Swift Talking Required

Hello Possums. Sometimes I get so busy that I start to forget stuff. Its almost like the head is a conveyer belt and if it gets too full things just drop off the edge.

I have a lot on at the moment. The eldest daughter has been at me to change schools. She is currently at an all girls school and feeling stuck in her friendship group. I had been trying to support her and convince her that if she tried new activities and with more focussed subject selelction she will meet other people next year. Things would work out. Its normal for year nine and ten girls to be reassessing their friendships…

That had been my line until last week, when she articulated her feelings in a way that I could not ignor. Mum, she said, when I am not at school I am the happy person you know. But when I am at school I am unhappy and angry and I don’t want to be that person anymore. So I rang the coed school that we had been considering as an alternative, faxed off an application for her, and had an appointment with the head of senior school yesterday.

The interview went well. Kathleen and I were impressed with him and the school. At the end of the interview he said to me, If you had come to me in June, I would definitely be offering Kathleen a place for next year. But we have finished our application process and currently have a waiting list. However, there are some families who may be moving overseas next year. I am waiting for them to confirm this. I will call you this week if anything comes up.

That was yesterday morning. Yesterday afternoon he called me on my mobile, Bindi it was great to meet you and Kathleen this morning. As it turned out, the family who I thought were moving confirmed this today. In fact a message was waiting for me when I got back to my office after talking to you. Kathleen interviewed really well. I think the school would be a good match for her. We would love to have her as our student. I have moved her to the top of the waiting list and am please to be able to offer her a place next year.

Success! I have one very happy, almost-fifteen year old. After the interview and tour yesterday, I think the school will be a great environment for her.

But, with this on my mind and multiple other things on the go, something was bound to give. I realised what it was last night. I had promised to present professional development to a whole school of teachers next Thursday, and looking at my diary realised that next Thursday is also Oaks Day! Imagine drinking all day at the horse races and then fronting up to present to colleagues! Some very swift talking was required.

I deliberated last night over whether to ring Libby and cancel our day at The Oaks or ring the school and cancel the PD. I was feeling very stupid. I had already changed the PD date once.

This morning I decided to ring the school, cancel the PD and face the music. Oaks Day must be the priority! I spoke to the vice principal. I suggested a better model for the PD. We discussed the pros and cons of the new model and the vice principal thought it was a better idea. I then confessed that I was off to The Oaks. The PD has been rescheduled, we had a laugh about it and everyone’s happy. Phew!

We have the technology!

Hello Possums. Here at my place, dancing in the kitchen has never been easier.

I was inspired whilst staying with friends in Tuscany earlier in the year to set aside time to download my music collection onto my ipod. In our Tuscan villa, we selected music to dine, cook or relax by from our friend’s entire music collection, at the convenient touch-twirl of a dial and click of a button. With a little set of travel speakers, he was able to provide good quality music for us anywhere in our villa.

Last week I accomplished the transfer and was amazed to see just how little of the coloured-in ‘capacity sausage’ my entire music collection took up. Upon completion only a few milimetres of the sausage were coloured in!

I set my ipod up in the little travel speakers I got for my birthday in the kitchen and I’m very pleased with the result. This little technological gadget has revolutionized singing and dancing in the kitchen here. I have discovered the ‘play all songs’ option and have begun playing my entire collection alphabetically. Today whilst preparing chicken shaslicks I was up to C and got half way through D when dinner was ready to be served. How strange it was to listen to songs from my music collection out of sync with their usual albums! For example in C, we had ‘Chain of Fools’ by Aretha Franklin followed by ‘Chunky, Chunky Air Guitar’ by The Whitlams, ‘Close to Me’ (INXS) and ‘Come Fly With Me’, Frank Sinatra!

The dance partner

I was out with Libby. We went to listen to a friend of hers, Max, playing in a blues/soul band. He was on the sax. The music was so good that everyone was up dancing and the floor was crowded. It didn’t matter whether or not you had someone to dance with. The floor was so packed that no one stood out as being on their own. Even groups of guys were up dancing. It was like a big party and the mood was friendly and loud.

Libby and I were near the stage where we could easily see Max when a young man dancing a short distance away pointed and indicated come and dance here (next to him). I turned away expecting him to be pointing to someone behind me, but he was pointing to me and he repeated the gesture with emphasis. I was reluctant to leave Libby so I replied with a defiant gesture of no you come here. So he did.

He wasn’t very tall; maybe a little taller than me. He had blonde curly hair and was well dressed except for some very pointy brown shoes. They stood out because his pants were a light colour. His name was Mark. He wasn’t very old; in his twenties or thirty at the most. He was very sensual.

Respect was being played and we danced. He moved well. When he started moving closer to me, I started to laugh. His expression was intent. I couldn’t keep a straight face. It didn’t make sense to me for a young man to be coming on to me so strongly. I couldn’t take it seriously but I played up to his attention and danced in sync with him. He came closer. With his face next to mine he bent and smelt my neck. The sensation of his nose brushing lightly against my neck sent a shiver down my spine. I think he noticed me shudder. A slower song came on. He didn’t touch me, but moved his hands over the shape of my body as he danced. He moved away and I laughed again. The next time he moved close I could feel his hot breath on my neck. My breathing quickened. He licked my neck and then moved away again. My legs felt weak. For a moment I stopped dancing and my hand went up to that place on my neck. Recovering, I shot a glance in Libby’s direction and feigned fanning my face.

