something like normal

We're in countdown to wedding day mode and this is how our place looked a few days ago. The wedding is a big event. There's an afternoon tea for just about everybody straight after the ceremony, followed by a sit-down dinner here for family and a few friends. It was decided that a fresh coat of paint was needed in preparation for decorating the dining room for the dinner.Our walls were a very tired and grubby green. Now they are clean, fresh and light.I can't believe what a difference it's made to this room. I wish we'd done it as soon as we moved in. But back then we didn't know whether we were coming or going. We were overwhelmed by all the work that needed doing and painting seemed frivolous. 

But this room, and the kitchen behind me, are my workspace. This is where I spend most of my time. The kids work, eat and play at our enormous dining table. I watch them from the kitchen through the servery you see above, and look out to the windows overlooking the bush and water. I've perfected the art of looking past the grubby walls to the view beyond. I'd become numb even, to the dissatisfaction I felt with that tired old green. And I'm not high maintenance. It doesn't take much for me to decide that there are bigger things going on in the world than the state of our walls.

I underestimated how good this fresh clean space would make me feel.

I'm going to make a jump here, so stay with me. Besides re-arranging furniture and hiring table linen for the wedding, I've been doing a lot of thinking. It all started when I moved the boxes still to be unpacked (nearly a year later) into a room that was originally a bedroom but was too full of that revolting asthma-inducing mould to be slept in. It has been a work in progress for months, a room without a name (we have to name our rooms around here or we don't know which one we're talking about!) and without any real purpose, as yet. The mouldy gib was pulled off ages ago, leaving a nice wee window at the end of the room where you can see through to the toilet next door, which the cat likes to sneak through when no one's looking.

But we did a bit more room shifting recently. What was the library is now an office fit with plywood tables made by Paddy, with space for two or three people to work at the same time, now that we have some part-time staff working with us on the business. My desk where I used to sit and write by the window needed to go somewhere, and I decided that the room with no name could become, albeit temporarily, my study. In went my desk, followed by all the boxes yet to be unpacked, all mine. The first box I unpacked contained my journals. Some of the thirty plus journals I've filled with words since I was a girl. 

I started reading and I couldn't stop. This room which gave me space to unpack boxes was also helping me unpack myself metaphorically. I realised things I've never realised before about myself, about our relationship, and about what I want for my future. There were moments when I was absolutely gobsmacked by what I read. First shocked at how insecure I was before I met Paddy, and then amazed at the insights I had for myself despite my insecurities. There were things I wrote that echoed, ironically and prophetically, the troubles that were to come. I wondered whether it would have made any difference If I'd re-read them later on, or remembered the weight of them.

And the more I un-packed, the more I thought, and suddenly I found myself deconstructing whole worlds of belief. The tired and grubby walls of ideas I had inherited by virtue of my family and church upbringing were dismantled at lightning speed.  I'd grown up with these tired ideas, as tired as the green walls of this room were. They were familiar. I'd never really questioned them, although I had, very occasionally, wondered if it would be possible for those walls to be a different colour. But my questioning never went anywhere, because I was convinced there were more important things to devote myself to. 

Then suddenly I found myself with newly painted walls. The tired old ideas were gone, and in their place was something new, fresh, and clean. And I couldn't believe how good it felt.

The real walls I'm looking at now have only been painted with undercoat. That's why it's amazing they look so good! It's a flat stark white, an on the way colour, and even still, it's wonderful. The colour we will paint over it once the renovations are done will probably be another version of white. Simple and fresh to frame the gorgeous green we see out these windows everyday.

And in the same way, the fresh new ideas that have changed everything inside my head are a work in progress too. They're an on the way colour. Which is why I've hardly breathed a word of them to anyone but Paddy, and why I'm not going to be writing about them here until I'm ready. But I couldn't not tell you something. It just feels too good to keep to myself. It doesn't feel scary, and it's not at all unsettling. It feels like we're on our way to something like our version of normal.

how it is in March

Monday was the first day in months that the girls spent completely inside. It rained all day, and it was grey and dull until late in the afternoon when the clouds lifted a little and the light was brighter. I looked around and noticed the brightness streaming through the windows in the dining room and lounge and turned the lights off. I thought about this light and how good it felt to have it back, but I knew it wasn't for long. Soon the months of muted light will be with us. The light we had that afternoon when the clouds lifted is the light that we will celebrate at the end of winter, when it finally stops raining. And that is a long way away.

