A brief semi-political interlude

I eased myself down into Madeleine's bean bag on Saturday night to watch the Federal election coverage. It was predictably depressing. If you were following the Australian elections at all, you'll know what I mean. I read a tweet a couple of weeks back that said choosing a Prime Minister in this election was like choosing a boyfriend in prison. That about summed it up.

There were two happy moments, however. The first was watching the Greens get up in my electorate, against the odds and against all predictions. At a time when Australia seems to be growing increasingly self-centred, I felt proud (but also a little sad) to live in the only community in the nation that succeeded in giving voice to the Greens.

And that's all I have to say about politics (on this blog).

The second happy moment was when my daughter waddled over to the bean bag for a robust series of games of Stealing Mama's Headband, followed by Bouncing on Mama's Knee and then Tickling Mama's Baby-Belly.

Of such things (complete with impressive double-chin action) are cheerful Saturday nights made.

ps. Yes, those are moving boxes in the background. So exciting!

Thankful

Earlier this week I had a bit of a minor meltdown. I dropped a glass of orange juice and it shattered all over the kitchen floor. The next minute I was in tears, Madeleine watching on in wide-eyed concern that only poured guilt on my inability to cope. I'm just. So. Tired.

Our family has been sick for months and months. Lately, Mr B has had a bad stomach bug and I have the 'flu, while Madeleine has a viral chest infection following closely on the back of septicaemia (admitted to hospital and on IV drugs for 10 days) on the back of a horrible gastro virus (rushed to hospital in an ambulance at the doctor's behest) on the back of another virus (taken to Emergency by us because we couldn't get her fever down), all mixed in with her heart condition which makes her at once more prone to picking up these illnesses, and in more danger when they occur. When Madeleine is sick she doesn't sleep which means we don't sleep, which makes it a lot harder to get healthy, let alone... cope.

Even the dog is sick, with a torn tendon, a heart murmur and bad teeth (with accompanying Biblical bad-breath); and each separate condition will cost us literally thousands of dollars to treat - thousands that we don't have - so we're working on pain management and comfort instead. The healthiest member of our family is Ruby the cat, who has been referred to a weight clinic for her obesity problem (I'm not even kidding and yes, we think that's as funny as you do).

I don't talk about this kind of family stuff all that often on here, because this blog is supposed to be my happy place. It is where I like to document and uncover beautiful things: things that make me smile and inspire me to create, and hopefully do the same for you. But, honestly, there's a reason why there have been long sessions of silence on here periodically since... March? Have we really been sick for that long? Yes, we have!

Anyhoo, on Meltdown Morning, I had only managed to get about two or three hours of sleep. My little baby had been so sick and congested that she could barely breathe, and was panting and sweating (one of the key warning signs we'd been told to watch out for with her heart). Eventually in the early hours of the morning when I'd had precisely NO sleep so far, Mr B took her out onto the couch so she could sleep in a more upright position. So he didn't get much sleep either. We were both subdued, tetchy, worried and generally unpleasant by morning.

[Warning: the next paragraph is a bit gross. Skip it if you have a weak stomach.]

Madeleine agreed to take some milk and a tiny bit of toast for breakfast, which felt like progress until an hour later when she projectile vomited it up all over the carpet in the direction of Playschool. (A critique on the fruit-salad dinosaurs they were making? Only Madeleine can answer that, and she doesn't say much other than "Gak" which means "Cat.") I cleaned up my poor baby while she sobbed. She's like her mother, she cries when she vomits. Then I tried to clean up the main event. Problem was there was so much phlegm in the mess that nothing would soak it up - it just moved around under the damp sponges I was using like ball-bearings. Particularly slimy, smelly, offensive ball-bearings, speckled with chunks of Vegemite toast.

I made the decision that the rug had to go: it was getting old and hard to clean anyway. But it was trapped under heavy furniture, so I would have to wait for Mr B to get home before I could remove it. So I covered the disgusting mess with a couple of cloths and a big towel to stop Madeleine from digging into it (which she was already trying to do), then dragged an armchair over on top of the towel and that's where the phlegmy vomit stayed, all day, until Mr B and I were able to remove the carpet that night.*

There wasn't much room for Madeleine to play in our tiny living room once a vomit-towel and armchair were dragged smack into the middle of it, so I opened things up for her to crawl around in the kitchen while I packed up for our day. Until I smashed the orange juice all over the kitchen floor, mercifully managing NOT to cut my baby with flying shards of glass.

