My brother was a drug addict by the time he was thirteen.

It started with marajuana and escalated from there. His drug of choice was heroin but he was a poly drug binger and would take anything he could get his hands on.

Life was sometimes scary with a brother on drugs.

There was a time when I loved him. I was always scared of him but I loved him too and I think he loved me. If anyone teased me at school, he was my protector, even though he was two years younger than I and much smaller.

He was also the worst offender.

That’s how I know he loved me.

Sometimes, I thought I hated him. I didn’t though, I just hated what his drug use was doing to him, my mum, my family.

He was pretty violent, my brother. He hit me and threatened me with knives and threw things at me. He choked my mother until she passed out.

The police came often.

The worst time was at Christmas and my mother was at work.

They came with the dogs and searched the house. They pulled all the ornaments off the tree, pulled them apart, while my sister and I looked on, huddled together on the lounge.

They had no warrant and they had no right to be there because we were home alone until Mum finished up.

The whole neighbourhood came out to watch and nobody questioned them as they ripped our home apart looking for drugs because, by then, my brother  was a supplier.

They didn’t find anything.

He stole and manipulated  and hurt everyone who loved him, especially my mum.

Once he was ‘dumped’ on our lawn after overdosing, by some of his so called ‘mates’ in the early morning hours. My mother hauled him inside, kept him conscious, showered him, made him vomit up the crap he had taken.

She loved him but it was killing her, watching her boy self destruct.

He died when he was 17.

A doctor prescribed him a strong pain killer. He took every single one of the sixty tablets, crushed them, mixed them with water, drew it up into a syringe and injected it into his vein.

He was dead by morning.

It was declared an accident but to this day, I’m not sure.

He had been an addict for such a long time, he knew what he was doing.

My sister’s drug use was much quieter.

It effected her schooling and she didn’t finish year nine but it was in her adult life that it caused the most damage.

She brought two children into the world and chose drugs over them.

I will never understand.

My kids know all about their uncle and they have seen first hand the effects drugs have on families.

I still worry though, especially with the big boy. My sister watched as my mother tried to piece her life back together after Andrew died and yet she turned around and did the same thing. 

They say the ability to have addictive tendencies is genetic.

I only hope I’ve taught them well, on the cusp of high school and adolescence and the turbulence of self discovery.

Drugs ruin everything.

When Lily excuses herself to go to the bathroom at dinnertime and she can barely get the words out for all of the casserole she has crammed down the side of her mouth, I know exactly what she is going to do.

You do too.

She is going to spew that ‘hours over a hot stove’ meal right into the big white telephone.

“Helloooooo”.

I’m not an idiot.

I know the plan because

I used to do it too.

Now, Mum, I know you are reading this and I don’t want any comments from you,

M’kay?

I hear your distress at my failing to eat what you put in front of me.

I do.

Karma has bitten me on the bum seven fold, if you get what I mean.

For me, it was broad beans.

Ugh.

What is the deal with those things?

They taste like wood or something else that I can’t quite put my finger on because I don’t eat it on a regular basis…

Oh yeah, poo.

They taste like poo.

(Sorry to any BB lovers, or for that matter anyone, who might have a love for anything faecal).

They just don’t do anything for me.

So, the broad beans were flushed, often along with brussel sprouts.

This story is not about that though.

This is the tale of the ham steaks.

A story I told my kids in true mummy/child confidentiality, only to have it relayed straight back to the one person I never wanted to find out.

My mother.

It goes like this;

Tuesday night was bowling night and we were fed early. It was my mother’s one night to go out and get away from my father have some time out.

Every week we would have the same thing.

Ham steaks, pineapple, cheese and salad (or vegies in winter).

Tuesday night was Ham Steak Night.

Mum would serve us up and go for a shower, trusting us to eat our meals in doing so. You can imagine that after a while we got a bit sick of it (being kids and all and not stopping for one moment to think about anything other than ourselves).

During this period of our lives, we had acquired a red kelpie dog, who we had named Toffee. That dog was not meant for suburban life at all. In fact I’m not sure where she belonged because she was a tree climbing, fence jumping, runaway tear - arse of a dog, who was cunning in avoiding capture when she escaped the yard. She thought she was some kind of bird, I’m sure.

Always flying the coop.

