Thou Shalt not Steal

Can you remember the first time you did something really naughty?  I can.  When mum and dad decided to build a house in a growing area in Legana, we moved next door to an interesting family.  The C family consisted of a husband and wife and their two foster sons.  The eldest son, Anthony was intellectually disabled.  He also suffered with other health issues that included epilepsy.  I don’t know all of Anthony’s health issues but I do know that he did not fit frequently.  It was only on rare occasions.  Anthony was a few years older than I and when we were younger we used to play together.  There was a wire fence that separated the two properties and we used to put our trampolines right up to the fence, bend the barbed wire down so that it was underneath the frame of the trampolines and jump from one trampoline to the other.  We always had the radio blasting and we would sing and dance on our trampolines together.  I remember Anthony once used a rough word.  Not really a swear word but something that is certainly not in my vocabulary today (not audibly anyway).  I had no idea what it meant.  That night was family night and I was playing a card game with my mum and dad.  I got dealt a lousy hand or something and I called out the newly learnt word, supposing it was the equivalent of saying ‘shoot’.  I knew from the look on my dad’s face that I had said the wrong thing so I started crying.  Mum and dad just looked at each other and they started laughing.  Seeing that all was not lost, my parents explained to me that the word I had used was inappropriate.  Assuring me that I had not committed some terrible sin, we resumed the game, lesson learned and life went on.  I have since used that word a number of times in my teenage years and also on the odd occasion under my breath in more recent years (if I’m to be truly honest). 

Ok, so that was pretty tame.  The first thing I remember doing that truly tested my integrity was stealing.  I was seven years of age at the time.  My parents’ property was surrounded by a number of neighbours on smaller acreage.  We had in total seven homes that bordered our house.  There were a lot of children in the area.  There were twin girls, just a little younger than I, who lived over our back fence.  They had beautiful long blonde hair, a far cry from the short ‘boy’ hair style I had at the time.  I don’t know why but I rarely played with these little girls. Perhaps it was a case of ‘two’s company, three’s a crowd”.  One Saturday afternoon I was playing over at their house.  They had a bit of a play room with a ton of dress-ups.  My favourite thing to dress up in was their Rapunzel wig.  You can imagine why.  I loved that wig so much, I wanted one for myself.  I must have wanted it so badly that whilst the girls weren’t looking, I took off out of their house (wearing the wig), jumped their back fence and tore off into my bedroom.  I had made up some story to my mum about finding the wig when I was out and about with friends.

The next morning I was excited to try on the wig again but to my horror it was not where I had left it.  Upon enquiry, my mother explained that it was dirty to wear something like that “you don’t know who it belonged to or where it had been”.  Little did she know.

the eyes of innocence

This is my earliest recollection of a sin or crime that I had committed.  We are born into this world innocent, free from sin, redeemed through the mercy of Jesus Christ.  Little children “cannot sin, for power is not given unto Satan to tempt little children, until they begin to become accountable unto me” (D&C 29:46-47). One only has to look into the eyes of a newborn baby to know that they are not guilty of anything that our great father Adam committed way back when the world began, nor are they capable of knowingly doing something wrong.  This is why in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, children are not baptised until the age of eight.  This was the age considered by the Lord to be the age whereby children had learnt right from wrong and became accountable for their sins and follies.  This direction came from Jesus Christ through revelation to the prophet Joseph Smith. 

little children are precious

Baptism by one who holds the proper priesthood authority is necessary for becoming a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.  It is also the gateway to receiving eternal life.  When we are baptised by immersion (as was Jesus), it is symbolic of the death of a person’s sinful life and the rebirth into a spiritual life.  A life dedicated to the service of God and His children. 

As a seven year old, preparing for this step of baptism, I can honestly say that I had developed cognitively enough to be able to reason as to whether or not I should confess to my theft of the Rapunzel wig.  I decided that pretty soon I was going to be baptised and that would take care of any sins I had committed in my life between birth and eight years of age.  My sins were simply going to be washed away when I went down into that water.  It would be the “death of [my] sinful life” right?  The plan made perfect sense to me and I was sticking to it.  Sure I felt guilty, but in a few months time, I was going to be free!

