Thread Bare

Tubs’s fashion style would best be described as ‘minimalist’.  He has a minimal wardrobe, makes minimal effort and has a minimal ‘care factor’ about both. He doesn’t care where his clothes come from, whether they’re hand-me-downs from my brother (ten years his junior), cast offs from friends, or bargains from the local ‘op shop’.  If the shoe fits – he will wear it. 

And wear it he does.  He will wear clothes until the very threads that hold them together are yearning to be freed. It matters not how dirty, ill-fitting, unattractive or indeed, unclean, the item of clothing is.  Tubs will wear it.  I have thrown many of Tubs’s clothes away over the years.  When the holes are so large that they can no longer be considered incidental to the item, but have morphed to the point of engulfing the article itself.

Tubs rarely shops for clothes, and when he does it is often in a rush, for a specific event, and for clothes that will only be worn once.  However, when I buy his clothes (out of sheer desperation), he wears the clothes to death.  I learnt many years ago not to spend too much money on his clothing, because he will likely stain or tear it within a matter of weeks.  Instead, I wait for the good quality labels to go on sale – then I stock up.  Once the fit is confirmed and the items are deemed ‘keepers’ (which is usually all of them – he is not remotely fussy), I cull the few remaining pieces in Tubs’s miniscule collection so that he has no choice but to adopt his new clothes.

I will never forget learning that a friend of Tubs has a wardrobe far larger than his wife’s wardrobe.  This man, David, loves buying clothes and has numerous work suits and dozens and dozens of shirts.  At that stage, Tubs had just one suit (he now has two, so things are improving), and five work shirts.  I used to have to plead with the local dry cleaner to have said suit cleaned in record time, dreading the thought that Tubs would seize the opportunity to wear his ‘holy’ jeans to work instead!

Prior to speaking with David, I had incorrectly assumed that most men didn’t care about how they looked.  I thought it was ‘normal’ to hang on to clothes until an ‘Act of God’ or an exasperated wife, separated you from them. My father is very proud of the fact that he still has the suits that he bought when he was in his early twenties.  Once dad’s clothes are no longer socially acceptable, they become gardening, camping or ‘woodworking clothes’.  He never throws clothing away and will wear things until they can literally be worn no more.  And then they become rags; reincarnated for an equally purposeful afterlife.   I understand now that my father and husband may not be typically representative of the male population.

I have also come to understand that it is not so much that Tubs doesn’t care about how he looks, but more that there are other things more important to him.  He doesn’t consider hanging and folding clothes, meticulously ironing or hand washing clothes, trying on and purchasing clothes; to be time or energy well spent.  And let’s face it, if you had someone prepared to do all of that for you – why would you do it yourself? (Just for the record, I don’t actually try his clothes on before buying them)  Tubs will not clutter his life with clothes he doesn’t need.  Clothes are there to serve a purpose, and his purpose is as uncomplicated as he is.

Sometimes, I wish I had the same approach to fashion and clothing as Tubs (it would certainly save me a lot of time and money).  He doesn’t judge others by the way they dress, and doesn’t expect to be judged.  He neither wishes to conform, nor seeks to offend or rebel with his manner of attire.   Some may perceive Tubs’s relaxed attitude toward it all, as a lack of pride in his appearance, complacency or perhaps, inattention to detail.  But if fashion is an outward expression of one’s true self, then Tubs is an enviably authentic person.  I must try and remind myself of this sentiment the next time he wears holey jeans, a stained t-shirt and reef sandals, out to dinner. 

RIP Bonnie – Postscript

It is now the day after the children learned of Bonnie’s passing.  Abby decided to write about it in her diary, and I would like to share what she wrote. I am astounded by the maturity and insight that Abby has shown, and enormously comforted by the peace she has found.  These are Abby’s words alone, not a regurgitation of anything that I have said to her.  This is what she wrote:

Bbbbonies DEAD!!!!!! WAAA

Mum put her down a week ago.

