So yesterday I got a really important piece of mail from my old school, one of the more expensive private girls’ schools in Australia. They need my help to support their ‘2015 Equality Campaign’. I know what you’re thinking, how can I help some of the most privileged girls in the country to become more equal?

Well, as the flier suggests, I should donate $25,000 (over 5 years) to help them improve their ‘inferior educational facilities’. You might not know it, but my old school ‘places great emphasis on social responsibility’ and as such wants to ensure ‘people are able to access and enjoy the same rewards, resources and opportunities regardless of whether you are a woman or a man’.

The level of hypocrisy in these sentiments is so staggering it’s hard to know where to begin. But the obvious question is who gets to be equal with whom in this campaign? Well, it’s ‘our girls’. The aim is for some of the most privileged girls in the state to be equal to the most privileged boys in the state, because that’s equality right? When rich people can equally access state of the art science, research, art and sporting facilities then we know we are ‘crafting a future in which gender is not a discriminating factor’.

I know, I know. You thought it might be when child marriage was eradicated? When one woman a week wasn’t killed by her male partner in Australia? Or when little girls didn’t have their clitorises cut out and their vulvas sewn up, like some of the students I’ve taught? Or possibly when indigenous women and women of colour have the same opportunities as white women?

Or maybe you even thought it was when every girl has the same access to the same quality of education and resources regardless of what family they grew up in?

The co-opting of this term ‘equality’ by one of the most elite girls’ school in the country is particularly galling. There is such a massive elephant in the room, right? Let’s just say it, private education is based on the premise of INEQUALITY, not equality. You pay bucket loads of money because you think you are getting a better education than at your free local state school. Whether this is true or not, is irrelevant. Private schools exist for people who can afford it, so they can choose what they perceive to be a better level of education than what they could get for free. There is nothing equal about it.

The sentiment in this campaign is that they want equality when they’re discriminated against, like they are in the levels of philanthropic donations, but when they’re the ones getting the ‘better’ education then they’re happy to get the benefits of discrimination.

So what about my $25,000 tax-free donation, what would ‘our girls’ get for that money if I did support the ‘Equality Campaign’? Well, it would probably go towards their multi million dollar Physical Performance and Health Centre (read very posh pool and gym) which is probably fancier than your local pool.

My donation would only be 1% of the 2.5 million dollars the government has provided in capital expenditure over the last 5 years (this is separate to recurrent student funding), and a pitiful percentage of the total cost, but once it was built I could rest easy knowing that the girls from my old school would no longer have to share the boys’ pool down the road. As a side note, imagine if government funding for capital works really was a needs based model. Like schools with windows that don’t open properly and no air conditioning (like the one I used to teach at) would get fixed before private schools got new pools! Crazy, right?

Just to make it clear, it’s not that I think that this particular private school shouldn’t be able to buy their fancy pool if they want to. It’s a free world and we all get to have our own morals and make our own decisions, I just don’t think they should have government funding or use words like ‘equality’ to get it.

I think the 2015 school captain explains it best in her speech, where she calls herself a feminist, and states; “Gender equality is not equality for a select few”, except when it’s only for a tiny portion of entitled private school girls, then it most undoubtedly is.

Note from Dev: Hi there, this piece was sent to me by an ex student. Old girl I think they call them. What stood out to me was the idea of equality for ‘our girls’. So not equality for all?  Well that’s not equality.

Oh and guess what? A $25k donation to public school isn’t tax deductible. But is for donations to private schools.

Private schools are businesses. End of. And because, like most, this is a religious school it is a tax free business. A tax free business that takes hand outs on top of that incredible amount of moral corruption. Anyway the whole thing is hilarious because as has been proven by many many studies private schools provide no better education and inferior values and these schools are ‘educating’ these girls and women not to identify ‘feminist  washing’* when they see it.

*Feminist washing is a term I just made up. From ‘green washing’

Everyone’s heard the expression “whitewashing” — it’s defined as “a coordinated attempt to hide unpleasant facts, especially in a political context.”

“Greenwashing” is the same premise, but in an environmental context.

