THE bikes lined up in front of the corner café were beckoning us.
I made a bee-line for them. Just then the words of my doctor started ringing in my ear.
“Just don’t go hopping on any bikes,” he cautioned.
“That’s the best piece of advice I can give to you.”
It was the eve of our European trip. And, yes, planes, taxis, hire cars, the Eurostar train, buses, boats and, quite possibly, bikes were among the modes of transport we planned to use.
After a 60-minute train trip from Paris to Vernon, the bikes are looking an attractive option to cycle 5km to Giverny, home of Monet’s Garden.
How lovely it would be to throw caution to the wind and ride along the disused railway line to the garden.
The doctor warned that he had lost count of the number of his “middle aged” patients who had tumbled off bikes and broken bones, ruining their holidays. I had made the mistake of relaying this piece of information to my husband, more to point out the absurdity of the description of me as middle-aged.
But, as I sized up the bikes, to see if there were any suitable for the three kids, my husband chimed in with the reminder that yes, indeed, I am middle-aged.
I glumly went to the back of the snaking line to hop on a shuttle bus for Giverny. We passed the bike riders, sans helmets, looking wondrously happy pedaling along the scenic path.
Once there we made our way along a series of laneways, walking briskly to get ahead of the crowd. The line of people queuing to enter the garden, on a Sunday, was long and slow moving.
The kids were whining. I almost could see their point. I had made the arbitrary decision to dump visits to Eurodisney and Versailles when we had been held up by the Icelandic volcanic eruption and our Paris itinerary had to be pruned. However, I insisted, there was no way I was going to miss out on seeing Monet’s Garden again. I had been there 15 years earlier in autumn.
That time it offered an explosion of giant white cosmos, geraniums, dahlias, impatiens and marigolds.
I had often spoken about wanting to return in Spring. Now, being so close, I wasn’t going to give up the opportunity. Once inside, we were overwhelmed by the mass of tulips.
We had, according to one observer, lucked on the week when the thousands of tulip bulbs in the expansive gardens were at their best.
It would have to be one of the most beautiful sights I have experienced. Even the kids, the thought of spinning cups and thrill rides momentarily forgotten, were transfixed.
It was hard to know where to look. So many gorgeous blooms. With such inspiration, it is no wonder impressionist painter Claude Monet could produce such wonderful and enduring paintings.
There are two parts to the garden. The one you enter from the street, in front of the house, is called Clos Normand. It features the famous Grande Allee, a gigantic arch that leads to the impressive house.
We made our way through to the second garden via an underpass. It features the famed pond with the Japanese inspired bridge.
Painter Monet featured the wisteria covered bridge and waterlillies in many of his paintings, such as the Nympheas series.
He bought this land 10 years after he arrived in Giverny.
Monet, by all accounts, was as much a gardener as a painter and once you see the garden you start to realize where various paintings were set.
The Grand Allee, with it climbing roses, is featured in many paintings.
The garden is open from April to November and has more than 500,000 visitors per year.
Monet lived at Giverny for more than 40 years until his death in 1926. Before his paintings started to make him money, he rented the home, a former cider factory, because he could not afford a Paris apartment.
Eventually he was able to buy the property.
After his death the property fell into ruin and in 1966 was bequeathed to an arts academy. It took 10 years to restore and recreate the garden, with the help of a number of people who actually knew Monet.
There has been debate about how it should be maintained. It is clear that what we see today is probably not exactly how Monet would have had it, but the trustees must balance recreating the garden with the demands of tourists to be impressed.
Nonetheless, it is well worth the visit.
We made our way into the home with its pink stucco, green shutters and creeper covered pergolas
It did not look any different to when I had first seen it. Its bright yellow kitchen and blue dining room are not everyone’s choice but reveal his brave use of color was not restricted to his canvas.
The Japanese influence, from wood blocks to prints, is evident in the home. Walls are lined with reproductions of his work, the originals now held in collections around the world.
The view from the first floor balcony is one you would happily settle in for the day if it wasn’t for the crowds eagerly making their way along the narrow staircases.
Monet loved this area and on an earlier visit I had followed his path through Normandy north up to Etretat and to Rouen where he painted his cathedral series.
Upon leaving the garden we made our way up the hill to the church were Monet is buried.
In the intervening period, between my two visits, the area’s tourism offerings have grown. There are art galleries, accommodation, museums and cafes and you could easily spend a few days touring around the picturesque village.
Whether you are a gardener or painter there is much to see in a side trip to Giverny.
After a visit to Giverny there is only one thing left. A trip to Paris to the Musee d'Orsay to see more Monet magic.
Getting there:
Trains leave from Saint Lazare station, in Paris, regularly.
There is a bus from the station to the garden.
Monet’s Garden is open from April 1 to November 1.
Entry is 6.00 Euro for adults and 3.50 for children 7 to 12 years. Aged and group concessions apply.
www.giverny.org
the end
copyright Claire Heaney 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Good Morning Vietnam
Claire Heaney
The young girl comes closer, spinning her hands and fingers around like a crazed spider trying to trap me in her web.
"I make you more beautiful" she promises.
My daughter, Hannah, 10, laughs nervously.
At first I am confused, then it finally dawns on me that the fine thread she is flicking around is her toolkit. She is a mobile beautician, practising the ancient art of hair removal by the threading technique.
Minutes earlier I am talked into ordering a red pair of boots from a local shoe shop.
Things happen in Vietnam when you are not looking.
Earlier, my nearly five-year-old has her foot run over by a motorcycle in what is possibly the quietest street in the whole of Vietnam.
Having survived hair-raising crossings of busy Hanoi streets, where you clasp hands tightly and step out with conviction that you will make it to the other side, we have a false sense of security.
In HoiAn, in central Vietnam, the road is closed and our travelling party of three families is wandering along when a motorbike speeds past.
I shouted to Lucy to be careful. She is startled and walks into its path.
She lets our an ear piercing scream and kind locals come running with containers of Tiger Balm. She’s fine but my nerves are shot.
Her plastic Crocs shoes are broken.
So, this is why we find ourselves in the Hoian Market looking for new shoes.
They do not have the right size. But, "Wait" the stall holders implore, they will come back with some that will fit.
It is then that I make the fatal mistake of looking too intently at a pair of custom made boots. Before I know it colour swatches are out and the tape measures is sizing up my sweaty calves.
Lucy's shoes arrive. She, her father and brother, Patrick, duly race off to hop into the hotel pool.
But Hannah and I don't escape so easily.
As we walk out the beautician buddy strikes, with her promise to thread every bit of facial hair she can see and then some. “Ouch” I say.
“No pain, no gain,” she says menacingly.
My resistance is futile. And it turns out to be one of the funnier moments of our Vietnam adventure.
We start our Gap Family Adventure in Hanoi where we hook up with three families and our guide, Lap Nguyen.
The reasons for signing up for the package tour vary. One family is a single parent with two children and other is made up of three children with their dad and stepmother. They are wanting some adventure without the hassle and headaches and this is exactly what we get.