This was not the case.  Thankfully my parents had modelled honesty in my home.  They truly practiced what they preached in this sense.  I vividly remember the feeling of guilt I had as a child for what I had done.  Whilst I was busy during the day, I rarely gave it much thought.  It was at night, when all is quiet and you are left to ponder, that was when it became more difficult to live with.  You know those moments you have right before you slip quietly to sleep?  These moments for me at this time were filled with discomfort.  The pillow didn’t feel right, I felt hot and that made me itch and I had a lump in my throat.  This went on every night for weeks.  One Sunday morning as my parents and I were getting ready for church I asked dad if I could talk to him in my room.  I remember him sitting himself down on my little seat that was at the foot of my bed.  With tears in my eyes I told him what I had done.  He wrapped his arms around me (gave me that pat on the butt and a dig in the ribs) and told me that everything would be alright if I were to go and confess to the neighbours.

The date was scheduled.  I don’t remember what was said although I can still remember the awkwardness of the situation.  The twins’ parents were thankful for my speaking with them and all was forgiven.  This was an amazing experience for a seven year old.  I remember walking away from our neighbour’s house with a real weight lifted from off of my shoulders.  It taught me a real lesson.  I never wanted to steal again.  And, I never have.

Tools for Tools

I am learning some valuable lessons in my life right now.  Last night I was taught of how important it is to give our children tools for dealing with their emotions, anxiety, frustrations etc.  I have had wonderful and giving parents in my life who have given me many tools, but I think I can safely say that I was not given the tools to cope with some of the above mentioned things in my life.

I know this is not a conscious thing that parents withhold from their children.  They are not about to say within themselves, “I am not going to teach my children strategies for dealing with grief (for example)”.   I think in many instances - particularly with my parents’ generation – they were not taught.  My mum could give you sermon upon sermon about how she was taught the value of work and sacrifice, honesty, respect for one’s elders, how to save, how to use manners and how to show gratitude.  However, according to her, there were certain things that were never discussed.  These things, I feel were often the things of the heart.  I see generations of people who do not know how to say “I love you”.  It was very hard for my father to say “I love you” or “sorry”.  In saying that, I know that my father loved me.  There are so many people that do not know how to comfort another or how to embrace.  These people look stiff and awkward when someone extends what the other feels is a warm gesture. 

Levi giving Tori a kiss

Don’t you think it’s interesting how little babies love to be held?  Whenever they have wind, a bump or are just uncomfortable and fussy, they want to be encircled about by loving arms.  What happens in our lives to change that?  How do some of us go from that natural in-born desire to be held and comforted to that awkwardness when someone wants to extend a warm embrace or that polite welcoming kiss on the cheek?  I think it’s taught.

I give thanks for my mother’s European heritage.  Something I love about the people from her homeland is the warm greetings.  Perhaps not for her cultural background, I too would find affection awkward unless behind closed doors with my significant other. 

Both my parents cannot remember their parents telling them they loved them.  My mum tells me she loves me all the time but my dad found this very hard.  I remember one time, I was about 18.  He was dropping me off in town to meet up with a group of friends.  As I was about to exit his utility vehicle, he said very quickly “love ya girl”.  That was it.  I remember that vividly.  He has told me since then that he loved me.  These instances were few, usually after I’d told him I loved him first and a few of those times were in his last days on this earth.  Affection was hard for him. The mind boggles on how my siblings and I were ever conceived due to the lack of affection he showed towards our mother.  He just found it awkward.  No doubt he loved all of us but his idea of affection was a brief hug, pat on the butt and a jab in the ribs a couple of times with the index finger.  I believe my dad was not given the tools to express himself. 

