It's getting awfully cold around here, which imposes a different level of challenge when it comes to activities to do with kids. Warmer weather failsafes like parks, extended outdoor play and water in all its many forms are less appealing when it's chilly and raining!
Fortunately, Melbourne comes to the rescue with a swathe of child-oriented winter indoor fun. And just like in the adult sphere, winter is heavy on the cultural / arts side. Kids too can join the throng of basic-black-clad, hot-drinking-sipping, culture-absorbing people soaking up our southern winter consolations :-)
There is a lot on, but I've picked out a few that look awesome to me, and that I'm intending to visit with my children. If you have any other gems, please feel free to let me know!
Wallace and Gromit at Scienceworks
Scienceworks often has fantastically awesome special exhibitions - I cannot tell you how much my three kids all adored last year's Explore-a-saurus, for instance - but this one looks like it's level-up even in those terms. Well-loved claymation characters? Games to play and things to invent? A kid-friendly lesson on intellectual property and why it matters? Yes please!
After reading several fulsome reviews from parents I trust about it, we cannot wait to get there and check it out for ourselves. My husband is as keen, if not keener, than the kids :-)
You can check out all the details of the exhibition at http://museumvictoria.com.au/scienceworks/discoverycentre/wallace-and-gromit/
Game Masters Exhibition at ACMI
This is another one that has great grownup-appeal. Featuring the work of over 125 game designers, across all the platforms you can think of (and some you probably can't), this exhibition promises interactivity, gameplay and a rather intriguing peek behind the scenes at how all those Mario adventures come together. We thought we might do this one as a family day in the city.
You can check out all the details of the exhibition at http://www.acmi.net.au/game-masters.aspx
Dreaming as One
St Francis Pastoral Centre (326 Lonsdale St, Melbourne) is hosting an art exhibition as part of Reconciliation Week 2012, showcasing Indigenous and Non-Indigenous Art. The promotion site states that "artists have been invited to create works which explore Indigenous culture, country and history from its origins to the present and into the future."
Given how central indigenous art, culture, dispossession, and justice is - and must be - to any Australian child's understanding of their cultural and ethical landscape, we won't be missing this one.
Dreaming as One runs from 22 May 2012 - 04 Jun 2012, 9-5pm Monday to Friday, 9-3pm Sundays.
An Aboriginal Moomba – ‘Out of the Dark’
I've heard about this and am intrigued by the opportunity to learn more:
"Re-visit a Moomba performance that brought Aboriginal culture to the national and international stage. In 1951, an arts festival was planned through Melbourne to celebrate Victoria’s Centenary and the 50th anniversary of Australia’s Federation. Incensed to find that an Aboriginal presence had been excluded, Aboriginal community members organised a performance at the Princess Theatre to critical and popular acclaim." (National Reconciliation Week website).
An Aboriginal Moomba runs from 21 May 2012 - 08 Jun 2012 at the West Footscray Library, 539 Barkly Street, West Footscray. You can check out the full details by contacting West Footscray Library on 9688 0292 or Email library@maribyrnong.vic.gov.au
MSO Education Week
The Melbourne Symphony Orchestra is putting on a fantastic week of concerts and events aimed at children and teachers from 5-9 June. Included in this is one of their wonderful MSO Classic Kids events, this time featuring PlaySchool's Jay Laga'aia. We have been lucky enough to be given tickets to this event, and, after the wonderful time we had at the Melvin Tix show last year, we're looking forward to it hugely! (A post-concert blog will doubtless follow :-)
The MSO does extremely well in their mission to make classical music accessible, interesting and fun for children. I have been greatly impressed by the mix of professionalism and joie de vivre they bring to these events, and the genuine love for music that communicates to the kids. I don't think you'd be disappointed if you took the time for one of these concerts.
You can check out the full Education Week program at http://www.mso.com.au/education/education-week/
Melbourne Writers' Festival Schools Program
Aimed at older children (grade 4 level and up), the extensive program offered by the MWF for children and young adults just gets better every year. I am seriously considering giving my kids a day off school on Wednesday 29 August so I can take them to the wonderful Bureau of Mysteries session and to meet their beloved Emily Rodda. I reckon that'd be a pretty edumucational day out, hey?