Tuesday was the first day I actually felt cold. I wore a jumper all day. The girls have started talking excitedly about winter, and how much they love the fire. I'm settling in to the shorter days, the girls are easier to put to bed, and the darkness helps me get to bed too, but I know what we are in for. Our first winter in this house last year was dark and cold. We haven't had the roof fixed yet, and there's already a bowl out in the hall for the leak. But it won't be like that forever. We have plenty of plans, plenty of work to be done.

I've been so happy to be sugar-free. I found a recipe for muffins that uses left over porridge and only a smidgen of sweetener. I didn't believe it would work, and when it did, I was ecstatic! I've made them four times now with honey and sultanas. And then I realised that I'd eaten way too  many salicylates. And I was hoping Greer would be ok with them but she's not. We've both been eating too many salycilates. I'll try the muffins again another day with Maple Syrup, when I get some of the real stuff, but there won't be any until then.

I thought I was onto a good thing when I decided to start using the breadmaker again too. I got all excited, and made my own gluten free bread as well. I thought baking bread could be just the thing to do when I'm hankering to bake something sweet. But Isobella has declared she "hates" every batch I've made of wheat bread, because I've been making it wholemeal. And the fresh gluten free bread I made last night was so irresistable that I ate way too much of it and felt yuck. I knew what the culprit was; fresh yeast. I thought I'd found myself some new comforts. But there are no comforts here. I can't hide.

But there are two cupboards that are nearly all cleaned out and re-organised. The sleeping bags are all packed away, and I pulled out the girls' winter shoes and they pranced around in their slippers. Their dressing gowns are out too. They'd have worn them non-stop if I'd let them. Are we ready for a new season? Maybe we are.

restraint and freedom

Meet our sink. Two stainless steel bowls in a stainless steel bench. Possibly circa 1960. The bowls are wide and deep, and they do a great job. I can't remember if I've told you but this house used to be a camp, and this kitchen is totally a camp kitchen. I love it.

This is the third week I've been washing the dishes by hand, with help. I'm saying it's for Lent, but I kind of like it. I can't even remember exactly what I was thinking when I decided to abandon the dishwasher, but abandon it I did. The girls have been taking turns washing and drying when they can, and even on the days when I've faced a mountain of dishes, I haven't been tempted to use the dishwasher. Some how washing the dishes has become meditative for me. A slowing down.

Lent is not lying low around here at all. Since I decided to give up sugar, Paddy has followed suit. It's the closest thing to a family revolution we've had since he came home from his last ever overnight shift. I can feel in my bones that this is going to be good for us. It's been a week for me with no sugar, and as the days go on I feel better and better. I've got more energy, I'm feeling healthier, and I'm more in control of what I eat. The cravings are gone. I own my body and I'm over the moon about it.

I've had a feeling for a week or so that one of our Lenten sacrifices will be renewed post Lent. I'm kind of curious to see which it is. I've got options to choose from. And that's not to say I'm some kind of Lent perfectionist. Not at all. I'm a novice when it comes to following the church calendar. But this year Lent has completely taken me by surprise by offering so much opportunity for growth. Growth I just couldn't pass up on.

At the beginning of Lent I wrote about our new rhythm and the un-learning that I knew was in store for me. At that stage the only thing I had decided to give up was complaining. I may seem like a nice person, but over nearly eleven years of marriage I had developed a very unattractive habit. I understand where it had come from. Disappointment, a mixture of unmet and unspoken expectations, and the idea that grew along the way that I am some how hard done by. Complaining was my right. One of the few ways I really let it all hang out. To the one I love. It was the first shadow I faced.

The moment in darkness was uncomfortable, embarrassing even, but it was short. Like a quick cut with a sharp knife. At first I had to bite my tongue, then there were moments where I covered my mouth with my hand and turned away, and then it became as simple as a smile. A wry smile at the words I knew I couldn't say. Paddy and I know how to fight, and that's not all bad, but as Lent went on it was like we had no energy, no need to be combatant. There was restraint when before there was none.

