FOR more than a century, grand lighthouses dotted along Victoria's rugged coastline were the first sign of land for many immigrants to our shores.
Though many hundreds of lives were lost in shipwrecks, the lighthouses protected countless others.
With round-the-clock surveillance needed, three families would live in cottages built at the foot of the lighthouse, ensuring three shifts each day were covered.
But as technology developed, lighthouses became more mechanised and most were unstaffed by the 1990s.
Now, visitors can stay in many of the homes once occupied by lighthouse-keeping families. Many are hosting special events to celebrate International Lighthouse Weekend tomorrow and Sunday.
MORE > www.lighthouse.net.au
Cape Nelson, Portland
About 11km south of Portland, the white-painted bluestone lighthouse was built in 1884.
Visitors can get a sense of the era by staying in its two lightstation cottages, which opened this year after a two-year restoration.
Parks Victoria lessees Rob and Margaret Hunt fell in love with the lighthouse during their regular wanders along the Great South West Walk. Margaret says the original feel of the cottages was re-created with advice from a local historian.
Accommodation costs $180 a night for one bedroom and $250 a night for two bedrooms, and includes a full breakfast.
MORE > 5523 5100 or email lighthouseluxury@activ8.net.au
Cape Otway,
Apollo Bay
The Cape Otway Lightstation lays claim to being the oldest surviving lighthouse in mainland Australia, operating since 1848.
At the heart of the Great Ocean Walk in the Great Otway National Park, the lightstation precinct features a World War II radar bunker and telegraph station. It's a great vantage point for whale watching until October.
It is open daily and tours cost $16.50 for adults, $7.50 kids and family $41.50. Up to 16 people can stay at the Head Keeper's Cottage and the manager's house fits up to 14 people.
The B&B style option costs $195 a night. Multi-nights with large groups can start from $30 a person.
``The longer you stay and the more people the cheaper it gets,'' manager Paul Thompson says.
MORE > www.lightstation.com
Cape Schanck, Mornington Peninsula
Set in the Mornington Peninsula National Park, the Cape Schanck Lighthouse and its museum, which is in a former lightkeeper's cottage, are open to the public.
Built in 1859, it still has the original lighting mechanisms in place. The area is popular with families, golfers, walkers and lighthouse history enthusiasts. Tours and packages include helicopter rides to nearby wineries.
Beds are available in the two assistant keepers' cottages, which sleep up to nine people. There is also an inspector's cottage suitable for a couple. Rates are $150 a double at weekends, and $100 a double during the week.
MORE > www.parkweb.vic.gov.au
www.austpacinns.com.au
Continued next page
From previous page
Wilsons Promontory
Located at Tidal River, three lightkeepers' cottages provide dormitory-style accommodation for up to 27 people.
But a visit is not for the faint hearted. All bed linen (sleeping bags recommended) and food must be carried in on the 18km walk from Tidal River. And you have take your rubbish out with you.
Still, people book up to 12 months in advance for the experience.
It will set you back between $47 and $87 each a night, depending on the day of the week and which cottage you stay in.
MORE > www.parkweb.vic.gov.au
Point Hicks
Set in Croajingolong National Park, the lighthouse owes its name to Lieutenant Zachariah Hicks, who was sailing with Captain James Cook when they saw the area in 1770.
By 1890 the remote lighthouse settlement, complete with three houses for the keepers, was complete.
Tours are available free when you stay but visitors can join a tour Friday to Monday at 1pm. Adults $7 and family $20. Visitors can stay in the two assistant lightkeepers' cottages which each sleep up to eight. A bungalow is suited to a couple.
Take your own food -- the nearest shop is an hour by car at Cann River -- but you can rent linen.
Rates depend on the season, day of the week and accommodation choice. The cottages are around $330 a night and the bungalow $100.
MORE > www.pointhicks.com.au or www.gippslandlakesescapes.com.au
Gabo Island, Mallacoota
The distinctive pink granite Gabo Island Lighthouse stands on the border where Victoria meets NSW.
The island, which can only be reached by air or sea, is home to bird colonies such as little penguins.
Accommodation is available in one of the assistant keeper's cottages for two to seven nights. The cottage can sleep up to eight in three bedrooms. Rates vary by day of the week and season from $178.50-$227 a night.
MORE > www.parkweb.vic.gov.au
Lady Bay Upper and Lower lighthouses, Warrnambool
Still active, the lighthouses have been protecting the Warrnambool Harbour from roaring southern oceans for more than 150 years. Part of the Flagstaff Hill Maritime Village, there is an admission fee for the Lady Bay Upper lighthouse but the Lower Lighthouse is off limits.
Flagstaff Village manager Peter Abbott says the Lighthouse Lodge, built in 1911, opened to guests in March. Guests can book out the whole lodge, accommodating six people, from $355 a night.
The lighthouses are an easy stroll to the city centre. Admission to the village is $15.95 adults, $12.50 children and $39 family.
MORE > www.flagstaffhill.com
Split Point,
Airey's Inlet
At 34m high, the lighthouse was built after as many as 10 shipwrecks on the Surf Coast before 1890. It was originally called Eagles Nest Point but changed to Split Point in 1913.
Because it is a functioning lighthouse access is only via a tour, which operates daily. Adults are $12 children $7 and family $35.
The lighthouse was the setting for the kids' TV show Round the Twist and provides 360-degree views. It also offers school-holiday programs.
MORE > www.splitpointlighthouse.com.au
Point Lonsdale
The lighthouse celebrated its centenary in 2002 and is thought to be among the last manned lighthouses in Australia. You can visit the lighthouse on a pre-booked tour. Tours operate from mid morning to early afternoon and run for half an hour. But you have to be reasonably fit to tackle the steep stairs and must wear solid footwear. There are eight people a tour and children under five years and people with pacemakers are not allowed. Adults $6, kids $4.
MORE > www.maritimequeenscliffe.org.au
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Friday, December 3, 2010
The Magic of Monet
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
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
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.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Boxing Day
EARLIER in the week I was walking around the supermarket in a trance, looking for inspiration for a dish to take to yet another festive gathering.
Spotted by a friend, I admitted I had run out of ideas. ``Me, too," she confessed.
We workshopped the dilemma in the biscuit aisle. She reached for the Marie biscuits to make some golf balls. I opted for a Chocolate Ripple cake. Problem solved.
If only all the anxiety wrapped up with Christmas could be so easily resolved.
Roll on Boxing Day, I thought to myself as the week progressed.
True, Christmas is a magical time of year.
But after weeks of emotional kinder and creche farewells, carol singing and social gatherings, not to mention trying to pick a little something for everyone from the Lollipop man to the choirmaster, my brain's in overdrive.
Then there's Christmas Day with its simmering tensions. Omissions that would be overlooked 364 days of the year take on mammoth proportions.
People arriving late and holding up the proceedings. Strained relations and overtired kids. And that's before the champagne corks start popping.
While Boxing Day might owe its origins to a time when servants got a day off, armed with boxes of goodies courtesy of their rich bosses, there'll be little respite for most of us.
I might be on holiday for the next few weeks but there's going to be days when I feel like I have knocked off work to carry bricks.
There are five whole weeks of school holidays stretching before us and no plans for an extended break.
While it's great not to be running against the clock all day and ferrying kids to out-of-school activities, I love packing school lunches.
I am not around so I don't hear them whinging about what's on offer. If they are hungry enough they will eat it.
But during the holidays, feeding the kids healthy food is one of the greatest challenges.
After weeks of sausage sizzles we've had our fill of snags. While there has been plenty of lovely seasonal fruit, nary a vegetable has passed their lips. Unless you count tomato sauce, that is, and it's technically a fruit.
Those without children, will say we should enjoy them while they are happy to be seen within a metre of us.
But many of us noughties parents have created a rod for our own backs. We get out and about with our kids too much. They can't play on the streets like we did.
Most mornings we are met with a chorus of ``what are we going to do today?''
