Let go of my Leg

Christmas in Africa

2009-11-22T20:16:00.000-08:00

Take six siblings, five married-ins and their 13 off spring. Add a herd of elephants, a pack of giraffe, a stampede of impala, a pack of birds (starlings will do, touch them up with a bit of brightly coloured paint to give that exotic feel). Throw in – say – a couple of packs of hunting dogs, some wilderbeest, a white rhino or two if you can get your hands on them, hyena and of course a hungry lion and its mate.

Isolate the lot on a fenced off part of southern Africa for a few days – add the fact its Christmas, then sit back and watch the show.

It all started as a bit of a joke. Bill and Helene sitting by the fire one winters’ evening in Dulwich, England, talking about their children, how things were turning out for each of them – and how they could provide that extra bit of parental something that would continue to shape their life journeys.

‘We could take the TV show Survivor, mix in some ideas from Big Brother – add the very special drama which has always been the Lees family at Christmas – but do it all in an environment where there are no bedroom doors to slam. It could be hilarious,’ gwaffawed Bill into the smooth drop of red that he was supping on, purely for medicinal purposes. ‘Indeed’ agreed Helene, adding wistfully, ‘maybe we can get a celebrity guest appearance too. Do you think Hugo will be available? Hmm, we'd have to give him a lot of notice.’

That thought shut the conversation down and the idea might have gone no further but for the fact that the exchange was being overheard. Caroline, on speed dial from Geneva, was listening in.

‘Tee, hee, hee’ she sniggered to herself – Survivor? Big Brother? I’ll give you a reality TV show to remember. Only without the TV show. After all, on the savannah, no one can hear you scream. (Except for the tourists in the next three next jeeps.)

The idea was almost scuppered several times. First by Alan Macdonald’s suggestion to hold the event on the Russian Steppes, wrapped in wolf fur and sipping vodka. ‘No’, asserted Melissa with the firmness of a Great Ormond Street consultant when presented with a herbal remedy for congenital maliofacial deformity ‘I have already bought my strapless ivory dress. We will not be holidaying in the Russian winter!’

It almost ground to a halt a second time when Kathryn announced her second baby was on its way. ‘Are there any health risks for a three month old, in Africa, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by wild animals, and many hundreds of miles from the nearest poorly equipped hospital?’ she ventured, tentatively, not wishing to spoil anyone’s fun. ‘Health risks? Africa? Never’ replied Jeremy. Thank goodness for the family GP.

Emails went out, plans were proposed, knocked back, priced up, laughed at, reproposed without the leer jet, knocked back again, then booked anyway. It went from ‘nice idea, lets go along with it, but I doubt it will ever actually happen’, to ‘OMG, its next Thursday, what an earth am I going to wear?’ (Apart from the ivory strapless dress.)

The day arrived. The social experiment began.

It was hot. Harsh, dry, relentless heat. Searing sun. Family, by straggling family group swept up by the organisational whirlwind that Caroline had become and dumped, unceremoniously (well, landed by private plane, or driven in air-conditioned bus) in the centre of an unfamiliar continent, with only the rough clue of a stone path to mark the way to the canvas huts which were to be their homes for the next few days; barely an apertif or a freshly steamed and scented face cloth to refresh their dry mouths and dusty faces.

The next several days was an unfamiliar, unforgettable series of challenges, as twenty-seven city dwellers wrestled with their new environment. The struggle to finish breakfast before morning tea arrived. To wipe the crumbs of morning tea from the table before tucking in to lunch, and to squeeze an afternoon nap in the narrow gap between the midday meal and afternoon tea, and all that before the real eating began with dinner Some couldn’t keep up the marathon – and sort distractions from food – hunting the local wildlife through the view finders of pentax, kodak and canon.

A centre of family gathering was the pool, which provided both an opportunity to divest oneself of the dust of the day, an opportunity to surreptiously judge who fitted more snugly into their swim suit (strictly a female Lees-family activity – not open to the unfashionably thin women that their brothers had thoughtlessly mixed into the gene pool), and an opportunity for the younger cousins to play. Lulu and Finn guarding the steps of the pool, and occasionally, and discretely contributing in their own special way to the temperature control) while their older siblings and cousins invented wild games of good guys and bad guys, princes and heros and played for hours.