Restraint has been the word that has resonated with me this Lent. Restraint with words, restraint with foods, restraint with media. Restraint is not a popular concept. We are conditioned by every thing around us to want more, to need more, and to shout it to the rooftops. We are owed. We have rights! We must be heard! But restraint goes against all of that. Restraint says what you have is enough.

I've been honest here at times about this marriage of mine. One day I'll tell you the whole story, and I can assure you, it will be good. I have looked at the end of it with such petrifying clarity it was like looking down the barrel of a gun. I know how things could have gone. As you can imagine, I've developed some strong opinions about marriage along the way. I'm not an advocate of just keeping quiet and "putting up" with average-ness. I believe we should have high expectations of how we are treated and how we treat each other.

And yet in restraint there is a holding back. At the right time, and not if there is abuse involved, but at the right time, restraint is stepping back rather than stepping forward. It is keeping quiet rather than letting words fly like volleys. It is stillness rather than aggression. It is patience, it is peace. It is trusting that I have the resilience within me to resolve the conflict within myself, regardless of the outcome. It is being able to let it go. It is saying to myself what I have is enough.


I'm sitting here writing to you as a person who has less than they had three weeks ago. I've given up a language, the vernacular of complaint. I've given up my favourite category of food. I've given up the labour-saving device I used most often. I'm gluten, dairy, fat and salycilate intolerant, and now I don't eat sugar either. Does that sound unnatural? Insanely restrictive? I promise you, it's my freedom.

a hangi for Waitangi Day

 

 

Last Monday was Waitangi Day and we got together with some friends and put on a hangi. I want to say that it started in the darkness of dawn early on Waitangi Day morning, when I got up just after the fire had been lit and the air was filled with the cackle and crackle of flames, but it didn't. It started the day before, when the pit was dug in the heat of the afternoon.

We've done something on Waitangi Day for a few years now, but this was the first hangi. And it was the first time we had this many people on our property, over a hundred. That in itself was exciting, because it's exactly how we see this place working. As somewhere for people to come and enjoy. There were kids all over the place, running around everywhere, in and out of the house, jumping on the tramp, riding up and down the driveway. And it was a good mix of people, many of them from church, plus friends and family. I got to meet a filmmaker from Shanghai, how cool is that. I love meeting interesting people.

But mostly it was about remembering and celebrating the history of our country, something we don't always do well. While angry and divisive voices are still calling for Waitangi Day to be abandoned, we all simply got on with celebrating. Celebrating being us.

how it is in january

At the beginning of the month we had a lovely visit from my good friend Marita who lives in Sydney. I got to meet her husband and gorgeous baby girl for the first time. We walked down through our bush to the beach, and then back up and along the bush walk that follows the cliff at the edge of the beach. I still pinch myself sometimes. I can't believe that we live so close to all of this.

I've been taking the dog for a quick walk along that bush walk most mornings. I can leave the kids watching TV for twenty minutes, (which doesn't seem too much like neglect when there's usually at least one other adult somewhere in the building!) and get a brisk walk in the bush.We walk along a winding path and then up a steep set of stairs to get to the view you see in the third photograph. That's a stand of young kauri trees right on the edge of the cliff. They are so small, they really look like they've only just begun and yet they could be one hundred, two hundred years old. Then we walk back down the stairs again and as we descend it's like entering a vast room, with the green canopy above us, and the morning sunlight streaming in, the gaps in the trees our windows.

It's really only just started feeling like summer. It rained for the first half of the month. We are going away to Mum's bach on the Manukau heads today, our first holiday. If we had a boat, we could boat over there in about twenty minutes. Instead we will drive back into town and all the way around this enormous harbour, and get to the other side in about an hour an a half. It seems funny to live on one side of the harbour, and holiday on the other, but would it matter if we spent our lives exploring and knowing only one small part of the world? Would that be any less fulfilling than knowing many places superficially? Actually, I want both. I want to know my corner of the world so well that I can read the land, the water, the trees like a book. And then I want to go everywhere else at least once.

