Gabrielle Gassin

A mother’s musings on life

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  • some Favourite Foreign moments

    Some of my favourite moments from France thus far, that I have remembered on the spot. There are surely more, which from now on I will jot down so that I can re-tell. There are also some photos down the bottom, of various things both pertaining to this post and also unrelated.

    1. Shane, wanting to keep up his fitness, spent the first two weeks in Paris assaulting anything he could with exercise. The exposed beam holding up the building in our apartment was a chin up bar, the Nike shop floor was a push up arena whilst we awaited service – can you please take a moment to imagine this: me, being normal, in a store. I turn to say something to my husband and he’s banging out 30 pushups AT SPEED, whilst people continue their shopping around us. This happened again on the outdoor basketball court at Jardin de Luxembourg, where a group of teenage boys were shooting hoops. Suddenly, there’s this Australian weirdo doing pushups just off to the right whilst his wife pretends not to know him.
    2. Obviously, the duck incident in Paris.
    3. Shane holding Arlo over the toilet to do a pipi (boy style) and Arlo not telling him he actually needed to do a number 2 – so that ended up on the bathroom floor mat.
    4. Drinking a coffee at La Dolce Italia, speaking to the owner Karine, who called her Australian friend on the spot and with whom I spoke with and then met the following day. Eve introduced me to her two American friends, Audrey and Daria, and they were both a wealth of information and friendliness; I felt like I’d known them for yonks. Arlo and I ran into the latter two later that afternoon and he loved them both instantly, asking them if they were coming to the park with us and giving them each a “yuddle” before storming purposefully off up the street, stopping 15 metres away and calling out “au revoir” and “ByyyyyyE” multiple times as they both waved and did the same. Upon walking a little further, Arlo stopped, looked up at me and said, “friends gone,” whilst shrugging his shoulders, palms facing upwards. I’ll look for a photo of him doing this to add so you can see it in action.
    5. Having any sort of interaction with a French person who naturally assumes you know what they’re saying, until you actually don’t, and you give an unexpected response. You receive a priceless look of “…huh?” on the face which cannot be rectified, instead you cover the errors up with “bonne journée!” or “bon weekend” and “au revoir” and quickly scuttle away.
    6. Spending the extremely valuable afternoon time (after Arlo wakes up) looking for a circus for which Shane had spotted signs around town several days beforehand. With Shane and I being natural performers (lol) and each coming from families filled with talent, we feel a certain connection with such events and love attending them. We searched for this circus for what seemed like hours (it was definitely over one hour and under 1.5), asking for directions and driving through unknown villages and tiny streets, we saw the big top (medium sized). The gate was shut and there were llamas grazing about the place; it looked like nothing was happening. Then, Shane somehow summons a lady (from where she came, no idea) and she opens the gate and ushers us in, saying the show is about to finish. Instead of 5 euros each, she tells us we can pay 5 in total. We go through the flap and there are quite literally FOUR PEOPLE in the audience, seated on fold up chairs, dirt floor. The performer? A woman in her sixties all dolled up, upside down and balancing and throwing balls and cylindrical shaped thingies on her feet. It was absolutely very impressive! And she was in great shape! Her performance smile never faltered, despite there being almost nobody watching the show. Bittersweet – these people spend their lives practicing and performing, and even on a day when there are less than 10 in the audience, the show must go on. Kudos to them. Shane ends up paying the 10 euros after all, and Arlo gets his hands sniffed and snuffled by some very cute ponies (see previous post for photos).
    7. Walking through le marché and seeing that Shane had been granted the honour of a ginormous bird poo on the front of his black shirt. I have thought in depth about the size of that poo, and I honestly can’t think of what bird would have ejected it. A pigeon is only a small bird (although they are very puffy here, is it the winter feathers or are they overweight?) and the size of the poo is evidence of a larger type of flying species. This question of whodunit still plagues me today.
    8. Asking Arlo if he knows what my name is and him replying with “GABBY-GOO!!!” I die.
    9. Arlo walking past (any, random) children on the street and saying “friend?” As it would for most, this also breaks my heart and prompts me to reflect on the importance of children being around other children for healthy social and emotional development.
    10. Attempting to purchase a baguette (“tradition,” of course) and two croissants, but realising too late that I only had enough change for the baguette. I said I would gladly come back later for the croissants, but was urged to take the croissants, and bring the money back another day. What a gem of a woman!
    11. A lot of children (and adults, actually) ride scooters around cities here. In fact Arlo received one from the Easter Bunny, who found us in Chamonix this year. What luck! On occasion, we have walked and not scooted to the park, which means that obviously Arlo’s scooter hasn’t come with us. Arlo does this quite hilarious thing where he will be playing in the playground when a child with a scooter OR a bike enters and drops it, deserting it to scale the ladder instead. Arlo spots the abandoned two wheeler, renouncing his upward assault on the slide. He runs (fast) until he is close, then within a metre and half of the trotinette or velo, he moves more slowly, steadily breaching the periphery of safety and stepping inside the circle of another child’s possession. Then, he’ll do one of two things. Either he will patiently wait for one parent to notice him, whereby he will point at the object and say “this Arlo’s.” OR, he will go straight in for the kill and take it. Both are hilarious and test my skill as a parent in giving reason for why it’s not okay to take someone else’s belongings without asking. Once he rode another child’s little bike for 20 minutes straight before saying “I park it,” and backing away from it, eyes fixed incase of other predacious children. Photo attached of this in action.

