Not Very Fast But Furious Anyway

 

I’m going to preface this post with a little story that lots of people have already heard.

 

I start every car trip with a quiet little moment to myself.

 

I say, in my head, “Please just let us get there today”.

 

It’s like, if I forget to do it, something bad will happen because the universe will think I’m taking things for granted & decide to mess with me accordingly.

 

The universe is a bitch like that.

 

Anyway, before we left Cairns I was talking to a friend about how getting in the car, for a long drive with the family, makes me nervous as hell.

 

I’m always hoping we don’t end up another tragedy on the news that night.

 

Yeh, I’m bright & cheery like that.

 

Laithe used to get the shits with me because he thought I was just being negative.

 

But I see it as more as a necessary consideration.

 

When bad shit happens, it’s always the last thing you expected. So, I figure, if I expect it & prepare for it, at least mentally, it won’t happen OR I’ll know what to do when it does happen because I’ve already walked myself through the scenario.

 

Makes total freakin’ sense to me, and being just a little bit prepared helps with my anxiety.

 

So does Valium going to sleep.

 

That’s usually my action plan when we get in the car.

 

Water bottles, snacks, toys, seatbelts. Now every body shut up & wake me when we get there.

 

So! We were in outback Queensland, on our way to Sydney, after we left Cairns.

 

Laithe was paying me out about my little “issues”, so I politely said “Up yours, I’m going to sleep”.

There’d been road works for a lot of the trip but all had been going well.

We were totally loaded up with all our stuff in the Hilux & towing Laithe’s work trailer, which didn’t have independent brakes. It took a bit to pull up when we needed to stop.

 

So I close my eyes to get comfy but turn back to look at the road & there’s this bright orange, backpacker mobile.

 

In our lane.

 

Coming straight at us.

 

Laithe’s standing on the brakes.

 

I’m standing my brakes.

 

It was in slow motion, full HD.

 

They realise what’s happening & start swerving, smoke coming off their tyres. The nose of their van just about digging into the bitumen & there’s nowhere to go because of the road works.

 

If Laithe swerved it would have opened up mine & Georgie’s side of the car so he just kept it straight.

 

There was nothing else to do.

 

The safest thing for us, having airbags, was to hit them head on.

 

Both of us were just bracing for impact, the kids in the back completely oblivious.

 

Then, just like in the movies, at the very last second, they swerved hard back into their own lane.

 

They were so close Laithe could have reached out & slapped them.

 

I’m pretty sure Vin Diesel was driving.

 

They’d swerved so hard though, that I was sure they’d end up in the rock wall on the other side of the road OR swing back round & take out our trailer. But they managed a full recovery & limped off slowly, probably lighting about 6 cigarettes each as they went.

 

We pulled up further down the road to check everything & change my undies.

 

Our legs were like jelly!

---

 

So, have you ever towed a caravan? 

 

The steering in the Cruiser wasn’t quite right when we first took off round the south of WA.

 

The van is a hefty 23ft & wasn’t packed very well, so it kind of felt like towing a huge brick.

 

Balancing on a unicycle.

 

With a parachute deployed.

 

The steering wheel would go, pretty much, from ‘10’ to ‘2’ without the car actually responding. And, even with the stabilising bars in situ, the van would sometimes try to steer the car down the narrow country roads we’d lumber along on.

 

We’ve clocked almost 20,000km’s in the last 10 months.

 

It’s been, hands down, THE most stressful part of the trip for me.

 

I sit in the passenger seat in a state of adrenal crisis; constantly in ‘fight or flight’ mode.

 

Palms & feet sweating like a bitch.

 

I’m sure my pituitary gland shit itself months ago.

 

If I see any cool stuff as we’re driving I don’t point any of it out to Laithe.

 

I don’t want him to take his eyes off the road!

 

Not only do you have all these animals to avoid & watch out for, there’s a whole bunch of potholes, pedestrians, caravaners, cyclists, motorcyclists, trucks, trailers, boats, buses towing cars, wide loads & just general knobs on the road who think overtaking you, on a bend, on a crest, is a brilliant idea.

 

But the things that make my arsehole go into spasm most of all are the Road Trains.

 

Three & four trailers long, coming at you on a narrow road.

 

And ALWAYS on a sweeping fucking bend!

 

You can feel the force of them as they pass & the van gets knocked about by a great gust of wind.

 

It’s terrifying.

 

But now that we’re in the The Territory, where the speed limit is 130k’s an hour, the roads are wider, & there’s markedly less traffic, it’s not so bad.

 

Not that there’s any  chance of us doing 130.