It’s greenwashing when a company or organization spends more time and money claiming to be “green” through advertising and marketing than actually implementing business practices that minimize environmental impact. It’s whitewashing, but with a green brush. 

You know when you go into a hotel and they say ‘Consider the environment and reuse your towels and sheets’ when they just want to guilt you so they can save money?

Yeah, that.

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I’d like to erect a shrine to disappointment. A mate I met knocking around writers’ rooms in my 20s recently said, ”Dev, gag-writing’s a young man’s game. By our age the disappointment has set in.” I disagreed. But I got it – the disappointment setting in.

I was about 10 years old when I realised my parents weren’t perfect. What was most startling was the assumption embedded in the revelation, that I’d assumed they were.

From as soon as my little boys were old enough to talk I drilled them: ”You don’t expect me to be perfect and I won’t expect you to be. Deal?” It worked. On the weekend I said: ”Ice creams on me! Who’s the best mum in the world?” The six-year-old enthusiastically replied: ”Angelina Jolie!”

Growing up, everyone believes they’ll end up with the perfect family, the perfect parents, the perfect partner, the perfect life, home, kids, job, looks, body and friends. But bit by bit, if you’re lucky, disappointment sets in.

If you’re not, it’s blame, anger or self-pity. Fantasies of success, revenge or the empty triumph of schadenfreude. Anaesthetising with wishful thinking, comfort in the notion of fate, karma, a grand plan or a final day of judgment. Or the belief that people get what they deserve in the end.

Life’s not fair. But it is great. You don’t get what you deserve. You get what you get. Some good, some bad. If we were given the possibility to see the future, we’d all say no. We love hoping for the happy ending more than the happy ending itself.

Philosopher Alain de Botton wrote a great article where he throws around the idea of a religion without a God.

His take is that obviously there’s no imaginary friend in the sky who does magic tricks when no one’s watching. But that doesn’t detract from human beings’ desire for many of the trappings of religion. He floats experiencing community, reflection, rituals, and a sense of perspective and awe through art, philosophy, architecture, music, meditation and science, without the homophobia, misogyny, racism, discrimination, self-delusion and divisiveness innate in all religions. Yeah, you heard me – all religions.

De Botton speaks of ”the unthinking cruelty discreetly coiled within the magnanimous secular assurance that everyone can discover happiness … in denying the natural place reserved for longing and incompleteness in the human lot, our modern secular ideology denies us the possibility of collective consolation for our fractious marriages and our unexploited ambitions … A secular religion would build temples, and anoint feast days, to disappointment.”

Which crystallises my own long-held desire to erect a shrine to disappointment. Didn’t get that job, she doesn’t love you the way you want her to, he never called? Get down to the shrine of disappointment, take a seat, light a candle and feel ripped off, pissed off and disappointed. Sister prettier than you, your parents are losers, your life is not what you’d hoped for? No, it’s not fair. Pull up a pew with the rest of us and suck it up. I’m a pathological optimist. Is the glass half-full or half-empty? Actually it’s overflowing with red velvety perfumed roses that, when you place them on your tongue, dissolve into the most intoxicating, spine-tingling, luscious dark chocolate filled with butterflies.

My first thought, on the news that a friend’s partner died, was: ”Think of all that room you’ll have in your wardrobe!” On the death of my own beloved dog nine years ago: ”At least I don’t have to worry about him dying any more.” On finding out I had cancer: ”Well, this will be good for my writing.”

As a pathological optimist, dealing with disappointment is devastating. I wake with a hole in my heart as big as Tasmania. I believe there’s is a lid for every jar. Usually I find one. When disappointment corrodes my hopes and dreams I’m forced to conclude the jar is a vase.

I read some graffiti the other day: ”Expectation is resentment waiting to happen.” It made me wonder whether hope is just disappointment waiting to happen. But then I realised it was vice-versa – disappointment is hope waiting to happen.

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YES, I am from Melbourne. But no, I’m not into the footy. How about I stand still while the rest of you skin me alive with broken glass?