I had a cry but now I am feeling better.

But this year, life without her is going to feel weird. 

She was unhappy but she loved us lots, but we just have to accept that people and animals get to the time where they have to give their life

away. to God.

But I’m pretty sure I can survive it.

Dear God,

May you bless Bonnie as she lives with you today and for the rest

of eternity.

And may she rest in Peace.

Make sure she lives a life she deserves after 11 years.

That means she can get lots of love, freedom and happiness.

May you be with her.

Amen

Our family does not attend church regularly. We do not pray at home, nor speak much about God or our beliefs.  We talk about the importance of respecting everyone’s right to their own beliefs, which is particularly relevant now that our children attend a very religious school.  Abby and Lulu have quietly embraced their religious education, whereas Charlotte has rebelled somewhat against it.  

Some studies have found that children who believe in God are happier than those who don’t.   Either way, I am glad that my children have the freedom and right to explore their own beliefs; both within the walls of our home and the wider community. This can only be a good thing. 

This is a recent photo of Bonnie.  It was taken by Abby, on her own camera.

RIP Bonnie, 18/2/2000 – 10/1/2012

Last week I did the most difficult thing I have ever done.  I took my dog, Bonnie, to the vet to be euthanised.  I did it alone, while my husband and two eldest children were away - knowing they were not returning for several days.  It was something that Tubs and I had been talking about since October last year, due to Bonnie’s increasing aggression and her decreasing quality of life.   She was an old dog who lived to a ripe old age, for a large breed.  Bonnie enjoyed good health throughout her life and was very much a part of our family, having joined Tubs and I before we were married.

In recent months, I tried unsuccessfully to get Tubs to help me make a decision.  He was not able to commit to euthanizing Bonnie, but did not argue strenuously against it either.  He shied away from the conversation, which was understandable; euthanasia is not a comfortable topic.  However, after recent unfortunate events that saw Bonnie kill two of our chickens, coupled with discussions with friends and family about the close calls when Bonnie had nipped children as they ran by, I felt that a decision had to be made before something terrible happened.

There was never going to be a ‘good’ or ‘easy’ time to do something such as this.  I chose to do it last week, when I had the rare of experience of being alone with the two youngest children for several days. Knowing I would be devastated by the process of ending Bonnie’s life, I wanted time to grieve before having to support the children to come to terms with losing their pet.  I also knew, that if I involved the children in the decision to euthanize Bonnie, they would try desperately to talk me out of it.  It was hard enough without that.

I made the appointment and took Bonnie to the vet.  I cried all the way there, and sobbed uncontrollably from the moment I entered the clinic.  The vet entered the treatment room, with a pair of clippers and a giant syringe filled with green liquid in his hand.   I knew from that moment that I couldn’t stay.  I was not going to be a source of comfort for Bonnie in the state I was in, and simply couldn’t pull myself together to be strong for her.  I kissed her head one last time. Said good-bye. Then left.

The rest of that day, and the two that followed, were spent crying intermittently.  I woke at 4am the morning after Bonnie died, my heart pounding in my chest, a sense of panic rising. I didn’t know how I was going to tell Tubs, Abby and Charlotte.  I felt guilty at having taken the decision into my own hands and denying them an opportunity to say goodbye.  I questioned the timing and felt selfish and guilty.  I sought comfort from the ‘World Wide Web’, hoping to find a magic answer – but what I read only made me feel worse.

I realized in the days that followed that Bonnie had been a huge part of my life, and that her absence left a giant hole in my day.  Every time I left the house and came home, every time I went out to the yard, every time I went to the bathroom (which is right next to our back door – right next to her kennel) – she was there.  Every time I hung out the washing she greeted me and came to lie on the lawn near by.  Every time Josie came outside I would have to carry her because she was scared of our big old dog.  But not any more – she wasn’t there.

