HARK THE STEP KIDS' ANGELS SING

When it comes to step families, Christmas traditions can be complex minefields to negotiate. Here’s what I did, what they did, and now what we all do.

MY family’s Santa tradition:

When I was young, Santa would leave a pillowcase filled with gifts at the foot of my bed. I don’t remember the age when I sprung Santa, but the deal was that once the game was over, the sack no longer appeared. I wasn’t traumatised by this (not that I can recall!); it was simply the tradition of our family.

When I became a mother, this Christmas tradition was then passed on to my daughter. As she moved from toddler-hood to primary school-hood, the Christmas catch cry was “Once you no longer believe in Santa, he doesn’t leave presents anymore”. Much to my delight, Santa remained elusive and magical to her until she was ten years old. From then on she shared in the magic as spectator to her younger brothers’ Santa glee, and as fellow Santa-conspirator with me.

THEIR family’s Santa tradition:

When I met my husband, who came with a brood of six, their Santa came with no ‘expiry date’. Santa would generously leave all six of them a Santa Sack filled to the brim with knickknacks, useful stuff and fun stuff, no matter what their age. The eldest of my stepchildren back then was fifteen, and she was, by far, the most excitable when it came to Christmas: the first to count ‘how many sleeps till Santa comes’, the first to wake up Christmas morning, and the first to squeal at the sight of a full Santa sack.

What to do? Deny my stepchildren their tradition, or reinstate Santa to my daughter, who by then was sixteen?

The latter, of course! (Her Christmases had, quite literally, all come at once.)

OUR family’s Santa tradition:

Back then, adopting their Christmas tradition seemed like a good idea, but as the kids got older we had to make a few modifications.

When they were all younger we could get away with lots of cheap Santa sack fillers (such as socks, undies, silly stuff) and a few bonuses that wouldn’t break the bank. When the youngest child admitted to Cracking the Santa Code, we had to rethink the budget and the time spent coming up with more useful, rather than useless, gifts from Santa. So the first change we made a few years ago was to downsize: from sacks to stockings.

But still, filling nine stockings (they’re not much smaller than a sack, really) was still a challenge, time-wise and money-wise.

As Christmas approached this year, we realised that the kids may not be getting too old for this, but we were! So this year, as our youngest boys turn fourteen, it is time once again for a change.

Without taking away the fun and chaos of Christmas, here’s what we came up with:

Each child (young and old) has received

1. A note from Santa asking for their help to fill a stocking for _ _ _
2. The recipient’s Christmas stocking
3. Some cash for them to buy the goodies to fill the stocking.

They all thought it was a great idea, and as I write this, shops are being scoured for bargains and stockings are being filled.

My stepdaughter, who is now 23 years old, is still the most animated and excited around Christmastime. Her joie de vivre reminds me why Santa still visits our house, no matter what the age of our children.

I’m excited, too. I can’t wait to see what ‘Santa’ has brought everyone. Maybe he’ll even re-visit me one day? Now there’s a change to tradition I could embrace!

Footy Fervour

It was November last year that my stepson Jack was selected to play for Melbourne Football Club - a life-long dream come true. After patiently nursing injuries for most of the year, he finally makes his debut on Sunday 31st August.

That, in itself, is worth a blog entry for Jack alone.

(And for his proud dad.)

Go Jack!

One Man's Loss... Another's Gain

Having no father was an awkward thing to explain as a six year old, so I told my new grade one class-mates that my dad had been killed in the war.

I liked the ‘killed in the war’ story because my best friend Susan had a father whose arm had been blown off in some war somewhere and the government gave him money for being a hero. Losing an arm was nothing – I’d lost a whole father! And besides, the idea of a bullet-infested father dying for his country, like the soldiers on the telly in Combat, was a better story than saying ‘He left when I was little’.

I don’t remember Mum announcing that she and the man we called Uncle Richard were getting married, but I do remember waiting eagerly at the front gate and standing on tippy toes until I could see his head bobbing over the hill as he walked home from the railway station. ‘Uncle Richard’s here! Uncle Richard’s here!’ The best thing about Uncle Richard was that at the age of seven, I was getting my own, real, permanent, dad.

My brother and I called Uncle Richard ‘Dad’ from the moment he and Mum were married. Even though Mum had explained that he was technically our stepfather, and we his stepchildren, I was glad to drop the step bit, and with it, the images of poisoned apples and dark forests.

So now I technically had two fathers: one absent, one present; I also had two surnames: one old, one new. On the first day of grade two we all sat on the floor with our legs crossed, looking up in anticipation at our crotchety new teacher as she called out our names. As each name was called we were to stand up and say Present! in our loudest voice.

‘Fiona Hilliker.’ That was me. I stood up.

‘Present!’

I sat back down. A few names later:

‘Fiona Trembath.’ That was me, too. I stood up again.

‘Present!’

Mrs Gillespie shushed the giggling class, and glared at me over the rim of her glasses, wordlessly demanding an explanation.

I quickly told her that Mum had married during the summer holidays and that I had a new surname. She struck her pen through the first name and from that moment on Fiona Hilliker no longer existed.

A few years later we got a sister and then a brother. I didn’t know it back then, but with the arrival of our half-siblings, our family had officially blended.

Fast forward thirty-five years and it was my turn to now become a stepparent. I don’t know what event precipitated the phone call to my mother in those early, catastrophic stepmother days, but I knew I had to call someone for survival tips.

‘How did Dad do it?’, I asked Mum.

‘Do what?’

‘How did Dad take on the role of stepparent, without cracking up, like I think I’m going to do?’
‘Maybe you should ask him,’ she said. ‘But I don’t remember it being an issue.’
I called Dad and asked him the same question.

‘I just did it, that’s all. You and your brother were part of the package. I loved your mum, so there was no question that I wouldn’t love you as well. Besides, you were easy. Great kids.’

I didn’t feel any better about my own perceived shortcomings as a stepparent after the conversation with Dad, but it did cause me to reflect on the thirty-five years he’d been in my life.
Dad was only twenty-two years old (seven years Mum’s junior) when he embraced the role of stepfather to a seven year old and nine year old; he’d also overseen and supported our education and careers; he’d loved our mother (even though they divorced 20+ years later); he’d given us the gift of another brother and sister; and, as a journalist and poet, he brought the love of words and writing into my life.

That was a lot to be grateful for, I realised, and I’d never once taken stock of it. …Until now, as I stood in similar step parenting shoes that he had worn thirty-five years before.

For the moment, surely I could put my woes behind me and express a little gratitude to the man who’d helped shape my life? So I called Dad back and thanked him. Really thanked him. (He still insists it was easy. I still don’t believe him.)

As much as my biological father’s absence shaped who I was to become, so too, did the presence of my stepfather, my ‘dad’.

Because when a daughter loses a dad – in a forest, in a war, or in any inexplicable circumstance – a stepdad can the next best thing. Well it was for me, anyway.

Thanks again, Dad.

From Good to Bad to Better

I’ve just returned from the airport to wave my almost-twenty-four year old daughter goodbye as she flies across the Pacific Ocean to the USA for a six week holiday. There’s nothing so remarkable about that: this is her fourth trip to New York. What is remarkable, however, is that her stepsister – a year younger than My Girl – is joining her for the last half of the holiday. Seven years ago, the distance between Melbourne and New York wouldn’t have been far enough to get away from each other.