It doesn't have to cost a lot of money, but it means we are on the go the whole time.
The upside is that they are not sitting in front of a computer or a TV all holidays.
Us multi-tasking Mums, who claim to have pulled off the whole Christmas extravaganza without any assistance from our husbands, will be looking for a break to chew on our burnt chops.
The menfolk will be desperate to get to the MCG today for the Boxing Day Test.
My husband spent the first three days of the school holidays child wrangling, taking them to movies, the pool and Christmas shopping. Only a man could think you could get anything done at a crowded shopping centre with three kids in tow. But that's another story.
In a moment of weakness I suggested he might like to go to the cricket.
He was hesitant because he knows that for the duration of the holidays, whenever things go pear-shaped, I will be reminding him that he went to the cricket while I finished off the Christmas visits.
Many of us, employing the skills of a high level diplomat so we didn't have to traipse around the country to see all our family and friends yesterday, will be piling into the car and heading off to sit down in front of another heaving Christmas spread. Another round of turkey, pork, pud and trifle to keep the family peace, but what about my waistline?
While the doorbuster Boxing Day sales of recent years have been scaled back, there will be some of us who feel we didn't give our credit card a good enough workout in the lead-up to Christmas. Too many bargains is never enough. And it doesn't matter that the present cupboard is already bulging.
Then there will be tears. The faulty toys that don't work and have to be brought back and snaking return queues that will make Mum and Dad feel like crying.
Worse still will be the recognition that you have to fork out $15 in batteries to get the $10 Tinkerbell walkie talkies given to the five-year-old to work.
Then there are hours spent wrestling with the instructions for a toy that have apparently been written by a nuclear scientist.
Having painfully constructed a scale-model replica of the Statue of Liberty, you find the torch is missing.
Or, as a friend learned, the money gifted to her in a card was thrown out with the wrapping paper. At least that's what her famously tight-wad aunt claimed must have happened.
Then there are the plain bad taste presents. Best not to even give them a home. Box them up and send them off to the op shop.
A friend reminded me of the set of awful towels she received which included a lovely note - to the intended recipient who had then given them to her.
Re-gifting is great if its going to a charity or a school fundraiser.
By tomorrow we'll have put a big dent in the turkey, ham and pudding leftovers. But then we'll turn out attention to New Year's Eve.
Oh, and another dish to think about preparing.
And then there's the New Year's resolutions.
Learning to say ``no'' might be a good one.
``No'' to a second slice of Chocolate Ripple cake. ``No'' to another glass of wine.
And, importantly, NOwhere when the kids ask where they are going today.
Spotted by a friend, I admitted I had run out of ideas. ``Me, too," she confessed.
We workshopped the dilemma in the biscuit aisle. She reached for the Marie biscuits to make some golf balls. I opted for a Chocolate Ripple cake. Problem solved.
If only all the anxiety wrapped up with Christmas could be so easily resolved.
Roll on Boxing Day, I thought to myself as the week progressed.
True, Christmas is a magical time of year.
But after weeks of emotional kinder and creche farewells, carol singing and social gatherings, not to mention trying to pick a little something for everyone from the Lollipop man to the choirmaster, my brain's in overdrive.
Then there's Christmas Day with its simmering tensions. Omissions that would be overlooked 364 days of the year take on mammoth proportions.
People arriving late and holding up the proceedings. Strained relations and overtired kids. And that's before the champagne corks start popping.
While Boxing Day might owe its origins to a time when servants got a day off, armed with boxes of goodies courtesy of their rich bosses, there'll be little respite for most of us.
I might be on holiday for the next few weeks but there's going to be days when I feel like I have knocked off work to carry bricks.
There are five whole weeks of school holidays stretching before us and no plans for an extended break.
While it's great not to be running against the clock all day and ferrying kids to out-of-school activities, I love packing school lunches.
I am not around so I don't hear them whinging about what's on offer. If they are hungry enough they will eat it.
But during the holidays, feeding the kids healthy food is one of the greatest challenges.
After weeks of sausage sizzles we've had our fill of snags. While there has been plenty of lovely seasonal fruit, nary a vegetable has passed their lips. Unless you count tomato sauce, that is, and it's technically a fruit.
Those without children, will say we should enjoy them while they are happy to be seen within a metre of us.
But many of us noughties parents have created a rod for our own backs. We get out and about with our kids too much. They can't play on the streets like we did.
Most mornings we are met with a chorus of ``what are we going to do today?''
It doesn't have to cost a lot of money, but it means we are on the go the whole time.
The upside is that they are not sitting in front of a computer or a TV all holidays.
Us multi-tasking Mums, who claim to have pulled off the whole Christmas extravaganza without any assistance from our husbands, will be looking for a break to chew on our burnt chops.
The menfolk will be desperate to get to the MCG today for the Boxing Day Test.
My husband spent the first three days of the school holidays child wrangling, taking them to movies, the pool and Christmas shopping. Only a man could think you could get anything done at a crowded shopping centre with three kids in tow. But that's another story.
In a moment of weakness I suggested he might like to go to the cricket.
He was hesitant because he knows that for the duration of the holidays, whenever things go pear-shaped, I will be reminding him that he went to the cricket while I finished off the Christmas visits.
Many of us, employing the skills of a high level diplomat so we didn't have to traipse around the country to see all our family and friends yesterday, will be piling into the car and heading off to sit down in front of another heaving Christmas spread. Another round of turkey, pork, pud and trifle to keep the family peace, but what about my waistline?
While the doorbuster Boxing Day sales of recent years have been scaled back, there will be some of us who feel we didn't give our credit card a good enough workout in the lead-up to Christmas. Too many bargains is never enough. And it doesn't matter that the present cupboard is already bulging.
Then there will be tears. The faulty toys that don't work and have to be brought back and snaking return queues that will make Mum and Dad feel like crying.
Worse still will be the recognition that you have to fork out $15 in batteries to get the $10 Tinkerbell walkie talkies given to the five-year-old to work.
Then there are hours spent wrestling with the instructions for a toy that have apparently been written by a nuclear scientist.
Having painfully constructed a scale-model replica of the Statue of Liberty, you find the torch is missing.
Or, as a friend learned, the money gifted to her in a card was thrown out with the wrapping paper. At least that's what her famously tight-wad aunt claimed must have happened.
Then there are the plain bad taste presents. Best not to even give them a home. Box them up and send them off to the op shop.
A friend reminded me of the set of awful towels she received which included a lovely note - to the intended recipient who had then given them to her.
Re-gifting is great if its going to a charity or a school fundraiser.
By tomorrow we'll have put a big dent in the turkey, ham and pudding leftovers. But then we'll turn out attention to New Year's Eve.
Oh, and another dish to think about preparing.
And then there's the New Year's resolutions.
Learning to say ``no'' might be a good one.
``No'' to a second slice of Chocolate Ripple cake. ``No'' to another glass of wine.
And, importantly, NOwhere when the kids ask where they are going today.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
It's all down hill from here ....
Claire Heaney
THE other night as I lay in bed I felt old age creeping up on me.
As I was ruminating about the advance of middle age, my husband rolled over and began to snore.
Yeah, I know all that stuff about age just being a number but there's been a whole heap of little things that have all added up to make me feel, well, old.
Like deciding how we would mark my husband's looming half century when he insisted there was to be no party.
The kids and I hatched a plan to spend his birthday at Australia Zoo, on the Sunshine Coast, last week.
While some 50-year-olds might be quaffing Penfolds Grange, I figured with three kids aged 5, 8 and 10, he can do that for his 70th.
Luckily, Terri Irwin was having a bash for young Bob's 6th birthday which meant, among other things, free entry for kids and a chance for all of us to get in touch with our inner-child.
That organised, I headed to the letterbox to find there was a letter addressed to him from Australian Pensioners' Insurance Agency inviting him to ring and get a quote now that he was approaching that magic age.
Then, I was doing some online quotes for travel insurance for a holiday next year. When all travellers were 49 years or under the quote was $344. But when I adjusted it to reflect my husband's new age the quote jumped to $463.