A faster song came on after that. As we danced he moved into free spaces, edging closer to the back of the dance floor where he stopped dancing. Lets go, he said. I shook my head and told him I was staying with my friend. I thanked him for the dance and went back to Libby. What was that all about? she asked. I don’t know, I said, but he’s a very good dancer.

At the end of the bracket, Libby and I went to the bar for a drink. He was there with a couple of his friends. We sat down away from their group and he didn’t come over. The band started up again with You Can Leave Your Hat On. Libby and I were enjoying dancing to it when he came up onto the floor and gestured me to follow him. He didn’t turn around to see that I was staying put dancing with Libby and soon he was out of sight. I didn’t feel comfortable leaving Libby on her own again. I was a little disappointed that he didn’t just come back and dance with us.

When we left, I saw him sitting by himself on a bar stool. I went up to him and put my arms around his neck. I’m going now, I told him.

I’ll come with you. His eagerness surprised me. He reached for his coat.

No.

Give me your number then. He pulled out a pen.

Um, No. His shoulders slumped and he shook his head. He was disappointed but took a deep breath, sighed in resignation, and sweetly held my gaze.

I just wanted to thank you for the dance before I left, I said, you are very sexy.

~ I dragged this little story out of my archives, Possums. You see, next door is having a 21st birthday party and their speakers are set up outside. Its loud! I just couldn’t get to sleep so I decided to grab a peppermint tea and do some writing. The title of this story and its bare bones were amongst my drafts. I’ve brushed it off and edited it into a coherent piece. My apologies to those of you who heard me tell it and retell it last December, or who received my excited text detailing the lick. You have heard it before and we have already shared a laugh over it.

Dee explained why she laughed: That story is really funny because you just don’t look the type!

What do you mean? I asked.

Well you don’t dress provocatively and you obviously don’t go looking for it.

She was quite right. But she has never seen me dancing with abandon.

Black Silk with Red Embroidery

Hello Possums. I’m off to Bennett’s Lane with a girl friend. One of her muso friends is playing in a jazz trio there. She’s picking me up soon.

I have put on a black and red Japanese top (given to me by my sister), some bright red Poppy lipstick and some heels. I have only worn this top once before. The last occasion was eighteen months ago out on a Saturday night in Sydney during a girls weekend with Cara, Libby and D. On this occasion, D’s twenty-seven year old boyfriend paused during a conversation I was having with him about compulsory conscription in Israel to say, I like your top. He was a tall and handsome, long haired Israeli with a gentle nature. He cooked breakfast for all four of us in D’s flat on Sunday morning.

Wearing this top and this bright red lipstick is strangely at odds with what I had been doing less than three hours ago. Less than three hours ago I was hosting a party for an eight year old out of doors in cold, almost raining weather. The setting was a miniature village complete with working traffic lights and trams. I was supervising children as they whizzed by on bicycles and scooters, serving tripple-layered frog in pond, fairy bread, honey joys, donkey drops, sausages in bread and birthday cake (not in that order), delegating jobs to my older daughters and the hub and chatting to other parents about the weather as they turned up to collect their children.

At the end of the party Sally gave me a kiss. That was the best birthday party ever, she said. She is in bed now.

And Sofia is here to pick me up. Bye for now…

The night was magical and dreamy. I could have been anywhere in the world. Her friend is one of Melbourne’s best jazz pianists. Last night he played with a drummer and double bass player. Each of these men were magicians with their instruments. Their music transported me away to a place in heaven. Her friend had a drink with us during his break. He was friendly and interesting. I was laughing over a story they were sharing about a concert they did together when he looked at me and said, I just have to say that I really like your outfit.

Thankyou! Very nice of you to say so, I replied.

Well, its the truth. You look great in that top.

Black silk with red embroidery – it must be my lucky top!

Fun Monday

 

Poohead:

Do you like the logo?

My brother designed it!

There is also a boy one:

This is my first Fun Monday.

 

I’ll keep it, thanks.

It might be forty-three years old but it still works really well. It hasn’t had much sleep lately. It had two nights where it didn’t get to bed this week earlier than 1.30am: once because it was getting science equipment ready for classes the next day, and once socializing. It has had three mornings where it had to be up before 6am, twice for work and once for fun. Yesterday it rode one hundred kilometers in thirty-four degree heat (celcius). It sat on a push bike for four and a half hours without getting saddle sore, pedaled for that time without cramping and rested on the drop handle bars (tucking down out of the strong head wind) for most of that time too, without getting stiff or numb. It kept on breathing and pushing those pedals up hill or on the flat, and it hung on down the hills even when the bike was traveling at fifty-two kilometers an hour. It still looks okay in a frock. Here it is at The Oaks. Its wearing a brown dress from Rome and heels from Florence that I bought for it on our recent trip to Europe.

