Mrs A Is Going To Lose It

There was a restorative justice meeting at school this morning. Brother is finally coming back after 6 weeks of illness, police intervention, psychologist's appointments and home schooling. His suspension re-entry included this meeting, where the three people most affected by his actions in the school setting sat opposite him at a table and told him what it meant to  have been violated in this way.

Before he entered, the three of us, two teachers and one student, encouraged each other nervously. I was surprised by the level of emotion I brought to the meeting; it's been weeks, and yet the sense of betrayal lingers.

He came in looking suitably sheepish, withdrawn, closed even.The Head of School had confided that she was unsure of the authenticity of his remorse. There had been many 'platitudes' spouted, many 'I'm really sorry'-s, downcast eyes and cliches. It all sounded a bit practised. As he came in, he had difficulty meeting our eyes, although I could see him trying.

As the Head of School welcomed everyone to the meeting, outlined the purpose and prayed for us, I felt a tight wedge of emotion starting to unravel. My eyes prickled. I started to surreptitiously suck in air.

The first teacher, our art teacher,  began her explanation of how his actions had affected her. He apologised, dry eyed. The Student, a beautiful, gentle Asian lad, swallowing hard, managed to contain himself enough to say:
"I was so disappointed, that you stole my phone, you were in my Home Group, you sold it on Gumtree to a man who didn't know it was my phone and the Police had to tell me all about what had happened."

And then it was my turn.
The whole thing leaked out through my eyeballs.
"I'm sorry," I choked,"Mrs A is going to lose it."

And then I told him. I told him through tears and sobs as I outlined the hurt, the betrayal, the awful week with no phone...(which I now realise is more of a life support system than a phone!). I told him how I could NOT believe that it had been one of our students that would do this to me. I told him of the money it had cost me and the anguish that had ruined my last night of the musical, which should have been a joyful celebration of our efforts. And then I told him how frightened I was for him, and his future.

He started off in the same practised tone but I asked him a question or two and then he started to go red and tear up.
" I don't know why I did it. I used to take things when I was little and I wished I could tell them I'd done it but I never did.....I guess it must be a habit or something"
I couldn't help myself, I interjected.
"Brother, I am not only upset because of my shock and betrayal, I am frightened for you. I am frightened for your future if you choose this path."

And then he started to weep.

Our beautiful art teacher put the icing on the cake.
"I have always had a problem with trust. I will cut people off if they betray me. There is nothing else. I don't need them in my life. But when I started to join the dots Brother and realised that it was you who'd taken the art camera, I realised God was teaching me something. I had been there for every occasion where you'd affected someone in our school. I was there when Student's phone was stolen and I saw how he was affected; I had spent hours with you using the art camera and I felt personally affected by that loss and I was there when Mrs A's phone went missing, and she didn't know her husband's number because it was in her phone, so we had to put MY number into the 'find my iphone' app and then it was me that got the phone call to say someone had bought her phone off Gum Tree. And when I realised this Brother, I knew that God had a lesson for me, and I prayed for you right then and there, I prayed that you would be able to take responsibility for this and that it wouldn't break you."

There was much weeping.

Our Head of School reported that it was the most affected she'd seen him.

I really, really hope that this worthy young man has learned a once only life lesson, and that standing at a crossroads, he chooses the right path. He has everything going for him. He has a loving family, a forgiving school, he's smart, creative and funny. He's a nice looking lad with a quick, creative mind and there is much he could bring to the world. God has given him everything he needs to overcome his weakness. Let us hope that he accepts it all and moves forward in love.

And if he does, I think this restorative justice process will have had an enormous impact.

I first heard about it back in 2007, and whilst I know it is an uncomfortable thing for our Western Society to come to terms with, I think its benefits speak for themselves.

May there be more of it.