Along the way, there have been the Facebook updates from a friend who has just returned from Bangkok where she underwent a face and neck lift.
We had a farewell lunch for her, feeling a bit queasy as she outlined her chosen path to eternal youth.
Weeks after the cut-price procedure she sent me a picture with the caption ``still cooking''. Given I can't even chop up meat, her entertaining but vivid descriptions scared the heck out of me.
I was talking to another friend about it and she did remind me that at a certain age a woman has to decide whether she is going to save her face or her body.
Sadly, as I caught sight of myself under what I regard as extremely unforgiving lights at a public toilet I was pretty sure I was losing the battle on that front. Then the next day at my all too infrequent fitness sessions my niggling hammy started playing up so I had to adjourn for coffee and cake.
When my youngest turned five last week I had mixed emotions. At 45 I feel far too old to have a little one about to start school. But, I am reminding myself that there are some upsides.
These kids will keep me young. And, I don't care if I never eat at a top notch restaurant or drink a bottle of wine that costs more than $15 again.
And while my dressing style is on the conservative side, I am not wearing the Osti-style dresses my mum was getting around in at my age.
But, just quietly, I have been talked into an information session outlining the benefits of non-invasive skin product, promising to iron out some of those emerging lines.
In the meantime, my husband's too busy playing with his new toy, an iPod, and organising golf lessons he's been putting off for 18 years that I know of.
So, just maybe, life does begin at 50.
THE other night as I lay in bed I felt old age creeping up on me.
As I was ruminating about the advance of middle age, my husband rolled over and began to snore.
Yeah, I know all that stuff about age just being a number but there's been a whole heap of little things that have all added up to make me feel, well, old.
Like deciding how we would mark my husband's looming half century when he insisted there was to be no party.
The kids and I hatched a plan to spend his birthday at Australia Zoo, on the Sunshine Coast, last week.
While some 50-year-olds might be quaffing Penfolds Grange, I figured with three kids aged 5, 8 and 10, he can do that for his 70th.
Luckily, Terri Irwin was having a bash for young Bob's 6th birthday which meant, among other things, free entry for kids and a chance for all of us to get in touch with our inner-child.
That organised, I headed to the letterbox to find there was a letter addressed to him from Australian Pensioners' Insurance Agency inviting him to ring and get a quote now that he was approaching that magic age.
Then, I was doing some online quotes for travel insurance for a holiday next year. When all travellers were 49 years or under the quote was $344. But when I adjusted it to reflect my husband's new age the quote jumped to $463.
Along the way, there have been the Facebook updates from a friend who has just returned from Bangkok where she underwent a face and neck lift.
We had a farewell lunch for her, feeling a bit queasy as she outlined her chosen path to eternal youth.
Weeks after the cut-price procedure she sent me a picture with the caption ``still cooking''. Given I can't even chop up meat, her entertaining but vivid descriptions scared the heck out of me.
I was talking to another friend about it and she did remind me that at a certain age a woman has to decide whether she is going to save her face or her body.
Sadly, as I caught sight of myself under what I regard as extremely unforgiving lights at a public toilet I was pretty sure I was losing the battle on that front. Then the next day at my all too infrequent fitness sessions my niggling hammy started playing up so I had to adjourn for coffee and cake.
When my youngest turned five last week I had mixed emotions. At 45 I feel far too old to have a little one about to start school. But, I am reminding myself that there are some upsides.
These kids will keep me young. And, I don't care if I never eat at a top notch restaurant or drink a bottle of wine that costs more than $15 again.
And while my dressing style is on the conservative side, I am not wearing the Osti-style dresses my mum was getting around in at my age.
But, just quietly, I have been talked into an information session outlining the benefits of non-invasive skin product, promising to iron out some of those emerging lines.
In the meantime, my husband's too busy playing with his new toy, an iPod, and organising golf lessons he's been putting off for 18 years that I know of.
So, just maybe, life does begin at 50.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Gone camping
LIKE most children mine have their failings.
But consumerism, so pervasive among kids, is not one of them.
They don't own all the electronic gadgetry because, among other things, it would drive me crazy trying to police the use of it.
So, when they ask for something I don't dismiss it out of hand. That was until the eldest, 10, started making noises about a tent.
I'm no snob but camping has not figured in my repertoire and it's not something I want to add now.
People insist if you camped as a kid you have fond memories.
Soon all three kids, at the instruction of the eldest, began a chorus of "can we get a tent for Christmas?".
It was ringing in my ears as I ducked into Kathmandu and did the sums. This tent could pay for itself in a few nights.
The sub-plot was that they could go with their Dad. Afterall, he's the one with the fond childhood memories.
The eldest asked if ``Santa'' brought a tent would it be set up in the loungeroom.
This troubled me. It was too big for inside and probably even our courtyard. There could be tears on Christmas morning when they found Santa had left a canvas bag weighing 24 kg.
Then I heard Big4 was offering a free night of camping. The most convenient was in the Western Suburbs.
My plan was for my husband and I to set it up for the kids as a surprise while they were at school and creche. He knew better than to resist. In any case, he was working that afternoon so wouldn't be there for the animal hour.
The day arrived last Friday and we took the tent from its hiding place and made our way to Braybrook. A dust storm came through and we hung on to the tent for dear life. An English couple, happily ensconced in their van, took pity on us as did a nice bloke from New South Wales down for the Pearl Jam concert.
``It's usually a good idea to have a practice run at home,'' he advised.
Three-quarters through, we realised the porch would hang half way across the road, so we left it dangling.
We raced home and grabbed some basic gear and I picked the kids up, telling them I had some jobs to do.
As we rounded the corner, the children were excited. Then came the big moment. ``Awesome'' they declared as they bumped around as if they were on a jumping castle.
After dinner at a nearby pokies pub, I picked up a slab to give to my Good Samaritans.
"Big night," a Grey Nomad asked as he stepped from his well-appointed caravan. I explained our adventure.
"You usually do a practice run at home," he said.
After a swim everyone was asleep at 9pm. Then my husband turned up at midnight looking for a key for the loo. His usual ride home was confused when he said he was off to Braybrook not Richmond. ``Have you split from your missus, Mate?" he asked.
Too early we found ourselves breakfasting at McDonalds early on Saturday.
The two eldest were wearing their school uniforms because in the rush a change of clothes was forgotten.
"It's OK, no one knows us,'' I promised.
Back home, they were buzzing, hoping we may be able to leave Melbourne for our next trip.
It's reinforced my view that they do not need gadgets to have fun. But, I'm making no commitments. I am too consumed with trying to get the tent back into the bag.
But consumerism, so pervasive among kids, is not one of them.
They don't own all the electronic gadgetry because, among other things, it would drive me crazy trying to police the use of it.
So, when they ask for something I don't dismiss it out of hand. That was until the eldest, 10, started making noises about a tent.
I'm no snob but camping has not figured in my repertoire and it's not something I want to add now.
People insist if you camped as a kid you have fond memories.
Soon all three kids, at the instruction of the eldest, began a chorus of "can we get a tent for Christmas?".
It was ringing in my ears as I ducked into Kathmandu and did the sums. This tent could pay for itself in a few nights.
The sub-plot was that they could go with their Dad. Afterall, he's the one with the fond childhood memories.
The eldest asked if ``Santa'' brought a tent would it be set up in the loungeroom.
This troubled me. It was too big for inside and probably even our courtyard. There could be tears on Christmas morning when they found Santa had left a canvas bag weighing 24 kg.
Then I heard Big4 was offering a free night of camping. The most convenient was in the Western Suburbs.
My plan was for my husband and I to set it up for the kids as a surprise while they were at school and creche. He knew better than to resist. In any case, he was working that afternoon so wouldn't be there for the animal hour.
The day arrived last Friday and we took the tent from its hiding place and made our way to Braybrook. A dust storm came through and we hung on to the tent for dear life. An English couple, happily ensconced in their van, took pity on us as did a nice bloke from New South Wales down for the Pearl Jam concert.
