By the time you read this, it will be exactly one decade since we welcomed this dude into The Ashers.

10!

But of course we weren’t really The Ashers then, we were just Al and Nath. This little fella made us into something bigger than ourselves. He popped into my uterus as a bit of a surprise, what with all the androgyny of me (It’s okay to say it, I know I might not be the most voluptuous, oestrogenic looking chick on the planet) and the cancer of him and his boy bits. I think it’s safe to say I thought that we would be pretty safe from being Offspring Infected. I didn’t even have my fingers crossed in ‘Barleys’ like we used to at primary school. (Yes, I know, it was my legs that should have been crossed)

So he buried himself deep into the warm folds of my womb and stayed there until he was nice and ripe and he was fit to burst right out of my skin.

He birthed himself just like a text book, and followed our every plan to the letter. So many times we would look at each other and say, “Is this for real? Is this kid Baby of the Year or what?”

Because he was.

Still is.

He is funny, quirky, clever, challenging, straightforward, just, logical and about seven steps ahead of us most of the time. He has a blog over here  if you want to see how he rolls. He has a strong sense of self, and so far, I think that is what I am the most proud of (other than the fact that I pushed his 9lbs7oz out of my very own vagina).

This morning he said to me with a sigh, “Today is the last day of single digits, the last day of my first decade. It gets tough from here.”

I thought he was talking about footy, “What do you mean, the competition?”

He looked at me like I was an idiot, “No, life, it gets rough from here on.”

Now it was my turn to look at someone like they were dopey, “I’m forty-three mate, my life isn’t rough. It doesn’t have to be rough.”

He sighed again, speaking slowly, as if I was a little feeble minded, and counted on his fingers, “Your Dad died, you have to make the lunches every day and then there’s taxes.”

I laughed and told him he didn’t need to worry about those things for a long time.

He looked doubtful and said, “It’ll be here before you know it. And the lunches: every.single.day.”

I left the room, shaking my head at this little grandfather-child we were raising, a little sad that he knew all of those things so early: the repetitive nature of life, and of death, and of course taxes.  I worried that some of his attitude was from having a sister with a thing, from spending too many of his days in hospital waiting rooms, seeing things beyond his years.  Or perhaps it was from his precocious reading, devouring stories meant for more mature minds. Or maybe it was just that he had seen too much of death and The Cancer. I vowed to bring more frivolity to his next decade. To encourage silliness and nonsense and time-wasting. To create space for daydreaming and giggling.

And then I heard some stifled laughter coming from the wizened one’s room, so I popped my head around to see these two idiots:

Very mature

goggles on, and taking pot-shots at each other’s heads with Nerf guns.

My heart lifted a little.

Maybe there is hope after all. Maybe the next decade will be just fine.

Happy Birthday Liam. You rock. And not just on the drums or the guitar or on the…erm…clarinet

…From The Ashers xx

I have an embarrassing confession to make. But I think you might like it, so I’m gonna spill the beans.

Over here at The Asher’s we like to work as a team, and a little while ago I thought a team should have a team song. A theme song to sing on long car trips and to get us psyched up before big shopping trips. Or something.

We consulted the kids, without consensus. Liam wanted Thunderstruck, and Coco wanted some shite Minecraft song that isn’t really fit for humanoids to listen to.

So I made the decision, and I chose the most uplifting song in the world.

Here it is.

Don’t tell me you don’t love it.

Do you have a family song? What is it?

…From The Ashers xx

Our personal beliefs are a funny thing, aren’t they? They are so much a part of us that sometimes we can’t see past them. And we think that others will think the same as us, come to the same conclusions, if given the same information. And I guess that sometimes happens.

And yet so many other times it doesn’t. Hence the reason for so many wars in life and on Facebook. But that knowledge doesn’t seem to stop us from trying. From presenting our beliefs, trumped up as information, in the hope that others will join us in our world view. I suspect it might be because having more people on our team makes us feel more right. Safety in numbers and all that. Just like all the despots in history.