I wrote last time about the madness of cleaning this huge house with the girls home on holiday, but mostly it's been anything but mad around here. The girls have got into this lovely groove of playing together and exploring and making things. They are more content and happy with themselves than I've seen for ages. I know most other mums will be saying that their kids can't wait to get back to school, and that they can't wait for them to go either, but I'm just not like that. The girls are are supposed to start school next week but to be honest, I'm having trouble drumming up any enthusiasm for it. The holidays have left me wistful and wondering, and that's all I have to say about that, for now.

how it is in November

 

We've been here nearly five months. Looking back now I think we were in shock for the first two or three of them. It rained endlessly, and it was cold. It took about four months for us to finish playing musical bedrooms.  The transition from homeschool to school was a big one, and we still haven't quite got our routines sorted yet. But the sun is out. I took that photo this morning when I suddenly realised I could see something new; bright light.

If you look closely you can see a peak of blue between the deck railings. The tide is in and the water is glistening. That's new too. Having spent so much of my childhood by the sea in Raglan, the sparkle of sunlight on water always stirs my heart.  The way the drops of light flicker and dance is magical, and it brings all the hope and emotions associated with summer flooding back. I'm ready for this.

That doesn't mean it's suddenly easy though. Greer's asthma has got so bad that she's been sleeping in Mum's spare room for nearly two weeks. She's allergic to mould, and I'm pretty sure that the bits of mould in places on the ceilings and walls are the culprit. The other two girls are now showing signs of mild asthma too, and that makes me grumpy. We have plenty of work to do.

But I'm happy. My early mornings have become so normal I can't imagine life without them. I'm adjusting to life with only one child in the house, and she's adjusting to being on her own. Right now I'm writing on my laptop which is up on the kitchen servery, and Abigail is behind me feeding playdough to her doll. Just before we came in here we hung a load of washing out on the line, in full sun, and Abi played with the pegs and walked around my feet singing.

meet my enemy

Meet our stove. It looks pretty innocuous, right, a very ordinary stove. But don't be deceived. This stove is a menace. I've been cooking on this stove for nearly four months now, since we moved here in June, and I can tell you, this stove is nasty!

Let me tell you why. Only one element can actually be turned down. The other three just burn and burn. The largest one in particular gets so hot that I'm scared I'll hurt myself. And it's only got one setting. Burning hot. It turns off, but it will not turn down. 

In the first weeks after we moved here I swore a lot in the kitchen. I even cried a couple of times. Every pot we own now has black on the bottom. I've burnt everything from rice to potatoes, eggs and even the onion and carrot I was trying to sweat to make soup. Tell me how am I supposed to cook something on a low heat when none of the elements produce a low heat? 

I can tell you I've tried everything. I've had two elements on at the same time, one being small and therefore slightly (slightly!) cooler than the other, and I've moved the pot from one to the other. I've tried every element and every setting on every element, going through all the options in case I'd missed the magic combination. I've even resorted to standing in front of the stove and lifting the pan about fifteen centimetres off the element and cooking that way. (It still cooks!) Everything boils over at some point, so the trays under the element are covered in black and often with a little pool of old cooking water that burns up the next time I use that element and stinks the house out.

So after the first two months we realised the stove had to go, and we started making plans to buy a new one. Now, sitting in the kitchen next to the said stove, is a second hand but shiny and beautiful stove. It's gas top and electric oven, it's big, and it's getting installed today. We won't know ourselves! 

When I finally got to show mum how bad our stove was she couldn't believe we'd put up with it so long. I told another friend about it and her reaction was the same. "It must drive you mad!" was her reaction, or something along those lines. 

The funny thing is that after I admitted how bad that stove was, and once we'd decided to eventually get a new one, the stove stopped making me mad. I even stopped swearing about it (mostly!) The food was still burning, and the pots were still turning black, but it didn't get to me anymore. I just expected it.

I was thinking about this one day this week, on a day when Abigail was being particularly trying. It was one of those days where she was climbing on the tables, opening the fridge and helping herself to a glass of milk, getting the bread out and trying to make her own lunch, and throwing the girls' best coloured pencils all over the floor. It was the kind of day that when Paddy wakes up from his day's sleeping and comes out to see us the first thing he hears from my mouth is "that baby is driving me nuts!"

