Yesterday results of a University of Melbourne study into NAPLAN made headline news.  Many parents (and teachers) were indignant about the reports which showed “significant concerns about the ‘unintended side effects’ of NAPLAN, including teaching to the test, a reduction in time devoted to other subjects and a negative impact on student health and staff morale.”

“Almost half of teachers said they held practice NAPLAN tests at least once a week for five months before the tests every May.”

buy viagra in canada But it doesn’t go in this way among all men. Also several other antibiotics, pain relief, muscle strain relaxers, birth control pills etc are cialis for sale australia available eon an online store. Pur3X levitra no prescription seanamic.com produces what they appropriately call “designer beverages”. It is suitable for all those ladies who feel sensuality is buying cialis in spain not for them. While I am not here to debate the merits or flaws of NAPLAN (that’s a post for another day) the thing that did really strike me in the reports I read was this:

(actually if you want to read this you need to hop on over to iVillage – do it, I know you want to)

If there is anyone left that reads my blog (it’s been a while – sorry I have been very busy over here) they will know that I am not the kind of person that sleeps with strangers. Well it’s been a while since I last did but recently I was given occasion to go back and even my husband approved, actually he was the one pushing me to do it.

An amazing opportunity came up for me at work to do a famil to Maurituis (for those of you who aren’t with the travel talk a famil is NOT a family in fact it’s the opposite – it means you go somewhere without your family to famiiarise yourself with a destination).   I had said no to countless other famils because a)  I am a control freak and I thought I needed routine and b) there is no b) I am just stubborn.

Anyway I had been having a pretty hard year and feeling on the edge of snapping so I decided to take this opportunity and sleep with strangers. 4 of them.

Before you start judging me let me explain that I didn’t technically sleep with them, although we slept at the same time in the same place. On a plane bound for Mauritius. Because what else do you do on a plane? Seriously? If you aren’t sleeping you’re definitely trying to …

To me sleep is one of the most intimate and personal functions that our bodies perform. Something that I have difficult doing because a)  I am a control freak and b) there is no b) I am just stubborn,  so I guess it was a fitting way to start a journey with strangers  – in the deep end.

And now that I have woken up on the other side I cannot tell you just how much I recommend it (and then spending a week with the strangers afterwards – sort of like afterplay)

• I learned that I can actually communicate without the internet. I know it sounds so archaic but I did it and it was awesome.  In fact I am thinking I may do it again some time.

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• I realised that I (along with a lot of help from Mr Pencil) have done a spectacular job of bringing up Little Pencil. He is strong, he is resilient, he is independent and he does not need me to be present in every minute of his life.  He’s perfect.

• It opened my eyes to some of the interesting, amazing and talented people out there that I don’t get to meet because a) I am a control freak and I hate being away from routine and b) there is no b) I am just stubborn.

• I released a bit of the past. Some of the fear.  I was just me. No expectations of being anything else. Not the Sharpest Pencil, not a wife, not a mother, not even a perceived version of Lana. No one knew me, I could just be the real me.

• It made me want to write again. Just write and write and write. It made me realise how lucky I am to have the job I have and this blog as well!

• And it made me younger. A very astute companion told me that I looked younger at the end of the trip than I had at the start.  I think that might have been meant as a compliment

If that’s what sleeping with strangers can do for you – I think I’m going to be needing some protection!

PS The real story of my travels will be up on iVillage shortly and my life as a travel writer will have begun.

PPS To me the analogy of sleeping with strangers and air travel is really obvious. It’s not even an analogy – it’s what happens on a plane – people sleep and they are surrounded by strangers. I fear some people may not get it so I am offering this explanation.  You’re welcome

Last night I went to a function. An exhibition in fact. There amongst the beautiful canvases were some of the most, er “interesting” people that I have spoken to for quite a while.  People that I don’t know and will be unlikely to see ever again.

There was one woman in particular who took quite a fancy to me, I think that she could tell that I never run away from conversations with strangers. (I’m very polite like that.)  After she introduced herself to me – wait, she didn’t she just talked a lot and told me her life story, but she launched into a story about her grandson. And I have to say it was a very sad story – he’s only 8 years old and he has some awful medical conditions. I could name them and explain them in full detail like she did but I want to keep you here reading what I have to say.

The first million hours of her story centred around her grandson’s birth and the fact that he was in the special care nursery.  “The level that they don’t give babies much chance in” she said . The same level that my Little Pencil was in 11 years ago.

