Livin' large in Kenilworth

We’re camping with the in-laws! Super Geek’s parents own an amazing camper & they are generous enough to invite us along with them. So, here we are in Kenilworth! This place is heaven on earth – rolling hills, a bubbling stream & a herd of cows softly mooing their way home

We may never come home

I have never been more in awe of the human spirit than today. We visited the Brisbane suburbs of Graceville and Chelmer today to help with the flood cleanup. The streets were full to bursting with glove and gumboot clad volunteers sifting through the muck, scrubbing walls, hosing down houses, mopping floors, moving furniture. Most of us were complete strangers, united only by the havoc mother nature had wrought on our home city.

Despite having lost most of their worldly possessions and facing uncertain futures and extended periods of homelessness, the survivors we met were stoic, smiling, grateful and positive. That’s not to say that there weren’t tears. Emotions ran high for everyone. I was certainly unprepared for the ache that I felt as I drove through mud-lined streets, houses stained and dripping, piles of rubbish growing and lining every street. Home owners fluctuated between heartbreak, gratitude, devastation and hope. But, in true Aussie style, the sense of humour remained strong and ever present. One friend apologising that she hadn’t cleaned up before we arrived and another posted a tongue-in-cheek sign “All items here and inside – free!”

Volunteers cruised the streets offering water, food, cleaning supplies, toilet paper and other necessities from the boot of their cars. Even our ex-PM got his hands dirty. More than 22 000 volunteers dedicated their weekend to clearing out the muck and when we were done, swamps looked more like neighbourhoods. There is still a really long way to go. But there is hope amongst the aftermath. And there is sunshine, at last.

Waiting. Watching. I don’t watch the news, but for the last couple of days, I haven’t been able to look away. I have never felt so helpless in my life.

Images of an iconic riverfront restaurant where I spent a fabulous New Year’s Eve just a couple of years ago sinking beneath our rising river. Friends packing what they could and fleeing their homes, not knowing what will greet them when they return. Frantic text messages to friends I know who live in potential flood zones. Waiting. Watching.

Eventually, I had to tear myself away from the tv and various social networks and try and busy myself in my own home, trying to pass the time until I can do SOMETHING.

It’s the not knowing that really does you in. We are too far from the river to have any idea what is going on. And, while this means our home, family and belongings are safe, it also means we cannot comprehend the extent of the damage. We don’t want to be sightseers viewing the misery of others, so we wait, busying ourselves in absurdly ordinary ventures. I moved the contents of my linen cupboard and cleaned out my laundry all the while feeling completely ridiculous – the contents of hundreds of linen cupboards was floating out to sea on the Brisbane River. And so we waited. And watched. But tomorrow we would be needed. Tomorrow thousands of people would return to what is left of their homes and begin the long, heartbreaking task of sifting through the devastation to salvage what they could of their lives before the floods. Tomorrow we can help. Tomorrow the waiting is over. Tomorrow the war begins.

I am exhausted. My home town is bracing for a flood. A flood worse than in 1974. I haven’t been sandbagging – my home is high and (relatively) dry. But I have watched, with broken heart, the devastation in Chinchilla and been kept in the loop by an old school friend. Then I watched as Gympie was inundated and, again, felt the suffering of so many watching their homes go under. Gympie’s flood made all the more personal by friends who live there. THEN Toowoomba. Oh my goodness! Toowoomba! Those images were beyond terrifying. The idea that water can come so swiftly and brutally to an inland town is beyond imagining. The images of streets I have often driven down as raging rapids plays over and over in my mind. My heart aches for the families of those who have lost their lives and I feel desperately for those who will be left to clean up and rebuild.

As we watched these events unfold, I wondered how taxing it must be to know a disaster is coming days before it does and feel completely and utterly powerless to do anything about it. I wondered what it must feel like to be waiting for the worst and wondering just what that would be. And now, I know.

Snapshot of the 1974 floods - predictions are that 2011 will be worse

As I type, we wait. Brisbane River has broken it’s banks some 12 – 24 hours ahead of schedule. The worst is yet to come. Tomorrow there will be a king tide and Wivenhoe will open floodgates directly into our river. In the following couple of days we’ll see Ipswich’s flood waters meet our own. Tomorrow and Thursday will be the true indicators of the extent of flooding we might expect. I have spent the day glued to Twitter, Facebook and ABC news watching familiar places engulfed in gloomy brown liquid.