    These are certainly not all of the moments, and there will be more; of this I am sure. Feel free to share your comments and thoughts : )

  • Growth in Motion

    Popular culture tells you that “change is good.” That the space in the midst of all the turbulence, is where “growth” is achieved. I’m here to say that something like that which Shane and I are doing looks peachy and idyllic on the outside, yet the legitimate truth of it is that it’s god darn hard. We had an inkling of this before we left Australia…friends and family naturally assumed we were excited and projected those feelings onto us. However we agreed in private that we both felt somewhat uneasy and not really excited to leave Perth, where our lives are well-balanced and sensible, where you can get to a yoga class at 6am, where you know you’ve got a comfortable night’s sleep ahead of you and you can read the ingredients on every packet in the supermarket. One solid discernment already; we are bloody lucky in Australia.

    Both of us have found ourselves in moments of quiet, (aka reflective stress when driving, lost, through long country backroads) wondering why we made a decision to take our beautiful, extremely easy lives – where the garbage truck always comes on a Friday, where fruit and vegetables are always cheap and where you can communicate with everybody, everywhere you go – and mess them up? So that we can grow, apparently. “The Obstacle is the Way,” as published by Ryan Holiday, seems poignant now; at a time when we feel like mostly everything is a hurdle. The title of that book has become a mantra to me over the last week, growing in strength like a heart filled with adrenaline. Though, if I’m honest, adrenaline is the last hormone I sense coursing through my body right now. What do I feel, is exhausted. And this is why.

    I speak some French, yes. But this means that once a French person realises this, they zoom off speaking at 150km an hour, assuming you can understand everything that’s flying out of their mouth. It is brain-draining work, trying to keep up, and then translating what I have understood to Shane and potentially re-translating any further questions back to the French person – what a mission. Official translators must need 10+ hours of sleep after each day of work! I always leave these such exchanges on a high; feeling more positive about my language comprehension than when I went in – definitely a plus, and what I’m here for, after all. This week we have spent hours traipsing around the streets of the city, going into real estate after real estate to try and convey our situation and obtain some help. Anyway that seems to be an ongoing operation that probably requires its own blog post. Needless to say, it can’t be done facilement. It’s weird. The French have some really strict rules about certain things, and they are too relaxed about others. For example, we were in a boulangerie a couple of days ago and there was a door to the WC in the main seating area. In this tiny toilet with one of those miniature hand washing sinks, a young lady was doing dishes from the kitchen. Yesterday we went into a little office to ask some questions and use their bathroom (we were stranded, having sprinted through the city, late, to a real estate agent waiting at the gate of an apartment that wasn’t even on the street that it was addressed as) ANYWAY their TOILET was in their KITCHEN. I know it was their kitchen because all their used coffee cups were in the sink, with cutlery and other kitchen-esk supplies. I wouldn’t consider myself fancy, but I deem that practise pretty gross. Flushing the toilet with an open lid (something I already find vom-worthy) with all your eating and drinking utensils right there!? Yuck!

