Washing Machine Fail.

I actually don’t know where the urge to crochet a washing machine came from, but when it hit me, it hit hard. 

My friend has written a magnificent second novel. JOY MOODY IS OUT OF TIME, by Kerryn Mayne, is set in a laundromat and is gripping, slightly odd, and ultimately heartwarming. I hope that the story I tell you today will be the same.

I don’t crochet as much as I used to these days. I suspect my creativity gets poured into my writing instead, which isn’t a bad thing. It’s only occasionally I get stung by the need to bring an idea into being and when it does, I try to lay down some ground rules for myself.

1. I need enough time to comfortably make it. Preferably using time when I would not be doing anything else important – like writing.
2. I need to use up scrap yarn and stash yarn. No adding to my overflowing drawers.
3. It needs to be small and portable.
4. It needs to hold my interest.
5. It needs to be of some use to the recipient.

I’ve never actually said these rules out loud before, but not that I’ve written them out, I realise that I unconsciously try to follow them every time.

Kerryn and I became friends last year. Our books came out at around the same time and we did an event together for Eltham Bookshop. I think we instantly connected as fellow twin mums. Plus, Kerryn is the sort of person to make you choke on a book-themed cupcake because you’re laughing so hard. Together with Emma Grey (she wrote THE LAST LOVE NOTE), we formed a little debut-writer support group. It’s like a mothers group, except our babies are books. We message each other most days.

I wanted to do something special for Kerryn’s launch and crocheting a front-loading washing machine seemed the way to go. I figured out my own design using an empty coffee box as the frame underneath. I crocheted panels to cover the box using the end of a ball of white bamboo yarn. I only just had enough, it was a close-run thing. I chopped the base off a container of hundreds-and-thousands and poked holes in it the whole way around. Then I crocheted directly onto the plastic using the holes with pink cotton yarn. I used the same pink yarn to crochet a circle the same size as the plastic circle. 

Then I took a little break. Then next part would be filling the box with rice and sewing it all together. And maybe covering the box with white paper so the colour didn’t show through the gaps. Boring. Plus I had plenty of time.

At one point, a friend of mine was having a cup of tea at my kitchen table. I was describing my project to her, but she couldn’t picture it. So I dashed off to grab it out of my bag. I held the strips of crocheted fabric against the box (“and this bit goes here…”) while she nodded politely. Then I packed all of the components into the little cardboard box and shut it. So handy! I was keen to get back to the conversation, so I put the coffee pod carton full of crochet on the side table in a pile of clutter and kept talking.

Several weeks go by and it’s time for me to finish off the crochet project. Finishing off crochet projects isn’t something I do often. I know exactly which of the many piles of clutter my crochet project *should* be in. 

Except it’s not there. And I have an uneasy feeling that it has been *not there* for a while.

The sideboard is looking suspiciously tidy. I thought I was the only person who did tidying in this house! I realise, with a sinking feeling, that a small cardboard carton filled with a crochet project looks exactly like a piece of rubbish if you never open it.

Look, we can skip the crying, the interrogations, the searching, the bemoaning of my brain’s chemical make-up and the petitions to Saint Anthony and Saint Jude. We can skip the part where I sifted systematically through the recycling bin with a long pair of tongs. It was gone. The thing was gone. 

I was going to stop here. It couldn’t be helped. Kerryn wasn’t expecting anything from me anyway. I was all out of white yarn. There wasn’t time to make another one. I would leave it be.

Except Kerryn has been so good to me this past year. She is such a caring and attentive friend. I wish she knew how much I appreciate her. 

My desk tends to accumulate balls of yarn. I’m not sure why. It was while I’m tidying up my desk (see, I do tidy sometimes!) that I see it. That chunky grey ball of yarn. I stand looking at it, there in my second yarn drawer. It’s so bulky. It would make up in no time at all. Who says washing machines have to be white?

What if I try again? I don’t want this story to have a sad ending. That’s not the sort of thing I write. I reach into the drawer and pull out the grey ball and a matching hook. I find a little bag to keep them in. I wouldn’t say yes just yet. I would just give it a try.

The bag comes with me on long car rides, to waiting rooms, and the bench outside school while waiting for the bell to ring. When the lady sitting next to me at the park asks what I am crocheting, I hold it up and say, ‘A washing machine. Obviously.’

And the thick yarn does make up super quickly. And I’m able to source another piece of plastic for the front. This time it’s the base of a mini water bottle. And I’m careful not to camouflage my work-in-progress as a piece of rubbish this time.

I got it done with time to spare! The whole thing looks a bit wonky and knobbly and you have to squint and turn your head to the side to figure out what it’s actually supposed to be, but we got there in the end! 

If you are going to come at me in the comments to say that grey-and-variegated-pink doesn’t look nearly as good as white-and-hot-pink, I do not want to hear it. Be quiet. Grey is better. Kerryn has small children. White gets dirty fast. It was always meant to be grey. Grey is great.

Kerryn loves her strange gift. I say her kids could furnish their dolls house with it. She says ‘No! It’s mine!’

I wasn’t sure if I could call this post ‘Washing Machine Fail.’ because I’ve already written about a washing machine fail, but I checked and it has a different name. In fact, I have written several posts in the past about failure and washing machines. It’s a key part of my oevre. 

