Dignity.

At the moment I am eating room service in the bathroom, crawling around on all fours in the main room, with the TV on mute, the tiny girl asleep in the king size bed, and the baby asleep in his cot, with one eye open at all times awaiting my return from the ensuite. Hello parenthood in a hotel room. I think I caught myself thinking I would meet friends at a bar later tonight for a moment back there. In reality, even having a shower, finding my pj's in the dark and watching Top Model at minimum volume would at this point, be on par with cocktails and djs. Really, what was I thinking? At least there is wine and a view of big city lights.

Onto the plane we go.

Trips can take weeks in the planning.

Or you can do it in an hour, as I have done this time around. So today, my people, we fly!

The kids and I are headed to Sydney, I need to give my friend a big big hug and share some tears with her as she grieves for her Mum. It will be great to just get there and see her.

In the meantime however, I have to grapple with more immediate priorities. The plane ride to Sydney as a single mother with a baby and toddler. In truth, the only thought in real circulation at the moment is how can I possibly get out of this?


The slightly rushed frenzied way we are leaving has forced me to tie up a few administrative loose ends that I had mentally scheduled to do over the next week. It's amazing what one can achieve when there are not endless aimless days in compound land to fill. One morning can result in incredible efficiency.

I've distributed cash like I've won big in Vegas, debts are clear! I've stocked the fridge and cupboard for  weeks ... for the man of the house you ask? Well, no. For our haus meri who we of course ensure is well stocked and comfortable in our home, while we are away. Hmmm ... yes another day of the picture looking slightly whack to me.

Me to her as I am rushing out the door to tie up my loose ends: "Are there any urgent things you need from the supermarket over the next few weeks?"

Her (musing for a moment): "No, just get me some bleach."

Me: "Okay"

Her: "And get me some Chicken Tonight."

Me (a brief pause, scrambling to make a list, which seemed necessary all of a sudden): "What flavour do you like?"

Her (again, musing): "Oh, I don't know. Just get me any."

And so it happens that on this particular departure morning, I found myself in the supermarket isle grappling over whether to get lemon mustard, chicken tikka, or apricot chicken Chicken Tonight for my haus meri.

Solution: throw money at the problem and buy them all.

The bad samaritan.

Having a miserable sick husband has shown me just how uncharitable I can be.

The poor thing is desperately sick, searching for sympathy, and unfortunately for him - he is searching in all the wrong places. What has driven me to this cold dark place?

Kids.

When he came home at lunch today, sad and sorry and just wanting to reach for bed, I was doing some serious food processor/blender work to make the lunch orders of my screaming kids. A piece of vegemite toast upstairs in bed? You must be f***ing kidding me.

He retired to the lounge room where he thought he could unwind with some soothing newfolk music.

Umm ... SICK PEOPLE GO TO BED, THEY DO NOT RECREATE AS THOUGH THEY ARE LIVING IN INNER CITY STUDIO FLAT WITH NO CHILDREN.

Up the stairs he went ... miserably.

Lunches done, baby asleep, young lady amused at least momentarily, I ripped off the apron and grabbed the car keys to make the supermarket run. I popped my head in to see the man reclined on the bed, bathing in the gentle rays of the afternoon sunlight, perusing the latest Vanity Fair.

I took a deep breath and asked him if he was okay, or needed anything .... no thanks, he said weakly as though even that took more energy than he could really spare.

I threw an sandwich at him and left, desperately hoping that I could be sick too. How fun! No jobs, just bed and magazines for a few days.

In sickness and in health .... I shall remain the grumpy woman of the home. Oh dear. Hope I get some sleep soon so I can be less Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction and more bouncy and fun like Jennifer Anniston in well, anything (for his sake).

Today's destiny.

In my desperate driving mission today to secure a wheel of brie for my 5pm wine-time, I overtook at least two cars that advertised they had a Glock on Board (what happy, go lucky people!), sat in two traffic jams, crossed over the freeway median strip when it all became too much, patronised the B-lsit supermarket in vain hope for the Jindi, came out with some dusty cartons of UHT milk instead and came home.

Lesson: learn to love Kraft singles.

This round goes to the kid.

So anyway, about this journey we call *parenthood*.

At the moment I feel a bit like an all night-worker who also works the breakfast/lunch/dinner shift at the local cafe. Toast, milkshakes, five portions of vegetables per day, lunch, snacks, dinner, it is all a blur. In the midst of the sleep deprivation, and quite frankly - general confusion as to the day of the week/time/where I or my brood are supposed to be at any given time etc, I am learning that I/we are also supposed to have some kind of disciplinary/ethical/moral framework to raise our children within.

As small ones leave baby-hood, they become *people*, and as they are still quite new to the world, they need to be taught how to behave, or so the theory goes. Where I am a bit lost at the moment is on the matter of how in god's name my young lady learnt how to mis-behave without so much as a peep from any of us. She's got it down, straight up!

In the midst of pureeing something and boiling something else late in the day yesterday, I reached for a new tactic. The Behaviour Watch Board. I had no idea what I was doing. Anyway, it involves days of the week and happy and sad faces. The aim is to have more happy faces, as that equates to the predominance of good behaviour. Some kind of tallying exercise and active participation from all adults. Sounded good to me! Serious, yet not punitive. A chance for her to 'take ownership' of her own behaviour. (I really hate that expression, and recognise that my family and I are not on a reality TV program). I dropped the pumpkin, reached for the white board, put on my serious but not scary voice, and cobbled together some kind of chart-type creation.

Her response: "I want a sad face." "Mummy, I want a sad face now."

Goddamn her subversive tactics!

My stupid white board was to her passion for crime what the International Criminal Court is to a rogue state. Irrelevant. She refused to recognise its legitimacy. Therefore, it does not exist.

One day on, the only sad face is mine, as the crime wave continues unabated. The white board remains blank, and is in the distant recesses of whatever it was that happened yesterday.