On the game drives, the sighting of lions caused an enormous thrill. Jeeps jostling for position, as lions headed across country. The goal was to stay close enough to keep them in sight – but not so close as to become lunch. Two jeeps full of the extended Lees family stalked these beasts. The smart quips about shaggy rugs, rolled up and chucked under trees to trick the tourists fell away to awed silence. These really were lions. They were close. You could feel the power in their paws and the strength and the speed in their steady gait as they walked with apparent nonchalance between the two vehicles, unaware of the fear they inspired. The second vehicle was ordered to hang back, and let the lead vehicle give chase into the thorny bush. The last impressive sight was of Helene, perched high on the back of the lead jeep as it plunged into the bushes – her knuckles white from hanging on, rapidly renewing her wedding vows.

But game drives weren’t all about encountering Africa’s big five, relishing in the wealth of bird life, tackling lone elephants down narrow road ways in an unenclosed jeep at dusk, or even about counting the bumps in the road until sundowners. To some branches of the family ‘game drive’ will forever be synonymous with the phrase ‘extended medical consultation with two leading doctors where all matter of medical questions, stored over many years can be aired, diagnosed, and in some cases actually cured’. Getting doctors Melissa and Jeremy alone in a jeep for four hours on the promise of extra cocoa at break time was the masterstroke of my time in Africa.

Humour aside, the whole ‘lets go to Africa idea for Christmas’ idea was made possible because we have parents with a passion for life and a sense of adventure, who fifty years earlier, had left family, friends and familiar territory to set out, by ship, for England. Theirs continues to be a journey into embracing life’s possibilities and they have swept us all along on with them. From Camping Pola in the back of a Vauxhall viva, to daring night raids over the back fence to the neighbour’s plum trees, to the simple matter of holding together six diverse and talented and strong minded children, as they forged their own lives – to impressive achievements.

And now it’s the turn of the third generation: with Miranda, Alistair and Hugo striking out in front and close on their heels, Isabel, Emma, Helena, Chloe, William, Hugh, Lulu, Finn, Fergus and Harry.

Children, remember the lessons you have learned from your grandparents:

that the game drive of life may be along unmade roads, lined by thorny bushes, there maybe lions and leopards lurking in the scrub, but with Luck to guide you and Patience to sustain you – and if you stock up on extra muffins from life’s breakfast table – you WILL glimpse the lilac crested rollah of opportunity and embrace the white rhino of personal fulfillment. But never, just never, confuse a tree in the African savannah with your bathroom - what bites your bottom may be bigger than you bargained for.

Wearing socks can wear you out

2008-05-29T17:38:00.000-07:00

My daughter had a reunion recently with an Currambena friend, who moved on to one of the other local schools at the end of last year. It was a beautiful sunny day and ever fearful of any juvenile disturbance to my pristine domestic environment (you know what it is like with three young children in the house – all vaccumed carpets, well-made beds and sugar free snacks lined up along the kitchen bench) we decided to make this an outside play and took the dog for a long walk around Blackman park. I followed the two girls as they walked, half listening to their chatter as they renewed their acquaintance. I was fascinated as they began to compare their respective school days. Like any normal parent, I am always looking for clues that my decisions for my children are the right ones. Like any realistic parent, I kind of secretly know that I won’t get an answer until they are about 40 years old and have finished their therapy. In the meantime, I piece together what scraps I can find. The girls compared notes on friends, on start times, on pick up routines, then moved on to the nitty gritty of the eternal education debate: school uniforms versus wear-what-you-like; school meetings as opposed to school assemblies, merit badges and point systems, compared to – ummm, well - no merit badges or points systems.

At the end of our second circling of the park, the dog was done in, but they were still chatting away, debating in a friendly and exploratory manner – until that is, they reached an enormous, incredibly muddy puddle.

Both girls knew what to do. They removed their shoes and socks and waded in to the dark, murky water that even the dog had turned his nose up at. It was cold and wet, but helped settled the matter at least in my daughter’s mind. ‘Do you know’ said her friend, ‘at my school you have to wear socks all day’. ‘Wow’ said Chloe, ‘that must be exhausting’, ‘yes’, came the reply, ‘yes, it is.’

The matter was settled. Chloe is happy where she is and she won’t move for anyone – not if it means wearing socks all day.