    Moving on. What I have learnt about myself over the last couple of weeks.

    1. I am perhaps not as adaptable as I once thought, and I shamelessly and lovingly blame this on having a little tiny person to look out for. I have had some insight as to the reason that many people decide “not to travel” when they have children. “Do it before you settle down” is generally the advice. I now know why. Because it’s HARD. If becoming a parent did anything for me, it made me more organised. I consistently look for the easiest, most convenient and most time efficient way of doing things. (Is this what parenting is?) And when you’re travelling, ALARM BELL – this is actually not the idea! It’s all about exploring, enjoying the surrounds and basking in the various activities that enticed you to that spot in the first place. I touched on this in the Paris post – how my dreams of romantically enjoying a glass of wine in the alfresco dining whilst watching people go about their lives has been shattered by my reality, but also EVERYBODY SMOKES HERE so the alfresco is actually not ideal. So can you just take a moment to picture me, in active wear, which by the way, NOBODY WEARS HERE on a casual basis, but I have to, so that I can integrate exercise into looking after my child, which also means chasing him down busy streets and briskly but gently seizing him before he steps in front of a motorbike, all of which cannot possibly be done in jeans.

    2. I need nature, chocolate and wine. Cobbled streets are beautiful and antique and very bumpy underneath a stroller, and little boutique fromagerie, epicerie, chocolaterie and clothing stores are gorgeous, but they aren’t the right place for a child. So I suppose what I really mean by “I need nature” is actually “children need nature” and with my primary obligation being the safety, and healthy growth and development of Arlo, we’re always looking for patches of green to expose him to. I do believe that even us adults need nature. Getting grounded is real; that amazing feeling you get when you swim in the ocean or walk barefoot on soft grass…we all need the earth’s anti-inflammatory, healing powers. Unfortunately in a place thats coated in concrete, no matter the loveliness of a building or the pattern embedded in the marble, it’s not terra firma and you just don’t get it.

    3. I have realised that I’m not as exotic as (I) once perceived. It turns out that I like the routine I’ve establish at home over the last two years. I like knowing what to expect each day, what is manageable and achievable within a particular time frame and I like to know where I’m going. Again on the parenting – everything is done in sections based around the sleep of my child, which at home, is predictable and user friendly. I don’t actually like being caught out with a screaming, tired toddler, too far from home and with no croissants in sight, but having had to go to lengths to get him to the nearest park. Have I lost my ability to remain organised? Hmmm.

    I’ve learnt that I like the predictability and comfort that comes with routine. But, what I’m also realising, (in part as I write this piece over a three day period) is that maybe the reason we (humans) do things like this is because we innately know when things are too easy. Maybe it is so that we don’t grow old and grouchy, and become “set in our ways.” At this time in my life, I’m still malleable, and I’m seeing that movement to shift perspective is what might maintain that sense of youth, and to help me to become more grateful for what I already have.  If we hadn’t taken on this journey, I’ve no doubt that we would both still be “growing” in other ways, but that’s because of the type of people we are. Perhaps it would just be at a slower pace.

    As things start to settle, I begin to breathe normally again. Each day Arlo sleeps and eats a bit more consistently, and other little routines are re-established, which help to stabilise a somewhat unstable way of living. There seems to be a pattern; the start of a sojourn in one location is always tumultuous, but come day six or seven the storm eases and things don’t seem that bad. I hope that doesn’t sound ungrateful, it’s just that our lives are SO different now to what they were a few weeks ago and this adjustment period has been more difficult than anticipated.

