Another Year Bites The Dust

Down here in Christchurch, New Zealand (aka QuakeZone), 2011 has been unforgettable - and not in a good way.

Admittedly, that first big quake - the one that set off all the others - was in 2010. But this year we've had literally thousands of aftershocks (some, incredibly, more violent than the original earthquake). We've shovelled silt and patched up our homes and grieved for lives lost and kept going because, really, what else could we do?

Businesses closed, job lossed started, money got tight. We all learned what it means when your house is 'red-stickered' and your land won't be saved. We all thought long and hard about how much we wanted to live in Christchurch. Some of us upped and left. Some of us chose to stay. Some of us had no choice.

2011 also saw Mother Nature throw us the worst winter in years. Very pretty and all that, but this year? When half our city had lost their heating? Really?

And it wasn't just l'il ole New Zealand that suffered at the hands of Nature. This year, disaster has struck time and again all over the world. Have I just been more aware of it this year, or have we really suffered more than the usual dose of destruction and devastation?

There have been some high-notes as well this year (thinks... thinks some more... ) but, whatever they were, they've been pretty much drowned out by the lows.

I can't wait for 2011 to be over and another year started, a fresh start made.

As for New Year's resolutions (shudders), I don't usually make them but this year I've surprised myself by dreaming up a couple of possibilities. Of course, turning them into resolutions will jinx them, for sure!

What's your resolution for 2012? Do you have one? Quick! Tell me what it is. Maybe it's something I haven't thought of, something essential to a rich and enjoyable life, and I could sure do with that next year.

We Remember

It seems incredible to me that ten years has already passed since 9-11 stopped being my friend's birthday and became instead a symbol of terrorism.

Ten years since I woke to images so horrifying, so emotionally overwhelming that I struggled to comprehend them.

Ten years since I waited by the phone for news of our cousins, who were in transit to the States (from New Zealand). Ten years since I went into work, wondering how I could possibly answer the questions I knew my students would have. Ten years since I, thousands of miles away, felt rage and grief and fear and helplessness and could only imagine what those directly affected were going through.

The fallout from the Christchurch earthquakes (and ongoing aftershocks) over the past year has been enormous, and my life and attitudes to all sorts of things have changed as a result. But it's far easier for me to "normalise" or accept the havoc wreaked by Mother Nature than the deliberate destruction wreaked by people on other people.

So - yes. I remember. And I grieve for what we all lost on 9-11-01.

When you hear 9-11, what does it bring to mind for you?

Maggie's Attempt At The Good Life

We leapt at the chance. A week of The Good Life? Perfect! Fresh air, peace and quiet, and a brief escape from the lingering stresses of QuakeZone. Exactly what we needed.

Bursting with anticipation, we shoved a few clothes in a bag, grabbed the portacot, strapped in the kids, and headed for the wop-wops.

Our destination: Motukarara. (Try saying that after a couple of wines.) Far enough from town that we wouldn't hear the constant thrum of traffic, streetlights wouldn't mar our view of the Milky Way each night, and we'd feel the tranquillity seeping into our bones.

The daily trips into town were a drag - school runs twice a day (not to mention swimming lessons, soccer practice, and weekend soccer game), a couple of pre-school sessions, Beloved had to work in town, and I had several appointments that couldn't be missed. Aside from that, though, we had a fair taste of The Good Life. Here's how it panned out:

Day 0 - turn off TV, can't get it working again. Not a biggie for me - but major for the kids.
Day 1 - pre-dawn wake-up by three cats scratching furniture and demanding food. Hens produce very first egg, just in time for Master Seven to discover. This is indeed The Good Life. :)
Day 2 - Magnitude 5.3 earthquake at 3am. Kids upset. Rest of night a write-off.
Day 3 - OMG one dog looks dead! (False alarm. Whew.) Miss Nearly-Two locks herself in bathroom. (Not a false alarm.) Shrieking gale-force winds all night. Sleep impossible. Convinced roof will fly off. (It doesn't.)
Day 4 - Hint of cat pee in living room. Magpies attack one of their own in field. Shrieking gale-force winds all night again. Sleep deprivation takes its toll.
Day 5 - Tyre blowout. No cellphone reception. Master Seven waiting at school... and waiting... Screaming kid in back of car. The Good Life sucks.
Day 6 - No internet access. Feel like I've lost limb. Miss Nearly-Two poos on kitchen freaking floor.
Day 7 - Fantail flies into house (death omen according to Maori superstition). Fan-freaking-tastic. Chirps merrily, has to be shooed out. Miss Nearly-Two enchanted. I'm filled with dread. Fine. Take my damn internet access. Just keep my loved ones safe.

Conclusion: The Good Life is over-rated. Or maybe bad things just happen to me more than anyone else. What's your take on it?

QuakeZone

On Saturday 4th September 2010, at 4.36am, my partner and I woke to the biggest earthquake we've ever experienced. The pre-quake rumble was terrifying. Freight-train-through-your-lounge volume. Then the quake hit. Apparently it lasted forty seconds. To both of us it felt much, much longer. How to get to the kids in time? How to calm their terror, keep them safe? How to stay on our feet until we reached them?