Maybe it is because she was really boring the hell out of me (she did mention her daughter’s farm at least once every 3 sentences) but my mind started to wander and of course it wondered to Little Pencil and the time that he spent in the special care nursery.

I know that I bang on about his prematurity and early years a lot, and I am well aware that he is so much more than his first year of life but God I am proud of him. And I don’t think I express my gratitude for the perfect person that he is often enough.
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He was just the size of my hand when he was born (and I don’t have particularly big hands).  A tiny, struggling little angel that wasn’t ready to come into the world. A baby that fought so hard and endured so much just to stay with us. A baby, that according to the thoughts of Ms Talk Till You Drop wasn’t expected to make it.

And last night as I listened to this lady ramble on I caught sight of him running around, making small talk with the adults and desperately trying to get his father to agree to let him drink Coke and I almost burst with pride. And gratitude.

He’s a feisty little boy, he talks NON STOP (but that’s a post for another day) and he is strong, intelligent, healthy and full of life.

He makes me proud every day of his life and I hope that when I bore people with his story I always remember to say how grateful I am for everything that he is.

I am possibly not the best traveller on earth and the weekend may be proof of that. I was going to Brisbane for just one night. That shouldn’t have been too difficult – only one change of clothes needed and well, not much more

Except there is more. For instance if you are going away for a night you should take a toothbrush and toothpaste. I forgot both.  I was incredibly grateful that housekeeping were able to supply these essentials, possibly not as grateful as the people that I spoke to during the day. Although to be honest I am not sure that the white stuff in the tube they provided me was in fact toothpaste because it tasted distinctly like soap.

Even though I seemed to have forgotten about basic hygiene I had remembered to pack an outfit for the function I was attending and I just loved it. In my head. On a skinny model with toned limbs it would have looked great, And on somebody who was not intent on wearing flouro pink tights in 27 degree weather with over 70% humidity.

I had thought very carefully about my footwear and I had the perfect shoes.  Except these shoes were in my mind not in my cupboard and certainly not in my overnight bag.  I had brought a beautiful turquoise dress, quite smart but not over the top – it neither went with the converse sneakers that I had brought nor the brown ankle boots.  Especially when I realised that I should forget the fluoro pink tights. Nothing was going to go with those.  Ever

And if my packing debacle wasn’t bad enough I also never got to grips with the time change. Or in fact the time. I woke up at 6am worrying about the toothpaste. Except I think it was 5am. I tried to go back to sleep but that was hard because I was worried that I wouldn’t wake up again.
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So I read and I relaxed except I didn’t relax because the next thing I looked at my watch and it was 8:30 and I was being collected at 9:00 so I hurriedly showered and did my hair and threw on about 1kg of make up. My husband called to say good morning and reminded me that it was actually 7:30 in Brisbane.  Great, more time to worry about my shoes.

I texted Mia a picture of my shoe dilemma because I was afraid she was going to laugh when she saw me (we were travelling together). I wanted to prepare her and it was now 8:55 and I was meeting her at 9:00.  She reminded me that we were meeting at 9:45 and stopped short of telling me to buy new shoes. But I was excited about the extra 45 minutes I had acquired and thought I would do just that – shop. Perfect. There were loads of shoe shops downstairs. Except they were all closed.

So there I was in a beautiful dress with hairy, white legs and ankle boots. My breath smelled of soap and I needed to sleep.

The best part is nobody noticed – all they saw was that I had left my singlet behind and my dress was very low cut. Very.

Apparently Walt Disney once said about Disney World – “I don’t want the public to see the world they live in while they’re in the Park. I want them to feel they’re in another world”.  It worked. There is no sign of reality at Magic Kingdom, there are  a lot of other things

• Rides built with the express purpose of scaring people. No regard to entertainment, fantasy or spectacle. Just fear. These were my son’s favourite rides.

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• Mickey Mouse x 1000. Mickey Mouse everything. Seriously. Ice creams, pens, watches, bottle tops, bottles, tops, clothes, hats, toys, jewelry, glasses, bags, salt and pepper cellars, bushes, cutlery, dishes, soap, bins, towels, kitchen utensils, purses, make up, thumb tacks, ice cube trays, pasta   You getting my drift?

• NO litter. It is amazingly clean. Even if some bits are old and tired you won’t find a spot of litter. The upkeep is amazing. This means that you may very well be swept. There are a lot of people sweeping All The Time.

