Taking up the 'Australian Women Writers Challenge'

There's nothing quite like a new year to inspire a fresh challenge. GIven this year has been declared the National Year of Reading in Australia, I have put my hand up for the 2012 Australian Women Writers Challenge. 

What is the challenge and why is it necessary you may cry. Surely there is no need for affirmative action in 2012. Well (ahem) the statistics would appear to suggest otherwise. 


Here's Jane Sullivan in the Sydney Morning Herald:

The whole business of books, reading, writing and publishing is dominated by women. We live, after all, in a society where literature in many ways is a woman's world. Women write about half the books published. Sixty-two per cent of publishers are women (although most senior roles are held by men). Women make up 80 per cent of fiction readers. And according to British research, they buy almost twice as many books of all kinds as men do. And yet there remains a perception that compared with men, women writers and their works, both past and present, are far more often marginalised, belittled, pigeonholed, dismissed, ignored.

Until recently, I would have said that's all it was: a perception, neither proved nor disproved. Then last year, I read some statistics. An American women's literary organisation, VIDA, did a survey of how some of the most important and influential British and American literary and cultural journals looked at books in 2010.

I was shocked to discover that The New York Times Book Review reviewed nearly two books by men to every one by a woman — and that was one of the more generous figures. There are similar figures for Granta, The Paris Review andPoetry. They measured up both the numbers of book reviews written by men and by women and the number of books written by men and women that were reviewed.

It gets worse. The New Republic reviewed 55 books by men and nine by women. At The New Yorker it was 33 books by men, nine by women. At The New York Review of Books, 306 books by men and 59 by women. At The Times Literary Supple-ment, 1036 books by men and 330 by women.

Read more

So, dang it all, I'm up  for it. 


The AWW challenge allows or various levels of engagement. 
I've categorised myself as a 'Miles dabbler' which means I've committed to read 6 and review at least 3 novels by Australian women by year's end. Read more about the challenge.


Over January I spent many delicious hours revelling in a reading of My Brilliant Career, written by an angsty 16 year old Miles Franklin, and published in 1901. 

I first encountered the story when I was 15, via the captivating movie starring Judy Davis, Sam Neill and Wendy Hughes. It had quite an influence on me at the time. 


My reflections on the novel will follow soon on this blog, but I am most certainly after the dvd to add to our collection. 


Next will be Kate Grenville's historical novel, The Secret River. I've selected this because I completely adored The Idea of Perfection which won Grenville the Orange Prize.


Beyond that I will see what tickles my fancy as I'd like to include some hot off-the-press and young adult titles. 


Until then...


Catch up on my AWWC reading to date, together with other literary reviews here.

The Inconvenience of Ageing

Some years back, on the eve of school resuming after summer holidays, my six-year old was visibly distressed. As far as I could tell, he had very little to worry about. My desire for routine's return mingled with the sadness I would feel as my children left the following morning.  But now this stood in the way of a peaceful evening.

A lump swelled somewhere between my throat and belly. I scratched about for positive responses, but the promise of rekindled friendships and games were no match for his angst. This boy-child had never been comfortable with change, and yet his intensity troubled me.

I tucked us both into bed and we lay in his darkened room. I recited A.A Milne, sang funny songs, and willed him to breathe deeply. But I could elicit no remedy. We lay in silence for a time. ‘Grade One is going to be great,’ I told him. But his response revealed deep fear: ‘Mummy, it’s going to get harder and harder every day, and there’s nothing I can do about it.’

He is right of course. Societal expectations increase relentlessly for most of our years. Ability brings independence, demanding responsibility as part of the bargain. But autonomy lasts only as long as a body can keep pace.  In ageing our physical limitations are linked to pride. Independence bleeds into dependence once more.  

Today I watched a woman getting into a car. It was no simple undertaking. She leant on a walking stick, and held onto a companion with her other arm as they shuffled across a carpark. She was, I imagined, in her mid 70s, although her incapacity may have pulled the wool over my eyes. As they neared the car, a third woman emerged from it. At every step in the process the two helped their friend into the vehicle until she finally settled in her seat. At one point they all laughed. Patience was the champion.