She was, of course a working dog and would try to round us up, any chance she got, like sheep into a holding fence, ready for the dip. She could leap especially high and this was a great source of amusement to three children with a less than stellar childhood.

The dog was alwaysat our feet around dinner time and was a die hard carnivore, often stealing meat from preparatory areas before the cooking had begun.

So when we discovered that ham steaks made especially good frisbees, Toffee was there to play fetch.

Except she didn’t fetch…

and the ham steaks didn’t come back.

We would fling the round slabs of meat high into the air, often obtaining some mad spinning pizza action mid throw. Toffee would leap, her svelte, red body almost folding in two as she twisted and turned to snare the much desired lump of ham. She would seemingly inhale the steak just before the next was hurled.

Of course dinner was dutifully finished, not a trace of ham to be found and we were toted as angels for having eaten quickly and quietly…

and she never found out

until the traitors gave it away.

I’m thinking a little payback is in order… ham steaks, anyone?

We fails it (it is staying out of hospital).

 Yes, Ivy has returned to hospital today. Just in time for the long weekend. So it’s a good thing we didn’t make any plans.  Besides, the weather is lousy.

A lingering infection, unresponsive to oral antibiotics. Also murmurs of a new immunosuppressant drug to try … if we dare.

 Yet her spirit remains indomitable. As I arrived at her bedside from work this arvo, she looked up from her entertainment facilities; a big grin as she sees me, then holds up her cannulated, splinted and bandaged forearm for me to see and exclaims “It’s all better!”

 Tiff has taken the first bedside shift, leaving me free to heard the rest of the tribe home and into bed, before embarking on the evenings hectic blog maintenance schedule.

 And the latest telephone report from Tiff: As at 10pm, the weekend warrior doctors have arrived and are already cancelling and re-charting Ivy’s meds.

It goes like this:

Child sent to hospital at the end of the week. Majority of doctors (including ours) shoot through sometime late Thursday/early Friday to go skiing, hobby farming or whatever it is successful doctors do on weekends. Junior Registrar comes on duty. Reviews childs’ notes and test results. Proposes a reasonable sounding treatment plan for the next 12 hours. Runs it by their supervisor over the phone. Supervisor rejects plan and orders something completely different. Reg is embarased and unconvinced but has no option but to follow orders. If on-call senior attending even bothers to turn up to review the situation (never before 9am the next day), justifies their decision with a haughty lecture of my-gut-instinct-beats-scientific-process-any-day and other such FIGJAM puffery.

 Remarkable.

 Now, where’s my shotgun?

Sorry, I forget myself.

Sheesh, it’s not like we’re living in Bundy, is it?

-DBT.

I love my kids!

They rock and they totally made  my day, made everything okay, if just for a small moment in time. The belly laugh was SO needed.

After alot of worry and tears we settled on  a late lunch on the beach. We had a cake and we sang happy birthday to our angel boy.

It was sweet.

He made his presence felt with the very low fly over of the Westpac Helicopter, the very same that was supposed to chopper him out to Westmead on that fateful night. The sound of that helicopter always makes me shudder. ALWAYS. Apparently it’s all a part of this traumatic birth deal.

After lunch we had professional photos taken. A lovely, lovely photographer, Renee Moore, was patient enough to capture the Seven Little Australians. I can’t wait to see them. There were even some with David and I.

Wow! If you ever need a photographer, and you are in the Newcastle area, we can highly recommend her.

The evening sunset was glorious on the beach and the weather was beautiful. We let the kids go in the water for an evening swim and as I watched them together, I couldn’t help but feel melancholy, for the little guy who was missing and alot of love for the earth angels.

They have kept me going, kept me mindful that it’s not just me who is hurting.

They have lost too, a brother, parts of their childhood, parts of the old Mummy.

They keep me grounded. I am thankful for that and for them.

Ivy started the Dapsone today as well and so, I have just one ask for my angel boy tonight and I know it’s his birthday but if he could just grant me this wish…

Please watch over her. Please. And keep her safe.

Happy Birthday, gorgeous boy. I love you.

Stop laughing and stop saying I told you so.

When I was younger, I was a pretty mean camper. Could put up a bell tent in ten minutes, knew how to cook in a camp oven and made the best Mars Bar apple and damper. Rain did not phase me. I made the best Girl Guide envious. I was the poo.