 

The best we manage is 90km/h during the cool of the morning, & 80km/h for the rest of the day.

If we try to push it (because the kids have gone batshit, or something) you can watch the needle shoot up as the car starts to overheat.

Not something I’d be too happy about in the middle of the desert.

 

Having never towed anything in my life, I thought it a pretty good idea to have a go while we’re out here.

 

Driving in a straight line.

 

Not reversing anywhere.

 

So I did a full 63km’s my share of the 20,000km, coming out of Kununurra. And Laithe got a taste of what it’s like in the passenger seat, having no control of anything.

 

His arsehole needs toning.

 

What have I learnt?

• Tourists can’t always be trusted to drive on the right side of the road.

         Neither can Laithe.

 

• It’s not the first kangaroo you have to watch out for, but the second.

 

• Emus will not get out of the way. They’ll run in a straight line like they’re stuck on train tracks, or something.

 

• I’m pretty good at towing a van.

        At least I watch the road.

 

# I don’t actually take Valium. But Laithe would like me to.

Back by popular demand.

I know myself pretty well.

I can procrastinate the shit out of any task.

Specially the ones I set for myself.

 

In light of that, I should have called this blog “Places They Went”.

And so, without further adieu, a blog post…

 

Tonight we’re in Kununurra.

A bees dick from the Northern Territory border & a few weeks shy of a return to Western Sydney.

Plenty of time for Hawesbury City Council to organise my ticker tape parade down the main street of Windsor?

 

We’ve swapped the blues, greens, & whites of the WA coast for the reds, browns, & browns of the Kimberly.

 

It’s hot out here during the day.

 

There’s bush fires burning & the car’s struggling along at 80k’s an hour.

 

We’re skipping all the “good bits” of the area that we desperately want to see because we’ve added an EXTRA YEAR to our travel itinerary! Yikes.

We need to ditch the van (it won’t follow us where Laithe we want to go) & come back in a couple of dry seasons with a camp trailer that’s properly set up for exploring.

 

We’ve spent the last 2 weeks in beautiful Broome.

Have you ever been?

 

You should totally go.

 

In winter.

When you walk over the hill to get to Cable beach, it’s just like a scene from a postcard. 

 

We rendezvoused, at Palm Grove Holiday Resort, with some professional Grey Nomads we know.

The kids call them “Nanny & Pa”.

 

There were 2 shower blocks at Palm Grove. The big block gets a 2 Pubes rating & the small block a 3, based mainly on size.

 

In the small block, the showers were tiny & the bacterial breeding ground shower curtain kept sticking to my arse every time I turned around.

 

The other Grandparents flew in in style for a few days before taking off on their own 5 day Gibb River Road adventure.

 

But everyone who’s anyone was present for Miss G’s, long awaited, 6th birthday which happened to fall on the first night of Staircase to the Moon.

Three nights a month, on the full moon, the tide goes out exposing the mudflats of Roebuck Bay. It looks like a “staircase to the moon”…

We all headed down to Town Beach for some nibbles, wine & cake.

 

Anyway. All Georgie wanted for her birthday was to get her ears pierced, excuse me!

 

She’s been banging on about it for months.

 

We talked it over, explained it all, mentioned it would hurt a bit, but she wasn’t phased.

So off we went to the chemist.

 

The one that looked like it’d have the lowest rate of staph infections per piercing.

Dotting the i’s…

Shitting the pants…

Happy as Larry.

 

She skipped & danced & yahooed her way out of there, & we couldn’t wipe the smile off her face.

 

After the body mutilation & the festivities, we took in the sights of Broome.

Spent a few days enjoying both ends of the iconic Cable Beach.

Watched a few local heroes spring into action to save some vehicles left unattended, facing certain doom, as the 9 meter tide inched quickly up the beach.

Bid farewell to the Grey Nomads as they headed off in the opposite direction to us.

Saw a few decent sunsets over the Indian Ocean.

 

Enjoyed a few beers at Matso’s Brewery…

Not to mention the BEST $10 bowl of chips ever eaten…

And went to the markets about 4 times during our stay.

I also spent way too much money on pearls. But hey, it’s Broome. You’re almost obligated to buy pearls there.

 

Laithe & Georgie enjoyed a trip to the museum with Nan & Pop, while I stayed home with a sleeping monster. (Museums are not for him).

 

Not wanting to miss out, I managed to take in the Broome Cup & the Roebuck Bay Hotel’s Wednesday night Wet T-shirt Competition some other cultural experiences Broome has on offer.

I caught up with friends from Cairns, drank beer, & even managed a filthy McDonalds run at 1am. None of which I regret.