It was fun and wonderful at the beginning, when My Girl was 16 and His Girl was 15. They became instant friends with echoed cries of “I’ve always wanted a sister!” . You can imagine how relieved Steve and I were. Things were fine; great, even, for the first year. The end of the honeymoon coincided with the introduction of two major events: our two families ‘merging’, with us moving into their family home, and at the same time His Girl bringing home The Boyfriend from Hell.

With reassurances of what a great guy he was, we applied the ‘benefit of the doubt’ creed and initially overlooked the dreadlocks, the outbursts of expletives and his smile-less, attitude-full face. We didn’t want to rain on His Girl’s parade; she was, after all, truly, and very madly, in love with this boy.

Initially, My Girl was happy for her step sister. Besides, she’d introduced them to each other, and was pleased for both of them. Unfortunately, the two girls shared a loft-style bedroom, separate from the house. And given Hell Boy visited us often and stayed late, privacy, awkwardness and boundaries all became a little blurry. Steve and I were in spot-fire control with our new co-joined family of eleven (twelve, if you counted Hell Boy’s constant over-stayed welcomes), juggling two businesses and the shared parenting with ex partners of seven of the children, we took our eye off the ball for too long with the two eldest girls. In a short time, a small crack had become an irreparable shatter.

My Girl hated coming home, hated her room, hated her stepsister, hated her stepsister’s boyfriend, hated school (where Hell Boy also attended), to the point of crying uncontrollably and saying she couldn’t live with us anymore.

It was gut-wrenching – not to mention guilt expanding – for me to see that what we had thought was going to be a wonderful thing for our two daughters had turned out to be The Biggest Disaster In Stepfamily History.

It’s a biological instinct to protect our children, so my first thought was to scoop up my three, abandon Steve, leave him with his six (plus Hell Boy) and go back from whence I came. But I had no whence to go back to. I felt like such a failure to My Girl who I had raised almost solo in all of her seventeen years. How could I manage to stuff up something I had so carefully and mindfully stepped into? What delusion was I under that I thought all this could possibly work and we’d all live Happiest Ever After?

But My Girl didn’t want me to up and leave. She wanted to leave, and was happy to, as long as she got away from her stepsister and Hell Boy. Before long, the car was packed. I was angry and outraged at the mess that had come of all this. But mostly I was sad and afraid - for all of us. When I said goodbye to My Girl at her cousin's place, I cried all the way home. Whatever or wherever home now was.

My Girl may be gentle and sensitive, but she’s also very strong, and despite it all, managed to successfully complete her VCE whilst sharing an apartment with her cousin during that tumultuous year. I’m sensitive too, but I wasn’t so strong. It was hard to let her go too soon. And I only got to see her a few times a week.

It took a long time for the stepsisters to even be in the same vicinity. But very slowly the ice thawed, and wounds were licked and healed in their own time as they eventually, albeit tentatively, orbited around each other at family gatherings.

At last, at last, Hell Boy was gone. For good. His Girl was distraught, broken into little pieces, inconsolable. Sometimes it takes a breaking down for things to build up again.

On our wedding day, just over six years ago, the girls put aside their hurts and celebrated with us, radiating beauty and making us both proud. They have grown into delightful, successful women, with kind hearts and happy friends. His Girl has a new boy now, and this one’s from heaven.

Last night at My Girl’s Bon Voyage dinner, she and her stepsister giggled like schoolgirls about what they were going to do and see in The Big Apple and LA.

This will be His Girl’s first overseas holiday. She’s excited and nervous about travelling so far and for so long. But thankfully she has her stepsister to meet her at the other end at JFK; one who will look after her and look out for her, just like any big sister would.

That’s what’s remarkable.

My girl - June 08

His girl July 08

Step-dogging

This is our dog Ossie, who died a few months ago. He was our tenth child. When I married into this ready-made family of six children (with my own three children Velcro-ed to my side), it didn’t take me long to realise that Ossie was another on the list to love and look after. The fact that he was a dog didn’t make much difference; he was low maintenance and instantly loved me. Dogs are like that. Stepchildren take longer.

Ossie wasn’t just an ordinary dog; we highly suspect he was a human stuck in dog form. I know you’ve heard that before from other dog-owners, but they’re speaking metaphorically – I’m speaking from actual evidence. You see, Ossie could talk. It’s true! Whenever we arrived home he’d open his German Shepherd-Crossed happy mouth and say ‘hello’… or in Ossie-talk, ‘harro’. Once, he even said he loved me. Well, close enough. It sounded like this: ‘Ar rar roo’, to which I replied, ‘And I love you too, Os.’

Just over a year ago, my 13 year old cat, Phoenix died. My three children and I loved Phoenix; my step children and husband did not. Nobody ever talks or writes about step-animals. It’s a complex union, that of blending families – animals included. When my stepson brought a pet rat home from school one day it was hastily sent to live at his mother’s place; and even there it didn’t last long.

Phoenix the cat entered this blended family with two strikes against him: one, he was a cat, and two, he was a furry cat, and the only thing worse than a cat was a furry cat. It was upsetting to hear disparaging comments about Phoenix, and even more upsetting that he was so easily dismissed and forgotten. He was also relegated to the cool and barren end of the house; in winter it was icy cold down there and in the summer, stinking hot. I could only love him from long distance.

And then one day – for some unknown reason – there was a change of heart. It was now okay to let Phoenix join the rest of the family at the happy and warm end of the house. He loved curling up near the heater ducts at night, or sneaking into a bedroom and kneading the doona to spongy perfection. He also left more fur for me to clean up. But I didn’t care. The children always left their stuff lying around, so I didn’t see it as much different.

Phoenix was only to enjoy the fruits of acceptance and warmth for a short time, as he began to become listless and scraggy-looking with the onset of illness. Before long, he wouldn’t eat, couldn’t eat, resulting in his furry-coated cat skin hanging like a wet paper bag from his body. Phoenix was dying. Every morning I’d wake in hope that he’d died in his sleep, but it didn’t happen. So I took his life in my own hands. At the vet’s advice, he was to be euthanised. It was, by far, the hardest decision I’ve ever made and the most difficult thing I’ve had to do.

So Phoenix died, and not everybody was sad.

Then, a year later, it was Ossie the dog’s turn to leave us. He too, was thirteen. Despite the unlucky number, Ossie was fortunate enough to be loved by everyone. All eleven of us.

To me, Ossie was the epitome of love and acceptance into this large, blended family. He always had enough doggy love to go around. He would sit next to me on the outside step when I’d cry with despair in the early days over the too big a bite I thought I’d taken on in becoming a stepmother to six children; and he didn’t discriminate: although he was part-human, he didn’t take on any of the false beliefs that others had of me, in coming into their world.
Ossie would keep me company in the garden whenever I weeded and planted, lying down on a patch of soil with a ‘humph’ and contented sigh. And he was always pleased to see me, even if I’d spoken to him harshly not long before.

He appreciated his morning Schmako, his water bowl being filled, the tummy rubs, his new bed, the warm, roast lamb bone, the kind words, the walks – as much I appreciated him and all his doggy goodness.

The clearest and most memorable dream I’ve ever had featured Ossie the Talking Dog. In the dream, he spoke to me rather eloquently and clearly, telling me he wasn’t really a dog, but a human in dog-form, just as I suspected. He said he’d come into my life to teach me to ‘stay’. (Ironic, coming from a dog.)

So I stayed.

We can learn a lot from our step-pets.