The children generally match up age wise. My Lucy is the odd one out and over the holiday she becomes something of a spare fairy.
Having explored the wonders of Hanoi in planned and free time a much anticipated highlight is the overnight stay in Halong Bay, about three hours by bus.
The bus trip is long for those who, like my son, suffer from traffic sickness. We have not packed anything that resembles a tablet. Fortunately our fellow travellers are better prepared.
In the meantime, my husband is nursing the sick bag, waiting for the stop at a craft outlet to deposit it in the bin.
Halong Bay, once we get there, is magnificent. We hop on one of what seems like hundreds of junks and set sail.
The rooms are very comfortable and the kids are in seventh heaven with all sorts of vantage points from which to see. We make a stop at the limestones.
It is so serene. The stay involves incredibly sumptuous food and wonderful service. The kids are intrigued by the dragonfruit with its black spots.
"It’s very posh," observes Patrick.
As the night fades the more adventurous of the group start jumping into the water from the junk. One of the parents hops in to make sure they are safe. They are having a ball. Patrick is reluctant but I can see he will be very hard on himself should he not give it a try. After some time he takes the leap and then can’t get enough.
“Jumping into the water from the boat was one of the best things I have ever done,” he insists.
By night we are passed by party boats and floating markets.
The stay ends all too soon and we make our way to Hanoi to catch an overnight train to Hue (pronounced Way). We are amazed by the locals ability to fit just about anything precariously on the back of a motorbike. It becomes a competition as we spot toilets, goldfish in plastic bags, eggs, seat and assorted cargo.
The guide tells us that we are in the first class and the beds are hard because the train is new and they haven’t been worn in.
The ride is fun for the kids. Then we strike a landslide and find ourselves arriving late in Hue.
This is something we soon come to realise in Vietnam. Natural disasters can follow you and will alter your best laid travel plans.
Hue is another extraordinary place with its pagoda and temple. A highlight is a cyclo ride to the Citadel.
While dining at a restaurant we spot local children performing. Wondering whether we should tip them as street entertainers, we are told they are practising for the upcoming Moon Lantern Festival.
The next day we make our way to HoiAn which is particularly beautiful and also famous for its tailoring.
We see some temples and take up an offer to do an optional cooking class. This turns into one of the best memories.
With our instructor, Nam, we walk to the local HoiAn fressh food market which backs on to the wharf. My youngest, Lucy, calls this the stinky market and I fear one of the three children is going to be ill they are so repulsed by the fish guts all over the floor.
We are shown an amazing array of vegetables and then return to his restaurant, the Hong Phuc.
We set about creating our own feast. Mindful of the littlies chopping their fingers with knives, we cut and stuff a fish which is grilled in bananas leaves, making a tasty salsa and
preparing and frying yummy spring rolls. The kids are raving about the taste of lemongrass and sampling dishes in Vietnam that at home they would baulk at.
“This is one of the best things I have ever eaten,” says Hannah, eagerly eating the fish. I can’t disagree.
It is during our stay in HoiAn that we learn of Typhoon Ketsana, making its way from the Philippines. This proves inconvenient and delays our trip. There is only one thing to go. Shop. We spend the time sorting out some tailoring orders.
The results are on the whole great. With some thought on my partthey lts could have been even better.
The Typhoon means we find ourselves staying longer and we watch as local methodically go about their preparation with sandbags and shifting valuables out of harm’s way.
There is a lot of damage but villagers seem philophosical and just clean up. We are able then to fly out from Danang to bustling Ho Chi Minh City.
Immediately we see how much bigger and busier and modern it is than Hanoi. Our schedule has been affected by the typhoon but we are all philosophical and appreciative that we have not had the headache of sorting it out.
Instead of an overnight stay on the Mekong Delta, which we had been looking forward to, we do a day trip.
This proves another highlight. We visit Coconut Island where an army of workers knead, shape, cut and wrap coconut sweets at break-neck speed.
Then it is on to Turtle Island. The children have snakes, harmless we are assured, wrapped around their necks.
Back in Ho Chi Minh we venture into the huge market.
It has shelves of goods stacked skyhigh and narrow laneways. Not much fun if you are claustrophobic or a cute fair-haired little girl. The vendors take a liking to Lucy and their unrelenting attention freaks her out. We have to leave.
All too soon is it is time to go home. We are disappointed that we did not allow more time at the end of the trip to further explore Ho Chi Minh at our own leisure.
But our appetite has been whet for Vietnam. We have found the trip a fantastic, comfortable and safe way to travel with our children.
Although we have undertaken international travel with our children, they all regard it as the “best trip ever”.
And mum, who is usually burning the midnight oil trying to fine tune independent travel arrangements via the internet for weeks on end, couldn’t agree more.
Claire Heaney is a Melbourne writer.
The young girl comes closer, spinning her hands and fingers around like a crazed spider trying to trap me in her web.
"I make you more beautiful" she promises.
My daughter, Hannah, 10, laughs nervously.
At first I am confused, then it finally dawns on me that the fine thread she is flicking around is her toolkit. She is a mobile beautician, practising the ancient art of hair removal by the threading technique.
Minutes earlier I am talked into ordering a red pair of boots from a local shoe shop.
Things happen in Vietnam when you are not looking.
Earlier, my nearly five-year-old has her foot run over by a motorcycle in what is possibly the quietest street in the whole of Vietnam.
Having survived hair-raising crossings of busy Hanoi streets, where you clasp hands tightly and step out with conviction that you will make it to the other side, we have a false sense of security.
In HoiAn, in central Vietnam, the road is closed and our travelling party of three families is wandering along when a motorbike speeds past.
I shouted to Lucy to be careful. She is startled and walks into its path.
She lets our an ear piercing scream and kind locals come running with containers of Tiger Balm. She’s fine but my nerves are shot.
Her plastic Crocs shoes are broken.
So, this is why we find ourselves in the Hoian Market looking for new shoes.
They do not have the right size. But, "Wait" the stall holders implore, they will come back with some that will fit.
It is then that I make the fatal mistake of looking too intently at a pair of custom made boots. Before I know it colour swatches are out and the tape measures is sizing up my sweaty calves.
Lucy's shoes arrive. She, her father and brother, Patrick, duly race off to hop into the hotel pool.
But Hannah and I don't escape so easily.
As we walk out the beautician buddy strikes, with her promise to thread every bit of facial hair she can see and then some. “Ouch” I say.
“No pain, no gain,” she says menacingly.
My resistance is futile. And it turns out to be one of the funnier moments of our Vietnam adventure.
We start our Gap Family Adventure in Hanoi where we hook up with three families and our guide, Lap Nguyen.
The reasons for signing up for the package tour vary. One family is a single parent with two children and other is made up of three children with their dad and stepmother. They are wanting some adventure without the hassle and headaches and this is exactly what we get.
