The sister I never knew I had

It was just shy of my second birthday when my mother gave birth to my sister, Simone. I was over the moon, (apparently). I was gentle, affectionate, caring, and adoring of my little baby sister.

As time passed we developed a wonderful relationship. As sisters do, we shared secrets, played dress ups and choreographed our own silly dance routines. I remember when we were seven or eight we used to share a bedroom and we would giggle uncontrollably after lights out until one of our parents would storm in yelling, “WILL YOU BE QUIET AND GO TO SLEEP!”

We both shared a love of dancing. She supported me when I played in piano recitals and I would cheer from the crowded sidelines when she competed for NSW in rhythmic gymnastics.

Then everything changed. 

We started high school. (insert embarrassing high school photo, I think not!)

As so often happens, high school turned us both into miserable, moody bitches. I became a bit of a goody two shoes, withdrawing from my embarrassing sibling, whilst my sister became an all black wearing rebellious teen.

We fell out. 

At 18 she moved away. I stayed. Living in different states we drifted apart. Sure we spoke sometimes on the phone but they were never the kinds of conversations you’d have with a best friend.

Then after many, many years, we both found ourselves married with kids. And all of a sudden, we were best of friends again.

We gabbed about the colour of poo, dinner recipes for fussy toddlers and the secrets we keep from our husbands. (No honey, I just made that up for the sake of the story, honest)

It’s desperately unfortunate for both of us that we still live in different states, but the fact that we can pick up the phone on any given day and be there for each other makes my heart smile.

I’m eternally grateful for my beautiful sister, the sister I never truly knew I had until I opened my eyes. (Sorry if I've made you cry Sim.)

Mojo, Mojo, wherefore art thou Mojo?

Dear avid readers, I sincerely apologise.

My mojo has not only departed the building, it’s run out the back door, jumped the fence, and was last seen sprinting across the soccer field. 

Over the last two weeks I have been suffering from an abominable case of lethargy (perhaps comatose would be a more accurate description)

I’ve been left scratching my head. My quilting fabric squares lay on the bed in neat little piles, quietly mumbling away that they’d like to be sewn together please. The crumbs on my hardwood floors crunch away with every step I take, pleading to be sucked away into the lovely warm confines of the vacuum cleaner, and the bathroom? Don’t go in there unless an entire bottle of Domestos is used.

I haven’t been able to sit at my computer and focus for at least a week. I miss reading about the latest adventures of my friends on Facebook. I feel terrible about not following my blogging community more closely. I feel guilty that I’ve not responded to friends’ emails and messages, not because I’m unorganized, but because I haven’t even logged on to look at them.

I’m so tired.

Yes I only have one child, but he is into EVERYTHING. I used to smile in pleasant “understanding” at friends who would tell me that their kids were into everything, but now, I actually get it. If I’ve picked up the contents of the kitchen cupboard from the floor once, I’ve picked them up a hundred times. (Note to self- get a cupboard and fridge door lock, ASAP). I seriously don’t know how women with a gaggle of children do it.

It’s not just Max who has worn me down but I’m hoping it’s just a phase. 

So please forgive me. I just need a little more time.

LOST

My Mojo.

Handsome reward if found!

Why the "Man Drought" is a load of rubbish.

Apparently we are in the driest depths of a “man shortage”.

Recent studies reveal there are only 86,000 men for 1.3 million women across Australia.

Some sources (who I will not name) have suggested that women stop being so fussy, stop looking for Mr. Right and start saying yes to “Mr. Not So Bad”

Let me start by saying that this is complete bullshit.

Firstly, news reports failed to make it clear that these “eligible” men were only in the age bracket of 25 to 34 and had to have an income of over $60,000. So basically, all those gorgeous younger men were excluded, the distinguished older men were eliminated, and any man in the age bracket who may be wonderful but earn slightly less than 60k a year were entirely forgotten about.

What about the men who are finishing their studies to become doctors, lawyers, and other respected professionals? What about the handsome foreign men with intoxicating accents who have made Australia their home (for now)? My sister and two girlfriends all married English men who were here on holidays. Those men wouldn’t have been counted in the 86,000.

Then don’t even get me started on this ridiculous idea that we should look for “Mr. Not So Bad” rather than Mr. Right. I agree, that there is no such thing as Mr. Right. All men have flaws, as do most women (I hate to say). But there is most definitely a “Mr. Right For Me”, for everyone.

My husband doesn’t really like me telling this story, but I tell it for a very good reason. When I first met him, we were only ever friends. For two years I didn’t think of him as a potential boyfriend/husband! The reason I like recounting this to people is simple. My “Mr. Right For Me” was IN FRONT OF MY EYES and I didn’t even know it! It just wasn’t the right time for me. It wasn't until I was 36 that we started dating.

I have a BEAUTIFUL girlfriend who is in her early 30’s, and is still single. She is attractive, beautiful on the inside, intelligent, funny and the most caring woman you could ever meet. Now the idea that she is being too fussy really irks me. Why the hell should we settle? I would rather be happy and single than be miserable and in the wrong relationship.

I have no doubt whatsoever that my girlfriend, and all the single ladies out there, will meet their "Mr. Right For Me". It’s just a matter of time.

It’s easy to say, but still hard to accept when you’re the one waiting for him. 

I spent an eternity kissing toads, but it was absolutely worth it for the Prince I have captured!

To discover why I love my husband, head to My Wedding Speech.

I don't want to be a mum, today...

I have almost reached breaking point. Please tell me you’ve been here before.