 

We finished off our awesome stay in Broome with more beer & chips at Matso’s & another sunset at Cable Beach.

 

Oh, Broome.

 

How I love thee.

 

But I’m afraid, if we’d stayed any longer I would have become obese.

Where have you been my blue-eyed son?

 

I’ve had this uneasy feeling ever since Emerson was a baby.

Not only was he the boy I’d hoped for, he was also this awesome, easy, & happy little guy.

He ate, he shat, & he slept. And he never kicked up a fuss about much.

 

I felt like it was really just too good to be true.

With all the shitty things that had happened to the people around me, how could I be so lucky?

 

My uneasy feeling came from waiting for my luck to run out. And I was sure when whatever was going to happen happened, it would definitely have something to do with Emerson.

 

Every night when I put him to bed I’d squeeze the crap out of him & whisper in his ear “Goodnight. I love you. And make sure you wake up in the morning.”

 

When he was a couple of weeks old he slept through the night. Something that would normally have a parent of a newborn dancing on the ceiling. No?

I, on the other hand, stood at his bedroom door dreading what I was going to find on the other side of it.

 

After I managed to make myself go in there, I found him, wrapped up in exactly the same position I’d left him in 10 hours earlier. The room was still fairly dark which gave his already pasty skin a pale grey/blue appearance, & I couldn’t see or hear him breathing.

 

But he was breathing.

 

Not a thing wrong with him.

Just having a great sleep & completely oblivious to the fact that he’d totally freaked out his nut case mother.

 

That was nearly 3 years ago & we’ve had SO many near-misses since then.

He’s fallen down hill sides head first. More than once.

Pulled a cup of tea onto his face & chest. Luckily it was one of the million cups of tea I made myself & never got to drink, so it was cold when he got to it.

He’s fallen down stairs. Up stairs. Off beds. Off the lounge onto tiles. Into walls. Out of the car (because you can NOT help him). Into the fire pit. Onto the BBQ. Off the trampoline. Off the swing… again, more than once. And the list really does go on & on.

 

The kid’s Guardian Angels must be exhausted.

 

 

He’s gone missing a few couple of times on this trip too.

 

On the 5 acre property we stayed at in Albany, I finally found him under the tarp, in Pop’s boat…playing with a fishing knife.

 

In Perth he took off on his scooter, in a pair of undies, at the caravan park we stayed at. He’d headed straight for the pond & was about to go chase the ducks in the water when Laithe found him.

His confidence in the water far exceeds his actual ability.

 

Took himself off on his bike back at Coronation Beach, where I found him like this…

 

Then, a couple of days ago, he toddled off again.

It happens SO quickly.

 

There’s a couple things about Emerson that make him a total danger to himself.

 

1. He has zero to no fear of being left alone. If I walk off on him because he’s being uncooperative he couldn’t care less. He just finds himself someone to talk to or something to do. No worries. The kid will talk to anyone.

 

Even when they don’t want to talk to him. 

 

2. There is no such thing as ‘Stranger Danger’ in his world. Where ever we camp, he invites himself into peoples campers to see what’s happening. When Laithe & I introduce ourselves to people, more often than not, they’ll say “Oh, you’re Emerson’s parents are you? Yes, we’ve met  him & Georgie & we’ve heard all about your travels…”

 

3. If you tell him not to touch something he will touch it. Even if he can see that it’s glowing hot, has razor sharp bits, has teeth, or is growling at him.

 

4. He doesn’t learn from his mistakes. Ever.

“Did that hurt, mate?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to do it again?”

“Yes.”

 

5. He’s good with directions. If we’ve been there once, he knows which way to go.

It took Georgie 3 weeks to figure out how to get to school here in Onslow.

 

It took Emerson about 2 days.

 

He sits in the back telling me “Up that way, Mum. Left here, Mum. Yep.Yep. Up here.”

It’s great that he can do all that but it also means he knows where he’s going & he doesn’t care if you’re not coming too.

 

 

So, on Friday afternoon, I checked the kids.

 

They were out the back at our friends place; Georgie on the swing, Emerson in the dog kennel. Naturally. 

Everything looked under control so I went out to tidy the van & wash the dishes before dinner.

 

It took me about 10 minutes.

While I was out there I kept thinking I could hear him, so I checked outside a couple of times to make sure he wasn’t wandering off up the road.

We’re at the end of a cul-de-sac with paddocks & a couple other houses around us, so I was confident he wasn’t on the road.

Just to check, I went back out the back to see where he was.

 

Georgie was still on the swing, but no Emerson.