The children generally match up age wise. My Lucy is the odd one out and over the holiday she becomes something of a spare fairy.
Having explored the wonders of Hanoi in planned and free time a much anticipated highlight is the overnight stay in Halong Bay, about three hours by bus.
The bus trip is long for those who, like my son, suffer from traffic sickness. We have not packed anything that resembles a tablet. Fortunately our fellow travellers are better prepared.
In the meantime, my husband is nursing the sick bag, waiting for the stop at a craft outlet to deposit it in the bin.
Halong Bay, once we get there, is magnificent. We hop on one of what seems like hundreds of junks and set sail.
The rooms are very comfortable and the kids are in seventh heaven with all sorts of vantage points from which to see. We make a stop at the limestones.
It is so serene. The stay involves incredibly sumptuous food and wonderful service. The kids are intrigued by the dragonfruit with its black spots.
"It’s very posh," observes Patrick.
As the night fades the more adventurous of the group start jumping into the water from the junk. One of the parents hops in to make sure they are safe. They are having a ball. Patrick is reluctant but I can see he will be very hard on himself should he not give it a try. After some time he takes the leap and then can’t get enough.
“Jumping into the water from the boat was one of the best things I have ever done,” he insists.
By night we are passed by party boats and floating markets.
The stay ends all too soon and we make our way to Hanoi to catch an overnight train to Hue (pronounced Way). We are amazed by the locals ability to fit just about anything precariously on the back of a motorbike. It becomes a competition as we spot toilets, goldfish in plastic bags, eggs, seat and assorted cargo.
The guide tells us that we are in the first class and the beds are hard because the train is new and they haven’t been worn in.
The ride is fun for the kids. Then we strike a landslide and find ourselves arriving late in Hue.
This is something we soon come to realise in Vietnam. Natural disasters can follow you and will alter your best laid travel plans.
Hue is another extraordinary place with its pagoda and temple. A highlight is a cyclo ride to the Citadel.
While dining at a restaurant we spot local children performing. Wondering whether we should tip them as street entertainers, we are told they are practising for the upcoming Moon Lantern Festival.
The next day we make our way to HoiAn which is particularly beautiful and also famous for its tailoring.
We see some temples and take up an offer to do an optional cooking class. This turns into one of the best memories.
With our instructor, Nam, we walk to the local HoiAn fressh food market which backs on to the wharf. My youngest, Lucy, calls this the stinky market and I fear one of the three children is going to be ill they are so repulsed by the fish guts all over the floor.
We are shown an amazing array of vegetables and then return to his restaurant, the Hong Phuc.
We set about creating our own feast. Mindful of the littlies chopping their fingers with knives, we cut and stuff a fish which is grilled in bananas leaves, making a tasty salsa and
preparing and frying yummy spring rolls. The kids are raving about the taste of lemongrass and sampling dishes in Vietnam that at home they would baulk at.
“This is one of the best things I have ever eaten,” says Hannah, eagerly eating the fish. I can’t disagree.
It is during our stay in HoiAn that we learn of Typhoon Ketsana, making its way from the Philippines. This proves inconvenient and delays our trip. There is only one thing to go. Shop. We spend the time sorting out some tailoring orders.
The results are on the whole great. With some thought on my partthey lts could have been even better.
The Typhoon means we find ourselves staying longer and we watch as local methodically go about their preparation with sandbags and shifting valuables out of harm’s way.
There is a lot of damage but villagers seem philophosical and just clean up. We are able then to fly out from Danang to bustling Ho Chi Minh City.
Immediately we see how much bigger and busier and modern it is than Hanoi. Our schedule has been affected by the typhoon but we are all philosophical and appreciative that we have not had the headache of sorting it out.
Instead of an overnight stay on the Mekong Delta, which we had been looking forward to, we do a day trip.
This proves another highlight. We visit Coconut Island where an army of workers knead, shape, cut and wrap coconut sweets at break-neck speed.
Then it is on to Turtle Island. The children have snakes, harmless we are assured, wrapped around their necks.
Back in Ho Chi Minh we venture into the huge market.
It has shelves of goods stacked skyhigh and narrow laneways. Not much fun if you are claustrophobic or a cute fair-haired little girl. The vendors take a liking to Lucy and their unrelenting attention freaks her out. We have to leave.
All too soon is it is time to go home. We are disappointed that we did not allow more time at the end of the trip to further explore Ho Chi Minh at our own leisure.
But our appetite has been whet for Vietnam. We have found the trip a fantastic, comfortable and safe way to travel with our children.
Although we have undertaken international travel with our children, they all regard it as the “best trip ever”.
And mum, who is usually burning the midnight oil trying to fine tune independent travel arrangements via the internet for weeks on end, couldn’t agree more.
Claire Heaney is a Melbourne writer.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
I don't want to see another church, art gallery or museum
NEWS that some kids are AWOL from school for up to one in four days made me realise I wasn't such a bad mother, after all.
Having just yanked my own three kids out of school for a total of 30 school days for an overseas trip, I didn't feel quite so guilty.
While my kids were climbing the Eiffel Tower, travelling on the Eurostar, seeing Gaudi's Sagrada Familia, in Barcelona, and marvelling at Monet's Garden, some kids routinely don't make it to the school gate because either they, or their parents, can't be bothered.
There is a trend among us older parents, with accumulated leave and mid-life crises, to indulge in overseas trips.
For us the decision was simple. Take on tradies to renovate or traipse around Europe. The timing was perfect. The youngest was old enough that we didn't need strollers, nappies, bottles and naps.
The eldest goes into Grade 6 next year which, for those of us who haven't enrolled our children at birth at expensive private schools, spells a busy year of open days at prospective secondary schools.
The children's teachers were excited for them, saying they would learn so much.
A few weeks back into school, the children are playing catch up. The older two are whingeing that they missed out on cross country. The eldest declared that she was so behind in Greek she doesn't know the Greek word for zucchini. The preppie is stuck on her golden words (was, that, the, is) while most of the class are ahead and some are reading independently.
Given she is the third child I am hopeful that she is not doomed to reading failure. It suddenly ``clicked'' for her older sister, who wasn't any better at that age, and by the start of Grade 1 was devouring Harry Potter books.
Taking kids out of school to realise your own dreams is selfish. I am reminded of my eight-year-old son's plaintive cries twenty minutes into our visit to Madrid's Prado Museum.
``Mum, I'm sick of seeing gruesome pictures of Jesus. I don't want to go to another art gallery for the rest of my life,'' he moaned.
Friends without kids tut tutted when I told them I left, but secretly I was a bit over them myself.
But it's also selfish and short-sighted to allow kids to have days off for no reason.
These kids falling through the gaps need more support.
Higher retention rates, as apprenticeships have disappeared, means there are kids enrolled that maybe shouldn't be there.
My kids love the routine of school, their friends and the wonderful programs on offer.