20 years on and here I am in the rain,wishing for my home…or a nice dry resort room, with kids club and a cafe that sells anything that is not deep fried.I’m sure that the amount of money we spent on David’s behemoth tarp would have paid for at least one night, if not two in a nice hotel. I would happily forfeit on the third day of camping.
There are a few things I have learnt thus far about camping and my family whilst camping and the general camping population…here are ten to start with.
1. It is not acceptable to be an early rising family. 5:30am is not an okay time to get up, switch on lights, scream out for a shakey,cough, pass flatus, sneeze, breathe loudly. Don’t bother. If you do you will be on the outer of the camping community for good. No, there is no way back in. Once you break this rule, you will not be forgiven.

2. My family are the proverbial early risers. Can we go home yet?

3. Nine people in a tent does not work, no matter how my husband glorifies it. If he suggests just one tent again, he will be going camping on his own.

4. It is common and acceptable to wander around the campsite in your pyjamas (in their many forms) and not even get a second glance. Negligee? No problems. 20 year old stubbies that have an obvious hole in the crotch area? Even better. No shirt? No Bra? You’re In!

5. Also acceptable is stripping down in the shower block for the world to see.

6. There are many corners in a shower block for one to rock in when you have seen enough human flesh to make any porn film director blush. Trust me on that one.

7. When you go camping, expect it will rain. A lot. Even if the forecast is for sunshine. It will not be sunny.

8.Expect your husband to forget everything that will bring you any sort of comfort. Bacon? $2.90 Eggs? $4.50 An extra bottle of butane gas for the cooker, just in case you run out? PRICELESS!

9.Expect ‘kids club’ to include picking up your children in a brightly coloured box trailer, attached to a tractor. Expect it to circle the camp ground once. Expect that to take five minutes and accept that that is your kids club session complete.

10. Camping brings out the worst in your husband’s OCD. It means nothing for him to sweep the *&#$@% tarpaulin fifty zillion times in one MORNING. (Pity he can’t transfer that energy to the broom and the floor in our house. It would be spotless.

* Notice: David’s third and final guest blog post has been cancelled, due to comment induced hyper inflation of ego and due to the fact that he has been found guilty of bloggy incitement. Names of all traitors have been noted.*

I was certainly not attempting to rip off some slapstick comedian this morning when I crawled from the tent and stood up in such a way that the awning above me shifted and dumped half a galon of rainwater down the front of my t-shirt. noooo.

Stop laughing.

I WANTED to close said awning before going to bed last night, but Mrs Itstoohotinheredontyoudareclosethat wouldn’t have it.

Anyhoo, before I was allowed back into the tent to change my shirt, I had to make up two baby bottles for the morning rituals. No “shakey”, no entry. This was made quite clear not only to me, but to all campers within 60 metres of our location (2x toddler screaming range in the old language).

Sorry? Oh … about 5:30am.

No worries. Crank up the gas burner (more on that piece of technological convenience later). Heat some water in the billy. Scoop formula into bottle. Fill with warm water. Lather, rinse, repeat.

With the broodlings now calmed and suckling, time to continue assessment of the rain effects from the overnight deluge. Ten minutes and two more t-shirts later, the ropes and pegs were adjusted to my satisfaction.

One could be forgiven for assuming breakfast would be next on the agenda. Well, due to a slight planning oversight, we had no provisions at this time. Oh Sure, the intention to procure supplies was not remiss. However realisation that outside even mildly metropolitain areas, public holidays are so all encompassing, they even extend to retail, simply hadn’t registered.

So the phrase “…meh. Lets buy groceries when we get there.” can be added to the list of famous last words; whoever it is out there keeping a record of such things.

By the time we all dressed, visited the facilities, returned unsatisfied and marginally agitated to ask what the #%&* key code for the bathroom door is again, hurry back and gain access just in time and return with a more relaxed gait, It was close enough to a decent hour that we piled into the bus and headed for town.

Enough family members turned their noses up at the yellow arches, that we passed them by. (No, they’re only “golden” if you own them; to the rest of us, they’re just yellow).

So we rocked into Forster, looking for a breakfast joint, where 7:30am was on the right side of opening time. We were in luck and for the princely sum of $97, we were all fed. As Forrest says: That’s all I have to say about that.

The best part of half a day was then spent seeking retail therapy, along with most other people in the greater Forster area who appeared to go into some kind of post-holiday panic shopping frenzy, having been denied the opportunity for an excruciating 36 hour period prior to this bizarre phenomenon.

