Sunny white beach glimpsed through tall white gum trees, the shiny white teeth of bride and groom.

The gods smiled on our friends on Saturday - the day before had been howling rain and wind.The day itself was windy, sunny and beautiful - down on the south coast, a 3 hr drive from Sydney.

As weddings go, this was warm, honest, funny. Like the couple is, too. The crowds gathered in partial shade looking over white white sand, rocks spraying the clearest summer sea green spray, shading out to colder deep. Children in pretty clothes, summer dresses flying, a few chairs for the older ones, shaven men in crisp shirts, and bare feet everywhere.

The bride wore a Japanese floral print dress, her hair in an elegant chignon. The groom in a white shirt, sand trousers. There, that was the Woman's Day moment.

It was a gathering of the tribes: alternative activists and health practitioners, Canberra public servants, Sydney corporate types, artists galore.

The wind nearly blew the oyster shells off our plates, smashed glasses and paper lanterns, a few kangaroos looked on nonplussed as we lunched on the lawn of the finest holiday house indeed, and the jokes were predictably bad.

And then to the sea, a bracing afternoon to swim. Now I feel really clean and quiet. The Leathermanman went for a huge surf, and was joined by the groom.

The power went out before sunset, taking the water with it - water pumps. Nobody minded, candles did just as well, and the gas BBQ worked. The champagne got tepid, so we switched to red wine. The full moon rose through a cloud, a tribe had trooped to a headland to watch it come up.

A sparkling conversation about the desire for consciousness, the full 100% of the brain in use, the full holographic omniscience. What about the need for ballast, potential? A truly inspiring conversation between a doctor I know and love and a chandsome and charming former Sanyassen and meditation whizz. Wow!

Oh it's a lovely season here in Australia when that is the focus of a weekend!

And I'm sure the bride will dance on her honeymoon. Thank you friends.

Done

It's done: every last assignment, every last presentation, every last exam!
The floodwaters of social life broke over me by lunchtime last Thursday, 1 hour after the last exam, with champagne and prawns and divine dipping sauces (thank you Dr M!) around the fire in our garden til late. And then continued in a heady rush of friends I've barely seen, new neighbours, and family for 6 whole days! Wonderful to have my other life spill back out, with news from far away, people I'd almost lost. And the reality of being able to enjoy it all right now, and not be needing to do something else really, all the time.
By last night, all I could do was sit and watch a DVD by myself at home. The Lives of Others, gentle, insightful, serious film about the Stasi in East Berlin. Wonderful.

Sideways Rain

It truly is raining sideways as I sit on campus, researching and writing. Not the most fun kind of writing, but it IS taking me outside of myself, closer to a new professional life, I hope.

Every day I think of something to blog, see something in the world. Do I come here and write? I do not.

Beans in the Garden

I join the blissfully content mothers, who plant stuff in their gardens, nurture it, watch it grow over late-afternoon cups of tea, have their children pick it, cook it - and they eat it!

Today, the Pumpkin picked the first 12 beans from the bush beans, the ones from seedlings, not my own seeds from 2 years ago. My own ones are much slower, but also growing well. They will find their way into a stirfry and be shared around.

THIS is what's good about being home.

My baby is five, and still cares for me..

Got that Nina Simone song in your head yet?

The Pumpkin is five, taller, thinner, has a new haircut, and is almost ready to be 5 himself. There was a great outburst not long ago: I want to be 4 forever, tears, inconsolation... It turns out he's sure he can't go to His Christine anymore, and will have to stop sucking his thumb when he's 5. Yes I know.....So I reassure him, often for days... that it's not a line to cross over just like that.

And today on his birthday, I see him and wonder if in fact, it is a line: I'm viewing him differently. A great piece of my work is done: the outside world will have him, with school and all. I know we took him to Cork and all those other places in Europe - and the USA and then Samoa two weeks ago for good measure. But. He most looked to me for what's what in the world. And his dad, the Leathermanman.

We went to the beach early, then home to play with great new toys, and had a fire in the back garden at the end of the day. Last year, he asked for pizza for dinner, and got it in our small apartment, with special friends in the autumn. This year it was dumplings with his godparents, who had cycled over on a warm evening. So we had Asian pork dumplings, stir-fry greens with oyster sauce and BBQ duck around the fire. Oh we're back in Australia all right!

The Tyranny of Dinner

In a week of atrocious sleeps, sick children, wild cold winter rain storms, and school stop work meetings, I'm finding the jump from one role to another almost impossible. The brain cells do not seem to absorb the language of the graduate school right now and none of my previous jobs seems to have gone elsewhere - see title.

I realise how much I've been wanting things to change as I stand in front of the fridge, with the need to produce dinner for the family, at about 5pm every evening. Wonder what would happen if I just did not do anything about it at that time of day? Sick of it being my responsibility every single day...

That said, the subjects I've got are THE reason for doing the Masters in the first place: Change Management, Leadership and Knowledge Management, all three of long-term interest, since Corporate Vision days. Maybe I'll get to use some of the old stuff; academic referencing could be a problem, with so much change since then!

This too will pass, this too will change, as I stop being around quite as much. Oh patience. Right now, maybe a good sleep would brace me better. It is Week One as a graduate student, part time mum again. Does 'mum' get to be a part time role I wonder?

So my besty phones this morning...

..and says, 'help' you speak German! " One of my paintings has been doing really well in Germany, as the cover of novels and now a magazine! What's it all about?" See for yourselves: Cicero the magazine . Her image is on the cover of the June issue, with a great rave about her.

How is this magazine viewed in Germany? I'd not heard of it. Berlin readers, pls comment - it's published there.

What it's about is: the globo-tribe, mobile, available to go anywhere, coming from anywhere, and my incredibly talented, hard-working, painter friend swimming easily in its currents. Oh and did I say she's gorgeous?

Define home

Among only 'bout 1000 jobs around the house, yes our own house, back in our own street, I miss this geographically-free space of the blogosphere. There's a liberation in this space. I feel very much at home out here, as I do in the galleries, museums, public gardens and bookshops of the globe.