• Hundreds of little girls dressed in princess costumes with the most uncomfortable looking shoes you can imagine. It looks kind of like a scene from Toddlers and Tiaras (see I told you it could be scary)

• Stroller parking. Miles of it. I’m not quite sure why you’d bring really little kids here. The ones that aren’t sleeping are crying. That said there are some very big kids in strollers – there seems to be no age limit on strollers here. Peculiar

• Spectacular props and buildings. Real. Proper. Outstanding fantasy

• Parades of the happiest looking characters in the world. The first thing you notice is their costumes, then their smiles and then their film of sweat

• Lots of people on motorised transport. Some of them because they are lazy, some because they need it and some because they are just too large to walk. Seriously. Sad.  Most of these people get up off their scooters to jump (yes jump) onto rides.

• Many families dressed in the same outfit. Either they are posing for the next edition of Funniest Family Photos or they are trying to start a trend. What other reason could you have to dress your children, your spouse and yourself in identical outfits? If you can’t find someone is it easier to remember that you had the same shirt on than to remember say, what your child looks like?

• A boy with a serious adrenalin addiction and a huge smile. He may be my son.

• A man desperately trying to keep up with his son’s total lack of fear and desire to ride anything that moves. He may be my husband

• A woman frenetically writing blog posts on her phone while her husband and son ride every insane post. That may be me

• A man and child laughing hysterically at a woman who ensured them the “It’s a Small World ride” would be awesome. That may be my family. Note to self: do not suggest rides built in the 70’s that are tame and set to music to two boys that like rides that involve plunging off mountains

• Wonder and amazement in the faces of all the guests who weren’t at that minute displaying weariness and frustration.

• Some of the most wondrous and amazing rides I have ever seen. The attention to detail and the reality of the rides is spectacular.

I had am awesome day but if I ever hear “It’s A Small World” again I will stick needles in the eyes of the singer.

When I was seven my family went with some friends to Greece and Israel. I remember so much about that holiday.

I remember the heat when the plane stopped to refuel in Nairobi and we were not allowed to get off the plane.  (it was the 1970’s stay with me). I remember distinctly waking up alone in the tour bus in Greece with a bus driver that only spoke Greek and no sight of my family (they had popped out to get dinner)  Sufficeth it to say my therapist also remembers that story. I remember the taste of shish kebabs outside the Parthenon and the smell of Dizzingoff street in Tel Aviv. I recall the jungle gym on the beach in Eilat and I can see our tour guide Vicki as if she was with me now.

Not one photo of that holiday exists as far as I am aware. There certainly weren’t digital images or video recordings. Remember the plane had to stop to refuel? This was a long time ago.

There have been many holidays since, most of them I recall really well (funny thing that I remember my childhood more than my late teens and twenties – says something doesn’t it?) I remember the bikini I was wearing when I developed my fear of the ocean after getting dunked on the shores of Amamzantoti just after my parents divorced (another holiday memory my therapist recalls well.)

I remember trying to fry an egg on the walkway at Umhlanga testing out whether it was really hot enough to boil an egg.

I can see the streets of London, the changing of the guards. I can even summon up the hunger I felt in Paris because I am the fussiest eater alive.

At an instant I can recall the smells of cathedrals in Italy, the size of the peaches in Rome, the sight of the amazing architecture. I can trace the outline of the villa we rented in Tuscany with my eyes closed, conjure the meals we prepared and cringe at the thought of how we “mastered” the traffic.

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So why is it now that on my magical and wonderful tour to the US I am so obsessed with photographing every minute? Is it because of my Little Pencil? My determination to ensure his perfect childhood is documented? (I’m hoping that in time he’ll tell his therapist how ideal his childhood was) or is it just because I’m so amazed at every thing I see through his eyes?

Maybe it’s the pressure of social media and the belief that my Facebook wall needs to show the world what fun I am having?

I have thousands of images of Little Pencil. I’m the type that prints them all out and puts them in an album. I can tell you for sure there’s no reason why. Nobody looks at them. You know how people say no one will want to look at the photos stored on your computer? – well they’re as likely to want to flip through your holiday photos in an album. As likely meaning they will have no desire at all. I can’t even get my husband to look at them meaningfully.

Will this be the holiday that I remember the lens, the click of the camera, the perfect smile?

I hope it’s the perfect smile. Not so much the lens.

And in case you are wondering what I am doing with all the pictures? There are some on my Tumblr and there are about a million that I will make into a coffee table book when I get back and never look at again.