She didn’t know where he was so I started checking the house, the yard, next door’s yard, around the van, & around the front yard.

 

No Emerson.

 

I’m not one to panic about these things but I was getting pretty concerned. And, like all good kids, of course he went missing around dusk.

 

I was running around shouting for him, but no answer.

 

Laithe was still at work & no one else was home, so I told Georgie to stay put while I ran up the road to our friends place, thinking he might have wandered up there.

 

I bashed on the door & realised Jack (who we’re staying with) was next door having a drink. I shouted to him that I couldn’t find Emerson, so he jumped on his dirt bike to go have a look for me.

 

Our friend, Mick, had come to the front door I’d been banging on & I shouted to him the situation as I was running off in a different direction.

He went to do his own search.

 

So I’m running down the driveway to the hospital (Jack & Sally’s place backs on to the hospital) because that’s the way we go to the beach.

Emerson running down the hospital driveway 2 days earlier…

 

Shouting for Emerson the whole way.

Looking under the building as I ran.

Looking through the paddock as I ran.

Realising that the dam was not far.

 

You know how you can have a thousand things go through your head at once?

 

I’m thinking, “Yep. This is the day I’ve been dreading, for sure. Did he head towards the Fair? Did he wander past the paedophile’s place? Would he have crossed the road. OF COURSE he would have crossed the road, you idiot, there’s trucks on it! What if he’s in the dam! I’ve never given a kid mouth to mouth before. STOP THINKNG LIKE THAT! Jack’s probably found him already. Man, I’ve got a stitch. What if he’s just sitting on the toilet, or something! No, I checked the toilet. Oh, God! Does he even have pants on this afternoon? He’s probably at the beach. Christ it’s getting dark!…”

 

I’m doing a spastic knees-up run over the long grass towards the dam, still shouting for him, looking for his little foot prints in the mud & hoping I didn’t step on a snake. Some other local men across the dam heard me shouting & offered to go look for him too.

But after no sign of him there, I sprinted off to the beach.

 

Well, it felt like sprinting but it was probably closer to lumbering by this stage.

 

No sign of him at the beach AND the fact that I had to run back up a bit of a hill had me really starting to panic.

 

It was at that point, maybe 20 minutes after he’d disappeared, that Laithe rang me to say Emerson was home & he was okay.

 

*Queue tears of relief* … as opposed to the tears of fear that I’d already been squirting.

 

 

On my way back home I ran into Mick & his family.

 

He said Emerson had pulled up at his place, happy as Larry, sitting up like Jackie in the back of a shitty old 80 series Landcruiser full of black fellas. (Mick is a black fella).

And if he’d had his camera he would’ve take a picture. 

 

They’d even put a seat belt on him!

 

Apparently, they’d found him on the side of the road, just outside the Aboriginal community. It’s a couple hundred meters away, down a dirt track off the cul-de-sac & across the main road into town.

From where we are staying, we can hear the loud music that often plays all night there… & the occasional fights.

 

Anyway, they’d picked him up & taken him to the 2 families in town that have red headed kids to see if he was theirs. After that, they brought him to Mick’s, because “Mick knows white fellas”.

 

When I got home I was still crying & Emerson bounced up like nothing had happened (as they do).

 

“Mum, why you twying? Don’t twy. You my beau-ful Mum. I your beau-ful boy.”

 

He told me he’d headed down the track looking for Jack because that’s where he rides his dirt bike.

“I so sowwy I fwightened you, Mum.”

 

Pass me the Valium, PLEASE!

 

That was 2 days ago & I still feel exhausted.

I’ve barely been able to get to sleep at night.

And because I haven’t moved my fat arse any further than from the couch to the fridge (OR four feet) for the last 2 months, my hips & legs are killing me after all that exercise.

 

I’ve tattooed my number to Emerson’s forehead, & can somebody put a frigin’ bell on him? 

 

I’m going to print off some ‘Missing Person’ flyers while we’re here too.

 

For next time.

 

Beau-ful boy indeed.

Vodka & Rainbows: A mental health review

 

Have you ever had one of those days weeks months where you start the morning far too early, washing pissy sheets from, yet another, wet bed, your kids decide that drawing on the couch with pen is a great idea, 3 hours after you get up you finally sit down to breakfast, you manage to wash AND PUT AWAY every item of clothing & crockery laying around only to head into the afternoon with a full sink & a basket full of miniature peed in undies, your tiny human who usually sleeps solidly for 2 hours a day decides that that’s well overrated… two days in a row, leaving him homicidal & looking very much like a Chucky doll with a flashing neon Yoyo as his weapon of choice, only to finish the day with your 5 year old having the Mother of All Meltdowns on the floor of your caravan, screaming blue murder, hating school, her brother, her family, her living arrangements, the country, the world, the universe, & wishing everyone would just LEAVE. HER. ALONE!!!!, & all you want to do is go foetal on the floor with a pair of earplugs but you can’t because, despite how much you’ve swept it, it’s still covered in red dirt & fucking Rice Bubbles?