    Although it doesn’t sound like it at this moment, I am content with being well and truly out of the zone where I feel most comfortable. Despite moments of utter (first world) despair, outbreaks of quiet tears and a wanting to just go home and resettle, secure and free from decision making and real responsibility, it’s becoming obvious that this trip was the right thing for me, personally. It’s thrown me the heck out of my comfort zone and into that wobbly, morphing space called GROWTH…which apparently, is not a bad thing after all.

  • On Chamonix et cetera.

    We’ve just finished a week in Chamonix Mont Blanc, popular for winter sports and an all around mountain and woods based good time. I’ll tell you something though… Vianne Rocher from Chocolat is absolutely a hoax, because there is no way a person can live in a place with that sort of supply of chocolate and macarons and be as skinny as she is in the film. I am in no doubt both le pain and le chocolat chaud are catching up on me – two weeks in Paris with a boulangerie at your literal doorstep followed by this, and it’s no real surprise. It’s still disconcerting though, when that moment you put on a pair of jeans and they (lol) break at the zipper happens, or your tights are just a bit too tight and you have to struggle between squatting and standing repeatedly, to get them on. Anyway I’m telling myself it’s a small price to pay for the delicacies relished over a three week period. I always fantasised about experiencing a small-town chocolaterie like the one in the film. The chocolat chaud made from real melted chocolate with fresh crême on top… all goodies made through the French door in the cave style kitchen; a huge batch of chocolate bubbling away in a large cauldron over a real fire, and all that. Justification shall always make one feel better, I suppose. Anyway on an unrelated note, I have been equally startled and bemused by how many times I have recently used a public toilet and been forced to drip dry (for want of a better description, for the male readers.) At least five times over a one week period, with each time a toilet in a different area being used, I have realised too late that there is no papier. Coincidence I am sure, but baffling nonetheless.

    Chamonix was quite delightful, I must say. A little too touristy, exemplified by the haughty nature of some of the working people we encountered as well as the tendency by some to quickly continue an exchange in English, that had begun in French. It seems that a momentary pause to consider a choice could be mistaken as misunderstanding, thus prompting the language swap, and I found myself actually encouraging the French over the English – because that is one of the main reasons I am there. To speak French! What a revolutionary idea…to go to France and speak the language of the country. Just crazy. I do completely understand this propensity to switch to English, as many times I witnessed an English speaking person come into a shop without even attempting a bonjour. These people do not have my support at all. Imagine coming to Australia from a non-English speaking country and just outright speaking your own language…it seems disrespectful. I am certain it would be appreciated by the locals if you actually made some effort, as a foreigner.

    The chalets in the area are typical of the region, and generally nothing short of stunning. Huge timber structures built for holding masses of snow in the winter, some with stone roofing and all generally beautiful. I have been spending some of the period in which Arlo is asleep exploring the surrounds via foot, at a pace which could be considered by any seasoned runner as “slow.” I’ve seen some beautiful sites! In terms of exercise though, I was relatively stiff for about 48 hours after 3.5 days of snowboarding alongside Shane. Day three was the best; we went to Grand Montets – which we found out once we were there, is actually more popular for skiers. We discovered why upon our arrival at the top of one slope…I watched Shane (a seasoned snowboarder and generally agile sportsperson) slide down the first part on his butt with me calling out “BRAKE! BRAKE!” It was first thing in the morning and the sun hadn’t yet hit the snow, so it was like a concrete hill. When we tackled that one three more times later on, it became my favourite. The skiers had ripped it up a bit and the temperature had eased the cold hard ice. Overall I only had one hard fall on the way down at the end of the day – the type that makes you feel your brain move in your head (and no mum and dad, I wasn’t wearing a helmet. But I’m obviously fine…for now.) My untamed love for sliding down snow covered hills on a piece of laminated fibreglass stands unperturbed.

    Having been so close to Switzerland whilst in the French Alps, of course we indulged in a raclette feast. Our hosts had thankfully included a little raclette grill in the accomodation, so all we needed were our ingredients. Being a two year old, Arlo did not appreciate the effort or taste of anything involved in the meal. Never mind, his time will come.