How then is he to equip me with those tools when he doesn’t have them himself?   My mother had some tools.  She knew how to snuggle, say “I love you” and give words of affirmation.  But tools for dealing with other emotions, she lacked.  Some she still lacks (sorry mum), but others she has acquired through life’s experiences and challenges. 

 It is my aim to learn how to express myself better, in positive ways.  I want to be able to say “I’m hurting because…” or I’m feeling frustrated because…” Rather than get worked up inside and then explode.  I need to learn those tools so I can pass them on to my children and they can then pass them on to theirs.  I really believe these tools are needed in this harsh and often cold world we live in, where secular tools have higher value than the tools needed to have better and lasting relationships. 

My first Kiss

Nyah begged us to take her to the temple so
she could walk around the grounds.  She felt
the need to dress in her white Barbie dress

In the last year we have had three weddings in the Stancombe/Reeve families and a number of friend's weddings that we have attended here in Melbourne.  One wedding has been on the beach, another in the beautiful Tasmanian wilderness and the others have been in a holy temple.  My eldest daughter Nyah, with all her dreams of becoming a princess one day, has been fascinated by these weddings.  Marriage is the cause of much conversation in our household.  I had noticed that Nyah was quite fond of a little guy in our ward (congregation) at church.  It was last Christmas in her church Primary class that her little boy friend was asked to play the role of Joseph.  I gathered from her description that her teachers where getting some of the children to play out the Nativity story.  Nyah was horrified when another little girl was chosen to be Mary.  She was telling me that “Abe and Alara had to link arms like this”….  Then she proceeded to show me exactly how it was done.  I asked if she would have liked to have been Mary and been able to link arms with Abe.  She blushed, did a nervous little giggle and said “yes”.  I had opened the flood gates of what became open conversation about Nyah marrying Abe in the temple followed by pictures of them getting married in the temple and donning her white Barbie dress and dance around talking about how it was her wedding dress.  Her father was quite alarmed for fear her was no longer Nyah’s favourite man.  It seemed like just yesterday Nyah had said “I’m going to marry daddy”.  This was quickly followed by “and Jesus”.  I didn’t think either one was morally right so I lovingly said “well darling, if you marry some one like daddy and like Jesus, you can’t go far wrong”. 

just one of the many portraits of Nyah and Abe together

So here is my four year old daughter gushing and getting a little silly wherever she would see Abe.  Here I was thinking, ‘this is way too young to be thinking about boys’.  Jim even sat her down for a little talk.  Imagine this for a moment.  Nyah has drawn a picture of her and Abe with hearts all over the page.  She has shown this to her father and told him that she loves Abe.  Jim sits her down and starts telling her about love.  He tells her about the love he have for our parents, our brothers and sisters, our friends and the love people must have for each other that would make them want to be married and committed to each other for all eternity.  Nyah listened intently and said “but daddy, Jesus said love everyone”.  And she was right.  A reminder to me of the following scripture found in the Book of Mormon:  “Therefore, whoso repenteth and cometh unto me as a little child, him will I receive, for of such is the kingdom of God” (3 Nephi 9:22).  And in Matthew 5:8 “Blessed are the pure in heart”. 

I reflected on what I was like when at Nyah’s age with regards to boys.  I too had a first love when I was around the same age as Nyah.  For the purpose of this blog we will call the boy Matty.  This may or may not be his real name.  He was about 18 months older than I.  I wanted to sit with him in primary and play kiss-chase after church.  As I got a little older it was no secret that I fancied Matty.  I began writing it on every page in the journal that I kept.  I was quite the lyricist.  Dad gave me a little tape recorder that had a microphone and on rainy days after school I would record myself singing all these ballads about Matty and I.  Now as a mother I watch Nyah doing the very same thing.  Her songs don’t really make much sense, but they are – in a round about way- about love and princesses and marrying Abe in the temple (which to a young child looks much like a princess castle). 