Right now I am sitting on a flight to Los Angeles and I am not at all nervous. Not a bit.  In fact I’m really relaxed.  I have the sounds of Angus and Julia Stone playing in my ears, I have my son and my husband at my side and I have the words of Rebecca Sparrow in my head.

All my life I have been a bit scared and although I have had my fair share of therapy (and probably your fair share too) nothing has really stuck.  The way that I have dealt with my anxiety is too prepare for the worst.

When I wrote exams I prepared myself for failure, I imagined how I would deal with failing, how I would break it to my family and what I would do the following year. I imagined that if I dealt with it in my head first it would be easier to deal with if and when it happened. It never did.

When I lost something I told myself I would never find it – that way I was prepared if I never did.

When somebody told me that they loved me I never believed them. Still find it very hard.

When I flew I prepared myself to be hijacked. I anticipated the crash and I consoled myself that at least I would now what to do and how to handle it because I had lived the situation so many times in my head

So how come I am so relaxed on this epic flight to LA? How come after I have read The Secret and been to therapy and devoured self help books and hypnosis and huge amounts of medication I am feeling at ease now?

I think Rebecca Sparrow can take the credit.  Her genius words, her nurturing manner and the beautiful way she dispenses her wisdom.

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When she first mentioned keeping a diary of gratitude I thought she was being a little hippy/new age and er, odd. But I saw how centred she was and how light literally shone from within her. Because every day she chooses to think  of the things that she is grateful for, she doesn’t focus on the negative.

I thought about it a lot, but I never acted on it.  Then last night as I was panicking about my flight Bec sent a message to one of my colleagues who is writing an exam today. She wrote:

“Before you go in, visualise yourself feeling like you know the answers. And being able to recall all the stuff you’ve read and learnt. “

And I don’t why but it just spoke to me.

I could make the choice and it could be a positive one, I didn’t have to think about the worst case scenario. It wasn’t selfish or scary to imagine the best possible outcomes.  So I imagined us landing at LAX safe, happy and excited, I focused on the laughter, the joy we are going to share. Why not live the good stuff twice instead of the bad stuff once just in case?  (I also chose not to think about Nat’s exam at all)

Now I just have to perfect this technique and use it in my everyday.

Thank you Rebecca

I don’t know a lot about the 2011 budget for Australia, I don’t profess to. But I did listen with interest to their plans for mental health. And frankly, I am baffled by some of it.  Genuinely baffled.  Not in a narky “I hate the budget” kind of way, more in a “please explain this nonsensical allocation of funds” kind of way.

I am not actually across the inner working of the Australia mental health system but I do know someone who needs it to be improved.

In fact I know that all Australians need a better mental health system – a system that can look after the people who suffer from mental illness, those people lost, scared, alone and with no hope of a stable future because there are no long term facilities and care is patchy and under resourced.

I know that the people of Australia need a mental health system that can accommodate their illness, that can ensure there are case workers that have the time and resources to follow through with their patients. I know that we need beds in hospitals in times of crisis.  I know Australia needs a system where there are social workers and support people, and places of safety for people with mental illness to go for care, counselling, medication and understanding.  Company even.

I know that Australia need a mental health system that will support those people that are trying their hardest to support the mentally ill – the families, the support people, the carers.

I also know that early intervention is important. I know that the thousands of homeless people roaming the streets of Sydney may have been saved that fate had they had early intervention and a clear shot at effective medication, counseling and life skills that could help them maintain a job and their place in society.

I don’t know about allocating a huge portion of the budget to mental health to intervention at 3 years of age.
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Think about every single person you know that suffers from some sort of mental illness – be it depression, schizophrenia, bi-polar disorder, anorexia.  Think about those people suffering from anxiety disorders, post-traumatic stress, panic attacks and paranoia. Think about the people suffering from alzheimers and those who suffer psychosis.

And if you had a chance to ask their families or their pre-school teachers what they were like at 3 years of age ? Do you think all these mental illnesses could have been staved off had they had early intervention at age 3? Would these conditions even have shown their frightening path of devastation at 3 years old?

I genuinely don’t get this decision.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j3uFUzCkq7E&w=640&h=390]

If you’ve watched that interview and can shed some light – I would love to know.

I just don’t get it

My son ran the cross country today and I am exhausted.

