Saturday, August 15, 2009

Home is where the heart is..

My father bought us this bed when we got married 17 years ago.

I had turned 21 the week before.

The radio worked for about three weeks until it died.

Something to do with the movement of the bed.

It has been the scene of many a sweaty, naughty, vivid, inappropriate and lustful encounter.

It has also been the backdrop for lacklustre, shopping list in your head, yawning, Ithoughtyousaidthiswouldn'ttakelong or for the technical term: assisted wanking encounters.

This ball in the [messy] kids room reminds me of a huge pink balloon.

The more excited or upset Mark is the more animated and faster he will bounce.

I'm waiting for it to burst one day and scare the crap out of him.

Hilarious for me, not so for Mark.

Like most autistics, he hates loud noise and his hands automatically fly up to his ears.

Entertainment at other people's expense is not very nice.


This is from our trip to Biograd in Croatia many years ago which I stare at wistfully when I get itchy feet.

I remember how ripped off I had been feeling up until we visited that day as the place we had been staying at had a very ordinary beach and coastline.

Lots of Germans going about almost naked whom nobody blinked an eyelid at but a really shitty beach.

Until one day when we visited a place called Biograd and I truly understood when a fellow Aussie I met in Switzerland told me that the beaches in Crotia were as good, if not better than here in Australia.

The rocks hurt my feet, it seemed to take forever to get there and the beach was so packed even my little towel had trouble squishing in amongst all the other hundreds of towels.

But the view.

The water.

The colour.


Still, going topless in Biograd was frowned upon with one hapless and puzzled female foreigner enduring many stares and no doubt perplexed in the extreme as to why she could put her tits out in one city and not in the other.

Yes I know.

There's no point in taking the xmas decorations down now though as it's only a few months away.

Three months after that it will be Mark's birthday.

Sometimes I leave things until the last minute.

Other times I'm happily surprised at how exceedingly well prepared I am.

The christians in Bosnia had the good sense to adopt this dish called pita from the large muslim population and it's become a staple part of their diet as well.

After many failed attempts at stretching the dough paper thin by hand I have finally got the gist of it and may yet be married off to a Bosnian.

A bonus feature of this simple yet delicious food is that it momentarily halts the irritatingly regular cries of "I'm hungry" and "What's for dinner?" from children who are going through growth spurts akin to weeds.

But only briefly...

Saturday, August 1, 2009

I taught him everything he knows, not everything I know...

I studied him yesterday.

The intense, deep brown eyes peering out from thick dark lashes, the full mouth with the just discernible fuzz of hair on his upper lip and his thick, dark hair growing forwards - the exact same direction as mine and his uncle's. His shoulders have broadened and squared and his waist has narrowed from many hours spent training and playing soccer.

With his shoulders almost at mine and his nether regions so bushy only a compass could help navigate a way out I find it hard to believe he's only eleven with almost another two months before he turns twelve.

My son is growing up.

Not yet a man.

But no longer a boy.

I've enrolled him into high school and am waiting, almost impatiently for him to begin his life but with a slight trepidation as well.

I know he finds school boring now - the work is too easy, the girls fight too much and most of the boys are stupid.

Sometimes I think he's really a little man in disguise, not just because of his academic ability but also his capacity to read people and situations. Messiness and teenage boy aroma aside he is full of curiosity, empathy and, largely, listens to me.

Still, he's not a saint.

A little over four months ago he punched his laptop with such force it cracked in two places.

The enormous smack I gave him to the back of his head as he walked away from me was so automatic anyone who witnessed it would have sworn I did it everyday to him, not realising I hadn't laid a finger on him for six years when, after the look of terror on his face one day as I lost control, I swore I wouldn't smack him ever again.

There I was though, horrified and more than a little ashamed that the present his uncle had given him for his confirmation was now destroyed.

A three month ban from the pc and the laptop I repaired at home with a new screen did wonders for him though.

He rediscovered the outdoors, writing in his books and I witnessed a new humility born that could be seen in his actions and his words, the boots he had gotten too big for now just the right size.

As it's now August and sunlight is just beginning to inch out a little longer each day, I do wonder how the other children will see him next year and what awaits him but..

I'll have to cross that bridge when he and I reach it...