I love my son, dearly. I’m excited to wake up in the morning so I can gaze adoringly into his beautiful face, and to smell his sweet sleepy breath as he kisses me good morning.

However recently, I find myself feeling irritable. What has happened to me? Why aren’t I glowing with maternal love? Why don’t I think everything my son does is cute? Yesterday some good friends came over for lunch. They asked, “don’t you find it cute when your toddler follows you around the house?” and I retorted in an instant, “NO!”

Slightly negative perhaps?

Well I am human! Spending EVERY day with my son is starting to take its toll.

He spent nine months attached to me (well it was actually only eight, he arrived early), and for the last sixteen months I have not had a day away from him. Yes, my wonderful husband (and I must say wonderful, because he is still a little put out by my Six Secrets Your Husband Doesn't Want You To Know post), often looks after Max while I have a break, but these are hour long moments, possibly two or even three, but how I would KILL for a whole day where I don’t have to be a mum.

I often daydream about what it would be like to have a whole day off to myself, and what glorious things I would do.

I would wake up when I damn well wanted to, not when a little voice murmured from across a darkened hallway (mum, mum, mum, mum!). I would lazily slide out of bed and take pleasure in cooking breakfast, perhaps scrambled eggs on toast. Usually I have a small boy pulling at my pyjama bottoms so handling a hot frying pan is a tad hazardous.

I would go for a long run, take a refreshing shower, and then meander through town for a spot of shopping. I could try on clothes by myself! (Normally a whingeing toddler pulls open the curtain, revealing a mortified self in knickers and bra!)

Then the most anticipated moment; I would meet up with my girlfriends for some afternoon drinks in the sun. There would be no “witching hour(s)”; there would be no crying because dinner wasn’t cooking fast enough. It would be all about me, and no one else!

I realise when my husband and I decided to have kids we signed up for a lifetime of putting them first, but for just ONE DAY I would love to “call in sick” from my job as mum.

Alas, my wish has been granted! 

This Friday I am finally getting a ME day and I am SO EXCITED! I’m having lunch in town with my friend, then getting dressed up and watching Prince, my all time favourite artist, from the eleventh row! Then the next morning, my darling husband has booked me in for a hair appointment before I head home.

I'm sure I'll miss my little man though.

Do YOU need a day off too?

Coming face to face with my sponsor child!

Wednesday 28^th October 2009. I hesitantly board an Ethiopian Air flight from the capital, Addis Ababa, to the small town of Mekele. It was one of those flights that stop at various towns along its route, similar to a bus. I am the only person on the small aircraft to get off at this stop, so wouldn’t you know, I’m the only person in the airport!

As I pluck my lonely bag off the carousel I can’t be sure if what I’m feeling is doubt, excitement or a mish-mash of the two.

Of course, to compound my nervousness and anxiety of traveling alone, World Vision were NOT at the airport to greet me as was planned.

Standing outside the airport, alone, with no taxis, no buses, no other person in sight, I pull my trusty Blackberry from my bag and dial the hotel. Perhaps they could come and pick me up.

“I’m sorry Miss, but your reservation is for tomorrow. Unfortunately we do not have any rooms available for tonight.” Said the receptionist at the ONLY hotel in Mekele.

The tears start to trace their trail down my face. 

SHIT, SHIT, SHIT. What the f#*k do I do now?

After an emotion laden frantic call to my sister back home, fifteen minutes later a World Vision 4WD comes thundering up to the curb.

“I’m so sorry!” came the response from the burly man inside. “We had you down as coming tomorrow!” I secretly try to wipe away the tears so he cannot see I’ve been crying.

After the World Vision team works their magic to find me a room in the hotel, I try to fall asleep, giddy in the knowledge that I will be the first ever white person to visit the village of Samre, the home town of Dawit!

The next morning there were four of us in the four-wheeled drive. Melese, Kifewtou, Gideon and I. It is a beautiful day. I can smell the appetizing aroma of spiced meals being prepared through my open window as we pass small villages on the way to Samre. Women with corn rolls in their hair carry babies on their backs, children plough the fields whilst their fathers herd camels or cultivate the wheat.

I’m jolted around in my seat for an hour and a half as we drive over rocks that have fallen onto our dirt road. Although the landscape is harsh, it is beautiful and I feel transported to another time in history.

At last, as we round a bend, I glimpse a small town perched atop the crest of a mountain. “There is Samre,” says Melese, and my tummy fills with butterflies. Very soon I will meet Dawit.

 As we make our way through the small town of Samre, word spreads fast. There is a white woman driving through town! I can’t help but feel that perhaps they have been waiting for me as people line the streets to catch a glimpse.

The car slows down outside a small shack. It is a one room, mud brick house with a weather beaten tin roof. 

Instantly I recognize him (Dad, he IS real!).

I am invited inside where there are two small single beds to sleep a family of four. Borrowed chairs are tightly squeezed into the already cramped space and we are offered traditional Ethiopian coffee and warm bread, cooked on a spattering of twigs placed on the earth floor.

My visit is not what I expected. Dawit is so shy. His native language Tigrinian is translated into Ethiopian then to English, so conversation is very stilted.

After visiting Dawit’s school, it is time to say goodbye. I have traveled over continents and have taken five planes to get here, and it is over already. I don’t want to say goodbye.

But for now, I have to be content in the knowledge that I have met him, he IS real, I’ve seen what World Vision are working on in his village, and we’ll always have this moment.

We hug. 

Through language and cultural barriers, I know he is grateful for my journey, as I am grateful to have met him. This has changed my life.





To read about my other experiences in Africa, click here.