Dropping your bundle in public

2008-05-29T17:28:00.000-07:00

I was rushing back from work the other evening to pick my children up from after school care before they had polished off the school’s entire supply of the golden syrup (no need for bread, it is just a distraction) when I had one of those moments of public horror that freeze you in time and make you - momentarily at least - want to move interstate.

I stood up to get off the bus as it approached the school, and whether it was my over-stuffed workbag bag, unaccustomed high heels, or merely the light-headedness any mother gets when she has had seven full hours of adult company without a nappy to change or the need to explain to a four-year-old where babies come from and whether it is in fact a good idea or big mistake, I was a bit unsteady on my feet.

The bus jerked to a halt and my bag went flying. Notebooks, pens, grimy stubs of lipstick, mobile phone and the forgotten debris of numerous confiscated party-bags went flying.
Lane Cove is a friendly Sydney suburb. The bus filled with a kind of well-meaning murmur of sympathy and understanding as a dozen pairs of hands reached under seats and into the aisle gathering together the scattered contents.

Then it happened. Silence. A pair of eyes met mine. I looked down to where a hand that had hovered helpfully over the last item froze mid air, then withdrew. Lying on the floor in full view of all was the head-lice comb.

Not one of those plastic, use-once-after-all-every-child-gets-the-occasional-parasite, head-lice combs. I am talking an industrial strength, heavy-duty piece of equipment, designed to tackle the kind of head-lice that has evolved complete immunity over generations of chemical warfare. I am not sure, but there may have even been the dismembered body of a lifeless louse still caught between the comb’s teeth as it lay on the floor of the 253 from the QVB.

What kind of parent needs a tool like that? What kind of mother needs to carry a lice comb with her at all times - and above all, screamed the silent crowd, which school do her children go to?

I picked up the comb. I wasn’t going to be phased by tutt-tutts of disapproval - real or imagined. I’ve read the articles, listened to the talk-back radio, and downloaded reams of comforting information from the web. It is not just my children. It is not just our school. It is not because their hair is dirty, or their parents neglectful. It is not their friends, or their friends’ families, or the fact that recent water restrictions have been a perfect excuse to avoid the inevitable struggle of hair washing nights.

I stepped off the bus, glanced sideways to the girls’ primary school, then strode with confidence in the opposite direction, through the conveniently-placed gates of a neighbouring school.
I would double back and get my girls when the bus had moved off.

Bedtimes

2007-03-22T01:07:00.000-07:00

Thursday night. Children's bedtime. Two down, one running riot. Our five year old has the biggest most beautiful eyes you can imagine - but when she decides to throw a tantrum, well, lets just say it sets the dogs barking for several suburbs. Right now she is intermittantly slamming the shutters in her room open and closed, and throwing things into the corridor. It is a bit like a cartoon - but they usually have a chirpy sound track. This has wailing and screaming and gnashing of teeth.

Not sure how it started. But I know that this is the fourth night in the row. Last night Mark and I closed the doors, and retreated to the trampolene at the bottom of the garden, with a bottle of wine and two glasses. You can't hear the yells from there. Tonight, well, Mark's no fool. Even the trampolene is too close for his comfort and he is out for dinner. I have broken into the spare champagne that we keep for emergency celebrations (quick! I think someone we might know has suddenly had a birthday/a baby/a good night's sleep, crack open the fizzy stuff.) Sadly we don't keep spare champagne glasses, and I am drinking from a mug. Still, beats a jam jar....or straight from the bottle, my initial impulse.

Things have quietened down. But her light has gone on. I know if Mark were here the tantrum would end sooner. I am a complete procrastinator. Once the screams turn to those heart wrenching gulps and sighs I give in, give up and basically lie on the ground to be trampled on.

It is started again. From where I am sitting on the deck I can see her throwing herself against the window, the sound is muted. And now she has seen me. She is coming out. She is next to me on the sofa. Her head on my shoulder. I know all she wants is a hug and an 'I love you' but I think that I learned that they are supposed to sort themselves out and not be rewarded for bad behaviour. But where is the line between a great way of training your dog and a tender yet effective way of bringing up a child?

Who knows.

Pour me another, I'll think about it!

'Working mum argues brand issues, saves a child's life and collects children from school on time' and says its all in a day's work...

