family matters

laughing matters

How funny is Where’s Pingu?

Psycho closet lesbians, meat trays, clubs, hookers and words that no one really understands. Now that’s the stuff I want to read.

And it makes me feel better that I’m not the only one laying themselves bare.

generational pull

My mother turned 60 last week. If she were a man I’m sure she would be driving around in a BMW Z4 with personalised number plates. But as she has little interest in any car that’s not her beaten but beloved 1993 Saab, she has instead fixated herself on appliances.

The phenomenon is not exactly new. For as long as I can remember Mum has been upgrading televisions, cameras, mobile phones and computers. To be fair, the habit was formed out of necessity. Newly divorced and with three teenagers, Mum depended on bottom-of-the-range or hand-me-down appliances for most of the 90s. And because she worked full-time as a high school music teacher, taught private school lessons from home and juggled the various crises of three angsty teenagers, there was no time to spend fixing things. Nor was there a husband to play handyman. It was not uncommon to find the VCR at the door before bin night and Mum swearing it was broken, only to discover that it just needed its heads cleaned. And things took a battering in our house. Like that time that Mum threw the portable phone at Louise’s head. Louise ducked and it smashed straight through the window. Enter a crappy replacement from Wools on the next shopping trip.

Now, with the struggles of the past behind her, Mum has simply become a technology junkie. My friends all think it’s pretty cool that my mother sends me pictures of the cats from her Blackberry and is available on email 24/7. Little do they know that the Blackberry set-up was a week-long process that involved phonecalls to all daughters and countless service calls to her provider. Or that she actually couldn’t access the SIM card until I asked her whether she’d tried using the same PIN she was using on her previous phone, seeing as it was the same card.

Don’t get me wrong - it’s great to see the baby boomer generation embracing technology. In the last year Mum has purchased a DVD recorder, ipod, two LCD flat screen TVs, the Blackberry, a new laptop, blue tooth and two Foxtel boxes. The problem is, Mum is not a very patient person and technology takes patience, particularly when it’s not a natural skill. Or you need to be prepared to accept assistance, which takes time. There have been times when she has thrown down the remote in frustration, or when we’ve almost had a repeat of the 1994 phone-through-window incident. On more than one occasion I have had to wrestle the phone from her while she’s been shouting at some poor Optus Customer Service representative who has dared to say he must transfer her to another department. And when her Dell laptop was playing up a couple of years ago, Dell eventually sent a technician from Indonesia, no doubt to shut her up.

So what did we get her for her 60th? A digital photo frame of course. And a promise to help her set it up, on the condition she never rings the manufacturer.

great ambitions

In the past week and half, we have watched countries from all over the world unite to compete. The triumphs, trials and tribulations of the Beijing Olympic athletes inspires one to think about their journey to the ultimate international sporting platform. There are a lot of proud mums and dads out there right now.

It was a great day for Australia when Sally McLellan won silver in the women’s 100-metre hurdles. She was completely overwhelmed in her post-race interview and even asked the journalist, “is this really happening?” It was touching to see her so elated and genuinely humbled by the sucess. McLellan then went on to thank her mother, who had raised her single-handedly and nurtured her talent. McLellan spoke about what a relief it was for them both when the financial burden was lifted by sponsorship. One can only imagine the sacrifices McLellan’s mother, and the family, had to make along the way.

For other parents, the disappointment has been too much. Father and coach of American gymnast Nastia Liukin has publicly opposed the judges’ grading of his daughter in the uneven bars final. After reaching a tie-break with Chinese gymnast He Kexin, Kexin went on to collect gold while Liukin was bumped to second place by the complicated tie-break scoring system. Valeri Liukin has blamed bias of Australian judge Helen Colagiuri for the result.

Truth and accusation aside, what does Mr Liukin’s behaviour project for his daughter? A silver medal is an outstanding effort for anyone, let alone a young girl performing under the pressures of an Olympic tournament. Nastia is taking home five medals, more medals than any other Olympic competitor, including her father who won four gymnastic medals at the Seoul 1988 Olympics. 