Phoenix the Cat

CHEERING FROM THE SIDELINES

I’m only his stepmother and I can’t profess to claim any part of his success, nor can I pretend that I’m a lover of football – the opposite, in fact – but that doesn’t stop me from feeling proud. And right now I’m the proudest stepmother of all time, as Jack, my 18 year old stepson has been selected to play AFL football with the Melbourne Football Club.

The news was met with cheers and tears; it’s been a gruelling few months, speculating over his probable future somewhere – anywhere – in Australia that was to be decided on the morning of Election Day. I’d gone to Daylesford to finish writing a book; bad timing on my part, when I could have been one of the criers and cheerers at his mother’s house, along with his seven siblings (five of them my stepchildren), his father, stepfather, and stepsister – my daughter, who, unlike me, is a mad keen football follower.

But on Saturday 25th November I was a long way from home and a long way from football mania, telling Jack’s success to any strangers who’ll listen and any shop assistants who have to listen.

Jack was eleven years old when I first met him. He was a mini-me of his dad, and now, as a young, tall, athletic adult, he is his clone. Jack was always playing footy: inside, with a small, soft and spongy red and blue football , or outside, with his leathered Sherrin football in shivering winter and blasting summer, kicking and marking the ball as he commentated to an imaginary crowd: ‘And Grimes gets the ball. What a mark! He kicks… it’s a goal! The crowd goes wild!’

Whenever I asked Jack what he wanted to be when he grew up, he would always say ‘play footy for Melbourne’; the standard dream of all my stepsons.

It’s been a curious, anthropological study for me, this observation of sports-mania. I’ve never played competitive sport in my almost fifty years and I’ve never understood the oxymoronic term ‘football game’, as it is, at any level, far from a game. Footy is serious stuff. It’s rough and it’s for the tough. Winning is the goal; defeat is to be avoided, or at least endured. ‘Loser’ is a common word flung about.

I remember once, for a short time, every one of my stepchildren – six in all, stepdaughter included – played football. Their dad (now my husband) has been treasurer for the local football club since I’ve known him. He’s driven children to various games, some at the same time, to locations that were neither close nor well timed, in the wettest and coldest of mornings. I’ve watched him scrub filthy, mud-packed footy boots, which then stood like battle-weary soldiers on the laundry window ledge, drying in time for footy practice. As a football father, he’s tended more than his fair share of bumps and bruises, treated groin injuries and sore muscles; called me from hospital when on more than one occasion an injury from a ‘game’ has ended in an ambulance. And I’ve watched my stepsons slump into listlessness once the footy season is over. It consumes them. Devours them. Football is them.

I can count on one hand the number of football games I’ve been to in my life. I’m the black sheep of my family: my parents and siblings are all footy supporters of varying degrees of madness. I’m also the black sheep of this ‘blended’ family: I’d rather watch a movie or read a book, knowing that no matter how tragic or triumphant the story, it’s still fiction and the punches aren’t real. However, I can confess that I once attended a Grand Final at the MCG. But only until the game started: me and the rest of the choir were shuttled off before the starting siren blew.

But from now on, as an official football stepmother, you’ll see me in the stands, watching Jack play, cringing and worrying when he gets hurt, wanting to defend him when he’s abused by strangers, or worse still, by fellow footballers. However, the experience will be bittersweet, as there will also be acclaim, cheers, encouragement and reward. But most of all, what I will be seeing is my stepson living a dream.

No matter what my stepchildren’s dreams are –whether they be in art, sport, trade, academia, parenting, travel… the list is endless – I’ll be on the sidelines, cheering them on, and boasting of their successes to any who’ll listen.

And even though I may only be the stepmother, I’ll be as proud of them as I will be of my own children. Just like I am now, of my stepson Jack.

SOMEBODY BAKE ME A CAKE

Somebody bake me a cake
‘Cause I’m all dried up from giving
Somebody write me a card
Before I get sick of living
Somebody give me some thanks
Just a little to get me through
Somebody give me something,
To stop me leaving you.

Somebody tell me it’s fine
That so far, I’ve done pretty well
Somebody stop for one minute
And see through my eyes, this hell
Somebody, sometime soon please
Give me credit that’s long overdue
Somebody tell me something,
To stop me leaving you.

Somebody rewrite the stories
Of stepmothers, all of them bad
Somebody think up a new one
Write quickly, before I go mad
Somebody write a good ending
Of happy kids, stepmothers, too
Somebody write me something
To stop me leaving you

Somebody stop blaming me
For all in your life that is wrong
Somebody try to remember
How it was before I came along
Somebody give me a break
Cut me some slack, as I do for you
Somebody, help me, do something
To stop me leaving you.

Somebody bake me a cake
It’s your turn to do all the giving
Somebody buy me a card
I’m sick, so sick of living
Somebody give me some thanks
For having your wishes come true
Somebody give me something
To thank me for not leaving you

By the Book

On the eve of my lapsing internet dating membership, I received an email from ‘Soul Man’. He wrote well, made me laugh, said he was recently separated, handsome, self-employed, lived on ten acres and had six children. Six children? Man oh man! Who’d want to get involved with a father of six? Not this ‘Wonder Woman’, that’s for sure. But I replied anyway.

From his emails, Soul Man sounded like a great dad: dedicated, committed, and fully involved in his children’s lives. To me, any father who chucks in his city job to spend more time with his children is indicative of a well-intentioned and loving dad. Plus, I liked his ‘self employed’ status… as long as it wasn’t a euphemism for flogging Amway.

After writing to each other for about a month, we decided to meet at a small café in Warrandyte, a place familiar to us both. A tall, lean man with blue eyes and Sean Connery hair walked towards me. This was Soul Man up close and personal. His name was Steve and he was yummily handsome.

I’d bought him a small gift: a book of my father’s poetry. Steve also had a gift for me: a Dr Seuss book. After a moment’s embarrassment and awkwardness, it only took a short time for us to be at ease in each other’s company.

A few months on, our mutual attraction only served to complicate our feelings for each other, given his six and my three. You don’t muck around with each other’s hearts when there are so many children to consider. Besides, the idea of nine children in my life was a ludicrous one anyway. I’d only ever planned on having two children, but the birth of my twins five years earlier put the tally up to three. But then the inevitable happened: Steve and I fell – cascaded, tumbled – in love.

One year after that first meeting in Warrandyte, we decided to join forces. It made logistical – if not numerical sense – that me and my children moved in with them, into their family home. We were sure we could make it work with some minor juggling and major lateral thinking of space and bedrooms. Besides, Steve still hadn’t finalised matrimonial settlement, and with looming financial and custodial disputes, D-Day could be some time off. And given my business was easily transportable and his wasn’t, it just seemed to make sense for the four of us to uproot, in preference to the seven of them.

With pragmatism, logistics and lust aside, Steve and I were determined for this relationship to be better and different from our past relationships, so went into the merge with our eyes wide open. We surfed the internet, joined on-line support groups, signed up for newsletters, and read every book available on step parenting, all of which were either bursting with bright optimism, or full of forecasts of doom.

The experts warned us that the fantasy of ‘happy blending ever after’ was naïve and short-lived, that the dream of us all living together in perfect harmony was unrealistic, and to remember that ex-partners – good or bad, happy or sad, friendly or mad – were going to be around for a long, long, time. Like Nostradamus, these author-ly experts also predicted challenging dynamics of step-siblings: of the jostling and nudging to re-establish pecking order, plus the resentment, anger, never-ending disputes and constant compromises.

