A Fine View

A few tin strips of fleecy cloud lies long

And motionless above the eastern steeps,

Like shreds of silver lace: till suddenly,

Out from the flushing centre to the ends

On either hand, their lustrous layers become

Dipt in all crimson streaked with pink and gold;

And then, at last, are edged as with a band

Of crystal fire.

 ~ Charles Harpur, Dawn and Sunrise in the Snowy Mountains ~

***

My latest hobby is collecting library fines.  We seem to live among a pile of borrowed books and audio books with no idea when they fall due.  Yesterday in a mad dash to mall while Little Wanna's ballet lesson was in progress, we bought a few new books including yet more Lego collector series and The BFG by Roald Dahl. So now we have our noses in brand spanking new books while time is ticking on the borrowed ones. 

I love putting on the squish-diddly voice of the BFG.  But I was beginning to think he wasn't suitable fare for a bedtime story with his imposing height, scary old face and big ears. He comes across as a formidable figure in the first two chapters. Thankfully, as it transpires, he doesn't eat people.  Not like library officials (nah, kidding). 

On our regular trip cross suburbs, we rise and descend over Hindmarsh Drive with astounding views of the Brindabella Mountains in the distance.  It really makes me gasp sometimes and forget all the outstanding fines and hundred-and-one other tasks awaiting me at home and in the office.  It's one of Canberra's redeeming features ... in the absence of a beach.   Mr Harpur has captured the magic accurately in his ode to a sunset over the Snowies.

Renaissance Family

The Strange Music

~ G. K. Chesterton

 

 

Other loves may sink and settle, other loves may loose and slack,

But I wander like a minstrel with a harp upon his back,

Though the harp be on my bosom, though I finger and I fret,

Still, my hope is all before me: for I cannot play it yet.

In your strings is hid a music that no hand hath e'er let fall,

In your soul is sealed a pleasure that you have not known at all;

Pleasure subtle as your spirit, strange and slender as your frame,

Fiercer than the pain that folds you, softer than your sorrow's name.

Not as mine, my soul's annointed, not as mine the rude and light

Easy mirth of many faces, swaggering pride of song and fight;

Something stranger, something sweeter, something waiting you afar,

Secret as your stricken senses, magic as your sorrows are.

But on this, God's harp supernal, stretched but to be stricken once,

Hoary time is a beginner, Life a bungler, Death a dunce.

But I will not fear to match them-no, by God, I will not fear,

I will learn you, I will play you and the stars stand still to hear.

***

Piano practice is coming along quite nicely. A few rondos rattle around in my head all day. I hum some Edna Mae* drills while buzzing about the kitchen. One of the sweetest sounds on earth is that of your child playing a musical instrument I reckon.  Even the simplest of tunes played faultingly makes me beam with pride. The neighbours may not agree, but to me it is a joyful noise.  With the exception of 'The Entertainer' which is cringe-worthy and so not in keeping with our Renaissance family ideals.  How did that get on the program?

Image 1: Madonna and Child with saints and donors by Gerolamo Giovenone, 1527.

From the Italian Renaissance exhibition at the National Gallery of Australia, Canberra.

Image 2: Edna Mae Burnam* (1907-2007) Dozen a Day series for piano.

Linotype Machines

"Linotype: The Film" is a feature-length documentary centered around the linotype type printing machine. It tells the story of people connected to the Linotype and describes its impact on the world.   My dad was a linotype operator.  He started his apprenticeship at the local regional newspaper and eventually ran his own printing business churning out race books, wedding invitations and commercial stationary in the days before letterpress was fashionable.  

I spent many a Saturday down at the shop decorating the display counter, making note pads and hanging out at the second-hand bookshop across the road.  So I have fond and sentimental memories of the linotype machine.  The smell of ink and the piston-like sound of its movement.  I have my name and address in linotype metal made by my father. Special. 

Having it all plus the laundry

Life is mostly froth and bubble,

Two things stand like stone,

Kindness in another's trouble,

Courage in your own.

***

Here I am, emerging from that strange other world which revolves mechanically around cut lunches, soaking socks, supervised music lessons (I use that term loosely, as I listen and shout encouragement from another room while stirring white sauce), Year Two Home Readers, water balloon games, unwrapped birthday presents, wiped food spills and overdue library books.  That is just my spare time. The bulk of the day is spent in the Big Open Plan Office reading and writing stuff of serious bureaucratic importance.  In addition to which, my work is entirely conducted in front of a computer screen.  In the remaining shreds of time at the day's end, therefore, I have hardly the energy to sit in front of computer even for leisure.  So this space if often neglected.

