Wild Women of the West.

Today, I attended the fourth annual seminar of "Wild Women of the West". It was my first time and I was nervous. I hadn't hooked up with another woman and was unaware which table I was assigned. Arriving at just after 8.30 am, I checked for my name on the notice board. My heart sank, somewhat. I had been placed on a table with two women with whom I was not not enamored. Having explained my unease to two of the organisers, I was moved to a table with women I knew and liked. I met a lass, new in town and we clicked immediately. Bit squishy but I was much more comfortable.

There were stalls of clothing, shoes, beauty products, African condiments, Tupperware, a Cancer Council stand and giftware. There were a lot of women. The guests were Sara Macliver (a professional singer) Jen Atkins ( a "life coach"), Tomas Ford ( a cabaret artist) and Patti Chong ( a prominent lawyer). The marvellous Marlene Willson was MC. In between the guests' appearances were morning tea and lunch, with plenty of opportunity for browsing the stalls.

An interesting mix. Personally, I really enjoyed listening to Sara Macliver and watching and listening to Tom Ford. Sara talked about her life, her singing, her family and her struggle with anxiety and panic attacks. Tom was a one man tour de force, a singing, fast mover and shaker. He pushed the boundaries - too far for quite a few of the women - but watching his energy, his bravery and his showmanship, I was left feeling unafraid in my own personal journey of creating our story.

Jen Atkins was an advertisement for herself and her books, CDs and workshops. I was not very impressed. Patti Chong gravitated from being rivetting to slow. Perhaps as she was a last minute replacement as a keynote speaker, she was unsure and hesitant with her speech. I was prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps, the organisers could have  left the keynote speaker's spot absent for this time and just explained that there had been a cancellation at the last minute.

All in all, I had a really enjoyable day. The "Wild Women of the West" seminar is a fabulous community effort for a town the size of Heavenly Beverley. I am undecided as to whether I'll go next year. But I still think it's a fantastic opportunity for women in the wheatbelt to get together, talk, laugh and share their experiences. Long live "Wild Women of the West"!

Sara Macliver

The awesome stall holders

Organisers - Amor, Marlene and Sam

"Wild Women of the West" display

happy customers, such as Lou

more happy participants

Jen Atkins

The delectable Tom Ford 

Patti Chong - lively lawyer pretty in pink!

About a Boy.

Callum is twenty five, the elder of my two surviving sons. He is also clever (very), competitive (sigh), courageous, compassionate (sometimes surprisingly), combative (infuriatingly), and uber cool (I can say that - I'm his mother!).

 My pregnancy with him (my fifth) was a topsy turvy ride of joy and terror. After three babies dying in a row, I did a lot of praying. And poking. And panicking.

My obstetrician, who had dragged me kicking and screaming through the pregnancy, helpfully went on leave towards the end. We had arranged a date to meet at the delivery table in another two weeks. Almost as soon as he left, question marks were being raised about the viability of the baby in utero. My obstetrician's partner, confronted with the enormity of my file, asked me what I wanted to do. As 14 April 1989 was a Friday, and most of my obstetric adventures had occurred on weekends and holidays, my answer was unequivocal. "I don't think I would survive another pregnancy loss" were my exact words. His answer was just as straightforward. "Fine. We'll deliver you tonight".

Callum was born a perfectionist. This eternal truth became evident from very early on. From the moment he was pulled out into the world, roaring with indignation, he would refuse to do any learnt skill until he could do it just right.

He was born at 6.33pm. The first night was a battle. Callum had hyaline membrane disease due to prematurity. Noel French, his wonderful neonatologist, worked all night to try and keep him oxygenated and with me at the private hospital, instead of being transferred to the Level 3 nursery at the Women's hospital. If Callum had needed to be ventilated, he would have been moved. Through sheer will, Noel manged to stabilise Callum in a "head box". Awake at 3 o'clock, I was loaded into a wheelchair to see and touch my baby. Noel was still there. And he was back, checking Callum, later in the morning. I will never forget Noel's care and his skill.