If you are new to this blog, welcome! I don’t write here much at all anymore (my children are several years older than they are described in the ‘About’ section), and a lot of what you find here is unedited ramblings, but I do recommend the ‘Fail’ posts (you can click on the ‘Fail.’ category in the panel on the right).

If you are a writer or my friend and I haven’t crocheted for you, it’s not because I don’t love you. There is just a lot to contend with!

Melbourne Catholic Article – ‘Listen Up’

Hoo boy! It’s been a long time since I’ve visited my blog. I’m just stepping in here to reprint an article I wrote originally for Melbourne Catholic Magazine.

A lot of people have asked me about St Therese of Lisieux, after I mention her in my novel. She’s actually my confirmation saint. Here is an article I wrote about her a few years ago:

Listen Up

I talk a lot.  I can’t help it.  Sometimes it feels like I have so much to say I might burst.  I’m often guilty of watching people’s mouths in conversation, waiting for their lips to pause, waiting for that moment when I can jump in, relieve that built-up pressure, let all my thoughts and ideas tumble out.  

At home, I have small children.  All day, I’m “put your jacket on – let Mummy wipe your nose – don’t eat that darling, that’s not food – please and thank you! – be kind to your brother – where is your other shoe? – use your big girl words”.  I can be that way in prayer as well.  I come to God with a shopping list of intentions.  Then I bark instructions at Him.  

The idea of listening to God in prayer is a little confronting.  Will God speak in a booming voice from the sky?  Will God knock me off my horse or make it rain flowers or cause a statue to get emotional or string together a bunch of meaningful co-incidences?  What if God doesn’t say anything?  What if it feels like He’s not there at all?  And how will God fit in with all my important plans? 

When I’m in need of wisdom, I turn to the Teresas.  This idea works better when I say it out loud than when I write it, because then I’m not forced to misspell anybody’s name.  And “Thérèse” gains that last syllable when made plural. But we can make do.  The “Teresas” I turn to are Mother Teresa, St Thérèse of Lisieux and St Teresa of Avila.

Mother Teresa, also known as St Teresa of Calcutta, was both a diminutive nun and a towering figure of the 20th century.  The founder of the Missionaries of Charity, Mother Teresa’s work focussed on showing love to the poorest of the poor.  Many of her writings emphasise the importance of prayer, especially silent prayer.  “In the silence of the heart,” she writes, “God speaks”

It’s difficult finding silence in a busy life.  When I go to Mass on Sunday, I spend most of the time as a human climbing pole that says “Shh!”.   But there are choices I can make.  At 9:15pm, when wrestling with a sleep-resistant toddler, I can choose to feel resentment over all the TV I’m missing, or I can choose to feel gratitude to God for the small wriggling child, so full of life and health and … alertness.  I can allow myself to feel the depth of immense love I have for this child, itself a mere shadow of God’s love for me.

When Mother Teresa, then Anjezë Bojaxhiu, went into ministry, she adopted the name “Teresa” after St Thérèse of Lisieux (another sister in her convent had already chosen ‘Thérèse’).  St. Thérèse of Lisieux, also known as St. Thérèse of the Child Jesus and The Little Flower, is a hugely popular saint.  She lived, for only 24 years, in the late 19th century.  Her ‘little way’ is a simple and practical approach to spiritual life, of small love-filled acts.

St. Thérèse writes about how she listened to the voice of God. “The Teacher of teachers instructs without sound of words, and though I have never heard Him speak, yet I know He is within me, always guiding and inspiring me; and just when I need them, lights, hitherto unseen, break in upon me. As a rule, it is not during prayer that this happens, but in the midst of my daily duties.”

Reading this makes me prick up my ears.  Daily duties?  I have plenty of those!  In my mind, I’ve always thought a relationship with God can only take place in a monastic setting, with large blocks of time set aside for sitting alone in silence and pacing through cloistered halls.  When things get busy, I put God in the ‘too hard’ basket.  I forget that, just like my best friends, God is comfortable enough among the washing and dishes and nappies and spills.  I don’t need to make things perfect to speak to God, or for God to speak to me.

This brings me to the third Teresa.  St Teresa of Avila lived in the 16th century, during the Reformation.  She is a renowned mystic, a prominent theologian and, like St Thérèse, a doctor of the church.  She also wrote my current all-time favourite quote.  If I were the type to embroider aphorisms onto cushions, I’d cross-stitch this baby onto every throw pillow I own.  Instead, I’ve scribbled it onto a sticky note and put it on my fridge: “God is in the pots and pans”

St Teresa comments, also, that it is possible to listen to God often without intuiting a response.  It has nothing to do with how hard you concentrate: God’s word can’t be forced. “I may listen for many days and although I may desire to hear them, I shall be unable to do so,” she writes in her autobiography,  “and then, at other times, when I have no desire to hear them, as I have said, I am compelled to.”

I’m not suggesting we should only listen when we pray or that we shouldn’t use words or recite timeworn prayers.  In every relationship, there’s room for small talk and trivial conversations, for deep-and-meaningfuls and mundane-and-functionals, for talk and for silence.

Listening to God means being willing to allow God to prod me out of my comfort zone.  This can be hard for me.  I like to be in control.  Listening to God means being open to God’s plan, not merely trying to slot God into my plans.