Mr Liukin has not only shown himself to be a bad loser, but he has tainted his daughter’s brand. The publicity and controversy surrounding this event has detracted from its greatness and, worse still, Nastia Liukin will now be remembered as that girl with the pushy father. Nastia herself accepted her defeat graciously, as reported by Stephen Hutcheon on smh.com.au 

“You do your performance and you end and then you turn it over to someone else’s hands. We’ve gotten used to that and we just have to accept that,” she said.

While a parent’s role is to nurture and support, there is a point beyond which every parent must take a step back. I’m sure Mr Liukin’s actions come from a place of love, but how quickly love gives way to ones own agenda when competition and success are at play.

kids behaving badly

What is it with these celebrity kids proudly disgracing themselves in public? It all started when socialite heirs Paris and Nicky Hilton painted various towns different shades of red with accomplice Nicole Richie. Then the limelight shifted to Obsorne kids, Jack and Kelly, and singer Lily Allen. Now every time I open a trashy magazine or log onto ninemsn, I am confronted with those wayward Geldof girls: particularly Pixie, 17 (and yet to get her own wiki page), and Peaches, 18.

It is expected that the Osbournes and the Geldof kids act up. The experimental tendencies of youth combined with a strong lineage of serious trashbag behaviour does not an angel make. But it seems the Geldof kids’ main ambition in life is to be photographed doing shameful things at well-publicised events, and to deliberately follow the same vein as their mother Paula Yates (no pun intended). At least Paris Hilton pretends to act, sing, write and makes other gratuitous attempts at talent.

Do you think that Paula would have wanted her kids to follow in her footsteps given that it didn’t exactly end well for her? Or that Bob Geldof might desire a different fate for Pixie and Peaches? And wouldn’t you assume that Ozzy might want more for his kids than a life riddled with drugs and their related problems?

This week, we are told, Pixie (who is still at school) and Peaches partied every night. Individually or together, they were refused entry into a club or two, picked a brawl in a convenience store, climbed a fence, and were repeatedly photographed off their faces and with ciggies dangling from their mouths (thislondon.co.uk).

Famous or not, my mother would have banged Louise’s and my heads together. Our whole lives have been centered around Mum NOT finding out about our antics. There have been a few indescretions obviously, but none quite as bad as the night Mum let us loose in New York on my 26th birthday while she went off to the opera. Countless cocktails, one vomited-on cab and two vomited-on daughters later, we dared venture back to the hotel room. Years later, it remains a black day in our family history.

So why is it that these celebrity kids seem to get away with it? Perhaps their parents think that kind of behaviour is normal because it was normal for them. Or maybe it’s just that they are not really parent material. I believe I had the potential for complete craziness. But the overriding terror I had for my mother kept these tendencies at bay. Or at least behind closed doors.

not by choice

Michael Franti, American poet, composer and musician, sings in one of his ballads*:

“Don’t fear your family, because you chose them a long time before your birth.” 

There are a couple of things wrong with this line. First, anyone who says ‘don’t fear your family’ has obviously not met my mother or my uncle Bill. Second, if I had been afforded the privilege of choosing my relatives before birth I might have thought twice about opting for a father who is now estranged and a sister who can be my best friend one minute and my worst enemy the next. I am sure they feel the same way about me.

Just because you are related to somebody, it doesn’t always mean you like them. In fact, almost everyone I know has someone in either their immediate or extended family who they don’t really like. Don’t get me wrong, of course everyone loves their family. But if not for a blood or marital bond are they the sort of people we’d keep as mates?

One of my friends, let’s call her Mary-Kate, has had a tumultuous relationship with her sister, aka Ashley, their whole lives. For the years we’ve known each other, Mary-Kate’s relationship with Ashley has paralleled my relationship with Louise in its highs and lows. Consequently, Mary-Kate and I have forged an empathetic understanding of all things sisterly.

However, in the last 18 months things have taken a turn for the worse for Mary-Kate and Ashley. While Louise and I have managed to realign ourselves even after an historical derailing mid-year, Mary-Kate and Ashley just cannot get back on track. Relationships are about compromise, so what happens when neither party can grasp the other’s needs? A husband and wife might divorce. A friendship would fade.

As with anything, it’s about managing expectations. And boundaries. The reality is, you are stuck with your family for the rest of your life. And, let’s face it, no one really knows how long that is going to be. When it comes to family, it’s a fine line between sanity and regret. And it’s one we all tread.