2007-03-17T15:02:00.000-07:00

I made a work call the other day outside the girls' school, the baby was strapped safely in the car sucking on something soggy. I'd sent the girls back into the school to hunt shoes, readers and other debris from a day's education when a pre schooler escaped the compound and wandered into the street.

Its a busy road, with 4-wheel drives a plenty (this is outback suburban Sydney, after all, and you never know when you are going to have to cross a raging torrent of shoppers or school children) not to mention buses and trucks.

I first watched with half my attention as this dexterous small child manipulated his way out of the child-proof gate - at precisely the moment that the person I had been trying to catch all day answered the phone. It was a call I couldn't blow. I kept talking.

The boy started to wander along the row of waiting cars calling out 'grandpa'. I followed at a safe distance - safe for me, not for him. I didn't want him to get hurt, but I sure didn't want my call peppered with children's cries, completely blowing my professional cover.

I had half an eye on him, half an eye on my son in our car, the phone was pressed to my ear. I had to keep talking. This was an important call. Someone else would intervene with the boy, I was sure, the place was packed with parents, but I would stay with him until they did. They didn't. Perhaps they were all catching up on important work calls too.

I kept chatting. As the boy got closer and closer to the curb, my voice got more and more bright and breezey and intently conversational. I don't know what I was saying, but I was convinced that if I continued to talk, the person at the other end wouldn't suspect that I was just about to throw myself between a bus and a small boy. And if I continued to hold the phone up as I went down under the bus, perhaps I could complete the call before the wail of sirens drowned out the conversation and gave the game away.

The boy did exactly what I was dreading - he squeezed his way between two tightly parked cars in an attempt to check out the drivers side of what was evidently his grandfathers car. I talked faster - couldn't stop. If I tried to catch my breath the person at the other end might hear the screeching of brakes or a thud of impact.

It was time to intervene. But did it have to be save the child or save my career? Surely I could do both! I am a woman, after all, a mother, no less. I can save the world and argue branding issues with industry-leading gurus if I have to. At the same time. My left foot shot out, and curled around the child's neck. I hooked him and dragged him back on to the pavement.

Still making my case for the power of a well-thoughout brand, I positioned myself firmly between him and the road, and herded him, weaving between distracted parents and over tired children, and pushed him with my body back through the gate into the arms of his waiting grandparent.

I took a deep breath, summed up my argument and ended the call. I couldn't help thinking that when superman saved the world, he got to change his clothes first and wasn't expected to keep filing stories for his paper - at least until the bad guys were firmly put to rights and the vulnerable safe and secure in the arms of loved ones.

Not so super mums.

National security

2007-02-23T16:59:00.001-08:00

I've just walked through the city of Sydney. It is quite wierd - teeming with police, helicopters buzzing overhead, roads blocked off, armed officers placed at strategic vantage points around the place, wearing shades, chewing gum. Police cars, buses and police bikes, moving around or stationary, some with lights flashing.

Dick Cheney is in town, you see. At first I thought all the security was a bit of an over reaction for one American. But, if you think of the chaos he has kicked off in Iraq, I guess our government is right to take whatever precautions it can to protect us against him. How he got through immigration, of course, is beyond me. Friends in high places, I guess.

Family Camping Part 2

2007-02-13T19:08:00.000-08:00

Apparently some people have been on the edge of their seats (or balancing precariously on their exercise balls working on their core strength, perhaps) with excitement about how our camping holiday went – or didn’t.

So here is an update:

Family camping 2006–7 was an unmitigated success. Why?

1. Because putting up your tent in the middle of a storm after a long day’s drive is an incredibly bonding experience for all concerned, especially if it is dark and you run the car battery flat in the process.

2. Because being told to move your tent (tarp, cooking set up, wardrobe, etc) after 3 days because you’ve be given the wrong spot, just as you finish the last tweaking and tightening of ropes, and repositioned the cooking table to get the morning sun, the afternoon breeze and to stop people tripping over it on the way to the eskie (= ice-box) is a great exercise in self-restraint. If it is 35 degrees C +, it is also an excellent opportunity to shed pounds.

3. Because, if your son is going to be sick for a few days – as any 15-month old will be from time to time – camping is the right place to be. Explosions of bodily waste are simply rinsed off under the tap to fertilise the grass, there are no carpets to stain, few clothes to wash and a fresh sea breeze to prevent lingering odours.