That said, it has been rewarding to get in and DO here, and it is, slowly, feeling like home again. One day last week, turning over the sods to reinstate our vegetable patch, I dug up a silver earring hoop of my own. So that's what coming home means, you dig and turn up your own stuff - from 2 years ago. And the soil which turned up to fill the bed is curiously inert, lifeless by contrast, not a worm in there. Lucky for the racecourse nearby which has a great big painted sign on its corrugated iron fence: free manure. You shovel and haul it yourself. Six sacks done.

And in Cork, the families are getting ready to go back to school after the long summer holiday. On Monday, I will miss them again, as I so often have been.. I see some of them in the streets here sometimes, or think I do.

Our new school is great too, we are happy at the change, with the Bean settling well into his age cohort now. The furniture is assembled, boxes despatched, shelves restored, office set up, letters sent, start-up costs paid, uni courses enrolled in, tip run done, garden jobs done. What's left? Oh just the rest of our lives.

And on Monday, I resume my own postgrad studies. A door closes on a wonderful year of lightness, of returning to myself, of pursuing long-held dreams.

Asterix and Obelix take it to Bondi

My first ever City to Surf in Sydney with the Bean, yesterday, with 75,000 of my closest friends. Completed the course, enjoyed ourselves: not bad for a small one who's 8, and another who's not very race-fit. We had prepared well, with practice runs around Newcastle, discussions and costume preparations, and the other half of the family briefed on the meeting point for a picnic at the beach afterwards.

Well, we had an absolute blast! Running down into the red start group, as we made our way to our blue start group, we nearly got cleaned up by the FAST runners - and got a great rev from seeing them go. At the Kings Cross tunnel, I could see it dawning on him that this whole thing was going to be an 'event' all the way to the beach. We shouted ourselves hoarse at the footbridge, where the other half of the family was watching, heard the rustling of the drinks stations well ahead of seeing it at Rose Bay, ran up Heartbreak Hill at a steady pace, walked whenever he said walk, then he took off and ran again. I just stayed with him, and had plenty of energy left at the end - I am just that much fitter after the gym in Cork. (thanks Jamaican in Cork for the motivation!). We people-watched the whole way, had drinks, chatted, jogged, patched his heel close to Bondi and kept going the whole way! We were snapped at the finish line, didn't know this at the time, but V proud we were. A flood of tears, overwhelm, at the finish made me realise that I'd worried a lot about what I was putting on this small boy, but he's made of stern stuff.

Then in the bright winter sunshine at Bondi, with the sea brilliant green-blue and the skate-park in full flight, we picnicked among all the other smiling groups with red ribbons and medals around their necks. Me: elated, really enjoying this whole thing, and a definite starter for next year. Savouring what I'd looked forward to for 14 years - doing the C2S with my own child. Yes, a fine, long time coming - and we'll get under 100 minutes no bother.

That evening, back in Newcastle, a very tired, proud boy put his arms around my waist and said he'd like to do that with me another 24 times, then he'd get the cloth badge for 25 years' C2S completion too, just like the one we'd seen on a tattered old white shirt on the course today. Of all the things I thought of to say to that, I just squeezed him back, my eyes filled with tears - and said none. Treasure.

The hippos danced their rolling dance

On my birthday at the San Diego Zoo, the day was hot, like no day we'd had all year in Europe. A day to really warm the fibres.

A beautiful zoo, right from the flamingos at the front gate, to the last skyfari ride of the day, with my 3 men, large and small, singing me 'Happy Birthday' as we drifted and dangled over the top of the gorillas and spider monkeys in a slanting sun.

Sushi and lemon tart to finish the day, perfect in California - and for this mermaid-girl. What a year I've had, from the first day at Kinsale Harbour during the Kinsale Festival to the very last just now, at the San Diego Zoo. I'm not sure it summarises into a phrase, but it certainly feels wonderful to have so many experiences that I really WANTED to actually look back on now. Less yearning, longing for anywhere-but-here now.

Those hippos were dancing just for me.

Two more sleeps

Tomorrow is the day I have to say goodbye to my friends here, mothers through the school mostly.. And of course everyone is so matter-of-fact and upbeat on these occasions, when I want to cry at the finishing of a most precious year, just actually lament the passing for one day. What has been. What must become anecdote, memory, not remain the fibre of my life.

Fancy that - I've had: a year not working, a year with lots of trips to places I longed for for years!, a year rediscovering my own thoughts, a year of housework and excess childcare, a year of feeling part of this great thick blended throng of Europeans. A year on the up side.

The boys have grown a lot, physically and in their understanding of it all. LMM and I have had times to talk about the next 20, the next 5 years. And often not talk at all really, in the flurry of our separate logistic challenges - his the hospital, mine the boys and home.

Ireland has found its way under our skin, seeping in its green slow way as it does to buildings too. The kindness, the welcome, the accommodation to people's various needs. One of the Liberty-mamas, actually the first mama I met on the first day of school last year, said that when she moved to Cork, it wrapped its arms around her and she never wants to live anywhere else anymore. Now, at this point, a year in, I can understand and share the sentiment. It makes no sense at all that we should be leaving.

I love the range of people they are, the work they do in creative ways, the treasures of their children, their beautiful homes full of brilliant toys and games, their straight competence, their travels, their acceptance of a new one into their midst. Thank you all so much. And still, I leave.

All is Bared

What an awesome experience. I went to Blarney in the night, driving out the back way. Encountered not a soul on the road, not sure at all how many would be ahead in the Blarney Castle grounds. Pitch black, wondering about speed on a dark night, yellow street lights, even the hedges by the side of the road were still green tho.

Then, to the entrance. Suddenly it was like a world music festival, with people from ALL walks of life, warmly dressed, making their way in. People in pairs, in groups of friends - Cork, where nothing is a secret. All made our way down to a huge lit space, floodlit by sportsfield lights, sitting on our plastic bags, settling in for a long wait. And it was LONG.