You can check out the full Schools program at http://mwf.com.au/2012/?name=Schools-Program-Events
Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with any of the organisations or events listed in this post. None of them requested that their material be included and no payment was offered nor accepted for any part of this content.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Monday, May 28, 2012
Changing beds (A poem)
it's Monday, which means the beds are due for stripping.
(which sounds salacious, but is in fact an act of the most anodyne innocence
the most prosaic and dampening necessity).
she pulls the sheets loose, eases pillowcases over lumpy, yellowing foam
a fingernail snagging in one and ripping loose.
she curses quietly and puts the bleeding finger in her mouth
sucking the iron-salt blood free.
a vast pile they make on the floor, a pastel heap
of flannelette and cotton, with one frivolity in silk.
lightly soiled, they'd be tagged
if this were a washing powder commercial, and she a be-rouged and be-ribboned housewife avatar
with gleaming teeth and perfectly tan trousers.
She regards the cloth mountain solemnly, then laughs
as the three-year-old throws herself with delighted chaotic intent
into the middle, and demands "Can y' see my sheet angels? Huh, can y'?"
Remaking is more effortful and frustrating than laying bare.
(Especially for the raised beds. Oh, those beds -
such a fine idea they seemed, before the first linen change).
She sweats, trips and curses again, less softly,
as she wrestles the tight-fitted sheets over the mattresses.
She replaces covers and pillows, soft toys and books
pencils and TOP SECRET DO NOT YOU DARE READ THIS diaries
torches and oil pastels;
the detritus of low-light and bedtime.
She runs her hand over the covers, smoothing out wrinkles
(another always pops up elsewhere; there is no finishing it, but after a time it bores her, and she stops).
It is a job with pauses; a job she dislikes
despises, even
the result never quite what she hopes for, the real heart of it unseen, and unremarked,
invisible. its only virtue
(besides the avoidance of squalor, which is an end in itself, of course)
the wind-dried smell of the fresh pillowcases in her air tonight
and perhaps, with that scent
that mingled jasmine and lemon blossom, sweet and clean
wild dreams will come.
- Kathy, 28/5/12
(which sounds salacious, but is in fact an act of the most anodyne innocence
the most prosaic and dampening necessity).
she pulls the sheets loose, eases pillowcases over lumpy, yellowing foam
a fingernail snagging in one and ripping loose.
she curses quietly and puts the bleeding finger in her mouth
sucking the iron-salt blood free.
a vast pile they make on the floor, a pastel heap
of flannelette and cotton, with one frivolity in silk.
lightly soiled, they'd be tagged
if this were a washing powder commercial, and she a be-rouged and be-ribboned housewife avatar
with gleaming teeth and perfectly tan trousers.
She regards the cloth mountain solemnly, then laughs
as the three-year-old throws herself with delighted chaotic intent
into the middle, and demands "Can y' see my sheet angels? Huh, can y'?"
Remaking is more effortful and frustrating than laying bare.
(Especially for the raised beds. Oh, those beds -
such a fine idea they seemed, before the first linen change).
She sweats, trips and curses again, less softly,
as she wrestles the tight-fitted sheets over the mattresses.
She replaces covers and pillows, soft toys and books
pencils and TOP SECRET DO NOT YOU DARE READ THIS diaries
torches and oil pastels;
the detritus of low-light and bedtime.
She runs her hand over the covers, smoothing out wrinkles
(another always pops up elsewhere; there is no finishing it, but after a time it bores her, and she stops).
It is a job with pauses; a job she dislikes
despises, even
the result never quite what she hopes for, the real heart of it unseen, and unremarked,
invisible. its only virtue
(besides the avoidance of squalor, which is an end in itself, of course)
the wind-dried smell of the fresh pillowcases in her air tonight
and perhaps, with that scent
that mingled jasmine and lemon blossom, sweet and clean
wild dreams will come.
- Kathy, 28/5/12
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Emerging Writers Festival Town Hall Conference Day 1: Fear is the mind-killer
"Advice that comes from a place of fear is never, ever correct." Christy Dena, Seven Enviable Lines session, Emerging Writers Festival Town Hall Conference, 26 May 2012
I went to the first day of the Town Hall Conference, part of the Emerging Writers Festival, today. I went expecting it to be interesting, but also expecting to be a spectator, in mind as well as voice. (Rather to my own surprise, I did end up asking one question - of Emily Maguire - and making one comment, in the Writing Groups discussion; so my voice was less silent than I'd anticipated, too). I was wrong - I got engaged, and I got jolted, in a good way, out of standing on the sidelines in my mind.
