Parenting 101: A memory that became a lesson

My son is spending the day with his new teacher and class-mates today at his year 6 induction day, which is kind of a big deal in his life so far.

He goes to a school that has students from Reception through to Year 12 and the school is split into Primary School, Middle School and High School. Year 6 is the first year of Middle School so he’ll be graduating from Primary School this year with a real graduation ceremony and everything. It’s all a bit strange to me but both my kids seem to enjoy the structure of the school and so far it’s been a very positive experience for all of us.

The thing is, Nathan has a really tight posse of mates. REALLY TIGHT. Most of them went to kindergarten together and then started school at the same time. TOGETHER. They learn together, lunch together, walk together, play club-sport together, Skype together… you get the picture. And for Nathan, that’s extremely important. He’s the kind of kid who, despite being incredibly popular, really values the dynamic of having a small handful of close friends. So when he discovered yesterday that ALL of his mates were heading into one class and he was heading into another, the rug was pulled out from under his world.

And oh god how I felt for him. He was SO upset. Dejected and confused and then really worried about what lay ahead for him, especially because there is a huge intake of new [and potentially scary!] kids in Year 6. I talked calmly and sensibly and made all the right soothing noises but I was panicking inside. 

Why did they do this to my son?? How could they do this to him? How will I fix it?

I spoke to a couple of very wise mum friends who talked me off the ledge and I realised something significant. Nothing needed to be fixed. This may be well be the poster child for a ‘first-world problem.’ He just needed to understand how to manage it. I remembered my own quest to raise a resilient kid and I remembered how resilient I was when I was younger. Through necessity sure, but the end result was pretty decent.

I reminded Nathan that friendships don’t only live in the classroom but out on the oval and in the playground and on the footy field. I told him he would be fine and that he would be lucky enough to meet some new friends and when that didn’t work, I sat on the edge of his bed and quietly told him of a very special and important story...

When I was growing up, a looooong time ago, there was only Primary School and High School and they were two different schools. In different places.

High School started in Year 8 and the first time I met my new teacher in my new school with my new class-mates was on the first day of school.

I was SO NERVOUS. There was only one other girl, called Tara, from my Primary School in my class who was very nice but she wasn’t one my ‘friends’. Of course I sat next to her anyway but I was terrified that I wouldn’t have any friends in my new school.

I sat there quietly and watched as everyone’s name was called out for role call and they had to go up to the front of the class to collect something from our new teacher. I can’t remember what that something was but my surname started with B so I was one of the first people who had to go up the front. It was horrible! But over quickly and then I just sat and watched everyone else.

After some time the list got to W and I watched this girl, who I’d never seen before obviously, walk up to the front of the class. She was so confident! The boys in the class were saying silly things because boys are silly…

"No we’re not Mum!"

Well, SOME boys are silly and they were saying silly things to this girl [What I didn’t tell him, is that her windcheater had a picture of Mickey Mouse on it and the word Mickey printed randomly all over it. That was during the era that people in our neck of the woods called sperm/cum/ejaculation ‘mickey’ and those bastards were saying ‘ooooh she’s got ‘mickey’ all over her top”!] but she did not flinch! She didn’t rush and she didn’t fidget and she had no apology in her step.

I watched her and I thought to myself ‘THAT girl is going to my friend” and by the end of the day, we were friends.

"Yeah, that’s pretty cool actually. What happened next?"

Well… THAT girl is your Aunty Ilka that I’m STILL friends with today and if I hadn’t been alone that day I may not have noticed her. If I had all my Primary School friends with me, I may have only been with them and not had room in my heart for Aunty Ilka. Sometimes these scary days turn out to be the best things that could ever happen to you.

"Thanks Mum."

And just like that, my first day of high school became the gift that keeps on giving. A life-long friend AND a lesson in parenting.

Where do you go to my lovely?

"Where do you go to my lovely?
When you're alone in your bed
Tell me the thoughts that surround you
I want to look inside your head, yes I do"

When I was in my early twenties I worked for Apple. They were some of the greatest days of my life for many, many reasons not the least being that I was in my early twenties. I have memories that make me smile every time I think of them even decades later but there is one that still amazes me as much as it did when it actually happened all those years ago.