They also cited statistics of stepfamilies taking, on average, five years to equalise and to become a solid and unified identity – five years? – and that we’d most likely live in denial, not wanting to know about these statistical, evidential challenges of stepfamilies. And finally, the clincher: ‘Never move into the family home’.

Steve and I were confident that these negative sweeping generalisations wouldn’t apply to us, and opted for the more positive outlook, convinced that our love was strong enough to endure any obstacle that might present itself. Besides, our children weren’t carved from horror stories, and we both had enough self-awareness and resourcefulness to ward off any possible disasters.

We were wrong; the pessimists – realists– were right. Riding the waves of emotional turbulence, adolescent adversity, with the strong undertow of ex partner wrath, was tough and exhausting. It seemed that whatever bad and horrendous deeds we had obviously committed in a past life had returned in full karmic force, as every possible curve ball was thrown and every Jerry Springer-like scenario bombarded us and our supersize family.

Steve’s ability to withstand the constant challenges thrust upon him without losing his dignity was admirable. I constantly strived to do the same, although many times I wailed to the sky 'What have I done?', and longed to return to my peaceful and quiet house in the mountains. However, we did as best we could, keeping our relationship connected and strong, and making sure we remained focussed on the children’s safety and wellbeing, no matter what was thrown our way. Despite our best efforts, there were casualties, nonetheless.

Eight years on, I can look back and know that the books were right on all counts; a stepfamily has its good, bad and ugly times, just like any regular family. As in any kind of parenting, nobody can predict the future of your family, nor of its dynamics, challenges, victories or disappointments.

You may read others’ books on the topic, but you can only write your own as you go.

HOME ALONE

My husband loves a house full of children – big and small – and unlike me, doesn’t like to be alone. Opposites attract and all that stuff.

When, on those rare occasions the house is empty, I stand still for a moment and soak up the sounds of nothing and of no one. This silence rarely lasts more than an hour; sometimes only a few minutes. And before a long a car door slams and the sound of stampeding feet shatter all notions of quiet.

Once, not long ago, the entire clan were going to watch rival football teams play at the MCG. Me, being a football non-enthusiast, declined the offer to join the throng. By declining, I could see before me at least five blissful hours of ‘my time’. My time to watch a chick-flick, soak in a bath, play my music loud – or soft; my time to play ‘Queen of the Remote’ and change TV channels at a whim. I even envisaged the freedom of walking naked from bathroom to bedroom with complete confidence.

Football Friday couldn’t come quick enough. My in-laws were travelling from their home in the Alpine Ranges to attend the event. It was going to be a great night all round. (Pic of Don and Liz above.)

Any sniffle or sign of floundering enthusiasm from the children as Friday approached was met with a fistful of vitamins and lots of over-abundant hand-clapping about how magnificent the MCG was, how awesome the crowd will be, and how crucial it was for my children, as Richmond supporters, to fly our flag against the heavily weighted Melbourne Mob.

Before long, it was Friday. My night of silence and solitude was so close, I could smell the bath salts.

The footy dinner was prepared: meat and salad rolls, savoury biscuits, fruit, and a bottle of water each. It was all crammed into a back-pack, along with a thermos and tea bags for the oldies. Finally, everyone and everything was ready to go.

I did the numbers in my head: ‘Will you all fit in the one car?,’ I asked my husband.

He did the count: ‘Me, Dad, 1,2,3,4,5,6 kids. Yep, we’ll fit in the Land Cruiser. And the girls are driving themselves in so they can go out afterwards. Easy.'

‘So who’s taking your mum?’ I asked.

‘Mum? She’s not going,’ he said. ‘I thought you knew. She wants to stay here, where it’s warm, and watch the match on TV. That’s okay, isn’t it? You didn’t have anything planned, did you?’

‘Well, actually…’ But what could I say? That I wanted my 76 year old mother-in-law, who’d just come from seeing a cardiologist about her up-coming triple bypass operation, thrust into a winter’s night to sit on a hard seat in a blasting cold grandstand?

I know what you’re thinking: that yes, that’s what I really did want, given that the myth of mothers-in-law share the same mythological platform as stepmothers. Well, that’s just what they are: myths. And as far as my mother-in-law goes, I’m her biggest fan. This woman not only raised eleven children of her own, but also took in foster children and then her dementia-suffering mother-in-law. If anyone deserves an elephant stamp around here, she does. I have great admiration and love for her. From the moment we met, she opened her arms and her heart to me, and she’s been a constant source of encouragement and wisdom ever since.

So no, I didn’t really mind that she wasn’t going.

Not much, anyway.

Besides, there will be other nights I can spend alone. Other nights I can be naked without scaring anybody; other nights I can rest in the quiet heat of a bath, surrounded by candles, trying to avoid water smudges on my book; other nights when I can watch a soppy movie and cry without embarrassment, dance to loud music, or just sit in meditative quiet…

If not this decade, the next.

Sticks and Stones

I'm supposed to be at a book launch sipping champers, cheering the author on and inhaling 'essence of Carlton' with its abundant folk and Italian fare. Instead, I'm at home with an unwell son.

The book launch is for a great memoir I've just finished reading, ‘This is not my beautiful life’ by Elly Varrenti. It was a passionate, rollicking read and resonated strongly with similar vignettes from my own life as a writer, performer, mother and stepmother.

And it's Elly's book that's got me fired up to write on one of the many unspeakable step parenting topics: name calling. More specifically, about 'those stepparents' who insist their stepchildren refer to them as 'Mum' or 'Dad', when clearly, they already have their own, one-off, loved, blood-related, irreplaceable mother or father.

To put my hissy-fit into context, here is an excerpt from the book – a brief exchange between Elly and a girlfriend:

“‘…Just thank your lucky stars your ex’s wife is not a monster who hates children.’

And I think, yeah, I know, but can’t she be just a bit of a monster, and can’t my son call her by the name her Austrian parents bestowed on her and not ‘Mummy’ because that’s my name and I waited forty-two years to get it.”

Kafka said that ‘A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.’ Elly Varrenti’s book came with an axe which struck me on page 253 above.

Whenever I hear of a stepparent insisting their stepchild refer to them as ‘Mummy’ or ‘Daddy’ – when the biological parent is not dead, and present in the child’s life – it pushes all my audacity buttons.

I am not a mother to nine children, I am a mother to three children and a stepmother to six. My stepchildren call me Fiona. And why shouldn’t they? They already have a mother. They don’t need – nor want – another one. My children’s stepmothers (my sons have one; my daughter, another) have never requested or desired for their stepchildren to call them anything other than by their first name. They are ‘Mum’ to their own biological children; to my children they are Judy and Lynda.

It’s a tough gig being a stepparent. We’re forever chinking away at the historical myth of the wicked stepmother/mean stepfather, doing our damndest to elevate ourselves above the stereotype. But the stepmother mentioned in Elly’s book puts us way back in the middle ages when the word ‘step’ meant ‘bereave’ or ‘orphan’ (see link below). In other words, the stepparent was replacing a dead parent.

This definition supports my belief that only if the parent is dead, non-existent, or permanently absent, that the stepchild can be requested, not commanded, to call their stepparent Mum or Dad.

My own life is an example of this. I too, am a stepdaughter and have been for more than forty years. My biological father left when I was one and a half, and my brother three years old, never to return or to be seen again. When I was seven, Mum remarried and my brother and I embraced our stepfather with great relief and gratitude. We’ve called him ‘Dad’ ever since, because that’s who he became. And he stayed.