I have a rather large confidence problem when it comes to my writing, or at least my creative writing. I don't fear critique so much as complete rejection. Let me explain. I quite enjoy having a discerning and uncompromising eye on my work, picking it to smithereens. I take criticism (reasonably) well and am not usually stubborn beyond all reason about accepting the need for change. What I worry about is not that my work's imperfect, because, well, d'uh. I worry that it is, actually, unmitigated crap, with no redeeming virtues at all. That worry is what has held me back from submitting my manuscripts (there are three and a half of them now) to agents, publishers, or taking real steps towards self-publication. That worry is what makes me anxiously seek out "writer's guides" and "advice on writing and marketing" and then feel all confused and helpless when I read it, and realise I could never do the things or be the writer they all advise. That worry has held me back with my fiction writing all my life long - well, once I passed out of the grand hubris of my teens, wherein I merrily submitted stories and poems all over the place, and, moreover, got them published and won junior prizes for them.
I heard many wonderful writers speak today. Many of them were entirely new to me, and I have a long list of books to follow up (I brought home Romy Ash's Floundering, just to get me started - I'm heartily intrigued with the premise behind this, given how much I loved the similarly-based Room by Emma Donovan, another book about trauma from a child's-eye view). I learned things about the publishing process that I didn't know; I got some really useful tips on structure, process, and voice; and I felt I learned a lot from listening to these generous and articulate artists speak about their craft with a whole range of different foci. I laughed along with Lawrence Leung; I was moved by Sydney Smith and Ali Cobby Eckerman; I was absorbed in the wise words and warm personas of Anita Sethi and Emily Maguire. I found Paul Fearne, Fregmonto Stokes and Damon Young fascinating, and enjoyed the Writers Groups discussion with Dan Ducrou and Penni Russon very much.
But I will tell you the big takeaway of the day, the game-changing idea that will stay with me. It was introduced early on, by Christy Dena, and then echoed back, in different words, by many of the other speakers. It is this:
Don't let the fear of failure make your decisions about writing for you.
This applies in so many ways. It's about taking business-y, cautious advice because you're afraid of your own decisions and don't trust yourself. It's about not wanting to submit work because you're afraid of rejection. It's about censoring or suppressing your voice, and the story you want to tell, for fear of offending or annoying others.
I have been afraid. No, I am still afraid. In all these ways and more. I'm not short of ideas or the will to work at them. I'm not a non-completer or shy of the hard yards; I do finish written pieces, and I redraft and redraft and pick over their bones. I have been afraid to go beyond this, though. I am afraid to.
I think, though, that I will, all the same. Fear isn't much of a way to live a life, when all's said and done.
I went to the first day of the Town Hall Conference, part of the Emerging Writers Festival, today. I went expecting it to be interesting, but also expecting to be a spectator, in mind as well as voice. (Rather to my own surprise, I did end up asking one question - of Emily Maguire - and making one comment, in the Writing Groups discussion; so my voice was less silent than I'd anticipated, too). I was wrong - I got engaged, and I got jolted, in a good way, out of standing on the sidelines in my mind.
I have a rather large confidence problem when it comes to my writing, or at least my creative writing. I don't fear critique so much as complete rejection. Let me explain. I quite enjoy having a discerning and uncompromising eye on my work, picking it to smithereens. I take criticism (reasonably) well and am not usually stubborn beyond all reason about accepting the need for change. What I worry about is not that my work's imperfect, because, well, d'uh. I worry that it is, actually, unmitigated crap, with no redeeming virtues at all. That worry is what has held me back from submitting my manuscripts (there are three and a half of them now) to agents, publishers, or taking real steps towards self-publication. That worry is what makes me anxiously seek out "writer's guides" and "advice on writing and marketing" and then feel all confused and helpless when I read it, and realise I could never do the things or be the writer they all advise. That worry has held me back with my fiction writing all my life long - well, once I passed out of the grand hubris of my teens, wherein I merrily submitted stories and poems all over the place, and, moreover, got them published and won junior prizes for them.