When I am sick or injured, I find it perpetually frustrating, but it dawned on me today that at some stage of life my physical abilities will not return: the ability to play sport, to play music, the walk a distance, to feed or wash myself, to tie my laces, or drive, or use the toilet.  I wonder how I'll go with that.

My boy-child is quite right: it does get harder and harder. But the lessons change. Eventually the responsibilities that come with aging require some relinquishment of independence. Such a painful dose of humility and self-reflection is, I am certain, the most difficult change of all.

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Life Experience: the most yawn-worthy qualification in the world?
Wisteria Awakening

'Life Experience': the Most Yawn-Worthy Qualification in the World?

Perhaps I should have anticipated it, but her question took me by surprise.

The young, ambitious, unmarried reporter sits at her newsroom desk. Weekends are hers alone to waste. Her wages are spent on partying, updating her wardrobe and bottled water. One morning she receives a dozen red roses. On another she phones her parents for a loan. She is conducting a phone interview with a couple celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary: What did you think when you first caught sight of each other across the crowded dance floor?

I sit at the neighbouring desk, intern reporter, married - mother of three, attempting a mid-life career change. My weekends are spent aside netball courts, in basketball stadiums, catching up on mountains of washing, and driving kids home from late-night parties. I have just concluded an interview with another 50th anniversary couple, and my questions were altogether different: What is the secret to staying with each other after all these years?

Mine is a question born out of the reality of everyday tedium, from seeing some relationships disintegrate and others thrive. But the rich fodder of experience and time reflect on it, is undervalued these days. Instead titillating tidbits are magnified out of all proportion, painting a false picture of reality and breeding unreal expectations.

Now she asks me a question. What have you got planned for the weekend? I am not bitter, but still I let her have it - from early morning sport to the smelly socks.  Her eyes glaze over. Just as I thought. Experience and loyalty bore people to tears. It is no badge of honour. It's not fun enough.

Thank God it is not the weekend that defines me. Luckily time has given me deep roots: the places, the people, the conversations, the books, the surprising encounters, the tragedies and the stories.

Each day I invite the next adventure and wait for it's riches to work on me.

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portraiture and the facebook phenomenon

Serebryakora - Self Portrait

Imagine painting a self-portrait.

Which features or flaws would become more apparent to the beholder?
Would any of your 'best' features be seen as flaws by others?
Would you portray yourself sitting, standing, gazing out into the distance, or at work?
Would you be wearing everyday clothes, or your best.
Would you pose nude?
Would you position yourself at home, in recreational activity or within a completely other time?
Would you be alone, or surrounded by others? Who might those others be?

What intertextual references would be included, and what would they reveal about you?

Gaughin - Self Portrait

One genre for self-portraits is the social networking juggernaut, Facebook.
The profile presented by clients of Facebook is revealing as much by omissions as what is offered.

Do I see myself in the same way others regard me?

Am I wholly encompassed by what I contribute to facebook? Of course not. It is an imperfect account of who you are, because portraiture is not only who you think you are, but who others believe you to be.

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The Neighbours Taste Like....Chicken?

The Neighbours taste like....chicken? is now published online at The Pluck.
It's a case of My Son the Vegetarian meets Eating the Neighbours pets.
Oh, and comments are welcome. Enjoy!

Squeezing Blood from Stone: productivity in education

Victorian Premier Ted Baillieu says teacher pay rises beyond 2.5% will be linked to increased productivity and major productivity gains. But how is productivity to be measured, or indeed achieved? Larger class sizes? Increased teaching hours? Improved student results? Let’s assume for a moment that better results are directly attributable to the amount of time spent at school, and that progress can be measured by test results.

An international comparison is illuminating. Along with Chinese, South African, Korean and Philippine students, Australian kids have around 200 days of school each year. Only Japanese kids attend more often with a whopping 243 days annually. Kids in the USA (180 days), Canada (194), Sweden (178), France (180) and the United Kingdom (195) all attend school for fewer days than ours.

According to the OECD Programme for International Student Assessment (PISA), days of school appear to be irrelevant when it comes to educational success. In all four assessments of 15 year olds carried out since 2000, across 65 participating nations, Finland has ranked first or second. Last year more than 100 delegations descended on Finland to discover the secret of their success.