So Callum learnt to breathe on his own. Then he learnt to breast feed, a slow laborious process.We came home after two weeks to his delighted sister. I finally had succeeded in having another pink, round, living little human being.

He was such a beautiful baby. He would smile with his whole body when I went to fetch him out of his cot. He was only grisly in the evenings, when he would feed almost non stop. I actually believe he was watching and learning all the time. And he was a giant sticky beak.

He helped me relax and really enjoy the experience. I stopped clock watching and if he cried, I held him and fed him. We took him everywhere. With his wispy blonde hair and super long eyelashes around his glorious hazel eyes, I was always being complemented. I glowed.

He was only unwell twice in his first year. He scared the hell out of me both times. Once was when he was only five weeks old when a heavy respiratory virus. The second time was more serious. He developed cellulitis in his eye socket. He was very sick and we were admitted to the children's hospital. Cracks had already started to appear in my relationship with my husband. He demanded my presence at home whilst Callum was in hospital. After five days, Callum had recovered and I was exhausted. He eventually walked unassisted at seventeen months after nine months of walking around furniture.

Alex was born just before Callum turned two. Callum amazingly took to his additional sibling with characteristic good humour.  In the years that followed, he became the glue that held our family together. He was very social and loved daycare. That was a relief as he was dumped there regularly during Alex's frequent hospitalisations. He toilet trained himself in a day when he was three and a half. He just decided himself the time had come to use the toilet.

He started preprimary with enthusiasm and sailed into Year 1. He enjoyed the early years of primary school immensely. He coped with Alex's endless therapy sessions and Vanessa's eccentricities. To him, there were just everyday occurrences. Only once did he question my love and commitment to him.

He handled the adversity of upper primary and high school with perseverance and bravery. He was becoming very academic, an unwritten no no for boys, so it seemed. He was mercilessly bullied over a number of years. I lost count of the number of times I complained to the schools. They seemed powerless to help him and I was furious with a system that failed him.

With his ongoing social difficulties, he started counselling with a gentle, softly spoken, giant psychologist, Martin Exell. I was concerned about autism in the family. Martin tested him. Autism - no. ADHD - almost for sure. IQ - huge. Medication - definitely not. Martin was not in favour of medicating Callum, as he was concerned that would slow down the speed of Callum's thought processes. Instead, he taught him chess, offered himself as a role model and gave him as many strategies as possible to survive.

Two activities became his escape from the relentless bullying. He attended karate with a switched on set of instructors who worked hard with him on self discipline. He also won a year's scholarship to a ballroom dancing studio. He discovered he absolutely loved dancing. I would drive him every Saturday to his classes. Dancing would give him a sense of worth, a second family and  passion, which helped to use his vast reserves of energy.

High school continued to be a nightmare for Callum. In Year 10, the private school he attended, admitted they had a serious bullying problem in that year and had no idea how to tackle the issue. I was gobsmacked. I had been thinking of trying another school for Callum, so I went to Martin for advice. He responded "When I was a young psychologist and knew very little, I would have said you can't get away from your problems. Now I'm older, wiser and have children, five years is a very long time to be unhappy. Move Callum".

So so he went to a smaller public high school. The move wasn't perfect, but better. He started enjoying life again. He had to make a choice between karate and dancing in Year 11. He chose dancing. By this time, my marriage had broken down and I had made the decision to move to Queensland. Callum chose to stay with his father. I crossed my fingers, as the children's father was volatile and unpredictable, particularly as they were growing up and forming their own opinions.

The Queensland experience unravelled almost immediately. And the inevitable happened to Callum - his Dad became unreasonable and aggressive. When I returned to Perth, his father refused to let Callum come and live with me again. We bided our time. Three months later, he tossed Callum's possessions onto my front verge and drove away. Callum returned to live with me.

Callum graduated Year 12 and started primary teaching at uni. He had finally found his niche. Between dancing and uni, he turned back into the social being that he'd been as a young child. He thrived on dancing competitions and he and his partner generally placed well. He'd  had a few girlfriends in the mix. Some of the relationships fizzled out and one ended badly, causing him a degree of guilt and distress.