Another example of ‘okay-ness’ of the Mum/Dad reference by stepchildren is of a friend of mine who has three children: two from her husband’s first marriage and one from their own. Her two stepchildren call her Mum because their mother died when they were very young. This doesn’t mean they have denied the existence or the love and memories of their mother: quite the opposite. She’s referred to as ‘Mummy in Heaven’, to distinguish her from their father’s wife who has been their mum now for the past nine years.

Stepmothers are often seen as a threat – perceived or real – to the biological mother, but surely this comes from insecurity and fear that their children will love another woman more than us, and that we’ll ‘lose’ them? Usually (I use the term loosely) as time goes on, the mother realises that their children’s stepmother is not there to replace her, nor usurp her role; she’s there as the partner to the ex husband, and as a friend, supporter and cheerer-on-er of the stepchildren.

The word ‘step’ doesn’t mean ‘orphan’ or ‘bereave’ anymore. It went out of vogue long before wood-mills replaced woodcutters. Perhaps instead, the word ‘step’ is a metaphor or symbol for ‘one step away from being a biological parent’; or a ‘step up into a more complicated and complex life’; or perhaps it’s a ‘stepping stone to creating a safe and loving relationship with someone else’s child’. It’s a big step, nonetheless, but there’s no point in making it bigger than it needs to be with archaic and unrealistic expectations thrust upon the stepchildren.

Tonight at the book launch, had I gone, I would have liked to have told Elly that I understood her incredulity at what her son’s stepmother insisted; I would have reminded her that no matter what her son calls the stepmother that she, Elly, is his mother – his only mother. The ‘other one’ is out of line and out of date.

Sticks and stones may break our bones, but names can hurt us more. Especially if that name is Mum.


http://www.readings.com.au/product/9780670071982/this-is-not-my-beautiful-life

http://www.bonusfamilies.com/articles/bonus-living.php?id=177

SLEEPERS

'Only three more sleeps,' my stepson said on Tuesday. And then yesterday, trying hard to contain his excitement, 'Only one more sleep!'.

This is not our youngest child eagerly awaiting his birthday; this is my eldest stepson, all six-foot-six of him, counting down the days till he moves into his own house. And today’s the day.

He’s 21 years old and has moved out before: once, to his mother’s house full time a few years ago, and then for a short stint sharing a house with a mate, before courageously taking off to work and live in Darwin at the end of last year. However, a few months later he returned with shattered dreams and a close encounter with his own mortality, to the safe harbour of our almost full-to-the brim house.

When a prodigal child returns after experiencing the big, wide, adult world, it is not out of desire, but of need: the need to save money, the need for safety, for shelter, or the need to mark time until another independent opportunity surfaces.

I remember needing to move back into the family home when I was a single mother in my 30s, in between one financially and emotionally disastrous relationship and the next. Living once again with my mother was a humiliating last resort, and turned out to be both regressive and regretful.

Once again I had to account for any absence, be home on time, eat everything on my plate if I wanted dessert, hang out the washing, feed the chooks… In other words, to become the girl that had left home more than a decade prior. I despised the imposition of rules after I’d had worldly tastes of freedom and responsibility on my own terms for so long. I was a few days short of resorting to pigtails and skipping on the front veranda when I found a house to share with a friend.

My indignity, of course, was immature and unreasonable; after all, it was my mother’s house, not mine. I know that now, but I was clueless and careless back then. (Hindsight and wisdom are great companions, but always arrive too late.)

So before my six-foot-six stepson moved back in after his adventure, my husband and I, in the need to be pro-active about an inevitable shift in family dynamics and pecking order, prepared a ‘List of House Rules’ that we gave to all the children, giving us and them the opportunity to agree, disagree, negotiate, and clarify rules that, in the past, had only been verbally expressed. It also gave Six Foot Six the chance to change his mind about moving back home.

To paint a bit of a picture of these rules – so you don’t think Steve is Captain von Trapp, nor I Julie Andrews – here are a few examples: Hang up used bath towels; If you make a mess in the kitchen, clean it up; Ask permission for friends to stay over; and No smoking on the property (Six Foot Six was the only smoker and has since given up, thankfully).

One rule in particular worth elaborating on, and which may appear very ‘von Trapp-ish’ to some, but which has saved the day – and our sanity – on more than one occasion over the years, is this one: ‘When a boyfriend/girlfriend stays the night, they are to sleep on their own in a spare room or bed’. We have good reasons for this rule, and have had many passionate discussions in the past with some of our older children over such. Here’s what we told them:

Reason Number One: This rule is to convey that a sexual relationship is not to be taken lightly or snatched up at a whim – especially as an adolescent/young adult – and that being sexually active comes with responsibility, respect and a certain amount of sacredness.

Reason Number Two: We have young, influential children living here who look up to their older brothers and sisters. Whether the older children like it or not, they are the younger ones’ role models. If we had no rules about who sleeps where and when, then so it would follow with all the other children as they got older.

Reason Number Three: We have too many children already. We don’t want to have to feed more, care for more, worry about more. By relegating guests to the guest room and not their lovers’ bedrooms, they remain guests. Guests don’t overstay their welcome (generally speaking!); guests also treat hospitality with gratitude and respect.

Reason Number Four: Because we said so, that’s why. And because this is our house, and this is our rule.

This ‘sleeping’ rule has worked in our favour, compared to some other families. Some have permanent live-in boyfriends and girlfriends, with no sign of either child or partner moving out. Why would they? The rent is cheap (or free), they have home cooked meals, and sometimes, if they’re lucky, they even have their own personal laundry service. I even know of a middle-aged, widowed mother who moved out of her own home because her son’s girlfriend wouldn’t!

When I ask other parents about their own ‘sleep’ rules, many of them say that if they didn’t allow it, they would worry about where their children 'did it’! Safe sex, in this instance, is more about location than lubrication. Do they really think their child will ‘do it’ in a gutter full of AIDS-infested needles somewhere? Or up against a wall in a dangerous dark alley? The list of locations for creative and safe sexual expression is endless.

We figure that if our adult children want to have a permanent sexual relationship with someone, then they can experience the responsibility and commitment that goes with that by moving into their own place. Until then, if they want/need to explore their sexuality and sexual expression, they can do it where we used to when we were growing up – which didn’t include in the family home.

We have our list of family rules for many reasons: for safety, consistency, respect, and functionality, as well as to promote communication, responsibility and fairness between all of us. We also want our children to be fully expressed adults out in the big world, and by keeping our ship tight and perhaps restrictive for our teenage and adult children, they will more readily see the benefits of moving into their own place and space where they can live their own independent lives.

Today, being ‘No More Sleeps Day’ for my stepson as he plans his independent life with great enthusiasm, reminds me that it’s only two thousand, two hundred and sixty five sleeps before the youngest of our nine – potentially – leave home.

But who’s counting?

A Picture Tells Eight Hundred Words

Here is a family photo. The year: 2004.

There are eleven of us: my husband and me and our nine children, standing in a long chain, shoulder to shoulder. I’m dead-centre.

Kate, as tall as me, is on my immediate right. She’s twenty now, still smiling, still beautiful; the first of our children to reach adulthood, and the first to let go. If you look closely you can see my arm around her shoulder, though she’s leaning away from me a little, uncomfortable with too much closeness. We are like each other.