    We have arrived at our next destination, Aix-En-Provence. It’s about half as noisy as Paris; I’ve only heard one siren since we arrived last night. We’re in a busy area with many winding, intricate streets jam packed with restaurants, bars, doggy poops (nobody cleans up after their dog in France) cafés, fountains, cobble stones, boulangerie and chocolaterie (someone help me). I’ve just been for my first run around the area and I really like the feel. There are lots of people around, despite the public holiday and many shops being closed. Our accomodation smells a bit gross and gets really stuffy if all the windows are shut, and it also needs a new floor and a fan in the bathroom. We had to rearrange the furniture to accomodate a toddler, but that may well be standard for every parent, everywhere she goes. Step one: where are the hazards!?

    One more thing – le pain et les croissants have been the best BY FAR in Paris. Undoubtedly. Flaky, crunchy and soft in all the right places. What is actually quite funny too, is how frequently I have seen people walking down the street munching on the much-coveted end of a baguette. It’s not a stereotype that French people eat bread. French people EAT BREAD. And I know why. Because it’s delicious, it doesn’t have as many preservatives (I know this because if you haven’t eaten it by the end of the day, it’s usually stale the next) and it goes with every meal. The French do lots of things differently to what we do in Australia, many of them better choices, in my opinion. I’ll touch on those next time.

    Ciao ciao : )

     

     

  • Realisations about Paris.

    Many stereotypes that typify Paris are not actually far from the truth. For example, there aren’t a whole load of smiles or greetings being shared; this perhaps being the reason a lot of people say that Paris is not a very friendly city. In the very touristy areas there are even fewer – I suppose the people working in these areas face the constant throng of foreigners, could that be why? In the streets people seem to generally be in a hurry – except on a Sunday. What bliss! Sunday truly must be the day of rest for Parisians. Most shops are closed and les gens move at a more leisurely pace, if they make it out of their apartment. Mid morning you’ve got young guys sitting on scooters in the street, tiny espresso cup in hand, helmet still on, chatting purposefully. Greetings are more willingly shared; it’s not a work day and there seems to be time for this small yet meaningful gesture. Come mid afternoon the small restaurants are filled with extended families sat at long tables, wine glasses bottomless and discussions heated. Back on the sixth floor you can actually hear that other people live in the building with you; conversation is fluid and unsuspended, eliciting the passion The French are famous for. Perhaps you pass another body in the stairwell – even an unsolicited greeting or a “bon dimanche” is uttered.

    A couple of things I’ve learnt after a week in Paris.

    We would find it extremely difficult living in an apartment, and I don’t know how parents with toddlers or more than one child do it. You simply can’t have days at home; you must go outside and allow your offspring fresh air and space; of which there is not exactly an abundance. Of course there are windows in the apartment, but of course they function with very little safety in mind and certainly no such thing as a fly screen, not least to keep the children in rather than the flies out. One must always be sure to be within arms reach if a window is open and a toddler is present, especially but not limited to, living on the sixth floor.

    There are definitely parks and open spaces around; the council have allowed for city living not to entirely be made of concrete. Walking distance and you’ll find water fountains with petits canards, gravel areas and grass and of course playgrounds. Mind the walk though; a child who is not used to being restrained on a footpath will not enjoy this new restriction on his freedom. Constantly hearing “please hold my hand” or “please hold the pram” or “you must get in the pram” certainly has its negatives, both on the parent and the child. I quite dislike being perpetually worried that my child is going to be taken out by a Vespa or frowned upon by a passerby for “getting in the way.”

    At two of the playgrounds we have visited, Arlo has been confronted three times – twice by another boy and once by a duck. The first time a bigger boy shook his finger in Arlo’s face at the same time as saying “non, non, non” as Arlo had harmlessly counted the little cars said boy had flung down the slide. The encounter actually frightened mon pauvre petit and he wanted to be picked up and held whilst he pointed out the boy to daddy. The second time involved physical contact; the other garçon poked Arlo in the clavicle and pushed him whilst also discouraging him to follow him and his peers up the ladder. Arlo, being a quick learner, simply pushed him back and then gave him a tiny little kick. I don’t condone violence by any means, but my son held his ground and I was pleased with that. This was followed by Arlo finding my eyes with his and having a giggle, and the other boy continuing to play, unharmed.