The San Diego Temple looks very
much like a castle 

In my teenage years, my girlfriends made me sign a “document” in my journal stating that I would marry none, other than the above mentioned ‘Matty’.  There are signatures of witnesses to this ‘document’ and everything.   I still have it in storage somewhere.  Good thing Matty didn’t sign anything, or we could be in a real pickle right about now. 

When you have grown up in Tasmania there are strong connections all over the State.  Everybody knows everybody or at least you know someone that knows everybody.  In my home town, you generally have a connection - either personally or through friends – with most people in your age group from the schools within a 20km radius.  A good friend of mine (Katrina) in my forth year of primary school did gymnastics with a girl from another school in the area.  Her name was Lucy.  Lucy and Katrina were good friends through gymnastics and on few occasions the three of us got together at Katrina’s and they showed me all their cartwheels and flips, attempting to show me how to do them.  They were a lot more agile than me.  I was just too lanky.  Interestingly enough, all three of us had something very much in common… we all camped with our families at the same beach each summer break.  So too did Matty’s family.  Matty’s family knew Lucy’s family whether it be through school, sport or other community events I do not know but when we were at the beach over the summer, we would all see each other from time to time. 

Lucy had an older sister by the name of Jess.  As a nine or ten year old I found Jess to be quite intimidating.  She had beautiful long dark hair and striking dark brown eyes.  Lucy and Katrina had told Jessy of my secret love for Matty.  The three of them dared me to go and kiss him.  I was so nervous and I really didn't know how I was going to approach the situation. Perhaps this is my earliest recollection of giving in to peer pressure.  I will admit, it really didn't take too much convincing.

So, as Matty headed off with a little net and a bucket to go and catch some fish in the rock pools on Croquet Lawn beach, I called out to him.  “Matty”, I said.  “I have a secret to tell you”.  He paused in his tracks and I ran up to him, pretended to whisper in his ear and then planted one on him.  The disappointing thing was I missed his lips.  I think I got his eye.  I didn’t stick around to see his reaction. I ran away, surely with a bright red face.  The girls found it quite amusing.  Matty did end up returning my kiss by the end of the day.  He was right on target and thus I received my very first kiss.  This was the first of many from him over the years, including the odd encounter at Mutual (youth group) on the roof of the church building. There you have it, the real reasoning for relocating the Launceston church steeple to the middle of the lawn.  It was so no one could shimmy up it to climb onto the roof for a bit of a kiss.

And what of Katrina, Jess and Lucy you ask?  Katrina and I remained good friends right through our school years and we are still in contact today.  Jess and Lucy later became my sisters-in-law after I met and married their little brother, Jimmy. Fancy that.

Little Jimmy on the beach at Bridport with his sisters.
Approximately 15 years later we would meet.
I've been kissing him now for almost 10 years.
He's the best kiss.

Where do I fit in?

I started to become stuck in the middle somehow.  I was not in the age bracket of my siblings, but I didn’t feel like I was in the age bracket of my nieces and nephews either.  

In my elementary school years I never really felt like I fit in anywhere.  There were a hand full of girls I hung out with but I always felt different.  I was made to feel a little different.  I’m sure many can relate to this.  Jim and I laugh about things like this now but as a child it was HUGE.  I remember I pestered mum to let me do jazz ballet like my girlfriends were starting up.  It was held in the school recreational hall after school.  Everybody came in all their new leotards, looking smashing.  You could tell they had gone out and gotten the proper gear.  Little Krissy on the other hand had her Kmart specials on.  You could just tell they were a little poorer in quality.  Nothing really fit right.  I got sick and was unable to attend one week and when I went back, I got laughed at because I just wasn’t picking things up as quickly.  I felt so behind and I gave it up.  I did not feel much like part of the group either.  It was a horrible feeling for this skinny little awkward seven year old child.