But, I am not sure if fining parents is the answer. During our trip we were stuck in Seoul because of the volcanic ash and a British couple were panicked because their girls were late for the new term. Although they had a good reason and would escape fines, their absence could affect the school's ranking.
The difference between my kids and those kids habitually missing out on school is that mine will catch up. Between the complaining, they are excitedly talking about living in London when they grow up, future holidays and taking snaps to show and share.
Although, my son was underwhelmed on the first day back at school to learn of an upcoming excursion - to the National Gallery of Victoria.
``Not more galleries,'' he exclaimed.
Having just yanked my own three kids out of school for a total of 30 school days for an overseas trip, I didn't feel quite so guilty.
While my kids were climbing the Eiffel Tower, travelling on the Eurostar, seeing Gaudi's Sagrada Familia, in Barcelona, and marvelling at Monet's Garden, some kids routinely don't make it to the school gate because either they, or their parents, can't be bothered.
There is a trend among us older parents, with accumulated leave and mid-life crises, to indulge in overseas trips.
For us the decision was simple. Take on tradies to renovate or traipse around Europe. The timing was perfect. The youngest was old enough that we didn't need strollers, nappies, bottles and naps.
The eldest goes into Grade 6 next year which, for those of us who haven't enrolled our children at birth at expensive private schools, spells a busy year of open days at prospective secondary schools.
The children's teachers were excited for them, saying they would learn so much.
A few weeks back into school, the children are playing catch up. The older two are whingeing that they missed out on cross country. The eldest declared that she was so behind in Greek she doesn't know the Greek word for zucchini. The preppie is stuck on her golden words (was, that, the, is) while most of the class are ahead and some are reading independently.
Given she is the third child I am hopeful that she is not doomed to reading failure. It suddenly ``clicked'' for her older sister, who wasn't any better at that age, and by the start of Grade 1 was devouring Harry Potter books.
Taking kids out of school to realise your own dreams is selfish. I am reminded of my eight-year-old son's plaintive cries twenty minutes into our visit to Madrid's Prado Museum.
``Mum, I'm sick of seeing gruesome pictures of Jesus. I don't want to go to another art gallery for the rest of my life,'' he moaned.
Friends without kids tut tutted when I told them I left, but secretly I was a bit over them myself.
But it's also selfish and short-sighted to allow kids to have days off for no reason.
These kids falling through the gaps need more support.
Higher retention rates, as apprenticeships have disappeared, means there are kids enrolled that maybe shouldn't be there.
My kids love the routine of school, their friends and the wonderful programs on offer.
But, I am not sure if fining parents is the answer. During our trip we were stuck in Seoul because of the volcanic ash and a British couple were panicked because their girls were late for the new term. Although they had a good reason and would escape fines, their absence could affect the school's ranking.
The difference between my kids and those kids habitually missing out on school is that mine will catch up. Between the complaining, they are excitedly talking about living in London when they grow up, future holidays and taking snaps to show and share.
Although, my son was underwhelmed on the first day back at school to learn of an upcoming excursion - to the National Gallery of Victoria.
``Not more galleries,'' he exclaimed.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Dan's Wish
Claire Heaney
FOR a long time our household seemed to be a soft target for the charity canvassers.
More nights than I can remember, just as the child wrangling was beginning in earnest, the phone rang.
Sometimes I pretended I was the nanny and fobbed them off, but more times than not I wasn't quick enough.
Invariably, the caller would start off by thanking me for a past donation and before I knew it I was pledging more money or agreeing to sell a wad of raffle tickets.
The causes were all so compelling. Plenty of them ticked the box for relevance to me and our extended family. How could I not support research into diabetes, multiple sclerosis, childhood cancer, breast cancer and infant mortality?
We've been touched by all these.
And anyone who knows me knows I can't resist a raffle ticket - whether it's a mansion on the Gold Coast in the Boystown Lottery or a chook raffle at the Richmond Bowling Club on a Friday night.
But then one day I surveyed my kitchen bench.
Six raffle ticket books. I would end up buying all them.
They were evenly divided between charities and organisations we were involved with largely through the children.
Anyone who has kids knows that once they start going to creche, kinder and school and doing organised sport your charity dollar starts being spent a bit closer to home.
You start saying no to other causes because you are fundraising for new play equipment, books, turf and all manner of things.
It was about that time I started to commit to a few charities each year. I felt less guilty being able to say: ``No, I am supporting other charities''.
For many years Make a Wish was a firm favourite. The organisation, as the name suggests, makes wishes come true for sick kids.
My train-loving nephew was due to fly from Coffs Harbour to Puffing Billy through Make a Wish.
Sadly, he succumbed to the brain tumour before he could make the much-anticipated trip.
A few years ago, close to a decade after his death, we decided to put Make a Wish on the reserve bench for a while.
And then over Easter we went camping near Ballarat and spent some time with 11-year-old Dan.
He's the nephew of Tess, a friend since the first day of prep.
Dan is suffering from Muscular Dystrophy, an incurable muscle wasting condition.
Over the weekend we learned that Dan, now largely confined to a wheelchair, was going to Disneyland in July.
My kids, who have been lucky enough to go to Disneyland, were excited for him, talking about all the rides on offer.
In the subsequent months we have learned that his passport has arrived and that he is learning how to drive a new motorised chair.
He is crossing off the days on the calendar.
His trip has been a topic of regular conversation at our house.
Among many things, it has made us review our charities for the year. Make a Wish is being reinstated in the next financial year, the kids even offering to tip in pocket money.
It might not be coming up with cures, but if it puts a smile on the faces of sick kids and their families I am all for it.
As for Dan. We hope he and his family have the time of their lives.
FOR a long time our household seemed to be a soft target for the charity canvassers.
More nights than I can remember, just as the child wrangling was beginning in earnest, the phone rang.
Sometimes I pretended I was the nanny and fobbed them off, but more times than not I wasn't quick enough.
Invariably, the caller would start off by thanking me for a past donation and before I knew it I was pledging more money or agreeing to sell a wad of raffle tickets.
The causes were all so compelling. Plenty of them ticked the box for relevance to me and our extended family. How could I not support research into diabetes, multiple sclerosis, childhood cancer, breast cancer and infant mortality?
We've been touched by all these.
And anyone who knows me knows I can't resist a raffle ticket - whether it's a mansion on the Gold Coast in the Boystown Lottery or a chook raffle at the Richmond Bowling Club on a Friday night.
But then one day I surveyed my kitchen bench.
Six raffle ticket books. I would end up buying all them.
They were evenly divided between charities and organisations we were involved with largely through the children.
Anyone who has kids knows that once they start going to creche, kinder and school and doing organised sport your charity dollar starts being spent a bit closer to home.
You start saying no to other causes because you are fundraising for new play equipment, books, turf and all manner of things.
It was about that time I started to commit to a few charities each year. I felt less guilty being able to say: ``No, I am supporting other charities''.
For many years Make a Wish was a firm favourite. The organisation, as the name suggests, makes wishes come true for sick kids.