Panic In Sword Town

Now that the Baby Angel's absence is, kind of, the norm and my maudlin maternal moments are minimising (did you see what I did there...with the alliteration??...oh never mind), I thought I would tell you about the lead up to her departure.
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The Saturday before the BA left for the UK was the weekend of the AFL Grand Final. She decided to combine the event with a farewell party and asked us if we'd facilitate the affaire. Festivities were due to commence at 1.30pm and, on the dot, a minibus full of teenagers pulled up at our doorstep and disgorged seven boys and three girls. This was the first wave, but they wasted no time in pulling seats into an appropriate ringside position and settling in for the 'big game'.

Realising our modest TV screens were not going to cut it with the youth of today, Himself brought the big screen up from work and rigged it under the new pergola.

The boys were initially confused by the nature of our ring-in AV equipment and spent some time fiddling with the aerial until they realised it was not an HD screen. Heaven forbid!! In the end they seemed to cope.

Somewhat disturbing to the middle aged mother in me, although not necessarily to my 19 year old subliminal self, was the notable presence of multiple bottles of vodka. I mean! Sheesh! What happened to BEER????? (What's worse is that they dilute it with rubbish such as Passiona and Raspberry Crush!)

Anyway, we fed the crowd and as the afternoon progressed, another 10 or so teenagers joined the throng. It was in this atmosphere of both relief and frenzy, as we thanked God that it was all going smoothly and we could relax and watch the said football ourselves.....before putting on the next batch of spring rolls......... that the BA approached me, ashen faced.

"Mum, I can't find my passport folder."

Me: I am sure it will be somewhere in your room.
BA: No, I've looked...it's not there.
(sounds of guests coming in looking for food, looking for the hostess and cheering the most recent goal by the favoured underdog team).
Me: Well BA, now is a really bad time to try and look for it! I'm sure its around somewhere.
BA: The last time I saw it was yesterday afternoon in the city.....

Maybe it was the glass of wine I was sipping. Maybe it was the coming and going of guests. Maybe it was the bemused look on the faces of our adult guests? Maybe it was the frantic morning of shopping, cleaning and preparing for the event that influenced me. For whatever reason I was not going to let this blip on the radar ruin our afternoon.

Me: BA...chill out. You've got a house full of guests and we are not likely to be able to find your folder now. Go and have a glass of whatever it is you people drink and relax. We'll deal with the issue later.

In retrospect I was ridiculously calm.

I suppose I really thought it would be somewhere in her room. I mean, if you could see her room you would understand my nonchalance. My BA, for all her beauty, brains and charm, can be a bit of a ditz. I was sure that once the floor had been cleared, the bags emptied and the coat pockets checked, the offending folder would turn up.

Wrong.

On Sunday morning once the minibuses had departed, the collection and recycling of Smirnoff bottles completed and the detritus of the party rationalised into a mountain of dishes and food scraps, I started to address the issue of the missing passports. And e-ticket. They had all been in the same folder.

I nagged the BA out of bed and enforced a radical cleanup of her horrendous room. Nothing. We looked behind things, under things and in things. Nothing. She checked her car. Her friend checked her car. Eventually, I went and checked her car. No passport. I did find a wet tent which had been in her boot (trunk) for three months, since her last camping trip, but that did nothing to solve our problem or sweeten my mood. We went over her movements and the last time she'd seen the folder, hoping for some revelation. I suggested she call the police to see if it had been handed in. The police told her to file an online 'missing item' report. I decided to check the passport website.

The news was not good. The first thing it said was that it was a federal offence not to report the loss of a passport. And she had lost TWO passports. It also said that as soon as you reported a passport missing it would be cancelled and a new document would need to be issued, costing approximately $200. I had only just shelled out $200+ for the original passport so I was not feeling particularly generous, as you can imagine. I decided to call the travel agent and see what they recommended. After all, at this point it was about 55 hours until her scheduled departure.