Lots of other women in this city juggle making or administering public policy with changing the sheets and pressing school uniforms. Most of my friends and colleagues are on the same mouse wheel. Sometimes I wonder if the hard-fought-for gains of the feminist movement weren't a little skewed.  It takes an exceptional person and lots of outsourcing of domestic tasks to keep a family afloat with two parents working outside the home.  Plus good parking or a fast commuter system.  I don't think you can really 'have it all'.  But the childcare industry, and a fear of not being able to exercise choice over essential items like health and education, creates an environment where we think we can, and possibly should 'have it all'. 

I read a ministerial press release today about measures to increase the standards of childcare in Australia.  It was citing the introduction of improved carer-to-child ratios and enhanced minimum training for childcare workers as huge advancements.  Indeed they may be.  But a small quiet voice in my head still thought that the care of children is best undertaken by a parent at home for the bulk of the time and that we have created an artificial industry out of Children's Services.   This is an issue I wrestle with daily. 

What do I tell my daughters and son as they work out their own careers? Am I doing the right thing? Is this a good example? Will I look back with regret at my efforts to 'have it all'?



Verse: Adam Lindsay Gordon, Ye Wearie Wayfarer

Images: Single quilt covers.  Laundry.

Henry King WHO CHEWED BITS OF STRINGS, AND WAS EARLY CUT OFF IN DREADFUL AGONIES

By Hilaire Belloc

THE Chief Defect of Henry King
Was chewing little bits of String.
At last he swallowed some which tied
Itself in ugly Knots inside.
Physicians of the Utmost Fame
Were called at once; but when they came
They answered, as they took their Fees,
'There is no Cure for this Disease.
Henry will very soon be dead.'
His parents stood about his Bed
Lamenting his Untimely Death,
When Henry, with his Latest Breath,
Cried 'Oh, my Friends, be warned by me,
That Breakfast, Dinner, Lunch, and Tea
Are all the Human Frame requires...'
With that, the Wretched Child expires.

***

No time for photos.  Busy as.  The eldest is at school camp.  In the wet and wind.  I'm indulging in some separation anxiety thinking of mud slides, treacherous seas and group tomfoolery.   That is when I'm not being driven into the ground with catering for the remaining crowd.  We got by with Steggles chicken fillets and steamed vegies tonight.  Somebody smuggled the bottle of BBQ sauce to the table.  The feta cheese in the home-made spinach pie did not go down well with the junior brigade.  Little S. was visiting and declared that she only ate peas with mint jelly and roasted carrots.  They're a tougher lot than those Masterchef judges.  Then the dastardly routine will all roll around again tomorrow.  I hope there's bread in the freezer.

A Few Rules for Beginners
by Katherine Mansfield

Babies must not eat the coal
And they must not make grimaces,
Nor in party dresses roll
And must never black their faces.

They must learn that pointing's rude,
They must sit quite still at table,
And must always eat the food
Put before them--if they're able.

If they fall, they must not cry,
Though it's known how painful this is;
No--there's always Mother by
Who will comfort them with kisses.

***

Lesson Number One: These little fellows make changing the sheets a trial.  So I've decreed that henceforth no more soft toys shall be brought into this house.  Enough is enough.  No matter how adorable.  We cannot adopt one more free-loader.   (D'ya hear Daddy?)  Space is at a premium.  Once, it was all Beanie Bears.  Now the lastest obsession is with The Littlest Pet Shop creatures.  One little doggie crept home with us from the Royal Agricultural Show.   He has scored pride of place on the pillow but will no doubt be de-throned in favour of a distant cousin, also made in China as the weeks and months go by.  Affections are fickle when it comes to plush companions.

It's snuggle weather here with record-breaking rain.  The dams are bursting, sports grounds closed, swimming carnivals cancelled and that twice-daily cross-country walk to the office results in sodden trouser legs, if I'm not careful.  

It's Show Time!

Banquet Night  
by Rudyard Kipling

"ONCE in so often," King Solomon said,

Watching his quarrymen drill the stone,

"We will curb our garlic and wine and bread

And banquet together beneath my Throne,

And all Brethren shall come to that mess

As Fellow-Craftsmen-no more and no less."