My train-loving nephew was due to fly from Coffs Harbour to Puffing Billy through Make a Wish.
Sadly, he succumbed to the brain tumour before he could make the much-anticipated trip.
A few years ago, close to a decade after his death, we decided to put Make a Wish on the reserve bench for a while.
And then over Easter we went camping near Ballarat and spent some time with 11-year-old Dan.
He's the nephew of Tess, a friend since the first day of prep.
Dan is suffering from Muscular Dystrophy, an incurable muscle wasting condition.
Over the weekend we learned that Dan, now largely confined to a wheelchair, was going to Disneyland in July.
My kids, who have been lucky enough to go to Disneyland, were excited for him, talking about all the rides on offer.
In the subsequent months we have learned that his passport has arrived and that he is learning how to drive a new motorised chair.
He is crossing off the days on the calendar.
His trip has been a topic of regular conversation at our house.
Among many things, it has made us review our charities for the year. Make a Wish is being reinstated in the next financial year, the kids even offering to tip in pocket money.
It might not be coming up with cures, but if it puts a smile on the faces of sick kids and their families I am all for it.
As for Dan. We hope he and his family have the time of their lives.
Monday, May 31, 2010
What a load of croq II
This reworked version of earlier post as it appeared in the Herald Sun on April 28, 2010.
THE success of MasterChef Australia has a lot to answer for.
Our eldest, about to turn 10, was so taken with the croquembouche - the French profiterole arrangement that was all the go as wedding cakes somewhere between the mudcake and cupcake fad - she begged me to make one for her last birthday.
I said "no" but clearly it wasn't persuasive enough. After some cajoling, in a moment of weakness I took on the challenge.
And, let's face it, we had well and truly worked our way through the Australian Women's Weekly party cake book.
And maybe, just maybe ... spending the time trying to conjure up the culinary creation might be more fulfilling than sitting through 102 minutes of a Miley Cyrus movie.
A visit to a cooking shop had me scratching my head. The woman behind the counter said the cones to shape the creation cost $200. If I wanted to hire one I would have to travel to the other side of town and pay $80.
I mentioned I had a back-up plan - to cover a polystyrene Christmas-tree shape with foil and use long toothpicks to fasten the profiteroles. She suggested the hot caramel toffee would melt the polystyrene. Undeterred, I decided that would be my best choice.
And then I turned my attention to the profiteroles. There was no way with other commitments I was going to get time to actually make the choux pastry balls with their 16 eggs and ingredient list as long as my arm.
I went to a nearby supermarket with a bakery and asked if I could buy them without the chocolate icing. I was told this was not possible but decided I would not give up. A few days later I rang and spoke to the bakery manager who happily took an order for 32 icing-less profiteroles. I collected them in the morning, knowing the worst-case scenario was that the profiteroles had cost me a total of $16.
Once everyone was safely at the cinema, chaperoned by my bemused husband, I scurried home to undertake the croquembouche project. Affixing the profiteroles was easy enough. Making the toffee was a little tricky. How much cooking was too much?
I started the swirling process that looked so simple on the telly. At some point I decided it was finished. And, even if I do say so myself, it did look quite masterful.
The kids returned home and were excited although disappointed that I had decided it was not going to be a collaborative project. I knew I was really a MasterCheat but at least in their eyes I was a MasterChef.
Once the party pies, cocktail franks and sausage rolls were dispensed with, we decided to move on to the croq.
Alas, the kids did not really like it.
Some did not like the toffee - too sharp - others did not like the filling. Despite the disappointment, I can't say I was too surprised. After a decade of attending and hosting kids' birthday parties I have come to one basic conclusion when it comes to party cakes. The simpler the better.
The elaborate, creamed and iced numbers usually aren't eaten. I've seen parents blow $50 to $100 on these and invariably the children are so full of other party food they barely have a mouthful.
I warned Miss 10 that next time around it will be a $4 Coles mudcake.
Just remind me of that when she starts throwing words around like torte, tarte, gateau, semifreddo, pannacotta, souffle and any other fancy dessert names she picks up in coming episodes of MasterChef.
Claire Heaney is a Herald Sun business writer
THE success of MasterChef Australia has a lot to answer for.
Our eldest, about to turn 10, was so taken with the croquembouche - the French profiterole arrangement that was all the go as wedding cakes somewhere between the mudcake and cupcake fad - she begged me to make one for her last birthday.
I said "no" but clearly it wasn't persuasive enough. After some cajoling, in a moment of weakness I took on the challenge.
And, let's face it, we had well and truly worked our way through the Australian Women's Weekly party cake book.
And maybe, just maybe ... spending the time trying to conjure up the culinary creation might be more fulfilling than sitting through 102 minutes of a Miley Cyrus movie.
A visit to a cooking shop had me scratching my head. The woman behind the counter said the cones to shape the creation cost $200. If I wanted to hire one I would have to travel to the other side of town and pay $80.
I mentioned I had a back-up plan - to cover a polystyrene Christmas-tree shape with foil and use long toothpicks to fasten the profiteroles. She suggested the hot caramel toffee would melt the polystyrene. Undeterred, I decided that would be my best choice.
And then I turned my attention to the profiteroles. There was no way with other commitments I was going to get time to actually make the choux pastry balls with their 16 eggs and ingredient list as long as my arm.
I went to a nearby supermarket with a bakery and asked if I could buy them without the chocolate icing. I was told this was not possible but decided I would not give up. A few days later I rang and spoke to the bakery manager who happily took an order for 32 icing-less profiteroles. I collected them in the morning, knowing the worst-case scenario was that the profiteroles had cost me a total of $16.
Once everyone was safely at the cinema, chaperoned by my bemused husband, I scurried home to undertake the croquembouche project. Affixing the profiteroles was easy enough. Making the toffee was a little tricky. How much cooking was too much?
I started the swirling process that looked so simple on the telly. At some point I decided it was finished. And, even if I do say so myself, it did look quite masterful.
The kids returned home and were excited although disappointed that I had decided it was not going to be a collaborative project. I knew I was really a MasterCheat but at least in their eyes I was a MasterChef.
Once the party pies, cocktail franks and sausage rolls were dispensed with, we decided to move on to the croq.
Alas, the kids did not really like it.
Some did not like the toffee - too sharp - others did not like the filling. Despite the disappointment, I can't say I was too surprised. After a decade of attending and hosting kids' birthday parties I have come to one basic conclusion when it comes to party cakes. The simpler the better.
The elaborate, creamed and iced numbers usually aren't eaten. I've seen parents blow $50 to $100 on these and invariably the children are so full of other party food they barely have a mouthful.
I warned Miss 10 that next time around it will be a $4 Coles mudcake.
Just remind me of that when she starts throwing words around like torte, tarte, gateau, semifreddo, pannacotta, souffle and any other fancy dessert names she picks up in coming episodes of MasterChef.
