How not to get a babysitting job in 4 easy steps

1. Start the interview by saying My brother's kids hit me once, so I hit them back.

2. Tap a 2-year-old on the butt and then say What are you still doing in nappies?

3. Tell the same 2-year-old he's not a baby and so shouldn't be sucking his thumb.

4. Tell the parents how much you love kids, while simultaneously ignoring the 2-year-old who has, for the first time since you've arrived, come to you to show you a toy.

Whispers but no songs

The other day, Téo was given a cowrie shell and instructed to put it to his ear.

I can hear the sea mummy!

...

But why can't I hear any mermaids?

Au revoir et merci

On December 28, C's maternal grandmother, Violette, passed away. She would have been 88 in February.

She'd been getting weaker for a while, and over the past couple of years we've seen her more inside a hospital than out. She fell asleep, a long sleep for several days, and then quietly stopped living.

But even if her death was not completely unexpected, it's hard to believe I'll never see her again. Hard to believe the grand-maman we visited before leaving - dressed and wearing her jewelry, who greeted us happily, who wished us merry Christmas and a safe journey, who kissed us goodbye - is no longer here.

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I am very unaccepting of death - my own in particular. And I frankly recoil at the idea of my body still existing once my brain is dead. I don't like the idea of being a lifeless piece of meat and bone and fat, orifices plugged, handled by who knows who, stored in the morgue until disposal.

My favoured manner of death is atomisation. Death and body disposal neatly taken care of at the same time. Although, the necessary nuclear explosion is probably a little unfair to everyone else.

Being deep frozen in liquid nitrogen and then shattered to pieces also appeals to me. I guess though there'd need to be a drying step in there somewhere, so that on melting I'd be dust and not goo.

Burning, I'm not really so keen on.

Burying, I refuse to contemplate.

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On Wednesday we went to the cemetery.

As I watched Violette's ashes being tipped into an unmarked grave in a pretty little garden, I had a moment of clarity. Of how this is what it will be for me, ashes released in front of my family. How this ending is OK, that this is how it should be.

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Au revoir Grand-maman Violette. And thank you for bringing me closer to acceptance.

The downside of an articulate toddler

I really like that Lukan is a good speaker. He can explain what he wants, he tells stories, and it's maybe the reason he rarely has tantrums.

But sometimes he's just a little too clear. Like the other day, for example.

I don't like [family member name].

Or this evening.

You annoying me mummy.

Oy oy oy.

24 hours, 16,832 km, and a hemisphere apart

The squeals are the same though.

We forgot the SD card adapater so you'll have to imagine the punchline

- Do you think we need to pack warm clothes?

- Nah, it's pretty much always hot this time of year in Sydney.

- What about umbrellas and raincoats?

- No, I don't think so, it never rains any more.

[picture of 2 children in grandma-sized raincoats, in pouring rain, outside our holiday cabin at the beach]

Nothing to say

So, yeah, hello. Sorry I haven't been around lately. I keep coming here, knowing I should write something, but then I just stare blankly and cannot think of a single interesting thing to say.

I mean, I could tell you that Téo is having almost daily meltdowns, like he's the one who's 2 instead of Lukan, only ... what more is there to say than that? It's a part of my life, a part that is wearying, yes, but doesn't get to me like it used to. I just put him in bed, where he falls asleep and then wakes up in a much better mood.

I could tell you we put up a Christmas tree. Just like a good many other people lately, most of you included I imagine.

I could tell you that our babysitter - the 5th since we moved to the village - quit with 4 days notice. But then you might think there's something wrong with us that we have such a high turnover. (Really, it's not us, it's them! Every time!)

I could tell you that with being on my own for 25 evenings (and a good many nights) since November 1, I feel like I've become a bit of a recluse. But that makes me even less interesting.

I could tell you that on the one hand, I never want to hear "Love love me do" ever again, but on the other it's so sweet when my kids sing it over and over in the car, but you really have to hear it for yourself.

I could tell you that the briefing paper I wrote for a major organization, the project that was stressing me out, was well received at an international conference, and may be turned into an actual publication from that organization. But that seems like boasting.

I could tell you I made a kind of advent calendar, spent hours crafting a tree and birds and hedgehogs and nests out of pine branches and leaves and seeds collected from the village forest, with trapdoors to hide chocolate in, one for each day that we are here in December. But then I'd have to admit that each night, without fail, I forget to actually put any chocolate in the next day's hiding place (I didn't dare put all the chocolate out at once) which kind of ruins the intended magic.

This minutiae is my life, but it doesn't make a good story.