I rushed to the field to watch him run, I didn’t want to be late (he’s prone to tears of insecurity although why I have no clue – there is really no reason to be insecure when your mother tells you she loves you 190 times a day and when she never ever misses a thing and still lies in bed with you every night even though you are ten – but I think that may be a post for another day)

As I was saying before I let you in on all my super magic mothering skills , I rushed from the office to the park with plenty of time to spare.  I left the city feeling on top of things. I love my job (I think I may have mentioned that once or a hundred times.)  I feel like I am in great place work wise (actually better than I could have dreamed for myself) and I adore the people I work with.

As I pulled up and started to walk over to the other mums who had gathered to watch the kids run my work veneer started to fall off.   I felt all wrong – my jacket was hot, my shoes were too high, my scarf too flouncy,  my pants too high, my top too tight.  I felt a little lost.  I am quite sure it wasn’t the park air – more the air of a hundred mother’s watching their kids and for some reason intimidating the hell out of me.

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It’s a funny thing about school functions even if they are held at the Duck Pond in the park.  They make me feel 12.  They make me feel awkward and anxious and vulnerable.  I forget that it’s my son’s school and not mine.  I forget that I have already made my friends and finished with the school yard shit.  I forget that I have a husband and a fulfilling career and great friends (some of whom even helped me get through the sports carnival today).

God I am glad that I have finished school. I only wish Little Pencil would finish too.

PS Little Pencil came 7^th in his race –that briefly cheered me up

“If you had to ask  my friends  to describe me the word “sweet” would be used for sure.  Unfortunately they might not say “Lana is really sweet” , in fact it’s far more likely they would say “Lana has a very sweet tooth”

And they ‘d be right.  I am the kind of person that can’t  sleep if there’s chocolate in the house because it calls me while I’m sleeping, wakes me up and forces me to eat it.  I am the kind of person that can drink Diet Coke for breakfast and jam with my toast and sugar in my tea.  I am the person that goes into the petrol station to pay for my petrol and comes out with a chocolate.

So what on earth would propel me to try and give up sugar?”

I’d been doing a bit of reading because I was feeling stale, de-energised and  like I was carrying too much weight.  But most worrying was that I was obsessed with food.  Food was on my mind all the time – recipes, meal ideas, chocolate/bread/noodles, what I could eat for snack/lunch/dinner/ just because I deserved it.  I loved and resonated with all the books on emotional eating and many times I sat in front of my fridge literally pleading with Geneen Roth, author of Breaking Free from Emotional Eating to help me. I understand my emotional issues with food – I even explained them to my open fridge but it did not help the fact that I spent too much time obsessing.

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I was hooked, I know that I always want to eat more of everything and I wanted to know why my appetite control was basically non existent and whether my sugar consumption was part of my obsession with food.  The book explains how sugar is metabolized and illustrates how sugar is added to almost every single thing on our supermarket shelves but it also offers a plan to give up sugar (and thereby regulate your appetite) and  I do so love a plan.  I planned to get over  my obsession with food.

Turns out the plan was simple.  I was to stop eating anything that tasted sweet and spend what seems like eons in the aisle every time I went shopping to check the sugar levels in packaged foods because there is sugar in almost everything you eat so you need to check the content is really low.  Like  really really low – less than 4gms per 100grams.

I have been off sugar for 10 days and it is as hard as David Gillespie told me it would be.  Well he didn’t tell me that as such but his book certainly suggests that sugar withdrawal is hard.  I feel exhausted, I am still highly emotional (this may just be me), I feel a little bit edgy and somehow unsatisfied – like I just want a cupcake with icing.  Lots of icing. And little silver balls .  But it is not hunger and I only feel this dissatisfaction after I have eaten.

But, there are pluses – heaps of people (well three) have mentioned that my skin looks clear, fresher, more vibrant (and I haven’t even asked them).

And there is this: the exact thing I was looking for.  I don’t think about food all the time.  I just forget to think about it.  I eat of course but more out of hunger and less out of habit.

I would still love to dip my teaspoon in a jar of nutella and inhale (Gillespie reckons it takes most people 3 to 4 weeks to withdraw totally and get over those cravings) but this desire for liquid chocolate is not knocking on my head all day long.

It worries me a little because I realise sugar was a crutch.  Just like nicotine was once.  Now I don’t smoke and I am not eating sugar I am not sure how I will deal with a crisis, but hopefully soon my sugar levels wont be quite so crazy and life will seem less crisis filled and more even keeled.

In the meantime I am discovering a new way of eating, not feeling fantastic YET but at least my focus is expanding (and hopefully my waist isn’t)