***

What a day.  If I were Julia I'd need to break my Lenten commitment to forsake alcohol.  I haven't given up coffee though and I'll bet the coffee machines at Parly House were on overdrive today.

I love my new pretend paper cup from the two dollar shop.  I've taken to using the Italian expresso pot on the stove and pouring myself a double-shot flat white.  I can pretend I'm a hot shot executive too busy to breakfast when in fact I'm drinking from it in my jarmies at the kitchen bench while stuffing carrot sticks and frozen banana cake into plastic lunch boxes designed like miniature space shuttles with flaps that open in all directions.  The kids think the cup is 'awesome' too and have visions of taking hot chocolate to soccer in one.  They've got another thing coming.

We had a busy weekend what with a go-karting birthday party, the usual cricket match, World Thinking Day for Girl Guides on Aspen Island (in the rain) and a trip to the Royal Canberra Agricultural Show for the littlest gull and me.   The coffee injections were indispensable to enable me to get from this:

to this:

Fabulous from start to finish!

Berry Delicious Summer.

Blueberries 

by Robert Lee Frost

"You ought to have seen what I saw on my way

To the village, through Mortenson's pasture to-day:

Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb,

Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum

In the cavernous pail of the first one to come!

And all ripe together, not some of them green

And some of them ripe! You ought to have seen!"

***

What is it with berries?  The supermarkets are full of them.  Raspberries, blueberries and blackberries are standard fare in the big chains not just the farmers markets or roadside stalls.  Not so when I was growing up.  There was a time when they were a rarity. I'd pick mulberries from the tree in my grandparent's back yard and we had a few measley strawberry plants in our own vegie patch.  These days however, we can recreate some an English pastoral scene in the kitchen with bountiful punnets of berries... at three dollars a pop, or less.  (Perhaps not so cheap for raspberries, the most delicate of all the Rubus genus.)

In fact, our 2011-12 summer dessert hit has been pavlova shells stuffed with mixed berry goodness and chopped kiwi fruit, topped with Gippsland double cream and syrupy passionfruit.  Look what Not Quite Nigella has to say on the topic.  I haven't been brave enough to make my own pavlova just yet but I feel the need to do so some time soon.

Our smoothie of choice this season has been a creamy concoction of frozen berries, milk and yoghurt.  It makes an impressive sight in a long, tall glass with a couple of bent straws and a parfait spoon.  Yum.  Sluuurrrrp-able! The folk at Creative Gourmet (Australian suppliers of frozen berries)* have a neat website with plenty of mouth-watering recipes the kids would go ape over.   Just as well we keep the freezer well stocked with the frozen variety so we always have a box on hand when we feel a berry craving coming over us.

* Not sponsored.  My own views. :o)

Love 'ya. See ya'.

St. Valentine's Day

By Wilfred Scawen Blunt

TO-DAY, all day, I rode upon the down,

With hounds and horsemen, a brave company

On this side in its glory lay the sea,

On that the Sussex weald, a sea of brown.

The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone,

And still we gallop'd on from gorse to gorse:

And once, when check'd, a thrush sang, and my horse

Prick'd his quick ears as to a sound unknown.

I knew the Spring was come. I knew it even

Better than all by this, that through my chase

In bush and stone and hill and sea and heaven

I seem'd to see and follow still your face.

Your face my quarry was. For it I rode,

My horse a thing of wings, myself a god.

***

Valentine's Day is no big deal really in this household. An imported custom that doesn't seem authentic and besides, there's no-one here experiencing the first blush of young love.   Yet. Thanks heavens.

No time for luvvy-duvvy stuff either between the old marrieds, what with an early start and late finish respectively.  His steed is a hulking late model SUV. She canters in a city runabout with a child-proof rear seat protector.  The 'chase' is a drive up and down a major city thoroughfare multiple times to deliver and collect children.  Phone calls are made, not to whisper sweet nothings, but to synchronise transport arrangements. 

A love affair of a different sort. 

In two acts

Alone for a Week

By Jane Kenyon

 

I washed a load of clothes

and hung them out to dry.

Then I went up to town

and busied myself all day.

The sleeve of your best shirt

rose ceremonious

when I drove in; our night-

clothes twined and untwined in

a little gust of wind.

For me it was getting late;

for you, where you were, not.

The harvest moon was full

but sparse clouds made its light

not quite reliable.