4. Because inevitable pre-dawn wakings are a fabulous incentive to decamp to the beach – where we could pick sand out of our cereal and watch kestrels swoop down and fish for their breakfast.

5. Because endless nightly circles of the campsite pushing a sleepless child are a window on the customs and traditions of Australian campers. Caravan hoppings, twitching tent flaps, youthful exuberance and the mellow wallowing in seasonal excesses of the more mature campers provided deep cultural insight. I swear one young couple was frozen in an embrace from four am until after six one morning in the children’s playground. Motionless.

6. Because our inevitable ‘lively family dynamic’ proved a pretty effective contraceptive to the handsome and very in-love young couple camped next door. They’ll be no babies there this year, I predict - reducing pressure on world resources.

7. Because the thick layer of sand that the children deposited on my mattress each day for me to roll in at night means no expensive exfoliation treatments will be needed for at least six months.

All in all, the children loved it, we survived it and we will definitely be doing the same again next year. (Unless we get a better offer that involves beds, walls and yes, a nanny would be nice).

Water saving strategies

2007-01-19T18:31:00.001-08:00

Okay so here’s the dilemma. Lets say you have a massive – I mean MASSIVE - row about housework, children, and the fact that he calls ‘getting-up-to-make-breakfast-for-the-children-so-you-get-a-lie-in’ crawling out of bed and into the spare room, 18-month-old in tow, only to fall asleep straight away leaving the budding young artist free reign with a set of felt tip pens and the white walls of the house (lets face it, if you have only been around a year and a half, a white wall can look a bit like an invitingly blank canvas).

Lets say that the row builds up to a crescendo and in the final climatic moments you grab the nearest box (supersized) of weetabix and empty it all over the floor. (That’ll show him who the real slob around here is.) It is a glorious gesture of defiance, an assertion of freedom, a sign of solidarity with the sisterhood.

Let’s say you do that (hypothetically, of course, this has not happened to anyone I know, or ever knew, or might meet in the future), who clears it up?

You? Isn’t that like admitting defeat? Wouldn’t that be apologising for what was act of defiance and signal of strength?

Or Him? As a gesture of ‘yes darling, you’re right, I was wrong and you really have made an excellent point, clearly and articulately’. Some chance. Won’t he think that if he cleans it up, he’s giving you the okay to chuck cereal whenever you want a bit of help with the washing up?

(I say, well if that is what it takes…)

One friend suggested getting a cleaner in to do it. Another said get in the neighbour’s hypothetical dog in to lick it up.

Or could one (not me of course because this isn’t a personal story) perhaps empty a bottle of milk on top of the cereal and explain to the children that in view of extended water restrictions we will be saving on the washing up from now and eating off the floor without utensils, then let them get stuck in?

I am just asking on behalf of a friend.

Family camping holidays

2007-01-19T18:16:00.000-08:00

The seven-day count down begins today. In one week we are taking the children camping. Two weeks in a tent which is not quite the size of our kitchen. It is a two-roomed tent – phew, that nylon partition should keep three children under six calm, quiet and in their beds until breakfast. (Who am I kidding? The only way I can keep the four-year-old in her bed right now is if I sleep in it with her. And that is with brick walls, solid doors and a staircase to separate us.)

But all that aside, what I am most worried about is the neighbours. From a distance we may look like one of those lovely family on the back of cereal boxes – three angelic children, two doting parents), but pitch your tent near us and all you’ll learn that we are not so much grinning as gritting out teeth, that we are less doting and more despotic. The dawn chorus in our corner of the national park will sound something like: ‘don’t eat with your hands’, ‘keep your feet out of your spaghetti’, ‘food in your mouth, not up your nose’. ‘Say please’, ‘don’t swing on your chair’, ‘don’t pick his nose’, ‘give that back’, ‘put that down’, ‘pick that up’, ‘ and the crowning ‘right, that’s it. Your last warning or no presents from Santa this year/next year/any future year!’.

Talk about bringing out ‘the fish wife within’. No offence to fishwives.

We have done the positive parenting course and plastered our children’s walls with star charts and rewards like train rides and ‘mummy time’. But when do I get to send my three on a ‘positive preschoolers’ course, where they learn to reward us with treats for good behaviour – a bottle of wine, a weekend away – and yes - ‘mummy time’.