Next to Kate are two of my stepsons: one eleven, one nine. The eleven year old is proudly wearing his new tracksuit, the one he got for his birthday the week before. He worries too much about how he looks, with his hands folded awkwardly at the front, his smile tentative, guarded. He stands alone, with space around him, touching no-one.

On his right his younger brother is leaning forward, patting our dog, Ossie, sitting at his feet. He’s a freckle-faced cutie, this stepson of mine. I’ve been his stepmother for almost half his life, and it’s with pride that I watch him bloom. He reminds us often that he’s the best at most things at school. He probably is. I hope I can teach him humility.

My twin boys are next in line and because there’s intentional symmetry in this photo, Sam, being taller than his brother, is first. He is standing to attention, wearing a stuck-on smile. Happiest when he’s playing the piano, or sitting in the front seat while I drive, I suspect Sam would prefer to be an only child. I see myself in him with his need to please, his need for recognition masked by shyness; his introspection, his musicianship.

On Sam’s right is his twin brother, Alex, holding his little dog, Indy, in his arms. Where Sam quietly observes and studies the world around him, Alex has been drinking life in hungry gulps since he took his first breath – a delayed breath – after they’d pulled his blue-tinged body from my belly. Because he’s small for his age, I can still pick him up for a hug. I savour these moments with his legs wrapped around my waist, his arms linked tightly behind my neck, and his head resting on my shoulder. When I think of Alex, I smile.

Back in the middle, on my left, is my thirteen year old stepson. He’s squished in between his dad and me, unperturbed by the closeness. Adolescence suits him and he wears it well, with his baggy pants, hair gel and the rumour of a girlfriend. His world is often turbulent, and one I understand. I am close to him.

Steve, my husband, is next in line. He’s a striking man with an open smile and salt and pepper hair, and often mistaken for a famous Australian cricketer – a mistaken identity he quite enjoys. He’s leaning into his thirteen year old, holding him with a warm tenderness, one arm around his shoulder, his other hand lightly touching his elbow. Steve nearly died not long after this photo was taken. He says I saved his life, yet I wonder if he knows how many times he’s saved mine.

Next to Steve, on his left, is a younger replica of himself: his fifteen year old son standing with his legs apart, confident, smiling wide. He says he is taller than his dad, and here is proof that he is. Just. In our early days, this son and I had a perceptible closeness, until he suddenly shut down and moved away from us and back to his mother’s. We don’t know why he left, but he’s slowly returning. This much is evident: he turned up for the photo shoot.

Next to him is his older sister; they are as tall as each other. She’s nineteen and pretty, with perfect teeth and long brown hair. The photo has caught her laughing, looking across at her boyfriend who is watching us being photographed. She and I have laughed and cried about each other, and for each other; it is our step-mother/step-daughter dance.

Last of all is my eldest stepson, striking in his height, some five inches above the tallest three. He’s a dude, a man of confidence, though not officially an adult for a few weeks yet. He grew up too fast, too many years ago and I’m surprised he stayed for the photo, but pleased he did.

Behind us is the vista of a tree-covered valley that our house looks across. The sky is cloudy, threatening rain, the grass green and lush. Living on top of a hill is often wild and tumultuous, but on this day the breeze is gentle.

This is my family.

Blending.

PS Fast forward: Father's Day, 2007. Bigger, bolder and still blending.

Maggots and Moths

Today, being Good Friday, you'd think I'd give myself a bit of a break and take the day off. But no. Besides, my husband has been in the office since 7am. He's a hard act to follow, that man. (I am woman, hear me raw.)

He, however, was lucky enough to hit the sack early. I was still cleaning at midnight.

We'd had small moths fluttering around in the pantry for a while now. I thought I'd found the offending packet of flour that these pesky little creatures had been breeding in. But as the weeks went by, the moths' siblings - in the pre-morphed guise of little grubs - would appear on the walls and shelves of the pantry. The Buddhist in me removed the cute little fellas and flicked them outside... However, as their numbers multiplied in plague proportions, I became very Stalin-esque and killed the buggers with either a spray of pressurised venom or the mean and hard swipe of a wet dishcloth.

One day last week I returned home to a proud and domesticated husband and stepson: they had 'cleaned all the maggot things out of the pantry'.

Maggots? Great. We've got a pantry full of maggots.

“They’re not maggots, they’re grubs. Caterpillars,” I said, rather indignantly. (What kind of a house has maggots in their pantry?) It was time to take serious action.

My daughter Kate googled 'pantry grubs' and came up with something much more palatable than Steve's maggot theory: our pantry was infested with Indian Meal Moths.

Even though our eight-bedroomed house is larger than most, our pantry isn't and nor is our kitchen. This made the job of emptying and cleaning the entire pantry a mammoth and marathon task. And as fast as I emptied, washed and sprayed each shelf, the little critters would reappear, seemingly out of nowhere. It was a never ending battle between girl and grub. Eventually, I won.

The chooks are now bloated with dried fruit and nuts and the paddocks are full of gluttonous magpies, still trying to peck their way through tossed biscuits. The recycling bins are overflowing with paper and cardboard, the dishwasher is exhausted from endless loads of Tupperware washing, and my rubber gloves are soggy and limp. Not unlike me.

But the pantry looks beautiful. Pristine. Sparse. Like it belongs to a family of two, not eleven.

And then this morning as I began my Friday Post story (which wasn’t going to be about pantry cleaning!) my daughter came to tell me the bad news: she'd found another Indian Meal Moth holding up its rude finger as it climbed the pantry wall.

So as today marks the crucifixion and death of Jesus, it also marks the death and crucifixion (because I’m very, very cross) of the Indian Meal Moth in Wattle Glen.

Good Friday for us. Bad Friday for them.

PS Like my 'moth art' above? It's one of the dead critters I found in the fluoro pantry light.

SKIN

I was born on Easter Sunday, almost five decades ago. And as the day of my birth fast approaches, I’m reminded of a recent and unforgettable birthday when one of my then eleven year old twin boys, Alex, went to hospital to have a circumcision. He’d been enduring infections over the past three or four months, and after many treatments with no result, surgery was unavoidable. I joked that I’d be the only mother lucky enough to get a foreskin for her birthday.

Two days before the operation, however, I started to feel anxious. ‘It’s only a circumcision,’ I was told when conveying my fears. ‘It’s not like the surgery he had back then. He’ll be fine.’

“Back then” was when Alex was three and a half, and before that, when he was three weeks old. Both traumatic, pain-filled, leaving us with a legacy of physical and emotional scars.

And now, here I am again with my son in pre-op, waiting to go into theatre, fighting the memory of his last hospital experience eight long years ago. Compared to the foot reconstruction surgery he endured back then, apparently a circumcision is 'no big deal'. Besides, he's fine. Chirpy, in fact. I'm the one who's not fine. I focus on breathing slowly and turn my head away from him when I feel tears sting the corner of my eyes. I have to stay strong and I don’t want him to see me crumbling. I don’t want to frighten him.

The day has been long. We’ve been here six hours already. Alex’s twin brother, Sam, is in the waiting area – they wouldn’t let him in here with us. Now and again I leave Alex and go and make contact with Sam. ‘Shouldn’t be much longer, Sammy,’ I tell him, and then rush back to Alex.

Eventually, a nurse wheels us into to the operating theatre.

‘Hey look, Al: it’s just like ER!’ Alex knows my penchant for the weekly soapie that my daughter and I watch with great fervour.