I heard many wonderful writers speak today. Many of them were entirely new to me, and I have a long list of books to follow up (I brought home Romy Ash's Floundering, just to get me started - I'm heartily intrigued with the premise behind this, given how much I loved the similarly-based Room by Emma Donovan, another book about trauma from a child's-eye view). I learned things about the publishing process that I didn't know; I got some really useful tips on structure, process, and voice; and I felt I learned a lot from listening to these generous and articulate artists speak about their craft with a whole range of different foci. I laughed along with Lawrence Leung; I was moved by Sydney Smith and Ali Cobby Eckerman; I was absorbed in the wise words and warm personas of Anita Sethi and Emily Maguire. I found Paul Fearne, Fregmonto Stokes and Damon Young fascinating, and enjoyed the Writers Groups discussion with Dan Ducrou and Penni Russon very much.
But I will tell you the big takeaway of the day, the game-changing idea that will stay with me. It was introduced early on, by Christy Dena, and then echoed back, in different words, by many of the other speakers. It is this:
Don't let the fear of failure make your decisions about writing for you.
This applies in so many ways. It's about taking business-y, cautious advice because you're afraid of your own decisions and don't trust yourself. It's about not wanting to submit work because you're afraid of rejection. It's about censoring or suppressing your voice, and the story you want to tell, for fear of offending or annoying others.
I have been afraid. No, I am still afraid. In all these ways and more. I'm not short of ideas or the will to work at them. I'm not a non-completer or shy of the hard yards; I do finish written pieces, and I redraft and redraft and pick over their bones. I have been afraid to go beyond this, though. I am afraid to.
I think, though, that I will, all the same. Fear isn't much of a way to live a life, when all's said and done.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
The up side
I'm still thinking about the work-job-thing that people who are mostly in the unpaid private / domestic sphere do. It occurred to me, on re-reading that post, that perhaps it reads as more negative / whiney than I'd intended. I wasn't going for the smell of burning martyr, but I can see how talking about domestic work and its lack of recognition can smack of that. And really, that's not the full picture. Every job has its upsides - well, most of them do - and it's not all unremitting effort and no reward, being at home.
So, to redress that - or perhaps just to nuance it a bit - I thought I might post today about the five things I like best about being a (mostly) unpaid and (mostly) domestic-sphere worker.
1. The rhythm of my days is more natural / tied into seasons and weather than when I worked fulltime out of the home.
Being with young children, running a household without a clothes dryer and with a growing food-producing garden, and only having the use of a car two or three days a week, I am much more aware of weather, seasons and phases of the day than I ever was when I worked in an office. Our days and weeks are informed by a seasonality that helps me feel more connected to everything, and less like a ghost inside the walls.
I also like the stop-start rhythm of a day with children in it; with just C at home now, our mornings are always full-on, busy and physically active, but our early afternoons are often quiet and sedentary, involving books, crafts or TV. Things get busy again in the mid afternoon, as we pick up the big kids and swing into after-school furore, then wind down to peace sometime around 8:30pm. This mid-day quiet time works very well with my own biorhythms, and it's definitely something I appreciate about being at home.
2. I have a very significant amount of control over how I order my work, how I complete it, and how I prioritise it.
At the end of the day, as the person who is primarily responsible for the maintenance of the house, daily care of the children, and logistics for all of us, I am free to decide which household jobs are essential and which are optional; whether it's more important to clean a bathroom or bake cupcakes; whether we'll have shepherd's pie or risotto for dinner, and so on. I can't really contain the amount of work (if only!), but I have a much larger degree of direction in determining how and in what order task my list will be attacked than I did when I was in an office. When I worked fulltime, organisational priorities, of necessity, shaped mine.
3. We have weekends!
This might sound like a weird one, but what I mean here is, simply, that I am usually able to complete most heavy-duty household work, errands etc during the working week, which means that we don't spend a whole day or even more at the weekend doing household tasks (as is the case for many of my friends, who, superhero-like, juggle two fulltime working loads with children). It means that, except for rare weekends - like the one coming, which I'll be spending mostly at the Emerging Writer's Festival - the five of us can actually share some real downtime.
4. I can daydream
A lot of housework is just menial labour - tasks the hands perform without need of the brain's supervision. I am an inveterate daydreamer from way back, and it's pleasant to me to let my mind wander as I scrub and fold, wash and dry. I think I've become a lot more creative, and more confident in my creativity, for having this mental free-range time for my fancies.