But I do have a team. Actually a few years back I changed from North Melbourne to Essendon. Informing my family I’d defected felt as if I’d admitted to an attraction to dog food. The response was supportive in a “sure, we’ll stand by your decisions no matter how ethically barren, socially corrosive and fundamentally wrong it is and what an appalling example you’re setting for the children” kind of way. I’m not into footy enough to care about the cultural transgression of changing teams. But into it enough to bother. I don’t get it either.

I do feel left out at times. I envy people’s passion and the rapture of their pilgrimages to their sporting meccas. Occasionally the sight of the fans in their regalia frothing with excitement at train stations urges me to rug up and rock up to the MCG to give it one more try. I feel like an eight-year-old watching grown-ups drink beer and having that occasional sip to find out if I still don’t like the taste, assuming eventually I’ll be like everyone else and I will.

I went to the footy a bit when I was young. Mostly as a St John Ambulance Brigade cadet (don’t ask, long story involving capes) and working in the canteens serving chips and pies and being dared to drink the hot-dog water. Rarely did I have the experience of the duffle coat smeared with sauce, flat Coke, pie as hot as lava on the outside with a block of ice in the middle. But it was never really me.

It’s not because I don’t have a team I really love but because I don’t have a team I really hate that I’m not into footy. I don’t get the premise that if you barrack for Carlton, you have to hate Essendon, if you barrack for Essendon, you have to hate Carlton, and if you barrack for either, you have to hate Collingwood, as everyone else does. And not just the team but the Collingwood supporters. Sitting in the St Kilda section at the MCG last Sunday, I was shocked by the jokes. What do you call a 30-year-old woman in a Collingwood jumper? Nanna. (Meanwhile, my son was sniggering that Collingwood had a Sidebottom, Goldsack and Dick in their team.) But look on the bright side Pie supporters, at least you don’t barrack for Adelaide. As everyone knows – including me who only found out last Sunday – they’re worse. It appears it’s not enough to win, the real joy is watching the other team lose. The more you hate the losers, the sweeter the victory. What’s with people’s “second” and “third” teams? A mate explained, “It’s like your family. Sure they irritate you at times and you check out other families thinking, ‘Ooooh they look nice’, but you’d never leave your own. Only a mongrel would do that.”

My seven-year-old and I found ourselves embedded with the St Kilda supporters on Sunday. In the first five minutes, the guy behind had called Collingwood players weak pricks, yellow turds, dumb faggots, a pack of girls, bloody wogs, the umpire a white maggot, and the supporters filthy bastards.

Someone suggested he “tone it down a bit. Women and children.” After one look at my son and me, someone said, “He’s all right, keeping spirit in the game.” It appears there’s a caveat: “I’m only racist/sexist/bigoted at the footy.” Well that’s OK, then. No harm done.

Two women in their 60s who looked like they’d washed thousands of footy jumpers between them commentated on the game in minute detail: the tactics, the game plan, the form, the stats. With analytical skills like that, they’d have no trouble deconstructing politics, religion or public policy. I wondered if they did.

I’m not into the footy but I do get it. That shoulder-to-shoulder not eye-to-eye thing. The talking but not communicating. Instead of the posturing egos, bumping psyches and deep-festering grudges that grow between family members like coral, people can get to spew their poison, massage their prejudices and release their frustrations as they hurl abuse at the players, not at each other. Existential crises are diverted by escaping into the unbearable lightness of footy.

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I say this every year. I do not want/need/require/deserve any Mother’s Day cards, gifts or bullshit.

I do not need to be thanked. My kids owe me nothing.

I chose to have kids. No sacrifice. I did it for the same reason every woman with full access to fertility control does.

Selfish narcissism. 

My boys did not opt into this life. We made them because we wanted to have children. No one forced us. I did it for no one but myself.

I knew there was effort and sleepless nights and fun AND I CHOSE IT. I opted those poor little bastards in to my life because I WANTED to have children.

Except Charlie who was an accident. Only joking. No I’m not. He’s just for spare parts.