I was at one of their national conferences in Sydney and out for the evening with all my newly connected colleagues from head office and the branches around Australia. The early 90s was pre Fringe Benefits Tax so EVERYTHING went on the Apple tab. EVERY.THING. So much fun. Lots of drinking and lots of late night talking. And on this particular night I was talking to a relatively new exec at Apple called Lorraine. She was older than me [I WAS young after all, everyone was bloody older than I was] but we ‘clicked’ and sat chatting in the bar for hours about all things.

I can’t remember how or why but I do remember talking to her quite openly and nostalgically about my recently departed dad. Perhaps it was just that he was recently departed or perhaps there was another catalyst but whatever the reason, I felt inspired to share.

I told her about my parents’ great, young love and romanticised their demise. I spoke of the inherent ‘coolness’ of having young parents who loved each other in the 70s and I told her of ‘their song’. You know how all our relationships [good and bad] have ‘the song’? The one that you hear today, even decades later that will remind you of that time and that love? Well their song was ‘Where do you go to my lovely?” by Peter Sarstedt. In my circles of friends it was a little-known, old song. But I knew it word for word because I had heard it so many times.

So I tell my new found friend Lorraine of this song except instead of telling her the song, I sing it to her because no-one ever knows the song when I mention it by title. And as I sing, paying no mind to the bar we were sitting in, I cry a little bit because I’d been drinking and I was young and my dad’s death was fresh on my heart.

And I watched her face change as I sang it and saw the tears well up in her eyes too and I remember thinking very briefly that she was moved by my story and by the lyric. She waits until I have finished the chorus and says to me :

“Peter Sarstedt is my brother”

Accascuse me?? [of course I didn’t say that because the genius of Pitch Perfect hadn’t been invented yet but my 20 something self would definitely have rolled that one out if I had known about it then]

I can’t even tell you what I thought in that exact moment. But I do remember thinking she must be bullshitting me. No-one I knew had even heard of the song, let alone the artist and here was this woman, that I had just met who for some bizarre reason I felt compelled to share such an emotional part of myself with telling me that she was this artist’s sister.

And then she told me things. Many things about her and her relationships and her family and how she never tells anyone who her brother is. She told me that hearing how something her brother had done was so special to a family on the other side of the world, made her feel proud and connected to him. That shared moment of vulnerability was extraordinary and will be forever imprinted on my life’s tapestry. When I got home I told my mum, who COULD NOT BELIEVE IT until a copy of the cassette [it was the 90s people] signed by Peter himself arrived for her. Very, very special.

It was never a story I thought to share until just last week a friend of mine posted a link to that song on her Facebook page. And the memory hit me, full-force, in the gut. And I told her that story and she loved it and it was her that highlighted the value of vulnerability and where sharing can take us all.

So here I am, sharing.

"I know where you go to my lovely,

When you're alone in your bed

I know the thoughts that surround you

'Cause I can look inside your head"

Senna and Me

I have a story. A brush with fame. A tale that my family and I delight in every now and then. Like the other night over dinner at my mum's.

Once upon a time, Adelaide hosted the Australian Formula One Grand Prix.

The year is 1986 and it's my second year in the pits. My mum had befriended the international Mercedes head the year before and with that friendship came many benefits during grand prix week including pit passes for the whole race.

This is during the era that young Brazilian, Ayrton Senna was driving the black John Player Special car - back when cigarette companies were sexy and allowed to sponsor everything. Mum's friend, Gerd, was incredibly close to Ayrton and, in fact, was possibly responsible for 'discovering' him. It's through him that I find myself visiting Ayrton in the pits before his races. I'm young, so I don't really get it all and it's car racing so I can't say that I'm too impressed, given that I'm years away from my drivers licence. But Ayrton is lovely and kind and cute in a grown up kind of way.

The race ends on Sunday. There are parties and celebrations but not for me. I go to school on Monday and when I get home the phone rings and it's Ayrton Senna. Calling me. On my phone. At home.