Claire Heaney is a Herald Sun business writer
Sunday, March 28, 2010
The lowdown on billboards
THERE was a time when we loved the way our little ones could spot the big golden McDonald's ``M'' a mile off.
The whingeing when we usually ignored their pleas to stop grated, but it was sweet watching them start their literacy journey.
``There's a big M,'' they would say. Invariably, they would clobber each other over who spotted the Golden Arches first.
But that's nothing on the challenges we face when we pile into the car now the two eldest can read. There's danger at every turn.
Driving along the freeway, the eldest asked what the billboard declaring ``JOIN FOR FOX SAKE'' meant. ``Ummm, not sure,'' I muttered.
Then her brother, 8, and sister, 5, started repeating it, emphasising the FOX SAKE.
It's part of a campaign for women to join Fernwood gyms to become foxy.
I guess it was a change on the controversial Longer Lasting Sex campaign. Who would have thought on a trip from Werribee Zoo there would be so many of those signs? On one outing my daughter, now 10, and her mate were in hysterics. We were nearly home when I cracked on to the cause of their heightened amusement.
``Does that mean you smooch for a long time?'' my son asked.
A friend says if they are old enough to ask the question they are old enough to get an explanation.
But how do you explain sexual dysfunction - thrust at us in billboards and radio ads - to kids?
And what about the preppie who can't read but hears it all? Recently, as we stopped at a traffic light my son asked me what a ``sty'' was.
``It's where pigs live,'' I said. ``No, Mum, it's STI and it's something to do with sex,'' he countered.
In my day they were STDs but now, the billboard says, they are STIs.
Looking straight ahead, I told them it is what you get if you aren't careful about who you have sex with.
``Mum, stop, too much information we don't want to know about that,'' my daughter countered. ``We are getting sex education at the end of Grade 5.''
If that's not bad enough there are the billboards for Sexyland and the ``World's Thinnest Condom''.
I employed the distraction method when handling the question as to why people would want thin condoms, changing the topic to the bangers and mash we were having for tea.
So, news yesterday that the State Government has sanctioned the use of ``d..khead'' in a Don't be a D..khead advertising campaign to make people wear seatbelts and turn off their mobiles while they are driving made me shudder.
While we're told it's largely a viral campaign on the internet, there will be little escaping it.
Granted ``d..khead'' is often used as a term of endearment, but do we really need to normalise it in the same way as the word ``bloody''?
Between ``Don't be a bloody idiot'' road campaigns, ``Where the bloody hell are you?'' tourist campaigns and the use of ``bloody hell'' by Ron Weasley in Harry Potter books, it's everywhere.
Too smart by half advertising agencies should spare a thought for us mums, ferrying kids around.
Don't they know we're flat out trying to figure out what we're having for tea, without being turned into mobile sex education instructors.
Some days, when the questions are flying thick and fast, I feel like saying `` Not today kids, Mum's got a headache''.
The whingeing when we usually ignored their pleas to stop grated, but it was sweet watching them start their literacy journey.
``There's a big M,'' they would say. Invariably, they would clobber each other over who spotted the Golden Arches first.
But that's nothing on the challenges we face when we pile into the car now the two eldest can read. There's danger at every turn.
Driving along the freeway, the eldest asked what the billboard declaring ``JOIN FOR FOX SAKE'' meant. ``Ummm, not sure,'' I muttered.
Then her brother, 8, and sister, 5, started repeating it, emphasising the FOX SAKE.
It's part of a campaign for women to join Fernwood gyms to become foxy.
I guess it was a change on the controversial Longer Lasting Sex campaign. Who would have thought on a trip from Werribee Zoo there would be so many of those signs? On one outing my daughter, now 10, and her mate were in hysterics. We were nearly home when I cracked on to the cause of their heightened amusement.
``Does that mean you smooch for a long time?'' my son asked.
A friend says if they are old enough to ask the question they are old enough to get an explanation.
But how do you explain sexual dysfunction - thrust at us in billboards and radio ads - to kids?
And what about the preppie who can't read but hears it all? Recently, as we stopped at a traffic light my son asked me what a ``sty'' was.
``It's where pigs live,'' I said. ``No, Mum, it's STI and it's something to do with sex,'' he countered.
In my day they were STDs but now, the billboard says, they are STIs.
Looking straight ahead, I told them it is what you get if you aren't careful about who you have sex with.
``Mum, stop, too much information we don't want to know about that,'' my daughter countered. ``We are getting sex education at the end of Grade 5.''
If that's not bad enough there are the billboards for Sexyland and the ``World's Thinnest Condom''.
I employed the distraction method when handling the question as to why people would want thin condoms, changing the topic to the bangers and mash we were having for tea.
So, news yesterday that the State Government has sanctioned the use of ``d..khead'' in a Don't be a D..khead advertising campaign to make people wear seatbelts and turn off their mobiles while they are driving made me shudder.
While we're told it's largely a viral campaign on the internet, there will be little escaping it.
Granted ``d..khead'' is often used as a term of endearment, but do we really need to normalise it in the same way as the word ``bloody''?
Between ``Don't be a bloody idiot'' road campaigns, ``Where the bloody hell are you?'' tourist campaigns and the use of ``bloody hell'' by Ron Weasley in Harry Potter books, it's everywhere.
Too smart by half advertising agencies should spare a thought for us mums, ferrying kids around.
Don't they know we're flat out trying to figure out what we're having for tea, without being turned into mobile sex education instructors.
Some days, when the questions are flying thick and fast, I feel like saying `` Not today kids, Mum's got a headache''.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Head Lice in kids
Lice, damn lice - and statistics
IT'S the letter from school that sends chills down your spine.
Forget detentions and suspensions, when the head-lice notice lobbed recently, we knew the kids were well and truly back at school.
Three weeks in and the dreaded head-lice scourge is back.
There's something about the green-tinged note that makes me start twitching.
If only the answer was as simple as applying cheap conditioner and combing through with a fine-toothed comb.
Sure, we did get off lightly for a very long time. While friends were, well, tearing their hair out, we were largely unaffected.
But last year was a turning point. It did not matter what natural or toxic lotions and potions - adding up to hundreds of dollars - we threw at them, we did not seem able to get rid them for any length of time.
At one point we all had them, thanks to a very bad episode of musical beds triggered by claims of nightmares.
We even shelled out top dollar for an electronic comb that was supposed to blow them to smithereens.
A friend, who has six kids, told me about a surefire way that her vet said worked wonders with dogs.
So, there I was, rubbing baking soda through our hair and dousing it with vinegar. The chemical reaction of the two ingredients was supposed to kill them.
But it had little impact, my hair was powdery for days and I smelled like salad dressing.
It was so bad that they even followed us to the US. One day, instead of our planned adventure exploring the Golden Gate Bridge, our youngest child was itching so much
that we headed for the drug store.
Our expat Aussie host, with no kids, could barely hide her horror.
Oddly, my husband, who uses reading glasses, can never see them. I, on the other hand, with such bad eyesight that I need a cornea graft some time soon, can't miss them.