He became a contradiction at home. At times he was happy, content, helpful and charming. At other times, he was cranky, miserable and a king size pain. I began to realise that life was too good, too easy for him at home. I had been a tough mother, but he knew how to work me to his advantage.

There was open hostility in the house between my three children. I was constantly negotiating truces that never held. I'd fallen with love with Michael. He was also living in my home. I'd had enough. I announced to my children that the house was on the market, Michael and I were moving to the country and they weren't coming.

The boys returned to their Dad's house, who was delighted that he was removing them from my evil influence. Their stay was not a success and quickly degenerated into another disaster. Fortunately, by this time, Callum had met a gorgeous, strawberry blonde, firecracker of a young woman. Bronwyn refused to put up with any of Callum's rubbish and frequently brought him back to earth.

We helped Callum move into a share house. Alex entered into the first of two unfortunate boarding houses. Callum continued to juggle Bronwyn, uni, dancing and part time work at a cafe in the Hillarys tourist precinct. They broke up for five minutes and Callum was inconsolable. We received an unexpected phone call from him after midnight which Michael immediately passed to me. They swiftly reconciled, much to our relief.

Callum and Alex moved in together into a suburban unit eighteen months ago. It suited both of them - central, quiet, close to transport and facilities.Callum became Alex's unofficial carer, giving me additional time and energy to chase other issues.

Callum finished university in November 2012. He worked as a support and relief teacher for a year, whilst still dancing and being upgraded to manager status at the cafe. He thought he's hit the jackpot with a 12 month contract as a full time pre primary teacher at the beginning of this year. He and Bron started planning for their own home.

His teaching position turned very sour. Sixty percent of his students came from homes where English wasn't their language of origin. He had one student with severe language and behavioural issues, and he was asking for assistance for this child from the first week. He had other students who had never been away from their homes and mothers.

He was working fourteen and fifteen hour days. Teaching, preparing resources, studying, gathering information. His life was unravelling. Dancing, his only escape, went out the window. Then on the final day of term 1, the principal came to see him, verbally telling him his teaching was substandard and he either needed to resign his position or came back on probation.

He was devastated. He fell to pieces. I galvanised support for him through a good friend, a pre primary specialist and the union. The principal had used similar tactics in the past. Callum decided he didn't have the emotional strength for a protracted fight, even with union support.

He resigned from his position, went on holiday and returned to relief teaching, cafe managing and dancing. His mental turmoil passed. He was working three jobs but he was happy. He and Bron began building their house. Their lives were back on track.

Callum is still undecided about returning to full time teaching. His first experience was so awful and very stressful. He is continuing relief teaching and enjoying it again. Dance teaching will be and running up again with school graduations looming. He is picking up plenty of shifts at the cafe.

He is a wonderful son and I adore him. He asks me for advice when he needs help and usually follows my suggestions. He is also self opinionated, prone to irritability, can be pompous and is quick to open his mouth to take one foot out whilst putting the other one in!

He and Bron drove in yesterday morning in his little blue Mazda hatchback and spent the night here. I do miss them both and love their visits. They are currently going through the stressful process of building their home. I reminded them that building a house is similar to changing careers or dealing with a death! I am sure they will emerge from this challenge relatively unscathed and with their first home together. I have promised Bron that if he upsets her too badly with his tendency to be a motormouth, I will cheerfully beat him to a pulp for her. And he knows it.

ECU student

At the Great Western Competition with dance partner Francesca

my three men

Callum and Bronwyn in the kitchen of their home

On Becoming (Surprisingly) Intolerant.

Yesterday, Michael and I took courage in hand, hyperventilated a few dozen times, hooked up the trusty trailer onto the back of Kermit, the four wheel drive and set forth to the Big Smoke. We hadn't been to Perth in a number of weeks. We had become used to being in our own private world in Heavenly Beverley.