Yesterday I did the big grocery shop for the fortnight.  It was hard work.  While I squinted at cans of pineapple pieces, trying to work out if they were product-of-Australia, and if said pieces were suspended in syrup or in natural juice, my twin toddlers were trying to work out how many items they could fling from the trolley before Mummy noticed (seven and a half).

After loading can after bag after box of pasta sauce, nappy wipes and dishwasher tablets onto the conveyor belt, after flapping out the canvas bags at the packing bench and accidentally squashing a bag of bread under a bag of soup tins, after trundling along with a full trolley and a moving menagerie of children, I hefted my bone-weary body onto the travellator, bound for the car park.

As the escalator gripped the magnets of my trolley, relieving me of its unwieldy burden, so too did I allow myself to feel held by God.  I closed my eyes and took three deep breaths.  I stood amid the shriek and chatter of my children, the blare of Val Morgan advertising, and the beep-beep-beep of a nearby forklift.  I stood in that moment, and I found silence.

I still talk an awful lot.  That’s something about me I don’t think will ever change.  But I’m trying to get better at listening.  In a group discussion, I wait for three other people, and at least one introvert, to say something before I jump in and take over.  I try to spend this time actually listening, not just formulating my next brilliant rejoinder, and it’s amazing what I can learn.  I’m trying to listen more in prayer, too.  I don’t bark instructions at God (at least, not on a good day), neither do I screw up my face trying to summon a divine message.  I like to sit in the quiet of the morning or bustle in the chaos of the afternoon and think about St Teresa of Avila’s words: “Prayer is nothing more than spending a long time alone with the one I know loves me.”

These Four Walls

On Friday, we were all so excited. My two teenagers were going on a weekend venturer scout camp. My four youngest were staying with my parents at the beach. And me and my husband? Why, we were going to have a romantic anniversary weekend away at the beach (but not the same beach as my parents, because running into your kids at the local shops can really kill the mood,) I was going to lie on the sand and read any number of books and not have to supervise ANYONE.

The only thing left for us to do was to take our RATs. 

And one of us is positive.

Bleurgh. It would have been better if ALL of us had the spicy cough at the SAME TIME. Now we don’t know how long we will be in isolation. What if someone tests positive on Day 6? What if someone else tests positive on the FOLLOWING Day 6? There are a lot of us – what if this goes on forever?

The kids are great. After a few hours of loud raging in bitter disappointment, they’ve decided to Make The Best Of It. I really think this generation is better trained in dealing with disappointment. We’ve dusted off the Jar of Lockdown Fun and have been playing lots of board games and baking and eating way too much sugar and watching way too much Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug and Cat Noir.

As for me, I walked three laps around the outside of the house this morning. There was a man in a big truck across the road, outside our renovating neighbour’s house. He was looking at his phone, but I’m sure he was secretly concerned at the woman who kept walking purposefully into the front yard of the house, stepping along the perimeter of the fence line and disappearing behind the house again.

Then I made a coffee and got inside my car with my phone and keyboard. And that’s where I am now. Nobody is awake yet. I might make this a regular thing. Except tomorrow, I will open the second garage door so I can watch the sunrise.

I had exciting things planned for next weekend. I’m guessing I won’t get to do them, but I don’t know FOR SURE. That is, by far, the worst part. I’d rather just know.

There are always joys, if you look for them. My sister sent us fancy donuts almost immediately after she heard the news. My son has started painting again. The Coles Online man called out “Get well soon!” as he stepped back into his delivery truck (I don’t know why I loved this so much, but I REALLY DID).

I can hear some waking up noises from inside the house. I’m not sure how much longer I can get away with this. This was going to be a socials update, but I think it needs to be a blog post. Think of me, on my special staycation!

Adventures at the Book Shop Signing

Or “Deodorant Fail.”

So I’ve discovered that it is possible to stalk your favourite writers on social media. I never knew it could be so easy! Recently, Monica McInerney posted on Facebook that she would be doing a book signing near me. I’ve never been to a book signing before. Did you know that you can just turn up to these things? You don’t need to be a special sort of person or anything. You can just go. It’s allowed.

Of course, it would take a bit of family logistics. We would need to rush back from swimming lessons, I would need to sweet-talk Christopher to march straight back from school so he could babysit his siblings for me. I would need to clamber into my lucky alpaca-print dress and scribble on some last-minute make-up (at least I didn’t need lipstick). I would need to do battle with all things Chadstone. But then I would be there, standing in line clutching my copies of the pretty new book and listening to the people ahead of me tell their story. I didn’t want the queue to move too fast. Once my copy was signed, I wouldn’t have a reason to be there any more.

The lady ahead of me tells me she likes my earrings. As well as the new book, she’s holding a battered old copy of The Alphabet Sisters and a photo of her three daughters who have the initials A, B and C. One of the books on the shelf out the front is from Affirm Press, my wonderful shiny new publisher. Would I see my own book here next year?

The lady in front of me asks if I would take a photo of her when she meets Monica. I agree readily, then bite my lip.

“YOU MIGHT LIKE TO READ MY BOOK NEXT YEAR. IT’S BY KATE SOLLY BUT IT DOESN’T HAVE A TITLE YET.” I blurt out. The lady looks startled, but then it’s her turn with Monica McInerney. 