*unfortunately I can’t tell you the name of the song as it’s on a cd without track names. I can tell you this guy rocks.

the Oscars

No one does drama quite like my family. Now, I know family drama is not a unique concept but we really take the cake when we get going. And 2008 has been quite the performance.

It started with a bang when my younger sister, Louise, announced her move back into the family home with me and Mum. (I had moved back in April 07 and had been stuck in reverse ever since.) In March my older sister, Sarah, announced her pregnancy with their fourth child under five years old. In May Louise and I had the biggest fight we’ve ever had, resulting in us both moving out and not speaking for two months. In June my beloved pussycat had to be put down, following thousands of dollars on specialist appointments, cat scans (ba-boom-ching) and emotional trauma all round. And a few days before this event Mum came up in a painful and strange rash, which she correctly self-diagnosed as shingles.

But I think the 2008 Oscar goes to Sarah who, seven months pregnant and mother to three lively boys, stacked it and broke her ankle. It was an extravaganza that began with a slippery schoolyard path and ended in a contortion that broke the fall of her pregnant belly and 17-kilogram toddler propped on it at the time. We are an exceptionally uncoordinated lot, thanks to a genetic clumsiness and habit of doing a million things at once, so the phone call wasn’t a great surprise. The news she’d left her oldest son’s school and driven the other two to kindy while incapacitated and in excruciating pain wasn’t a great surprise either. What was slightly daunting to everyone, not least Sarah, was that she’d managed to do all this seven months into her pregnancy and with three kids about to break for school holidays.

She couldn’t drive. She could hardly get up and down the stairs. The kids’ grandmother was banned from the house for fear of throwing chicken pox into this bargain, the little sister living locally had just started a full-time job, and I had just moved closer to work and uni. Sarah’s husband needed to go to work to support their growing throng.

Doctor’s orders were to sit still, so when this first happened we feared Sarah might fall into a deep depression. But six weeks later she has proven us all wrong: this super-mum has exercised the patience of a saint and brought the kids’ origami skills to competition level. She has even continued to teach cello and bring in much-needed bucks. So last week when the specialist told her she could drive again her husband traded in the Camry for a shiny, new Torago. A car for a star, or six.

departure

My great uncle John died last weekend. He was 92. As Bill, Mum’s brother, delivered this news to our table of five representing three generations, I thought to myself: this is the end of an era. Of course it was sad, but 92 is a bloody good innings and he at least died with some dignity. But mostly I mourned the end of an era for our family, as his death meant the end of the uncle John jokes.

Uncle John had his fair share of tragedy, including a wife who died young and an ageing daughter with Down syndrome who was moved into a home when her dementia became too much for John to manage alone. We were sympathetic to his situation in a way that only a family may be, that is, we tolerated the difficult man he had become. But it was not without laughs, and John furnished us with an endless supply of material.

The most famous uncle John story came from his trip to Sydney a few years ago. He lived in Melbourne but made an annual trip up to visit my gran, his sister-in-law. It was a week-long production that involved Gran in a high state of tension over John, my mother in a state over Gran, and my uncle in a state over my mother. My poor aunt, Bill’s wife, just tried to keep the peace. My sisters and I just stayed the hell out of it. This trip had been particularly nightmarish: John was really getting too old to travel but insisted on coming up and driving everyone spare. The communal sigh of relief could be heard across the state border when he was finally safely delivered at the airport.

We all met for traditional Sunday night dinner at the local Chinese to herald his departure. But my mortified grandmother came armed with fresh news: John had shat his pants on the flight home. Of course Gran didn’t say ‘shat’, she could barely say ‘soiled’ so you can imagine her horror when John rang her to boast of his in-flight adventure. All humility had departed poor old John and I think he was quite happy for the attention and fuss of the whole cabin crew. But the humility had not left us. We couldn’t quite bring ourselves to feel sorry for John but Bill was just about ready to write Qantas a cheque on the spot. It was something only a family should suffer.

Despite finding John unbearable at times, we did love him. But we needed to laugh to cope with the things that weren’t really funny. That night, Bill raised his glass to the Brown Bomber and we all laughed as we had the night the first joke was born. Almost on cue, the waiter brought out the honey prawns.

moi

Welcome to Family Matters, where you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. Everyone has stories so here are some of mine. And some I’ve picked up along the way.