What got to me was the cigarette smoke, my god they were all puffing away a lot. I had to go to the edge of the space we were all waiting in to clear the nausea. A group of women singing, a man stripping off to cheers WAY too early (just had to get his kit off), people with thermos flasks, ipods, warm beanies. I didn't speak much.

Some words from the crew, Spencer Tunick himself, then more waiting looking to the sky to lighten. It was only at about 5.30 that we all got our kit off. Which was easy, it was. Stuff everything into the bag, and walk out.

Walking out between the trees in a luminous crowd of white bodies was very moving: like the first humans walking out from the trees, primeval experience, even if totally removed from any historical accuracy ever!. Everyone still warm from clothes, shoulders sheltering bodies, curling over as they could. Eye contact.

Soon after, cold wet feet. Soon after, shouting and moving the mass, the putty we had become, into the right shape for the shoot, as determined from a crane high over our heads. Soon after, surreptitious glances at tattoos, shapes, colours of skin. We are all beautiful naked, even when cold in the grey light of dawn. Never more so.

More time passing and we are getting colder. During the lying-down shoot/red and white roses held aloft, I heard chattering teeth from a young guy near my head somewhere. The sun was nearly golden on the birch leaves nearby now, white light fading out the early grey.

It has seldom been harder to get my socks on, as at about 7am! The women only then made their way to a spot closer to the castle, for another stripping down. There was much hooting from both sides as the men watched from lower down the hill, like a scene from Braveheart now, cheering hooting, almost bawdy, but in such a fine humour in the early morning! Other folks are probably stirring and slurping their first cups of tea now, we're out here in full swing. Yep. As it were.

Dressed again, nothing but our big smiles to separate us from the rest of Cork anymore.

For me, an awesome, enormous feeling of wholeness in my body. Being one shape, inhabiting one vessel, not a collection of lumps too big and limbs too untoned.. Wonderful, a liberation.

Ungrateful Wretches

Today the counting of votes towards the Lisbon Treaty revealed that it's a No here in Ireland. After everything which Europe has done for Ireland these past 15 years.. It's not a vote for the little guy - Europe has been created and remains a big organisation regardless - this was about simplifying rules, making it easier for Europe to deal with the rest of the world.

This tiny nation in Europe, less than 1% of the population of Europe, holds up a process which must cost fortunes. Gawd. What can possibly be achieved if this one state holds up the passage of the final attempt to get a new constitution, years in the negotiation? Does anyone actually want to move on? Europe's got troubles enough.

Some other people's reactions here.

And tomorrow there won't be a 'no' voter to be found, they're that contrary in their politics here..

A June to Remember

A year ago, as we were in the throes of packing up our house to prepare for this trip, a massive storm hit Newcastle, followed by floods for days. Winter, lashing rain, grey for days.

A coal ship, the Pasha Bulker, washed up on the beach 10 minutes drive from our house, grounding on the sand - and remaining stuck there for more than a month.

It was primal, collective - as people lifted out of what they thought they were doing in their own worlds that weekend, to participate/help in this disaster. We thought we had my parents to visit, to help pack up: instead we, and 2 other neighbouring families, ate dinner at a neighbour's, who had an open fire and a gas stove - the power was gone for 12 hours that Saturday. And we all fared very well compared to much of Newcastle.

The local ABC Radio site is running some memory stories with lots of pics from 2007, having been THE source of information and support for everyone for DAYS, they just stayed on air, suspending all normal broadcasting. Amazing effort, which won them awards later last year.

And I was talking about it to someone here and promised one of my photos from then. BIG days they were.

It's here - Spencer Tunick looming up in Cork

Next week, and unknown number of people in Cork will be taking part in a massive photo shoot with Spencer Tunick - taking all their clothes off, staying very close together, keeping quite still. From other photos at his site, it looks as if it's a silent activity, almost devotional, in an odd way: to large public spaces, to our common humanity, to our collected assembled bodies as an articulate medium in their own right.

I'll be there. For me, it's an occasion for a last hurrah, a treat on my own account to celebrate a year living here in Ireland, being part of the great mass of European humanity. This is my birth too, the collective unconscious of my own mind. And in view of the fuss about nude bodies used in Bill Henson's art in Australia these past few weeks, it seems highly appropriate - let's please not have a new age of prudery.

In my work, I've been involved with creating ephemeral activities for large crowds in public places, with Live Sites, in a role which required clothes on at all times! This is another way to participate in that work to blur the distinctions between a) formal public places and b) memorable artistic experiences - to change our views of a space and place - of appropriate and inappropriate behaviour, even!

The organisation of large crowds is fantastic, the detailed email which arrived is brilliant people management, and all a big secret until the day. (UPDATE: NOT. LMM heard all about it at work one night, with 3 days to go. Confidentiality is a loose notion here in Cork.)

Fun. Can't wait, will reveal more in due course. Ha ha.

Auld ancient Ireland vs the New

In miraculous sunshine, truly transporting me to a different planet than this Cork-planet I've grown used to - we drove to Midleton, for the Jameson Experience, a tour of the old, now disused, distillery building, laced in fine tales of brewing and distilling, small feature films, and of course, a tasting at the end.

It occurred to me there that, on a weeklong visit to Ireland from, say the USA, a body could get a completely different view of Ireland than ours, gained in long slow steeping in the country. It was so clean, tidy, freshly tiled, swept, painted, orderly at the site. And it's a bit the same at Muckross House, at Kilkenny Design Centre,and Killarney hotels look to be the same. Shiny, freshly painted, new grey stone. Squared edges, crisp colour, though in heritage shades.

The Ireland I have lived in this time is more mossy, disorganised, with haphazard arrangements of windows, ugly new and dilapidated old buildings side by side. Moss grows on the sills of our car, moss grows on the wall out this window, moss grows on the buttresses of ruined cathedrals. Which, in bright sunshine, looks romantic, gorgeous, nostalgic like Easter-nests of old: not at all like way too much rain all year round.