There is something wonderful about the way Ms McInerney connects with each person in the line. For the time she is signing their book, it’s as if they are the only people in the room. Everybody has come with a story and Monica McInerney wants to hear every detail. I am enchanted. The people behind me seem to shift impatiently.

It’s my turn and the lady in front of me takes a photo. As she hands me back my phone she tells MM that I’ve written a book. I gulp and nod and breathlessly fill in the details, vaguely gesturing towards Christian White’s bestseller as I do. 

 I give the names of my three youngest children for the first book and MM carefully copies their names down. “And how are ‘Annie, Pippi, and Penny’ related to you?” MM asks. 

My eyes bulge. I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW. “Oh! Um! They are my sisters. Wait! No! They are my daughters! Daughters!”

At this stage I am more perspiration than person. Then MM asks me what my book is about. 

Here’s the thing. Even when someone ordinary asks me this question, I freeze. The elevator pitch! Quick! Roll out the elevator pitch! Ack! Why can’t you get this right? How can you condense 80,000 words and five years of your life into two sentences when a minute ago you couldn’t even remember you had kids?

I gaze back imploringly, give a little whimper then finally garble out something about “crochet!” and “refugees!” and “yarnbombing!” How does anyone talk when their mouth is so chock-full of tongue and teeth? It’s a physical impossibility.

MM gave me the warmest of smiles. “I can see why Affirm snapped it up,” she says, giving me a sound bite memory I will use to light myself up from the inside for years to come.

And THEN! Then she insisted I let her know when my book is coming out so she could put a ‘Happy Publication Day” post on her formidable socials. I’m not sure how I remained standing at this point.

When it was time to go, I wanted to tell her how much her books have meant to me. How before I read Those Faraday Girls I didn’t know that there were books out there that were chatty and humorous and had endearing characters and absorbing plots. How I had since read all of her books, even the novellas and short stories. How they brought me joy and comfort at a time when I had babies that wouldn’t go to sleep and a house that wouldn’t get built. How much I hope to emulate her.

Instead, I carefully manoeuvred my mouth around my oversized tongue and teeth and said “Thank you for writing!” Then I stumbled away in glee and triumph.

When I shared the photo on my family message thread, my sister (Cindy Brady) responded with this edit, highlighting the manic gleam in my eye. What are siblings for?

PS. It struck me that I should promote Monica McInerney’s new book to MY one hundred followers, so then it’s like the same as her promoting me to her 11,000 followers. Favour repaid in full. Monica’s latest book is The Godmothers. She has also written her first junior fiction novel Marcie Gill and the Caravan Park Cat. They are both lovely (Well The Godmothers is – I haven’t read Marcie yet but it looks delicious). Having said that, if you haven’t read anything of Monica’s (we’re on first-name terms now, you see, she’s my BFF) I would also recommend Those Faraday Girls  and The Alphabet Sisters. Family Baggage is pure delight as well, even though I’m not sure how that family travel agency would work as a business model in real life.

Success!

It’s a lot. I still don’t feel ready to write about it. 

But here’s the thing: I showed my manuscript to a publisher and they’ve offered me a book deal!

It’s going to be a book! It’s going to be in shops!

Nup. Still can’t get my head around it.

I was in the middle of a wedding rehearsal when I found out. It seemed wrong to shriek the news out across the church when I probably shouldn’t have been looking at my phone in the first place. When I got home, Christopher (who is now 14) had made a delicious lasagne, but had only just put it in the oven. He is an excellent cook, but sometimes struggles with the project-management side of things (it was 7:45pm). The younger children were hyper-hangry and fighting. I had a brief moment of joyful glee with my husband, before he had to sign in to two Zoom meetings at once (I don’t know how that works either).

It was only after I warmed up plates of lasagne for the kids, only after I got them ready for bed, only after I drove to McDonalds to pick up Matilda from her job, only after I gave her a driving lesson home, only after I got my own slice of lasagne from the oven and put it on a plate that I was able to grapple with the idea. 

“Dammit.” I said, and dug around in the fridge drawer for a bottle of Prosecco that was on special at Liquorland the week before. I popped the cork and grimly poured myself a glass. Then I looked at the glass. It’s been almost five years. It’s been longer if you count the time writing for my blog. All of the snatched sessions writing in cafes and libraries and in the car (like I am right now). I try to summon up some kind of response. I’m going to be published.

Nup.

Then my husband came out of his meetings and we watched an episode of Ted Lasso together.

The next day, I had a couple of people over and was berating myself as I company-cleaned for the first time in many months. I am not kind to myself in these situations. My internal monologue goes like this: “How did you let things get this bad?” “What is wrong with you?” “Look at that mess!” “You are a FAILURE!” But I stopped for a moment as I tipped out filthy mop water. I may be a domestic failure, but I DID just sell my novel!

Since then, I’ve managed to feel joy through other people’s reaction to the news. The idea of being published is like a small smiling thought, warming me from the inside. And now I’m telling you, and it feels like the biggest thing. Because you’re my reader community, my biggest supporters from the start. It’s too big. I don’t have words. I didn’t plan it, but it turns out today is my blog’s nine year anniversary! Thank you for everything. I would never have done it without your support.

I can’t WAIT to show you the novel!

