smile and wave boys, smile and wave

Well last week was quite a week. The media storm following dinner with the PM was quite something. Is there really that much anger and hate in people over something so inane? Really?

It occurred to me that perhaps more people would be swinging by for a look see so if you have, hi!

Of course, the next thought in my head after “smile and wave boys, smile and wave” was don’t fuck it up. I mean, it’d be nice if you did swing by that you’d like to come back again.

So naturally I have the most spectacular case of performance anxiety. In fact, my inability to think of anything erudite to write has only been outdone by my ability to scoff hot cross buns with lashings of butter as compensation. What, it’s a symbiotic relationship. Clearly.

My brain is now in that awkward place normally reserved for parties at which you know no one and join a conversation just as it ends and a painful silence ensures. Just.say.something.

Behold a bigger crisis than a busted back:


broken stove The oven door has been “clicking” when it opens for a few weeks. I totally busted it on Sunday night and then broke it some more on Monday night just for good measure.

Someone’s getting pretty plum tuckered with this five days a week of school:


Felix has confirmed that playing rugby professionally is something he wants to do. He’s also mentioned heart surgeon so you know, he’s keeping his options open. This announcement and wanting to play rep footy means I now have somewhere to unleash the Show Mum in me. Part 1 of this involved this:

rugby trainingOh yes I did. Chef and I attended a 3.5hr evening learning the ins and outs of being an assistant referee (an AR if you don’t mind) for rugby union.

Safe to say, I will never EVER be an AR. Not without at least 20mg of valium under my belt.

God FORBID if I had to try and comprehend whether a ball was “in touch” when the player was in the air/on the field/off the field/in the dressing room/running straight for me while the ball was moving/not moving/had touched someone or someTHING.

OR grasp what constitutes foul play (note for fellow rugby lovers – rucking, you know, where you ram your studs into an opponent, is TOTALLY legal so long as you are clearly looking to “progress the ball”. Stomping however is not. So get your leg action right to get away with it.) AND how to report it to the referee.

Seriously, I’d be lying down playing dead within ten minutes of the first whistle if I had to fulfil AR duties. That or yelling at the crowd for someone to find an adult.

Do NOT get me started on the arm gestures or USE OF A FLAG.

Apart from the stress of it, I now proudly own my limitations and well, give me a list of rules and I will implement them to the letter. Handy if the world’s ending and we need to keep order for the survivors camp upstate but probably not ideal in a game where the whole purpose is to keep the ball in play.

This tendency to love a rule and carry it out no.matter.what was no better illustrated than my role as a School Monitress and then as a Prefect. Yes, I capped those two titles. I attended an exclusive private girls school in Sydney and would, by today’s funding model, be the aberration that allows an exclusive private girls school on many many acres on Sydney’s Leafy North Shore to claim it was educating children from family’s suffering financial hardship. That’s right, my presence at that school was doing them a favour and I said thank you by carrying out the rules to.the.letter. Let’s just say part of the school uniform was wearing a hat and well, if you didn’t have that hat on I would write you a blue slip quicker than you could say what a dork. No matter your year or social standing. I was stupid dedicated ruthless.

So yeah. I have realised my limitations and accepted my ideal role is that of Field Marshall.



I just ate an entire packet of SAOs with butter and vegemite in the space of two days. Note to self: do not buy what you can not control.



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  • This time of year (before career change) often found me with a box of egg & onion matzoh and a tub of margarine, accompanied by (of all things) chocolate milk, I could go through three sheets a day.
    (Margarine does not live in our house and was my late father’s influence.)

  • Linda Christensen

    all you really need to know about being a rugby parent is “the chant” which goes… push ’em back! push ’em back! WAAAAAAAY back! repeat several times.

    And thanks to the likes of you I was so traumatized by the number of afternoon detentions I received for not wearing my bloody hat at school that I have not worn a hat since I left school.

    (Good to see you back in this space – take care)


  • Denyse

    Real Butter & Vegemite on Saos…. Am such a visual eater… Will buy, of course!
    The oven door. Oh noes. Love the pic. Sorry Kim.
    As for the rugby.. Don’t you know Rugby players also go to Sydney Uni (go Uni!) and become heart surgeons? It’s a fact.
    Look at the union players who became doctors – ill just be back wheni remember their names!!

  • paola

    I cannot get Vegemite. Sorry, I can’t. It’s … weird!
    Yeah, that’s all that stuck once I read it …

    • I truly believe it’s one of those things that if it hasn’t been a part of your diet pre 5 years old then it’s a foodstuff lost to you. That said, none of my boys really like it. Total parenting fail.

      • trash

        Both my kids like it. Parenting win from the other side of the planet. Booyah!

  • Emmasbrain

    I was a ref for one whole half of a game of under 8’s soccer a few years ago, I was dead keen and all like, I know the rules, this will be easy!
    It wasn’t. It was very difficult to keep track of who’s shinpad the ball bounced out off, with all those little feet hacking away..and don’t get me started on the parents if I got it wrong.
    ONE HALF I lasted. & never again will I even speak of it, such was the trauma.

    • Dear GOD that is what would happen to me. And that was U8s! Imagine trying to do it for the U13s As! I’m a mess just imagining it.

  • try them with that whipped peanut butter.

    Oh. Mah. Gah.

    • I’ve banned myself from buying that whipped peanut butter. As I now have from buying SAOs.

  • Is your life ever boring Kim? From flat on your back in agony to centre of a storm with the Prime Minister in a the space of a month or so. Now an oven debacle. What will you do for an encore? Or are you going to have a good lie down for another little while to recover?

    • I do seem to pack it in don’t I? There have been a number of substantial naps of late though so you know, I figure it all balances out in the end.