 

It is still pretty flexible and dances well enough to not be shy about getting up in front of any crowd. It can still learn new things. And I can’t forget the things its done for me in the past. It gave birth to four babies, who are developing into four wonderful human beings. They like to give it hugs. It sort of does everything I need it to do, so even though its forty-three I think I’ll keep it. Thanks.

For the fun of it

I rushed around yesterday afternoon getting ready for a visit from our dear friend Mic. Flowers from our garden completed the scene.

This young man used to teach my daughter Emma. He now works with an organisation that supports children with cancer.

I think of you as part of my extended family, he said once.

Oh so like a little brother or cousin? I asked.

Well I was hoping for family pet or adopted son, said he.

OK family pet because we feed you sometimes. Next step is to teach you some tricks.

Last night we fed him. He came over for dinner. This time he contributed to the meal (for want of a more appropriate description). He brought along a tub of chocolate mouse he had made with one of his kids in hospital that day:

Its not supposed to look appetising, Possums. After the meal we played a card game with similar rules to Old Maid, except that the loser of each round had to take a large spoon of sickly sweet mouse. The kids hammed it up, and so did he:

After the kids went to bed we chatted until the wee hours of the morning about his work, life and death.

Filed under Red Tent

Hello Possums. As some of you may be aware I also contribute to The Red Tent Blog. Right now an open conversation about parents’ guilt is going down. You will find an articulation of my thoughts on this topic over there.

The Red Tent is a community blog. We are hoping to stimulate meaty discussion on issues important to our hearts.

Would you like to contribute to it?

My head is too big

Where would I be without my students, Possums?

Today was the last day of semester at uni. My three classes of post graduate students came in dribs and drabs to hand in their assessment tasks. Throughout the day I had to say goodbye to all sixty odd of them. I wished them well.

Becoming a teacher is not an easy journey. Its risky. Its the most intensive personal development course anyone could take, I reckon. As a consequence, if you care about these students and model good teaching practices yourself, they appreciate you. I usually get pretty good feedback on this course, but this year’s bunch of students were exceptionally fluent. I’m not talking about ‘thanks it was great’ sorts of comments (although I did get some of those too), I’m talking about critical, positive feedback on aspects of my teaching. Its the best sort of feedback I could ever hope for.

But do you really know what its all about, Possums? This teaching/ learning/ education thing? Its about listening and building relationships: creating a space for open communication. So that’s what we were saying goodbye to.

One of my students from last year wandered into my classroom today. She sat down opposite me and struck up a conversation about what she’d been doing since last year. She stayed for over half an hour and participated in my conversations with the current students as they filed in and out with their essays. After the last of my current students left she explained why she had come:

I was in a lecture about mandatory reporting, and I couldn’t cope. You see I had a rough childhood. I ‘ve suffered post-traumatic stress. But I’m thirty now and I’ve had councelling. I thought I’d be OK. But I started wondering whether my teachers could have seen the signs in me, yet did nothing about it. I had to leave. I didn’t want to start crying in there. When I came upstairs and saw the classroom open I decided to come in. I loved your classes last year. I felt like I needed to be in a space where I could feel safe. I thought it might bring back how happy I felt then and calm me down. I didn’t even expect to find you here. I just wanted to be back in the room. But finding you has been a bonus.

Did it help? I asked. (It did).

I packed up after she left and went downstairs. On the way out I saw another of my students from last year.

I walked up to him and, with my best authoritative teacher voice said, where’s your assessment task?

What assessment task? He looked worried.

Just kidding! I’ve been missing bossing you around, you know, and just felt like a little power trip!

He smiled. I’ve missed you too, he said. His sweet reply was unexpected. Well look me up on facebook, I said. We both laughed.

So I had a good day. I was just about to shut the computer down and go to bed when I found an email from another ex-student who is now teaching in a school: Hi Bindi remember me? I’m teaching grade 3/4 students and wonder if you could send me that info you had about making the best pin hole camera?

Any teacher knows you don’t often get feedback. I used to joke that for a teacher, one tiny skerric of positive feedback can keep you in teaching for five years. But I’ve just had a whole day of it! I shall bask in it while it lasts! Somebody widen my door so I can fit my head through it please.

The Rose

Hello Possums. I have been working hard today. I ate lunch late. I was just about to get back into it when I noticed this rose:

This rose is a sensual delight. The perfume is magnificent. The petals are crimson silk. It is intricate and perfect.

The rose is from our garden. The hub brought it in and gave it to me two days ago.

Thank you, its beautiful. Shall I put it in the vase you gave me last Valentines Day?

Good idea.

Today, I look at the rose and I feel a complicated mixture of emotions. The rose is symbolic. Bette Midler’s song is one of my favorites. It always makes me cry.

Because the seed

in the springtime

with the sun’s love

becomes the rose.

Could I dare hope the rose can symbolize my love? Do I have strength enough to nurture love until it shows?

It needs to be real. I might have to change and I might have to try really hard. I might have to let go of hurt and let some expectations fade away to insignificance.

Do I dare hope it could be beautiful again?