Here’s what they found. Finnish students start school at 8 years old. The school year numbers 190 days of 4-7 hours in length. Finnish students have moderate amounts of homework, and no private tuition after school. School is compulsory for nine years and beyond this the retention rate is high. Books for basic education are free, and school meals are provided to ensure students are well nourished. Finland spends around 6% of gross domestic product on free education, Australia spends 4%, and the OECD average is 4.6%. Only a small number of private schools receive government subsidies. Investment in teachers is a high priority with  all Finnish teachers required to have a Masters degree. On average they work almost 3 hours less per week than Australian teachers.

While PISA results from students from some Asian countries are almost as impressive, these are achieved through high student workloads. For its 4-5 weeks additional schooling Japan is only marginally ahead of Australia.

Perhaps when Premier Baillieu talks of ‘major productivity gains’ he is not thinking globally, but nationally. Assuming productivity is to be measured by results, let’s take a look at NAPLAN, the national test given to all students in years 3, 5, 7 and 9. Last year students in Victoria, New South Wales and the ACT were the top performers in the country, despite the fact spending on Victorian students is more than $1,100 per student below the national average.

Here’s the problem. 'Productivity’ is an economic parameter, measuring efficiency in production, and implying a comparison of input, such as capital invested, wages paid, and number employed, with output. But here’s the thing. Educational value can’t be numerically measured because people don’t inhabit the educational environment on a level playing field. Moreover capacity to thrive academically and socially is influenced by many variables, many of which are beyond a school’s power.

Take a bunch of kids on an excursion by train into the Immigration Museum. A refugee child will have a different response to the child with Asperger’s syndrome, or a child with a mild intellectual disability. The experience for one who has never travelled on public transport contrasts with the one who spends 4 hours a night on computer games, or the artistic child, or the train obsessed child, or the child who only gets 5 hours sleep a night because mum works two jobs. It’s impossible to determine whose learning has been of greater value, because what we learn depends on where we have been.

But it’s not just down to the Premier. In Finland teachers are the most highly respected profession, with medical doctors coming in at second place. Victorians have to decide whether education is a priority or not. Ultimately our kids will be better served by well resourced, motivated and valued teaching staff, than by a workforce that is constantly receiving negative signals that they are not doing well enough and must achieve more with less.

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All I Want for Mother's Day is a Bus Every 10 minutes

Last week my nine year-old accosted me with the perennial words, “Mum, I’m bored I don’t know what to do”. Looking up from my newspaper I pondered a whole two seconds before he said – get this – “Hurry up mum, you’re wasting my time”. When I reminded him I don’t have to provide entertainment 24/7, he replied incredulously, “Yes you do – you’re the MUM”.

If television advertising is any measure, my son’s view is widely shared. The closer we get to mother’s day, the louder it becomes. After all, if Nick Riewoldt, grown man and iconic AFL footballer, can take his washing to mum’s why can’t you?  Why, with a hug and grin, or perhaps a new electrical appliance, she’ll happily pick up after you for another whole year.

Think about it. Driving kids around for an afternoon of activities makes me a “great mum”, but teaching a child to read a timetable, hail a bus and buy a ticket borders on negligence. Just ask Lenore Skenazy.

Suburban mums are literally tied to the steering wheel, but what we want and need is half-decent public transport on weekends. There’s plenty of evidence that effective transport is a measure of quality of life, and mothers are getting a raw deal.

Each weekday my two eldest kids get around by using their own legs, which work perfectly well, and the local bus which runs every 15 minutes in peak.

But with hourly buses on weekends it all falls apart. Consequently, I spend my weekends in a car. There’s nothing good about it, save an occasional illuminating conversation, and the chance to erode the 120 hour learner-driver requirement.

Last weekend I clocked up 164 kilometres, taking kids to sport in Lilydale, Forest Hill, Ringwood and Heathmont, and a band practise in Box Hill. Thanks to a Saturday night get-together in Kilsyth South, I made the same 20 minute trip four times. Add the fact 20% of Melbournians are aged 17 and younger, well, you do the maths!