``It's usually a good idea to have a practice run at home,'' he advised.
Three-quarters through, we realised the porch would hang half way across the road, so we left it dangling.
We raced home and grabbed some basic gear and I picked the kids up, telling them I had some jobs to do.
As we rounded the corner, the children were excited. Then came the big moment. ``Awesome'' they declared as they bumped around as if they were on a jumping castle.
After dinner at a nearby pokies pub, I picked up a slab to give to my Good Samaritans.
"Big night," a Grey Nomad asked as he stepped from his well-appointed caravan. I explained our adventure.
"You usually do a practice run at home," he said.
After a swim everyone was asleep at 9pm. Then my husband turned up at midnight looking for a key for the loo. His usual ride home was confused when he said he was off to Braybrook not Richmond. ``Have you split from your missus, Mate?" he asked.
Too early we found ourselves breakfasting at McDonalds early on Saturday.
The two eldest were wearing their school uniforms because in the rush a change of clothes was forgotten.
"It's OK, no one knows us,'' I promised.
Back home, they were buzzing, hoping we may be able to leave Melbourne for our next trip.
It's reinforced my view that they do not need gadgets to have fun. But, I'm making no commitments. I am too consumed with trying to get the tent back into the bag.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Overdressed
THIS supermumwannabe has finally run up the white flag.
It's hard to say what particular event in the past week tipped me over the edge.
It may have been the row with the four-year-old last Friday morning about what outfit she would wear to creche for dress-up day.
The kids donated a gold coin to pay for the randy resident rabbits to get ``fixed up'' because they were getting too cranky.
The previous day she had settled on a particular Angelina Ballerina outfit, wisely eschewing the one that had busted seams.
But come 7.40am, as we prepared to take the second child and his friend to the before-school chess session, she had changed her mind.
So, in between wiping sleep from eyes and sponging toothpaste marks off tops, I was doing a shoddy job of mending the dress.
At bedtime the night before the eldest child, who had four weeks to research and answer four simple questions and type them up, realised she had left her draft at school.
That meant after chess drop off we had to pick up the notes and head to the cafe so she could type up her homework on the laptop and put it on a memory stick and print it out at school.
But the seeds were sown earlier in the week when Special Friends Day was staged. The two school aged children were happy to have their Dad go along which was a bonus because that meant we, read me, did not have to hit the phones trying to rope ``special'' people in.
The kids dressed up as book characters with an emphasis on animals.
My son was happy to go as knockabout cat Old Tom from the Leigh Hobbs' series. At the weekend I headed to the Op Shop to buy an orange flannelette sheet for the body. The plan was to sew up some loose fitting pants and top but I ran out of time what with other weekend commitments. We cut a hole in the sheet and draped it around him, fashioned some ears and added the requisite scars and bung eye. He carried a plastic fishbone. My daughter was going as a creature from Where the Wild Things Are. I bought orange wool and wrapped it around cardboard to create tassels that were sown into a pantyhose gusset (minus the legs) to make a wig. She had a furry coat to complete the effect. Sure, it was all simple and unsophisticated but it still took hours.
The next day was another prep transition session for the four-year-old at 2.30pm. I was at work but because my husband was starting work at 4pm he took her.
Then on Thursday, the kids galloped from their classroom with more great news.
The Melbourne Cup was going to make a pitstop at our school and they should dress up in jockey colors!
So, at 3am the next morning during a restless night I found myself thinking about jockey colours and how best we could execute this. All very simply, mind you.
In, fact for the next couple of days I mulled over how this could be done simply. But there was some respite because I then turned my attention to a low-key Halloween celebration on the Saturday night. While people decry it as crass American commercialism, we like to think of it as an Irish festival. My son turned his Old Tom outfit into a pumpkin turban, my older daughter pinned a Batman cape to her black t-shirt and donned a witches hat. The pesky youngest suitably put on a vampire outfit because I often feel she is sucking the lifeblood out of me.
I delivered some goodies to the pre-arranged stop off points for ``trick or treat''. Then we headed off and luckily for us a friend of a friend happened to be related to Olympic medallist Steve Hooker. He answered the door and there was much excitement.
But come Sunday it was back to jockey colors.
I reached for the formguide and the decision was quick. The kids would go as Allez Wonder's jockey. It meant I had to draw a yellow shamrock, cut it out, back it with some cardboard and pin it to their red school tops.
The morning, despite the fact that more than half the school was AWOL on a long weekend, was fantastic.
When my children related the week's activities to their interstate grandmother she was horrified.
``I can't believe all these things, it is just too much,'' she said.
The children had omitted to tell her about their dad doing fruit duty at kinder, a working bee for creche and the myriad of other excursion and incursion forms, raffle selling rosters and the like that all had to be dealt with in that same week.
I know daughters-in-law aren't supposed to agree with their mothers-in-law, but I do on this one.
I don't know what the answer is. Having less children. Ignore all the dress up days and then your kids feel sad and left out. Attend community run creches/kinders but refuse to help out.
Discourage schools from all these extras so they can focus on the basics.
In the meantime, we're bracing for a another few big weeks. The four-year-old gets her Buddy for next year, her older sister becomes a Buddy and then there's Christmas choir practice, excursions to Healesville and Werribee zoos ...
Thankfully, the only one dressing up this week is me - on Oaks Day.
It's hard to say what particular event in the past week tipped me over the edge.
It may have been the row with the four-year-old last Friday morning about what outfit she would wear to creche for dress-up day.
The kids donated a gold coin to pay for the randy resident rabbits to get ``fixed up'' because they were getting too cranky.
The previous day she had settled on a particular Angelina Ballerina outfit, wisely eschewing the one that had busted seams.
But come 7.40am, as we prepared to take the second child and his friend to the before-school chess session, she had changed her mind.
So, in between wiping sleep from eyes and sponging toothpaste marks off tops, I was doing a shoddy job of mending the dress.
At bedtime the night before the eldest child, who had four weeks to research and answer four simple questions and type them up, realised she had left her draft at school.
That meant after chess drop off we had to pick up the notes and head to the cafe so she could type up her homework on the laptop and put it on a memory stick and print it out at school.
But the seeds were sown earlier in the week when Special Friends Day was staged. The two school aged children were happy to have their Dad go along which was a bonus because that meant we, read me, did not have to hit the phones trying to rope ``special'' people in.
The kids dressed up as book characters with an emphasis on animals.
My son was happy to go as knockabout cat Old Tom from the Leigh Hobbs' series. At the weekend I headed to the Op Shop to buy an orange flannelette sheet for the body. The plan was to sew up some loose fitting pants and top but I ran out of time what with other weekend commitments. We cut a hole in the sheet and draped it around him, fashioned some ears and added the requisite scars and bung eye. He carried a plastic fishbone. My daughter was going as a creature from Where the Wild Things Are. I bought orange wool and wrapped it around cardboard to create tassels that were sown into a pantyhose gusset (minus the legs) to make a wig. She had a furry coat to complete the effect. Sure, it was all simple and unsophisticated but it still took hours.
The next day was another prep transition session for the four-year-old at 2.30pm. I was at work but because my husband was starting work at 4pm he took her.
Then on Thursday, the kids galloped from their classroom with more great news.
The Melbourne Cup was going to make a pitstop at our school and they should dress up in jockey colors!
So, at 3am the next morning during a restless night I found myself thinking about jockey colours and how best we could execute this. All very simply, mind you.
In, fact for the next couple of days I mulled over how this could be done simply. But there was some respite because I then turned my attention to a low-key Halloween celebration on the Saturday night. While people decry it as crass American commercialism, we like to think of it as an Irish festival. My son turned his Old Tom outfit into a pumpkin turban, my older daughter pinned a Batman cape to her black t-shirt and donned a witches hat. The pesky youngest suitably put on a vampire outfit because I often feel she is sucking the lifeblood out of me.