The travel agent was incredibly helpful: sympathetic, practical and informative but at the end of the day it boiled down to this; she could get an emergency Australian passport within 24 hours (of calling on Monday) but it was going to cost, although not as much as rearranging her flights. The last time this had happened, the girl informed me in comforting tones, the passport had arrived at 3pm the following day. The BA was scheduled to depart at 6pm. Cutting it just a bit fine I thought.

In all this discussion of replacement of Australian passports I had minimised the issue of the missing UK passport. After all she could always get a replace that once she got to England. Couldn't she? "Does she have a visa for the UK?" asked the agent.
"Well, no," I replied, "we normally go into the UK on our UK passports. But I understand you can get in on an Aussie passport nowadays anyway, can't you?" The girl's brow furrowed, over the phone.
"Hmmmmm. How long is she going for? What date is her return ticket?"
"About 9 months. Her return ticket is for June."
There was a slight, barely discernible, but ominous pause.
"Ummmmmm, they're not going to let her into the UK for 9 months without a visa."
                                                          Oh f***.
"But she's a UK cit," I protested," she was born there!!"
"That may be," my adviser pointed out, "but without a passport, they may not let her in."
"Well how long will it take to get a visa??"
Again that momentary but ominous hesitation.....
"About two months. And you need to go to Victoria for an interview."

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT??????????

I drew breath and tried to focus on stilling the bongobeat of my heart. SURELY, she would be ok to get into the country? I mean, she has a UK birth certificate for f's sake! She would have grandparents (also citizens) waiting for her; surely they wouldn't stop her from entering the country???? But it was a real possibility. With a brow like thunder I informed her of this fact.

There were tears. Oh yes, there were tears. There was the suggestion of cancelling the trip (but your ticket is non-refundable BA...... >:-(....this will fix nothing!). There was remorse and fear and insecurity. Now, from a distance, it is hard to recall the sinking feeling that accompanied all this because, after all, now I know it turned out ok. But for several hours there on Sunday 29th of September I was in that place where a $2000+ ticket was in jeopardy; I was possibly up for a significant amount of dosh in terms of replacing passports, and the whole emotional build up to her Tuesday departure (including the whole 'why am I going away? Everything I have here is so good and it may not be here when I get back...') was possibly going to have to go onto the back burner and come up on repeat again when things got sorted. I gotta tell ya folks, I have been feeling a little fragile of late and this was not doing my heart/blood pressure/sanity any good at all!

But I am nothing if not pragmatic. I refused to report the lost passports until we had retraced her steps and assured ourselves that they were gone for good. I actually really thought they were. I thought someone must have lifted them out of her handbag or something. I really didn't think, as we set off into town, that we were ever going to see that mint green passport folder again.

We drove to the place she had parked. She paced about looking in bushes etc. We moved to the tram stop, which was a whole other kind of awful since it is outside the entrance to what was my Alma Mater, now a huge vacant block (do not start me on this). I couldn't wait to get out of there. No passport folder though. We drove into town, parked and walked down to the cafe/health food shop where the BA had been working this year. She had called them earlier in the day and told them of her loss but hadn't heard back so I had no great hopes of finding the missing items here. As we walked into the shop, one of the girls on the counter called out, "Oh, BA, I haven't had a chance to look for your passports yet. We've been so busy!"

The BA thanked her and made her way out back to look in the lockers. I put thoughts of immigration, money and passports out of my head as I looked at the herbal weight loss drugs and rubbed hand cream testers into the back of my hand. The things we do when stressed!!

I think I will forever hold in my memory, the moment when she appeared through the 'staff only' doors holding that Goddam Passport Folder in her hands. We looked at each other from opposite sides of the room and our mutual breath hold was practically audible. We paled, then we teared up, then we hugged, then we had to go and sit down.

It had been sitting up against the side wall of her locker, which was a similar light colour inside. She had been called away by the staff at the end of the day, to be given farewell gifts etc and she had pulled her bag and coat from the locker, not realising that the passport folder was not amongst them. In all honesty I cannot think of a recent time that I have been SO relieved. Which just goes to show how blessed I am. Cos after all, it was not the end of the world! But OMG for a few hours there on Sunday the 28th of September it sure felt close.