The bed on your side seemed

as wide and flat as Kansas;

your pillow plump, cool,

and allegorical. . . .

***

 

Parenting around these parts is a two-person act but sometimes. I confess, when there is only one person it goes more smoothly. There are no assumptions about who will wipe the bench or clean the children's teeth.  One can hog the electronic devices to one's heart's content, there are no bathroom queues or collisions in the kitchen.  The bed is a glorious expanse of space that can be filled with a soft, little cuddle-able body.   We live in a state of suspense waiting for your return.  It is quieter and noiser at the same time.  We seem to talk more loudly.

 

It's not the same without Dadda.  Things go bump in the night more than usual. A halogen light bulb always blows when you are away. Some chores are more easily done by someone tall and strong. Books about the minoans and gladiators need a masculine narrator.  We cry when we hear your voice on the phone.  We are glad you are home.  A restive peace returns.  

 

Jane Kenyon, “Alone for a Week” from Collected Poems.

Kairos Moments

Solitude by George Gordon, Lord Byron

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,

To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,

Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,

And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;

To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,

With the wild flock that never needs a fold;

Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean;

This is not solitude, 'tis but to hold

Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled.

But midst the crowd, the hurry, the shock of men,

To hear, to see, to feel and to possess,

And roam alone, the world's tired denizen,

With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;

Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!

None that, with kindred consciousness endued,

If we were not, would seem to smile the less

Of all the flattered, followed, sought and sued;

This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

***

I know I'll miss the children when they are grown and moved away but there is a lot to be said for a few hours respite from the rabble.  No catering, cajoling or castigating. Just blissful peace and quiet.  Time to sort, spruce the place up and accomplish some chores without interruption.  Think.

I've copied the following article in full from Huffington Post because it spoke to me and I may want to come back to it if I get some time uninterrupted. It's written by Glennon Melton.

Don't Carpe Diem    

Every time I'm out with my kids -- this seems to happen: An older woman stops us, puts her hand over her heart and says something like, "Oh, Enjoy every moment. This time goes by so fast."  Everywhere I go, someone is telling me to seize the moment, raise my awareness, be happy, enjoy every second, etc, etc, etc.

I know that this message is right and good. But, I have finally allowed myself to admit that it just doesn't work for me. It bugs me. This CARPE DIEM message makes me paranoid and panicky. Especially during this phase of my life - while I'm raising young kids. Being told, in a million different ways to CARPE DIEM makes me worry that if I'm not in a constant state of intense gratitude and ecstasy, I'm doing something wrong.

I think parenting young children (and old ones, I've heard) is a little like climbing Mount Everest. Brave, adventurous souls try it because they've heard there's magic in the climb. They try because they believe that finishing, or even attempting the climb are impressive accomplishments. They try because during the climb, if they allow themselves to pause and lift their eyes and minds from the pain and drudgery, the views are breathtaking. They try because even though it hurts and it's hard, there are moments that make it worth the hard. These moments are so intense and unique that many people who reach the top start planning, almost immediately, to climb again. Even though any climber will tell you that most of the climb is treacherous, exhausting, killer. That they literally cried most of the way up.

And so I think that if there were people stationed, say, every thirty feet along Mount Everest yelling to the climbers -- "ARE YOU ENJOYING YOURSELF!? IF NOT, YOU SHOULD BE! ONE DAY YOU'LL BE SORRY YOU DIDN'T!" TRUST US!! IT'LL BE OVER TOO SOON! CARPE DIEM!" -- those well-meaning, nostalgic cheerleaders might be physically thrown from the mountain.

Now. I'm not suggesting that the sweet old ladies who tell me to ENJOY MYSELF be thrown from a mountain. These are wonderful ladies. Monkees, probably. But last week, a woman approached me in the Target line and said the following: "Sugar, I hope you are enjoying this. I loved every single second of parenting my two girls. Every single moment. These days go by so fast."
At that particular moment, Amma had arranged one of the new bras I was buying on top of her sweater and was sucking a lollipop that she must have found on the ground. She also had three shop-lifted clip-on neon feathers stuck in her hair. She looked exactly like a contestant from Toddlers and Tiaras. I couldn't find Chase anywhere, and Tish was grabbing the pen on the credit card swiper thing WHILE the woman in front of me was trying to use it. And so I just looked at the woman, smiled and said, "Thank you. Yes. Me too. I am enjoying every single moment. Especially this one. Yes. Thank you."