A stunningly characterful pub will be tucked in beside a new bright yellow convenience store, almost invisible from the street front. In the pub, a group of people half my age were puddling away on fiddles, bodhrans, banjo, just for theirselves - oh and also the crowd squeezed thickly into the tiny, vertical space of the stairwell over them). Sin E!

It's odd then, to me, that the main difference in the appearance of Ireland for a short visit, seems to be efficiency. When this trait is just not apparent in Irishness - all manner of other qualities are, but not that - and yet they're portraying it out there now. Maybe it was the shot of Jameson's with cranberry that set me to thinking like this. Maybe the sun.

Birthday Party Boy

We'd hatched the idea that, now in spring, an outside party at Fitzgerald Park could be fun for a crowd of 8-year olds. The party had to be, we're not long before leaving, and this school has been one of the better things to happen to The Bean ever! Such wonderful friends, such a vibe, such folk-like-us in the school, it's easy to talk in there, without much pre-amble to explain ourselves.

So, to the party. I walked up to the park from school, in fine, almost sunny weather - 5 children, the others in other people's cars, on the way to meet up there. LMM on the way with The Pumpkin and the cake, to the cafe, where we'd start with pizza, toasted sandwiches and drinks, as arranged. Oh well, as he arrived, it seemed a complete surprise.

Twas a great party. The Bean had painted an alien, without eyes, so we could play Pin the Eye on the Alien. Pass the Parcel had rocket balloons in it, which were hanging in trees the next morning still. At one point, all the big kids went running, shouting, "Alex, your brother's rocket went the highest, did ye see it, he's the champion!!!" They especially loved the Great Fitzgerald Park Quiz, their first treasure hunt, with 11 questions I'd put together for them on sheets. They ran like mad, in pairs, had a great time! We've now seen more poetic, interesting spellings for belly: bellea, belleay.

The cake this year had to be alien/space/explorer-related, so 'twas an alien spaceship, bright yellow frosting, red pods on top, foil antenna (note to self: post photo!), and got eaten up! There was also a truly delicious cake which he chose from a patisserie in Montaigue the day of his actual birthday: caramelised pear with pear mousse. The boy got style, he do.

Weekday Pasta Recipe

Have all the ingredients for pasta with meat sauce on hand; also 2 small boys, homework, a painting project and a grey Cork afternoon.

Chop onion, mince garlic, fry with olive oil in large heavy-bottomed saucepan.
Stir. Put down spoon, wipe hands, get water for the boy's painting project.
Chop mushrooms, great zuchini. Take mince from wrapping.
Stir onion mix, add mince, check heat.
"Mummy look!" Check painting project, advise on shades of blue for the sky.
Stir mince.
Put on water for noodles in a large saucepan.
Add vegetables and salt and herbs, once mince is browned.
Change rinsing water, mind the green paint all over the sink. Discuss how to achieve pale shades of yellow and brown.
Adjust newspaper on table to prevent paint landing all over dining table.
Open tin of tomatoes, add this and tomato paste to the sauce. Do not squeeze tomato paste tube onto boy's paint palette. (He's not using red today.)
Rinse brush before he moves on to yellow, under the cold tap, not in the noodle water.
Add noodles to water once boiling.
Stir sauce. Check painting's progress, advise opinions. Taste sauce, adjust seasoning.
Allow to simmer: the sauce, not the boys. Chat to painter and his smaller brother. Assemble clean plates, drinks, grate parmesan.
Move dirty paintbrushes from the sink before you strain off cooked noodles.
Dad comes home from work.
Remove painting to drying spot, rinse paint plate, serve sauce over noodles.
Sit together, enjoy!

Where are the recipe books like this? Does anyone else cook like this, with often up to 3 different things going on at once?

It will surely be what I remember about my times here, in fact what I'll remember about all these early years before they were both in school. Pictured is the Bean, helping with the strawberries, as the box construction and paint project dries on the table. There are SO many of these afternoons here, I do treasure them. And sit in an exhausted stupour sometimes between 9 and 10pm, once it's all over. That's where Channel 4 comes in.

It is an incredible leap coming in January next year, when I will see both my beautiful boys off to school - a new stage for us all.

Mother's Day in Moissac

This is vivid. Precious. Europe Green. Still.

HOT day, I decide to wear 'the' dress, on only its third outing all year. Drove to Moissac, a cathedral town on the Garonne, famous for its cloister and its canal. Markets again, our French is running back into our mouths like saliva does when you see something delicious. Suddenly, the words are there.

An outside, sunny, hot, picnic of couscous and chicken by the Canal du Midi. The lunch is gorgeous, the company fine, the weather has us amazed - it can feel like this!

The canal runs across France from Bordeaux to the Mediterranean, and was built by a genius engineer (he must have been) during Napoleonic times. Here in Moissac, the canal must cross the Garonne. Simple, they said. So a bridge to transport the canal was built, ably assisted by a lock to adjust levels. We walked under plane trees, saw some boats lower in the lock, and walked back again.

Green spring. My beloved boys. All three. This is how a mother's day should be. Every now and then. Too much and we wouldn't have enough to laugh about later.

Birthday Boy

The Bean turns 8, in France, thrilled that he is having a birthday in Europe after all. He thought, as we all did, that we'd be home by his.

Staying with family friends, from the Malaysia days, in the Quercy region of France, we had a completely beautiful spring time location, with a flower garden sheer bursting in celebration. The day started with presents, a young deer stopping by on his walk through the woods, just a quiet, very moving gaze; continued with a trip to the local market and the patisserie at Montaigu de Quercy; back for lunch, boules on the boulodrome and a tractor-mower ride, and finished with a swim and a walk in some of the most picturesque country there is, anywhere.