In a way, it was good it happened then. I'm pretty sure, for the BA, it was one of those life lessons which never leaves you. I just thank God it didn't happen when she was backpacking in East Germany.

Onward and upward I say!

The Photo Heavy Royal Show 2013 Post

My sister commented recently that my posts and answers to her various messages seemed very brief. There's no one like a sister to hit the nail on the head.

Life has been challenging of late. My foundations have been shaken and I have had to re-evaluate a whole lot of 'stuff'. In the wake of this I made a concerted decision to visit this year's  Royal Adelaide Show.

Errrrrr....I hear you say....re-evaluating 'stuff', like life stuff? How is the Show any part of that?? Well, it's kind of symbolic really. Symbolic of parts of my life which have been on hold over the last few years......

The Royal Adelaide Show is a cultural icon in South Australia. Radio stations decamp to its environs and broadcast willy nilly for a week; schools have a free 'Show Day'; speed limits are reduced, traffic is stopped in every direction and parking is anathema. I have posted about The Show before (and in fact, that post is rather indicative of some of the 'stuff' I have been having to re-evaluate of late) and continue to hold it dear to my heart as yearly tradition. Last year I didn't go. Back to that 'stuff' I was referring to.

Well THIS year I decided I was going by hook or by crook. I love The Show! If I didn't have anyone to go with, I figured I would go on my own!! As it turned out, I ended up going three times with three different people!! My first trip was with a new work colleague who has proved to be an enormous boon as a worker and a friend. She was also a keen Show fan and had purchased a family ticket for the week which meant she could go as many times as she liked and even take a guest :-D (pick me, pick me!!). We went with an oestrogen fuelled desire to see all the Arts and Crafts, unhindered and unhurried by impatient testosterone. Which we did.

These are from the Junior section:
Made entirely of nuts, bolts, hinges and O-rings etc.

This one is a teapot.

This last one is hard to see as I took it through glass and the ceiling lights reflected but it's a dragon made entirely from tissue paper. Like a pinata I suppose.

Having made our way through Arts and Crafts we checked out the flower arranging:

Yeah..I know......but hey, clever!

Weird.

More traditional. This one is entitled, "Forest Fruits" or something....

This next one had something to do with Shamrocks, or Leprechauns, or something......

 

Yes, that is a pot of gold hanging from a branch there.....

 This one was beach themed.....

This amazing Christmas Tree like arrangement of lilies was going to develop during the week.

We started to wander through the handicrafts area looking at knitted, crocheted and hand sewn articles.

But we were totally arrested by the quilt display.

No prize for this one but I rather liked it.

 Maybe too garish for my taste. What do you think?

This appealed

more so close up

The handwork on this was impressive...

 Well, I assume it was handwork

 This one was a bit kitsch

And this was over the top and possibly doesn't qualify as quilting, but it was fascinating to look at and included a list of objects to 'find'....

This was the Grand Champion.

I really need to get into quilting........

So that was the first visit to The Show. I had plans to attend with the Bestie on the following Friday but the BA surprised me by requesting that we go together. Since her mid teens she has tended to go with friends, as it should be, but with her extended o/s trip coming up scarily fast she was feeling a bit nostalgic.

We went after school on Thursday night as a light rain was starting to fall.

We made it in time to see the baby animals (no photos! amazing)

and possibly the most ridiculous looking chicken I have ever seen.

I noticed the Lily Tree had opened.

Now this is what an agricultural show is all about: Scarecrow competitions.

After our obligatory ride on the Crazy Coaster, now inexplicably renamed the Spinning Coaster, The BA and I had a lovely time wandering the aisles of the pavilion where new gadgets and products are showcased. We bought Stubby Strips for Christmas presents, sampled hand creams and experienced an eye massage complete with warming eye pads and ambient birdsong soundtrack. We heard the rain start.