The worst part of it all is the feeling of helplessness. We are safe, but helpless to do anything to ease anyone else’s fears. All I can do is to wish everyone well. Know that my prayers are for our collective safety. Good luck Brisbane. Here we go…..

So, which one is it? Well, we may never know for sure, but, in the spirit of balance (something I always promise myself I will actively seek) I plan to be here more regularly and keep you all informed of the *ahem* ‘fascinating’ goings on in La Libelulle.

Happy New Year!

There is nothing like good timing and frankly, this is nothing like good timing…. On the very eve of the September holidays we have been struck down! Cursed! Damned! Schackled! Over-dramatised! Yes, we have chickenpox!

Okay, so I have a tendency to be overly dramatic and to exaggerate when I think it makes a good story (who doesn’t?). But this much is true…munchkin number four has meandered home from school with the tell-tale blisters that spell certain removal from all social invitations which may be forthcoming this gorgeous spring break. And boy, doesn’t it cut her to the bone! Poor little love is not only facing a fortnight of solitude, but her 9th birthday, itching like there’s no tomorrow!

On the upside, it does conveniently remove my obligation to entertain extra children during this first week, leaving me wide open to slog through the ever growing pile of university assessment which awaits. Hey, munchkin number four, I’ll trade you – chickenpox for assignments. No? Can’t say I blame you…feel better soon, little one. xx

When it comes to handbags and shoes, I am a leather purist. There. I said it. There’s no going back for me now. Oh sure, like anyone, I’ve been guilty of succumbing to the temptation of the all too cheap and accessible imitations. Go on. You can admit it. We’ve all got that ugly skeleton in our closet. The super cute clutch or adorable pair of Mary Janes that, at $19.95, we just couldn’t resist. It’s okay. No-one’s perfect. But while you won’t broadcast that you’re wearing PVU, you don’t go telling anyone it’s leather either.

At least that’s what I thought. It appears I was wrong. On a recent expedition to find the handbag to end all handbags – one that I can take from uni to work to book week parades at school to dinner with SuperGeek hubby – I found that there is an elite group of faux leathers that come not only with an alarmingly high price tag, but a disturbingly disillusioned marketing ploy.

Yes ladies, there’s a new kid in town. It’s Genuine Faux Leather. Oh no, this is not that fake faux leather that distasteful chain stores stock, oh no! This is bonafide, boutique style, $400 price tag GENUINE faux leather. I kid you not.

How does one know if one is lustfully stroking a genuine faux leather accessory as opposed to some other kind? The smell? Nope – just as toxic and plastic as the next faux. The feel? Nope – still makes your fillings want to jump out of your mouth when you scrape it with a fingernail. Well, clearly, one must look for the tag. Oh, and the price point.

As attractive as the prospect of shelling out for the ‘real thing’ was, I’m an old fashioned girl and settled on a delightful and traditional leather bag at less than half the price of it’s genuine faux leather counterpart.

It may not carry the status of Genuine Faux Leather, but at least I don’t have the blood of genuine faux cows on my hands.

Ever wondered if you are smarter than the average bear? If you have ever taken a Facebook IQ test you may well question their validity (I may have succumbed once or twice – don’t judge me). So, today I finally took the plunge and took, not one but 4 separate ‘genuine’ online IQ tests.

The first was a mere 10 questions long. I got them all correct! I’m a bloody genius and I didn’t even know it! What’s that I hear you say? Not conclusive? Point taken.  So, I headed over to the UK to test my nosh against a nation. Hmmm – apparently recognising British celebrities who have been morphed with other British celebrities is not my strong suit. Maybe I’m not a genius afterall – there goes my ‘nutty professor’ career path. Back to the drawing board, I guess. Of course, it could be argued that questions like “What is your shoe size?” and “What is your hair colour?” do not necessarily build an accurate measure of my intelligence, but let’s not get technical.

The next 2 tests were very similar and felt more like a legitimate test of my intelligence. No sign of interest in my height or personal colour preference, these people actually wanted me to solve problems! I almost broke out into a cold sweat and had flashbacks to year 11 maths, but I got through it. The good news is there was no laughter which accompanied my results, sadly there was no fireworks or invitations to join elite societies either. Of course, some might say that anyone crazy enough to spend approximately 2 hours online answering questions like “door is to house is like gate is to…” on a Sunday afternoon doesn’t need a number to tell them they’re almost certainly a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

So, while I’m left puzzling over the relevance of star signs to intelligence, I can rest assured that there are a great number of people more capable than I who already know the answer. Sleepless night averted.