In grade 3, there was this mouthy kid in my class who often had large green booger pipes hanging out his nose.  He was revolting.  I came to school in my new track pants for PE.  The silky Adidas tracky daks were all the rage.  I had on my Kmart special version of the silky Adidas pants and this snotty kid called me “two striper” whenever I would wear them.  The imitation trackies had two stripes instead of the three stripes that the Adidas brand has.  The question in my mind was “who are you to be calling me ‘two striper’ when you have two green pipes oozing out your nose”?  Another question in my mind was, “why didn’t mum just buy me the Adidas ones?  Would it have killed her?  It’s not like she couldn’t afford them.  Mum just never bought into the whole brand name thing.  The Kmart track pants served their purpose.  So too did the Aerosport shoes (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BINEcbangsw) with the Velcro straps at the front.  Now, getting bak to the snotty-nosed kid… to this day, I cannot understand how he never felt those nasty boogers running down his face.  Some interesting trivia for you is that this revolting kid did actually turn out to be a handsome young lad.  I actually received a New Years kiss from him many years later.  Ah, time heals all wounds hey?

I was an awkward looking kid.  I had the thinnest of thin hair that was silvery white.  My hair cut seriously looked like my mother had stuck a bowl (or a stack hat) on top of my head and quite literally trimmed around it.  I was skinny.  My legs looked like a flamingos and when I ran it kind of looked like I was going to get tangled up in them.  Just like Mr Tickle’s arms from the Mr Men series.  I was not a bad little runner though.  My dad took footage of me over the years running in the school cross-countries and athletics carnivals and a highlight for me was the footage from grade one.  There you see this gangly-looking child running towards the finish line, then stopping to walk because every body else was so far behind.  Clearly I didn’t want to show the others up too much.

Interestingly enough,
later in my life I was referred to as Barbie.
Complement or insult?

This was another thing that set me a part from the girls in my class.  They seemed to be creative in the arts and they enjoyed reading and were confident with numbers.  I was a tomboy.  My home life was making cubby houses in the bush, riding my bike or roller blading around the neighbourhood.  In the wintertime, when it was dark, I would be found indoors constructing large villages with my Lego.  The girls in my class were into Cabbage Patch and Barbie Dolls.  I actually never owned a Cabbage Patch Doll and my first Barbie was given to me by my friend Lara for my birthday.  I think was an attempt at making me a little more girly.  I think my mother did a better job of that in later years, but that story is for an other time. 

                                                        

Being Replaced

It is said, “Change is as good as a holiday”.  Is it really?  Perhaps you are thinking this is my sob story about my life growing up with older parents and older siblings, very old and deceased grandparents etc.  Do I think my life has been tough?  No, not really.  I have been very blessed to have been surrounded by good people who love me.  At the time of my father’s funeral, a friend of mine said to me “you were blessed to have a dad”.  Indeed I was, especially one that tried to live up to that precious responsibility.  These writings are not only for my posterity to learn a little about me, but I am also using it as a means of self discovery.  What makes me tick?  Why do I feel certain things?  Why to I view things in a certain way? Why in heavens name am I not the perfect mother I planned to be?  I am beginning to see a pattern emerging and this is why I am finding it beneficial for me (given my current ‘issues’), to get it all down.  Thomas S Monson said “learn from the past, live for today and prepare for the future”.   On reflecting on the past, I am hoping to learn from it.  Perhaps if I can understand myself a little better, I can understand others a little better also.

 So, here I was at what felt like the top of the world for a child.  I felt like the centre of the universe.  I actually remember what that was like.  

Nyah with her cousins on my side of the family

I have this image in my mind of my daughter Nyah who was about 9 or 10 months old at the time.  We were having one of the usual monthly family dinners at my parents place.  Nyah was sitting on the floor in the middle of the lounge.  Surrounding her were her eight cousins.  They were quite literally lying on the floor in a circle facing her, cooing over her and smiling and laughing with her.  She was delighted to be receiving such attention.  I am sure at that time she felt like she was the centre of the universe.   When Levi was born, things changed slightly.  This attention that was all hers now had to be shared.  Nyah got used to that very quickly.  I believe, looking back on things, I didn’t deal with these changes quite as well as Nyah.