    The third encounter was as we sat on a bench seat and Arlo finished his croissant. A medium sized duck made a beeline for us from about 15 metres away, no doubt having seen the delicate golden flakes of pastry dropping to the floor. He wasn’t interested in crumbs, however. He came and stood directly in front of Arlo and eyed him suspiciously, neck craning upwards toward his single point of focus. All too quickly and all at once, Arlo offered(?) his croissant out to the predator, I foisted my hand between the two as with expert speed, duck lunged forward to grab the goods. This whole scene took about 2 seconds and in another 1.5, Arlo was standing up, climbing onto me and crying, in shock of course, by what had happened. Duck did not give up, though, and had to be “chou! chou!’d” away. This gave me a good opportunity to saddle my child into his pram and speedwalk back to the apartment, so no harm was done on any account. Be wary of Parisian ducks!

    In Paris, there truly are brasseries, boulangeries/patisseries, fromageries and boucheries on every second corner. In the brasseries you’ll find patrons at any time of the day, smoking cigarettes, talking animatedly and drinking coffee. I’ve had visions of becoming one of those patrons, minus the smokes and probably with a glass of wine, maybe gazing at La Tour Eiffel as the springtime sun gently kisses my hands and face. Well, I’ve got news for me. That sort of romantic idea can’t be realised unless my toddler is asleep in his pram or subdued in some other way – so I’ve accepted that I’ll just look at other people doing that as I chase my child down the street in exploration mode. I’m okay with this, because I chose to become a parent and a child is nothing short of a gift. 😀

    So there’s a little update on life in Paris for us, over the last week. We’ve spent an obtuse amount of time in our little apartment, being the sleep-police that Shane and I are, with a little boy who has travelled halfway across the world in 24 hours from warmth to cold, and is fighting a nasty cough. It isn’t bad though; it gives us a chance to reset each day. We go out in the morning to a park or playground or a tourist destination, then go home and eat some lunch, do some exercise, meditation or some journalling. We then have the afternoon at our mercy to get out and about again. The pram has been a blessing; I would highly recommend it for travellers with babies or toddlers. Note though, that it doesn’t fit through le métro barricades, and there are no lifts. So along with the six flights of stairs whenever we leave and return home, the metro stairs with pram and child overhead allow for the daily eating of fresh baguettes and croissants. AND, holy moly. The bread. In short, France gives a new meaning to “bread.” It even feels a bit disrespectful calling it that word. Du pain, rather. That, I shall talk about on my next update.

    Bonne journée à tous!

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  • an ode to mums –

    This is dedicated to full time mums/single mums/mums who have partners doing FIFO/mums with no family support/mums who are partnered with arse holes and all other mum-style caregivers, directed at anyone who underestimates the duties of the above.

    You think that because I spend time with my child, the days are easy and wonderful, and in every sense of the word wonderful, they really are. I am grateful that I get these extended moments, but I am acutely aware that they are punctuated with the woes of daily life. Such as:

    Getting the dirty washing on at the right time so that it’s ready to hang before the day gets away, stacking the dishwasher and unpacking it before the baby is asleep as the clang of plates is sure to wake him, cleaning up the kitchen, cleaning the floors, bringing in the washing, folded, making sure there is fresh food in the house for that day and more for later, making absolutely sure that our child’s breakfast is a nutritious, brain boosting meal that will not be refused, spoon tossed aside.

    Cleaning up the food he throws, the clothes he dirties and his hands and face whilst also being on high alert to give comfort at any moment and dropping what I’m doing when he holds up his little hand to take, whilst also basically following him around with a wet cloth and the vacuum so that our home does not turn into a hovel and also wiping his forever running nose with tissues that are soft enough not to graze it, and playing with him when he so requests whilst also making sure he has enough time playing independently.