However, we had run out of fruit and vegetables, meat, milk and a multitude of other sundry groceries. Our local IGA store continues to be a source of vast disappointment. They offer a variety of excuses about the lack of certain items, such as "the truck broke down on the way to Beverley" or "the warehouse didn't send the right order" or the best "we have plenty of other milk" when I enquired as to the complete absence of fresh skim milk. Another pointless exercise is their request book. I have had my details and desired item written in the book on a number of occasions. Somehow an entry in the book never quite translates into a delivery.

Michael had a list to take to Bunnings. Now, Bunnings is normally the only retail experience Michael actually enjoys. With the preparation of his workshop space behind the shops gathering pace, he needed a myriad of equipment from a new toilet to insulation batts to sealer to bog to paint to tech screws.

We also needed vino (of course) as we have disastrously run out the previous day. And medication and anti histamines and some work clothes for Michael as some of his old jeans, tee shirts and shirts were literally falling apart. He was also in desperate straights in the sock department. Our GP had told him that his plantar warts on his foot may have been caused by friction. Most of his socks and his boots were so old he couldn't remember exactly when he'd bought them.

We had no choice. We had to go to the Big Smoke.

Fortunately we only were going as far as Midland, 100 kilometres from home, instead of further into the dreaded suburbs. We decided, after clothes shopping for Michael at Rivers, we would divide and conquer. I'd tackle Midland Gate shopping centre and Michael would go to Bunnings. Rivers had been quite enjoyable, but we had forgotten one awful truth. We were at the beginning of the second week of the school holidays.

Midland Gate was a cacophony of crying, screaming, arguing, sullen, miserable children and parents. The school holidays were obviously wearing thin for some families. On maybe some parents had thought a trip to Midland Gate was a Good Idea. Or maybe some parents had no choice about taking their children to  the shopping centre. Whatever the reason, there was almost a complete lack of  enjoyment by anyone there.

The noise was deafening. There were children running everywhere, teenagers whinging at parents and vice versa and parents bellowing at their various offspring. I felt like I had entered a Dante's Inferno.

And I didn't cope well. I looked at the swirling mass of adults and children around me and I couldn't help myself - I kept finding fault. Parents threatening useless sanctions if their children didn't behave. Children mouthing off and running amok. Teenagers pushing past, travelling in packs, dropping rubbish and daring onlookers to tackle their behaviour.

I couldn't wait to get out of there. I exchanged a sympathetic look with the middle aged checkout operator above the roar. I fought my way, with a full trolley, through the mayhem to our designated rendezvous point. I spotted Michael and he pulled over, with the trailer, as far as he could, so people could get past us whilst he helped me load the car. And there was room and people did go around us in their cars. Almost all of them threw us filthy looks as they did so.

Onward back to Bunnings for some gardening items I needed. This wasn't so bad as it's a vast warehouse and enough room for everyone. I had an interesting conversation with one of the staff about my lack of tolerance towards the hoards of badly behaved children I'd observed. She insisted I would grow to like children again when I had grandchildren. I wondered.

We successfully negotiated our way in and out with a minimum of fuss. Back on the highway.
Four o'clock. Not even officially peak hour yet. We pulled into the service station for fuel. Absolute madness. Cars jostling for position impatiently. We filled up and thankfully headed up the hill.

Last stop was Hills Fresh for some fruit and vegetables. At least the children in there were better behaved. Maybe because they lived on the fringe of the suburbs with plenty of space.  And one of the staff helped me out to the car with the box of goodies I'd purchased. I thanked him and finally, we headed for home.

Michael and I debriefed on the drive back. He'd found Bunnings very noisy and very stressful. He couldn't believe the abusive looks he'd received when he was picking me up in Midland Gate's carpark. Where had courtesy and generosity of spirit gone? Why did shopping centres become gladiatorial arenas in school holidays? What had happened to politeness, negotiation and basic good manners? And not just from the kids. From adults as well.

My own children were not angels. They behaved badly and I dealt with them. There were times I didn't like them much and that was okay. I used reasonable, believable consequences. And I tried to notice every moment that they did "the right thing". I was a tough mother.

