A Head For Heights

When they're not growling at each other because one wants to build a tower and the other wants to knock it down, The Girl (4) and The Boy (21 months) are heartbreakingly nice to each other. She often calls him simply "Brother" and seeks him out for comfort if I've told her off; she tries to heave him off the ground in order to show how strong she is (she manages half an inch, him being only 2kg lighter that her). Last thing at night they do a duet of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. She takes the main part, and he interjects at HOW (I wonder what you) ARE, UP A (bove the world so) HIGH, etc... He listens patiently to her various renditions of Advance Australia Fair, and gives her a clap.

I've noticed recently how The Girl imitates my nauseatingly enthusiastic way of encouraging my children - Wow this and Cor that and general You are amazing's... She applauded The Boy's first steps months ago, and laughs and woo-hoo's along with me at every new word or cute new facial expression. But this evening she took enthusiasm and confidence building to a new and hilarious level as only a child could. We were examining his teeth (he was very slow to get any so it's still a bit of a novelty) and we had an all-round hi-5 for his having 10 pearly-whites. Then she started spouting excitedly about what a big boy he was getting, how very grown-up he was, with her eyes ever wider and her voice beautifully dramatic:

"You're nearly as tall as me!" she exclaimed, using her hand to measure a line from the top of his head to just below her chin. "Wow, Brother!" she said, "If I didn't have a head, we'd be the same height!!"

Do-It-Meself

It came to my notice recently what a consistent approach I have to all creative projects - consistently mad, bad and stressful, with incredible highs and lows and a basic fingers-in-my-ears Lalalalala attitude to anyone daft enough to offer guidance along the way.

The thought struck me as I wrestled (almost literally) with a chest of drawers I'd picked up cheap on ebay for the children's bedroom (their clothes having been stored in those enormous blue IKEA bags ever since we emigrated). My intention was to pay next to nothing for them and, somehow - despite a glaring lack of D.I.Y skills - turn them into a work of art. I had a vision: I would transform them into, not just an ordinary chest of drawers, but OUTER SPACE. Outer Space with clothes inside - the picture in my head swayed between foggy and slippery but I believed in it.

As I conveyed my vision to The Australian, the look on his face told me that he was a non-believer and I determined to block him out completely - he just wanted to spoil my fun with his 'you're going to have to strip it first' mentality. As I toiled away in the garden, with the drawers placed on an old sheet, my sleeves rolled up and my energy for the project so high there was a slight buzzing noise in my ears, The Australian observed from behind the safety glass / French windows, screwing up his face as I grappled with spray-paint, mini-rollers and masking tape. I could tell what he was thinking: 'You haven't thought this through'. Lalalalala!

Three weeks later, the damn drawers were still on the damn sheet in the damn garden. Owing to a small oversight - which could also be seen as incredible attention to detail *ahem* - the drawers would no longer slide into the chest and the whole thing had to be re-done. I was horrified. Zapped of all enthusiasm. My vision was slipping away - the joy of chasing it was nearly gone. There was paint everywhere, and did it look like Outer Space? Not even if I squinted.

So I kicked it a bit, swore at it a lot, and decided to leave it there until it magically fixed all its own problems.

A further fortnight later I caved and went to The Australian with despair in my eyes and some sob-story about how I had only wanted to make something nice for the children and how it was so unfair that no one had told me that painting the sides of each drawer (so they'd look nice when you pulled them out...) with three coats was a really, really bad idea. The drawers were now covered in garden debris; I'd used so much paint that my ebay bargain was turning into a costly nightmare. So I finally took my fingers out of my ears and took his advice, mumbling 'yeah yeah, whatever' to his charitable 'well done' when the drawers were finished and carried to the bedroom. 

The scary part of this is that I still don't think I'd do it any other way, even with hindsight. That initial rush, that joy, the chasing of that slippery but irresistible vision, makes up for the wrestling and the hard toil that inevitably follows if you are allergic to planning. Chests of drawers, novels, umm, life in general - I guess I'm a buy-now-pay-later kind of woman.

Foxy

Here I am, trying to sound a teensy-weensy bit cleverer than wot I normally do, with my review of Kate Grenville's superb The Idea of Perfection.

Just My Imagination (Running Away With Me)

Now that the taste of Moet and spicy crisps has gone from my mouth, and the novelty of sidling up to The Australian and declaring: "I'm a real and proper author, y'know . . . do you really think I should be mopping my own floors and changing shitty nappies?" has worn off (almost) I find myself wondering if it was all just a figment of my imagination because since the flurry of excited emails from my agent, and a request for some biographical information from the publisher: nada.

