about their outfits, everyone of them blushing while looking freaking fabulous. She'd done exactly what she said she was going to do.

It was Kim who pointed me in the direction of Miss Representation. She's having a screening on February 3rd in Calgary. I would so LOVE to be there. Sigh.

If we were to believe the rubbish we see on reality TV and tabloid magazines, Kim's business model should have never worked. You can't have middle aged sized 12 women on the telly? If you believe 90% of what you see in the mainstream media, Kim and I should have never have been friends. We should have had a cat fight by the third episode.

If you get a chance to watch it, let me know what you think.

We can co-exist

2011-12-29T05:10:00.000-08:00

In the lead up to Christmas I started to question our decision to stay. I love Doha, it has become my home and we have slowly made our own little extended family here, a community. But there was something going on. I can't tell you exactly what happened, I don't really know myself, but there was a string of events and a feeling that maybe Christmas just wasn't welcome this year. A hotel was asked to remove its tree. Decorations were taken down from a shopping centre and a visit by a Dutch Saint Nick, to a well known Doha landmark was criticized and written about.

I wondered if we should have just gone away. Gone somewhere where Christmas was more acceptable.

I've thought a lot this year about how we co-exist. Earlier in the year I took part in a writing course with three young Palestinians. I was immediately struck by the two girls. With rhyming names and matching grins their introductions involved giggles and shy smiles, but the moment we began to share our writing I realized my first impressions of shyness were askew, I'd got it wrong. They were women not girls. They were strong, they weren't shy, just polite. They were there to write and more than happy to share. Every word had a bite, a sting, sentences pieced together in to stories of displacement, racism and loss. In a 'personal essays' writing course there's no holding back, it comes out raw, often unpalatable but always uniquely honest. Work has to be done quickly, there's not time to gloss over the ugly bits.

On day two we interviewed each other in an exercise geared towards character writing. She was 20 and asked "what kind of music do you like?" I was immediately stumped. I download new music every week but I hadn't been asked that question in about 20 years. I thought back to parties in share houses, sitting in front of stereos with boys. I giggled and explained that I hadn't thought about "what type" in a long time. She looked me in the eye and said "you know, when we first arrived here I thought you were just a group of bored housewives, I was wrong". I thought about my fellow participants, a recognized and award winning designer from New York, a well traveled American writer, a Dean at the University who also owns her own yoga studio, really interesting women, but yes, women who were married and 40 something.

I loved her honesty. I still do. Everything she wrote stayed with me. I went home at night and thought about the words she'd shared that day. "This is not about religion, don't believe for a moment it's about religion". If she was that powerful at 20, who would she be at 30? We took photos, became Facebook friends and said our goodbyes.

I try and read everything that she writes. Last month I watched video footage of her and her sister standing nose to nose with Israeli soldiers.

"We can co-exist" her sister says to two Israeli soldiers.

We can co-exist.

On Christmas Day as we checked in to our hotel for lunch I stood looking at the enormous tree in the foyer. Families entered the room, I saw familiar faces from school, the supermarket, our compound - some of them had their parents who had flown in from around the world. Everyone was smiling, wishing each other a Merry Christmas. A man in a Thobe walked past me and said "Merry Christmas" and my voice wavered a little when I said "thank you" because I really meant it.

We can co-exist.

It's just bloody marvelous

2011-12-27T10:38:00.000-08:00

How was it? Did you do it? You know. Christmas? Did you partake?

If you didn't. Congratulations, you're definitely about 5 kilos lighter than me right now and I imagine your bank balance is looking a little healthier than mine. If you did, Merry Christmas, well done, take a deep breath, it's over.

We went to the Four Seasons in Doha this year and it was absolutely gorgeous. It wasn't just the food, the location and the people, it was the whole deal. Going to a hotel for Christmas can be dodgy, you're missing the "home cooked" thing, the coziness of it all. There's nothing quite as sterile as sitting in a vacuous room looking at hundreds of other families doing exactly what you're doing - it's like Valentines day for families, without the bonking.

I don't usually mention our locations and please don't think this is any way a sponsored post, but I wanted to give the Four Seasons credit, because they made my day. The Little Travelers bounced between the buffet and the bouncy castle. There was Santa, toys, activities, beach, pools and grass to run on - and the fourth traveler tells me he visited the chocolate fountain roughly 23 times. I know how he feels, I lost count with the champagne after the 124th glass.

We spent the morning at home, watching the Little Travelers open their presents and speaking to family on Skype, but it all felt a little empty. Presents were opened too quickly, the Skype went in and out and I could feel an attack of the mopes coming. From the moment we arrived at the hotel the world was good again. It felt like, well, it felt like Christmas. I watched peoples faces as they wished each other a Merry Christmas, I saw friends introduce their parents who had traveled across the world to be with them, I met sisters and Grandparents. I marveled over ice carvings, parmesan blocks and chocolate snowflakes. It was seriously posh, seriously special and seriously good fun. It was so far from normal it became an event. Someone said "it feels like a wedding, but without the speeches" a fellow Aussie said "it feels like cup day" and a girlfriend's father said "it's just bloody marvelous" and I looked out over the Arabian Gulf as the sun was setting and agreed.

In the lead up to Christmas I got a bit lost in the madness. I wanted to say thank you, I wanted to wish you a Happy Holiday, I wanted to find Polly Pockets - none of these things eventuated.

I'll be back again tomorrow, I've got lots of news (I'm going away, on my own, without a husband - I KNOW!) but until tomorrow - thank you. Thank you for coming back and seeing me here, thank you for voting for the blog and thank you for making me feel like you're here with me on my travels.