He says 'hi' in his gorgeous accent and we chat while I sit at the dining room table, twirling the telephone cord around my finger. He's relieved that the race is over and is looking forward to a break over the next week. He tells me that he's planning on staying in Adelaide for a few days and wonders if I would take the time to show him around the city. Grown-up me knows he was asking me out. Grown-up me knows how incredible that moment was. Grown-up me is sickened at the memory of what happens next, because 14 year old me was an idiot.

"Sure!" I gush "Let me just ask Mum"

"Muuuummmmm! Ayrton's on the phone and he wants to stay in town for a few days and wants to know if I can show him around. Can I?"

And what, the fuck, do you reckon Mum said?

"No Tania. You have to go to school" Just like that. Did not even pause to think about it.

And do you think 14 year old me had the nouse to COVER THE MOUTHPIECE ON THE PHONE while this exchange went on?? Well do ya?? 

Nooooo. Because 14 year old me was an idiot.

I turn my attention back to Ayrton to tell him that I wasn't allowed to go. And he asks, as charming as can be "How old are you Tania?"

And you know what I said, don't you? I told him. And then he said thanks and it was lovely talking to me and he hopes to see me some other time in the pits and though I do see him many times, he never called me again.

I was almost famous.

The End.

Memory Melee

Sometimes I have so much to say that it all rushes forward at the same time and bottle-necks at the exit. And nothing can get out and all my thoughts begin to panic. There is an uprising and then my thoughts are rioting, in their bid for freedom and this internal mêlée paralyses me. So I sit and try to calm the panic. I sit and try to restore order. I sit and stare. I sit and breathe. I sit and sit. And nothing comes out but there’s so much. Years of memories and theories and anecdotes and opinions. But they’re all fighting to be heard. To be told. They all want their day in the sun.

“Pick me!” they say “I’m a great story.”

But sometimes it’s the quiet little memory in the corner, hoping to go unnoticed that, in fact, gets your attention. Sometimes you are drawn to the one making the least noise because sometimes, they need the sun the most. So I motion to that sweet little moment in time and gently nudge them forward.

“Go on” I say gently “tell me.”

And they do. And it is beautiful.

It’s very early in the morning. My mum and dad and baby brother are all sleeping. But I’m not. I’m awake and reading in bed. I read whenever I can but I’ve been reading for a while and I think it’s time to start the day. I head down the hall to the kitchen in my nightie. I don’t make much noise because I’m small and my feet are bare. I am four.

My dad likes to start his day with coffee. I know this because I see my mum make it for him every morning. Today I am going to make his coffee. Because I love him and it will be nice for my mum to have a rest. I get his favourite cup. I’m very proud of myself because mum keeps the cups in the high cupboards but I’m clever. I pull out the drawers and use them as steps to reach the high cupboards. I get the tin of coffee and put some in the cup. 2 big spoonfuls looks about right and I’m very pleased that I remember Dad has sugar too. I put in 4. One for each of my years. All good instant coffee is made with water from the kettle. I’m not allowed to turn it on so I don’t. I pour the cold water from the kettle into Dad’s favourite cup but only half way. I haven’t forgotten the milk! I fill the rest of the cup to ALMOST the top and stir up that morning coffee.

It takes me the longest time ever to get back down the hallway to my mum and dad’s bedroom because I can’t move too fast or I will spill the coffee. So with two hands I gingerly make my way across the house in my nightie and bare feet and slip into their darkened room. They are STILL asleep so I put the coffee next to my dad and climb into bed with him to wake him up. Which he does, almost immediately. His moustache tickles me when he kisses me good morning. But I don’t care. I love it.

“I made you a coffee Daddy”

My mum sits up bolt upright. “Tania! You KNOW you’re not allowed to use the kettle!” She’s mad at me and she looks scared so I tell her that I know. And I didn’t. And she calms down. Until she sees the cup. “How did you get that cup down?!”

I explain everything and everyone is calm again and then I wait, expectantly for my dad to try his coffee. He exchanges [possibly pained] looks with my mum and sits up in bed, with me tucked under his arm and starts his day with my cup of coffee. Every. Last. Drop.

The memory of that cold cup of coffee keeps my soul warm.

What do you see?

