It seems that after a few dry years we are finally having a tropical summer. In the late afternoon the dark clouds roll in.
Thunder rolls in the distance and big, fat raindrops fall.
All this moisture on the ground ensures that the humidity levels through the day never go below wiltingly high. The moist grounds have also provided a fertile patch for my very own mushroom crop, right under the clothes line.
Like this it looks amazing, but get up close and in macro and it looks beyond belief. A landscape of a different world.
I know that Aunty Evil rather likes a fungus in macro. These photos are for her.
My daughter is a pragmatic, practial girl. She is a lot like her father that way. It is a quality that I don’t always share.
She read my previous post when she came home from schoolies. She looked at me and said, “You don’t know who you are? You are Tracey. That’s all there is to it. You are Tracey.”
Of course I am. I should have realised.
Did I mention that she wants to study psychology at university? I think she’s made for it.
Thanks for your comments and emails. Up and at ’em!
(Oh, thanks to that person who found my blog by doing a search for ‘young, cool quilters’. You have made my day.)
I feel like I am having a minor crisis of confidence. I’m not sure where I belong.
I look at my blog and I see ‘my kids did this…’, ‘my kids did that…’. I don’t like to define myself by my children. I find people who do that to be quite sad. Their own self-esteem lives or dies by the achievements of their children. They put pressure on their children until everything implodes around them. That’s not me.
SO I don’t want to write a post about my children.
I sew. I’m quilty and crafty, but somehow I don’t seem to have my mojo. I’m not even sure when it left me. I don’t seem to be making anything of quality or of excitement. I’m not even sure of what to make. The harder I try to think creative thoughts, the more elusive they become.
SO I don’t have a post about my craft.
I think my problem is transition. My girl is going. My son needs surgery. I can’t stop any of that. It will ripple through my life without stop. I am a cancerian. We like a steady ship. I do not have good sea legs.
I am doing the rounds of doctors with my son. I feel like I have walked into the middle of an old boys’ club, a secret society.
My son has had an echocardiogram done, but no one will tell us the results. I have asked, but not been given a straight answer. The surgeon who agreed to see our son has told us that, no, he cannot perform the surgery. However, he “has two pectus excavatum cases now and if [he] can just find a third [he] can get his mate to come up from Brisbane to do it here while [he] assists.” Is he advertising for one more? Do we wait for six months until a third case shows up? Do we scout around ourselves and hope to find a third?
Do we consult with the other doctor first – before he arrives here to operate on our son? No, it’s OK. He’ll ring his mate later and talk to him about it. He’ll just let us know later what is happening.
We are told that our son’s heart has been displaced by his ribs – it has been pushed too far to the left. We are told that he has a heart murmur that he has NEVER had this identified before. We are told that he has a significantly reduced lung capacity because of the shape of his ribs. THEN we are told that the procedure we are seeking is purely cosmetic.
I asked, “When does it move from cosmetic to medical?”, and I reviewed all of the above information. The surgeon told me that no causal link could be proven. What does that mean???? An enormous hole in your chest might be a contributing factor, but we can’t prove it. How about we pop a hole into his chest and see if he has any ill effects.
Today I rang the college of thoracic surgeons myself. I spoke to a lovely lady, who didn’t mind at all when I got teary. She told me to go back to my GP and seek a second opinion. She gave me her phone number and wants the GP to ring her.
I love that lady.
Can you believe that a whole week of partying is devoted to the finishing of school. Apparently they deserve it after twelve years of school.
What about my week long party after twelve years of school lunches, band rehearsals, sports training, dance practice, forgot my library book, can we pick ____ up, need a note for that, excursion attendance, sponsorship, uniform washing, shoe providing, sock searching, hair braiding, assignment checking, homework reviewing, reading log completing work?
Instead of a week off to party I had a week off with laryngitis. I hate having to be quiet. It has almost killed me. I am better now.
I have lost my voice. I am without words. Just look…
Year twelve formal tonight. Just hours of school left in her whole life. Is there a more exciting time in your life?