My daughter has been having some friend problems lately. To be honest, I think we are lucky to have come right through to Year 6 with this being our first real issue. It is nothing major (although I’m sure it seems that way to her) and she is mostly a happy resilient kid, so I am not marching out to champion her cause. Not yet, anyway.

What I am doing is listening. Listening to her feelings, hugging her while she cries, listening to the things she isn’t saying, but is showing. I’m trying not to do too much talking, because she needs to come to some realisations herself. But one thing I did have to let her know. Next year – at high school -  it all changes. I think we focus so much on the negatives of the high school years and our own experiences, that we feed into the fears that kids have. “It’s so big.” “The teachers aren’t as patient.” “The work is hard.” “We’ll be the youngest kids instead of the oldest.” What I wanted my daughter to understand going in to high school, is that next year is an opportunity to make wonderful friendships. Yes, there are a lot more kids, but that increases your chance of finding the few true friends who you just click with. She seemed a little skeptical, so I told her my own story.

I walked into the local catholic high school with only two other kids from my public primary school, neither of whom I knew particularly well and ended up in a class where I knew nobody. So I stuck with my primary school acquaintances for a while, making the odd new friend here and there, but never really anyone that I clicked with. Slowly over the first few months I got to know more of my classmates and as we got to know each other better, particular girls began to stand out. Girls who always lifted me up and never let me down. Girls who I understood and who understood me.  Then I named three names to my daughter.  Three women who she knows so well because they are like family to her. She has heard me sit and laugh for hours with each of them whenever we get together – whether it is once a week, once a month or once a year. I saw her eyes widen, as she realised how long we have been friends.  And I think she got it. She was certainly a lot more confident and hopeful about her own problems.

So once again my friends have come to my aid. This time without even knowing. Thanks guys! (You know who you are.)

I have a theory. Actually being of a philosophical bent I have many theories, most of them sound, but some possibly bordering on nutjobbery, so let’s keep this narrowed to just the one for now.

My theory is that people identify best with the season in which they were born. I am a Christmas Day baby, so I have always had a thing about summer. I love long lazy summer days by the pool or at the beach. I have summer playlists on my iPod. I adore those books promoted as “light summer reads”. The sound of cicadas is like music to my ears. There is no smell more delicious than the combination of salt water and sunscreen.

And yet, I find that I am growing increasingly fond of winter. Perhaps it is age catching up with me, but I am enjoying  cocooning indoors during the colder months.  Maybe it is because our winters here in Newcastle are pleasantly mild. When I lived in Germany, I found the late autumn and winter depressing. Snow delighted me at first, especially when I could sit in my bedroom window and watch the flakes fall onto the garden next door, but I soon learned to loathe the stuff. Struggling into boots and parkas is all very well for a week of skiing in that relatively small patch of real winter  that we Australians call The Snow. When snow, sleet, frost and ice have to be conquered just to get to the mailbox, then the novelty soon wears off.  Daylight is only glimpsed for several hours, and three and five year olds can become like caged beasts without enough room to run. For the record, so can 18 year old Australian au pairs.

But twenty years later, I think I might actually enjoy a bit of time in a real winter. And this faux-winter that we get here? Superb! I spent the weekend on the sidelines of soccer fields and netball courts, basking in the sun while my kids played. Sure it’s not always this nice,  but it’s mostly glorious weather we have here.  And I still get to indulge in my favourite things about winter:

Tea and toast – sweet, strong milky tea and white toast dripping with butter. Is there anything better?

Tracky daks, cardies and fuzzy socks – My lazy day uniform. Just try being strenuous in those clothes!

Scarves – Oh how I love scarves! They dress up t-shirts and jeans, they keep your neck warm, they add a dash of colour to a utilitarian wardrobe. Plus they’re all I know how to knit.

Snuggly cats – even the most surly of moggies becomes a ball of affectionate warmth in winter. Sure he’s just using me for body heat, but his double-thick winter coat and rumbling purr is pure contentment.

Casseroles and soups – I am the soup queen, mainly because even I can’t go wrong when the instructions are “bung it all in a pot”. If high school science labs  got rid of the pipette and the petrie dish and brought back the cauldron, I would have got a much better mark in Chemistry. Just sayin’.

What are your favourite things about winter? Plus – lets test my theory – are you a summer or winter baby? Which season do you like best?

With the new Sex and the City movie coming out about now, lots of women my age are looking forward to catching up with their old friends Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda. And I am starting to feel a little lost again.

Despite having watched a handful of episodes over the years, I have never caught the SATC bug. Although I enjoyed it when I did watch it, the show just didn’t resonate with me as it did with so many women, and it never became appointment TV.