No slippers, no Breville Snack And Sandwich Makers or ‘World’s Greatest Mum’ mug for me. Just a thank-you to my sons for tolerating a life, which is simply the outcome of my selfish choice.
Mothers out there upset or hurt because your child did not send you a card, message, call you or tick the box because they felt the grinding obligation of social critique, here’s a message for you. You don’t get it. Presents are not love. And while we’re at it neither is worry. That’s right! Worry is not love.

Be grateful to all the people around you. When you feel like it. Not when society tells you.

I’m no fan of the holidays and celebrations society or marketing dictates or prescribes. They all fall under the banner of Forced To Strap On A Fake Smile And Buy Crap You Can’t Afford That People Don’t Need Otherwise They Will Crack The Shits Day.

What does it really mean if your kids feel they have to buy you a present? HAVE TO. And what does it mean if you feel they have to buy you a present? HAVE TO. TO SHOW THEIR LOVE. On this day they are told to. It’s not ‘a nice opportunity to show appreciation’. It’s an insideous way to continue to maginalise women, under value their unpaid labour and promote the bullshit concept that ‘being a mother is the most important job in the world‘. (1. It’s not. 2. Firstly it’s not a job. 3. Secondly if it was why isn’t being a mother paid better/at all?  4. Thirdly, if it so important why aren’t the men fighting to do it? Any why is it used to sell toilet cleaner?)

May I suggest that instead we ditch the hollow empty, commercialized token day where people are shamed into buying mum a new iron or microwave (that reinforces the unpaid domestic labor mothers, and women in general are expected to do). Instead we put that energy to paid parental leave, single parent benefits, cheap, high quality accessible child care, safe public housing for women escaping domestic violence, excellent public housing, public schools, public health care and public transport and family friendly work places.

“The greatest burden a child must bear is the unlived life of the parents.” –C.G. Jung

P.S. If you bought your partner a Mother’s Day present you are a fucking weirdo with Mummy Issues. Get help. She is NOT your mum. It’s Mothers’ Day not Valentines Day.

After writing this I read this. Clearly I am not alone.

You may also like Why I Am Against Step-Parenting  and The Narcissism Of Motherhood. 

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Career advice. Two things. Never work for free. Never ask anyone to work for free. Got it? Good.

I, like many freelancers, constantly get requests from businesses to work for free. It’s offensive, rude and unprofessional. And very, very common. And not just grass roots groups, multi-national corporations.

Let me share with you yesterday’s request which was typical. Sad truth is the companies and businesses calling themselves feminist are the worst. I receive weekly “can you come and talk about women being shafted and by the way we’ll shaft you” emails.

Almost every time I have been approached to work for free, and the group tells me they have ‘no money’, after a few emails – they find some money. I can’t tell you the number of times high profile women I know have agreed to work for free and found out they were the only ones not being paid. Or worse still, the men are being paid and the women are not.

This happens for two simple reasons. Firstly, because the organisers wouldn’t dream of approaching the men to work for free. And secondly, because the men wouldn’t dream of working for free.

A group set up to ‘empower entrepreneurial women’ contacted me this week telling me they’d love to have me ‘onboard’ their ‘cause’. I enquired as to what ‘onboard’ meant and what their ‘cause’ was. After a long rambling email telling me they were keeping things low cost to ‘outreach as many women as possible’ (sounds so selfless) to ‘create a brand’ (sounds not so selfless) as an offshoot of their existing business by holding a conference at a hotel (for which I’m fairly sure they wouldn’t dream of expecting to get for free).

She went on to tell me she was talking to TEDx, the international ideas conference, to discuss event options and assured me the event would be held at the ‘most professional level one could ask for. Photographers and videographers for marketing etc etc’. I smelt a work for free ‘opportunity’ coming on.

The email explained the conference was to ‘create a forum so women can come and learn, as well as tap into a unique movement of uplifting and courageous moments.’

After telling me the speakers were athletes, authors, celebrity figures (whoever the f@#! they are) and everyday business women (again whoever the f@#! they are) who were all contributing their time to the ‘cause’ the email explained there would be tables at the back ‘for books and events or any value -add marketing material benefits’.