But somehow, in the midst of cleaning the honey off the floor, and picking up the coloured pencils for the umpteenth time, my frazzled brain managed to make the connection between my frustration with Abigail and my frustration with the stove. And I realised I'd started to feel like Abigail, that sweet two year old of mine, was my enemy.

Now I was smart enough to know, once I'd figured that much out, that there was no point in going down that track. If I continued to see that two year old as the source of all my problems and frustration I would only end up more frustrated, and she would probably end up on the unfortunate end of a fair bit of venting. And that wouldn't be fair on her. 

So I'm adjusting my expectations. I'm no longer surprised when she chucks the girls' pencils all over the floor. I hardly blink when she grabs a glass and helps herself to water out of the water dispenser. I merely make a murmur of disapproval when she helps herself to the milk and pours it, half into the cup and half on the floor. And I now know that she's capable of getting herself a slice of bread from the fridge and helping herself to the pourable honey from the pantry. These things no longer take me by surprise. And I'm reminding myself that she won't be two forever.

Frustration can be blinding. We rarely think straight when we are frustrated. And frustration leads to resentment and resentment becomes a weight that's very hard to shift. It makes us desperate for a scape goat, desperate to lay the blame somewhere, because if we are going to feel this bad we might as well have a good reason for it. 

That stove wasn't my enemy, it was just a malfunctioning stove, and Abigail's not my enemy either, of course. She's just a very determined two year old, who will only be two for eight more months. Right now I should be giving her breakfast, but she wouldn't let me put her in the high chair. She wanted to join in the with the big girls' game of school. So she sat down on a little chair in front of them and turned the pages of an old biology text book, and talked to herself about "buzzy bees." Then while I was writing this she came over to the servery behind me, reached up and grabbed Isobella's bowl of half-eaten cereal, and pulled up a chair. She's sitting next to me eating it now with an adult size spoon, and the milk is going all the way down her front and onto the chair. At least I'm not surprised!

home

It's two months yesterday since we moved, and it has taken nearly that long for me to call this place home. Even just a week or so ago I inadvertently referred to our old place as "home" and found myself choking back the tears. The context was a conversation about the horrific power bill we received for our first month here. Even when we divided up the bill between us and Mum, we were left with an amount that was almost twice what it would have been at our old place.

We knew our old place. It was dry and easy to heat. We had gas hot water and a shiny gas fireplace that we could turn on any time with no effort. We'd knocked down a wall, put in a new kitchen and bathroom, painted the walls and polished the floors. It wasn't perfect but it was lovely.

This place is the opposite of that one in every way. Where the old place was small, this place is gigantic. Where the old place was dry, this place has leaks and drainage problems. The old place was shiny and easy, and this place, well, it isn't shiny or easy.

But I wouldn't go back. When I wrote to you just before we moved I told you that this move was like "pushing open an enormous and heavy door with all of our weight, and then slamming it shut behind us."
And that is exactly how it has felt.

I visited our old place a few weeks ago. It's the same house, but it's not ours any more. It is lovely and shiny, but it's also very small, and there's no bush or beach. Just a street of ordinary houses in suburbia.

I was happy to live in suburbia, once. Suburbia has conveniences which should not be sniffed at. My sister and her family lived over the road, and we were friends with our neighbours. We had shops in both directions and several beaches and parks within a ten minute drive. Our backyard was tidy and fenced, and just big enough for the kids to play out there for hours.

But then in November last year we found a property for sale (not this one) on two acres of bush. You could stand on the deck and look out over a valley of green, and in the distance, when the wind was in the right direction, the low rumble of faraway surf rolled in. I felt like I was looking into my own heart.

We missed out on that house, and decided just to stay put and enjoy our finished renovations for a while. Then one day in February Mum and I drove past the For Sale sign for this place. I knew straight away we needed to see it. We rang the agent and made an appointment for that week, and we put in an offer the very night after we saw it. It wasn't a difficult decision.

This place is everything we were longing for. We can walk through our bush to get to the beach you see in those photos above. I can see the water from where I'm sitting at the dining table.The tide is in and the water is green. The bush above it on the other side of the estuary is glowing in the sun. Other than the birds, the hum of this laptop, and the occasional scratch from the dog lying at the front door, it is silent.