I delivered some goodies to the pre-arranged stop off points for ``trick or treat''. Then we headed off and luckily for us a friend of a friend happened to be related to Olympic medallist Steve Hooker. He answered the door and there was much excitement.
But come Sunday it was back to jockey colors.
I reached for the formguide and the decision was quick. The kids would go as Allez Wonder's jockey. It meant I had to draw a yellow shamrock, cut it out, back it with some cardboard and pin it to their red school tops.
The morning, despite the fact that more than half the school was AWOL on a long weekend, was fantastic.
When my children related the week's activities to their interstate grandmother she was horrified.
``I can't believe all these things, it is just too much,'' she said.
The children had omitted to tell her about their dad doing fruit duty at kinder, a working bee for creche and the myriad of other excursion and incursion forms, raffle selling rosters and the like that all had to be dealt with in that same week.
I know daughters-in-law aren't supposed to agree with their mothers-in-law, but I do on this one.
I don't know what the answer is. Having less children. Ignore all the dress up days and then your kids feel sad and left out. Attend community run creches/kinders but refuse to help out.
Discourage schools from all these extras so they can focus on the basics.
In the meantime, we're bracing for a another few big weeks. The four-year-old gets her Buddy for next year, her older sister becomes a Buddy and then there's Christmas choir practice, excursions to Healesville and Werribee zoos ...
Thankfully, the only one dressing up this week is me - on Oaks Day.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
New York, New York
Edited version of Cheapskates Guide to New York.
First in a series of travel Cheapskates Guides.
Sunday Herald Sun, Edition 7 - Escape
SUN 18 OCT 2009, Page 012
Budget New York
Apple essence
Claire Heaney finds you don't have to spend a fortune to enjoy the Big Apple
YOU'VE snared a bargain flight to the US. But that doesn't mean you have money to burn.
And anyone who has visited the Big Apple knows that's exactly what you can do very quickly. But here are some canny suggestions to make your greenbacks go further.
THE American Museum of Natural History, opposite Central Park, provides for admission by donation. It's hard to know how much to give but some New Yorkers suggested $US10 an adult. The foyer, with its huge dinosaur skeleton, features in the first Night At the Museum movie. The subway goes straight to the front door.
Central Park
The park takes up 6per cent of Manhattan so it's wise to build plenty of time into your itinerary. You can spend a whole day there and you might only cover half of it. There are plenty of playgrounds for the littlies, the literary walk, Belvedere Castle, the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir to walk or jog around (prams and strollers are not allowed). Then there's the Imagine memorial to the late Beatle John Lennon.
If you want to spend money there are horse and cart rides, bike hire, remote control yacht hire, the zoo and so on. In summer the pool is free.
www.centralpark.com
Bronx Zoo
THE zoo, an easy subway ride, provides entrance by donation, or pay-what-you-wish, on a Wednesday. It means that you are not shelling out the full admission price ($US27 for adults and $US21 for kids). Because it is mid-week it tends to be a lot quieter. But once you get in, other rides, such as the Lady Bug, have to be paid for.
Like many other attractions that rely on corporate donations it is feeling the pinch. The day after our visit the New York Post ran a story saying that to cut costs they had to ``sack'' some of the animals. The World of Darkness, a nocturnal display my seven-year-old couldn't stop talking about, is among the first to go. Bear that in mind when you are coming up with your donation. www.bronxzoo.com
The subway
WE entered the New York Subway with some trepidation, fearing it might not be safe. But once we negotiated the purchase of tickets (the monosyllabic replies and looks to our inquiries from the station attendant left us thinking we must have been the dumbest tourists ever to set foot in the country) the subway is a bargain. We bought a seven-day Metro card for $US25 each. We did not find the subway very stroller friendly and one occasion we had to help a woman using a walking frame. For the able-bodied it's the best ticket in town.
www.mta.info
Staten Island Ferry
YOU can't beat the free Staten Island Ferry for a no-frills Manhattan cruise with million-dollar views.
On the day we headed down to Battery Park to do our Statue of Liberty trip we arrived so late we decided to opt for the freebie trip, leaving the tour of Liberty and Ellis islands to a day we could get there early enough to beat the crowds.
The free ferry leaves on the half hour and provides a lovely introduction to the grand old lady. Once at Staten Island you must get off and return on a later ferry. You can spend time checking out the few attractions or if it is a nice day have a picnic.
Statue of Liberty
ENTRY to the Statue of Liberty and nearby Ellis Island, which was a migration checkpoint, is free.
You have to buy a ferry ticket which costs $US12.
Given that you can spend hours exploring Liberty and Ellis islands it's a bargain.
City Pass
CITY Passes, which package up attractions in more than 10 major US cities, are a great buy. The New York offering has all the sights you want to see and when you have a City Pass voucher you are treated as an A-lister, jumping many of the queues. The booklets generally provide a 40 per cent reduction on individual entry prices. They can be bought online or at attractions.
www.citypass.com
Take a walk
SLIP on your comfy shoes. Walking around New York is one of the best ways to take it all in. Yes, the subway is great to get from A to B but there is so much to see in between. The day we headed down from Times Square to Battery Park to see the Statue of Liberty we got off at a station we thought was the best option. When I asked a local if I was going the right way she said I really needed to get on another train because it was too far. But the walk was short and we saw so many things. For instance, the Woolworths tower which at one time in the 1920s was the tallest building in Manhattan. It is suggested that Frank Woolworth built the tower because he wanted to outdo a rival bank tower because the manager had refused him a loan. A visit to Ground Zero, now a construction site, is illuminating for first-time visitors to New York. Along Broadway there is a Trinity Church where first President George Washington worshipped, along a side street is financial district Wall Street and across the road at Federal Hall where Washington was sworn in as president. Further along at Battery Park there are monuments but one of the most poignant is the misshapen world sculpture that once stood in front of the World Trade Centre. It has an eternal flame burning next to it.
Terrific toy shops
TOYS R Us, in Times Square, has its very own ferris wheel. That costs $US4 to have a ride but there are plenty of other free things to do. There is a terrific Jurassic Park dinosaur, a huge Barbie display and massive Lego displays such as King Kong climbing the Empire State Building.
At FAO Schwarz, at the corner of 49th St and 5th Ave, there is a Barbie corner in which you can design your own Barbie on a computer screen, the famous huge keyboard you can run along, larger-than-life Lego Harry Potter statues, a fantastic little bookroom offering storytime activities and a craft area offering hands-on fun.
Brooklyn Bridge
TAKE a free stroll along the Brooklyn Bridge. Leave the subway at the City Hall station, metres from the entrance. Once across the bridge, having taken in its great views and ambience, there are a few lovely parks near the Fulton Ferry Landing in which to picnic.
Broadway shows
YOU'RE in Broadway so you want to see a show. Right? But, depending on our exchange rate, theatre tickets can be a killer. It is worth checking out the TKTS Ticket Booths around Times Square. Tickets for Broadway and Off Broadway are up to 50 per cent off the going rate. But, before you get your hopes up, it is near-impossible to snare cheapies to the hit productions because they don't get discounted. You can buy tickets from about 3pm but the queue starts forming much earlier.
www.tdf.org/TKTS
Feed yourself
Self-catering, where possible, is the best way to keep your costs down in the Big Apple. Sure, you only live once, but eating out can see you paying off the holiday for a long time ahead. There are plenty of great supermarkets offering quality food and we noted that shopping at a supermarket in the Bronx for a Bronx Zoo picnic was heaps cheaper than Downtown.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Caption: LIGHT UP: Brooklyn Bridge and Manhattan.
Broadway theatre.
Illus: Photo
IllusBy: Peter Morgan, Reuters; and traffic on Broadway, Tina Fineberg, AP
Column: Escape
Section: ESCAPE
First in a series of travel Cheapskates Guides.
Sunday Herald Sun, Edition 7 - Escape
SUN 18 OCT 2009, Page 012
Budget New York
Apple essence
Claire Heaney finds you don't have to spend a fortune to enjoy the Big Apple
YOU'VE snared a bargain flight to the US. But that doesn't mean you have money to burn.