Australia’s National Centre for Social and Economic Modelling includes living in a household without a car as a social exclusion risk measure for children. No surprises there. Buses are the sole means of public transport for over two-thirds of Metropolitan Melbourne, but scant weekend services mean young people depend on lifts or risk social exclusion.

Everyone knows kids need to get out and meet flesh-friends rather than virtual ones, play sport, have part-time jobs, go to parties, and get involved in creative activities. Strange that when independence is enabled, one never hears “I’m bored mum, what can I do”. 

From where I sit (mostly at the traffic lights) the Public Transport Users Association campaign, Every 10 minutes to Everywhere looks a treat, with trams, trains, and main road buses every 10 minutes, from 6am to midnight, 7-days-a-week, and Nightrider buses every half-hour, 7-days-a-week. Do I think it will ever happen?  Do you?

So here’s a tip for Mother’s Day. What she really wants is time, and that’s something you can give. Here’s how. Support the PTUA campaign for increased public transport. Then catch a bus to the shops and buy a long handled claw to pick your own socks up with. Oh and Nick, learn how to use a washing machine would you please. It ain’t rocket science.

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Eating the Neighbour's Pets

Pedro is eating our neighbour’s pets. It’s happened twice now. The first time he scooted through our legs at the front door, sprinting past five minutes later with a glossy black fowl in his jaws. And he kept running. We had no idea where he’d caught the chook, or what he did with it.  And we weren’t inclined to start knocking on doors.

We returned home to Melbourne and dined out on the story. We salved our consciences by concluding the chicken had it coming – it must have been out of its pen after all. Many people were shocked. But Pedro is a Labrador, they pondered, he is so friendly - how could he? Some children refused to pat him despite his waggly tail. Everyone nodded soberly when urged to shut the front door.

Months later we were back at the beach house. I returned from a massage to a flutter of brown and white feathers by the front door. My bloke broke the news. He told how the distressed owner and her pre-school child had followed Pedro home. How Pedro had crunched on his prey as they talked. The chooks were more than a source of eggs, she said, they were the kid’s pets. How the child had looked at our dog. Our dog, eating her pet.

We were ashamed. Our vegetarian son was mortified. Our offer to pay for new chooks was declined. Pedro was banished to the back yard, and what was left of the unfortunate bird deposited in our wheelie bin. My massage, negated.

Veterinarians are increasingly offering yearly checkups to chooks as suburban ownership increases. After initially getting chooks for their laying power, many people develop an attachment, keeping their brood for years after they have stopped laying.  

Live poultry sales to suburban and inner-city households have been doubling in past years, and local council laws typically allow 5-10 backyard hens without registration fees.

Backyard poultry advocates Aussies Living Simply say, “a chook is a pet who pays board”. They say the benefits of keeping hens can’t be measured by egg production alone, as hens eat food scraps and garden bugs, fertilise the garden, and provide companionship and entertainment like other household pets.

“The costs of having your own backyard chooks or other poultry is negligible when you know that the egg they have given you is from a known and trusted friend, for simply giving them a good life and home,” says one member.

But any inclination I had to keep a few hens is now thwarted. Our accidentally free-range dog has developed a taste for free-range poultry. He is canis lupus, a descendent of wolves, an instinct we’ll never override. When he runs free again, and it’s only a matter of time, we’ve promised to run and shut our neighbour’s gate.

We have no right to be mortified, we omnivores. This very moment people all over this globe are hunting their own food. Food they will kill by their own hand, then skin, gut, and cook or eat raw. So while we tut-tut about my dog Pedro, we need to face the fact that our lunch today is what someone else has killed on our behalf. Bon appétit!

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Scott Morrison: tragedy seen in dillusions of worthiness

ABC News Victoria last night was one of the most tragic I have ever seen. The bulletin began with a report on twin four-year old boys, fighting for their lives after being severely burned following an explosion at their home. Next we were told of the death of a 16 month old child, run over by his father in the driveway of their home. And then the funeral for those asylum seekers whose bodies were recovered in the waters off Christmas Island. The death of children and of the parents of children, their bodies encased in plain wooden boxes. No flowers. Whole families lost. An eight year old boy sobbed as his father was buried. His mother and brother were never found. He has no family left. He has no home. He has no country. His prospects are bleak.