And they have become pretty happy, well adjusted and compassionate young adults. Who still stuff up from time to time. And they don't blame everyone else for their own disasters. They usually seek my help, dust themselves off and get on with their lives.

Why are some families like war zones? Why do I feel that some children are out of control? That some teenagers are selfish, surly and rude. That some adults react with rage in shopping centres, in car parks, in service stations. Where have "please" and "thank you" gone? And smiles of shared understanding.

I find myself becoming intolerant towards some people's behaviour. I don't like bad behaviour from anyone and I don't see why I should put up with it. Except that those who behave badly seem to be outnumbering those of us who don't. I am not religious in the least, but whatever happened to - do unto others as you would like them to do unto you.

And then, maybe, the world would be a happier place and I would not be so intolerant!

The Bitch is Back.

In April this year, when Michael nearly died, I began referring to his pneumonia as The Bitch. She was a lurking, sneaky, vicious bug that almost consumed him. She successfully hid herself well enough to fool Michael's specialist, who discharged him after twenty four hours on IV antibiotics. First mistake. A short sojourn in a mediocre private hospital with an arrogant Grand Pooh Bah of a specialist was the second mistake. But the piece de resistence, the ultimate third mistake was in convincing me that the pneumonia was the chief culprit, the queen of chaos and when she was defeated, all would be well.

I have learnt that the hard way. The real enemy, the destroyer, the mistress, the significant other in Michael's life is his addiction. The cigarette has waited for him to falter, to stumble, to forget. She is Shiva, she is The Bitch.

And she has returned. Such is her cunning, she has convinced Michael that she is his friend, lover, supporter and all around good time girl. She waited until we cut down Michael's anxiety medication because of the drug's side effects. She waited until his anxiety was heightened. She waited as he searched for that extra something to help dampen his emotion.

Innocently, she appeared as his ally. Michael started pinching the odd cigarette from Gary, his partner in crime in the great Renovation of our Shops. Then, furtively, secretly, he purchased a packet of cigarettes. Now she had him again. And the worst, Michael was lying to me about the smell. He repeatedly convinced me that it was Other People's Smoke.

I was completely devastated by the Truth. That she was back. That he had surrendered to her charms. That he had buried the horror of his illness and all that had led up to his hospitalisation. I was furious, inconsolable and disbeliving. I ranted and raved and wept and wailed. Michael was embarrassed, distressed, furtive. And The Bitch was triumphant. She thought she had us both.

And then there were Michael's friends. Who had aided and abetted him in getting into bed with The Bitch. I am beyond anger at them. Michael, in the grip of the enemy, has justified their actions, insisting they did try to talk him out of lighting up. Well, they didn't try hard enough. And if they'd called me, that would have stopped Michael in his tracks, at least for a short time. And Michael pleaded with me that they'd supported him, been his "mates".

What utter bullshit. After all the work of various Men's groups, introducing the alien concept of looking out for your friends, they were too gutless to confront the uncomfortable reality. Knowing my feelings and consorting with The Bitch along with Michael. How dare they betray him in the name of mateship.

The last few days have been Hell. I have floundered in despair and anger. I was unsure of myself and my ability to go into battle once more. Yesterday, I saw him holding a cigarette for the first time in almost six months. For a fleeting second, I didn't recognise him, such was my shock.

But, gradually, I have formulated my plan of counter attack. I have told Michael he has no choice about the matter. He doesn't have the objectivity to fight The Bitch alone. She continues to whisper in his ear, flattering him, placating him, stroking his vulnerable ego and providing him with a misguided alternative to life.

Well, she's met her match. I will fight the Bitch with every weapon in my arsenal. I'm taking charge of the hated cigarettes. I am undecided what to do with them as yet. The patches will be resurrected and his medication increased to give him more ammunition to resist her onslaught. Good food will be his to ingest instead of The Bitch's instrument of death.

And love. I will love him with every fibre of my being. That is her one weakness. The Bitch controls, she consumes, she connives. But she is incapable of love. And that's how I'll get her, once and for all.

The love of my life, Michael - my reason for battling The Bitch.