The owls, the boogie monster and me.

It’s official. I’m nocturnal.

I’m sitting here writing this at 3.07 on a Saturday morning and I’m more alert than I was at 3.07 yesterday afternoon … or 8.56 on Thursday morning … or any other time this week when the sun was shining.

I’ve tried to fight it. I’ve tried to fit in with the world of normal, diurnal people, but it’s just not working.

I’m an owl and there’s nothing I can do about it.

I’ve fought the nocturnal nature for years. When you live in the real world with a real job, you simply  have to. Unless your job is Night-time Security Guard or Boogie Monster. The early mornings tend to force you into an early-to-bed routine. And you really do have to stay awake when teaching a classroom full of children.

The boogie monster, not me!
Just thought I should clarify.

Even being a stay-at-home mum requires regular hours because the kiddies start to poke you in the face to wake you up when mealtimes come and go and there’s nothing in their tummies. And somebody has to make sure they get to preschool and school and soccer and tennis and cricket in something other than their pyjamas.

So, out of necessity,  I’ve lived the diurnal life for half a century.

But now, I work from home and my kids are all grown up. My days are more flexible. 

And my body and mind seem to have cottoned on to this fact and have said, ‘Enough!’

Actually, they’ve started shouting, ‘ENOUGH!’ like a wharfie yelling to his mates that it’s time for smoko.

Which is why I’m writing this at 3.07 in the morning. I’m drinking tea and eating an apple raisin muffin. (Lunch? Afternoon tea? Who knows?) And I'm loving it!

Once this blog is drafted, I’ll snuggle up on the lounge and watch a bit of TV and crochet a bit of my granny rug. Afterwards, I might do a spot of online research regarding log fires for my new house, and the internet will be as fast as Speedy Gonzales because I won’t be trying to squeeze my information through those mysterious cables with a hundred thousand other locals because they’re all asleep. (Except for the night time security guards, the boogie monsters and a whole heap of teenagers who are still playing online games with their friends.) I might read  a few chapters of  my Fredrik Backman book, My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She’s Sorry, or I might make another cup of tea and just sit and watch the sunrise. And then, once the birds start singing and my family members start to jump through showers and pour cereal into bowls, I’ll sneak off to bed and sleep. 

And I won’t even have to check under my bed to make sure the boogie monster isn’t hiding in wait for me. I won’t give him a moment’s thought, because he’ll be clocking off and heading home to bed himself.

 

Some fellow late sleepers

Rainy Day Play

It’s raining here today. 

On and on and on. 

Which might not seem very exciting, but if, like me, you live in central Victoria, it’s fabulous. A real novelty.  

The weather here is dry and sunny most of the time. Then occasionally, the clouds come over, the heavens open up and we get a flash flood. It’s like a tap that’s on or off.

But rainy days, where the sky dribbles on and on and on - that’s something special.

Something worth celebrating.

Something that needs to be enjoyed to the full. 

I’ve always found rain exciting. I grew up in the dry areas of north-western and central-western NSW. 

Once, we went for years without rain. 

So whenever  a rainy day arrived, we embraced it.

My all-time favourite thing to do in the rain was playing in the gutters. Classy, eh? Something straight from the pages of The Great Gatsby. Our country-town street was tarred down the middle and there was proper curbing and guttering, but the gap in between was a hodge-podge of dirt and rocks. When it rained, we used the dirt and rocks to block the water that raged down the gutters. My word, we made some brilliant dams. Deep and wide. Engineering feats. Hoover, eat your heart out! 

This mightn't sound like everyone's idea of fun, but in a town where water restrictions meant you couldn’t even play under a sprinkler for four months of the year, the abundant supply of muddy gutter water was  a real treat!

The second was to make indoor cubbies. We'd grab all the blankets and quilts out of the linen press and drape them over tables and chairs and lounges until the living room resembled a strange Bedouin camp that was held together with pegs.  We’d drag in pillows and cushions and toys and board games and bickies and have a ball.

The third was to collect  worms. I don’t know where the worms went during the dry spells. Perhaps they burrowed deep into the soil. Perhaps they dehydrated and waited patiently for water to reconstitute their bodies and souls. But as soon as rain started to fall once more, hundreds of slimy pink worms would appear, as if by magic, on the back patio, the driveway and the tar down the middle of the road.  And the hunt was on! It was grand to find the longest fattest boofer in the neighbourhood, but at the end of the day, quantity ruled over quality. Forget the sports car or the diamond ring. Real prestige lay in having your  IXL jam jar full to the brim with worms.