After one outbreak I headed to the hairdresser and ordered three buzz cuts. But she baulked and I guess she was right. They wouldn't really have looked all that good on the two girls.
As a schoolkid I never had them but I was aware of them. These days, they seem to be made of tougher stuff.
Of course there is no stigma attached to them. That is, unless you actually happen to have them.
When you tell people that your kids have been treated they 'fess up that their kids have had them, too. My kids get really annoyed when I tell people. But I reassure them by pointing out it's not bad to have them, it's just bad not to treat the condition.
And that's the point of it all. While some parents view them as a rite of passage, others are too busy to do anything about the problem, which negates the efforts of families who try immediately to eradicate them.
Another friend says it all comes back to the lack of authority parents have over their kids, if they can't actually get them to sit still for half an hour to be thoroughly checked.
There might be something in that theory because the turning point for us was when our youngest, who was clearly picking them up at creche and kinder, was mature enough to sit down long enough to be treated. The bribes didn't hurt, either.
The other night, I tossed up going to the parent information night or checking the kids for nits. I opted for the latter.
I've got little idea what is planned for their school year, but we're clear of nits -for the moment anyway.
Claire Heaney is a Herald Sun business writer
Comments on this story
Petar of Noble Park Posted at 9:27 AM February 23, 2010
It is so easy and cheap to get rid of lice. 1. buy the cheapest hair conditioner. 2. Bottle of tea tree oil. 3. A shower cap. Put hair conditioner in the hair and rub some tea tree oil in at the same time. Make sure it is nice and thick, and really smells of tea tree. put some tea tree oil on the inside of the shower cap. Place the shower cap on the the head, and the best time to do this would be befor bed. Then, in the morning, all the lice will sufficate and die. You will see all the dead ones trying to escape on the inside of the shower cap. Then, comb the hair out with a nit comb. Use several combs, so you dont put the eggs that you have taken out, back in. Wash hair, and check the hair for any eggs. Pick them out with your finger nails if you have to. You can prevent you kids getting lice by using a spray bottle with water and a little bit of tea tree oil. And wearing a cap will reduce it. Too easy !
Lice Magic Posted at 7:37 AM February 23, 2010
I have 4 kids, 3 girls and a boy... and I HATE LICE !! Just thinking about it makes my head itchy !! My boy has never had nits, but for a while we had to deal with just trying to keep it under control with the girls. Speaking from experience, you MUST keep hair short or tied back, they must NOT share brushes, hats etc... and the only effective cure - an age old 'country' remedy. 1 part Metho to 2 parts baby oil. Kills the blighters on contact (I've seen it) and kills the eggs too - but just in case follow up twice at 7 day intervals. Obviously you need to use a fair bit of shampoo to get rid of the oil, but the oil acts as a guard saving the scalp from damage from the metho. I imagine there will be others commenting with 'soft' options but the question you need to ask is do you want to get rid of them or not ???
Malanie Smith Posted at 5:42 AM February 23, 2010
I'm a school teacher with 23 years experience. In the first 20 years, I had only one case of head lice. However, when my own daughter started Kindergarten, we had NINE months of hell. Both she and I had it constantly in that time. Like Claire, the reporter, we tried everything and nothing worked. In desperation I searched the internet and found a site which talked about covering the children's hair with olive oil, leaving it on overnight and then combing and washing in the morning (she slept all night in a shower cap so that it didn't get on the bedding). It worked. Apparently the oil smothers the lice and does not allow them to breathe. You have to repeat 3 times over 21 days, but we have not had a case since. As a side effect it seems to have a lovely conditioning effect on my daughter's hair. It does take a few washes to get the oiliness out of her hair though.
IT'S the letter from school that sends chills down your spine.
Forget detentions and suspensions, when the head-lice notice lobbed recently, we knew the kids were well and truly back at school.
Three weeks in and the dreaded head-lice scourge is back.
There's something about the green-tinged note that makes me start twitching.
If only the answer was as simple as applying cheap conditioner and combing through with a fine-toothed comb.
Sure, we did get off lightly for a very long time. While friends were, well, tearing their hair out, we were largely unaffected.
But last year was a turning point. It did not matter what natural or toxic lotions and potions - adding up to hundreds of dollars - we threw at them, we did not seem able to get rid them for any length of time.
At one point we all had them, thanks to a very bad episode of musical beds triggered by claims of nightmares.
We even shelled out top dollar for an electronic comb that was supposed to blow them to smithereens.
A friend, who has six kids, told me about a surefire way that her vet said worked wonders with dogs.
So, there I was, rubbing baking soda through our hair and dousing it with vinegar. The chemical reaction of the two ingredients was supposed to kill them.
But it had little impact, my hair was powdery for days and I smelled like salad dressing.
It was so bad that they even followed us to the US. One day, instead of our planned adventure exploring the Golden Gate Bridge, our youngest child was itching so much
that we headed for the drug store.
Our expat Aussie host, with no kids, could barely hide her horror.
Oddly, my husband, who uses reading glasses, can never see them. I, on the other hand, with such bad eyesight that I need a cornea graft some time soon, can't miss them.
After one outbreak I headed to the hairdresser and ordered three buzz cuts. But she baulked and I guess she was right. They wouldn't really have looked all that good on the two girls.
As a schoolkid I never had them but I was aware of them. These days, they seem to be made of tougher stuff.
Of course there is no stigma attached to them. That is, unless you actually happen to have them.
When you tell people that your kids have been treated they 'fess up that their kids have had them, too. My kids get really annoyed when I tell people. But I reassure them by pointing out it's not bad to have them, it's just bad not to treat the condition.
And that's the point of it all. While some parents view them as a rite of passage, others are too busy to do anything about the problem, which negates the efforts of families who try immediately to eradicate them.
Another friend says it all comes back to the lack of authority parents have over their kids, if they can't actually get them to sit still for half an hour to be thoroughly checked.
There might be something in that theory because the turning point for us was when our youngest, who was clearly picking them up at creche and kinder, was mature enough to sit down long enough to be treated. The bribes didn't hurt, either.
The other night, I tossed up going to the parent information night or checking the kids for nits. I opted for the latter.
I've got little idea what is planned for their school year, but we're clear of nits -for the moment anyway.
Claire Heaney is a Herald Sun business writer
Comments on this story
Petar of Noble Park Posted at 9:27 AM February 23, 2010
It is so easy and cheap to get rid of lice. 1. buy the cheapest hair conditioner. 2. Bottle of tea tree oil. 3. A shower cap. Put hair conditioner in the hair and rub some tea tree oil in at the same time. Make sure it is nice and thick, and really smells of tea tree. put some tea tree oil on the inside of the shower cap. Place the shower cap on the the head, and the best time to do this would be befor bed. Then, in the morning, all the lice will sufficate and die. You will see all the dead ones trying to escape on the inside of the shower cap. Then, comb the hair out with a nit comb. Use several combs, so you dont put the eggs that you have taken out, back in. Wash hair, and check the hair for any eggs. Pick them out with your finger nails if you have to. You can prevent you kids getting lice by using a spray bottle with water and a little bit of tea tree oil. And wearing a cap will reduce it. Too easy !
