Baby bird has left the nest

Well, that's it.

My baby started school today and I feel completely and utterly lost.
For the last 8 years, I've had a little one next to me during the day.
With Hope in Kindergarten, I feel sad and very low.

It's an end of an era, and I wasn't ready for it to happen so fast.

sob, sob

Faith or fashion?

And now for a little rant.

My faith is an integral part of who I am, guides me in raising my daughters and the way I wish to live my daily life.  It is mine - I have never imposed by belief system on anyone and I never will. I respect everyone's choices and, while I do not have to agree with other people's views, I will always listen and will only offer my opinion if asked. I am fortunate I have friends from all creeds and religions. My best friend is an Atheist.

Ok, so I now feel comfortable enough to proceed having stated my views.

Ever since Madonna decided to wear rosary beads as an accessory, fans have emulated this and followed suit. As I grew up in the 80s, I remember the uproar it caused and the media coverage it generated.
As all fads, this one subsided and people soon forgot.

A few years ago, I noticed a resurgence of the rosary bead necklace. At first, I'd see it worn by middle-aged women, like my mum, during and after World Youth Day in Sydney. This seemed acceptable by the general public and most never batted an eye.

As the religious fervour wound down, I then started to notice young guys around 15-25 years-old wearing them with pride and happy to tell you, if you asked (which I did) that they wore these to tell the world they were Catholics.


Soon after, I noticed jewellery shops jump on this trend and stock every kind of rosary bead imaginable - gold, silver, precious stones from baby to adult sizes.
None of this bothered me in the slightest. I loved seeing people proud to display their faith in such a public and beautiful way.

But, and this is where my anger begins to bubble up.

I'm no fashionista, but I clearly remember the night Aussie singer Delta Goodrem - during her battle with cancer - wore a set of rosary beads around her hand when she won an Aria. I saw this as a symbol of her faith or an amulet for protection during her illness.
What soon followed was a flooding of wannabees adoring themselves with rosary beads as fashion items.
Wear it if it MEANS something to you, but as pretty trinket? You really have no right, in my eyes.

Now, for those of you who think I'm just being hyper-sensitive, let me relay a conversation to you. A very close friend of mine lives in the same building as one of Australia's most respected, most popular  designers. His name is synonymous with the latest trend, his clothing is worn by only the rich, and very rich.

Let's call him Bob.

One morning, Bob was leaving his trendy East Sydney apartment wearing a beautiful set of rosary beads around his neck, clearly visible upon his designer shirt. My friend, a photographer, was delighted to see this, but cynical at the same time. He asked Bob,

"Faith or Fashion?"

Incredulously Bob answered, "Fashion, darrrrrrling."

Recently, I had a similar exchange with a well-known and much loved Aussie musician. His answer, when I asked him, was also, "Fashion". 

Why wear a sacred symbol and flaunt it so irreverantly? I would never wear a Hijab as a fashion item or a Yamaka to make a statement. I wouldn't dot my forehead with red dye or wear Buddhist prayer beads as bracelets.

A few years ago, I worked for a Catholic religious Order. Their symbol was a simple wooden Tau - a variation of a crucifix which represents St Francis of Assisi and the Order he founded. I was gifted one and wore it with pride. But, one individual who was associated with the Order, took offence to my wearing it. I stopped wearing it out of respect.

I'll end my rant here, but I'd just like to conclude by saying that symbols are important. Not only do they give one a sense of belonging, but they are sacred and represent something which goes deeper than just an adornment.

What do you all think?

Is it time to hang up my dancing shoes?

WHEN I was 17, my two older sisters thought it was time to introduce me to "the nightlife".
As both my sister have very different musical tastes and also very protective, my initiation to this wonderful new world took two very different forms.
My eldest sister took me to watch some live Jazz at the Basement. I clearly remember freaking out that I was going to be asked for ID ( I was still only 17) and we would unceremoniously be rejected at the door despite my horrendously applied make-up. Why did I think bright red lipstick and fucshia eye-shadow would make me look older?
My stressing was for naught as my sister paid the cover, our wrists stamped and we were ushered into the dark club.
Instantly I was transfixed by the sounds, the smells, the clatter at bar, the myterious dark nooks were strangers were intertwined.
I felt as I had been given the key to a secret lair, one that has always been there but hidden and invisible from my young-adult eyes. I felt sophisticated, grown up.
Instantly I was besotted. And so began my love affair with live music.
Vince Jones was the act. I'd never seen the trumpet played live before. My sister had a big crush on him. As he got on stage, people extinguished their cigarettes (n.b back it the 90s, smoking was allowed in clubs. Vince Jones was probably one of the first who demanded a smoke-free environment at his gigs).
I was enthralled, but looking around at the 'cool crowd' I realised I'd have to mask my awe and transformed my 'eyes-ago and wide-open mouthed look' into one of cool indifference and nonchalance.
18 years later I still get a rush when I descend those stairs (although the venue has changed a bit ) and scope out the posters plastering the walls.
While I've seen some awesome acts there - including Sheila E - my biggest regret is not seeing Prince at the Basement. He preformed a 'secret' after show in 2003. I hate that I missed it.