5. I get to be part of my children's daytime worlds as well as their evening ones.
As my children get older, I thought I'd find it was less important for me to be physically around and available to them, but I'm finding that's not the case at all. The hour after school is a particularly crucial time for my two elder girls to have with me, even on the days that they don't say anything earth-shattering (which is most of them :-). That doesn't mean that after-school playdates or after-school care are verboten - we do those too, as the occasion demands - but I do see it as a real plus of being at home that I can mostly be there for that time. (So much so, in fact, that when I return to structured employment after C starts school in 2014, I'll be looking for a job that allows me to be at school for pick-up at least 3 days a week).
Anyway, that's just me. YMMV, naturally!
So, to redress that - or perhaps just to nuance it a bit - I thought I might post today about the five things I like best about being a (mostly) unpaid and (mostly) domestic-sphere worker.
1. The rhythm of my days is more natural / tied into seasons and weather than when I worked fulltime out of the home.
Being with young children, running a household without a clothes dryer and with a growing food-producing garden, and only having the use of a car two or three days a week, I am much more aware of weather, seasons and phases of the day than I ever was when I worked in an office. Our days and weeks are informed by a seasonality that helps me feel more connected to everything, and less like a ghost inside the walls.
I also like the stop-start rhythm of a day with children in it; with just C at home now, our mornings are always full-on, busy and physically active, but our early afternoons are often quiet and sedentary, involving books, crafts or TV. Things get busy again in the mid afternoon, as we pick up the big kids and swing into after-school furore, then wind down to peace sometime around 8:30pm. This mid-day quiet time works very well with my own biorhythms, and it's definitely something I appreciate about being at home.
2. I have a very significant amount of control over how I order my work, how I complete it, and how I prioritise it.
At the end of the day, as the person who is primarily responsible for the maintenance of the house, daily care of the children, and logistics for all of us, I am free to decide which household jobs are essential and which are optional; whether it's more important to clean a bathroom or bake cupcakes; whether we'll have shepherd's pie or risotto for dinner, and so on. I can't really contain the amount of work (if only!), but I have a much larger degree of direction in determining how and in what order task my list will be attacked than I did when I was in an office. When I worked fulltime, organisational priorities, of necessity, shaped mine.
3. We have weekends!
This might sound like a weird one, but what I mean here is, simply, that I am usually able to complete most heavy-duty household work, errands etc during the working week, which means that we don't spend a whole day or even more at the weekend doing household tasks (as is the case for many of my friends, who, superhero-like, juggle two fulltime working loads with children). It means that, except for rare weekends - like the one coming, which I'll be spending mostly at the Emerging Writer's Festival - the five of us can actually share some real downtime.
4. I can daydream
A lot of housework is just menial labour - tasks the hands perform without need of the brain's supervision. I am an inveterate daydreamer from way back, and it's pleasant to me to let my mind wander as I scrub and fold, wash and dry. I think I've become a lot more creative, and more confident in my creativity, for having this mental free-range time for my fancies.
5. I get to be part of my children's daytime worlds as well as their evening ones.
As my children get older, I thought I'd find it was less important for me to be physically around and available to them, but I'm finding that's not the case at all. The hour after school is a particularly crucial time for my two elder girls to have with me, even on the days that they don't say anything earth-shattering (which is most of them :-). That doesn't mean that after-school playdates or after-school care are verboten - we do those too, as the occasion demands - but I do see it as a real plus of being at home that I can mostly be there for that time. (So much so, in fact, that when I return to structured employment after C starts school in 2014, I'll be looking for a job that allows me to be at school for pick-up at least 3 days a week).
Anyway, that's just me. YMMV, naturally!
Monday, May 21, 2012
Happy birthday E
If it is true that one can clearly see the shape of things to come in a child at 7, if it is the case that nurture's strongest impact has already happened by the time they reach that magical number, then today I raise a glass to both my efficient genes and my earnest, if imperfect, efforts at parenting.
Because my daughter, who turns 7 at 1:05pm today, is wonderful. She's sensitive, strong and kind. She's fun, and funny. She's very intelligent, and she's ever so curious about everything in her world. She has a fearsome temper, and deploys it, but is learning to contain it, in her own ways. And that fierceness shows up in so many positive ways - in her vibrant enthusiasms for new subjects, in her defence of anyone she sees being attacked, in her passionate concern for the world and its people.
Any small part that I had in that - even if it was simply providing a safe environment for her to develop - I celebrate it. And I celebrate her.
Happy 7th birthday, Miss E, my very lovely secondborn daughter. I love you more than the stars, today and every day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