But it's not just this place that's so good, it's all the places we are close to. Last week I went for a drive with Abigail and found a deserted beach at the end of a gravel road. The water was high and clear, and I stood at the edge and looked out to the wide, wild harbour entrance. It was that same view, eight years ago, from a different spot, that had brought sudden tears to my eyes. It was before we owned houses or had children, and we were exploring, wondering where we might like to live one day. We happened to go out to Huia, a little settlement on a quiet bay near the mouth of the harbour. Standing on the deck of a house that was for sale I looked out at that harbour entrance and suddenly began crying. I think that was the first time I felt like I was looking into my own heart.

We live ten minutes down the road from Huia now. We drove out there with the dog on Sunday afternoon. It was wet and windy and we were wrapped up in jackets and hats. We drove to Huia and went to the sole store, which also does takeaways and coffees. We sat by the window beside an old tea trolley covered with magazines and picture books and ate hot chips. Afterwards we walked along the beach towards the playground and dusk fell. We were cold and very happy.

I never knew I needed to live so close to this harbour. I couldn't have imagined how much I was longing for wild places, to live in wild places. But now it seems obvious. And it feels like I can get on with my life.  If there are any words, any stories for me to write, they are here. All my dreams, every hopeful imagining. Here where wild tides meet and sea birds soar over wind currents. Where the eye can see for miles without obstruction, over oceans and back again.

floors and birthday cakes

It's one-thirty on Saturday morning. There's a pavlova in the oven, nearly ready to come out. One birthday cake is sitting in mum's oven to keep the ants off it, and another birthday cake is sitting beside our oven, waiting for the oven to cool before I tuck it a way for the night. The dishwasher is on, but the bench is covered with dirty dishes. The rest of the house is tidy but filthy. Tomorrow I'll do some cleaning, make another cake and some chocolate crackles, and we'll be almost done. I'm sure I'll be screaming like a banshee at the last minute, yelling orders at anyone within earshot and trying to blow up balloons and brush my teeth at the same time. But it will be worth it.

I could have just flagged the idea of any party at all, given the circumstances. Anyone else with half a brain would have. We've been in this place three weeks today, and since Monday we've spent every hour we can scraping a vile sticky lining off the floor with the help of a wallpaper steamer. It's been one of those jobs that seems like it will never end. Last night I was up until 1am steaming and scraping the last of the disgusting stuff off the floor of the room which will eventually be our bedroom.

I've spent moments all week suppressing the panic that threatened to rise whenever I thought about twenty kids and a party, here. Right here on these floors which are almost completely covered with dust and mud. Right here where we are in the middle of playing musical bedrooms to try and find the rooms that are the least asthma-inducing, and where we're currently sleeping in two out of seven bedrooms, with the kids' clothes, books and toys in one room, and their beds in another!

But I'm not one to pass up a good opportunity for a party, and I couldn't imagine Greer turning five without one. It seemed a sensible idea at the time to combine Abigail's second birthday party with Greer's fifth, although I probably could have just had a quiet family afternoon tea for Abigail, and let Greer have the party all to herself, saving myself from having to make and ice two birthday cakes at once. Why do I do these things?

It wasn't so bad though, doing two cakes at once. I think it might have even cured me of a little birthday cake perfectionism. Now when I say "birthday cake perfectionism" I know what you are thinking. Let me get one thing straight. I am not talking about perfect birthday cakes in the way you are thinking perfect birthday cakes. Oh no! My birthday cakes don't look like the kind of cakes a true "birthday cake perfectionist" makes. But I know my inner perfectionist. She doesn't turn up that often but one of the things she turns up for is birthday cakes. I know because I had a moment when I couldn't find the cake recipe I always use, and went madly looking through several boxes to no avail. I know, because I had to catch my breath and tell myself some home truths when I couldn't find my favourite butter icing recipe and had to use another one, and it just wasn't right. On another night, I might have chucked out a whole batch of icing and started again. But not tonight. Tonight was not the night to be a perfectionist about anything.