My second intitiation by my slightly wilder sister was at a nightclub on Oxford street called DCMs. It was notorious for drugs and had the best techno music. It attracted people from all walks of life and was THE place to be seen.
Again, I was shit scared (being under-age) and terrified I'd be laughed at. I borrowed my sister's electric blue boob-tube and vinyl black pants. My sister was uber-cool and she just grabbed my hand, shot the beefy bouncers a look of disdain and walked in.
To say this was a culture shock would be an understatement. I was hit with a tidal-wave of bass, strobe lights pierced me tempting me to have a seizure. The concrete ground was sticky and my vision was obstructed by billows of cigarette smoke.
With a cigarette dangling from her mouth, my sister jumped on a podium and dragged me up. I had no idea what to do. So I danced.
Now, growing up in my naive sheltered little world, I thought when you went out to clubs, guys asked you to dance. Here, everyone danced alone. It was so liberating. As I looked around I saw girls with elfin haircuts dancing in circles. I saw Calvin Kline-esq shirtless guys with bleached hair and washboard abs adorned with body paint  dancing with glowsticks. I saw two guys kissing. This was a first for me to witness and I just stared and stared.  There were other firsts for me there including watching people do lines of coke, being offered 'E's' for $20 and dancing till I thought I'd collapse. We never, ever touched drugs, never drank a drop of alcohol, but smoked like chimneys. The water bottle was our best friend and so was the late-night pizza joint we would stop on the way home and inhale a family sized pizza in seconds.

The dichotomy of these two experiences was so vast. And yet, I loved both and loved that I had this special and unique relationships with both of my big sisters. How very fortunate I was - and still am.

Last weekend,  I went to the Basement. The familiarity was comforting and brought back a flood of memories. The fresh faced bouncer asked me if I'd been there before. Doing a quick calculation in my head, I laughed and said I'd been watching gigs there for 18 years. His retort,

"That's how old I am!"

I wanted to be swallowed up by my bar stool. I could feel every one of my 'smile-lines' rise up on my face like a road-map of my life. Had I become that 'old woman' we'd spot at nightclubs, sitting alone and laugh at when we were 18?
For a fleeting moment, I considered not going out to gigs anymore. It lasted but a second and was soon shaken off like the remnants of a bad dream.

However much longer I have on this planet, I'll slap on the make-up, strap on my highest heels and open my ears to the sounds that move my soul.

Real estate agents - the bane of our society

Did you leave school at 15?
Do you want to wear an ill-fitting suit everyday?
Have you got the people skills of a skunk?
Do you have any qualms with being creative with the truth?
Do you want to drive a $150,000 car and feel important?

If your answer was yes, yes, yes, no and yes, then I have the perfect job for you! Why don't you 'study' for 48hours and become a:

REAL ESTATE AGENT!!!

As you've probably gathered, I don't particularly like or hold much respect for these snake-oil salespeople.

I have dealt with my fair share of them to know they would push old women and children out of the way if there was a fire, just like  'George Costanza' (from Seinfeld).

I know it's unfair to paint then ALL with the same brush, but from my experience I find this breed of person to be greedy, dishonest, lacking scruples and slimy. 

And, almost all of them fit into these categories:

THE SLEAZY PERV

Usually fat, middle-aged and balding. Often he has bad breath (you unfortunately know this because the offender finds every opportunity to encroach on your personal space) and has bathed in cologne. He'll warmly greet you, squish both your hand together in a disgustingly moist handshake - which you have to wrench yourself from - and lead you around the property hovering at your side and often place his (or her) hand nonchalantly on the small of your back. He (or she) will ignore your partner and shower you with idiotic compliments, such as, " I find women have better taste, they know what they want" while wiggling their eyebrows and sneaking in a wink.
This creature insists on getting your work number, mobile number, home number, email, birthday, address and making sure you have his (or hers) and repeatedly tells you to "call me anytime." He (or (she) also calls you within minutes of leaving the inspection to see how you liked it, then send you a friend request on Facebook. He (or she) will then continue to harass you at least twice a day.
The only way you will ever be free of this slimeball is by changing your number or moving to another country.