The Bean got parcels from grandma, new doctor pyjamas, things to make and read, and a Nintendo DS, and the gift of today. We, the parents, had agonised about the DS for 6 months, as it's the big toy here in Cork. The debate goes like this: does he need a box to disappear into? It's good for trips and anywhere that we happen to be - portable. It's removable. It's the toy he's up to in his progress, and they are a tool for social interaction as much as anything. There are good games for it. It's very expensive, will he treasure it? We hate them. If not now, then when? Not when he's grown past it, which no doubt will happen too. So, we did. He is thrilled! And, on a serious note, we will be introducing a total number of screen-time hours he is allowed to have each day: tv, DS, computer, anything.

If we lived here, he could have balmy lovely spring birthdays every year. May is magic in France. Fraises et asperges. Which we ate most days for 2 weeks. All of us: The Bean more into the asperges in his fingers as a starter, the Pumpkin more into the fraises with sugar and cream! LMM and I just inhaling all day long.

Breakfast with a Nightshifter

At the table, all at once, during a happy family sitting: boys in pyjamas, cereal which we call 'glop' (yoghurt, oats, grated apple or other fruit, linseed, sunflower seeds, milk), smoked mackerel dip with black pepper, jams from Poland and France, cups of coffee, and beer!

Wish I'd taken a photo, 8.30am in the morning. Also, the sun is actually shining in our window, still amazed to see this here in Cork.

This is what it's like, our Cork-life during the week of nights: he's winding down and going off to sleep after a late snack, we're winding up into our day - away from the house as much as possible. We went off to have a wild, sunny, sand-building day at the beach, Ownahinch, pictured here, once we'd finished our city.

Homeward Bound

Well, that changes everything. A week ago, we decided to fly home on our original plan a, ie the end of June, with 2 weeks USA fly-over. After paying for the tickets Friday, it then took the weekend to decide really - and shed the tears. Once I've cried, the decision is made. Really made. Sealed in water.

In a week, it's changed my view of Europe, my needs of the place while we're still here, and my connectedness to it. Immediately, I'm less connected, less immersed, because I know we're stepping out. We're separate again. I'm on the way to becoming that stranger again.

And I got the next in our seemingly endless line of colds, one of those ones with a throat so raw I could hardly speak. Or move off the couch in the evenings while LMM worked the night shift. More on that later.

What I observe is that the variety, availability of SO much here deeply appeals to me. The thought of the streets in Australia filled me with glumness - so few cars to choose from. I've come to accept, enjoy the BIG variety of everything here - jams, cars, newspapers, destinations for our week-out trips. And, after being frugal because we're living here (and because I'm that way inclined in day-to-day life), I feel a shift to just HAVE whatever we can get in the remaining 2 months.

And thoughts turn to packing, each item I hold in my hands becomes a question: am I taking you back, do I still need you now, or are you for the bin immediately? Last night, this set of thoughts filled a bin: the Shanghai fake Converse, some out of date cosmetics and lots of paper, process-drawing from the boys.

Soccer Mum is Approaching

Today, the Bean played his first game of soccer. All a bit nervous in his fine new boots and socks and shinguard, and much standing on the field, but he went. I stood on the sidelines with other mums, the Pumpkin talked the ear off one of the other fathers, who ended up walking away to make good his escape.

So this is how it happens: they get taller, you go to the field one day, there are a hoard of other boys, some much bigger, and it's a Saturday soccer match. And I found myself wishing that he'd run more on the field - strange to watch my high-energy boy standing on the field, looking a bit lost.. He had fun. Though later he said he did not want to do things he didn't know how to do - he'd said yes to soccer practice, not a game. " And I want to do gymnastics, because I know a lot more about that." Oh mama. I heard him.

Funny, at my 40th birthday party, I said I did not know what the next decade would bring, but I was fairly sure that Soccer Mum would feature in there somewhere.

And I spoke about wanting some more intrepid life - my 30s were full of safe, small times with babies - short day trips, playground visits, sitting on the beach, digging holes and building mermaids, rather than swimming out to sea. Just one overnight walk in Tasmania, with the medical crowd keeping our boys in Hobart (thank you!) so we could take off to a cabin in the wilderness together. With what turned into a pack of other backpackers and hikers - we laughed a lot, romantic it was not, and very true to us.

Oh and 4 major relocations right across Australia, extreme financial squeeze, houses bought and sold, a husband who then became a medical student in the same year as I became a mother. Different kinds of adventure. No wonder I arrived in Newcastle feeling out of breath. OK, life-adventure, not travel-adventure.

And 2 and half years later, we had the oomphah to embark on this big trip. Ah yes, there's energy there.

Spring mornings along the Lee

One of my favourite parts of Cork.

Three days a week, the Pumpkin goes to preschool, and the walk from school to the preschool takes us through the grounds of UCC, along the Lee. He starts up a new story every time we walk (do you want a story about fairies or bicycles, daytime or nighttime? and so on), and we weave our way through morning traffic, students, parents, workers, until we get to the UCC gate. These hours, I will not forget.

Turning right after the footbridge, there's a gorgeous 300m along the river, under the Lewis Glucksman Gallery, a most unusual building, (the bottom picture catches it), past fairy gardens, old trees, green lawns, burbling river, through another stone gate, over the river and along to the preschool. There's hardly ever anyone here as I pass through.

And all around, traffic crawls in Cork's dreadful streets, unchangedly awful after all these months. Constant mire of roadworks, closed lanes, tractors down the main streets in peak hour...

Today, it's getting green, bright, denser. Pink blossom, white blossom. All the trees have their tiniest, babiest green leaves out - birch and beech, woodthorn, even tiny baby green oak leaves. I get the same feeling as when I look at a new baby - new life, exciting new possibilities. And as I walk it on the way back, I too am filled with the possibilities of 3 hours childfree, podcasts from Sydney or New York in my ears, my step getting longer, my thoughts clearing.

I'm so proud of you...

...for cleaning up the whole floor like that.

So said my Pumpkin after he'd pointed out how dirty the bathroom floor in the boys' bathroom was. And then stood there, hands on hips, watching as I wiped and mopped. Made me go the extra mile on the toilets and all other housework in the big Tuesday clean yesterday, yep. (Still trying to keep the big stuff to once a week, like I started in Darwin with Helen all those years ago.)