Recently I had a conversation with a lovely lady who has strong religious beliefs, and follows a particular faith. I couldn’t tell this just by looking at her of course, it was revealed in the progression of our chat, when I mentioned that my daughter has regular blood transfusions. My comment was pertinent to what we were discussing, however it wasn’t imperative that she comment on it. At this juncture, however she chose to let me know that her religious beliefs forbade blood transfusions, on the basis of some scripture in the Old Testament. I admit I didn’t quite catch the rationale, but it was something to do with blood being from source, from god, and only for god. I think it was that only god can be in control of the blood. (Disclaimer: I may be misquoting here.)

I asked if she could eat red meat which contains blood, she said she could, as long as it was bled. Whatever that means. Because red meat still has red blood in it, doesn’t it?

I asked if she could get a transplant which contains blood, she said she could, as long as some of that blood was squeezed out of it. it wasn’t imperative to get all of the blood out, just a certain percentage.

So it kind of sounded to me that some of the blood has the god bit, and some of it doesn’t, given that she was allowed to have some of it, just not all.

I wondered aloud where the god bit was, in the blood, as blood doesn’t have DNA, like, say, all the other cells of the body. So where  could it be hidden?

I wondered what would happen if someone accidentally got the god bit of the blood and not the other, human bit. (Seeing as percentages seemed to be kind of important. Who knew that scripture was so full of maths?)

She didn’t say.

I told her that our daughter could die without transfusions.

She said, “Yes.”

Then quietly, “Perhaps.”

I said I thought that sounded a bit shit.

She said, “Perhaps, but it would be god’s will.”

I said I thought that god sounded a bit shit then. And that he shouldn’t have invented blood transfusions. Or tiny little seven year old kids with Pyruvate Kinease Deficiency who need blood from wonderful donors, and who could die without it. If god didn’t want to share the blood around, that is.

She didn’t say anything to that.

But she did give me a couple of pamphlets that she happened to have on her, with a useful website to clarify it all.

They look a bit shit.

I reminded her that our kid could die, not pamphlet dead, but real dead, if she didn’t get transfusions.

She nodded.

And I don’t think a shit pamphlet would help that much.

…From The Ashers xx

They used to be in a box. (Sigh) Progress.

I saved and saved up all my pocket money to get my Dad something special for Father’s Day. Mum took me to the shops and I went directly to Darrell Lea, running off before she could offer advice involving socks or cheap whisky. Darrell Lea in those days was an absolute mind bender. Tiny glass bottles filled with striped tooth-cracking sweets. Rows of glistening caramel fudge. Straps of liquorice in vivid black and, get this: red.  Shelves and shelves of cellophane wrapped delicacies to make taste buds zing.

I walked round and round, breathing in the sugar infused air and forgetting why I was there, until my eyes lit upon the tiny eggs of excellence, known as scorched almonds. I knew I must have them. I counted out my silver and copper and secreted them away, ready for the big day.

My Dad looked at my face when he opened his present, and so he knew how special I thought it was. He looked at my eyes, and not at the wrapping, and so when he carefully tore it open, he saw a way to build me up and create another blanketing of self confidence, his mouth turning up a little at the corners as he told me scorched almonds were his favourite things ever.

I will never know if that was true, or if it became true with time, as the years added up, every time I remembered. And every time he pretended to be surprised that the familiar box, with the comforting clunks inside, were his scorched almonds. “You remembered my favourites,” he would say, and my chest would puff up, prouder than an airbag, and I knew I could arm-wrestle the world right there, and I would win.

It has been a few years since I have been able to give my Dad his scorched almonds. A few years since we have been able to sit together in silence, eating our almonds in our own ways. Him: crunching through the thick chocolate to get to the nut quickly and eat it all as one. Me: slowly sucking the weird, shiny layer off first, then allowing the chocolate to dissolve and dissolve until finally chomping the almond, with tiny traces of chocolate remaining in the grooves.