Locky D Lucky D

So we’re in deep dark lockdown here in Melbourne again. We’re not allowed to leave the house, except for five reasons, we have a curfew at night, and the playgrounds are shut. This is our sixth lockdown. It’s hard.

Do you remember how I sometimes go into manic Pollyanna mode when stressed? That’s what happened this time when they tightened the restrictions and I realised things were going to get really miserable. Up until then, I’d kind of been mooching through lockdown, every day looking like the one before. But last week, it was time for me to get off the couch and put my big girl pants on. It was time to Mum Up.

Here’s what I did:

I brainstormed a bunch of fun activities that we could still do, even in the strictest of Locky Ds. Every morning, we draw one out of the jar and do it.

It sounds simple, I know, but I can’t tell you how much sunshine this jar has brought into our life. In the past, we’ve brainstormed on butcher’s paper, but I’m telling you: the jar makes all the difference. Here’s why:

1. You only have to do ONE fun thing a day.
2. You don’t have to make a DECISION ever.
3. The kids look forward to the lucky dip event even more than the actual activity.
4. As a bonus, the kids don’t drag their feet about getting ready in the morning. We don’t do the lucky dip until everyone is dressed and fed.
5. We no longer have to deal with a long stretch of days that all look the same.

I shared (rather smugly) this idea with some friends from parkrun. One of the women lives alone and has made herself a jar full of grown-up activities which she draws out once a week. Last week, she bought herself fresh flowers. I can’t wait to find out what she does next.

Here are some of the activities we have in the jar:

• Pancakes and french toast
• Decorate a birthday cake for no good reason
• Fake-away night (make take-away style food)
• Painting day
• Board game night
• Free day off school (primary school only!)
• Slide night
• Zoom kahoot quiz with friends
• Movie night
• Video game tournament
• Videocall hide-and-seek
• Everyone gets to choose a treat for themself in the online grocery shop
• Make caramel popcorn
• Walk in the park to collect things for a flower mandala

I’m trying to remember to take photos. When we made the caramel popcorn, we put some in a bag to deliver to the family who lives behind us. BUT I FORGOT TO TAKE ANY PHOTOS. What is the the point of doing something impossibly wholesome if you don’t document it?

Pippi, my youngest, is now worried that lockdown will be over before we get to do all the fun things. I don’t think she needs to worry too much. This is Melbourne, after all. We’ll always have another lockdown to look forward to.

Running Start

Here’s an article I wrote for The Majellan last year (I think it appeared in the Autumn 2020 issue). In case you’re wondering: yes. Majellan, Champion of the Family, is the same A5 magazine your mum used to read when you were five! If you’d like to subscribe, it’s quite reasonable. Let them know I sent you!

Running Start

Thunk, thunk, thunk. I hate this. I hate this so much. Thunk, thunk, thunk. Surely it’d be easier to shift a huge bag of potatoes. Thunk, thunk, thunk. I can’t breathe. I need to stop. Thunk, thunk, thunk. This is the worst. Thunk, thunk, thunk. OK. Just to the next tree.

I’m not sure how, but I’ve become a Person Who Runs. I mean, obviously it didn’t just happen. I got one of those Couch to 5k apps and obeyed the little robot voice that told me to “RUN-for-ONE-minute”; I obeyed when “ONE-minute” became “FIFteen-minutes”; and then, when I finally managed to run five kilometres without dying, I joined the local parkrun with my friend Jacinta.

Have you heard about parkrun? It’s a free timed 5k run that’s held every Saturday at parks all over Australia. The one near me is a real community event for people of all ages and abilities, plus their dogs and their babies. I’m a fan, even when I’m not enjoying the running part.

It’s weird that I’ve taken up running. I don’t look like a runner. If I’m honest, I look like a lady who has been pregnant so many times, her body has forgotten how to look not pregnant. And I don’t enjoy running, though I do enjoy the smug feelings that come at the end of it.

I’ve come a long way from when I first started out. For one thing, I figured out how to settle into a rhythm, and breathe so I’m not gasping like a fish all the time. I also worked out that I need to firmly strap down all of the parts of me that jiggle. This was a game-changer. When I get dressed for a run, I’m like a sailor preparing for a storm on a ship. A large, unwieldy, overly bouncy ship. Batten down the hatches, folks.

There’s a boy up ahead of me running with his mother. He’s over it. “This is stupid! I don’t want to do this! I want to stop! My legs hurt!” For a moment, I stare at him. It’s as if my subconscious has come out of my body and manifested itself as a small child. Has the voice in my head taken human form? 

At primary school, I wasn’t one of the sporty kids. When the class needed to be divided into teams, the teacher would appoint two captains to take turns choosing classmates for their side. As their teams grew, their teammates would whisper suggestions. I can still remember the disappointed, reluctant shrug my captain would give at the end, when he realised every other child had been chosen and he would have to assign me to his team. I tripped over, dropped balls, and was oh-so-slow. I was a liability.

The thought of having to run scared me. Like, properly scared me. Behind my eyelids, I can still see my classmates waiting for me at the opposite end of the oval. They finished the cross-country course ages ago. They are bored. As I flounder along, they seem to get even further away. I am never going to get there. Those tiny specks at the end of the oval, they’re annoyed with my freakish incompetence. It’s never going to end. I will be stumbling across this oval for the rest of my life.

