Chubby Bubby, St Pats and our Princess

I was pretty sure my mum loved me, she always told me, she was never shy of giving me a hug and always called me mate.   I truly believed I was loved, until October 9, 1987.  It was on that day that all those secure foundations of love and stability were rocked.  On October 9, 1987, my mother broke her promise and gave birth to another stupid brother, Clarence.

I mean seriously, there was already two annoying pains in my butt and when they told me they were pregnant, I had clearly requested a sister. The family needed to balance up the gender scales and restore order to the chaos that had reigned true since the boys were born.  Yet here I was, reluctantly (and under duress) getting out of the car at North West Private Hospital in Brisbane, on my way to see my mum and this new addition to the family.  We'd been told that Clarrie had some dramas with his skull when he was born and needed a bunch of surgery, so when we were going to visit him, not to be scared by the bandages over his head.  Personally, I didn't care.  As far as I was concerned, he was a bitter disappointment to me and my plans for the family and I was resolved to trip over my bottom lip and sulk in mum and dad's general direction, possibly for the rest of my life.

Until I walked into the hospital room. Until I saw the most adorable little munchkin, bundled up in way too much cloth, with a tiny little face, no chin and the most snuggly temperament you will ever find.  Until I met Clarence Joseph Fellowes.  That moment I walked into that room, my frown turned upside down because our family had been gifted with someone pretty special. 

In addition to the corrective surgery required to knit Clarrie's skull plates together, the little dude also had some trouble feeding and spent a bit of time in hospital during his newborn months.  Due to the steroids and other treatments required in his early times, Clarrie ended up as a chronic asthmatic.  This little memory is only important to point out that despite being the number one campaigner against his inclusion into the tribe, when it came to setting up his nebulizer, sterilizing the mouth pieces, clinking the vials of medicine to go into the system and hanging out with him while he hummed away on the machine for half an hour at a time; I was the matron.  (Clearly I had nominated myself an expert on his condition.  I had, after all been attending school for two years now, could do my times table and was a genius.)

In 1988, Dad had reached his time to take long service leave and as a family we packed up and returned 'home' to Albury-Wodonga for the year.  In hindsight it was a funny year to leave Brisbane, considering it was Expo 88, but a nice opportunity for my parents, after 7 years away and now with four children to spend some time around their extended family.

This is a bit of a warning.  1988 wasn't my favourite, so the following few paragraphs may be a bit of a downer.

We lived in East Albury and I was enrolled in St Patricks Catholic Primary, Albury.  My aunty and God mother Bonnie was a teacher there and my cousins Renai, Kara and Ben also went there, so I was a bit excited.  I made a friend Karina at school, and it was awesome because she lived right across the road from us.  One of the best fun memories from hanging out at Karina's place was doing laundry chute jumps when her mum wasn't home.  Karina's house had two storey's and they had a laundry chute from the top floor to the laundry.  We would climb into the chute, dangle down and drop to the lower level.  There were plenty of splinters in elbows from hitting the beams on the way down, and in hindsight, who knows how dangerous it was, but it was seriously cool.

St Pats wasn't the most fun I have had in my life, the school work was a bit of a repeat of things I had learnt in Brisbane and my teacher was a bit mean; but I do acknowledge that was the first place I played netball, and who would've known where that would take me a decade later.

There were some hilarious incidents throughout that year which never fail to get the family laughing whenever we re-tell them.  Ironically, most of them involved Dad doing something that left us a bit traumatised.  Not in the kind of way that creates serial killers, but definitely notorious.  For example, there was the time on a fishing trip at the weir, Ned caught a massive redfin.  Our Aunty tried to coach Dad through the cooking of it, but Dad only heard 'poach' and proceeded to boil us and our household into the most revolting oily, fishy mess of a situation.  Poor Mum came home from work to a house that reeked like cat food and a dining table occupied by sobbing miserable children and a disgruntled husband/father not understanding why the ungrateful mob weren't gulping down the delicious meal.  Ned resolved from that day forward he didn't want to eat fish, only catch them and he has barely touched seafood since.

Sam's handlebar stitches, the lopped off 'King' finger disaster, crazy Nana Kath and downhill no-brake bike racing are some of the other chapters to the family 'gap year' in Albury that (just like all families) bond us together through laughter, resilience and experience.