 

No?

 

Me neither.

 

 

The last few weeks have been a pretty big adjustment for all of us.

 

We rolled down the stabilising legs on our Caravan of Certain Divorce happy home about six weeks ago.

 

That heralded the end of our daily adventures as we knew them & the start of a few things.

 

New job for Laithe.

Big school for Georgie.


Complete & utter isolation for Emerson.


And a return to something that feels very much like my former dreary home life; cooking, cleaning, washing, only this time without my fabulous dishwasher to keep me company.

There’s been a marked decline in the state of mental health around here which, unfortunately for me, hasn’t correlated with an increase in alcohol consumption.

We’d been spoilt with all that traveling & unemployment; not having to get up on anyone’s schedule, except Emerson’s who thinks Sparrow’s Fart is still a reasonable time to demand request breakfast.

Laithe’s job has had him up at 5.30am & home about 12-13 hours later, thirteen days a fortnight. He’s been tired, impatient & still depressed that he’s even had to work at all.

For the rest of us, the school term started well.
Everyone was up early & ready on time so we could walk, ride or scoot to school.
But after a few weeks, the weather turned to shit, the three of us got coughs & colds, & a certain level of fatigue set in.

Georgie, who was desperately craving some independence, would take off on her bike, & I would be stuck with this guy taking 20 minutes to ride 800 metres because he had to stop & inspect every. single. piece. of shit & rubbish along the way.

The commentary that went with his inspections was detailed.

I especially hated Wednesdays- bin day- because, not only did it take forever to get to school, it was a full scale assault on the senses. Every 5 meters.

“Mum! *sniff sniff* I smell somesing.”

Emerson usually takes most things in his stride, but it’s been killing him not being allowed to go to school too. He just can’t understand why they won’t let him stay.

He’s the most enthusiastic kid in the class.

He runs in there every morning with a huge smile & a “DOOD MORNING MISSAH HAWIS!”, to which Mrs Harris has gradually gotten used to.

Georgie’s first term of ‘real school’ has been… er… character building?
For her and I.

Academically she’s been doing fantastically.


Though while her reading & writing improved dramatically, so did her left hook.

She was so tired after school/ before school/ on the weekends that she completely lost her ability to be reasonable, pleasant, & non-violent.
MEGA embarrassing when you’ve gratefully camped on you’re friend’s front lawn & are trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

She had a check-up with the school Nurse the other week who’s nursing assessment was “A very polite, well mannered young lady”. Apparently her vision & hearing were good, but her manners? Spectacular!

Say what?

I’d like a second opinion, please.

She was getting so frustrated with everyone that all she could do was kick, scream & throw herself around on the bed. I’d never seen that kind of shit from her before.

From me, yes. But not from her.

It was awful.

And after the Mother of ALL Meltdowns, just when I thought the Academy Award was in the the bag & it couldn’t get any worse, the following afternoon I was proven wrong.

I don’t even know what set it off.

I don’t think she even knew what set her off but my bed got stripped, stuff got thrown all over the van, she nearly put her foot through the cupboard, & Emerson got so freaked out he had to leave.

She screamed that she was ‘SICK OF THIS VAN! I AM SICK OF EMERSON! I AM SICK OF YOU! I HATE NEAT & TIDY. I WANT MESSY & DIRTY! AND I HATE ALL THESE COLOURS(in the van)! I JUST WANT EVERYTHING GREY!!!!!”

I’m no fan of imitation wood grain panelling either, but I didn’t think it was worth losing my shit over.

I was exhausted just watching her.

That was last week.

I’ve spent all this time, AGAIN, questioning what we’re doing? Whether this trip was a god idea? Was it fair on the kids? How many night duties would I have to do to pay for therapy when they’re older? And what could I do to make things pleasant again?

I decided some pets might be a good idea.

You know? To help decrease our risk of depression, lower our blood pressure in stressful situations, increase serotonin & dopamine so everyone can just CHILL. OUT.

Of course, they had to be caravan friendly.

(Our new family members. They’re a hoot!)

I was totally right.

We spent an ENTIRE day doing crafty stuff. Drawing, cutting, pasting. Making a frigin mess.

Nobody glued their hands together. Nobody got stabbed in the face with the scissors. And everyone’s tympanic membranes remained intact.