I don’t want to sound disturbed, but when I run, I need to fight a chorus of voices in my head. Along with my entire Grade Four PE class, I studiously ignore the judgey voices telling me that taking time out to run is selfish, that I’m a Bad Mother. And it would seem I’m not alone here. Many mums put their own health last when sorting out priorities. We would rather be unfit, than be seen as an unfit mother. It’s hard to convince myself that exercise will help me to be a better parent in the long term, but I know I must.

And so I plod on. I’m not going to be the fastest, or the strongest, and I’m definitely not going to be the one who looks cute in running clothes. My super power is that I turn up, no matter what. In winter, I splash through puddles, rain streaming down my face. In summer, I plough through the dust and the heat. Jacinta finishes a full fifteen minutes ahead of me and waits to cheer me on at the finish line. 

There is something wonderful about running in a group of encouraging people. That man who always finishes in the top ten per cent doesn’t know it, but his gruff nod and “well done, keep it up” means the world to me. Somehow, acknowledgement from the fast runners gives me permission to be there.

Running is a great way for me to sort out the chatter in my head, and is well suited to prayer. When my friend’s baby was in the NICU, I managed to pray a full rosary while running. I counted decades on my fingers and huffed out prayers to fit the rhythm of my pace “Our FA-ther, who art in HEAV-en, hallowed be thy NAME…” I offered my pain up for the tiny little fighter all covered in tubes. It felt good to be actually doing something, instead of feeling powerless.  

It can feel, sometimes, like taking time out to run is selfish, that I’m cheating my family by doing something for myself. I know this isn’t true. My kids need a healthy mum. Lately, my fourteen-year-old daughter has joined me on a Saturday morning. Matilda is a natural runner, very fast and completely unselfconscious. I love sharing this time with her, even if I’m running miles behind!

At the turn-around point, I’m really struggling. The anguish is written so plainly on my face, when I pass Complaining Boy, his mum points to me. “See, Timmy,” she says in an encouraging voice, “you’re not the only one who’s struggling!”.  In my gasping and spluttering, I have become a Teachable Moment. Happy to help, lady.

But here’s the funny thing.  After eighteen months of lumbering along with no improvement, I’m starting to see some changes. While my body hasn’t yet remembered how to look not-pregnant, I’ve lost a lot of weight. These days, I rock more of a first-trimester physique. And my times are getting faster. I’ve almost caught up to Jacinta. Last Saturday, one of the parkrunners approached me.

“Hello,” she said, “I’m just a random stranger.”

“Hello, Random Stranger,” I said.

“I wanted to say I’ve noticed how much you’ve improved over the past month. You’re running so fast!”  

As I smile, and thank the random lady, I catch Jacinta’s eye. My pragmatic, no-nonsense friend is crying. “I’m just so proud of you,” she sniffles.

Well, that’s the end for me. I didn’t mean to get emotional, but tears immediately spring to my eyes and Jacinta and I become a sobbing, hugging mess as Random Stranger carefully backs away. It’s silly. It’s just sport. 

Except that it’s not. It’s friendship and community and health and discipline. It’s a clear head and a place to pray. It’s being a Good Mum. It’s self-care. It’s telling my Grade Four captain that I do deserve to be on his team. It’s refusing to be afraid. It’s the reason why, when I go on holidays, I look up the local Mass times and the local parkrun. It’s finally reaching the other end of that oval.

I wipe my face, smile and shrug. “See you next Saturday!”

(Kate Moriarty)

A carpark of one’s own

I need to find a new place to write. My glorious writer’s retreat, the empty house of my parents-in-law, is no more. They had the audacity to come back from Adelaide and actually want to live in their own house. Did you ever! Libraries aren’t open when I want them to be and I don’t want to take up a table for too long in a cafe that’s struggling to get back on its feet. And I can’t work at home. If I’m at home, everyone automatically assumes I’m in charge. And there’s no space. My eldest daughter sleeps in an ACTUAL CUPBOARD. Last week, I did some work on my novel in the car with a drive-thru coffee, parked next to the local community gardens. I prop my phone on the steering wheel and get it to talk to my bluetooth keyboard, on my lap.

There was this grey noisy miner that kept attacking my side mirror. It wanted to show that other bird in there who’s boss. It wouldn’t have done that if it were a raven or a magpie. Ravens and magpies are smart enough to recognise their own reflection. But noisy miners are stupid, stupid birds.

I tried to ignore it and work on my novel. I did a lot more frowning than I did typing. After a bit, a police car crawled slowly past me. When it got to the end of the street, it did a u-turn and crawled slowly back. Both policemen were watching me as they approached. I hastily pulled up my face-mask. Was I doing something illegal? I don’t need the four reasons to be out of the house anymore, do I?

The car pulled alongside mine and the driver motioned for me to wind down my window. He peered at me “Is everything OK?”

Everything was not OK. My manuscript was a mess and I was starting to doubt my ability to ever make it into a coherent whole. Every scene was missing beginnings or endings and peppered all over with [SHOUTY NOTES]. I was ridiculous for ever thinking I had the skills to take this on. A flock of kamikaze birds kept hurtling themselves into the mirror next to me, making me jump. And I needed to find a way to make Harper’s story work. How was I ever going to make Harper’s story work?