I felt enormous sadness, and quiet relief.    Sad at her loss; that I had not been a better pet owner to her; and that I hadn’t done the best by her.  Relief that my children no longer had to be afraid to enter their own backyard; that visitors and tradespeople wouldn’t fear an attack from our very protective friend.  It was as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, re-constituted and re-descended upon me.  I knew however, that this new heaviness would subside with time.

When Tubs arrived home, I didn’t tell him straight away.  Partly because I didn’t know how – feeling again that there was no ‘right’ or ‘good’ time.  I waited for him to notice, which happened nearly 24 hours after he arrived home – and only because he wanted to tie Bonnie up so that he could let his chickens out.  He barely reacted, and showed little interest in talking about it.  The deed was done, he had been spared the details.  Just the way he likes it. 

Abby and Charlotte came home last night, four days after Tubs.  I wanted to give them time to settle back in to our home before telling them about Bonnie, but planned to do it before they noticed she wasn’t around.   As time rolled on, and the kids had been in and out of the house several times, I kept waiting for the moment to tell them.  When they had been home nearly 24 hours, I decided to take them all for a walk - hoping it would give me courage.  We exited the house via the back door, right next to Bonnie’s empty kennel.  Not a word was said – no one noticed.

We spent an hour at our regular playground. Several times I almost got the courage to tell Abby, but she was so happy; chasing Josie and swinging on the swings that I just couldn’t do it.  I didn’t want her to associate the playground with learning about the death of our dog.  When I was young, my dad took me to a playground to tell me that he was moving out of our family home and to reassure me that he would ‘always be my dad’.  I sensed the irony back then, as I sat on the swing, about being in a place designed to make children happy – while receiving some of the worst news a child could receive.

The girls and I returned home.  I parked the pusher in the carport, and the kids entered the back yard.  It was then that the dreaded moment arrived.  Abby said ‘Where is Bonnie?’ She started to call for her.  Charlotte came back toward me (I was still in the car port, getting Josie out of the pusher). ‘Where is Bonnie?’ she said.

I told them I needed to ‘talk to them about that’ and tried hurriedly to get inside, feeling the panic rise again.  We barely made it to the back door, Abby looked at me and said ‘What? Where is she? Not put down…no mum!’  I didn’t have to use words – my face said it all.  She ran inside, straight to her bedroom.  I followed her in and spent a long time on her bed with her.  We both cried as the younger children came in to the room to see what was going on. 

Charlotte understood exactly what had happened, and showing no discernible emotion but appearing quite thoughtful, she had just two questions for me; ‘Did they shoot her?’ and ‘Can we get another dog exactly the same as Bonnie?’  I explained the process of euthanasia and said that Bonnie had felt no pain.  I said that we would not be getting another dog the same as Bonnie.

Abby cried openly, also pausing to ask me two questions; ‘When did it happen?’ and ‘Who knows?’  It was important for Abby to know how long Bonnie had been gone without her having known about it.  Once she had a moment to processs that it had been a week, it became important to her to know that she wasn’t the last person to find out.  I explained that it had happened a week ago, and that only a few people in our family and two close friends, knew about it.  I told her that I had only told them as I was very upset and had needed their support. 

I told Abby that I understood that she would feel very sad, but that with time she would feel better.  She said that it would be ‘just like when her budgie died’, (who also died while Abby was away) but said she couldn’t remember his name.  She tried telephoning her best friend who has many dogs (as her family breeds them), to tell her about Bonnie.  Unfortunately, her friend wasn’t home.  Abby went to the computer and told her cousin Joanna, via Facebook, that Bonnie was gone.  It seemed an important part of Abby’s acceptance of the situation to share the news - it made it ‘real’ for her.   She said nothing more about it, and quickly returned to planning her 11^th birthday party – to be held in 45 sleeps time.