Magnitude: 7.1 on the Richter scale. Depth: 10km (that's shallow!). Epicentre: 40km west of Christchurch. Effect on our beautiful city: devastation.

Miraculously, no lives were lost; the earthquake struck when Christchurch streets were at their quietest. The clean-up task will take months - possibly years. Many people have lost their homes, many have lost their livelihoods. But we still have each other. Thank God.

On TV, in the newspapers and online, new images and stories are emerging daily of the destruction that's been wreaked in a mere forty seconds. I'm struggling to comprehend it all. Twisted shop frontages, piles of rubble, torn buildings, silt and water where neither should be... it's unbelievable.  And the most unbelievable thing of all: our home is unscathed. A couple of breakages, a few doors that don't want to close... but seriously, it's so minimal it's almost embarrassing. How did this happen? How did our modest 1936 wooden house remain intact?

Five days on and the cracks are beginning to show. In me, not the house. To say I'm feeling fractious is an understatement. My nerves are completely shot! For how long will these freaking after-shocks assault us? For how long will any faint rumble have me freezing, then grabbing the kids and diving for doorjams?

You'll have to imagine the nervous responses - but for some idea of the way our week has gone in QuakeZone - check out www.christchurchquakemap.co.nz. (Thanks to Gracie for passing it on.) This simulation says it all.

Self-Cleaning Hair, Anyone?

I once heard that if you don't wash your hair it becomes self-cleaning in about four-to-six weeks. It sounded pretty good to me. Maybe I should try it some time.

The perfect opportunity arose when my partner and I embarked on a year's travel. Nobody would know me while my hair was at the manky stage. Perfect! We flew in to Malaysia and the experiment began. No more shampoo. Water only.

It wasn't easy. Hell, no. I'm a daily hair-washer. I went through Itchy-Scalp Syndrome and Lank-Hair Syndrome. Four weeks passed. We crossed the border into Thailand and my hair was in such a state it's a miracle they let me in. Clearly my hair was going to take six weeks. I braced myself for Heinous Fly-Trap Syndrome and What's-That-Smell Syndrome. Think of the end goal, I told myself, think of the end goal.

Then we met Jo, an Aussie hairdresser who thought it took a bit longer. A couple of months, maybe. Oh God. Two months? I hoped she was wrong. But after seven weeks I knew she was right, dammit. We parted ways, and I wondered if my hair had something to do with it. I mean, Jo's a professional. I bet she wanted to hold me down and wash my hair by force.

Eight weeks, and we crossed into Vietnam. Thank God nobody knew me. And was it just me or was my partner more distant with me these days? We met up with Aussie Jo again and she couldn't believe it - a) that my hair still wasn't self-cleaning, and b) that I still hadn't washed it. It'll work soon, she assured me. Maybe it's, like, three months instead of two?

I didn't want to give up. Not when I was so close. So I tried to hide my hideous mop beneath my cap and re-set my goalposts to twelve weeks.

At the twelve-week mark we flew to Scotland. That's when Scared-To-Be-Seen-In-Public Syndrome hit. We were staying with family, visiting friends. These people knew me and loved me and couldn't hide their distaste. I felt like a freak.

At thirteen weeks I gave up. I washed my hair. It took three washes before my hair even felt like hair. It took a week before I felt normal. My experiment failed.

But what if it would've only taken another few days, another week? I came so very, very close. And I'll never know because I gave up. I still can't believe I put up with smelly, ugly, disgusting hair for thirteen weeks. Would you?

Non-writers must struggle to comprehend why writers keep trying for that pot of publication gold. It's crazy, but it's a bit like my hair experiment. I know the sensible thing would be to give up - but what if I'm really really close and I just don't know it? What if I only have to get through one more week of manky hair? What if?

Tropical Paradise Holiday

So off we went. Our first tropical holiday in years. Our first ever as a family of four.

We coped with the 5am start. We mostly coped with the first six hours of our seven-and-a-half hour journey, thanks to drugs (for the baby, not us), an in-flight bassinette, and individual in-flight screens which Master Six loved.

Then the baby woke.

If you're a parent, imagine your child at their very worst. Then imagine holding them in your lap while they do it. For an hour, maybe more.

Okay, we won't talk about that.

Our destination was indeed a tropical paradise, with fancy-wancy five-star hotel and super-friendly staff. None of which made any difference when Baby decided she wouldn't sleep anywhere except her own cot back in Christchurch.

We soothed her. We ignored her. We tried feeding her up. We fed her so much she should've doubled her body weight. She should've slept like a… well, a baby.

She didn't. She woke every two hours, all night. EVERY night. For TEN NIGHTS. We ignored her some more. We decided the neighbours would kill her (or us). We ssshed her until we couldn't dredge up another bloody sssh.

Sleep deprivation is a horrible thing. It takes away the sparkle in your eyes, the glow in your skin and, ultimately, your will to live.

Master Six had a fantastic holiday. Why? Because, God knows how, he slept through our nightly hell, woke refreshed each morning and had a great time at Kids' Club.

