Last Friday night as we farewelled the beautiful Bob & Linda, another very dear friend – Lara – and I sat discussing what we wanted from life.

Both of us want to be famous.

The first time I told AB this – when he asked what I wanted to be in my life – he replied, ‘that’s so conceited’.

I am not kidding.

Seriously, everyone prior to that had just indulged my delusions of fame (and obviously associated wealth) and he was the first to make me question whether it was a noble gesture or not.

So you can imagine my relief on Friday night to find a friend of more than a decade has the same lofty ambitions. She of course writes for a national broadsheet so is in a much better position of achieving The Goal, but still, it was reassuring all the same.

Then we realised, it was not so much the concept of being famous, as in recognisable on the street, but of being ‘known’.

Today, I appeared in a full colour photo with Oscar in the Daily Telegraph that claims to have a million readers a day. The pic ran two thirds of the page’s length and the same of its width. The article was about Oscar and our need to raise almost $100,000 for the most important and remarkable service for special needs kids and their families. I’m – for once – not exaggerating to say the story filled two thirds of a right hand page.

Apart from a few factual errors that came about because Oscar was present for the interview and kept interrupting us, it is a really good story.

So I’m wondering why I feel so weird about it? That my thigh looks like a leg of mutton? That I don’t have a chin? That there are errors of fact? Or that I’m just unsatisfiable? As I’m now making words up, I figure its probably time for bed.

One Hundred

Wow. I think I should write something profound, but all I can think about is how we let number 69 slip by without a snigger.

Number 99

Hey Kim, over to you for the glory of our 100th post… I’ll do the 1000th.

The Evil Twin

They tell you, in the books and in the hospital and in the Multiple Birth Association coffee mornings, that there is no such thing as the Evil Twin and that it can do irreparable damage to label one twin ‘good’ and the other one ‘evil’.


Only one of our three children can look our Attack Cat in the eye and laugh in the face of danger.


Only one of our three children thinks it’s funny when her dad goes too far in throwing her up in the air and actually drops her.


Only one of our children can cackle in a style almost identical to the sound the Wicked Witch of the West makes when flying off after destroying all Dorothy’s hopes and threatening her little dog Toto.

She blacked her right eye three times before she was 2 and a half.

You get the idea? She loves heights, she adores being scared, she eats peanut butter with her fingers out of the jar (ok, lots of kids probably do this but she went for it like a monkey to nits when her big sister – the analytical one – would no sooner eat out of the jar than, well, do what the monkeys do to nits).

For the past week, whenever caught red-handed doing something unmistakeably wicked – like whacking her much larger and stronger twin brother over the head with a metal spoon – she has turned to the supervising adult, ignoring the howling victim, and yelled, “I didn’t!”

I have a very clear vision: if I’m lucky it will be 15 years away, if unlucky it will be 10…

Here I am, opening the front door at 2am, with my unrepentant younger daughter grinning at me, and I am saying:

“What did she do this time, Constable?”


ps – written after a particularly spectacular bedtime trauma with this littlest of the little ones tonight…
pps – …you know how all your kids have something special about them? Well this one doesn’t just glow, she sparkles; she’s 110% courage and I can hardly wait to see just audacious she becomes.

Ahh the good old days…

During our blissful Sunday which involved spontaneous park visits and MacDonalds, I referred to some time in my dark distant past to the boys. The-soon-to-be-Middle-Child asked “so Grampy was married to Grandmama?”.

This is always an interesting conversation.

Anyway, after reassuring him that yes Mummy and Daddy were married and no, neither of us had ever been married before, the following question filled the car like that weird expand-a-foam…

Felix: So Mummy, what if a boy wants to marry another boy or a girl wants to marry another girl.
Mummy: Well Felix, sometimes boys fall in love with boys and girls with girls, in a way like Mummy and Daddy love each other… (and so on and so forth.)

Seriously, what ever happened to the Mummy, why do spiders have eight legs? Mummy why is the sky blue? Mummy, why is my snot green?

I yearn for these questions.

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