So I decided, as I was being ok with things not being completely ok, that when it comes to birthday cakes, I've got the impressionist style down pat. Take Abi's cake for example. Hers is a "2" with light green butter icing, with chocolate finger biscuits arranged around the edges as a fence, and her favourite animal figurines on top. It kind of gives you the idea of a farmyard scene. Abi's not going to notice that the chocolate fingers are all broken at slightly different lengths, or that the butter icing has plenty of brown cake crumbs poking through and is solid, rather than fluffy. And then there's Greer's cake, a kind of whimsical garden with cats wandering through it. Ah yes, of course, you say, that's exactly what I would have imagined on a five year old's birthday cake! It's got spearmint lollies on toothpicks for trees, japanese crackers for a path, and pumpkin seeds for grass. And the icing was a quite lovely egg shell kind of blue, but since I iced it a couple of hours ago it has turned a shade reminiscent of old playdough, as Paddy so kindly pointed out. But the cats look like they are having a great time.

My mum was never into themed and fancy birthday cakes. I don't know whether it was just that she was carefully avoiding the pressure, or because she preferred a cake that was simple and good to eat, or because she genuinely didn't feel confident with those kind of things. I remember seeing birthday cake cookbooks at other people's houses, and gazing longingly at swimming pools made of jelly, and trains with carriages overflowing with sweets and chocolate. Then mum found a recipe for a hedgehog cake with chocolate buttons as spines and we were all delighted. We had "Harriet the Hedgehog" birthday cakes for years in a row, and never suffered birthday cake envy again.

It's funny the things that make the difference in a childhood. The things that still warm us on the inside when we remember them. All I can hope for is that some where in the craziness that tomorrow's party will be, Greer makes herself one of those memories. I think there's a good chance she will. And I'm pretty sure it won't be anything to do with my butter icing.

it's real

Our internet connection is only hours old. It didn't take me long to get here. I've been thinking about words all week, wondering what story I would tell you when we finally got connected with the "real" world again. The first few days we were elated, whenever I looked out the window at that view I melted. The kids were dancing and running everywhere, riding their scooters up and down our mammoth hallway. We couldn't believe there was this much space in one house. As Isobella said, "we live in the biggest house in the world!"

As it happens, we also live in the wettest and most drainage-challenged house in the world. Which is not surprising when we live on the edge of a rain forest! The house also badly needs painting and generally fixing-up. We have our work cut out for us.

We knew that when we bought the house, more or less, but I had no idea what it would feel like to move into a job.  We'd just finished doing up our old house. But now we know that was nothing. This is the real deal, friends. We could be on one of those reality tv shows. One of those, we must save this house now before we all go mad kind of reality shows. Or I could just write about it.

Today was case in point. Outside our plumber friend was continuing his marathon attempt to dig up pretty much every bit of mud and soil on the property. Inside, another friend, an eccentric genius, was installing our desperately needed ventilation system. In the afternoon a drain layer came to have a go at unblocking a couple of drains. Then our internet guy turned up. Celebration! 

Meanwhile Paddy was doing an evening shift and had to leave at 5pm. I was rushing around trying to get some food cooked for him to take. He left while the drainlayer, the internet guy and our eccentric genius were still in action. I fed the kids and got them in the bath and just as the genius was finishing installing our ventilation system I blew the fuse to the wire it was attached to when I let the kids use the spa bath for the first time. At one point there were three men standing around our power board trying to figure out which fuse exactly was blown. In the end they found it completely fried and we'll have to get an electrician in tomorrow. So we have a fantastic ventilation system without any power to run it!  The internet guy finally finished up by about 8:30pm, and I got the kids in bed at about nine, after they'd had a second dinner of cereal at mums'. By which time the house was absolutely freezing because there had been no point in putting the heater on, with everyone coming and going. I hadn't sat down since the morning. And it's our anniversary.

So welcome to the real world of living in the bush. Who would want a boring life? Not me. And really, I can't think of any better way to celebrate ten years of marriage than by forging ahead, arriving in places unknown, and embarking on new adventures. We did all of the above when we picked ourselves up, us and the kids and however many million boxes, and landed here. This enormous, damp, cold, and utterly lovely place in the bush. Ours.