And anyone who has visited the Big Apple knows that's exactly what you can do very quickly. But here are some canny suggestions to make your greenbacks go further.
THE American Museum of Natural History, opposite Central Park, provides for admission by donation. It's hard to know how much to give but some New Yorkers suggested $US10 an adult. The foyer, with its huge dinosaur skeleton, features in the first Night At the Museum movie. The subway goes straight to the front door.
Central Park
The park takes up 6per cent of Manhattan so it's wise to build plenty of time into your itinerary. You can spend a whole day there and you might only cover half of it. There are plenty of playgrounds for the littlies, the literary walk, Belvedere Castle, the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir to walk or jog around (prams and strollers are not allowed). Then there's the Imagine memorial to the late Beatle John Lennon.
If you want to spend money there are horse and cart rides, bike hire, remote control yacht hire, the zoo and so on. In summer the pool is free.
www.centralpark.com
Bronx Zoo
THE zoo, an easy subway ride, provides entrance by donation, or pay-what-you-wish, on a Wednesday. It means that you are not shelling out the full admission price ($US27 for adults and $US21 for kids). Because it is mid-week it tends to be a lot quieter. But once you get in, other rides, such as the Lady Bug, have to be paid for.
Like many other attractions that rely on corporate donations it is feeling the pinch. The day after our visit the New York Post ran a story saying that to cut costs they had to ``sack'' some of the animals. The World of Darkness, a nocturnal display my seven-year-old couldn't stop talking about, is among the first to go. Bear that in mind when you are coming up with your donation. www.bronxzoo.com
The subway
WE entered the New York Subway with some trepidation, fearing it might not be safe. But once we negotiated the purchase of tickets (the monosyllabic replies and looks to our inquiries from the station attendant left us thinking we must have been the dumbest tourists ever to set foot in the country) the subway is a bargain. We bought a seven-day Metro card for $US25 each. We did not find the subway very stroller friendly and one occasion we had to help a woman using a walking frame. For the able-bodied it's the best ticket in town.
www.mta.info
Staten Island Ferry
YOU can't beat the free Staten Island Ferry for a no-frills Manhattan cruise with million-dollar views.
On the day we headed down to Battery Park to do our Statue of Liberty trip we arrived so late we decided to opt for the freebie trip, leaving the tour of Liberty and Ellis islands to a day we could get there early enough to beat the crowds.
The free ferry leaves on the half hour and provides a lovely introduction to the grand old lady. Once at Staten Island you must get off and return on a later ferry. You can spend time checking out the few attractions or if it is a nice day have a picnic.
Statue of Liberty
ENTRY to the Statue of Liberty and nearby Ellis Island, which was a migration checkpoint, is free.
You have to buy a ferry ticket which costs $US12.
Given that you can spend hours exploring Liberty and Ellis islands it's a bargain.
City Pass
CITY Passes, which package up attractions in more than 10 major US cities, are a great buy. The New York offering has all the sights you want to see and when you have a City Pass voucher you are treated as an A-lister, jumping many of the queues. The booklets generally provide a 40 per cent reduction on individual entry prices. They can be bought online or at attractions.
www.citypass.com
Take a walk
SLIP on your comfy shoes. Walking around New York is one of the best ways to take it all in. Yes, the subway is great to get from A to B but there is so much to see in between. The day we headed down from Times Square to Battery Park to see the Statue of Liberty we got off at a station we thought was the best option. When I asked a local if I was going the right way she said I really needed to get on another train because it was too far. But the walk was short and we saw so many things. For instance, the Woolworths tower which at one time in the 1920s was the tallest building in Manhattan. It is suggested that Frank Woolworth built the tower because he wanted to outdo a rival bank tower because the manager had refused him a loan. A visit to Ground Zero, now a construction site, is illuminating for first-time visitors to New York. Along Broadway there is a Trinity Church where first President George Washington worshipped, along a side street is financial district Wall Street and across the road at Federal Hall where Washington was sworn in as president. Further along at Battery Park there are monuments but one of the most poignant is the misshapen world sculpture that once stood in front of the World Trade Centre. It has an eternal flame burning next to it.
Terrific toy shops
TOYS R Us, in Times Square, has its very own ferris wheel. That costs $US4 to have a ride but there are plenty of other free things to do. There is a terrific Jurassic Park dinosaur, a huge Barbie display and massive Lego displays such as King Kong climbing the Empire State Building.
At FAO Schwarz, at the corner of 49th St and 5th Ave, there is a Barbie corner in which you can design your own Barbie on a computer screen, the famous huge keyboard you can run along, larger-than-life Lego Harry Potter statues, a fantastic little bookroom offering storytime activities and a craft area offering hands-on fun.
Brooklyn Bridge
TAKE a free stroll along the Brooklyn Bridge. Leave the subway at the City Hall station, metres from the entrance. Once across the bridge, having taken in its great views and ambience, there are a few lovely parks near the Fulton Ferry Landing in which to picnic.
Broadway shows
YOU'RE in Broadway so you want to see a show. Right? But, depending on our exchange rate, theatre tickets can be a killer. It is worth checking out the TKTS Ticket Booths around Times Square. Tickets for Broadway and Off Broadway are up to 50 per cent off the going rate. But, before you get your hopes up, it is near-impossible to snare cheapies to the hit productions because they don't get discounted. You can buy tickets from about 3pm but the queue starts forming much earlier.
www.tdf.org/TKTS
Feed yourself
Self-catering, where possible, is the best way to keep your costs down in the Big Apple. Sure, you only live once, but eating out can see you paying off the holiday for a long time ahead. There are plenty of great supermarkets offering quality food and we noted that shopping at a supermarket in the Bronx for a Bronx Zoo picnic was heaps cheaper than Downtown.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Caption: LIGHT UP: Brooklyn Bridge and Manhattan.
Broadway theatre.
Illus: Photo
IllusBy: Peter Morgan, Reuters; and traffic on Broadway, Tina Fineberg, AP
Column: Escape
Section: ESCAPE
Thursday, October 8, 2009
The sleepover ... as it appeared in the Herald Sun
Teens must face up to pillow talk
THE other night at tennis, as we watched the kids hit the ball from end to end, we thrashed out some big questions.
Just how much should government schools levy for voluntary fees?
And was the new healthy school lunch sending the wrong message by selling
bottled water when the kids should be drinking tap water?
Then Tom's mum changed tack. She had taken a phone call from her sister, who was both perplexed and amused.
The previous weekend Tom's cousin, 19, had emerged from his room. It was late because, as any mum of a teenager will tell you, they do love to sleep in.
He made breakfast, went back into his room and then re-emerged.
His mum was about to put some clothes away in his room.
He intercepted her, insisting he would put them away. That was when she knew
something was up.
Then he 'fessed up. There was a girl in his bedroom and she was too embarrassed to leave while his parents were there.
Could they just nick out for a little while so she could escape? They complied and she beat a hasty retreat. They weren't sure what to make of the episode and last I heard they were nutting outa policy.
All of us, with children hurtling towards puberty, laughed nervously.
What would we do once the sleepovers turned from same-sex Hannah Montana dance fests and Harry Potter movie marathons to feature the opposite sex? There were so many moral and practical issues.
One of us said there was no way she would allow it. Another hoped her children would be in share houses by then and what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her.
Another theory was that if they were in an established relationship then the partner was welcome. No one-night stands allowed.
Yet another mate took the view that she was happy for somebody, anybody, to be enjoying sex under her roof.
That night there were only mums doing the tennis run, but it would have been interesting to hear the views of fathers.
Would anyone have been good enough for their girls? And if it was a son, would they be pleased he was sowing his wild oats?
So when I ran into a bloke I know, I asked him what the policy was at his house.
"They are going to get up to hanky-panky so I would prefer they did it at home rather than in some park," he suggested.