And almost just like that, a corner was turned.

Since then, the hysteria has subsided, the post-school sibling World Champion Kickboxing title fights have ceased, & there is laughing again.

Not evil, demonic ‘laughing while I scratch you eyes out’ laughing, but proper, giddy, ‘I’m gonna wet my pants if I don’t stop soon’ laughing.
The stuff I was used to.

And it is pleasant as hell.
Like waking up to this the other morning…


Of course, we don’t all shoot rainbows out of our arses every day & she still gets totally pissed off, but she’s chosen to express herself in a much more reserved & mature way…

Message received. Loud & clear.

Look at the bottom picture. It’s ME! The observant little wench has even drawn in my grey roots! Look how sad I am.
*sigh*

I do my best not to “mack her angrie”, but some days I’d like just a Vodka & a long soak in a full bath, or a long soak in bath full of Vodka. Whatever.

The school term finishes in a couple of weeks (thank Christ). Our poor, long suffering friends will have their front yard back, & we’ll be back out on The Road.
Back to “normal”.

Hopefully with enough cash in our pockets to get us back to Sydney without having to stop for work again.

Back to the In-Laws place where I can have a long soak in a bath. And where I can fill it with Vodka if I want to.

Beauty School dropout

 

Bless me Crystal (my hairdresser), for I have sinned.

 

It’s been 8 months (at least) since my last haircut.

 

Yes, I could have gone to ‘Sue at site 137’ back in Perth for a $12 special, but I’m tight, reasonably vain, & Sue is not you.

 

Instead I preferred to hack away indiscriminately at my own split ends… & my bangs… & my chin hairs.

I’m sure I’ve done such a good job & I’m totally confident no one will notice.

 

Until my next haircut.

 

I’ve been going grey since I was 17.

 

That’s cool. Some people look awesome in silver.

 

My grey hair, however, makes me look like a corpse.

 

I was sick of worrying that Pepe le Pew was going to come at me from behind, so I splashed out 15 big ones, got my usual colour, & did my very best not to get it all over the 3 Pubes rated sink at Karrinyup Waters Resort, Gwellup.

 

Thank Christ they were little, private ensuite bathrooms.

 

I smothered the grey roots but you know I’m too impatient to wait the required 15 minutes before refreshing the rest of my dead head, so the colour build up on the ends could be quite impressive by the end of this trip.

 

That was over 3 months ago.

 

The grey hairs are back. Longer & more pube-like than ever.

 

With a box of hair dye in my back pocket, I had intended to return myself from The Dead & tackle them them when we got to Onslow.

 

But now I’m not so sure.

 

I’m thinking of going grey. Very ungracefully.

 

Just for a bit.

 

To see what it’s like.

 

I haven’t seen my natural hair colour since 1995.

 

How bad can it be?

 

Don’t answer that.

 

 

It’s hard maintaining a beauty regime ever on the road.

You barely ever see the same people twice & there’s not that many mirrors around so you tend to not give too much of a toss about how you look.

 

Or how many weeks days in a row you wear the same clothes.

 

As long as my pits don’t stink & my toenails don’t clip on the ground when I walk, I’m generally happy.

 

That said, now that we’re staying put for the school term, something really should be done about the state of me.

 

The eyebrows? …Ugh!

 

The toe nails? …Erck!

 

My  heels? …Eeeeewww! They look like they belong to some 68 year old, diabetic truck driver named Trevor.

There isn’t a pumice stone (or angle grinder) in the world that would be big enough to tackle them. I could choke an entire tank of those little, Thai foot-eating fish.

 

The bikini line? …What bikini line? There is no actual ‘line’ it just blends with the rest.

A lot like this…

At least it means my sideburns don’t stand out as much.

 

And sure, we’ve been to a lot of spectacular places but too may bright white beaches & sunny days mean a whole lot of squinting.

24/7 with my kids & fisherman husband means a whole lot of frowning.

Only injected botulinum toxin (or a complete mental breakdown) will have any effect on these ravine-sized face creases.

 

All that time in the sun has a serious effect on the old décolletage too or, as they call it in the bizz, your “dec”. Ask anyone who works for Ella Bache & they’ll tell you the importance of a sun cream & moisturising regime for your “dec”.

 

(Side note: I would never refer to my décolletage as my “dec”. It hardly qualifies. It’s more like a very small patio. And even that’s stretching the truth.)

 

I have tried though.

 

Not once have I been sunburnt. But the continuous sun exposure has left my small patio feeling like one of those tanned kangaroo scrotum purses & looking very similar. Anymore sun exposure & I’m likely to come back looking like this…

 

I really should start wearing turtlenecks.