The medical team are kid-friendly, joking with Alex and making light of all that’s about to happen. I’m standing next him, holding his free hand as they begin to inject a large syringe of white gunk into his arm. It hurts him, and as he begins to cry there’s a look of audacity on his face – you said I wouldn’t feel anything! I hold his hand tighter. ‘It’s okay, sweetheart.’

And then he’s gone. Mid-cry, his head flops to the side as his life force is snapped away. I’m suddenly afraid. He’s not my Alex any more. He’s not my sleeping, content, Alex, the one I kiss goodnight, the one whose head I’ve tenderly stroked as he sleeps. That Alex has suddenly gone.

I’m hurried from the room and I can’t stop the tears. The nurse reassures me he’ll be okay. I feel embarrassed about being such a worrisome mother, for exposing my cracks.

‘I’m okay. It’s just that last time he had surgery, it was a terrible experience, that’s all,’ I explain.

‘It’s only a circumcision. He’ll be fine.’

Before I go through the swinging doors to Sam, I wipe away the evidence of fear. He’s bored and he wishes he’d stayed at home – being lugged around to his step-brothers’ footy practise sessions – than come in here for hours on end. I feel bad for him that it’s all taking so long.

There’s no phone signal in the waiting area, so to make a call I need to go into the stair-well and up two flights of stairs to get outside. I feel the pull of my anaesthetised son get stronger, the further away I get. I keep the door ajar with my foot. The phone signal is strong out here.

My phone beeps a multitude of messages from concerned relatives, which I don’t have time to respond to, but I send one to my husband, telling him we’d be home in a few hours. I also send the twins’ father a message, telling him where we are and that we’ll be late getting to the ward, but to come and look for us as soon as he gets here.

I go back down the stair-well, back into the waiting area and back to a bored and hungry Sam. Forty minutes passes, which seems like a long time, as I was told it was only a fifteen minute procedure, maximum.

‘Is that Alex?’ Sam suddenly asks, looking up from his electronic cyber-dog game.

I strain to listen through the swinging doors that open and shut momentarily. I hear a muffled wail, but am not sure if it’s Alex. It can’t be. After all, it’s only a circumcision, I remind myself. I imagine my little boy still sleeping, maybe waking, groggy, but in no pain. The image calms me, but I pace close to the door, all the same.

The cries do sound familiar, but perhaps it’s as familiar as when a child in a crowded place calls out ‘Mum!’ and all mothers turn around, thinking it’s their own child’s voice they hear. It’s a universal cry – everybody’s child is our own.

The post-op door suddenly swings open and a nurse almost runs into me.

‘Are you Alex’s mum?’ She looks worried, hurried.

‘Yes. Is he okay?’

‘He’s in a bit of distress. I think you should come.’

I look back at Sam. He stands up to come with me.

‘You have to stay there, sweetheart. I won’t be long. It is Alex crying.’

I leave Sam and rush in. Alex is lying on his back, screaming, ‘It hurts! It hurts! Oooww! It hurts!’ and gripping the side of the gurney with one hand while his other knuckle-white fist smashes against the rail. The nurse shields his bloody penis as he then begins to manically scratch at the air, wanting to hold where it hurts.

I hold his wild hand, and stroke his head, tell him that I’m here and we’ll stop it hurting. I’m not even sure he hears me, but I’m certain he knows it’s me, even though his eyes are closed tight, like he’s stuck in a bad dream and can’t wake up.

‘What’s going on? Why’s he in so much pain?’ I look around wildly at concerned faces, and indifference from other medical staff who are tending their own quiet, recovering patients. It’s all so unreal. One doctor is laughing as another recounts a subject she’s undertaking in ethics; others are hunched over clip-boards, oblivious to our cocoon of hysteria. There’s an elderly man with a nasal tube, lying on a gurney, assuring the nurse he’s okay and quite comfortable thanks; monitors are beeping, bed rails are clanging. And my boy is screaming.

I’m fast spinning out as my attempts to soothe him are futile. I’m aware that Sam is just outside and can also hear his brother’s screams. My husband is at footy practise with his kids. My daughter is at work. Alex’s father is probably in traffic somewhere. I’m alone in a sea of faces and my son is screaming and I can’t help him.

‘They don’t think the penile block worked’, the nurse who brought me in says. ‘It’s supposed to stop this kind of pain and trauma when they come out of the general. Especially after a circumcision.’

I’m flabbergasted and furious, but I have to stay calm for Alex’s sake. ‘Hold my hand, sweetheart. Squeeze it as hard as you can. We’re going to make you feel better very soon. The doctor’s coming. Hold on. Hold on.’

I try to keep my voice calm, but I too, want to scream ‘What can we do? What’s being done?’ I ask her. She tells me they’re getting him some codeine, but it takes a while to get it signed off. ‘We’re also waiting for the anaesthesiologist. The surgeon and other doctors have gone – Alex was last to be operated on.’ Her tone is concerned, her eyes empathic. She’s with me in this. I realise she looks familiar, but I can’t place the face.

‘His twin brother is in the waiting room. He’ll be worried.’ I want to tear myself in two and be with them both. The nurse sends someone out to make sure Sam’s okay. She comes back. He’s fine, she tells me. I’m not reassured, but there’s nothing else I can do. I look at my little boy in his gaping white gown, his scarlet penis swollen and bursting with black stitches, his thighs and groin painted in antiseptic yellow-brown. I can’t leave him. Sam will have to wait.

Another nurse, walking fast and carrying a syringe of syrup, comes over to us.

‘Here you go, matey. Take this and it will make you feel better’, he tells Alex as he squirts the liquid into his mouth. His demeanour is caring, but futile, given my son’s distress. Alex desperately gulps the medicine. For a second his wails stop, then start again.

‘How long will it take to kick in? Will it help? Can’t we get him something stronger, quicker?’ I need to know when this will end.

The helplessness that surrounds us is treacle-like, weighted and oppressive. Nobody can do anything until the anaesthesiologist can be summoned.

I realise how isolated I am in this. There is no father here. No grandparent. The waiting room is full of families supporting other parents, waiting in anticipation and concern for the person who’s being operated on. But it’s just me here. My husband has his own children to look after and the twins’ father couldn’t afford not to work and take the time off to be here. Sam came under sufferance, but it’s the best I could do on my own.

As I hold Alex’s hand, telling him how many minutes have passed and how long it will be until the medicine helps, with a flash, I recall an image I recently saw on television of an Afghani mother holding her dying son’s hand - her naked anguish, his unbearable pain, and the futility of hope for help that would never arrive. I don’t feel any better knowing her outcome will be different to mine, but I do feel connected to her grief somehow.

Then I remember the ‘one in ten’ statistic that the anaesthesiologist had rambled off during his pre-op consultation. It didn’t mean anything to me then, just as the statistic of the one in a million chance of Alex dying during the general anaesthetic didn’t. But it did now. It means the whole damn deal sucks and that Alex doesn’t deserve to be a statistic. He’s had his share of trauma in his mere eleven years and he doesn’t need any more.

Twenty minutes later, and still no respite, a middle-aged, white-gowned doctor arrives and swiftly injects something into Alex’s IV.

‘What’s that?’ I ask. And who the hell are you and what took you so long? There was no introduction, no bedside manner from this man. It was all business.

‘It’s a sedative. We’re going to give him a spinal block and we need him still.’

Alex’s crying gradually becomes a whimper as he drifts into semiconsciousness. The fierce grip of his hand in mine slowly evaporates, yet I still hold on.