Myself and my beloved? We paid somewhere in excess of $NZ6000 to lose the will to live. Then flew back without the luxury of baby bassinette. (It went to some tiny days-old scrap of baby who couldn't even roll, let alone create havoc.) We arrived home with bad necks, bad backs, bad moods and a baby who had decided life worked pretty well at two-hour intervals.

The moral of the story: just don't bother. Wait until your kids are five. Better still, make them save for their own damn holiday. In the interim, buy a bottle of non-duty-free, set up a deckchair in the lounge, and drink yourself silly so you don't feel the chill when you strip down to your swimwear.

Think You're In Control?

Think again. We all have days that remind us we're not Queen of the chessboard. Days when we feel like we've been backed into a corner, we're about to be taken off the board, and we don't know quite how it happened.

Take Wednesday, for example. My "post-the-Clendon-entry" day. I'm not likely to forget it any time soon. Here's how it went:
* 1.30am (Tuesday night) - got to bed after finishing the novel.
* 3.00am - woken by baby for a feed.
* 6.30am - woken by baby again. Gave up, got up. Sleep is optional, right?
* 8.30am - did the school run. No parking space. Gnashed teeth, grew horns. Still no parking space. Evicted tearful first-born from car to make own way into school. Guilty Mother syndrome.
* 9.30am - began formatting manuscript. Discovered weird paragraph spacing issue. Attempted to solve. Failed. E-mailed Clendon coordinator. Decided weird PS cute. Finished formatting.
* 11.00am - received e-mail from Clendon coordinator. Stop, she said. Go back to the start, she said. It must have this first little step, she said. Gnashed teeth, grew horns.
* 11.30am - reformatted entire manuscript. Baby in search-and-destroy mode.
* 12.30pm - began printing manuscript. Got to page eight (of 318). Out of toner. OUT OF FREAKING TONER????? Are you KIDDING me??????? Shook toner. Vigorously. Ditto printer. Gnashed teeth, grew horns. Still no toner. Braved midday heat and bought more blasted toner.
* 1.30pm - completed printing.
* 2.00pm - braved heatwave once more to buy packaging for manuscript.
* 2.45pm -collected first-born from school. Grumpy kids. Grumpy mother.
* 5.00pm - partner home. Hooray! Shot out in peak-hour traffic to courier. Lost mailing address. Gnashed teeth, grew horns. Miracle: found mailing address. Addressed package, sealed package. Discovered entry form OUTSIDE package. Decided I was OVER today. Gnashed teeth, grew horns, became screaming, wailing, hissy-fit monster. Beautiful, young, unruffled, disbelieving rep blinked at me, slapped packing slip on package, stuffed entry form inside. Oh. Right. Silly me.

Please tell me I'm not the only one to have days like this!

Hints For Campers With Kids

1   DON'T be casual about departure time. Packing ALWAYS expands to take up all available time + twenty percent.
2   DON'T assume thick black clouds on horizon won't come your way. They will. Thick black clouds = rain. Rain = misery for five-year-old over-excited campers.
3   DON'T assume swiftly-moving thick black clouds will bypass campsite. They won't. They'll just arrive fast. Swiftly-moving thick black clouds = wind + rain. Wind + rain = bad news if erecting tent and minding over-excited five-year-old and fretful baby simultaneously.
4   DON'T take mobile phone with only one blip of battery left. It won't last the day, let alone the trip.
5   DON'T believe you'll survive without your mobile phone. You won't. You're addicted and needy, just like all those pesky Generation whatever-they-are's.
6   DON'T use five-year-old son's new Transformer mug as handy vessel to transport hot water in. So what if it's handy? It's a TRANSFORMER mug = magnet to son.
7   DON'T forget location of nearest cold water supply. IF son burns himself you need readily available cold water. Especially if it's your fault (see 6 above).
8   DON'T assume you'll sleep longer than 40 minutes in one stretch during night; not if you have six-month-old baby with you, anyway.
9   DON'T believe (even for a moment) that baby needs to adjust to your life. Forget  articles and expert opinions. Baby doesn't need, or want, to go camping. Baby doesn't need, or want, to sleep in portacot or tent, to play on hard ground, to amuse herself, to enjoy outdoors or experience weather extremes. Baby doesn't enjoy sand or grass. Baby doesn't enjoy camping. Get it?
10  DON'T expect five-year-old son to eat anything cooked over camping stove. Five-year-old son doesn't like change. He doesn't like charred, or even mildly-blackened, potatoes or sausages. He doesn't like anything that looks different. He doesn't want to expand his food repertoire. He doesn't intend to be less fussy just because he's camping. Son would rather starve.
11  DON'T decide starvation is fitting punishment for son. Son disagrees. And soon, when son's blood-sugar levels get low enough, you will observe carnage and also disagree.
12  DON'T conclude camping is bad idea. Kids will look back on these days with fondness. You will recall sleep deprivation and hard work. Kids will recall endless summer days of trampolining, cycling and playing with friends, long evenings spent playing instead of sleeping, long nights feeling cosy in tent as wind whipped through trees outside.

Oh, the joys of camping!