    Cleaning dog poo from the garden whilst hanging out the washing and making sure he isn’t picking up said poo with a peg whilst also ensuring he doesn’t give the dogs internal bleeding with his foot and trying to teach him loving kindness for all animals at the same time, making sure he gets exactly the right amount of sunlight so that his melatonin production is on point and he can sleep well at night, being sensitive to long periods of sitting in a pram or trolley which lead to escapades around the supermarket which then prolong the trip to the shops by 30 minutes as he explores and restocks the shelves, trying to make sure dinner is ready at an early enough time that the family can eat together and the bedtime routine is not disrupted or delayed and the dinner is yet another original, delicious and healthy meal shared and loved by all, followed by bathing or showering him in water that is exactly the right temperature whilst also having remembered to boil the kettle so that the water is cooled and ready to make a bottle with for bedtime, whilst not even turning my head whilst he’s in the bath and too bad if you forgot the soap. The dirt under his fingernails from the pot plant he emptied earlier will stay another day.

    Ensuring the kitchen is clean for the 17th time in a day and the baby is in bed with no tears because if there are tears then what kind of day has he had to get him so upset? And then using up any “spare time” by tidying up incomplete remnants from the day and then showering and trying to remember if I had any goals of my own that need attention, because, personal growth.

    This is not in any way a complaint, nor is it in any way directed at my amazing husband. But, like most women in history I believe the duties of a mother are absolutely under appreciated and undervalued. This is a tiny snippet of a day, really, and it’s only with one toddler. It is time to honour mothers for every bit of work they do, and give them a break for sporting activewear. We need the Lycra to be able to move fast, to catch a child falling from a height, okay.

  • A ballad for dad.

    Second in line to the Gassin throne and best looking of them all,

    great at sports throughout his life until one day, a major fall.

    He’d come across the ocean seeking opportunity;

    but man did he get more than a fixer’s job for Audi.

    A talent on the guitar; one that still lives on,

    A shame he’s not still doing Yoplait – it’s French for mmm, yum!

    It was his skill at singing that brought him to his lady,

    though it took some real convincing, she finally said maybe.

    Just arrived from Greece, Deb was looking European,

    And seeking what she’d left over there – yes, Gilbere was steaming!

    His French accent irresistible, his hair a soft jet black,

    he swept her quickly off her feel and she’s not since then looked back.

    A job at Shell, the next big thing to help the couple by,

    Then one by one the children came and my, the time did fly.

    First Sasha, who was early and won’t let anyone forget that –

    She’s still at home, saving cash while working as a wharf rat.

    Gabrielle was next, a little surprise – that happened a bit too soon!

    She kept them up throughout the night, the naughty little moon.

    Then alas, the Golden Child, along came Perfect Blaise.

    Thank the gods, Gilbere then thought, and gave them lots of praise.

    A man who’s shouldered more than most, over these last years –

    The term Detective Sergeant doesn’t come without its tears.

    That’s the burden we slug our coppers

    Upon sending them out to work,

    They deal with more than we could ever know, and on top of that,

    The jerks!

    And to “bricoler” around the house is what Gilbere likes best,

    A man who’s extremely handy, to that I can attest.

    He’ll pot a tree or fix a lock or rip out a rose bush,

    As long as it’s followed up with some time spent on his toosh.

    The cheese and wine flow freely, when Gilbere is host,

    And if your red is as good as his, you’ll get a special toast.

    A kind hearted, selfless gentlemen; two of his major traits,

    And his devotion to his wife is definitely second to his mates.

    He’s the definition of “hero” from his kids, all three –

    But we really have to emphasise dad, no more sugar in your coffee!

    A husband, brother, father and friend, is what he is comprised of

    And any time you spend with him results in growing wiser.

    A grandpa now, how good is that, definitely your calling.

    The only downside to this fact is distance; it’s appalling!

    We love you dad, for all you’re worth, and then a whole lot more –

    If there was a competition, you are the winner, that’s for sure.