This was no country town kind of busy. This was quite obviously a tourist from Sydney mass group-think disaster. The local merchants performed admirably, but the car parking facilities were simply not up to the task. Don’t even LOOK like you are walking back to your car. Just don’t. Carpark pedestrian “stalking” is common in Sydney. Here today it was borderline foxhunt material.

But we survived and returned to camp with … provisions. Food, yes, but also warm clothing and a few … enhancements for our current accommodation. Many of the more experienced campers had large tarpaulins covering their tents, providing shelter from the elements. I for one am not too proud to rip off a good idea when I see one. So when no one was looking, I ducked into the local Bunnings hardware, and perused their selection of tarps.

Trying to guestimate the dimensions of our tent, I planned to find a tarp of the same length and a bit wider to give us a covered outside area for … doing stuff. In the end I really had no idea, so I based my decision primarily on price. I purchased an 8m x 6m behemouth. As an afterthought, I grabbed 4 adjustable metal poles to hold it up, along with some heavy duty guy ropes. A study in eternal optimism, I may be.

Back at camp, we were stowing our new gear, when the rain decided to ease lesurely back onto the scene. “Quick! Lets get the tarp up” I yelled. I ripped open the plastic bag and gave a corner each to Tiff and the kids. “Now pull it apart” I skilfully instructed them.

Wow, that’s big, I thought, as the sides went tight and the centre lifted off the ground, thanks to the recently employed tarp pulling labourers. I was starting to wonder if it would fit within our allotment of space, when one of the kids - I think it was Immy - observed “It’s still folded in half”. Tiffs already bug eyed look became comical as the tarp was further extended to it’s full dimensions.

Aparently, 8m x 6m is @*&%^#% huge, in the old language.

“No problem,” I squeaked. “Do you want the silver side up, or the green side?”

With only stares of incredularity in response, I made the executive decision to increase the planet’s albido ever so slightly and flipped it silver side up. “It’ll be cooler this way.” I said, basking in the ambiguity of my statement.

It turned out that the size was almost perfect. The excess length on one end became a handy privacy wall. The full width spanned our camp allotment almost exactly. Never mind that you can’t take 2 paces in any direction before tripping over one of many stabilising guy ropes.

It took all of two hours for Tiff to proclaim project “Swag to Circus tent” a success … and good thing it was her idea too.

What the? …

I don’t know if this is a long post by anyone’s standards, but in case you are wondering, no the phone was not the transcription vehicle of choice this time. Tiff still brought her laptop, with the intention of playing a DVD or two on it. Turns out that it has a buit in SD card reader, which is the same memory card that my phone uses. Type on laptop. Transfer via memory card to phone. Upload.

MS Notepad never felt so sophisticated as it does tonight.

Oh wait! the gas cooker. Yes. Aparently these new fangled compact burners are frowned upon by the traditional camping set, as they lug their 9kg gas bottles into position to feed their large camp stoves and BBQs. We’ve had this one for a while, used once or twice during blackouts, but this is it’s first camping trip. I made a point of carrying around our burner complete with it’s internal fuel supply one handed. It performed admirably through the day warming baby bottles and even pan frying a mess of gourmet, gluten free saussages for dinner. Later, with the cranky critters asleep and the other kids off at the camp dance, I put the billy on to make a well deserved cuppa for us grown ups.

It was about this time I learned of the typical endurance of the fuel cell in our burner.

“That’s OK”, Tiff called out, as the dark and stormy look intensified on my face. “It came with 3 more cans of gas. Where are they?” [pause] “… Dave?”

“I know EXACTLY where they are!” I quip. “But I’m NOT telling you!”

So we had … warm tea for supper.

Aparently I am going shopping again first thing.

Immy: “No, don’t do that Noah, that hurts Immy.”

Noah: ” No”

Immy: “I won’t play with you if you are going to do that”.

Noah: (increasingly angrier) “NO”!

Immy: “Oh well, I will just have to…”

Noah (interjecting and pointing to Immy) : “NO!! You in time out”!!!

Why do neighbours who are way past their prime, insist on having loud night sex with their harem of  locals, just outside our bedroom window? At 11:30 pm, no less. Hasn’t anyone heard of the ‘not after 11pm sex policy’ in the boonies? And do they care?