This ruled out any more rides (thank you God) and so we looked at the cake decorating section.

Amazing....

How do you cut that then????

Finally, as things drew to a close for that evening, we bemoaned the rainsoaked cancellation of the ubiquitous 9pm fireworks. We saw a break in the skies so we made our way through the fine drizzle towards the car. As we passed the main arena, we could hear the sounds of revving engines and smell the burning rubber that heralds the motorcycle stunt team. Apparently the rain had not put them off. Once more my aging head could only think of those three words: 'Health and Safety'. And I used to be such a rebel. 

We were nearly to the gates when we heard the countdown. The fireworks were on after all! A quick glance at each other and we bolted back towards the stadium in time to see the start.

With the mist, smoke and drizzle, it was actually quite atmospheric.

And the rain stopped in time for us to walk back to the car.

The third trip was with the Bestie. Her agenda was very different. We didn't go near the craft hall but instead sought out the animals. The Bestie loves animals, a fact she recently confirmed by taking on the position of Voluntary Secretary of the Zoo Go-ers Anonymous Association (or some such Zoo-y society. Names changed to protect the innocent.) Anyway, as soon as we hit the Showgrounds we hightailed it over to the Farm Barn where we saw piglets, rabbits and baby chicks. Off next to see the alpaca and the goats and then on to the Petting Barn where there was a baby camel, baby emu chicks, Minature Hereford cattle and an albino wombat! Pausing for the ubiquitous cinnamon donuts (my third pack for the week), we watched the woodchoppers compete. I should have taken photos but I was eating my donuts at the time so I had to pinch this photo from another blog, but I must say these guys are impressive.

Image credit (there are a lot of lovely Show images on this blog. Much better than mine!!)

But the key purpose of Bestie's visit to The Show was to purchase a new gadget for grooming the puppy, Q. On our pet purchase travels, we also came across these guys...

And we even managed to find the grooming tools we were after! 

Our purpose fulfilled, her back starting to give out and a showbag full of cheese from the dairy pavilion safely under my arm; we made our way to the exit and said farewell to The Show for 2013.

I think this year was a record; three visits! It is indicative of my need to change my life significantly. I am really hoping this happens in a positive, productive way for our family but I am also resigned to the fact that things cannot continue as they are. At the very least I must proactively fill the holes in my life rather than moaning and waiting for someone else to fill them for me.

Wish me luck with that!

What Do The Flying Dutchman And A Hammer Drill Have in Common?

If there is one thing Himself and I have in common, it is our attitude toward those age-old, gender specific arts of cooking and DIY. Deep seated, nay abyss-like, feelings of helplessness, failure and the overwhelming belief that we are somehow less of a man/woman for being unable to provide for our family in these time honoured ways, lead to well developed practices of procrastination and avoidance; me in the kitchen and Himself in any setting involving say, a ladder and a drill.

For example, when the end of the long working day arrives, rather than affectionately considering the heart warming meal I will prepare for my hard working husband and ravenous teenagers, I savagely mutter something like, 'I suppose I'd better think about dinner' and then storm off to fold washing or vacuum or, heaven forbid, do some school work: in short, anything other than cooking. When faced with a DIY task such as....oh I dunno....say putting up some venetian blinds in the BA's room, Himself manages to find something else that needs sanding on the boat or a pressing work related computer task...or, if I am really lucky, a close encounter with the lawn mower: anything which does not involve hand operated power tools.

We both feel similarly that our best, most well meaning efforts are doomed to failure. The other night, when we were asked to 'bring something' to a Sailing Club dinner, to accompany a roast, my paralysing insecurity saw me look up a recipe for Cauliflower Gratin on the web. As I prepared to follow the instructions something in my gut told me that cooking the cauliflower for 10 minutes before baking it was a bad idea, and yet, the recipe came from the web and therefore MUST be more reliable than me. The ridiculously large quantity of cheese called for seemed, in my extremely humble opinion, destined to curdle the white sauce and yet, I unwaveringly followed the instructions to the letter, determined to bring delicious, feel good food to the dinner party as a tribute to the other guests.