THE ARROGANT YOUNG THING

He or she will be at least  20 minutes late and arrive in the latest sport model car. They'll be yabbering on the phone, very loudly, and have the customary reflective aviator sun glasses on. Impeccably dressed - women in designer two piece suits, stilletos, Louis Vuitton brief case, hair coiffed, make-up expertly done and men in a smart grey sport suit, metrosexualed to the nines, pointy shoes, Louis Vuitton man-bag and hair glued into shape with a tub of product.
They'll ignore you, throw a brochure in your face turn around and jet off in their (leased) sports car. All while talking on the phone.
You'll never hear from them again and they won't ever answer their phones.

My husband punched one of these species in his fake-tanned face once.

THE JUNIOR

Flushed in the face and carrying a pile of paperwork, the Junior has just 'graduated' from being a property manager (i.e they collect rent and deposit it). Super keen, annoying with poor English they are wearing a suit which is shiny from too many pressings. At first, you feel sorry for them and humour them as they mispronounce words such as 'bidet' and explain to you that termites can't eat weatherboard. The problem with these young ones is they don't know anything. You can ask the most basic question and their answer will invariably be "Let me just check", "I'm not sure" "I'm not the agent, I'm just showing it for them." This experience will be an utter waste of time and will only result in having to meet with with either the above mentioned SLEAZE or ARROGANT excuse for a human.

Oh dear, my phone's ringing. Another agent returning my call. Another Saturday to look forward to of disappointing house inspections.

HELP ME!!!

Just call me "Mama Bird"

I'm feeling a little clucky.

In less than four weeks, my littlest monkey will be starting big school.  When I tell people this, most rejoice and exclaim, "Oh, lucky you, all three at school." But I have mixed feelings.
No more will I have a little hand in tow on "Mummy and Hope days"  to hold onto through the car park, buy a happy meal for so I can steal the chips and listen to endless hours of ABC Kids program in the background as I cook up more yellow playdough.

My sister has even suggested I hold her back a year. I toyed with this for a few seconds, but mummy guilt barreled over those thoughts with one fell swoop.

She'll start school, love it, terrorise the kids, charm the teachers and learn very quickly which ice-blocks she likes most at the canteen.

For all those who think I'll have ALL this spare time now to have mini-facials and laser hair removal, think again. Mummy will have more uniforms to wash, shoes to polish, sight-words to run through EVERY night, a Deb Ball to prepare for, a zillion kids birthday parties to attend, more parents names to learn and which kid belongs to them, sports carnivals, fundraisers,  and umpteenth "dates to remember".

If you have kids at home, relish this time. You don't have a certain time to get dressed by, have breakfast gobbled up, hair brushed, bags packed or the the inevitable splitting apart of little, squabbling girls who insist their sister has hidden their library books. When you have school-aged children, by the time 8.45am rolls round and you kick your kids out of the (sometimes still moving car) just in time for the bell, you're already exhausted.

Oh, and by the way, while doing all of this - choosing whichever outfit is least crumpled, taming the fraggle hair and trying to apply mascara without poking out an eye.

And once this mean feat is complete, arrive at work by 9am and to do an 8 hour shift.

Actually, please ignore the first few pars of this post, I take it all back. I do not feel clucky or sad, I am now having an anxiety attack over how the beepity-beep I'm gonna manage all this!!!

OK, someone hand me a brown paper bag and tell me to breath deeply .....
 

The Santa Dilemma

When my husband was around 8-years-old, his older cousins - as older cousins do - decided to burst his Christmas bubble in the nastiest, most venomous way they could think of. A way in which guaranteed the little tyke would be scarred for life (well, for his childhood at least).
They told him Santa died. If that was not devastating enough, their tale continued to unravel, saying Santa died on his way, or soon after he arrived in Australia. To rub salt in the wound, they added that poor old St Nick's demise was brought upon by heatstroke.

Cruel, don't you think?

Yesterday, at the pre-school Christmas concert, the man in red made an appearance. All the little kiddies squealed in delight as he handed out gifts and lollies.
Except for Tara.
She covered her mouth, in an effort to conceal her whisper from her sisters, and said to me,
"He's not real."
I anticipated this and replied,
"Yes, I know. It is one of Santa's helpers. The real Santa is too busy in the North Pole."
"No mum, Santa is not real."