It’s not because I can’t relate to the premise of the show. Yes, I’m a largely fashionless, married mother on a budget in suburbia, but so are many SATC fans. I think my point of disconnection is the four main characters. Not as individuals, but rather as a collective. You see, I don’t often spend time with women in the plural. I don’t have a group of like-minded gal pals that I organise morning teas, play dates, girls’ nights out or in with.

That’s not to say that I don’t have wonderful friendships with other women. I have several beautiful close friends that I love to catch up with on an individual basis, with and without our families. I’m just not part of a particular group of women friends, who all know each other and socialise together. I do have acquaintances that revel in regular get-togethers “with the girls” . When I am invited along to such occasions, I often feel out of place. I’m not sure why. I have never been made to feel unwelcome. The topics of conversation are not that dissimilar to what I would cover with my closer friends. But it feels so very different to one-on-one.

Maybe it is because the chat moves faster. More people equals more ideas and opinions. Perhaps I am not as assertive in expressing myself in front of  a crowd, although when the company is mixed I don’t seem to have a problem. Maybe, just maybe, it’s because somehow when women are presented as a group, I feel like I don’t measure up. I’ve always been a little less fashionable, more geek less chic, less feminine.  When women are together in a large group, I feel like my unwomanliness becomes more apparent and  I am on the outside of my gender looking in. Which is ridiculous when I think about it, because women aren’t some kind of hive mind, and to pass us all off as the same goes against my every belief. Maybe I feel more comfortable being myself in a group of two, because there is better chance for the other person to discover who I really am, and I in turn can better see who they really are.

So my female readers, what about you? Do you have a group of women friends that you love spending time with? How do you all know eachother? Or are you more comfortable with your friends one-on-one?

There has been a lot of talk about Jessica Watson around the traps (a phrase which here means that I am too lazy to direct you to all the articles discussing her, but I’m sure you’ve seen some.). She has been described as an attention-seeker, as a risk-taker, as too young, as a record-breaker, as a hero. It is this last word – hero – that seems to stir people up the most.

T he dictionary.com definition of hero: a man of distinguished courage or ability, admired for his brave deeds and noble qualities.

OK – so apart from the “man” part that applies, I guess.

We live in a country that encourages “hero faxes” to its Olympic athletes, so it is hardly surprising that the word ‘hero’ is being used about a 16 year old who performed such an amazing feat of endurance and strength of character. In this context it seems entirely apt.

No she didn’t save lives, and there are many teens and adults quietly doing amazing things every day that are just as worthy of media attention. But I think that nitpicking what she did detracts from the fact that she is inspirational to any young person who has a dream and dares to follow it.

In full disclosure, I was a nay-sayer as Jessica left. I thought it was foolish for a young girl to be risking her life to chase a record. I thought her parents were mad to let her go. But as she has faced the challenges along her journey, I have been turned around to cheering her on. I don’t care if she broke a world record or not, or if she gets money from appearances afterwards.  At 16, I didn’t know my arse from my elbow. I was working a crappy McJob, goofing off in class, swooning over boys who barely acknowledged my existence and wasting a fair bit of my potential. If I knew then what I know now, I would have been running at life with both arms outstretched. Good on Jessica for having the guts to do that.

Updated to add: here is  a list I found of heroic characters. http://changingminds.org/disciplines/storytelling/characters/heroic_characters.htm I think we can all agree that Jessica fits the “bold adventurer” category.

A big high five to Jodie at Mummy Mayhem – this is snowballing. Fab idea too. Everyday women with normal lighting looking beautiful. No makeup, no airbrushing, no fancy photography lighting and no soft focus. Love it.

To be honest, going makeup free wasn’t too much of a chore for me, as I don’t tend to wear any unless I am going out somewhere. So no makeup at home, or to pick up at school or duck down to the shops. Makeup is for work out of the home, weddings, nights out and clothes shopping. (What is it about those shop mirrors?)

The bigger step for me is posting a pic of myself, because I don’t tend to. So here is me, about 10 minutes ago. Resplendent in my Oscar the Grouch pyjamas. Yeah, PJs at 9am. I am livin’ the high life.

My girl is so beautiful that I swell with pride when I look at her.  I suppose it is entirely possible that she is quite ordinary-looking, but I only see beauty. Perhaps it is because of what I see.

When I see her legs, long and colt-like, I picture her running onto a netball court on wintry Saturdays. She is always bubbling with enthusiasm – not because of a particular love of the game, but because she is surrounded by friends. She is part of a team. With this group of girls she has experienced highs and lows.  This team, that suffered humiliating defeat after defeat followed by a season that surely could only belong in a clichéd feel-good sports movie, could teach many adults about sportsmanship and friendship.