Value add. WTF? Benefits?

She then asked me if I was ‘willing’ to ‘volunteer’ and ‘contribute’ a 30-40 minute story of my life and how I created my ‘brand’ for the ‘cause’ so they could create their ‘brand’ in order to ‘empower’ women.

Here’s my reply.

Hi Kay,

Unfortunately, like you I can’t afford to work for free.

How incredibly unprofessional to develop a budget which does not pay people for their work.

Do you ask your cleaner, plumber, the guy who puts petrol in your car to do it for free?

Do you sit down with an architect, design a house, employ a builder and expect him and his contractors to work for free?

I think it’s extremely damaging to your brand particularly the ‘empowered entrepreneurial’ bit, not to mention rude, to ask people to work for free. Particularly women. Women are 50% of the population, do two thirds of all the work, earn 10% of the money and own 1% of all property.

You are not a cause. You are a business. Building a brand to make money. Paying photographers and videographers to use as promotional material. Good on you, but don’t ask or expect people to work for free.

I am a single mum and a freelancer. I pay everyone who works for me. Very well.

I do heaps of stuff for free. For charities, state schools, community groups and independent artists. Not businesses. And particularly not for businesses trying to pass themselves off as a ’cause’. I also donate to heaps of cool causes. With the money I am paid to work.

Is everyone else working for free? If not why are some being asked to and other’s not? Oh and just to amuse me, look at the genders of the people you are asking to work for free and those you wouldn’t dream of insulting like that.

When you ask people to work for you for free you are asking them to pay to work for you. They pay for their travel, clothes, make up, preparation, printing, childcare. For your event.

‘All the speakers are doing so for free to build their brand and share their message to empower other women, build their self worth and self esteem.’

How are these women being empowered by agreeing to work for free? Explain to me how it ‘builds their self worth and self esteem?’ Let me guess? A hand written card and a bottle of wine?

As for your claim after I inquired to a fee ‘I wasn’t planning to monetize this process.’ Firstly employing the photographers and videographers suggests you are and secondly, I’m having a haircut tomorrow. I am not planning to monetize my haircut but I would not dream of not paying my hairdresser or asking her to work for free or donate her time for exposure.

So you’re not for profit? Guess what? I’m not for profit too. Not for profit does not mean unpaid.

Exposure does not pay the rent.

Good luck with your ’cause’.

 

Also…

3AW. No, I will not work for you for free. 

Equal? Not.

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“Now, I don’t like Anzac Day for the precise reasons that I don’t like genocide, war, rape, violence, mutilation, pain, trauma, post-traumatic stress disorder, ethnic cleansing, gas attacks, artillery, conscription, nationalism, imperialism and death machines. It’s probably just me. I wrote something about Anzac Day because to me it is not about a chewy biscuit, it is not a fun day out pinning dead men’s medals to the kiddies and marching them out in the sun, it is not a bit of happy us-versus-them flagwaving – “CHECK OUT MY SOUTHERN CROSS TATTOO, AUSSIE PRIDE, SUPPORT OUT DIGGERS”. It’s about generations of beautiful boys and men – and now magnificent women and girls – fed into a meatgrinder and all of us publicly pretending it were all somehow okay.”

The Trollhunter – written by Van Badham and Catherine Deveny. Performed by Deveny. Directed by Badham.

Many people say to me ‘You must have a thick skin’ to which I respond, ‘No. I don’t have a thick skin. I’m very sensitive, I just don’t care what morons, dickheads, losers, haters, trolls or fuckwits think.’

And why would I? Why would anyone?

The lion does not lose sleep over the opinion of sheep.

Much of my work is as a professional speaker.  In the questions after my addresses, talks, speeches, panels, debates and keynotes there is always at least one question about how to handle haters. My advice? Block, unfriend, delete, switch stations, change channels, talk to someone else or say ‘speak to the hand Alan Jones.’

The yearly hate explosion over my ANZAC Day opinions have fascinated, amused and horrified many. And happily for me, proved my point in a more transparent and unequivical way than I ever could. My views, that ANZAC Day does not reflect the inclusiveness of all those affected by war, nor our more sophisticated understanding of the true machinations and motivations behind war are neither rare, radical or new.