With four successful children in their late 20s and early 30s, another friend related the story of walking to the tram stop one morning with her 19-year-old's boyfriend.
"A few years earlier, if anyone had told me I'd be walking to the tram stop with my daughter's boyfriend, after he had stayed the night, I would not have believed them," she said.
"But I figured she had got through high school and was settled into uni so it wasn't the worst thing that could happen to her."
It's probably preferable that they are tucked up in bed rather than having their heads kicked in at a fast-food outlet or out of their treeon drugs.
I've decided when and if my kids ask for grown-up sleepovers, I'll tell them to ask their father.
THE other night at tennis, as we watched the kids hit the ball from end to end, we thrashed out some big questions.
Just how much should government schools levy for voluntary fees?
And was the new healthy school lunch sending the wrong message by selling
bottled water when the kids should be drinking tap water?
Then Tom's mum changed tack. She had taken a phone call from her sister, who was both perplexed and amused.
The previous weekend Tom's cousin, 19, had emerged from his room. It was late because, as any mum of a teenager will tell you, they do love to sleep in.
He made breakfast, went back into his room and then re-emerged.
His mum was about to put some clothes away in his room.
He intercepted her, insisting he would put them away. That was when she knew
something was up.
Then he 'fessed up. There was a girl in his bedroom and she was too embarrassed to leave while his parents were there.
Could they just nick out for a little while so she could escape? They complied and she beat a hasty retreat. They weren't sure what to make of the episode and last I heard they were nutting outa policy.
All of us, with children hurtling towards puberty, laughed nervously.
What would we do once the sleepovers turned from same-sex Hannah Montana dance fests and Harry Potter movie marathons to feature the opposite sex? There were so many moral and practical issues.
One of us said there was no way she would allow it. Another hoped her children would be in share houses by then and what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her.
Another theory was that if they were in an established relationship then the partner was welcome. No one-night stands allowed.
Yet another mate took the view that she was happy for somebody, anybody, to be enjoying sex under her roof.
That night there were only mums doing the tennis run, but it would have been interesting to hear the views of fathers.
Would anyone have been good enough for their girls? And if it was a son, would they be pleased he was sowing his wild oats?
So when I ran into a bloke I know, I asked him what the policy was at his house.
"They are going to get up to hanky-panky so I would prefer they did it at home rather than in some park," he suggested.
With four successful children in their late 20s and early 30s, another friend related the story of walking to the tram stop one morning with her 19-year-old's boyfriend.
"A few years earlier, if anyone had told me I'd be walking to the tram stop with my daughter's boyfriend, after he had stayed the night, I would not have believed them," she said.
"But I figured she had got through high school and was settled into uni so it wasn't the worst thing that could happen to her."
It's probably preferable that they are tucked up in bed rather than having their heads kicked in at a fast-food outlet or out of their treeon drugs.
I've decided when and if my kids ask for grown-up sleepovers, I'll tell them to ask their father.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Edited version as appeared in the Herald Sun of the earlier post!!! Bloody sub editors!!! oops I'm married to one.
Clare Heaney From: Herald Sun September 15, 2009 9:53PM
I RECKON over the past decade or so I've made plenty of sacrifices in the name of motherhood.
Think sleepless nights, stinky bottoms, goo-stained clothes, career and social life bypasses . . . I could go on, but you get the picture.
And while I have continued to complain bitterly about these incursions on my health, mental state and general wellbeing, I usually like to focus on the bigger picture.
One of these three kids is going to look after me when I'm old.
But, this week, after much soul-searching, I made the supreme sacrifice.
I bought my son a Geelong football jumper.
I'm sure I spent less time choosing names for my kids and picking their school than I have over the past few days considering whether I should "let" Patrick barrack for the Cats, much less actively encourage it.
Start of sidebar. Skip to end of sidebar.
End of sidebar. Return to start of sidebar.
You see, our home is a Richmond household, continuing a family tradition. I took it for granted that my kids would follow the Tiges.
My late Mum was Jack Captain Blood Dyer's cousin. Growing up, we often looked at Mum's blue photo album, with its pictures of Dyer serving ice creams at his Tigers Milk Bar in Richmond, his wedding photo from St Ignatius and a shot of him shaping up in a boxing pose.
Among the pages was a dog-eared program for his testimonial, which my Mum attended.
From time to time, Dad would come home with The Truth, so Mum could read Jack's famous column, Dyer'ere. Or that's what he said.
At one time, I was part of a small team that published a fan magazine about Richmond called Roar. Pregnant and with babies in pouches, we sold the magazine outside the 'G.
It was non-profit (to us), but we made a sizeable donation to the Punt Rd renovation.
So, when my middle child finally spat the dummy and said he hated the Tigers because they were duds, I felt really sad.
"But they've got the best theme song," I offered. "They never win, so we never hear it," he countered.
Last year, he trudged off unhappily to the school Footy Day in a Tigers jumper. After the drubbing against the Swans in Round 19, when we actually broke tradition and left at three-quarter time, he insisted he barracked for the Cats, like his Dad.
In another sign, last week he refused to wear his Tigers raincoat.
It was at this point that I concluded forcing your child to barrack for your team, no matter what, isn't a good idea.
I felt like a traitor as I handed over the $60 for the Cats jumper - the cheapest I could find.
"You can get a number on the back of that, it's just $20," the shop assistant suggested.
"Are you kidding?" I said. Cameron Mooney may be his favourite player but I wasn't going to pay a cent more.
He clearly wasn't picking up the note of sadness attached to the reluctant purchase.
And, yes, the size 12 is a tad big. But I figured if I was going to be forced to buy this jumper, Patrick was going to wear it today and the next four Footy Days of his primary school years.
Me? Well, my only consolation is that he doesn't want to barrack for the Pies.
Clare Heaney From: Herald Sun September 15, 2009 9:53PM
I RECKON over the past decade or so I've made plenty of sacrifices in the name of motherhood.
Think sleepless nights, stinky bottoms, goo-stained clothes, career and social life bypasses . . . I could go on, but you get the picture.
And while I have continued to complain bitterly about these incursions on my health, mental state and general wellbeing, I usually like to focus on the bigger picture.
One of these three kids is going to look after me when I'm old.
But, this week, after much soul-searching, I made the supreme sacrifice.
I bought my son a Geelong football jumper.
I'm sure I spent less time choosing names for my kids and picking their school than I have over the past few days considering whether I should "let" Patrick barrack for the Cats, much less actively encourage it.
Start of sidebar. Skip to end of sidebar.
End of sidebar. Return to start of sidebar.
You see, our home is a Richmond household, continuing a family tradition. I took it for granted that my kids would follow the Tiges.
My late Mum was Jack Captain Blood Dyer's cousin. Growing up, we often looked at Mum's blue photo album, with its pictures of Dyer serving ice creams at his Tigers Milk Bar in Richmond, his wedding photo from St Ignatius and a shot of him shaping up in a boxing pose.
Among the pages was a dog-eared program for his testimonial, which my Mum attended.
From time to time, Dad would come home with The Truth, so Mum could read Jack's famous column, Dyer'ere. Or that's what he said.
At one time, I was part of a small team that published a fan magazine about Richmond called Roar. Pregnant and with babies in pouches, we sold the magazine outside the 'G.
It was non-profit (to us), but we made a sizeable donation to the Punt Rd renovation.
So, when my middle child finally spat the dummy and said he hated the Tigers because they were duds, I felt really sad.
"But they've got the best theme song," I offered. "They never win, so we never hear it," he countered.
Last year, he trudged off unhappily to the school Footy Day in a Tigers jumper. After the drubbing against the Swans in Round 19, when we actually broke tradition and left at three-quarter time, he insisted he barracked for the Cats, like his Dad.
In another sign, last week he refused to wear his Tigers raincoat.
It was at this point that I concluded forcing your child to barrack for your team, no matter what, isn't a good idea.
I felt like a traitor as I handed over the $60 for the Cats jumper - the cheapest I could find.