That's not exactly what I wanted to say, though.

There was a famous writer who, when asked if he loved writing, replied, "No. but I love having written." What I wanted to say to this sweet woman was, "Are you sure? Are you sure you don't mean you love having parented?"

I love having written. And I love having parented. My favorite part of each day is when the kids are put to sleep (to bed) and Craig and I sink into the couch to watch some quality TV, like Celebrity Wife Swap, and congratulate each other on a job well done. Or a job done, at least.

Every time I write a post like this, I get emails suggesting that I'm being negative. I have received this particular message four or five times -- G, if you can't handle the three you have, why do you want a fourth?
That one always stings, and I don't think it's quite fair. Parenting is hard. Just like lots of important jobs are hard. Why is it that the second a mother admits that it's hard, people feel the need to suggest that maybe she's not doing it right? Or that she certainly shouldn't add more to her load. Maybe the fact that it's so hard means she IS doing it right...in her own way...and she happens to be honest.

Craig is a software salesman. It's a hard job in this economy. And he comes home each day and talks a little bit about how hard it is. And I don't ever feel the need to suggest that he's not doing it right, or that he's negative for noticing that it's hard, or that maybe he shouldn't even consider taking on more responsibility. And I doubt anybody comes by his office to make sure he's ENJOYING HIMSELF. I doubt his boss peeks in his office and says: "This career stuff...it goes by so fast...ARE YOU ENJOYING EVERY MOMENT IN THERE, CRAIG???? CARPE DIEM, CRAIG!"

My point is this. I used to worry that not only was I failing to do a good enough job at parenting, but that I wasn't enjoying it enough. Double failure. I felt guilty because I wasn't in parental ecstasy every hour of every day and I wasn't MAKING THE MOST OF EVERY MOMENT like the mamas in the parenting magazines seemed to be doing. I felt guilty because honestly, I was tired and cranky and ready for the day to be over quite often. And because I knew that one day, I'd wake up and the kids would be gone, and I'd be the old lady in the grocery store with my hand over my heart. Would I be able to say I enjoyed every moment? No.

But the fact remains that I will be that nostalgic lady. I just hope to be one with a clear memory. And here's what I hope to say to the younger mama gritting her teeth in line:

"It's helluva hard, isn't it? You're a good mom, I can tell. And I like your kids, especially that one peeing in the corner. She's my favorite. Carry on, warrior. Six hours till bedtime." And hopefully, every once in a while, I'll add -- "Let me pick up that grocery bill for ya, sister. Go put those kids in the van and pull on up -- I'll have them bring your groceries out."
Anyway. Clearly, Carpe Diem doesn't work for me. I can't even carpe fifteen minutes in a row, so a whole diem is out of the question.

Here's what does work for me:

There are two different types of time. Chronos time is what we live in. It's regular time, it's one minute at a time, it's staring down the clock till bedtime time, it's ten excruciating minutes in the Target line time, it's four screaming minutes in time out time, it's two hours till daddy gets home time. Chronos is the hard, slow passing time we parents often live in.

Then there's Kairos time. Kairos is God's time. It's time outside of time. It's metaphysical time. It's those magical moments in which time stands still. I have a few of those moments each day. And I cherish them.

Like when I actually stop what I'm doing and really look at Tish. I notice how perfectly smooth and brownish her skin is. I notice the perfect curves of her teeny elf mouth and her asianish brown eyes, and I breathe in her soft Tishy smell. In these moments, I see that her mouth is moving but I can't hear her because all I can think is -- This is the first time I've really seen Tish all day, and my God -- she is so beautiful. Kairos.

Like when I'm stuck in chronos time in the grocery line and I'm haggard and annoyed and angry at the slow check-out clerk. And then I look at my cart and I'm transported out of chronos. And suddenly I notice the piles and piles of healthy food I'll feed my children to grow their bodies and minds and I remember that most of the world's mamas would kill for this opportunity. This chance to stand in a grocery line with enough money to pay. And I just stare at my cart. At the abundance. The bounty. Thank you, God. Kairos.

Or when I curl up in my cozy bed with Theo asleep at my feet and Craig asleep by my side and I listen to them both breathing. And for a moment, I think- how did a girl like me get so lucky? To go to bed each night surrounded by this breath, this love, this peace, this warmth? Kairos.