If this were not tragedy enough, we then heard from Oppostition Immigration Spokesman Scott Morrison, who has so little empathy he is complaining about the transportation costs of flying relatives to Sydney for the funeral.

Who exactly is Scott Morrison, and what qualifies him to make such a call. On his website we read that Mr Morrison: believes in "helping young people prepare for their future" and "supporting families to stay together". He espouses the values of his parents who taught him "that success in life was about what you contributed, rather than what you accumulated", but he values prosperity. Ironic really. 

Morrison grew up in family active in local community through youth groups, local church and local government. He attended Sydney Boys High, and the University of NSW, where he received an honours degree in Applied Science. He has worked in senior management positions for several companies. Mr Morrison has the privilege of being a regular kayaker on Port Hacking,  "heavily involved in sports" and enjoying "the local beach lifestyle". Sounds lovely doesn't it.  He has a gorgeous young family. He is highly active in the church and attributes a Christian faith as the driving force for his beliefs and values .

And herein lies the tragedy.

Comparisons are rarely fair, and yet I cannot help but wonder how someone who didn't lose his entire family at the age of eight, has presumably never been homeless or unemployed, subject to poverty, racial predjudice, or political persecution, can make such a call. Nowhere do I read that Mr Morrison's family could not even hope to have him educated, or believed that life in their country of origin was so unbearable that they would risk everything in the pursuit of freedom. How is it possible that someone who has been so lucky, can have become so squintingly mean?

None of us had any power over where we were born, and into what circumstances. And this goes for those bruised by cyclones, bushfire and flood in recent days. Likewise good  luck should never be confused with deservingness. Life is never a level playing field and we need to be on guard against anyone who feeds our dillusions of worthiness. All we can do is attempt to walk a while in other's shoes and to respond with the most compassionate of hearts.

About the Christmas Island tragedy
Morrison and anti-muslim sentiment as a vote winner

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No Mate, She WON'T Be Right: facing up to the climate crisis

2010: 

Australia's Warmest Decade on record.

Eastern Australia's Wettest Year on record.

Northern Australia's Wettest "Dry Season" on record.

South Western Australia's driest year on record.

Australia's Wettest Year since 2000 (3rd wettest on record)

As Australia comes up for air after an unprecedeted series of natural disasters, the Bureau of Meteorology's Annual Australian Climate Statement has offered some salient statistics on our changing climate.

It's not the national picture that has me gasping for air, but the extremes experienced across vast tracts of country. Pictorial representations in the report illustrate the climate crisis we appear unwilling and therefore ill-equipped to challenge. Take a look.

Australia's south-west has recorded its lowest rainfall on record at 392mm, well below its previous record low of 439mm in 1940.You can do the percentages on that one. While Northern Australia's "dry season" (May - October) has been the wettest on record with 190mm eclipsing the previous record of 176mm in 1978.  The Murray Darling Basin, notorious for its legendary dryness, has suddenly recorded its wettest year on record.

Nationally Australia has recorded its warmest decade. 2010 was the third wettest year since records began in 1900, and the wettest since 2000. The Bureau of Meteorology  explains that "this underscores that the warming of Australia's climate continues, even though individual years may be cooler than other years".

Suddenly "she'll be right mate" sounds more irresponsible and lazy, than endearingly laid-back.

More on this subject from a global perspective:
Skeptical Science - 2010: Record Warmth and Weird Weather
Grist: Crazy Storms highlight the crazy climate mess we're in

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Secrets

park bench rendezvous:

seniors pry open a scandal,

tickled pink.

wheels of friendship

To read "Wheels of Friendship", published in Readers Digest this month, click on the title of this post.

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Eating the Neighbour's Pets
in a canberra cafe.

my son, the vegetarian

My seven-year-old son and I were cuddled up together on the couch watching a David Attenborough documentary when it happened. Perhaps it was the sight of the bloodied face of a polar bear tucking into his seal steak, or the sight of smaller mammals struggling to find food for their hungry babies.