‘Do you want to stay for this?’ the familiar-looking nurse asks me gently, as I watch them roll my son onto his side and paint his back with antiseptic. I suddenly remember who she reminds me of: the woman on Biggest Loser, the pretty one. Stupid thought to have at this moment, but there it is anyway.

‘Should I? Can I? I don’t want to leave him.’ Which son needs me most right now? Who will feel my absence more acutely? ‘I don’t know what I should do,’ I tell her. Wanting to stay, wanting to go.

She touches my arm. Such a simple gesture, but the touch of reassurance I need. ‘I’ll hold his hand. He’ll be fine. I’ll look after him. He’s barely awake anyway.’ And then as an afterthought, ‘But you can stay if you want to.’

‘If you stay and you feel faint, sit on the floor,’ the doctor snapped. I don’t intend to faint, but I don’t want to see Alex hurting any more. I have to choose: Sam is on the other side of the swinging doors and scared; Alex is semiconscious and the nurse said she’d watch over him. I trust her that she will.

I decide to go to my other son. ‘I’m going to make sure Sam’s okay, sweetheart,’ I whisper to Alex, stroking his hair. ‘But I won’t be far away and I’ll be straight back, okay?’ He gives a small, quiet nod. Knowing he can hear me somewhere in the fog of his descent, gives me relief, but makes the decision to leave harder. Before I change my mind, I kiss the top of his head and go. Unstoppable tears flow, stronger and faster the closer I get to the exit door.

Sam rushes to me, crying, and holds me tight as I sob and tell him about his brother.

‘He’ll be okay, but I need you to be taken care of so I can take care of Alex.’ I look around, frantically. ‘Where’s Dad? Is he here yet?’ Sam shakes his head. Surely he’d be here by now?

The room full of waiting parents look at me with collective sympathy but also relief that it’s my child and not theirs, in crisis. I ask one of the admin staff if I can use their phone to call my husband. Fortunately her compassion overrides office policy, and she dials the number for me.

As soon as I hear his voice, I come undone, losing the moment of calm I had summoned, and become more inconsolable with each word. My husband, forever the pragmatist, reminds me he’s at footy training with his kids and that as soon as it’s finished he’ll come in and pick up Sam.

I discover a small bar of hope on my mobile phone. I hold it up high in the corner of the waiting room and send Alex’s father a message telling him what has happened and where we are, hoping he’ll come quickly and help me take care of our boys. I leave Sam and again and go back to Alex.

An hour later, and it’s all over. The spinal block has taken effect; Alex is still groggy and drifting in and out of sleep, but at least his pain has eased. I hold his hand and tell him it’s going to be okay and that his dad will be here soon. Better be here soon.

As he’s being wheeled back to the ward, a father whose teenage son has also just had surgery walks alongside me.

‘Doesn’t matter how old they are, you’d always take their pain for them, wouldn’t ya?’ he says, his watery eyes belying the gruffness of his tone. It’s a question that doesn’t need an answer.
We arrive back at the ward. Alex’s father is sitting on the chair next to the bed, casually flipping through a magazine.

‘How’d it go?’ he asks, ignorant of what has happened to his son. Apparently his mobile phone has been turned off for the past few hours. Hospital policy. I envied – despised, even – his oblivion.

Fifteen minutes later my husband arrives with a cheery ‘gidday’. And why shouldn’t he be jolly? Alex is the calmest and most alert he’s been for hours. He looks fine, sounds fine, is fine. For now. Heaven only knows how he’ll be when the spinal block wears off.

As quickly as he arrived, my husband leaves with Sam, needing to get back to the other kids who are home alone. And not long after that, my ex-husband also leaves. His wife needs hay-fever medication and if he stays any longer he’ll miss the pharmacy. God forbid.

And so now it’s just my beautiful boy and I, alone together again. I go to get the car while a nurse helps him into a wheelchair and meets me at the hospital entrance. My brave, strong, youngest twin by two minutes leaves the hospital, one foreskin less, and one nightmare experience more; and me, with one birthday I’d rather forget.

Together we make the tender journey home.

As Easy as ABC

Last year had a number of highlights, one of them being winning the 2007 'Voices on the Coast' writing competition for my children’s novel, Crackpot, and as a result, securing an agent. In fact, the certificate of the win is staring straight at me as I write this… No publisher has picked Crackpot up yet, but according to my wonderful agent, Sheila Drummond, it’s ‘early days’.

So what does this year bring so far? A February highlight was having my step parenting stories read on ABC Radio National on the Lifematters program, which airs every weekday morning from 9-10am.

Arriving at the ABC studios in Southbank was pretty exciting, and as a bonus I was early enough to have a coffee from their canteen and THE COFFEE WAS FABULOUS! I took it as a sign of good things to come. (I can always gauge the rest of my day by how good my morning café latte is.)

As I put on my Sennhieser earphones and began the sound check in the Tardas recording booth, I felt right at home, recalling other such fine experiences back in the good ol' days when I worked in the music industry.

‘One Take Trembath’ (or close enough to!) left the studios 40 minutes later, walking tall and feeling pumped. All I had to do now was wait for the three consecutive days the following week when the stories were to feature on the program. ...And on the Friday I was to participate in the regular talkback segment alongside author Dolla Merrillees (The Woodcutter's Wife: A stepmother's tale). (See details below on Dolla’s book.)

Pre-recording is easy; it’s the ‘live-to-air’ stuff that’s a bit freaky. So on the Friday morning of the week my stories were aired, I returned to the Tardas, knowing that I couldn’t do any retakes and OHMIGOD! IT’S A NATIONAL AUDIENCE!. As my fall-back position I had written a few notes down, to be sure I wouldn’t slip up and say something I’d later regret. I also didn’t want to fill up my speaking times with ‘ummmmm’, which personally, drives me up the wall – especially on the radio.

So although my hands were shaking as I savoured the yummy ABC coffee (early again!), by the time I was plugged in, sound-checked and the red light was on, I felt comfortable and relaxed and completely forgot about the invisible audience.

All went well. Dolla was a great co-conspirator and guest on the program, and Richard was, as always, astute and sweet-voiced. (More honeyed than glucosed.) In fact, I loved every minute of it, from signing in as ‘self’ at reception (in answering the question: ‘who are you representing?’), the fab coffee, and of course, my friend Tardas. Give me a microphone anytime – it brings me more comfort than chocolate or teddy bears.

Yep, I can most certainly put that experience down as ‘one of my highlights’ for this year. I like to think it’s just the beginning…

The Woodcutter’s Wife: http://www.bookworm.com.au/shop/scditem.asp?ProdID=136515

ABC RN Lifematters step parenting talk back: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/lifematters/stories/2008/2174139.htm

What the...? Fiona's got a blog?

Carole (with an e) made me do it. She told me she had whittled away chunks of time over the summer holidays, putting her blog together and 'loving every minute of it'. Yes, I thought, but who's got time to whittle? And then yesterday Carole tempted me with her blog, urging me to have a gander at her latest post. So I did.

That was yesterday. And now, as the clock ticks over to tomorrow, here I am with my own blog. Who'da thought, eh?

I ain't go no time to whittle!

Ha.

Famous last words.

Well, for this posting, anyway.

(In the meantime, check out Carole's blog: http://www.toastfortea.blogspot.com/)

ONE PLUS ONE EQUALS ELEVEN

“Standing beside you
I took an oath
to make your life simpler
by complicating mine
and what I always thought
would happen did:
I was lifted up in joy.”

David Ignatius