Just now, at the English Market, an actual statement from him: "The whole market could make a smiley face: the person who wants to keep me could give us a banana for the smile, this olive person could give us two round olives for the eyes, what could be the nose?" His imagination is unbounded, the language development way out there, just like his brother, and (might I add, just like his talkative parents.)

Power to him. He has said in the past: "it's my job to make everyone laugh and keep them all excited all the time."

Two lives, three lives

What a dual life I lead here.

I travel with my family, Leathermanman, The Bean and the Pumpkin. We do incredible trips, the kind of thing which I've saved up for, looked forward too, longed for. It's been about one a month. And little excursions here in between, as visitors come and go. I'm sociable, travelling light, talking with precious friends and family, or meeting new people.

August - England by car.
August - Germany by plane.
September - Spain and France by hire car.
October - Irelend by car, with visitors.
December - Germany, England by plane.
January - Amsterdam weekend, by plane. SOLO
February - Austria, by plane and hire car.
March - Turkey, by plane and bus.

Then I'm home, being a housewife (dang!), cleaning (yes it's small, but high rotation), shopping (usually at Lidl, also the English Market or Dunnes, Tesco), washing (drying it all on one small rack, inside all year) reading online (papers, blogs, emails), knitting (sometimes, not enough), dropping and collecting children to their (minimal, really) activities. And being a lot silent, in a weird kind of solitary confinement. And speaking to other mothers from school, my tribe, a lovely group, what will I do without them? But it's one perspective on a place only, not the work-one I'm more used to.

Then there's our third life: our house in Elizabeth Street, the garden, the studies, the friends and family we have there. The steady, child-rearing, steady-being road ahead, the road behind. The road I'm in no hurry to resume, but know I must.

Medical Career in Ireland

It's completely outrageous, how this country touts itself as an economic miracle, modern now, and some terrible contradictions remain.

There are LOTS of doctors with brown skin who have worked here for ages, are good doctors, but will never get any career progressions, ie never make consultant. LMM was asked not long ago, had he seen any consultants who were not Irish? - there are none. Downright racist, isolationist, yet no-one tells them, no-one confronts it - and the foreign docs prop up the system for years, unable to question it, as their contracts might not be renewed. This is no open, modern system.

And I thought Australia makes it tough, making them work in the outback, or in other terrible places for years, before recognising their qualifications! At least they do, eventually.

What kind of country makes doctors reapply for their jobs EVERY 6 MONTHS? Not consultants of course, but the big numbers who get the worst shifts, bear the brunt of patient loads in every specialty, across the country. These are professional folks, with years of study and experience behind them, being made to act like temps. Oh and could you please do a spelling test for us. That last part was a joke.

Across the hall from us is an Indian woman who's just been here for 2 years, working, waiting until she could bring her girls, 11 and 13, and her husband over. That's how much a better life means to them.

And in the hospital is a senior doc who'd be arriving at parties in India in the limo, earning 6 times as much as he does here, but he's got an Irish wife, so stays bogged in the system, without a proper career progression for his expertise.

Poor buggers.

Ireland in Spring = Daffodils

Spring is def springing all over Ireland now! Here's a pic taken by Leathermanman, on a bicycle ride to Blarney today. No mean feat, it's about 12km from here in Cork. Ah well, there's some post-Turkey energy there.

The Crazy Hip Blog Mamas are having a Spring has Sprung photo week, so I'll try to let them know this fine sunshine and daffodils are here.

Beware though, anyone under 6 years old can't go into the fine historic house in the background - Blarney House has liability issues. Our hands are tied, she said, nothing we can do. What? It's a house for chrissakes, not the Crown Jewels...What do they think a child will do, grope all the old furnishings! Hello, it's got a responsible parent with it. Ah well, another source of revenue lost. The Irish obsession with litigation, regulations, partnered with the 'what can you do?' attitude, drives us NUTS every week.

We had a great game of hide-and-seek behind all the bushes though, anyway, when I was there with the Pumpkin.

Stocktake complete

I almost don't want to write it, for fear of it being true, or not true after all: I believe that I've had the big rest, the time to do something different which I SO needed in this trip. I'm ready for a new step, more active again.

This trip began as a desperation to be in Europe, part of this big world up here, where I feel right-side up. To introduce my children to my grandmother, to re-bond with what is also me, to show my boys that the world is so much bigger, that there are sides to their mother which they could not begin to imagine, over there on sunny Bar Beach after school one day. To explore the big world again, to immerse myself in it. Not to work. Travel.

And it's become a stocktake, a reflection of The First Half, with some thoughts now able to start about what I might do with The Second Half. Much bigger than I even knew. Confirmation that I am not a great at-home mum, even though I love them to pieces. I need a way to contribute as an adult, independent of all.

It's also really not sounding like a third child is on our horizon. I have treasure, two lively treasures, who will need, and get, so much of my best, who challenge me, surprise me, enrich me every day. So there's still a bit of room for me just to be me, in a way not mother/wife/daughter. The weepy part of me wails, the awake part sees that it's a good thing we've got going. Why change the balance - when it will change naturally, as everyone gets a bit older, into new things? It's other people's turns to do the babytime, I had mine, I did.

Leathermanman has made his big decision - to leave Psychiatry, and go for General Practice. Months of talking at every point, emails to all, oh and another thought on the subject. It was final one evening in Turkey: he went to the email, from our huts among the orange groves in Olympos and emailed the news. I sat around the fire, watching flames crackle, and was STOPPED with the reality of this moment: it's done. He's decided. Consequences for me too, I can think of my own path, can shape a path in line with that too.

Thought all this as I did washing, unpacking, paper sifting, after 2 FANTASTIC weeks holiday in Turkey. Couldn't talk about it till a few days later.

Easter Sunday

In Kas, picturesque town on the Mediterranean coast of Turkey. Hiding chocolate eggs on the sunny rooftop terrace of a hotel in an Islamic country.