Lice Magic Posted at 7:37 AM February 23, 2010
I have 4 kids, 3 girls and a boy... and I HATE LICE !! Just thinking about it makes my head itchy !! My boy has never had nits, but for a while we had to deal with just trying to keep it under control with the girls. Speaking from experience, you MUST keep hair short or tied back, they must NOT share brushes, hats etc... and the only effective cure - an age old 'country' remedy. 1 part Metho to 2 parts baby oil. Kills the blighters on contact (I've seen it) and kills the eggs too - but just in case follow up twice at 7 day intervals. Obviously you need to use a fair bit of shampoo to get rid of the oil, but the oil acts as a guard saving the scalp from damage from the metho. I imagine there will be others commenting with 'soft' options but the question you need to ask is do you want to get rid of them or not ???
Malanie Smith Posted at 5:42 AM February 23, 2010
I'm a school teacher with 23 years experience. In the first 20 years, I had only one case of head lice. However, when my own daughter started Kindergarten, we had NINE months of hell. Both she and I had it constantly in that time. Like Claire, the reporter, we tried everything and nothing worked. In desperation I searched the internet and found a site which talked about covering the children's hair with olive oil, leaving it on overnight and then combing and washing in the morning (she slept all night in a shower cap so that it didn't get on the bedding). It worked. Apparently the oil smothers the lice and does not allow them to breathe. You have to repeat 3 times over 21 days, but we have not had a case since. As a side effect it seems to have a lovely conditioning effect on my daughter's hair. It does take a few washes to get the oiliness out of her hair though.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Back to school
THERE'S not too many more sleeps until the youngest starts school.
I'm threatening to break open the bottle of Veuve Clicquot that has been gathering dust, waiting for an extra special event.
But how early is too early to pop the celebratory cork?
Parents have been told to leave the preppie room by 9.15am to avoid teary scenes - which on past performances are more likely to come from mums than kids.
It's not that I am eager to get rid of her. But after 10 years of juggling childcare and kinder with part-time and shift work, it's going to be bliss to have three children in one spot for two years.
I'm not going to miss the constant challenge of keeping a busy preschooler occupied. I'm done with beading. collage, montage, playdough, painting, bubbles, playing Barbies and watching Playschool - and that's just one afternoon.
I'm looking forward to having some ``me'' time and, given the thousands I've spent on their swimming lessons, to learn how to swim.
When my eldest started school I spent up big at the uniform shop. This time it's bare basics.
A near new bag and bomber jacket are hand-me-downs, and a new skort and two polo shirts, and a dress pretty much complete the outfit. The size 8 dress is a bit tent-like but the hem's been taken up and she's not looking so swamped by all that blue check material.
The two hats were bought at the supermarket.
But the big expense has been the school lunches - that's before we even think about the food.
The school has a long-standing ``rubbish-free'' lunch policy. Grades compete to see who has the least amount of rubbish and any rubbish goes back into the lunch box and home.
My son gets stroppy when I use cling wrap. But have you ever tried to keep a pita bread wrap in place without it?
Magazine stylists might come up with pictures of dinky sandwiches and wraps, held together by wax paper tied with string, but have they got kids?
We use zip lock bags which are washed and hung on the line for re-use but after a few uses they get a bit grotty.
But the real bugbear has been the plastic containers that just don't come home. Or make that the lids. Somewhere there is a graveyard of lids, alongside all those lost socks.
Early on I discovered that it wasn't wise to send Tupperware because it wasn't going to come home. Last week, on a shopping expedition the eldest spotted a cylinder that looked like a pencil case. Three parts stacked on top of each other - one for chopped fruit, one for sultanas and one for a treat. We bought three of them and three sandwich keepers.
I'm wondering how the Cheesestiks I agreed the preppie could have as a one-off for her first week, fit into the picture.
Do I have to unwrap them and chop them to go into the containers?
I've warned her that once they are gone we can use the tiny star shaped cutter to make our own cheese shapes.
Then it was on to ordering vinyl and fabric labels to name the booty. But don't get me started on that. I am just hoping I remember to put the Post-it note on the fridge to remind me to chill the champers.
Either way, there's likely to be tears when the baby goes off to school.
I'm threatening to break open the bottle of Veuve Clicquot that has been gathering dust, waiting for an extra special event.
But how early is too early to pop the celebratory cork?
Parents have been told to leave the preppie room by 9.15am to avoid teary scenes - which on past performances are more likely to come from mums than kids.
It's not that I am eager to get rid of her. But after 10 years of juggling childcare and kinder with part-time and shift work, it's going to be bliss to have three children in one spot for two years.
I'm not going to miss the constant challenge of keeping a busy preschooler occupied. I'm done with beading. collage, montage, playdough, painting, bubbles, playing Barbies and watching Playschool - and that's just one afternoon.
I'm looking forward to having some ``me'' time and, given the thousands I've spent on their swimming lessons, to learn how to swim.
When my eldest started school I spent up big at the uniform shop. This time it's bare basics.
A near new bag and bomber jacket are hand-me-downs, and a new skort and two polo shirts, and a dress pretty much complete the outfit. The size 8 dress is a bit tent-like but the hem's been taken up and she's not looking so swamped by all that blue check material.
The two hats were bought at the supermarket.
But the big expense has been the school lunches - that's before we even think about the food.
The school has a long-standing ``rubbish-free'' lunch policy. Grades compete to see who has the least amount of rubbish and any rubbish goes back into the lunch box and home.
My son gets stroppy when I use cling wrap. But have you ever tried to keep a pita bread wrap in place without it?
Magazine stylists might come up with pictures of dinky sandwiches and wraps, held together by wax paper tied with string, but have they got kids?
We use zip lock bags which are washed and hung on the line for re-use but after a few uses they get a bit grotty.
But the real bugbear has been the plastic containers that just don't come home. Or make that the lids. Somewhere there is a graveyard of lids, alongside all those lost socks.
Early on I discovered that it wasn't wise to send Tupperware because it wasn't going to come home. Last week, on a shopping expedition the eldest spotted a cylinder that looked like a pencil case. Three parts stacked on top of each other - one for chopped fruit, one for sultanas and one for a treat. We bought three of them and three sandwich keepers.
I'm wondering how the Cheesestiks I agreed the preppie could have as a one-off for her first week, fit into the picture.
Do I have to unwrap them and chop them to go into the containers?
I've warned her that once they are gone we can use the tiny star shaped cutter to make our own cheese shapes.
Then it was on to ordering vinyl and fabric labels to name the booty. But don't get me started on that. I am just hoping I remember to put the Post-it note on the fridge to remind me to chill the champers.
Either way, there's likely to be tears when the baby goes off to school.
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