"You can get a number on the back of that, it's just $20," the shop assistant suggested.
"Are you kidding?" I said. Cameron Mooney may be his favourite player but I wasn't going to pay a cent more.
He clearly wasn't picking up the note of sadness attached to the reluctant purchase.
And, yes, the size 12 is a tad big. But I figured if I was going to be forced to buy this jumper, Patrick was going to wear it today and the next four Footy Days of his primary school years.
Me? Well, my only consolation is that he doesn't want to barrack for the Pies.
Monday, September 14, 2009
The Ultimate Sacrifice
I RECKON over the past decade or so I've made plenty of sacrifices in the name of motherhood.
Think sleepless nights, stinky bottoms, goo-stained clothes, career and social life bypasses ... I could go on but you get the picture.
And while I have continued to complain bitterly about these incursions on my health, mental state and general well being, I generally like to look at the bigger picture.
One of these three kids is going to look after me when I'm old. (although the eldest appears to have taken an unhealthy interest in the nearby Sir Eric Pearce Hostel and how old you need to be to get a bed)
But, yesterday I made the supreme sacrifice.
I bought my son a Geelong football jumper.
Have you any idea how hard that was?
You see I regard our home as a Richmond household, continuing a family tradition.
My late mum was Captain Blood Jack Dyer's cousin. Although we lived in Ballarat and I never attended a footy match in Melbourne until I shifted here 20 years ago, the Tigers were part of our family's folklore.
My mum had stayed with an aunt in Richmond when she came to Melbourne to train in Flinders Lane as a tailoress. Growing up we often looked at her blue photo album with its pictures of Dyer serving ice creams at his Tiger Milk Bar in Richmond's Church St, his wedding photo from St Ignatius and a shot of him in boxing pose. Tucked among the pages was a dog-eared program for his testimonial which my Mum attended.
His sister, Irene, often visited us in Ballarat and we knew her as Cookie.
From time to time Dad would come home with The Truth so Mum could read Jack's famous Dyer'ere column. Or, that's what he said.
My dad followed South Melbourne but happily supported his family's Tiger ties. After Tiger Kevin Sheedy turned up at our school, St Columba's, my brother wrote him a letter.
Sheeds replied, wishing the family all the best ``even the old Swan''.
In 1989 when I arrived at the Herald Sun, after two years at the Geelong Advertiser, I kept getting sent to Geelong for assignments.
I remember being sent to Geelong to go from pub to pub to capture the ``colour'' of the 1992 Grand Final. It was a pretty sombre day, with the Cats well beaten by West Coast.
At one time, with my crazy colleague and friend, Cheryl, we were part of a small team that published a fanzine about Richmond called Roar. Pregnant and with babies in pouches we sold the magazine at the front of the ``G''.
It was non-profit (to us) but we made a sizeable donation to the Punt Rd renovation.
So, when my middle child, Patrick, finally spat the dummy and said he hated the Tigers because they were duds, I was disappointed to say the least.
"But they have got the best theme song," I offered.
``They never win enough to hear it,'' he countered.
He did have a point.
This time last year, he trotted off unhappily to the school Footy Day in a Tigers jumper. He kept saying all year, especially after the drubbing against the Swans in Round 19, when we actually broke tradition and left at three quarter time, that he hated the Tigers.
He wanted to barrack for the Cats, like his dad.
Last week he refused to wear his Tigers raincoat, declaring he would sooner get wet.
It was at this point that I decided maybe forcing your child to barrack for your team, no matter what, isn't good parenting.
And he could very well be the one deciding which nursing home I am going into.
So, there I was over the weekend trying to sort out clobber for this week's Footy Day.
The cheapest option, apart from $22 scarves and beanies, was a $60 jumper.
``You can get a number on the back of that ... it's just $20,'' the shop assistant suggested.
"Are you kidding?" I said. He clearly wasn't getting the sentiment.
I figured if I was going to be forced to buy this jumper, Patrick was going to wear it for the next five footy days for the rest of his primary school years.
And, yes, the size 12 is a tad big. But, he didn't seem to care as he paraded it around the house. I caught a glimpse of his father who looked quite self satisfied.
Me, well, I am just glad he doesn't want to barrack for the Pies.
As my colleague, Harry, says: "That's the trouble with you. You're related to Jack Dyer and they all hated Collingwood so much they couldn't even stand watching black and white TV."
Think sleepless nights, stinky bottoms, goo-stained clothes, career and social life bypasses ... I could go on but you get the picture.
And while I have continued to complain bitterly about these incursions on my health, mental state and general well being, I generally like to look at the bigger picture.
One of these three kids is going to look after me when I'm old. (although the eldest appears to have taken an unhealthy interest in the nearby Sir Eric Pearce Hostel and how old you need to be to get a bed)
But, yesterday I made the supreme sacrifice.
I bought my son a Geelong football jumper.
Have you any idea how hard that was?
You see I regard our home as a Richmond household, continuing a family tradition.
My late mum was Captain Blood Jack Dyer's cousin. Although we lived in Ballarat and I never attended a footy match in Melbourne until I shifted here 20 years ago, the Tigers were part of our family's folklore.
My mum had stayed with an aunt in Richmond when she came to Melbourne to train in Flinders Lane as a tailoress. Growing up we often looked at her blue photo album with its pictures of Dyer serving ice creams at his Tiger Milk Bar in Richmond's Church St, his wedding photo from St Ignatius and a shot of him in boxing pose. Tucked among the pages was a dog-eared program for his testimonial which my Mum attended.
His sister, Irene, often visited us in Ballarat and we knew her as Cookie.
From time to time Dad would come home with The Truth so Mum could read Jack's famous Dyer'ere column. Or, that's what he said.
My dad followed South Melbourne but happily supported his family's Tiger ties. After Tiger Kevin Sheedy turned up at our school, St Columba's, my brother wrote him a letter.
Sheeds replied, wishing the family all the best ``even the old Swan''.
In 1989 when I arrived at the Herald Sun, after two years at the Geelong Advertiser, I kept getting sent to Geelong for assignments.
I remember being sent to Geelong to go from pub to pub to capture the ``colour'' of the 1992 Grand Final. It was a pretty sombre day, with the Cats well beaten by West Coast.
At one time, with my crazy colleague and friend, Cheryl, we were part of a small team that published a fanzine about Richmond called Roar. Pregnant and with babies in pouches we sold the magazine at the front of the ``G''.
It was non-profit (to us) but we made a sizeable donation to the Punt Rd renovation.
So, when my middle child, Patrick, finally spat the dummy and said he hated the Tigers because they were duds, I was disappointed to say the least.
"But they have got the best theme song," I offered.
``They never win enough to hear it,'' he countered.
He did have a point.
This time last year, he trotted off unhappily to the school Footy Day in a Tigers jumper. He kept saying all year, especially after the drubbing against the Swans in Round 19, when we actually broke tradition and left at three quarter time, that he hated the Tigers.
He wanted to barrack for the Cats, like his dad.
Last week he refused to wear his Tigers raincoat, declaring he would sooner get wet.
It was at this point that I decided maybe forcing your child to barrack for your team, no matter what, isn't good parenting.
And he could very well be the one deciding which nursing home I am going into.
So, there I was over the weekend trying to sort out clobber for this week's Footy Day.
The cheapest option, apart from $22 scarves and beanies, was a $60 jumper.
``You can get a number on the back of that ... it's just $20,'' the shop assistant suggested.
"Are you kidding?" I said. He clearly wasn't getting the sentiment.
I figured if I was going to be forced to buy this jumper, Patrick was going to wear it for the next five footy days for the rest of his primary school years.
And, yes, the size 12 is a tad big. But, he didn't seem to care as he paraded it around the house. I caught a glimpse of his father who looked quite self satisfied.
Me, well, I am just glad he doesn't want to barrack for the Pies.
As my colleague, Harry, says: "That's the trouble with you. You're related to Jack Dyer and they all hated Collingwood so much they couldn't even stand watching black and white TV."
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