It’s lunch time at King’s Cross in Sydney. There’s a couple walking along, hand in hand, laughing and looking in shops. He’s tall with a head full of thick, grey hair. Light eyes and fair skin. He’s smoking. He looks about 45 years old. The girl with him is young. Dark skin, dark eyes and long dark hair all the way to her bum. She looks a little bit Asian, but her nationality isn’t clear. She’s wearing a denim mini skirt, lip gloss and a small, red, studded shoulder bag skims her exposed thigh. She clutches his arm as they walk and every now and then he pulls her to him and kisses her cheek. She giggles when he whispers things in her ear. She looks about 15.

Do you see anything wrong with that picture?

The cops on the street did. Young, underage sex-workers make good business at the Cross. And they make that business with older guys. So the cops intervened.

They stopped the couple in the street and much to the protests of the man, they separated them to question them. The young girl looked scared but she answered all the questions honestly as she watched the man from afar try to defend himself. He was mad. He was outraged. And he was loud. Most people went about their business, but plenty stopped to see what was happening. The girl was mortified. She was confused. She was embarrassed. But mostly she was deeply offended. So she squared her, not 15 but 11 year old, shoulders and said “That’s my dad”

Did the cops do the right thing?

It was this article on Mamamia this week that reminded me of that day. Of how it’s easy to misread a situation at face value. I couldn’t understand how the police could possibly think that I was a prostitute or that my dad was one of ‘those’ guys. It was a very special outing for us and I was thrilled to be out and about in my school holidays. My mum had bought me a brand new handbag that, until then, I was so proud to wear. I had always looked older than my years and I felt bad for that on that day. I felt as though I had invited the judgement into our innocent world. I felt guilty and I felt mad for a long time [and my dad was seething] But now, as a woman and as a mum, I’m glad that happened. I know I didn’t do anything wrong and I think the police did the right thing too.

Has something you have done ever been grossly misjudged?

When I was a kid

My kids are bored. It's been CRAZY hot and they're on holidays and they are begging me for more time in front of the tv or on the computer which I'm barely resisting. I'm racking my brain for things for them to do and that in itself is pissing me off. I don't remember having daily activities in place for me and my brother growing up. I don't remember that our time was micro-managed by mum or that we felt she was responsible for our fun. 

I DO remember...

Just going outside and playing with the neighbourhood kids. Some you liked. Some you didn't. It wasn't really important. You just hung out. In the street or someone's front yard.

Taping songs off my records and the radio and making compilation tapes which I would play and play and play again. Sometimes if there was a song that I really liked, I would tape it on both sides of the tape [so I didn't have to wait to REWIND the tape to play it again].

Getting up on Sunday morning, well before the parents, and making ourselves a huge cup of 'chocolate poo' [which was about half a tin of Milo each in cold milk, mixed until it was a deep, chocolate, poo brown] and then quietly playing Monopoly for HOURS. Our board still has 'chocolate poo' drip stains on it.

Riding my bike around the streets. No helmet. No parents. Just the sun and the wind and pedal break skids.

Making a slip and slide out of garbage bags, a hose and dishwashing liquid. 

Climbing the street trees in our neighbourhood and eating the fresh, soft almonds.

Watching Video Hits on Saturday morning and memorising the words and the ground-breaking dance moves of The Nolan Sisters.



Going down to The Broadway at Glenelg beach with the family and spending the WHOLE day there in a group that simply expanded as the day went on. There were no cries of "I'm bored" or "Can we go home yet?" or "Can I play on your iPhone?" In fact, we only spoke to the grown-ups to ask for hot chips or a Paddle Pop. Otherwise we were jumping waves, collecting shells, burying each other, building sand castles, playing beach cricket and turning chocolate brown in the Aussie sun.

Walking in a gang to the local playground and spending hours just... playing.

Collecting envelopes from family and neighbours, soaking off the stamps and putting them into the world's most boring Stamp Albums.

My brother, Jason, and I combining his Star Wars figures and my dolls to create elaborate battles.

Racing cars down the hallway.

Concocting horrendous potions from anything we could find outside and then double-daring each other to eat/drink it .... ewwwww!

Going to Marion Swimming Centre and not daring to wee in the pool in case that special stuff they put in the water would put a bright blue ring around your bathers so everyone would know.

What did you get up to when you were a kid?