    As the years, they roll on by and your family grows,

    Our hearts are always open but we’ll keep you on your toes!

  • The Exclusive Club of Motherhood – dedicated to my mum.

    There is a certain sisterhood in motherhood that speaks to the heart of every mum. A connection that is formed at the moment of the birth of a first child which binds us forever together. It surfaces in the form of a smile at the park when the kids are happy playing, and again with the meeting of understanding eyes in the supermarket aisle when all hell breaks loose. It’s a quick chat with a stranger sharing advice that worked for her, or a salute of praise seeing the sleeping baby as you pass on the footpath. It’s one mother seeing another struggling with a new, crying baby, and not hesitating for a single second to go over and help her out. This is an unspoken bond that fuses one mother to another, age and cultural background inconsequential. An alliance that only the journey of pregnancy and the toil of labour to bring a child into the world can provide. Subscribers to this special group recognise each other on a broader stage than just everyday life, and can come to one another in times of need.

    My mother is the strongest figure in this sisterhood for me. With an endless trail of advice, the origin being life, she provides me with information I almost always use.  She’s our Resident Doctor, Investigator and Researcher On All Things In General, and she can whip up a delicious meal in no time, with no recipe.  Welcoming to all who cross her path, hospitable and accommodating at all times. There’s never a dull moment when she’s around; she comes armed with a story to tell or some advice to share, always for the benefit of someone else. A beacon of light over on the East Coast, she’s burning consistently…dependable, reliable, her counsel coveted.

    Joining the motherhood club has allowed me to develop this connection I speak of with my mum, and grateful doesn’t even begin to describe it. Without her as captain, our ship would surely sink.

    Happy Mother’s Day Deb, I love you immensely.

  • Is This You? A Millennial Rant.

    I believe that people who cut down trees are a certain type. The type who have no issue with using 20 plastic bags when they do their shopping. The type who eat meat for dinner nearly every night and their daily vegetable intake is in the frozen peas. A person who can end the life of a living thing is the same person who grunts as they lump their overweight body into the car, having forgotten that key to increasing life expectancy is exercise. This person drives to the shops that are under a kilometre away on a perfectly sunny day and when there is no rush, and their daily coffee is a huge, non-recyclable cup filled with an animal based milk that should really be in the mouth of its offspring.

    They might be the person who still hasn’t realised that smoking cigarettes exists for the benefit of major cooperations and no one else, and because they put their plastics in the recycling bin, they believe they are environmentally aware. This person might have a pet that doesn’t really get the attention it needs, and inside their house you won’t see any potted greenery. Their diet is based on the outdated food pyramid and the idea of a person being vegetarian is “rubbish.” This person is not open to learning; they did all of that at school and there’s no need for any more. They know all they need to know and that’s that, thank you very much.

    One of my new neighbours cut a giant gumtree down from her front yard this week. That tree was home to so many birds; particularly magpies and black cockatoos. Today my son pointed from our home as we watched the magpies bounce around on the dirt where that gumtree stood just a few days ago. The birds were no doubt pleased with all the upturned earth providing many worms, but also displeased and wondering where their nice tall dwelling had gone. Upon entering our street now, one has the awfully unobstructed view of a high voltage power line.

    The reason for the destruction of this life source remains that the gum leaves were too untidy on the neighbours driveway. It was going to be too much maintenance.The homeowner? A nice enough lady who certainly doesn’t fit all of the above criteria, however there is no doubt that a little more environmental awareness might have saved that tree, and hundreds of others like it. This is one of the reasons our society has huge planetary problems. People don’t care enough about what is happening to the living things around them…to the point that they are willing to destroy the very thing that is providing them with clean air to breathe; providing them with life itself.

    You see, making a difference is down to us. It’s the task of us “young people,” to be educated, and in turn educate our children. Kids are often a product of their parents; of their values and morals. It’s what we instill now that is going to make a difference to their future. Let’s heed Michael’s advice… “If you wanna make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and then make a change.”