The Hideaway Hotel is divine, the stuff of fantasy - two big beds, separated by a bathroom with a huge spa bath and all white, balconies off each side, rooftop terrace with views over the sea, the sea, the sage-green olives, the ruins of an amphitheatre, the sailing boats, the wistful blue yonder!

From buffet breakfast of eggs, white cheese, black olives, crusty white bread, apple tea, tomato and cucumber slices, tea, tea, tea - to a wander through the streets. Time on our hands, sun on our backs. Shopping for bowls, taking an hour to choose a perfect set of 6 for our life, crazy colourful bowls for breakfast. Walking together, in search of a beach, a swim.

Hours in a small stony bay, dipping in and out of COLD water, the tourist-shade of blue nonetheless. Time to talk together, take photos, read books, throw stones, watch ocean-going ducks, and get dressed again, in search of more food. Sun on our faces, rest seeping into our bones.

Happy Easter!

Flying into Istanbul

The whole day has been exciting - flying over Europe, off on a holiday, just us four. Together for 2 whole weeks. Packed in two backpacks, nothing extra, planning on hopping on and off buses, staying where we please, as it's still early in the season. Easter, open spaces, open fires, Roman ruins, good food - that's what we want.

We're nervous, will we be able to keep our wits and kits together? Will this actually work - a new step up with our boys, as neither of us has been here before, neither of us speak the language, bigger notion of travel with children. Will the money do? It's tight. The tickets are frequent flyer points - using them to get tickets home didn't work, so one day in October, LMM said, how about Turkey? We've talked about it for 10 years, yep. Time to do it now then!

It's night, after some hours flying over golden twinkling cities, must be Bulgaria below..wish I'd bought the MAC lipstick at Heathrow...

And suddenly, in the same space-time as me, is Istanbul below. Unmistakeable mosques along the hillsides, the Bosforus curling along, minarets to the sky. It's huge, warmer, awake at 11pm. It begins.

We're collected by the driver from our hotel, the Alp Guesthouse, right in Sultanahmet. Arranged by email, online in a day, before we left. We're that kind of traveller for a day now, with LMM off night shifts again only this morning, and the late arrival.

We're really here, all this way over on the map, the edge of Europe, the ancient boundary, the start of Asia, from the wrong side. To me, Asia usually starts at Bali, or even Darwin really..

And under the Aya Sofya is out hotel, new fitout, just like the pictures. Back into the travel-saddle as soon as I see the late open shops, and small streets, I go down to buy beer and juice, get given a cucumber - and then LMM, the Pumpkin and I sit on our rooftop terrace, actually, incredibly overlooking the Bosforus, v pleased with ourselves, excited at the beginning! I think the beer always tastes great at this first arrival point, don't it?

Squirrel caught red-handed

Red squirrel sighting. On Sunday, as part of the school's annual Easter egg hunt, I found myself volunteering to help set up. On a windy but sunny spring day, 10 or so parents and friends spread out across Fota Park, near Cork to set up egg hunting and games challenges for children at the primary school. Caroline (one of the French mums) and I found ourselves a lovely open space, with plenty of good hiding spots and lawn for the 3-legged race - and it corresponded to the spot we should be, on the map to be given out to teams of kids on arrival.

We hid our eggs, commenting on what was too hard, too easy, how to replenish them once the first groups of kids came through, and then sat in the sun before the rush. A movement near an especially pretty hiding spot (an easy one, for the smallies!) caught our eyes.

A red squirrel, cute as any children's book, sat there, peeling the foil off an egg. We chased it away, so it skipped up the tree, jumped to another, and stared down at us, egg securely in hand. So then we checked other hiding spots, and think we lost 4-6 eggs to a very bold critter. Sorry kids, if there weren't enough eggs to find at the 3-Legged Race Station! They may be scarce here too, but that one will have done itself no favours on Sunday!

Wayfaring Stranger - as in...

..travelling through this world alone...That bright bright land, to which I go...I know dark clouds will gather round me, and I know my way be rough and steep... The beautiful fields lie just before me.

...the lyrics of Natalie Merchant's ballad stops me in my tracks, still and always.

I have companions along my way yes of course, close ones, treasures. And yet, there's an element of solitude in every life. Making my ways around the globe, through many lives, often a stranger. In the French way, like foreigner, not the English way like strange/weird/unknown. I've been one of those all my life: since I said eggs-eier at the age of two in England, learning my first English words.

Then to Malaysia, thankfully learning English there from another fair-headed girl who lived across the road, and in a Montessori pre-school. On to Australia, where at 7, I was told I must know about Hitler 'because you're German'! More strangeness. A childhood of wayfaring with my family, travels overseas to relatives and new shores across Asia and the Pacific, unlike many Canberra children at the time.

Then Sydney, making my way into adult life. Travelling again, now more to Asia between work and studies. Never making the gap year trip, never taking a big flying leap into the true unknown, always aware of needing to provide for myself, make something of myself.

Often a stranger, speaking German in Europe to avoid obnoxious Australians, French in Thailand to duck under the radar of the Germans or Australians there. Speaking all three with a cousin on a road trip through Vietnam, just to entertain ourselves and others. Because we could.

Then more ways, across Australia, with a new husband, then two surprising boys - treasures, perfect, so different though we made them both. Travels as the wife of a medical student, student life for him, motherhood and full time work for me. And a big decision to take it all to Newcastle, to settle, be responsible to our family. Another new start, a house, a garden, and always this restless stranger-self. Always from here/not from here.

And always the music, always songs, always searching out new tunes for the soundtrack of my life. Afro Celt Sound System, Buddha Bar, Natalie Merchant, Michael Franti. Again now, in Ireland, searching for new sounds. Kila. Michael McGoldrick. O'Death.

Launching

So, after more than a year of saying 'I-wanna-be-a-blogger', two more years of reading, looking, cruising and reading this online explosion, and possibly 158 days of noticing or thinking something which I could launch out here, I'm up on my wobbly blogfeet.