The rainy day delights of my childhood are long gone. But I still think a wet day is worth celebrating. This afternoon, I plan to curl up on the lounge with a good book, a thermos and a granny rug. I’ll read and snuggle and sip coffee and listen to the pitter-patter of rain on the veranda roof. 

At some stage, I'll slip on my gumboots, open my brollie and go for a ramble in the rain.

And, who knows? I might even grab an empty jam jar on my way through the kitchen ...

Anyone up for a worm hunt this arvy?

Crafter Laughter is the Best Medicine

Sometimes life gets murky.
Yucky.
Overwhelming.

We all have our own special ways of coping - an online shopping spree, a good cry, a movie marathon accompanied by vast quantities of popcorn and chocolate, a hike across Siberia.

I have this craft group.

I know! It sounds dull and slightly embarrassing  - 1970’s Woman’s Day meets Bridget Jones' mother. It also sounds totally inadequate. 

But it’s not. It’s fabulous. 

This craft group is full of women. These women are smart, creative, funny, honest, energetic, kind and caring. They know the value of a strong cup of tea and a chilled glass of champagne. They can sniff out a packet of Tim Tams at twenty paces. And they keep me sane. 

We started meeting seventeen years ago. We were all busy having babies, raising families, earning a living, managing households and businesses, volunteering on committees, running youth groups and manning sausage sizzles all over the countryside. Goodness! I even learned how to score a game of cricket and, let me tell you, that is one heck of a commitment! These were all great things to be doing but a group of us decided that it would be nice/soothing/sanity-saving  to have one thing a fortnight that was just for us. No husbands. No kids. No fundraising.

That thing was Craft.

We rocked up on the first week, our straw baskets overflowing with fabric, scissors, knitting needles, balls of yarn and visions of homes decorated with handmade delights. We gathered at the local primary school, sipped tea, ate chocolate biscuits and, yes, we actually did some craft.  

Except for my friend Natasha-Rose* who does not do craft under any circumstances. Year 7 Textiles and Design classes had left both her and her teacher scarred for life. However, a night out without kids was too much to resist, so she rocked up with a smile and a pile of garden magazines.

Week by week, we continued to meet. We stitched and crocheted. We sipped tea and champagne. We nibbled chocolate and cheese. And we talked.

About everything.

The good, the bad and the things that left us utterly gobsmacked.

And believe me, between us, we’ve had  the lot - breast cancer, cosmetic surgery, childbirth, fertility struggles, battles with depression, exciting new jobs, retirement, divorce,  new homes, cruises, nasty diseases, spider bites and the joyful arrival of grandchildren, to name just a few. We’ve raised children with a range of unique needs - including albinism, autism, depression and life-threatening physical illnesses - and rejoiced at their resilience and successes.  We’ve cried when one of our own lost her battle with cancer and left a loving, grieving family behind.  We’ve celebrated when another married the man of her dreams who also turned out to be the father of her children’s dreams. There’s a world of stuff that has happened to our little group.

Seventeen years have whisked by, and we’re still doing Craft. We now meet in my living room. We have stopped hiding the bickies and champagne beneath balls of fluffy wool. We waltz through the door waving them merrily in the air. Workbaskets often sit, untouched, at their owners’ feet (or don’t even make it to out of the car).  Because Craft has evolved to mean so much more than threading DMC into one’s needle and poking it through a piece of aida cloth. Craft is a place where we can let our hair down amidst a group of women who will not judge. No matter what we say or do.

It’s a safe place.

A little refuge in our weeks.

A sanity session.

It’s not complicated. Most of the time we just talk and laugh. In fact, we laugh so loudly that, if we run late, my husband goes to bed with silicon plugs stuffed down his ear holes.  We laugh at our mishaps and faux pas (even our tragedies). We say whatever we like and we poke merciless fun at one another and nobody ever takes offence. Never ever. Because we know that we are there to boost one another up come rain, poo-storm or shine.

Sometimes, we don’t even call it Craft. We meet at another member’s house and we call it Games Night . We all bring delicious food and we play family board games and shout and laugh until our tummies ache and we start to worry that the EPA will slap us with a noise pollution fine.

Sometimes, there are quiet one-on-one moments. A chat beside the kettle. A hug at the back door. A deep and meaningful discussion in the driveway beneath the stars. But most of the time, our gatherings involve a lot of noisy group-talking and laughter. And it keeps me sane.

Laughter is great medicine.

But laughter amidst friends who have your back and your front - and your lost stitches on your knitting - is the bomb.

Crafter laughter is the best medicine of all.

·  *Not her real name. Just in case she wants to keep up the illusion that she is a knitter or embroiderer.