After 9 months in Albury, Dad's long service leave was up and the family returned to Brisbane.  As the only child in school, Mum and Dad decided to leave me in Albury and finish the school year.  So I stayed with my friend Karina and her family for three months. For an 8 year old, that was a bit of a strange time.  On one hand you only really know life as it presents in front of you, so day to day was pretty normal, just going to school and doing those kind of activities.  However on the other hand, I was already an 8 season veteran on how my parents did things like discipline, addressing issues, or even family conversations and traditions.  These were the things that were so different and I am really grateful that I had my extended family close by that I could go to, to help me make sense of the world when I got home sick.

I didn't really understand the extent of my homesickness, but some behaviour started to creep into my life that in hindsight now can be attributed as indicators.  I started to pee my pants.  It was the absolute worst. At least once a week I would have an incident, sometimes more; to the point where I needed to start taking spare underpants in my bag wherever I went. My situation was, an 8 year old girl, from out of town, with a funny name, already super tall, who wasn't living with her own family and who had already done all the work they were teaching at school; wetting her pants.  Ugh it still gives me a pit to my stomach when I think of it.  To make it worse, Karina's mum, who was my primary care giver, got a bit impatient with me a couple of times, because of the increased washing I guess, which caused me to panic and feel like quite a burden.  (A side truth was that Karina was worse than I was, and had a terrible time with soiling herself, daily, but she kept it hidden.)  Anyways, there was a couple of times when it all got a bit much and I would run away to my favourite of mum's cousins (Goog) house, and that always made me happy.

Another piece of hindsight from a few years later that put this period into a bit more perspective, was when I found out that this gentleman who used to look after Karina and I after school, was actually a predator and had interfered with Karina across her entire childhood.  I'm sorry to take this story to such a dark place.  It's just that when I think back to those times I realise just how precious your state of mind is when you're a child.  My pant wetting lasted for nearly four years, and the few times I would re-tell stories to my uncle Goog about trips to the weir with 'Kosi', that would send him into a rage, telling me never to be alone with the man again; makes me feel lucky that I wasn't a direct victim but also sad that I wasn't aware of the situation that might have helped my friend avoid more trauma in her life.

After Christmas that year, my family moved me back to Brisbane and I took my place back at the top of the sibling tree.  I went back to the same primary school Queen of Apostles and it was awesome to pick up some old friendships and get back to happy times.  Couple of minor, nondescript memories from that year include riding my bike to school with no brakes, but living on a really steep hill, so that was always a bit of a thrilling adventure.
Mum was a family day care mum, so we always had a million extra kids at home, also fun and super rowdy.  I would escape to my friend up the street's house Rebecca. Her parents were academics / teachers and I had the hugest crush on her big brother (even at 9 years old!).  We spent heaps of time rehearsing and playing Shakespeare plays (of all things), dressing up and using a mirror to to stare into and pretend to walk on the ceiling.  Talk about a weirdo!

The final marquee event of that time and phase in my life, was the best gift I'd ever been given, when my little sister Tara was born.  I don't know how mum did it, get pregnant again, when Dad was away so much for work, but the trooper did and she gave me my prize possession finally. 
Tara was the cutest, most hilarious, ditzy and loveable child you will ever see, and added a completely new personality to our family, that perfected the dynamic and rounded out the gang. 

I remember mum took Tara to see meet her family not long after she'd given, and it felt like she was gone for a hundred years.  When she got back, Tara (albeit a small baby and not able to really comprehend anyone anyways) seemed to not register who I was.  I fell to pieces and pretty much went on a hate campaign against my mum for quite some time for 'stealing' her from me.  My poor mum.  In hindsight, I think about mum being 29 years old, with 5 children and considering the adventurous, fun and wild woman that she is and was, the sacrifice that she made for us is so massive.
At 29 years old I was completely self centred (still am, ten years later); thought I had it all together but actually didn't, and was so busy chasing my hopes and dreams.  Definitely not mature enough to be in charge of five young and annoying humans.

Dad got another posting and we moved back to Melbourne at the end of that year, all set for another school, another season in our lives and another bunch of challenges; but it was all good because I had a sister.