 

 

Unusually for me, I have a tan at the moment. I call it “Whiter Shade of Pale”. With extra freckles.

 

My skin in general has been up to shit thanks to all that sun cream I have to wear & the fact that I have to bathe in my own filth that bucket. It’s disgusting feeling greasy & pimply all the time. Kind of like being back in high school.

 

And I don’t know what it is, all this fresh air, good livin’, or an early onset of menopause, but what is WITH all these hairs sprouting out of my face!?

 

It’ll take some sort of magic to clean this mess up.

Unfortunately, I’m no magician.

 

I can’t pull a rabbit out of a hat, but I can pull a hair out of an arsehole.

 

So with my epilator in one hand & a forest management manual in the other, it’s time to bight down on a strap & do my worst.

 

Wish me luck.

 

 

What have I learned so far?

 

• The extension mirrors you have to have for towing a caravan are AWESOME for plucking hairs out of your face/nose your eyebrows.

 

• I’m in my thirties now. Always, ALWAYS check under your chin… and up your nose.

 

• It doesn’t hurt to check the old inner thighs as well. Specially if you intend to wear shorts that sit above the knee.

In Retrospect: Part One

 

To start, let me take you back to just last week.

 

Something happened last week that can best be described as entirely Laithe’s fault unfortunate.

 

Back in Perth we emptied out the van so Laithe could go nuts with the silicone & seal up all the cracks where the dust comes in.

He put a few screws here & there to hold things in place while the sealant dried.

 

He left the screws insitu.

 

So when we left Carnarvon the cupboards were stocked up & very full.

 

I’d managed to score myself some little treats, one being a certain bottle of Ginger Ale (I can’t tell you how sick of water & hideous long life milk I am! We hadn’t even had juice for ages either).

 

We headed off, down a not-so-beaten-track, to spend a couple of days here…

Warroora Station (pronounced Warra)- Photos on Facebook

 

We camped on the beach at 14 Mile.

The scenery was spectacular.

 

Until I got inside the van.

 

It’s always a little bit exciting opening the van back up after we’ve been “off road”. Despite our best efforts, you never really know what you’ll find… or where you’ll find it.

 

This time when I got in there I found we’d made some sort of industrial strength grout (or a really great scone batter) with my bottle of Ginger Ale & some flour.

 

10 kilos of flour.

 

In the bedside cupboard.

 

It looked a bit like this…

 

One of the screws Laithe had left in the cupboard had pierced my beloved Ale bottle &, on the corrugated road, it had fizzed & sprayed.

 

Everywhere.

 

Then it started to leak out from under the cupboard, run down the side of the bed & onto the floor mats.

 

What you can’t see in the picture is how nicely it was, sort of, baked on to the wheel arch because of the heat.

 

What you also can’t see is that I had to use salt water to clean everything off. You have to carry your own water into most places up here because there’s no fresh water supply & we needed every last drop for drinking & cooking & washing stinky bodies & such before bed.

 

So I managed to salvage a lot of the flour after sifting through with my fingers to remove the doughy dags that had formed here & there. Everything else was sort of cleaned & left with a nice sticky/salty residue.

 

And maybe some seaweed glued on here & there.

 

It’s not the first time this sort of shit has happened.

 

Last time it was 2 kilos of sugar.

 

The resident ants that have decided to nest SOMEWHERE in this bloody van just about shit themselves with excitement.

 

I’m sure they were kicking back, in a wall cavity or light fitting somewhere, thinking “would you just LOOK at these arseholes! Amateurs.You NEVER leave it in the bag! Can somebody get them some Tupperware or something?!”

 

(#Note- The sugar incident? Also entirely Laithe’s fault unfortunate.)

 

 

Remember when I said “There is no toilet to clean”?

 

Well, at Waroora Station, you not only have to bring your own fresh water, you have to take your own Chemical Toilet with you as well.

 

We were aware of this & reluctantly purchased an uncomfortable little beauty back in Perth.

 

It had stayed in the box, unused, for at least 2 months because we hadn’t finished arguing about who’s job it would be to empty it.

 

Given that I am a nurse, Laithe believes I have a “degree in Poo” & all things poo related.

 

I disagree.

 

There are many downsides to carrying your own toilet, in my opinion, but the main benefit has to be location, location, location. One day I’m pooing to Cyndi Lauper in Carnarvon & the next night I’m on a pristine beach, under a sea of stars so clear & bright, listening to the waves gently lap at the shore.

 

There were shooting stars all around me, & it wasn’t just a lack of fibre.