Why do children and husbands pick long trips down in the car to discuss sewerage trucks? Why are sewerage trucks called honey wagons and why is the connector tubing on the truck clear?

Did you know that when you do a spellcheck on email, it doesn’t recognise the word blog? It keeps telling me to change it to bog. David thinks my spellcheck is trying to tell me something! Hmmph!!!

Noah (sctatching vigorously): “I have fleas. I need a bath!”

  gotfleas.mp3   for those of you who want to hear the evidence. Oh and give it a minute, he needs time to warm up!

‘These balls are sticky’. (snigger, snigger, snigger).

‘My, those are big balls. It says your balls should be no bigger than golf ball size’.

‘Those are my balls! Don’t touch my balls!’ (Big twins enter into a Beavis and Butthead type chuckle)…

Heh

Heh Heh

Heh he heh

You said balls!

BALLS!

Hehe heh heh!

‘Wow! These balls have nuts in them.’ (Father falls to the floor in gaffaw, disbelieving that his ‘innocen’t almost 12 year olds could be so… worldly).

‘Mum, are you going to deep fry everyone’s balls?’ *giggle, snigger, snort*

‘Is that enough balls’?

‘You can never have enough balls’!

‘What is the difference between Italian balls and normal balls’?

‘Italian balls are spicy’.

I was talking about FOOD people, get your minds out of the gutter.

Food, I tell you.

**************************************

Ivy’s bottom blistered up over the weekend and on the Sunday we phoned the paed. He started to discuss logistics until we started asking questions.

Why did we need to do this again?

Would it definitely give us a diagnosis and would we be able to move forward after this?

When he couldn’t answer, David said that we did not want to go ahead with the biopsy and that we wanted another opinion with an immunologist.

We said we didn’t want to put her through more pain.

It was wrong.

Just to do it, so they could experiment on her body.

He reluctantly agreed.

Once upon a time there were two parents of many children, who finally grew a pair!

To be continued…

My Parents in Law came up to visit yesterday and made me feel as though I was a partially competent parent.

My children were all ecstatic to be spending time with them.

We had a roast lamb ( with gluten free gravy).

Ivy had her first (almost) solid poo since…well, I don’t remember really… September 07, I think.

I had  a private party because the toddlers didn’t understand why I was dancing around the house and the big kids thought I was gross and David thought that I had finally lost the plot, when I described, in intimate detail, the consistency of said poo. Either that or he thought I had a very sad life, such was his facial expression! Ok, so maybe it was a little sad and maybe I just didn’t care what anyone else thought, I was par - tay - ing baby! It was just one semi - solid poo amongst the sludge but, hey, it’s a start, wouldn’t you say?

David said I could use some of the fortnight’s income to start stacking up on Winter clothes for the children. Oh I do love me some clothes shopping! Especially for the toddlers.

Two gorgeous friends made my day! (Trish, Mary, please stand up and take a bow).

The bad;

Noah was briefly possessed by my father and proceeded to rant, rave and bark orders towards anyone who cared to walk in his general direction. When he was reprimanded, I’m sure I could hear him mutter under his breath.

Sleep is for the weak and obviously I am not considered weak enough yet.

Four out of my five asthmatics have acute asthma. Crazy, crazy weather that we are having at the moment.

The ugly;

Anyone remember this? The round about way that we had to get an appointment with the derm clinic that turned out to be this Friday coming and not last Friday because the paed was ‘misled’ by the dermatologist.

 *SIGH*

I love living in the boonies. (Sarcasm becomes no one, Tiff).

The dermatology clinic called last night (in the witching hour, of course) to ask us if we had made an appointment at all because Ivy’s name was not on the list! I explained that, yes, we had an appointment, that we had made it two weeks ago!

They proceeded to tell me that because we had no appointment and the dermatologist insisted on seeing us we would just have to come at 8:30 and wait until they could ’slot’ us in!

Despite the fact that we. did. make. an.  appointment!!!!!!

I was told that we should expect a long wait.

With two toddlers.

R  I  G  H  T.

Obviously, this lowly resident did not have children, nor did he have the experience of twin two year old toddlers, who wait for nothing.

Not even a hoity - toity -  la -  dee -  da dermatologist.

The question now is, do we go?

Ivy really needs a review of her medications but waiting around, possibly all day to see this guy who may or may not do that seems… just… dumb.

What would you do?