I was already running late to get Madeleine to the hospital for a check-up following the septicaemia, and what with the broken glass and vomit debacle there was no floorspace left to put her down while I cleaned it up, so I cried instead. Then I gathered up my bags and my baby and walked out the door, leaving the glass where it was and the juice to grow sticky and the vomit still on the carpet and TOO BAD, I was over it.

In the car on the way to the hospital (which honestly feels like a second home because we have been there so often, I mean, the guys in the cafe know my coffee order and greet Madeleine by name!), I kept thinking, we can't catch a break. It's one thing after the next, after the next. Mr B wanted me to ask the specialist if there was anything wrong with her immune system, that she just couldn't seem to get healthy.

But somewhere around my second coffee ("The usual love? How's Maddy?"), and around-abouts the reassurances that Madeleine's heart was yet-again unaffected by this latest infection, and that her immune system was fine, reality began to seep in.

I have a beautiful, happy, affectionate and intelligent little girl. Yes, she has been plagued by illnesses lately, but we are so lucky that they are mostly minor illnesses, and even the serious ones have been quickly and effectively treated. Here I was feeling sorry for myself because my child had a virus and I broke a glass, when there were families next to me in the cafe who were genuinely suffering. Brave little children facing trials that no child - or parent - should ever have to face. Some of them, with very little hope.

That afternoon I went from victim to victor, in my head. I am so thankful for all I have, particularly for my loving, healthy family. So if things continue to go quiet on this blog from time to time, well, it just means I'm prioritising my little family to give us the best chance of staying victorious.

Right now, Madeleine's breath is rattling around like old bones in her young chest while she plays. But that's the point, isn't it? While she plays. Even during our recent stay in hospital, Madeleine took every opportunity when they allowed her off the drip to crawl around the ward and play chasings with the nurses, squealing with laughter.

I am truly lucky. And I am truly thankful.

*I will call Council Pick-up and put the rug out the front of our place as rubbish. However, I am hoping that the scabby neighbours who have stolen Mr B's Lite & Easy food delivery TWICE from our front porch will help themselves to the Vomit Rug. That's karma, friends.

Spoiled for choice

A long time ago I heard a talk by a woman who worked with young girls in Afghanistan. In human rights terms, she said, one of the most important 'rights' was the right of choice. To choose to learn or not, to earn or not, to marry or not... to live or not. Choice was something that we in Australia took entirely for granted. Being 'spoiled for choice' is definitely a first-world problem. In the scheme of things, does it really matter whether we paint our bedroom walls Bit of Blue or Barely Blue? Yet if you were a fly on the wall of many a home renovation (or, let's face it, just watched half an episode of The Block), you'd witness full-on domestic wars arise over just this issue.

Artist Shawn Huckins has explored the concept of choice in his clever and darkly humorous Paint Chip Series. He says, "In today’s abundant American culture, any material thing we could possibly ever want or need is at our fingertips. The Paint Chip Series explores color choice and its meaning in our daily lives."

Each work exactly replicates the proportions, font, layout and hues of the miniature paint cards you find in hardware stores. These are the "bands of color we may choose for our most intimate spaces—bedrooms, kitchens, family rooms," and Huckins says they represent the ideal stage to examine everyday people and objects.

All images used here with the kind permission of the artist.

ps. Take a look at Huckins' tweets from the American Revolution series. Underneath the cheeky tweets in all those teen abbreviations that I can never quite get (thank goodness he 'translates' in the title of each work), these are all hand-painted portraits.

Dumb ways to die

Melbourne's train network, Metro Trains, has produced this kinda cute and kinda disturbing song to discourage people from doing silly, dangerous things around trains (like jumping the tracks, standing near the edge of the platform, driving around barriers at level crossings: apparently people do all these things!). The song is called Dumb Ways to Die. There is also a website, here. And a bunch of gifs on Tumblr, here. What do you think? Will it work?

Sing so that the kids will know

When a horrific abuse of human rights left 81 people dead after a fire broke out in an overcrowded prison in Santiago, Chile in 2010, musician Nano Stern wrote a song about it. Why? "We have to sing about it, we have to make it into popular culture, we have to sing so that the kids will know what happened and will not be immune to such horrible things," he told Dumbo Feather magazine. More here: [youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kDoSzcbVseQ] In the wake of that Kony video (putting aside your thoughts on the activities of the charity behind it), what's your take on using the arts and popular culture for social education and to inspire change?

Defining beauty

I am so excited to bring you this little movie today. If it's the only thing you watch in the busy lead-up to Christmas, you won't regret it. It is challenging, funny at times, inspiring, heartwarming, heartbreaking, and incredibly important. But what's the movie about?It's a movie about a beauty pageant.

