Five years ago today

I don’t think I really understood the term ‘Stolen Generations’ until I became a mother. I couldn’t get my head around the fact that someone could walk into your house and steal your children because they believed their way of life and thinking was better than the one your people had followed for thousands of years. Five years ago our then Prime Minister gave this speech as an apology to the original owners of our country. I remember crying as I watched the faces of the elders as they listened to him speaking, the pain of their history etched into their DNA.

“Today we honour the Indigenous peoples of this land, the oldest continuing cultures in human history.

We reflect on their past mistreatment.

We reflect in particular on the mistreatment of those who were Stolen Generations – this blemished chapter in our nation’s history.

The time has now come for the nation to turn a new page in Australia’s history by righting the wrongs of the past and so moving forward with confidence to the future.

We apologise for the laws and policies of successive Parliaments and governments that have inflicted profound grief, suffering and loss on these our fellow Australians.

We apologise especially for the removal of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander children from their families, their communities and their country.

For the pain, suffering and hurt of these Stolen Generations, their descendants and for their families left behind, we say sorry.

To the mothers and the fathers, the brothers and the sisters, for the breaking up of families and communities, we say sorry.

And for the indignity and degradation thus inflicted on a proud people and a proud culture, we say sorry.

We the Parliament of Australia respectfully request that this apology be received in the spirit in which it is offered as part of the healing of the nation.

For the future we take heart; resolving that this new page in the history of our great continent can now be written.

We today take this first step by acknowledging the past and laying claim to a future that embraces all Australians.

A future where this Parliament resolves that the injustices of the past must never, never happen again.

A future where we harness the determination of all Australians, Indigenous and non-Indigenous, to close the gap that lies between us in life expectancy, educational achievement and economic opportunity.

A future where we embrace the possibility of new solutions to enduring problems where old approaches have failed.

A future based on mutual respect, mutual resolve and mutual responsibility.

A future where all Australians, whatever their origins, are truly equal partners, with equal opportunities and with an equal stake in shaping the next chapter in the history of this great country, Australia.”


Monkey mother

As a Southern Hempisphere mother I become bery, bery happy in February; the weather is hot, the days are long and the kids are finally back at school after the endless summer holidays. To add to my excitement on the second Friday of the first term my kids came home from school and started scratching like mossie infested marmosets as they put down their school bags.

One sentence from my baby girl,

“Mum my head’s itchy, the teacher said it was headlice season,” had me reaching for my merlot medication hours earlier than usual. FORK! ‘ucken bloody head lice. Tis the season to be scratching and self medicating through the long lonely hours of picking. That night, like the model chimpanzee mother that I am, I stood over my children and combed and scratched and grabbed the critters with my pincer-like fingers.  I was so happy to give up a social engagement with a bunch of fabulous old friends so my munchkins could be egg free by Sunday night. As I toiled, I sang my favourite Dusty Springfield song, ‘Wishin’ an’ pickin’ an’ sprayin’ an’ hopin’ that they’re gone’.

I must have picked out around a gazillion of the little creatures. It was tiring, and I sacrificed a lot, but I am so proud that I achieved a personal best – highest overall headlice count in 15 years of mothering three daughters with long hair. I am on fire. And it’s only the second month of the year. I had to drink a long neck of VB to celebrate.


Great Expectations

When I was a tortured angst-ridden teenager (a few weeks ago) I had a crush on a boy and it didn’t work out. Then I read Great Expectations and I wanted to be Miss Havisham, dressed in cobwebs and gothic wedding finery. 30 years later here I am, a single mother style icon, dressed in tattered clothes, lying alone in my bed reading Charles Dickens.

“The broken heart. You think you will die, but you just keep living, day after day after terrible day,” said Miss Havisham.

“Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was better after I had cried, than before–more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle.”

Thank you Mr Dickens, we are never alone when we are in the middle of a great book.


Parental torture

My beautiful children have now gone back to their day release penitentiary after the longest summer break in recorded history and our school music teacher is helping me stay sane with gifts that keep on giving. She suggested that on my limited single mother budget I could buy my youngest child a parental torture device AKA a recorder. Why? Will it help her learn to be musical? No. Will it promote family harmony? A trillion times no. A moody teenager and an eight year old practising recorder in the next room are not a happy mix. I can already hear the howls of protest. I looked on youtube and there are young whipper snappers playing recorder while Celine Dion sings. Double torture. Please make them stop. Apparently there are different kinds of recorder, soprano, vibrato, psycho, they all sound like hell to me. Mummy says no.


One down, two to go

Today as I wave goodbye to the looooooong summer holidays and send my eldest child back to her maximum insecurity prison, I can hear a collective sigh of relief from the parents of school-aged kids. Most of the Aussie breeders I am friends with on Facebook posted photos of their kidlets in new uniforms this morning; much happiness from the parental as anything brigade. In my home I could sense the misery as soon as I woke up. My teenager was SO happy to see her siblings lolling about on the couch as she climbed into her scratchy uniform and grunted her goodbye. The little sisters return to their reform school tomorrow. If you spot a woman in a school zone on Thursday with a glint in her eye it could possibly be me.

 


Ripper bewdy mate

Happy Aussie Invasion Day

 


What’s That Skip?

On the eve of Australia Day I want to pay tribute to my favourite Australian TV show. When I was very small the only program I was allowed to watch was Skippy The Bush Kangaroo. Skippy was furry pretty and I believed that animals understood me better than humans. (I used to dress my dog in blue shorts and a red Top Cat T-shirt). In the days before video recorders and DVD players, my mother had to bribe my older siblings with lollies if we returned home after Skippy had been aired that day. If I found out I’d missed seeing an episode of Skippy my tantrums were spectacular. I’ve recovered now that I can watch episodes on youtube, but I still want to be Clancy.

Skippy, Skippy, Skippy my friend ever true. Even the theme song is brilliant.


Hooray for Dollywood

Today is Dolly Parton’s birthday. I have loved her since I could sing. I love her wardrobe, her lyrics, her accent, her hair and her au naturale feminine charm. One day I will go to her theme park Dollywood in Tennessee. Right after I visit Elvis in Memphis.


The Prophet – Single Mother translation

In his epic poem, The Prophet, Khalil Gibran summed up beautifully what is special in this life.

Children.

“a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, “speak to us of children,” and he said:

Your children are not your children.

You’ve just leased them until they are 18 on a ridiculously expensive payment plan

They are the sons and daughters of life’s longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

Well, actually Khalil I created them in my body, as a man you may not get the enormity of that concept. And as I recall they ripped right through me.

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

Especially when they are online chatting with their friends

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

Except when they haven’t done any homework or housework or don’t text you when they said they would, then you can give them a few choice thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

They surely do, especially the 14 year old girls

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

Even when their bodies are dressed like white trash bimbo pole dancers

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

Except when they are selling their souls to Facebook and tumblr and you are paying for the internet access. Then you can get your friends to spy on their blogs.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

Note to Lou: please don’t dress like your 15 year old daughter, you will look like mutton dressed as mutton. And teenage daughter will not borrow my ruched bright 1980s clothing.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

There is nothing you can do about breeding with someone who is located very far down the food chain, so don’t waste time regretting it.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and he bends you with his might that his arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;

So your scrubbing, washing and bending over backwards will go unnoticed by everyone except your girlfriends who understand the toil and the sacrifices of single motherhood.

For even as he loves the arrow that flies,

So I teach my children that love flies like an arrow, but fruit flies like a banana

so he loves also the bow that is stable.

All mothers must be stable according to Khalil. No drunken party animals need apply. That means I’m out of a job then.


Just for one day

Happy Birthday David Jones