Whatever the catalyst, it had undoubtedly been mounting for some months, when in an uncharacteristic murmur he sighed, “Mum, I don’t want to eat animals anymore.” Continue reading.

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Julia Gillard: What's in a name?

Today Australia not only has its first female Prime Minister, but the first 'Julia' to assume primary political status anywhere in the world.

Until now, Julias have played second fiddle in the political orchestra. Julius Caesar had two sisters called Julia. Julia Tyler(1820-89) was the second wife of US President Tyler. Julia Carson was the second African American woman elected to Congress from Indiana.

And yet Julias have topped the ranks in other arenas.

Julia Child television chef and author.

Julia Morgan is the most important female architect in history.

Julia Farr established the Home for the Incurables in 1878 in South Australia.

Julia Ward Howe - wrote the Battle Hymn of the Republic and the Mother's Day Proclamation (1870)

Julia Roberts is one of the first actors to earn $20 million dollars a picture, and one of the few older women to maintain a professional presence despite Hollywood's preference for younger female actors.

The traditional meaning of the name Julia is given as "soft haired and youthful". If her namesakes are any indicator, Julia Gillard's Prime Ministership can be expected to include reform, creative problem solving and dogged persistence in the face of great adversity. Such attributes can certainly be seen in her political contribution so far.

Talk continues about the under-representation of women in leadership positions in Australia, and particularly a study that suggests women are being set up to fail. The study reports that leadership responsibility is frequently given to women when companies are already in dire straits. With a Federal Election looming, one wonders if history is being repeated in the federal arena today.

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More Famous Julias

Please use "SH" only when required.

Forget Swine Flu, "SH" affliction, also known as SHVIRUS" is spreading like a rash through Australian speech. Once the domain of sporting media commentators and heros, "SHVIRUS" can now be heard amongst young Australians, television chefs and even federal politicians.

So what is the SHVIRUS, and how do people catch it?
Put simply it is caught by individuals with an apparent inability to pronounce "STR" effectively. This means words like Australia become Aushtralia. As someone with a slight lisp, I recognise that the "SH" can cover up my impediment. However, the pay off is that I appear lazy and, worse, that I risk association with spin-bowler Shane Warne (one of the serial offenders).

Not only is SHVIRUS affecting phonetic spelling in Australia classrooms, but unionists risk being mistaken for bird enthusiasts as they propose a "shtrike'( a word closely resembling shrike which refers to any of the numerous predacious birds of the family Laniidae of Eurasia or Africa with a strong hooked and toothed bill[Macquarie].

It is, I believe, only a matter of time before those with "SH" affliction drop the T altogether, so that stress becomes "shress", strong becomes shrong, and struggle morphs into a nonchalant "shruggle". Drop both T and R, and straw becomes sure, street becomes sheet and struth becomes shuth. And where would we be then!

So let us rally ye language lovers. Rally against the demise of three-letter-blends. Rise up against those seeking to disguise speech impediments through mispronounciation. The time is now, the cause is just, the likelihood of success - impossible.

after 9am

After 9am change creeps in at the edges.

Until now there has been no colour here. No flamboyance or daring. The people wear black and grey, ties and heels. The only exception is the fluro green shirts of the hard hats on 'smoko'. Yet their conformity is similarly inscribed by colour.

After 9 o'clock there is a gap.

In walks a checked shirt with rolled-up sleeves and beige corduroy trousers. He is prominent beside his companion in non-descript pale blue shirt and tie.

Soon after a red jacket strides in.

A sky blue umbrella.

A fitted cardigan with spotted collar and cuffs.

And there, an open-necked shirt strides past, swinging a supermarket-bag-lunch beside him.

A brown zipped-up knit is closely followed by yellow tie, who mocks the dress-code by an overstated bowler hat. This young Rumpole twirls an oversized umbrella as if a walking cane.

A solid African man in a serious suit has chosen a lolly-pink tie and carries an umbrella in pastel purple.

After 9am a breath of fresh air blows through a city office.

in a canberra cafe

A woman is weeping by the door. I turn from my early morning coffee to see her squatting by a table on the floor. Another woman wearing a red jacket and serious hair approaches and tries to console her. The sobbing is confronting. It is impossible not to listen.