It has been a few years, and still, every year I buy the almonds, and every year I eat them alone. Alternating between his way and mine. Remembering all the times he built me up a little bit and then a little bit more. Until the layers of confidence, resilience, tenacity, strength were as thick as the bitter-sweet chocolate, buffering, protecting the nut inside.

Vale Peter Cartney McShane, and Happy Father’s Day.

It still hurts like a bitch.

…From The Ashers xx

**Warning: Now with added swears**

This Champagne Life

The Hits today are a little different.

Usually I try to think up a list of things that I’ve had fun doing, going to, or being with, in the week gone by. Maybe even give you a mini-review of something that made my synapses sing.

This week has been a crazy, rollercoaster with all the ups and downs that such a ride implies. There were more ups than downs, but the downs were spectacular in their depths. So I guess DeMartini might be right, in that everything must balance out in order to stay in the light.

At the end of this exhilarating ride of a week, I am left with a feeling of thankfulness and, dare I say it, gratitude. Gratitude at this wonderful experiment of a life, where there is love, laughter, karaoke, dancing, family, friends, meaningful work, support, chocolate, sunshine, peace, creativity, teamwork and tacos.

I have so much to celebrate, in a life so full of wonderful connections and opportunities to learn.

So here’s cheers with a fancy bottle of Veuve, to a grouse bloody life, where I can still go out and rock the stage to a bit of Rod with one of my chicks, have a young and handsome totally inebriated man boy young enough to be my son try and pick me up (not in the carrying way- in the rude way), and then come home to a house brimming with energy and actual verve, and the absolute loves of my life.

If that isn’t a week of hits, then I don’t know what is.

And if the week passed you by in a bit of a blur, like mine did, there’s always the best cat in the world. I call him “The fuck is this? cat” for I think it is, in fact his real name. I love how shocked he is by the world (or a fly).

Happy Weekend. May yours be full of things that surprise the fuck out of you.

…From The Ashers xx

What were your hits this week?

To save you doing that Facebook thingy, just jot some down here.

In a shocking turn of events, it appears that I have nothing to blog about today.  I might have mentioned once or twice that I’m working full time at the moment, and my poor little fingers have been worked to the bone. Which makes typing an interesting proposition. Coupled with that: I only had the morning with the kids, so they didn’t really have a chance to do anything funny to pass on to you.

The cat is asleep, Nath is snoring and Casino Royale is on the telly and I am, quite frankly, beyond inspiration. So it appears, dear RRs that there will be no blog today.

Before the snore-a-thon began, I did ask Nath what I should blog about, and he suggested a chat about things that money can’t buy. So far I can only think of intangible things like my soul and possibly health, but money could give you some different options on the health thing, so I guess it’s not entirely true.  As for my soul, I could be persuaded to sell that off in exchange for the house I want overlooking Little Cove.

Little Cove, Little Cove, my soul for a cove

I am reminded of a bit of repartee I had with my Anatomy lecturer in second year. We were discussing who we would or, in my case, would not sleep with for money (it was around the time of ‘The Colour of Money’).

Him: Would you sleep with me for a million dollars?

Me: (Checking out his weird anatomy-lab scented hands and Ned Kelly-not in fashion then-beard) …Umm, yes, I guess…

Him: Well then, would you sleep with me for ten bucks?

Me: (Aghast) No way, what do you think I am?

Him: We’ve already determined that, now we’re just haggling over the price.

So I guess it’s true what you say about breathing in the pickling fluid (it makes you nuts, in case you haven’t heard).

I thought I should leave you with one more thing… I went to a Problogger seminar on the weekend and one of the speakers shared this clip.  It’s funny if you are on Instagram.

And on that note, I bid you adieu.

I hope your pelvic floor muscles are holding up to the comedy of the blog today.

…From The Ashers xx