When I see her hands, long fingers and large knuckles like her father, I hear a flute playing. First the piercing squeaks of the early learner, followed by the monotony of major and minor scales and finally the soaring notes as the pieces become more polished.  I marvel that her hands, with their dirty, gnawed nails and ink-marked fingers, can produce such beautiful music.

When I see her hair, no longer the blonde of her infancy, I see the tangles and knots that I have smoothed over the years. Knots gained from tree branches and bike helmets. Tangles from expeditions to the creek, from hanging upside down while watching TV. Every morning I tease them out (not always carefully) and arrange her mane into a tidy ponytail or plait. Every afternoon she comes home, looking like she has been “dragged through a hedge backwards”.  Always beaming with the adventures of her day.

When I see her eyes, long-lashed and shining blue, I see her brow furrow as she sees some unfairness in the world.  From an unkind word from a classmate, to stories of animal cruelty, to the larger social injustices she sees on the news. She doesn’t understand hate, and cannot bear intolerance. She is still learning about speaking up for others, about standing up for her beliefs, but she is trying. I know she will when it counts.

When I see her smile, I hear her laughing. From the hearty belly laughs of her baby-self to the secretive giggles of a pre-teen with her friends. The squeals of delight as she wrestles with her beloved ginger cat and the wry chuckles as she sits beside us and watches Fawlty Towers or Seinfeld, finally old enough to share the jokes.

My girl is beautiful.

Related Post: About a Boy

Last Friday night I attended a talk by Maggie Hamilton, author of What’s Happening to Our Girls, subtitled “Too Much Too Soon, how our kids are overstimulated, oversold and oversexed”. Basically the book covers the range of influences on our children, and the issues they are facing – particularly girls – from early marketing to infants through to low self esteem, “sexy” images and sexualisation, materialism, body image, pornography and the evils of cyberspace.

Today I talked to Carol Duncan on our local ABC 1233 in Newcastle about the book, the talk and how I personally feel about the issues our girls are facing -  accompanied by the wonderful Jayne Kearney (editor of Sunny Days magazine) and my mate Susan from Reading Upside Down. We all attended the talk and all have daughters not yet in their teens.

Both the book and the talk painted a pretty grim portrait about the world our girls are growing up in – complete with images from pro-anorexia sites, children modelling adult clothes, high heels for babies etc. It was shocking stuff. Lots of audience members gasped at times. And while I make jokes about women clutching their pearls, the images and information presented was disturbing. Rightfully so.

But are all our girls in trouble? I look around at my 11 year old daughter’s peers and I see kids not that dissimilar from myself at that age. They know all the words to the latest pop songs playing on the radio, they want to wear the latest fashions, they are smitten with cute boys in the playground but still would rather giggle with their girlfriends. Sure the scary wide world of web is out there now, but I like to think I’m pretty savvy when it comes to stuff that is online. I keep myself informed (and I am hugely curious) so I’ve seen or at least heard of most of the explicit and/or risky things that Maggie Hamilton mentioned in “What’s Happening to Our Girls?”

So here’s the thing – I don’t believe that the next six years or so are all doom and gloom for my daughter. I think I am doing a good job of showing her a taste of what real life is all about while still letting her be a child. I hope she will continue to come to me with her problems, and also continue to surround herself with other good people that she can turn to when Mum isn’t enough – because I wont always be enough.

I am also not blinkered enough to think that every girl is like my daughter. There will be girls who slip through the cracks, girls with low self-esteem who fall prey to some of the worst life experiences that are out there. Girls who have not been given the opportunity to be children, who see far too much of real life from far too young an age. So after Maggie’s talk and after my discussions with Carol, Susan and Jayne today I have been wondering what I can do to help them.

Barnados is one foundation that comes to mind.  So is Stewart House. Both can always use the support of the community at large to help them continue helping our children in need. I am going to do something positive to help and am calling on all my readers to look for ways to do the same.  Even just a small contribution has to make more of a difference than just pearl clutching and being afraid.

Tell me what you think – what are the biggest issues facing girls today, and can you think of any other positive ways that we can help?

With the advent of a national school curriculum in the news this week, I thought I’d gauge the opinion from my own personal expert on all things educational – my father, Papa Smurf. Papa Smurf was a high school maths teacher for umpteen years, and he has also been a parent for umpteen more, so he can see both sides of that particular coin. I was hoping to get some good old-fashioned smurf wisdom.