Putting on my best actor face, I asked her who she thought put all the presents under our tree last year.

"You did mum. You bought them all last year. I know this because Daddy knew how much my video camera cost."

I didn't know what to say, but shrugged my shoulders and told her that she was wrong. I said Daddy saw the camera at the shops, and we most certainly didn't buy it.
She didn't buy my answer.

I've tried to keep the Santa fable alive for my girls, knowing all too well they will eventually grow out of it, but I'm not ready. They're still too young.
I did however know it was a matter of time, especially since every year my mum dresses in her Santa suit on Christmas Eve. The kids aren't that clueless.

Picture this. We've come home from Midnight Mass, all 8 grandchildren are bouncing off the wall from a candy-cane induced high. Mum dons the suit - complete with full beard - escapes through the back door. Scales the side fence (she's 63 so this takes much effort) and runs up to the top of our street, in the dark. Armed with a big sack and pocketfuls of lollies, she starts, "Ho, Ho, Ho-ing" waking up our lovely neighbours throwing fistfuls of toffees into their yards.

By the time she reaches her house, the older grandkids (and us adults) are in fits of laughter. The younger ones are agog in amazement that Santa has a very woggy accent and sounds a little like grandma. She greets them all by name and hands them gifts. She also hands out a few slaps to the back of the heads of the older kids who proceed to exclaim, "You aren't Santa, you are TATA (grandma in Arabic)."
By this stage, she's dripping sweat, her beard is askew and her pockets are empty. Despite this, bless her, she continues with the charade and, now panting, trudges down to the end of the street to be enveloped by the darkness.
Sometime later, Mum miraculously appears back in the kitchen. I still don't know exactly how she gets back in without us seeing her. I think she has a ladder positioned somewhere in one of the neighbours' yard.

And so, as the years tick on, inevitably my girls are going to stop believing in Santa. But, I'll do my best to keep the magic alive for a little longer.

Hope's pre-school graduation

This song was played at my baby's pre-school graduation yesterday.
I blubbered.
My girls laughed at me. Hope actually rolled her eyes. My husband took two steps away as my sobs increased from an inaudible sniff to a fully-fledged wail.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dsk5Qz5oEWo
Let's see how many dry eyes there are after you watch it.

Sleep - what's that?

And now for my weekly whinge.

Last night was a shocker. And when I say shocker,  I mean a three hour battle to get the girls to sleep.
If you have read early posts from when Tara was a baby, you'd see this pattern of bad-sleeping behaviour started from infancy. Hope is even worse. Every night, she crawls into my bed after disrupting Eden for hours.

I can't remember a night since the kids were born when it was an easy transition to bed.
In an effort to try a different tack, last night I used reverse psychology instead of the usual broken-down record, "go to bed, you've had a drink, you don't need to go to the toilet again. GET to BED. Stop swapping beds, stop talking, STOP fighting. GET  TO F*&%ING BED."

And so, I told my eldest and youngest after an hour of bickering with my poor middle child, who just wanted to sleep, that they weren't allowed to go to bed.
I proceeded to plonk them both in the loungeroom and told them they were not allowed to sleep. I really thought this might work.

How wrong could I be.

What eventuated was a further two hour screaming match, crying, bellowing (my poor neighbours) and a draining, exhausting, emotionally painful battle.

At around 11pm, they both fell asleep on the floor of the hallway. Daddy transferred them both to their beds soon after. By this stage, I'd retreated to my bed, closed my door and cried myself to sleep.

I honestly thought I would have some small victory. The reality was that even though I had stuck to my guns and refused them to go back to their beds, it was one of the worst nights I'd had in a long time.
There is no solution. I've resigned myself to this fact. I've tried everything. Yelling doesn't work, compromise doesn't work, reverse psychology also was a flop, reward charts, blackmail, begging, NOTHING HAS WORKED. I've tried it all and I feel like a failure.

And, the biggest loser in this situation is me. They woke up this morning with no recollection of the torment they put me through last night. The guilt I feel for being angry at them, the feelings of incompetence - these feelings will haunt me all day.


The only hope I'm clinging to is that when we move to a bigger place, (hopefully soon) the kids will be more settled. I have nothing to base this one, but I'm totally spent.

The "un-joys' of motherhood!

Yawn.......