Charlotte expressed little emotion, but admitted to feeling sad.  Lulu was very matter of fact and asked only when we could get another dog.  Josie was very afraid of Bonnie and has confidently said ‘Bonnie…gone’ to me repeatedly during the past week.  She doesn’t understand the permanence of Bonnie’s absence as she is simply too young to comprehend it.

I overestimated the reactions of the children to the news that Bonnie was gone.  I appreciate that it is still very early days and that they have not had much time to fully process it.  I am very relieved that they are not as devastated as anticipated, and thankful that I had the time and space for my own reaction.   I don’t regret the decision I made, or the timing of it.  I hope that I have done the best thing for my family.  I genuinely felt as though I was sparing them from a heartbreak they need not endure, believing that I could bear the brunt of it for them.  Only time will tell if this is true. 

Creating Memories

It is quite common for Tubs and I to ask each other at the end of a fun filled family day, ‘Did you ever have a day like that when you were a kid?’ More often than not, I answer ‘no’, while Tubs answers ‘yes’.   We ask this question in a fairly self-congratulatory way, and only on the days where we believe we have played the parenting role particularly well.  On these days, we feel proud of the memories we helped create, even if the significance of the experience appears lost on the children.

Part of the reason why our answers differ may be that we are living in the same town where Tubs and his family spent most of their holidays.   It is also partly due to the fact that Tubs spent a lot of time with his cousins and family friends as a child, and was fortunate to go on many outings, holidays and camps with friends, family and his Scout group.  Tubs grew up in the same suburb as his cousins and rode freely between their homes, spending countless weekends with them.  They were of a similar age and had similar interests.   

Tubs is very keen to ensure that our children have opportunities for similar experiences, and where possible he focuses on trying to create the same feeling of an experience rather than re-creating the experience itself.   We make an effort to spend time together as a family as often as we can, and we try to do things which actively engage the children – usually outdoors.   When possible we try to spend time with extended family as the bond between the children and their cousins is strong, despite many months or years passing between seeing each other. 

Growing up, I didn’t have the same experiences as Tubs did.  Perhaps it was because my father’s job required him to be in close proximity to the hospital at all times; even on holidays - his time was often spent catching up on paper work.  My father’s job also left little room for socializing, and the time he did spend with friends tended to be at tennis parties or golf – events which did not include children.  My only cousins that were close to me in age, lived on the other side of the world and we only saw them a couple of times growing up.

I sometimes catch myself in the moments when Tubs and I are ‘creating memories’ with our children, feeling like a spectator trying desperately to imprint the event in my long term memory.  I struggle to immerse myself in the experience and live fully in that moment and am usually the one with the camera - furiously snapping away, gathering evidence of the moment as it passes me by. 

I religiously keep a travel diary when we go away somewhere special, painstakingly saving and sticking tickets, postcards and brochures alongside each handwritten entry.   I started doing this on our honeymoon in 2000, and have continued ever since.  I have individual photo albums dedicated to each of our children, as well as many volumes of general family albums.  I am careful to print photos every six months or so to ensure pictures stored in digital form cannot be accidentally lost.   I make home movies which are lovingly labelled and stored safely away for future viewing.

Tubs has never voluntarily picked up a camera (video or otherwise), and only writes in holiday diaries under great sufferance when I am too exhausted at the end of the day.  He is unburdened by fears that memories will not be retained and needs no material proof of past or present experiences.   I wish I had his freedom from fear, while also having someone carefully document everything for me just in case I do forget!  Make no mistake - Tubs enjoys looking through the albums more than anyone, and he cannot watch a home movie without crying - but I don’t think he’d be overly concerned if we had none.

My resolution for 2012 and beyond, is that when we are having a magical family day at the beach, a gathering with friends or family, or just playing a game of family four-square at home (as Tubs strives to get to ‘King in four moves’ to the sounds of Snoop Dog’s ‘Sweat’), I will try harder to engage in the moment. Perhaps once my mental energy is spent involving myself more, I will free up the energy and space in my mind to store memories of the moment without even trying.  Doing so, may even generate the elusive feeling of the experience that Tubs so nostalgically describes. 