I know this is completely normal, I know it, I do, in that tiny part of me that still has the occasional rational thought, but it's a bit like being asked on a date by a boy you've been mad about for years and then told: "But not till 2010, ok? Because I've got a whole heap of other dates to go on before I get round to you, hot stuff." You'd start to question it, wouldn't you? You'd play the conversation over in your mind. By the hundredth replay you'd start to hear different words. He didn't ask you on a date, you moron! He asked you what time it was, while looking distractedly over your head at another, prettier girl.

I've been Googling: "Did I really get a book deal?" to no avail. Maybe I don't even have an agent. I might not have written a book at all. Or emigrated. Did I imagine the children, too? Perhaps I am actually a traffic warden who, trapped in her miserable job and growing ever more lonely in her grubby bedsit, has conjured up an elaborate alter-ego to while away the hours.

This is one of the more likely scenarios I have dreamt up in the last fortnight.

Fly Me To The Moon

Partly because I'm scared to tell you this for fear of jinxing it, I'm backing into some news slowly and gently... Prepare for lift-off:

5. 

I lay awake, thinking: "Oh god, oh god, oh god, what have I got myself into?"

4. 

The Australian dashed out to buy champagne and when he returned we stood opposite each other glugging it at great speed while I broke the World Record for talking very fast with a mouthful of inappropriately spicy crisps (with Moet! I'm all class...)

3. 

I got up, paced around and walked over to the sink whereupon I seized the washing-up brush and scrubbed frantically anything within reach, humming a deranged tune and waiting for hell to freeze over / a month of Sundays / flying pigs.

2. 

I giggled briefly and my vision blurred and the words I was looking at did not make sense so I read them again, and again, and again...

1. 

My agent sent me an email and the subject header was: OFFER.

LIFT-OFF!

Have A Break, Have A Wordle

Last night I delivered the first draft of my new picture book to the kindly goddess-like editor who commissioned it and *might* want to make it into a series.

Here it is in Wordle form. I'm not saying you should be interested, but you might want to make your own. 

Read Without Mother

You may remember last month that The Girl was giving me a bit of trouble on public transport (see Read With Mother). An update, of sorts, on her reading skills . . . 

But first, a newsflash: our stuff has arrived. Yes, all 31 boxes and 2 non-box-but-bubble-wrapped-to-within-an-inch-of-their-lives-es. This was supposed to be a euphoric moment. I'd kept saying to the "Have You Settled In Yet?" Brigade that once our stuff was here the house would feel more like a home. We'd no longer feel like we were on holiday, cooking with one saucepan and staring at empty shelves. Turns out that was exactly the problem earlier this week when I started unpacking - this is really, really it (I know I've said this before but now this is really really really really really it). It's as if I felt secure in the knowledge that only we were here, not all our things, which meant we were still a bit there. But as I unwrapped photo frames and mugs with the children's faces on and the blender that still has a tiny solid bit of soup stuck on it and the old wooden wall thermometre that belonged to my grandmother, I saw my old life wash into my new life and that made me bawl. When the thermometre found itself a perfect place on the wall (which seems to have some of the most bizarrely positioned picture hooks I've ever seen), I bawled more (but quietly, you understand, so the children wouldn't see).

The following day I'd gotten over myself, and started to see more of the benefits of having stuff on the shelves (less acutely visible dust) and toys filling every inch of floor space (impossible to hoover, oh well). And today we've had a truly almighty unpacking session, while the children ran around in their pyjamas helping themselves to popcorn and satsumas and trying to play with every single toy they could lay their hands on for approximately 17 seconds before moving onto the next.

The Girl suddenly went quiet. 

"Is she with you?" I yelled to The Australian.

"No. Is she with you?" he yelled back.

"Let's think about that for a second . . . "

We were both knee-deep in bubblewrap so we shouted for her.

"Yes?" she yelled back.

"Where are you?"

"Here."

"Where's here?"

"Here."

"Give us a clue."

"OK. C-O-O-N-A-W-A-R-R-A. Coonawarra! That says Coonawarra!"

"Huh?"

"And this one says: K-O-O-N-U-N-G-A H-I-L-L. Koonunga Hill!"

Oh, we realised, she's at the wine cabinet.

Cheers.