These kairos moments leave as fast as they come- but I mark them. I say the word kairos in my head each time I leave chronos. And at the end of the day, I don't remember exactly what my kairos moments were, but I remember I had them. And that makes the pain of the daily parenting climb worth it.

If I had a couple Kairos moments during the day, I call it a success.

Carpe a couple of Kairoses a day.

Good enough for me.

Photo: By me. Bert Flugelman Cones 1976/82 polished stainless steel. Sculpture Garden, National Gallery of Australia.

Summer Refrain

 

"Mother, may I go out to swim?"

"Yes, my darling daughter.

Fold your clothes up neat and trim,

But don't go near the water."

***

Let's get a pool!

We could put a pool where the grass is!

 

 

Can we go to the pool?

 

 

If we get a pool we can't do the nature strip yet.

 

 

I really want a pool.

 

 

A pool would be good.

We wouldn't have to drive.

I'm hot.

Can I get in my swimmers?

Poem: Mother Goose Rhymes.

Image: Australian Institute of Sport, by me.

School lists, pantry lists and timetables

Come up here, O dusty feet! Here is fairy bread to eat. Here in my retiring room, Children, you may dine On the golden smell of broom And the shade of pine; And when you have eaten well, Fairy stories hear and tell.

{From a Child's Garden of Verses, Robert Louis Stevenson} *** The school lists aren't out as it turns out.  Massive disappointment.  Due apparently, to unanticipated "walk-ins" last week.  Presumably this means late enrolments.  I suggested to the young teacher we encountered in the hallway that perhaps the school shouldn't make promises it can't keep when it says in the final newsletter for the year that the lists will be up at a specified time.  All fell on deaf ears of course.   She took my name like like I was being pulled over for doing 80km in the 40km zone.  We'll be lampooned in the staff room. There's goes my kids' chances of scoring the popular teachers, getting good grades, breaking the job market ...  Meantime, I am bracing myself for next week when the SSO is away travelling for work and not, I might add, to glamorous destinations, but to places which are one ring out from the Great Australian Outback, if a map of the continent were the geographic equivalent of the growth rings on an ancient eucalypt.   He's also driving long distances when not being flown in very small charter aircraft.  Makes me nervous.  I'm also not sure how I am going to accommodate the school run and mounting number of after-school commitments.  Some deft organisation, abundant frozen meals and pre-packed lunches will be required. In fact, it's the crowd catering which stresses me the most about next week.  I plan to follow Jenny Rosenstrach's advice on marinating chicken legs ahead, deconstructing meals and following the cook once, eat twice mantra.  I've replenished the pantry with sesame oil, soy sauce, red curry paste, nori crackers and Angostura Bitters (oh, that's not for family dinners) and even bought items, such as semolina and soba noodles, which signify a level of culinary ambition I may not be able to achieve.   But I am emboldened by my holiday reading.  The danger is of course that I spend more time basting and crumbing than I do reading and playing.  Postscript: The school rang a little later to tell me the lists were up and advise who were my children's class teachers.  The staff member couldn't have been more obliging.  I take back all I said.   The children emailed the SSO and he phoned back to celebrate and commiserate their mixed fortunes.

February's here.

Pinch and a punch for the first of the month.  Deadlock.  No returns.  Of any kind.

A brutal awakening by two children (one in particular) keen to get in first with this monthly ritual.  Ah February.  All 29 days of you. 

Class lists come out on Friday, sticky-taped to the front glass of the school office.  We have to be down there checking at the earliest opportunity.  Charly is hyper-jittery about which of her friends will or won't be in her class and which teacher she scores.  The list looms larger in her imagination than in previous years and takes on far greater significance as she marks her final year of primary school.  It has to be a fabulous, memorable year.  Like the arrival of February, this milestone has crept up quietly.

Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and November;
February has twenty-eight alone,
All the rest have thirty-one,
Excepting leap-year, that's the time
When February's days are twenty-nine.

***

Eurobodalla Botanic Gardens

"The young leaves is shootin' on the trees,

The air is like a long, cool swig o' beer,

The bonzer smell of flow'rs is on the breeze,

An' 'ere's me, 'ere

Jist moochin' round like some pore, barmy coot,

Of 'ope and joy, an' forchin destichoot."

{C.J. DENNIS, A Spring Song}

***

One week of school holidays to go.  Charly is still at a sleep-over across the road with gorgeous neighbour C. 