Waiting Patiently

As parents, we spend a lot of time waiting.  It starts from the moment we learn we are to become parents, as we eagerly anticipate the arrival of our bundle of joy.  My experience of pregnancy has been that sometimes it flies, while other times it seems to last a lifetime.  My first pregnancy felt like it lasted years, which was welcome, as it gave me plenty of time to research what was in store – surely you can learn everything you need to know in a parenting handbook?   It's not surprising however, that my fourth pregnancy seemed to escape me entirely.  Not as a result of reading handbooks – I’d long since given that up - but in the business of my life with three children, the only time I turned my mind to the baby that loomed was in the evenings.  In doing so, I fluxed between states of denial about how complicated my life was about to become, and gripping fear about my ability to cope with four children.

Once baby arrives, we anxiously wait for them to achieve the various milestones that the doctors, nurses, handbooks and 'mothers' group' tell us about.   We absorb every opinion, whether anecdotally or scientifically based; prone to treating this (often unsolicited) advice as gospel.  As we accumulate data from all available sources, we generate a ‘yard stick’ by which we then measure whether our child is ‘normal’. Any evidence of deviation from the collective norm is swiftly ‘Googled’, self diagnosed and dealt with by making appointments with every conceivably relevant specialist. 

Then we wait, with baited breath for the appointment(s) to arrive as we try desperately to suppress our fears about what our life will be like if Dr Google’s diagnosis proves correct.   More often than not, it isn’t, and we learn (the old fashioned, and often embarrassing and expensive way) that our child is well within the ‘range of normal’.   (There is a range??? Why didn’t anyone mention that earlier?)  

For some reason however, the shame, cost, and obvious flaws in this compare and contrast self-diagnosis model, don’t tend to prevent us from repeating the whole process time and time again.  Perhaps it’s because when it comes to our children’s health - we are afraid, and when armed with too much information and inadequate means of filtering what is relevant, we can’t help but over-react.

I have been known to march my children off to speech therapy, insisting there is a problem, in spite of the kindergarten teacher’s opinion that the child is fine.  I have sought physiotherapy and chiropractic treatment for children who didn’t crawl or walk ‘on time’, and for a child that once walking – did so only on tip-toes.  I have had my child assessed by an educational psychologist upon recommendation from her teacher who felt she'd 'hit a wall' in her learning.   If there is a problem – I will get it fixed.  I am capable of finding problems that no one else can see.  Sometimes I have been right, but thankfully not always. Either way, I have spent countless hours in waiting rooms, emergency rooms and sitting by my children’s hospital bedside.

When our children are young, we wait for teeth to erupt, scars to fade, and hair to regrow – usually the result of scissors being left unattended. We look forward to the end of night time feeds, nappies and bibs; and dread the arrival of mood swings, pimples and parties.  It seems we are always waiting for something.

I wait by the pool during swimming lessons, outside school at pick up time, and for far too long in the dreaded line at the Magic Cave - for the obligatory annual photo with Santa. I wait at the hairdresser, watching as my children’s unruly locks are tamed.  While waiting at the school dental clinic, I try unconvincingly to under-state the amount of sugar in the children’s diets and vow to implement flossing regimes I know have little prospect of eventuating.  In the evening, I wait for said children to fall asleep before bringing out the ‘good chocolate’, my reward for having survived another day.

These waits are not the relaxing, ‘read a magazine, put your feet up and have a 'cuppa'’ kind of waits.  They are usually either incredibly stressful, or mind-numbingly boring.  At the stifling indoor pool, time is spent chasing a toddler - trying to prevent them from drowning while their sibling is learning to swim.  At school,  the challenge is stopping the toddler from throwing bark chips belonging to the playground, into the classroom while waiting for the bell.  