Stale bread

As I was walking to work this morning feeling utterly sorry for myself due to a sore throat, I looked up to see a sight which broke my heart.
A sight I would have missed if I hadn't looked up from my begrudging stomp -  mumbling to myself about having to leave my cosy bed.
An old man, quite possibly not all that old, but worn weary from a hard life, was scratching at a piece of stale bread he'd found discarded on the footpath. The way he was scratching at it with the vigour  of determination could not have been interpreted in any other way - this man was starving.
Obviously he was trying to scrape off any filth, mould or rotten food on the stale bread and salvage whatever edible part he could, shovelling the crumbs into his mouth with lightening speed.
I hesitated, but did not stop. Looked at him, but did not gawk. The pity in my eyes would have embarrassed this man. Every person deserves to reserve some dignity.
What would it have taken me to offer this man a hot breakfast? McDonalds was just around the corner and a McMuffin meal surely wouldn't break the bank. But, 'I was due at work', I rationalised to myself. "He'd be embarassed', I thought.
I walked on.
100 meters away, I saw a gaggle of pigeons, scratching at some breadcrumbs. Just like that old man.
Surely, a man is worth than a pigeon.
I was consumed with guilt, but continued on my way.

Do I need to change the name of my blog?

When I started this blog, I was totally engrossed - unashamedly so - with my first born. Many would say I still am!
But, it's not that I love Tara more than my two other children, Eden and Hope, it's just that in 2004 when she was born, I had transitioned. No longer was I just a girl, a journalist, and (recently) a wife, but I had a child. A child who made me look at myself in a completely different way, a new classification one might say.
Now, don't misunderstand me. I didn't become an all-knowing mother overnight. Hell, I've been a mum for nearly 8 years now, and I'd say, almost on a daily basis I'm confused, frustrated and struggling to know the right thing to say, the right way to react.
And, in no way is my experience unique to any other mother.
When I started this blog, I was Tara's mum.
7 years and 9 months on, I still am.

Facebook sux - I'm back

Yes, Facebook has consumed my life. Since August 2008, (aka my last blog), I have ignored my followers and succumbed to the alluring beauty of Zuckerburg's rip-off of someone else's social platform. I now think I need an outlet for my creative juices which is not limited to the 150 character limit of status updates. Henceforth, I have reinstated my blog and hope you will dive into my literary foray once more. I'll keep you all posted!

Has it really been a year since my last post???

I can't believe it has been a year since I posted last!
Damn facebook - so addictive!
Basically life is hectic, wonderful and fun..the girls have grown up so much and I'm NOT pregnant again! HAHAHHA
Tara is 4 and a half now, Eden is 3 and Hope is my little feisty 18 month old.
I'm back into Kickboxing - which I love - and bascially BUSY all the time.
But, that's life, and we have our health, family and wonderful friends.
Will post some new pics soon

NO NO NO NO NO! When you're two it's your favourite word!

She looks sweet, doesn't she?
Well, our sweet, sweet Eden has turned into a screaming, tantum throwing, bullying, screeching stubborn 2-and-a-bit year old.
While she's still utterly edible, the "NO's" are really getting to me.
On an hourly basis, Tara and her have ear-pitching screaming matches I'm sure everyone within a 5km radium can hear them.
I think I need to invest in some wax earplugs!

'Tis the season to be sniffly!

Having three little children to take care of (four including my husband) during this cough and cold period is, in a nutshell exhausting.

Runny noses, "mum, wipe my nose", fever "mum, i'm hot", runny noses "mum, i need a tissue NOW" is all I've been dealing with for the last week. The most disgusting thing is when they sneeze and two sausage shaped green slugs hang like algae, often past their rosy lips only to be licked up by greedy little tongues...mmm tasty.

The only saving grace has been a combination of Panadol, Nurofen and Dimmetapp (in my opinion, the best of the three as it knocks them out, only joking)
It's a good think doctor mum hasn't got the leurgy - hubby refuses to kiss me - or else I'd have to hire a nanny, or three.

Oh, I also had a nasty fall which resulted in a concussion and posible fracture of my (pride) elbow. And, for all those who know me, don't roll your eyes, I know I'm clumsy, but honest it wasn't my fault this time, the chair slipped. Another xray has been added to my mammoth pile.

On the book front, it's really steam-rolling ahead, a little scary yet exciting nevertheless.

That's about it, keep smiling and wear your face masks when you go out.