I nodded like a maniac and garbled something about writing. I waved my bluetooth keyboard at them, “I have kids at home!” I exclaimed.

The policeman frowned and drove off. I forgot to mention that my kids at home were being adequately supervised. Oh well.

Today I’m going deep water running with a friend. I have no idea what ‘deep water running’ is, but I’m doing it in person with a friend, so that’s all I really need to know. I’m in the carpark of the council pool right now. I’m an hour early on purpose. And here’s the thing: Nobody looks at you funny if you’re doing work in your car at a pool carpark. Everybody is doing work in their car at a pool carpark. I’m now googling the carparks of all of the local sporting complexes to compare their varying benefits as writer’s retreats. It’s very possible the rest of this novel will be written outside of a place with “SAC” somewhere in its name.

Watch this (car) space.

Laundry Fail.

So, lately I’ve been having meetings with my younger sister, Cindy, about my novel and how it’s getting along. It involves a lot of me moaning about how I’ll never get any of it to work and Cindy reassuring me that I’m almost there and can do it. This is what I was doing yesterday (Sunday) afternoon, after I’d set off a wash in the machine. It was towards the end of our chat, as I was putting together a shopping list of experts I’d like to talk to, if I can work up the nerve to ask them, when Penny burst into the room screaming.

Here’s what happened: Pippi, for reasons best known to herself, had tipped a bowl of (cold) tomato soup all over her twin sister. And Penny was FREAKING OUT. “My clothes are dirty! My clothes are dirty! I don’t like wearing clothes when they are dirty! Get them off! Get them offfff!!”

I told Penny to take her clothes off and put them in the laundry sink (also: find Daddy – Mummy is not on duty) and I sent Pippi to the naughty step (“but it was an accident!”).

As I finished my conversation with Cindy (I should point out that Cindy wasn’t actually in the room. We live in Melbourne, where everyone is under house arrest. We were talking on Zoom) I could hear my husband setting the timer for the naughty step and helping Penny with her clothes.

I emerged from the study maybe ten minutes later. Pippi had served her five-minute sentence and apologised to her sister. They were now both in the laundry. Pippi sat on the lid of the washing machine while Penny encouraged her from below. It took me a while to work out what was going on.

Pippi, perhaps in an effort to fix things, took it upon herself to load the tomato soup clothes (both hers and her sisters’) into the washing machine with a slosh of laundry liquid and a scoop of napi-san for good measure. You might ask how she was able to access laundry liquid and napi-san. Don’t I keep these on a high shelf? Indeed, both of these are stored on a very high shelf, but Pippi is an adept climber. I caught her just as she was programming a cold wash.

Of course, this would be a good time for me to amend the washing machine situation, perhaps put the soupy clothes on to soak. But I had two five-year-olds shouting at me that they wanted a bath. And did I mention they were both stark naked?

“No bath!” I declared. See, here’s the thing. Pippi loves baths. Not the serene, lavender-scented, let’s-get-you-all-calm before bed kind. More like the water-everywhere, riotous, diving-practice-from-the-side-of-the-tub kind. And I can’t. I just can’t. Having twins is about efficiency. Showers all the way.

But Pippi is crafty. Lately, she has been finding ways to get especially muddy, or chocolatey, or otherwise sticky, “I’m too dirty for a shower, Mummy. I need a BATH! And so does Penny!” In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if this was her motivation for the soup “accident”.

So here I was, climbing the stairs as Pippi and Penny chanted “BATH! BATH! BATH!” in a sort of nude rally. I couldn’t give in. I tried to stand my ground. I couldn’t reward this behaviour. But any suggestion of shower was met with tortured shrieks.

All down the stairs, an old jigsaw puzzle had been spilled. I was struck with inspiration, “If you pick up these puzzle pieces for me, you may have a bath”

They picked the pieces up for me, and I kept saying, “You’re getting a bath because you’re helping Mummy, not because you shouted and poured soup on your sister” but I suspect the nuance was lost on them.

So anyway, it was getting to mid-afternoon when the twins were drying off. We had planned to visit the beach that day, just so we could look at it. We hadn’t had much chance to get out of our 5km bubble since the restrictions had been lifted. I still needed to hang that second load of washing out, the one I set off before my meeting with my sister, but Mr Knightley was all “let’s not worry about the washing. It’ll be sunny all week. Let’s just get going.” So we dashed off. I managed to hold two facts – the fact that I had a clean load of washing to hang out, and the fact that Pippi had placed tomato sauce-soaked clothes along with a good amount of laundry product into what I assumed was an empty machine – in my mind separately, without putting them both together and understanding the whole situation. You will remember, I never actually looked in the machine. Until I did, the washing machine contents were like Schrodinger’s Cat. Nobody knew for sure what was in there, so they were all things and nothing at once.

That was yesterday. What’s more: I am out today. I left the house early. On Mondays, I write while Mr Knightley is in charge at home. Mr Knightley won’t know what is happening in that machine. Christopher (who is thirteen now, can-you-believe-it?) gave me a call at 8am. He needed his mask for school (in Victoria, it’s against the law to leave the house without a fitted face mask). His mask, at least, the only mask of his that isn’t currently missing, was in that wet wash. He needed to dig through that sorry mix of wet and soup-stained napisan-encrusted laundry to fish his mask out and dry it with a hair dryer. I also told him where the hair dryer was. I am Mother, Finder of Things.