In waiting rooms, time is frequently spent explaining to your child that it is not polite to stare at other patients; and that no - you don’t know what they (other patient) are seeing the doctor for, nor how much longer it will be; and offering endless bribes in return for your child’s patience and good behavior.   On occasions like these, no price seems too high - particularly when you know your child is about to be subjected to an invasive procedure and you both need them to remain calm!

Whether we are waiting as patients, or just patiently waiting, it is all 'par for the course'.  We bumble our way through this journey, acquiring knowledge, stretch-marks and smile lines in our parenting passport along the way.  We are repeatedly told by those that came before us to 'enjoy it' because 'it all goes too quickly’, and yet for better or worse - ‘it’ never seems to feel like that at the time!

Charlotte

My second daughter, Charlotte (now aged 8), is an intriguing character.  She is the kind of kid who demands action twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.  She has only ever had two speeds, flat out running and flat out unconscious.  As a toddler, Charlotte refused to stay in bed in the evening, would never let us brush her teeth and showed absolutely no interest in television or other sedentary activities.  Much to my distress, she dropped her day sleep shortly after turning one which came as a rude shock to me because Abby was still having a day sleep when she was four!

It was common to find three year old Charlotte fast asleep in our hallway, just outside the lounge room when I went to bed in the evening.  It was her way of protesting being put to bed, fuelled by her determination not to miss out on anything.  She would have been asleep on the hardwood floor for several hours by the time I found her, and it always gave us a laugh.  She is known to sneak around corners and slide behind furniture and takes great delight pouncing suddenly upon us – sometimes from great heights, knowing we hadn’t the slightest clue she was even in the room.   This behaviour just might lead somewhere; she says that she wants to be a spy when she grows up.  Charlotte wants to be a lot of things.

Charlotte did not have an easy start to life, undergoing major surgery at the age of five months to reconstruct her prematurely fused skull.  She has a severe peanut allergy, requires glasses (which she refuses to wear) due to an astigmatism that will be with her for life, and had an abscessed molar which required removal when she was just three (perhaps the result of eating copious amounts of fruit and not letting her parents brush her teeth!), shortly after having grommets inserted in her narrow ear canals.

She is obsessed with playing sport and recently started waking Tubs up to play tennis before school in the mornings.  Charlotte says she wants to be a ‘sport person’ when she is older, and will play ‘twenty one sports including pole dancing’.  (She says this innocently, her interest arose from seeing acrobatic performances on TV talent shows – and no, we do not have a pole in our living or bedroom, as some have suggested.)   Charlotte is a naturally gifted athelete and gives 100% to every game she plays.  We imagine Charlotte will continue to enjoy team sports as a young child but that she will ultimately gravitate toward individual sports, where she will not be limited by, or dependent upon anyone but herself.

Charlotte practically lives in her sneakers and recently refused to change her socks for five days, creating a pungent odor wherever she went in the house.  Thankfully, despite her strength of character and general disregard for the opinions of others, she is not immune to embarrassment so when we all complained, she spent the evening in the bath, scrubbing her feet and allowed me to take offending socks to the laundry for decontamination. 

Charlotte is very particular about which socks she will wear as she doesn’t like any lumps, bumps or itchy bits and the reason she wouldn’t change her socks was that she was worried there wasn’t a clean pair of her favourite socks in supply.  She will only wear the socks you can buy from an indoor playground in the 'big smoke', (where socks are required to be worn and hence sold to children who forget to bring their own) for a bargain price of $2 per pair.   But because Charlotte wears them EVERY single day (including underneath her school socks because she doesn’t like the way the school socks feel), they tend to wear out very quickly and we never have enough pairs!  When Charlotte’s best friend from town came to stay last year, her mother asked if we needed anything sent over with her and my only request was socks from the indoor playground for Charlotte.  They brought five pairs with them, and we are already down to three in just eight months.