Hope Madeleine - You're now a Catholic! Happy Baptism

We baptised our gorgeous third girl - and it was a beautiful day.
She was the perfect baby, and didn't even cry!
Pity about this shocking Sydney weather though, it was freezing and then pissed down as we left church. I don't know why I straightened my hair as I soon turned into a fraggle when the rain started to pitter-pattr down.
Anyway, enough of my hair dramas, here are some pics of the day.
Enjoy!

Isn't she Stunning?

The death of the Good Samaritan

How is it fair that a God Samaritan is shot dead in busy Melbourne CBD?
It isn't fair, and there seems to be no rhyme or reason.

For all those haven't heard, two strangers ran to the help of a young woman who was being pulled by her hair out of a cab when the assailant opened fire and shot the two men who came to the woman's help and herself as well. One of the men died at the scene, while the woman and the other man are in a critical condition. What a tragedy.
As I recalled the incident to my husband over the phone, he was just as shocked as I was, but also said,

"See, that's exactly why people do not come to the aid of other people."

I see his point, but I would still like to think that I would rush to help someone in trouble as long as it would not endanger my children - and I know my husband would not think twice before helping someone in need.

My prayers are with the families of those involved.

While the situations I have been in are no where as dire as a shooting, I have been in a situation where I needed someones help and everyone around me turned a blind eye. I was about 36 weeks pregnant and had driven myself to hospital one avo thinking I may be in labour. As I pulled into the Emergency Department carpark, I couldn't find a spot to park, except for a very tight spot which I could barely squeeze my commodore into. I didn't want to block the entrance as then I would stop the Ambulances coming in. Anyway , there was a burly middle aged man yakking on his mobile phone, his hire-car driver's side door open blocking me from swinging my car into the mini spot. So, I get out, clutching my swollen belly and ask him if he could move his car please as I think I'm in labour and can't get my car in the spot. Now, you would assume that he'd say, no problem, however the reality was this:

"You stupid, fucking woman, if you can't drive or park your car, you are a fucken idiot, now fuck off.''

He then returned, annoyed, yakking on his phone.

For the first time in my life, I was speechless. Tears of anger stung my eyes, but I didn't want to give him the pleasure of seeing me cry.I got back in my car and for a split second seriously contemplated putting my foot on the accelerator and ramming his car into oblivion, but I was pregnant and my baby's life was not worth this piece of shit chauffeur. There were plenty of people who heard what went on, and they just stood there gawking. After a few minutes, one man said he'd park my car for me, but by this stage, there was a free spot and I parked it in, my hands shaking. As I waddled to the Emergency doors, I walked past this poor excuse for a human and said to him that I thought he was the rudest man I had ever met. His response,

"Fuck off."

If my husband or dad or brother were there, they would have rammed his head through the windscreen and then he really would have needed medical help. I would have smashed his head in, but again being pregnant not worth the risk to my baby, you just never know how someone will react.

It's just so disappointing that so many people in this world are just horrible and mean.

I love this photo of Tara!

40 years of Israeli Occupation

This week marks 40 years of the remainder of Palestinian lands being illegally occupied by Israel.

It was 40 years ago when Israel illegally stripped more Palestinians of their right of a homeland, basic human rights and freedom.

This was the 6 day War of 1967.

Today, the world still turns a blind eye to the inhumane treatment of Palestinians - because they are are simply not recognised as Human.

And Oprah will be going as a sign of Solidarity to Jews on a tour of Israel. I thought she fought against oppression and crimes against humanity. I thought she was anti-Apartheid. I thought she built schools for poor African girls. Sorry, I forgot, Palestinian children don't matter, Palestinians aren't human.

I ask you to remember, to learn the truth, to stop occupation - of the mind, body and spirit. De-humanisation forces people to lose the will to live. Countless Palestinians have lost the will to live, many have simply ceased to live.

I know of one person who lived under occupation his whole short life. He took the only thing he had possession of - his life, extinguished his flame which had dwindled to an ember living under Israeli oppression.

And the wall still goes up!

If your in Sydney next Saturday - as a sign of solidarity of basic human rights join a peaceful rally asking the world simply to remember.


Saturday June 9
1pm
Sydney Town Hall 1pm


Hope to see you all there

Eden is 2! Happy Birthday baby

My beautiful Eden turned two - it still astounds me how fast life zooms by!
She's an amazing child, affectionate, loving and CHEEKY! Everyone nick names her Sweet, Sweet Edee because she is so sweet and just edible! Here are some pics from her party.

Enjoy!