"You need to pull yourself together. You are much loved here," she says.

She has received a letter, complaining about her work. The letter deals in generalities and she has no idea what the complaints are.

Red Jacket helps her onto a chair and says,
"They sent you a letter? What the hell is that? Why can't they say we need to have a chat?

She is beside herself. People walk past with coffee-to-go to wait for elevators up to the government department offices. They barely acknowledge the drama through the glass walls.

Now her sobs are punctuated by short little gasps. Red Jacket is trying to find a way through the fog.

"They need to outline the complaints clearly. They have to give you the opportunity to respond to the criticism. They mustn't have enought work to do to create all this drama. They wrote you a letter - how ironic is that!"

After some time Red Jacket makes her goodbyes.
"Are you alright? Don't come back up until you've calmed down, and then you need to go straight in and sort it out."

Time passes. Forty minutes of it, and she is still sitting there staring at the table top. Calm. Immobile. Alone. Life on pause.

A man walks past and calls, "good morning". He double-takes at her blotchy face and scurries for the lift. Late.

Letters are sent by people who lack confidence to talk face-to-face. They are serious, they assert power, and they are gutless. Letters imply there is no room for discussion. They keep a recipient at arms length, inhibiting relationship.

She has a phone call. She is speaking in a tongue I do not recognise, laughing quietly, murmuring. This is where her strength will be born. A phone call from one who grants her respect through conversation.

And suddenly I look up and she is gone. I wonder how she will redeem the day.

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mothering: prevention, protection, permission and paralysis

So much for minding your own business. The other night I was watching the news, when Victoria Police's Deputy Commissioner, Ken Lay, came on. In his trademark husky tones, Uncle Ken urged parents to get their learner drivers out on these wet roads, to experience adverse weather conditions.

"Good idea," I thought. Grabbing the car keys from the benchtop I dashed off to find my 16 year-old learner driver girl-child.

"Why mother," she cooed, "how lovely to see you here in my personal space? Can I make you a cup-of-tea?"

"That's very nice of you my darling," I murmured, "but it's raining, and we have to get out there right away."

And she, being a typical adolescent offspring, flashed me her beautiful smile and immediately sprang into action, leaving her facebook friends for dead.

Ok so I'm telling porky-pies. Here's what really happened.

I was sitting on the couch minding my own business and Ken Lay came on, and said his piece. And I thought to myself, "What a good idea. All those learner drivers should be out there in these greasy conditions, trying not to slide into the back of each other's rear-ends, or taking wide-swinging corners, or dodging those pesky pedestrians who dart out in front of you to cross the road because they've forgotten their umbrella and can't be stuffed walking down to the lights and waiting around in these precipitous conditions. Sounds like an invitation to stay curled up here on the couch, and keep right out of their collective way."

And then it hits me. Damn it all, this is one of the those paralysing motherhood moments, like when they go out partying with people you've never even heard of, or get onto public transport alone for the first time, or head off for their first day of school. And you know it's the beginning of the end of something.

If you've never taught your own child to drive, you can't possibly know how it feels. The same person who completely missed the glass when pouring a drink this morning, who can't seem to remember to shut the fridge door, and who forgets to go to bed at night, now has your life in their hands. It is absolutely terrifying. Just this week a friend recalled how her own daughter had driven straight through a stop sign, just to avoid a handbrake start.

I remember my own driving lessons with dad. My older sister and I were learning at the same time, and my mother refused to take us out. Sometimes we'd come home in tears and tell dad, who never yelled and who we hadn't noticed was sweating profusely, that he had no idea what we were going through, and that he was paranoid, and impatient, and strict.

According to research, up to 20% more car accidents occur in wet conditions, so it stands to reason we parents need to get our act together. If you believe all the hoohah, mothers are to blame for most of the world's wrongs: obesity, delinquency, cyber-bullying, street violence, alcoholism. Not to mention school results. Let's not go there.

And now here I am on the couch, and I know I am not going to budge.

Not today.

I am flawed, I am paralysed, I am exhausted.

My man walks in from work, and I nearly say, "It's a nice night for a drive."

But I don't.

And he starts talking about something else.

And we move on.

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