So for the record, Papa Smurf thinks that a national curriculum “makes sense. We are one country and people are becoming so much more mobile. Years ago people used to live in one street forever, now they move from street to street, town to town and state to state quite easily. It makes sense for a Year 10 student in one state to be able to simply pick up where they left off in Year 10 in another state.”

Sensible chap, that Papa Smurf. You can see why he’s the one they go to in the Smurf village.

So (I asked) why is this a big deal? Why are people getting worked up about it?

“Because they’re idiots.”

Ah. Of course.

Love ya, Dad!

After a hectic weekend, I had every intention of settling in this week with a bucket of caffeine and getting some work done. Such is the joy of freelance writing, you can stagger your working hours around other commitments although there is a constant rejuggling required when life gets in the way. I discovered this the hard way on Tuesday.

You see on Tuesday, I got the Phone Call. All parents of school-aged children know about the Phone Call. Generally it’s a school office staff member or teacher who calls and hopefully greets you with “Don’t panic!”  I like to categorise and colour-code these calls, depending on severity, much like the terror threat or bushfire warnings.

Code Green is a popular one around here. It matches the colour your child is when you arrive to collect them. Code green signifies that your child who wasn’t sick this morning has come down with a Potentially Infectious Virus and must be quarantined immediately. Having a son who can’t differentiate between hunger and the bubonic plague means I have had that call a few times over the years, but I can hardly tell the secretary to “give the kid a sandwich for Pete’s sake”. Fair enough too. If I were a teacher being coughed, sneezed and occasionally even vomited on by someone else’s children, I’d be donning a surgical mask and handing the little blighters to their parents with a pair of long-handled tongs.

And then there is the Code Electric Blue (for DRAMA!). Because I live almost adjacent to our school, I don’t mind these so much. There’s a whole feelgood Disney movie vibe about running across to the school with netball shoes because an excited child has phoned to say they have had a last-second call up off the bench to the School Team. Or organising someone to dash out and check the busstop where a musical instrument has been misplaced. And I really didn’t mind running a second set of clothes up to a kindergartner who had fallen into a puddle. Mummy Saves the Day!

But Tuesday was the Code Red of school calls. “Your son has fallen in the playground and injured his arm. Can you come straight away?”. All thought of work left my mind, as I raced across to the school. So much for a calming parental presence, as I appeared wild-eyed in the sick-bay door wearing what my grandmother would have kindly called a “house dress”, thongs and hair in a frizzy top-knot. Don’t judge me! Writers are known for their  comfort dressing, I’m told. Even Jo March had her “scribbling suit”. Thankfully teachers and school office staff know their stuff and my white-faced, trembling little boy with a broken wing was well looked after while I quickly gathered my wits about me. His arm had been expertly bandaged, I was given all the pertinent details about how he had fallen so I could correctly advise the hospital(he wants me to tell you he fell off a llama, but he tripped over a tree root and quite possibly his own feet) and I was even accompanied along the short walk home in case he got woozy and I needed assistance.

A trip to emergency, x-rays and a plaster cast later, I am once again grateful to the wonderful people who spend their days looking after our kids. I say it so often, but it bears repeating: Schools are so much more than we give them credit for.

Last week my old friend, colleague and blogging buddy Susan at Reading Upside Down wrote a lovely tribute to our years of friendship. She kindly neglected to mention my extreme tardiness, but the lateness of this response no doubt makes that evident to all.

So – why I am still friends with Susan, after all this time:

• She often recommends great tools for keeping track of to-do lists, planning menus and general home organisation, but doesn’t make me feel bad by actually being organised herself.
• Her iTunes playlist makes my iTunes playlist look cool, even though it really isn’t.
• She didn’t laugh when I thought waterproof shower notebooks sounded like a good idea.
• Keep your friends close, your enemies closer and don’t let people who have photos of you at 14 in your choir uniform out of your sight.
• She always brings food – often homemade for me to taste test. We really need to synchronise our health kicks a little better though, as I will inevitably be craving chocolate when she has her biannual “I need to eat better” attacks and my own fitness frenzies have been spectacularly derailed by her awesome caramel slice.
• We often think of the same thing at the same time, which thanks to the world’s best typo, is now referred to as a Vulvan Mindmeld.
• She tolerates my geeky references even though she doesn’t often understand them.
• She happily plays the wise, sarcastic Dorothy to my combined Rose/Blanche. (Yes, I’m daffy and yet slightly slutty in a scary old lady kind of way.)

Thank you for being a friend

Travelled down the road and back again

Your heart is true, you’re a pal and a confidante.