A beauty pageant for men.

Men who are HIV positive.

No, I'm not kidding. Take a look at Walk the Talk: Talk the Walk below, a short documentary covering the inaugural "Mr HIV Positive Living" beauty pageant in Gaborone, Botswana.

I promise, you will be so very glad you watched this. You'll be thinking about it for days later, and telling your friends about it at parties. [vimeo http://www.vimeo.com/15311998 w=525&h=295]

WALK THE TALK: Living Positive With HIV from THINKBOX on Vimeo.

I interviewed one of the producers of this video last year*, a Botswanan PhD student at the University of Sydney, Kabo Matlho, who now spends his days researching answers and improvements to HIV/AIDS resistance at the Westmead Millennium Institute just west of Sydney, Australia.

After the footage was recorded, Kabo spent three years travelling back and forth between Botswana and  Australia for this video, checking facts and providing cultural advice and interpretation services. I loved my time talking with Kabo. He is one of the nicest people you could meet, deeply committed to his research and to the message of this video.

“AIDS affects everyone, regardless of gender, social class or culture," Kabo told me. "Australia has developed excellent management of HIV and the rate of infection. It is inspiring to see HIV-positive people in Australia step up and take charge of their own destiny, fight for their own lives. Our documentary represents the beginnings of something that I hope will be similar in Botswana. It is a small step, but it is a step forward.”

Talk the Walk: Walk the Talk won the Juror’s First Prize and the People’s Choice Award at the Association for Consumer Research Conference film festival in the USA in 2010. Well deserved, I think.

*Interview was conducted for the Westmead Medical Research Foundation

The perfect place for writing

Imagine the perfect place for writing. What would yours be like? Mine would have to be a place that truly inspires. A place where the everyday rules fall away and the imagination knows no bounds. Everything should available: pens, papers, desks, beanbags, whatever I need to find my muse. Oh, and how about established authors on-hand as tutors, to help get my writing to publication standards? Hey, why not, since we're dreaming. Now imagine giving a place like this to kids, many of whom are disadvantaged. Indigenous kids, migrants and refugees, kids from schools with limited resources in areas of rising crime.

What if you gave them this place as a gift? A safe haven for children to develop their creativity and love of words. A place that frees their imagination, and breaks down barriers to communication and self expression. Wouldn't you be proud to share a gift like that?

I've been dying to tell you about the Sydney Story Factory, a charity that will open later this year in Redfern, Australia. If you go looking, you'll find it behind The Martian Embassy on Earth, a shopfront portal through which the children will pass into a new world of imagination.

Take a look at this incredibly inspiring workshop the Factory hosted in June. You'll thank me. The kid at the very end is just too cute, and sums the whole thing up. How can you not love what they are doing, bringing literacy, a love of writing, self confidence, communication, self expression and pure, simple joy to these kids?

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SobsFrTKIs0]

Credit where credit is due

I can't say it's a direct response to last week's open letter to Marrickville Council (somehow, I don't picture the Councillors sitting around the office reading naomiloves.com), but something has certainly happened in my lane-way since I wrote that post. The eight bags of rubbish we had collected from the street out the front are gone. So has all the rest of the garbage that was so much a part of that lane-way I had almost ceased to notice. In fact, I don't think I have EVER seen this lane looking so clean.

We must give credit where credit is due, so, thank you Marrickville Council!

Open letter to Marickville Council

Dear Marrickville Council, Don't fret, my family did your job for you. Cleaned the whole street. Gathered up the old McDonald's wrappers, the beer bottles, the coffee cups, even the white and fossilised dog crap.

We swept up the leaves, the dirt, the shards of broken glass and the cigarette butts. We weeded around the spindly trees you planted and then deserted to the mean streets of Enmore.

After months of your neglect, it came to this. Meg got dirt on her heels and a ladder in her stockings. Shocking, I know. And child labour: Em is only 12. How could you? Does it disturb you that just one side of the street on one block resulted in seven bags of disgusting, putrid garbage? I had to carry these bags THROUGH MY HOUSE. And a liquid, brown and sticky that I hope to god was Coke, spilled on my jeans.

Perhaps a little street cleaning on behalf of the Council to whom we pay our rates would be in order?

Just a thought.

Anyhoo, would you mind picking up the garbage from the back lane? We'd be terribly grateful. Yours sincerely,

Rate-Payer Who Wishes She'd Cleaned Up and Spoken Out Before the Election