If only I’d taken a picture for you.

  

All arguments aside, someone had to empty the toilet. And seeing as Laithe’s the one that fills it up the most I thought it only fair that he be the one to do the job (no pun intended).

 

I was just there for moral support… with the camera. In case he got shit in his mouth.

Luckily for Laithe it was incident free at the dump point & the newly christened toilet was cleaned & put back in it’s box. For as long as possible. I didn’t have to touch a thing.

 

Back on the road & with the toilet safely stored we passed this…

 

…and ended up here…

Floating on Ningaloo Reef, Coral Bay

 

…but that’s a story for another day.

An education of sorts.

Lesson One:

 

Georgie started school this year &, in my infinite wisdom, I decided I’d be fine to take on the role of, Asian Tiger Mom totally laid back, teacher.

It’s only Kindy, right?

No big deal.

I can manage that.

I went to University, or something.

I can still even remember Kindergarten. The teachers, the classroom, the miniature furniture, the giant pencils, the chair bags, the smells (mostly clag, peanut butter, bananas, & a hint of urine).

 

So I did some research. Talked to my teacherly friends. Got the low down.

 

Tried to apply for “Home Schooling”, but we didn’t meet the criteria.

School of Distance Education? Not enough postal/internet access.

“Unschooling”- not enough under arm hair.

School of Life- not enough weed.

 

So I’ve been going it alone. Without the weed & the underarm hair. Well, mostly without the underarm hair. Making it up as I go, so to speak.

 

We bought a couple of age appropriate work books from Targét.

I looked up the curriculum…. And the 8 BILLION web pages about schooling your kid.

That oughta do it, right?

 

 

 

What ever I teach, it’s all inconsequential really.

 

Because she knows everything.

 

Along with knowing everything she’s also perfected The Eye Roll, The Foot Tap, The Exasperated Sigh of Annoyance, The Stomp & Slam, & The Huff & Strop.

 

There’s only so much huffing & stomping you can do in 4 square meters of floor space though.

After that, you get tied to the roof racks.

 

We don’t just concentrate on an academic education.

 

She’s learning really important, practical things. Things she might otherwise only learn from watching back to back episodes of Macgyver.

 

How to put on a pair of long pants in a wet shower cubicle without dipping her hems in the grotty water.

It’s involved some intensive training, not at all dissimilar to this…

 

How to navigate her way through a visit to the bathroom, touching the least amount of surfaces as possible & pointing out the most likely places you’ll find all the gram negative bacilli & cocci as she goes.

 

How to drive one of these…

 

How to catch, clean, cook & crack into one of these…

 

How awesome it is to be able to do this…

 

How they make these…

 

How many different colours these come in…

 

And this she picked up just from watching Laithe, not me…

Fish scaling.

 

She’s learning the value of a dollar.

I’d saved her birthday money from the last 5 years & cracked it out when we left for her to buy souvenirs & stuff while we travel.

 

She is officially the richest member of our family.

 

Unfortunately money doesn’t buy taste so I’ve had to veto most would-be purchases over the last few months.

 

She is, however, loving herself sick with her new purse ($6 from Strandbags). Naturally, a purse needs a handbag to be carried in. I managed to convince her that the horrendous lovely shiny silver bag she picked just wasn’t right for her & that she could, in fact, live without it.

So when she walked into the to the second hand shop in Denmark & found this little Billabong beauty for ONE DOLLAR, she was ecstatic!

She also scored these IMAX DVD’s.

 

She’s watched the Deep Sea & Galapagos ones over & over, & now tells me (in one breath) that when she is a marine biologist, she’s going to go to the Galapagos Islands to take photos to bring back to show the kids in her class when she’s a teacher…

 

She’s also going to be a nurse.

 

And maybe a pilot.

 

I wrote most of this post months ago & never published it. The pictures are old & so are the stories.

 

But, the other day, after weeks of this…

 

…the first tooth finally fell out & the Tooth Fairy came through with the goods.

 

Then, this morning, this happened…

 

 

Georgie went to school!

 

We’re staying with friends in Onslow while Laithe gets a few weeks work, & Georgie really wanted to give school a go.

 

So off she went.

 

Not a single nervous bone in her body.

 

Emerson, on the other hand, was devastated.

 

Not even a trip to the park on the way home cheered him up.

“Where my George?”

“Mum, I weely do want my George”. 

 

We just picked her up from school & she said she’d had a great day.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

 

And in other REALLY IMPORTANT news, this happened…

Living dangerously?

No. Just showering WITHOUT thongs on.

 

And not a bucket in sight.