So, I am not Generation X’s answer to Alfred Einstein and I will never be invited to join MENSA. But it was a fun way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

Okay, so here’s a little bit of context. I live in Queensland. Nationally, our children have not been ‘performing’ (industry term, not mine) as well as children in other states when it comes to NAPLAN results. This is widely published and one of the reasons there is such a push for a National Curriculum. What is not widely published, is that up until this year, our children have been 6-12 months younger with 1 year less schooling than their interstate peers. Suddenly our results don’t look so bad. Furthermore,  since 2007 and up until this year, we had been operating a play-based Preparatory program. This program offered the best of both worlds – children were offered a safe, supportive environment in which to develop socially, emotionally and physically while still beginning to learn the academic skills they require to be successful in the following 12+ years of formal education ahead of them. But this is all changing.

The pressure of meeting a National Curriculum guideline has lead many well-meaning teachers to revert to old-fashioned schooling methods that were outdated when they were used on me some decades ago. I did some relief work in a school yesterday where I used to (proudly) be a part of the team which offered a child-centred program that promoted positive outlooks to learning through active investigation, only to be devastated by the discovery of Prep room tables set in rows, facing a blackboard. Children were no longer offered the opportunity to investigate their world and come to meaningful understandings. They were now expected to sit at desks and fill in soulless worksheets. Why? In the name of meeting outcomes.

In an attempt to keep up with the Jones’ (New South Wales and Victoria) it seems schools are rushing to academise our 5 year olds and show them that learning is a serious business which requires hard work and discipline. Well, lets face it, they’re 5 years old….it’s time they grew up and got to grips with it, right? Wrong. The powers-that-be haven’t even waited for the latest NAPLAN results to come through to measure the effect our play-based Prep curriculum has had on the perceived literacy and numeracy skills of our wee ones. The saddest part is, I’ve experienced first hand the power of play for children in this age group and there is a thousand times more teaching/learning potential in an inquiry-based curriculum than there will ever be in desks and worksheets.

So, when I hear about an education revolution, I am excited by the potential to extend the minds of our future generations, but terrified of the well-intentioned but old-fashioned and enormously misguided heads of schools who – out of fear and a distinct lack of creative thinking – revert to drill and practise over instilling a love of learning and a belief in each individual’s ability to arrive at the same destination through many different avenues.

Our childrens’ capacity for intellectual growth should not be confused for a need to be enculturated into a tick-the-box system. Is that really the most effective way to nurture the creative-thinkers of our future?

I actually used to love it. BC. Before Children. Something about making dinner for 6 people every night only to hear choruses of “I don’t like it”  quashed my enthusiasm. Don’t get me wrong, the munchkins are not particularly fussy eaters. It’s just that, between the 4 of them and the 2 of us (Hubby is a meat-eater and I’d really rather not), there are very few dishes that manage to make everyone happy. And there are only so many nights a week that I can stand spaghetti bolognese.

Now, please don’t misunderstand. I am not the pandering, cook a different meal for each individual type. I am more of the ‘eat what’s put in front of you, there are children starving in Africa’ type. But constant, nightly criticism does dampen your drive to experiment.

There are highlights in my culinary journey which warm the cockles of my Motherchef heart. Sadly, they go something like “Yay! We’re having overcooked chicken for dinner!” (I swear, I overcooked it ONE time and the name just STUCK!) Or, my personal favourite (and last night’s gem), “It’s not as bad as the first time, but I still don’t like it”. Then, there was tonight’s high praise “I’m not really sure that I like it. It’s just that I nearly threw up.” LOL. Aaaaahhhh, it means so much to a Motherchef to be appreciated.

So, tonight I threw caution to the wind. I went out on a limb. I took a calculated risk. Okay, my cooking is about as adventurous as my writing, but I thought I was on a winner with this one…..crepes! With vegetable filling – mmmmmm (and a little bit of meat thrown in, to appease the carnivores). And guess what? There were no complaints. At least, none I chose to listen to.