Predictably, my yearning for Earth Motherhood was once more dashed upon the soggy rocks of the inedible ship wreck of a gratin. Himself saved the day with a swiftly concocted and artistically arranged salad. I went to the dinner with a countenance like thunder and the reinforced belief that I am not much of a woman. I mean, women have been preparing meals for their loved ones since the dawn of time. How hard can it be??????????

But this post is not about me. Really. I am merely trying to communicate the depth of feeling accompanying Himself's aversion to DIY. We have had the venetian blinds for the BA's room for months now and we had promised ourselves that we would get them up whilst she was away this week. Well, of course THAT didn't happen but Himself did take the bracket down to the local hardware store and get appropriate screws and rawl plugs for the job. And then decided to mow the lawn.

Today, with a little encouragement, we made a start. Within 10 minutes I made the mistake of asking why he had purchased plasterboard screws when we were drilling into brick. I was just wondering! The 'dummy spit' was spectacular. He was off the ladder and out the door shouting that I could 'get a little man in' to do it if I wasn't happy with his work in seconds. And this was before he had even switched on the drill! Some judicious soothing and the assurance that I knew how he felt (see above story) calmed him sufficiently to get back onto the ladder. He lined up the drill and applied power.

Now we have had problems with this wall before. The double brick is phenomenally hard and drilling holes has proved trying in the past. I held my breath. The drill screamed, the dust flew, the bit advanced rapidly through the plaster and hit brick. The pitch increased, Himself applied more power. The bit spun wildly, and ineffectively, for 2 minutes before the air filled with a blue fog of expletives, the like of which had not been heard since last week. The drill hit the floor and Himself hit the road, heading for his garden shed and a calming cigar. I decided to take the drill and the bit down to the hardware store for advice.

At this point let me take you back in time.

When I was 12, my 7th grade teacher played us 'The Ride of the Valkyries', I think it was to inspire our creative writing but whatever the motivation it had a huge impact on me. I loved it! I came home singing 'dah duh dudah daaaaaa da' and excitedly explained to my classically leaning father the wonder of this dramatic piece. He smiled at me indulgently,
"That's not The Ride of the Valkyries," he explained gently, "that's 'The Flying Dutchman'.
This stopped me in my tracks. After all, my father knew everything but my teacher had showed us the cover of the album and told us the story and.. and.. and...

Dad lead me to the hallowed lounge room and the sacred record collection and reverently drew out an LP boasting an atmospheric drawing of the legendary ghost ship on the cover. He placed it on the turntable and as I listened, the familiar strains of 'dah duh dudah daaaaaa da' issued forth. How could this be????????

I don't know how we worked it out but the flip side of this album was 'The Ride of the Valkyries'. Someone at RCA or where ever had pasted the record labels on back to front (link in case you are a child of the CD age and do not remember that once upon a time you had to turn records over). For his entire adult life my father had been under the misapprehension that 'dah duh dudah daaaaaa da' signalled the approach of 'The Flying Dutchman', because of some quality control issues at Decca.

But what is the connection I hear you ask? What does this have to do with
Himself and his drill phobia? Well, when I got to the hardware store the technical advisor tested the drill and showed me that there were two settings, one for hammer drill (essential for drilling hard concrete and metal) and the other for more gentle, standard rotary drilling of wood and such. The drill had been set on 'rotary'. I asked to see which way the switch needed to go and there, before my very eyes, was The Flying Dutchman. The label indicating the setting was on back to front. For the last twenty years Himself has been trying to drill concrete with a screwdriver and put in screws with a hammer drill. No wonder he hates DIY.

We got one of the blinds up. The other one will have to wait until next weekend.


Image credits

Flying Dutchman

DIY Disasters

Drills