Political commentator Bernard Keane summed it up in this tweet…

The importance of collecting and sharing statistics, particularly from a feminist perspective has led to me putting together a Top 100 Hate Comments from the comments and messages I’ve received over the last fortnight. These comments will be very familiar for women don’t happily lie down in the chalk outline drawn for them by the patriarchy.  I hope you find them useful.

“My loathing of Anzac Day is not personal, I respect  the  right of  others to a different opinion.  The  Liberal  Party, for example, reckons that Anzac Day is a “repository” of the best of   our Australian values – the values of our Aussie diggers: courage, mateship, grace, human dignity, heroism, and a fair go…”

From Catherine Deveny – The Trollhunter

Top 100 Hater Comments

(Click the arrows. You’re welcome)

It’s crucial to keep in mind the haters in the Top 100 are a tiny bunch of very noisy people, often the same person from different platforms with multiple accounts. Their profiles reveal the majority are men, predominately from Queensland and Perth, almost always declare on their bio they are a ‘proud true blue Aussie’, a passionate supporter of a football team, they frequently use a pseudonym and curiously, more often than you would imagine, are men posing as women. A quick glance through their profiles revealed almost all used their twitter accounts solely for hate, abuse, harassment and bullying. It was very clear the time spent hating me was simply time off hating asylum seekers, gays, Julia Gillard, atheists, environmentalist, Melbourne latte sippers etc.

A staggering amount had a Liberal National Party badge pinned to their avatar.

Hopefully this slide show will help further illuminate the reality that women who color outside the lines cop 100 times as much vitriol and it’s a thousand times more vicious. The Top 100 illustrates the abuse is gender based and sexually violent in nature.  The lack of grammar, punctuation, THE GRATUITOUS CAPS LOCK AND EXLAIMATION MARKS!!!!!, poor spelling and complete absence of rational thought indicates these poor souls are not that bright. Or occupied with their careers, study, relationships or friends.

More naming and shaming here.

Women who color outside the lines need to know what haters look like, expect it and know it passes. As you take a wander down Hate Street it will be a comfort knowing it’s not just you. We all cop it. It’s unavoidable. These kinds of comments say nothing about the person it’s directed to but everything about the person saying them.

No, it’s not okay. But Illuminating it is a much more useful contribution I can make than anything I could do to stop it. Haters gonna hate. And as much as many of us are calling it out, naming and shaming it and employing anti bullying tactics haters have always been with us and will always be a work hazard for those who don’t Pipe Down Princess. And more often than not, proof we’re on the right track and, at times, rock solid evidence proving everything we’ve been saying.

I was inspired to compile The ANZAC Spirit Top 100 Haters by Anne Summer’s Her Rights At Work a brilliant address exposing the disproportionate gender based abuse of a sexually violent nature directed at Prime Minister  Julia Gillard and Chrys Stevenson’s Defending Deveny which almost broke the internet after an appearance on QandA I made with Arch Bishop Peter Jenson. Despite claims I took over the show and Jensen could not get a word in Stevenson’s research proved I spoke half the time Jenson did,

“Deveny’s contribution of 1,259 words was 13 per cent below the average. Jensen’s, on the other hand, was 78 per cent above the average.”

Enjoy, The ANZAC Spirit. And as you do remember these comments say nothing me but everything about them which can be neatly summed up as misogyny and relevance deprivation (and dare I say ironically Tall Poppy Syndrome) thinly veiled in the Australian flag.

Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel. Samuel Johnson.

P.S. My Mildura performance of Curvy Crumpet on Friday which the ANZAC trolls encouraged all to boycott and promised ‘2000 protesters’ at was a huge success. Full house, happy audience and not one protester. Not one. Despite me publically letting all interested know via Mildura radio, television and newspapers I would be delighted to answer any questions at any neutral venue between 3-5pm on the day of my my performance there was not one taker. Grand Hotel in Mildura cancelled my booking on the ground I damaged their brand. But they were happy to take a booking from Today Tonight. Today Tonight exists solely to make dumb and hateful people dumber and more hateful.