If you find yourself camping this holiday season next to our family or to one that looks like, or worse, sounds like ours, do what I do when I need tranquillity – have a set of ear plugs handy. The ones they sell at the airport to drown out the sound of jumbo jets taking off are great.

Woman of mystery?

2007-01-19T18:15:00.002-08:00

A few secrets are good for any relationship – they make you a woman of mystery, right? Well, I’ve got one now from my partner of eight years and father of my three children (may he continue to slumber peacefully in ignorance beside me as I type, bless him). My secret is ‘work’.

Oh he knows I work, all right. He’s a big supporter of anything that drags income into the family unit. I work from home, around the children, and he works in an office. Yes, we are the standard model of the twenty-first century suburban economic unit. Cute!

It’s just that in the run up to Christmas we made a pact. We listed everything that had to be done – presents, organise camping trip, spend time at the children’s school, renovate huge chunks of the house and garden, teach youngest to read, eldest to play the piano, middle-est to sleep in her own bed. We allocated responsibilities and promised each other not to take on anything more until everything on this daunting ‘must do’ list was ticked off.

And we had had a long break to get over it.

I had every intention of focusing on making sweets for the school fair and spending quality time with babies – but within twenty-four hours I was surreptiously shooting off more proposals for jobs and articles. Well, you know what it is like, you get a good idea and what are you supposed to do? Sit on it?

So now I have more deadlines – big jobs to squeeze into tiny timeframes – made more complicated by the fact I can’t let on about them. So I am sneaking around the house, texting from the loo, emailing after lights out, making muffled phone calls or pretending work calls are wrong numbers or just ‘good friends’.

No, I am not having an affair. I’m trying to manage my career.

I do have other secrets of course – but hey, if I posted them on a blog, then I wouldn’t be a woman of mystery, would I?

Early mornings

2007-01-19T18:15:00.001-08:00

Up, change the baby, get breakfast, put the dishwasher on, pat the dog (not ours, one we are dog-sitting) and back to bed with a cup of tea to wait for seven o'clock, while the children and the dog run riot downstairs. Leaving your 15 month year old in the care of a labrador and a six year old could be pushing the 'are you crazy?' boundaries. I have a horrific image of Finn helping himself to whatever the dog leaves behind on the lawn. You know how babies like to try anything. But with a restless night and a full day ahead, I need fifteen minutes of quiet, whatever the cost. Mark will be home soon from a morning swim. Will he think that I have been in bed all this time letting the children sort themselves out?.

Lots to do today.
And there is the Christmas fair coming up.
And a good, good friend is having her baby - right now, as I type.

May she be a strong, healthy, happy angel just like her sisters.

Multitasking or madness

2007-01-19T18:13:00.000-08:00

I had a night away with my husband recently. We have young children and both of us work. It was the first night we have had away for 2 years. The last time had been memorable – a pregnancy test showed that number three – unplanned – was on the way. That put a dampener on extra-curricula activities, for sure.

So there we were, in a cosey b&b in one of Australia’s beautiful wine districts. Every moment was precious. My husband dozed on the bed in the afternoon sun – enjoying well-deserved respite from the constancy of life with a young and energetic family. I glanced over at him from the bathroom sink – where I stood nail brush in one hand, wash bag in the other – its contents strewn around the vanity unit. Would you believe it, I found myself using our stolen moments in paradise to clean out my make up bag, to get out all those bits of smudged lipstick and face powder that had congealed into the corners?

How does it work that he could rest and I had to find something to clean? Don’t get me wrong. I am not a cleaning-freak. I have a suitably scruffy house, and with appropriately dusty corners. It’s not a need to clean – but with a young family and a small business I think I have forgotten how to sit still. Like so many women (I hope I am not alone) a moment of peace has become a moment of opportunity to knock something off the list that swirls constantly around in my head. True, the grimey corners of my make up bag had never actually been on any list – but since I found myself alone with it in a hotel bathroom with running water and a complementary nail set – well the opportunity seemed too good to miss.

I got on with the job quietly, careful not to wake my sleeping partner – knowing he would not understand the satisfaction of ticking off another small task done – another idle moment turned into busy productivity.

Posted by Kirsten Lees at 9:44 PM 1 comments

Friday, September 15, 2006