Observations about relocating a family from Australia to Ireland, about rich travels on the mainland, about the oddness of life in contemporary Ireland (that's most days, sure), about life with a shiftworker, about the temporary transformation from modern working mother to modern traditional homemaker! And also, observations about the experience of returning to Europe, born in Germany, but lived oh-so-many years in Australia: an exploration of roots and how they twine through my life, and the lives I helped create.

Oh and there's some oddball blogging going to go on until I catch up the many posts I shoulda made online, but in fact they made it only to my journal. Realtime blogging to commence soon.

A record of this bigger-than-ever year, for friends, family: including my own two small treasures, for the time they might want to read about their big year too.

It's worth it!

This going to the gym, battling with constant demotivation, tiredness, setbacks. It's worth it.

Skiing this week, (and how that even sounds) for the FIRST time ever, I was able to keep my legs and feet going in the same direction. Keep my breath, keep working on the cross-country piste in the clear sunshine, just long enough to see if I could get the hang of it. And get up again the next day, do something with the boys, sled a while, run across the field to get the cars and move them again, and still be ok at the end of the day. This sounds small, but is an achievement - I could NOT have done this for a week, 6 months ago.

So that's great motivation to go back, and go even harder, just keep going. Just when I'd thought it was all going nowhere. And I'll need a harder programme again too. My Painterwoman friend is blunt: if you're not seeing results, you're not working hard enough. Go back and crank it up to 8! Do more reps. Think of being in labour - it's not called labour for nothing, she says!. So this is not called a workout for nothing...

I'm not thinner, sad, but I DO have more endurance, more power. And a calmer mind, more able to deal with all the rest of the pieces which are now my life.

Life with a Shiftworker

We're getting used to this now. I know the week must be the night-shift week (ie 7 nights straight), when:

• LMM physically dreads going to work for the weekend ahead. The worst shift is 2200-0900h, 1800-0400h is much better;
• I stay up late most nights alone, too late, and end up dog-tired too. It's as if I'm staying up in sympathy, but that's dumb, because I get to sleep in the bed all by myself, which should be nice for a change;
• I shift clothes and stuff into the boys bathroom so I can shower after the gym quietly;
• I harass the boys to be quiet in the flat, or trawl around town trying to stay out as long as possible;
• A bleary-eyed man sends sms from the bedroom seeking tea and sympathy;
• I'm starting to hoard the clean clothes by about Thursday, planning the packing for 3 for the week ahead - washing and sorting outfits so we're ready for the next trip;
• I'm packing in the early evenings of the weekend, while staying out as long as possible during the days: passports, the right gear, the right bags, what else don't they need, empty the fridge?
• We pour the boys and LMM into some plane on the Monday and go.

The week after, it takes until about Wednesday for him to function again and the holiday really starts. We've used this week for something really good and new every month. This time, it's off to ski in Austria. Flying into Munich, oh we're in the swing of it now - and a car to collect straight away at the airport! And the switch into German won't be hard, it's only been a month. Accommodation organised by cousin, who changed accommodation at the last minute, to ensure we'd get plenty of snow. Exciting stuff - and so easy, we're here, used to eachothers' ways on holidays now. But yes, much the easier for us, having them there.

Next time Turkey, after that France! On our own then.

Blown Away in Amsterdam

Winter weekend, my ONLY weekend without children, away away. Very excited as I pack - a 40th birthday party, a weekend in Amsterdam, not much money to spend, but time, precious time alone! I intend to get to the birthday dinner, maybe spend a bit more time, but then take days for me, to wander and discover what it is I actually look at when I don't have the Bean and the Pumpkin at my every step.

Well. I got sick. The weekend became something quite different from those expectations. Got more than I bargained for. I guess.

Picked up at the airport by BigX, and there's another old friend, just in from Canada too!. Wow, I'm going to trip down Memory Lane this weekend! Whisked into town, past canals in whipping rain and wind, to my hotel: like the brochure, up incredibly! steep short steps to the rooftop room, it looks over the canals and those incredibly picturesque Amsterdam houses alongside. Those steps have to be walked to be believed. (I remember that the first time I was in Amsterdam, in '95, I thought I'd landed in a complete dive, on account of the steep steps. Not so.) Off to a GREAT Indonesian restaurant, of course!, and then BigX's wife also joined us, fresh off the road from a meeting in Germany. Oh this is Europe now. Wonderful. This is just how it is - you get excited about other stuff when this is the baseline of your experience.

Then, I got sick... Woke up at 3.30 in the morning, CONVINCED that it was 8am, got cranky when my breakfast didn't arrive, wrote in my journal mad night thoughts, then looked at the watch again: 4.30am! Howling wind outside, screaming around the edges of the roof and across the canals below. Couldn't sleep. Dreadful guts. Cloudhead.

So the weekend became instead about turning 40 - we're all about there now - and evaluating the First Half. Planning the Second Half. Others in the group had made some concrete actual changes for their Second Half - I admire that, need to apply that sort of time-horizon to my own life. Steps to take now to secure the Second Half? The First Half had so much experience and roaming and discovery in it. Wonderful trip down Memory Lane, and also very real now experience of a great city, wonderful place.

Everywhere there are people on bikes, the most incredible types of bike-contraptions. A Bucks-Fizz is a transporter, for children, even under plastic, or dogs or shopping. LMM would love this human-scale city, this physical vibrancy in the people on account of much cycling, the Nine Streets shops, Albert Cuyp market with tonnes of the food we want to eat, not just the Irish selection-by-distance..and multicultural, people from everywhere. Just, how do you get to work HERE, without any Dutch, without being married to one, or descended from one?

I DID NOT stride across the city in glorious solitude, speak to attractive strangers in bars, or shop for a precious, personal treasure for life. I DID reflect on this group of friends, fellow travellers, my cohort, and that we're all at a similar place - much perspective, much left to do. And that we are not alone: there are lots of people with mixed marriages (in the sense of coming from different countries) different roots. All of us travelling the globe, comfortable in lots of places, drawing rich lives by being slow-mo-mobile, adding languages and possessions to suit the country we're in. And good it is.