Keyboard Warriors, paper tigers and furious important misogynists having a tantrum with reality every single one.

Julian Burnside and me on the illusion of free speech. Watch…

Some people are allowed to say some things some of the time. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

More here.

 

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Some call me a bad mother.  I prefer to think of myself as relaxed. I don’t know what my kids think of me, but they call me hell in a skin suit, the fat maggot and Exhibit A. In front of the child protection officers. We love playing pretend.  I pretend to be the parent and they pretend to be the children.

Here are my tips for being a barely adequate parent. Have low expectations of yourself. And buy less stuff.  The less stuff you buy, the less stuff you have to clean, store, fix, spend time busting up fights about, retrieving from the mouths of dogs, the nostrils of children or the S bends of toilets. Or running over with the mower.

 

Don’t set the bar too high for birthdays. Only throw parties if they beg. And when you do make them crushing failures.

If it is not dishwasher, microwave and journey through the digestive system of a four-year-old proof, regift it to another child whose parents you hate.

Uncooked slabs of two-minute noodles can be lunch, weetbix can be dinner and toothpaste can be dessert.

Nits belong in the category science experiment/pets. 

Save your breath.  Deter kids from asking repetitive questions with annoying answers;  “What’s for dinner?”, “Two choices, take it or leave it.”  “Where’s my brother?” “He went mad and they shot him”, “I’m bored, what can I do” “Take all your toys and put them on the nature strip and write a big sign FREE TO GRATEFUL CHILDREN.”

Cut down on their sugar intake and save money by telling them the Easter Bunny is bad for the environment and is therefore no longer coming.

Don’t waste time with bedtime stories.  If they ask, tell them this one and they’ll never ask again. “Once upon a time there were three little boys and they all died. Screaming. The end.” 

Biscuits are vegetables. 

Save money. Don’t buy jocks.  Added upside?  No wedgies. Downside? Skidmarks that can be seen from the moon.

Encourage independence and emotional intelligence. When asked for help with something tricky like folding a fitted sheet say, “If you’re not smart enough to work it our, you’re not smart enough to play Xbox. Bring me another glass of wine.  And remember, it’s your fault I drink.”

Don’t let them steer when their hands are covered in chicken fat. And don’t trust an eight year old to tell you when the light’s turned red when you’re texting.

They can make their own birthday cake.  Turn two-litre ice-cream block out.  Give children one kilo of lollies, one litre of Ice Magic and five minutes. Whack it in the freezer.  It’s a party game and a time saver.  We call it the Mummy Can’t Be Stuffed Cake. Blend to make liquid lolly bags for party guests or the next morning for a Diabetes Type Two Breakfast Smoothie

Keep them active.  Play Driving Chasey.  Drop the kids of somewhere. Tell them to chase you then drive away. By the time you get to Sydney they’ll have lost five kilos.  And they’ll sleep like logs.

Save money on babysitters.  When you are ready to go out tell them it’s time for Hide and Seek. When they start counting, run.

Insects in a jar can be a present.

Saying “If you don’t do it Mummy will give you a big injection in the eye” may scar them.

Every discipline issue is solved by giving their siblings a chocolate biscuit as a reward for their evilness. 

Little boys love playing with knives, plastic bags and matches, and they’re free.  And so is swearing. Just saying/

If people ask why your children have filthy fingernails, tell them it’s not dirt they were visited by the Liquorice Fairy.

If they beg for McDonalds make them push the car through the drive thru.

It’s never the parents fault,  “Me?  Oh I’d be happy for you to have 12 mates over for a sleep over but it’s illegal and the police will shoot us.”

Remember every time you don’t make them lunch and make one instead a kitten dies.

Keep them on their toes.  When you say kiss them good night whisper, “You’re not my favourite, but you’re getting pretty close”.