Charlotte becomes very attached to her clothing and likes to wear her t-shirt and shorts of the moment to the exclusion of all other clothing in her wardrobe.  She wore her Astro Boy t-shirt from the op shop, and hand me down denim shorts for about three years straight.  I have photos of her in those clothes sitting with Father Christmas from two successive years.  She will not part with the clothes voluntarily and I inevitably have to dispose of them once they are so ragged they can no longer be worn, because she never seems to grow out of anything.  Needless to say, she creates very little washing for me – and any washing I do for her is done against her wishes, to clothing whisked away in the dark of night or while she is at school.  It took Charlotte over 12 months to remove the tags and succumb to wearing the clothes we purchased in the hope she'd expand her fashion repertoire.

Charlotte is a hoarder, she keeps her Easter Eggs, show bags and Christmas Cards (unopened) for as many months as possible.  It’s not easy to keep Easter Eggs in a house full of chocoholics, with limited hiding places due to lack of storage space, and even harder (for me) to steal chocolate from someone with a photographic memory – which Charlotte has.  Charlotte’s hoarding recently almost caused her to miss a birthday party because she had not opened the invitation, assuming it was just another Christmas card.  Luckily for her, the boy’s mother rang me to see if we were coming and she quickly opened all the envelopes she had stashed away – the morning of the party!

I frequently find lists and letters around the house which Charlotte writes to keep herself occupied when the rest of the family are ‘being boring’.  She’ll list her friends’ names, people’s birthdays, or make entries of anything she can think of in her calendar.  She has even been known to translate data about everyone’s eye and hair colour to pie charts and graphs on the computer, just for fun. 

She is meticulously organized, keeping all of her certificates neatly in a display folder and storing her money in multiple separate tins and containers, divided into their respective denominations. Charlotte has saved every cent she has ever received or found (with the tooth fairy money in a separate container of course) and would rather go without something than spend her money.  She refuses to remove the coloured wrist bands supplied by the local pool and the school on sports day and proudly boasts about how long she has had them on.  Even once they fall off (after many months), she keeps them in a container!

Charlotte can be very entertaining to talk to, and loves to torture Tubs with her superior intellect.  A recent conversation with him went like this:

            Tubs:  Charlotte, can I ask you a question?

            Charlotte: (silence)

            Tubs: Charlotte…….can I ask you a question???

Charlotte: Why don’t you just ASK it?? You don’t ASK to ASK a question, there’s no point, you just ask it – that’s what a question IS!!!!!

Tubs: Ok, do you love playing tennis?

Charlotte: ……………..not telling.

Tubs: (too busy laughing to say anything)

Charlotte: What do YOU think???

Tubs: Well I think you like playing tennis.

Charlotte: I do, but that’s not the same as ‘love’, is it? (A rhetorical question, requiring no response from Tubs, and he was too busy laughing and trying to torture her with tickles at that point anyway.)

The list that Charlotte wrote yesterday containing the many things she wanted to do that day, included ‘go jetty jumping, play tennis, play games, go to the pool, cooking, and annoy mum and dad’.   She wants to be on our radar, in our faces, centre of our attention at all times – whether it be positive or negative attention (and it is usually the latter due to the sheer relentlessness that is Charlotte).

Charlotte is our tough little cookie, with a pain threshold beyond anything we have ever seen, and has unnaturally flexible joints enabling her to contort her body in very strange ways.  With her semi-photographic memory she delights in beating us (and any one else) convincingly in memory games, and I have come to depend on her to help me locate things around the house. She denounces school as ‘boring’ but appears to take everything in, and is blindly devoted to her sisters and to her best friend Maidlin who she has known since they were three, despite half a world of distance between them this year. 

Charlotte rarely shows emotion but when she does it is so pure that it takes our breath away.   Tubs and I are very interested to see the path that life will take her on, and know that whatever comes her way, she has the strength and determination to get through it.  I have little doubt that we will learn far more from Charlotte than we could ever hope to teach her.  In the mean time however, I am going to enjoy a small break from her antics while she away at holiday camp!