{Sleep-overs across the road have to be the best thing ever! So convenient. Just in-and-out as they please from one house to the other. No driving.}

I think the food and bedding arrangements are far more salubrious over there than at our house. 

Meantime, Ro Ro is totally immersed in sets of Beastly Books variously titled Boy Versus Beast or Beast Quest or Beastly Business. He literally scooped his arm along the shelves at the Kingston Library and dumped an entire set into the canvas library tote.  He is now methodically working through them.  Wanna is busy dressing up dolls and manoeuvring Little Ponies in formation across the carpetted floor of her bedroom.  Sweet home-spun entertainment and not an electrical cord or device charger in sight.

Today is windy and wet in the national capital, so best we can do is reminisce about our sojourn on the south coast and our walk through the serene Eurobodalla Botanic Gardens, another of our unexpected finds.   We discovered this beautiful spot thanks to my obsessive brochure collecting and the services of the Bateman's Bay Tourist Bureau.  

The Eurobodalla Botanic Gardens are impeccably maintained (the uniformed gardeners and ride-on mowers were out in full force while we were there) with lots of new works in progress, including on a childrens' playground with musical equipment and a divine BBQ area. 

There's a great selection of bushwalks and ample open spaces to throw a frisbee (or a dart - "the new frisbee"). If we were local and it wasn't raining, this is where we would have outdoor birthday parties and end-of-year get-togethers. Don't tell anyone, but I like it more than the Australian National Botanic Gardens.
 

Mogo Zoo

 

 Daddy’s takin’ us to the zoo tomorrow,

Zoo tomorrow, zoo tomorrow

Daddy’s takin’ us to the zoo tomorrow

And we can stay all day!

Chorus:

We’re goin’ to the zoo, zoo, zoo

How about you, you, you?

You can come too, too, too

We’re goin’ to the zoo, zoo, zoo.

See the elephant with the long trunk swingin’

Great big ears and a long trunk swingin’

Snuffin’ up peanuts with a long trunk swingin’

And we can stay all day!

See all the monkeys they’re scritch-scritch scratchin’

Jumpin’ around and scritch-scritch scratchin’

Hangin’ by the long-tail (huff huff huff)

And we can stay all day!

There’s a big black bear he’s a huff-puff-a-puffin’

His coat’s too heavy he’s  a huff-puff-a-puffin’
Don’t get too near the huff-puff-a-puffin’
Or you won’t stay all day!

Well the seals in the pool all honk-honk-honkin’ Catchin’ the fish and honk-honk-honkin’ Little tiny seals all honk-honk-honkin’ And we can stay all day! Well we stayed all day and I’m gettin’ sleepy Sittin’ in the car gettin’ sleep sleep sleepy Home already gettin’ sleep sleep sleepy ’cause we have stayed all day. We been to the zoo zoo zoo So have you you you You came too too too We been to the zoo zoo zoo. (Lyrics: Peter, Paul and Mary) *** What an unexpected surprise. Mogo Zoo on the south coast of New South Wales is quite a little gem. I reluctantly agreed to visit as one stop on our motoring itinerary mid-way along the Eurobodalla coast. I succumbed to the incessant and enthusiastic requests. Can we, can we, can we?   How could you not? It is larger than expected with an interesting and atypical selection of animals - the white lion, the cotton-top tamarin, the pygmy marmoset, the green iguana and the red panda to name a few.   All healthy, albeit slightly bored-looking, specimens. Perhaps wild animals also look somnolent in their native habitats, only we don't see the yawns, listless gazes and lolling about prone. Animals always look perkier in the wildlife programs on the telly. Mogo Zoo is pleasantly laid out with ample picnic places for the self-caterer (which we weren't on this occasion more's the pity). The grounds are well landscaped and beautifully maintained. They grow much of their own food in a sweet garden you can peer into from one of the walks at the rear of the grounds. The glass enclosures are spotless so you can see the animals without squinting through grime and cobwebs, or wishing you had a microfibre cloth in your pocket to give it a quick once-over, as I do. (Sad, but true.  I should be in tourism or hospitality.)      It took us two hours to meander through. We could have spent longer. Indeed, we could have left three members of the touring party there!

If you need a break from sun, surf and fishing while holidaying at Bateman's Bay, I would throughly recommend a half-day excursion to Mogo Zoo.  But take a picnic basket and stay for lunch.