 

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In a bouncinette.  My feet splashing in a bowl of water. Golden light sneaking through the leaves warming patches of my legs. No top. Or perhaps a cotton singlet.  Under a hibiscus tree. Festooned with flowers the color of musk sticks. Nappy. Bottle. I must have been about a year old. I smelt BBQ.

The lush and exotic blooms stood out as large unapologetic blurters, show offs, in monochrome suburban Preston in 1969. In gardens that considered lavender, geranium and daisies  ‘rather loud’, agapanthus as a ‘pest’ and hydrangeas, the color and shape of the hair of the nana’s that sat in the pews in front of me at church, as beautiful. And kind of mystical. ‘You know the color of the flower changes depending on the soil.’

I wondered whether I would worship these dumpy, ungainly flowers when I was an old lady.

I was about four years old and Mum asked me what my favorite flower was. ‘Forget-me-nots’ I replied. ‘They’re not a flower, they’re a weed.’ ‘Says who?’ I said.

The smell of stew, the sound of ‘Matlock’ and the weight of my parent’s emotions leaking into me was pierced by that moment. Those big happy flowers like you saw on Hawaiian shirts. The ones people wore on holidays. Whatever they were.

“Why do American’s speak in such loud voices? So you can hear them over their loud clothes.”

My parents weren’t big on the outdoors. Outside was something you tolerated going from one inside to another inside. They didn’t own runners or bikes and I never saw them swim. Raised Catholics and therefore to think of their body as enemy number one was probably what led to my father poisoning his with smoking and alcohol which resulted in Mum obese with shame and comfort food. The demonizing of desire may have been the reason they shut themselves down physically from the elements. The weather on their skins may have aroused their bodies so much their bodies would wake and mourn of neglect. So they stayed inside. In their insides.

At four I remember running naked through the bush at Wilson’s Prom with my cousin Kate-Louise who was only three months younger than I. The bush was all McCubbin. Kate-Louise explained ‘Nude is not wearing clothes. Rude is not wearing clothes and showing off at the same time’. I must have been concerned because I remember being relieved by that explanation. Kate-Louise committed suicide on my 25^th birthday. I was living in Tokyo. It was my Mum who told me ‘She threw herself under a train.’ She was 24.

It was the summer before I began primary school and we went on that holiday. Our very first of only a handful of holidays. I was 4, David, 3 and Elizabeth, 6. We loaded up the Valiant and my grandparent’s white canvas tent and took the four-hour drive down to Wilson’s Prom.

Mum’s family had camped in Wilson’s Prom when she was a teenager.  Back then hardly anyone knew it was there. I have no idea how they even knew about it.

Mum told me she would set off with a book and a can of pineapple juice in the morning and come home late afternoon. She would find a shady spot, put the can of pineapple juice in some cool shallow water and spend all day reading, swimming and writing letters to my father.

This always seemed strange to me. I could only ever remember Mum barely tolerating Dad and never remember her reading a book, let alone writing a letter. Least of all to Dad.

The breathtaking slap in the face of the view of glittering Norman Bay and the magical winding Tidal River with its secret rock caves and silvery schools of fish made me blink my eyes to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. Squeaky Beach. The sand really did squeak when you walked. It was magic. The stretch of my pink paisley bathers we’d bought from Venture and the joy of my red bucket and spade. The savory canned smell of Tom Piper Braised Steak And Onions. The feeling of a lilo under a sleeping bag, under sand, under my sunburn.  It was intoxicating. The brightness of the parrots, the chat and laughter of the other campers, the sting of the March Flies with their rainbow sheen, and that moment waking up remembering you were on holiday. Camping. And outside the flap of the tent were adventures waiting.

We were dirty, grubby, hungry, wet, warm, scorched, parched and outside. And I felt a happiness I have been drawn to ever since. A happiness of being exposed.

Leaving Tidal River I was heartbroken. I thought we had moved there forever.  It was grey, cold and raining. I was wearing shorts, a jumper and thongs. My legs were freezing but my back radiated from sunburn.  I was holding a bucket of starfish and did not understand why I couldn’t bring them home.

“Because they will die,” said Mum. “They live here. They’ll die at home.”

Outdoors I remember first feeling everything.

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