If you are a longtime reader of this blog and something about this seems familiar, you are right. One of my first-ever posts was about a pint-sized Chirstopher Robin setting off his own wash. My blog has come full circle. I had a darling theory when I first started writing. By documenting all my fails, I would learn and improve and eventually run out of material. Perhaps it’s a good thing for my writing career that I’ve not yet learnt a thing.

Save The Madonna – Update

 

Good news! The Madonna has been saved – for now at least. Thank you so much, especially to those of you who subscribed to the magazine. The magazine is still in need of subscriptions, so if you’ve been meaning to subscribe, but haven’t got around to it yet, can I ask you a huge favour? Please tell them I sent you! I’d like to get some more gigs with this magazine, so it would be great if they knew that my writing is worth it. Also, I have an enormous ego that needs feeding.

For those of you who missed it on the socials, I’ve finished the first draft of my novel! Watch this space!

And now, here’s another taste of the sort of writing I do for Madonna magazine. This piece was first published in their Autumn edition, 2017.

 

First Steps


“So, children, today’s Gospel is about prayer. When do you pray to Jesus?”
“When we say Grace?”
“Very good, Therese! What’s another time we pray?”
“My Daddy has a shed and it has a lawnmower in it.”
“That’s interesting, Patrick, but we’re talking about…”
“We have a lawnmower in our garage!”
“Thank you, Annie. Now, back to…”
“On TV, there’s a lawnmower and his name is Larry.”
“OK, thanks Harry. Can anybody tell me when they pray?”
“Yes,”
“Harry, is this about lawnmowers?”
“No”
“Is this about prayer?”
“Yes: you can pray on the TOILET!”

I’m on Children’s Liturgy today. Twice a term, I take a group of kids to the church gathering area and try to teach them about God. It’s a fearsome task. The deepest desire of my heart is for my children to carry their faith into their adult lives. But at the moment, it’s hard just to get them to Mass on Sunday.

I would love to just sail into church with four children and two babies all clean and combed and beautifully turned out in their Sunday bests. Most of the time, I seem to turn up late with a rag-tag posse of tangle-haired urchins, some still wearing articles of sleepwear and others with evidence of breakfast on their faces. I do my best, quickly fashioning a messy ‘up do’ for my daughter with a hair-tie I found on the car floor, or buttoning a clean coat over pyjamas. One Sunday, I managed to corner my youngest son halfway through Mass and surreptitiously cleaned his face. Accordingly, the quiet solemnity of the Eucharist was punctuated by a loud shout: “No! That’s MY VEGEMITE, Mummy!”

There are times when I draw on all the power of my teachers’ college theology. Once I took it upon myself to explain the nature of the Easter Triduum to my then-five-year-old daughter, Matilda.

“So Good Friday is not a Mass, you see, even though we have Communion, because there is no Consecration. The Communion we have on Good Friday was consecrated at Holy Thursday Mass.”

I raise my eyebrows impressively at my daughter. I used to get ‘A’s in theology. Matilda wrinkles her small forehead.

“So you’re getting leftovers?”

Still, there are times when you know you’re doing something right. When my eldest boy Christopher was a toddler, he was fascinated with our church’s statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. The statue itself is fairly standard-issue. Plaster Jesus stands in floor-length robes looking glum with his hands outstretched. Christopher pointed at Jesus’ arms. “Jesus wants a cuddle, Mummy?”

On another occasion, my mum mentioned that the wooden baby Jesus was missing from their nativity set. Indeed, the young Messiah went AWOL directly after our last visit and Christopher had been playing with the figurines. You can do without a shepherd, perhaps, but a nativity scene really doesn’t work without Jesus. He is one of the key players. Perhaps Christopher might know of his whereabouts?

Accordingly, after Christopher came in from playing in the backyard, Grandma asks “Christopher, do you know where baby Jesus is?”
Christopher says “yes” tremulously. Everyone catches their breath.
“Where’s Jesus, Christopher?”
Christopher pats his breast solemnly, “In my heart, Grandma”

Christopher and Matilda are older now. Both have made their First Communion and are proud altar servers. Once a month, I take them individually to an early weekday Mass (6:45am!) and then we have a cafe breakfast together. It’s a bit sneaky really. I want them to associate warm feelings and special attention from Mum with going to Mass. Isn’t that some form of classical conditioning? But surely nothing but goodness can come from bacon.

It’s time for my Children’s Liturgy group to form the Offertory Procession. There’s whispered squabbling at the back of the church over who gets to carry the cruets and then we’re off. I follow like a mother hen as the children traipse down the aisle, the choir sings “Hosea”, and the children deliver gifts to Father. It is as they are bowing to the altar (one sideways, one backwards and one of them fell over), that it struck me: this is what it’s all about.

In the end, for all my strategies and theologising and indoctrination by bacon, I don’t have the power to bestow faith on these children. That’s not my job. I am but walking beside them at the beginning of their faith life. All I can do is guide them to the altar and try not to get in the way as they meet Jesus. The rest is His job. And perhaps if I am humble enough, I might learn something. After all, someone very wise once taught me, Jesus is waiting for a hug.

We all just need to learn to hug back.