'Aunty Kaye' made my cakes from this well-loved cake book'

The most recognisable changes I felt in my early school years were the sudden influx of grandchildren.  I’m not talking about the grandchildren that were introduced into this world via my siblings.  I’m talking about everybody else’s grandchildren.  I was the surrogate grandchild for a good few years and then, almost overnight, that ceased.  The birthday and Christmas presents stopped, then the especially made birthday cake from ‘aunty Kaye’ stopped, and as the years rolled on, the cards stopped.  Boo hoo, you say.  Sure, it really was not a huge deal, but I certainly noticed the absence, especially those beautiful birthday cakes.  

I must have realised subconsciously that I was no longer the favourite.  I was being replaced.

The Only Child

There were certainly bonuses to being born when I was born.  I was the centre of attention with my mum, dad, siblings, their spouses and my mum and dad’s friends.  Most of mum and dad’s friends were not yet grandparents so I was like this surrogate granddaughter for them all.  For all the special occasions I got well looked after.  My siblings both consider me to be a little spoiled compared to them I am sure.  Mum and dad were never short of babysitters.  My mum and dad’s friends were like uncles and aunties to me.  In fact, that’s exactly what I used to call them – uncle Eldon, aunty Kaye etc etc.  It wasn’t that this was confusing to me or anything.  I knew who my real uncles and aunties were, this was just the way I was taught to show respect for my elders, those who were like family to me.  I was closer in age to my second cousins than I was my first cousins.  I became an aunty myself when I was 4 ½ year of age. 

I gained an imaginary friend when I was quite young.  His name was Riethoff (Riethoff was my mother’s maiden name).  Surely this is common in many children.  I know my daughter Nyah had an imaginary friend for a little while.  Jazzamort (the imaginary friend) disappeared when Levi was about 6 months of age.  I wonder where Reithoff and Jazzamort went to.  Maybe they are playing together somewhere in the land of imaginary friends. 

When my parents built a home in Legana in a growing area, I had no need for an imaginary friend.  There were plenty of children to keep me company.  These children became like my brothers and sisters.  I was always entertaining the children in the neighbourhood.  Our home was built on an acre of land.  There was plenty of space for hide and seek, chases and so forth.  I had a trampoline and later dad built a swimming pool.  The freezer was always stocked full of icy poles which I often used to bribe some of the local kids to perform one of the many ‘shows’ I liked to put on for the neighbourhood parents.  There were always ‘shows’ or picnics up long tracks in the middle of the bush.  The mums around the place would have to trek through the bush to were the neighbourhood kids would have set up some lame little tea party, instigated by ‘yours truly’. 

I think the performer in me was brought on by my father’s excessive filming.  He wanted to get me doing all these cute things for my sister who was living in New Zealand.  I’d have to stand in a certain place and say certain things at exactly the right time.  Later dad and I would sing together and this would be recorded on both video and cassette tape.  I attribute my love of music and song to my father who enjoys both equally.  So kids, if you think my excessive photography drives you nuts, blame it on your Opa, I learned it all from him.

For the most part, I really didn’t notice not having siblings in the home with me.  I can’t say this is true of Easter and Christmases though.  I loved this time of year but I missed out on the collaborative hype that happens amongst siblings. 

When I hear of the cute little things that Jim and his siblings used to do on Christmas Eve (like the infamous ‘bum kick’), I wish I had shared those sorts of experiences with my siblings.  I’ve heard stories about my brother taking me on the blockie route in his Torana.  I was very small.  I don’t remember it, but I’m confident that my peers weren’t doing the same at my age.  I think they probably had to wait a good few years before they could say they turned the blockie route in Launceston.  And I suppose there aren’t too many that can say they have showered with their brother-in-law and their sister was ok with it.  Of course I am happy to say these chance encounters did come to an end once I reached a certain age.

That’s not the only thing that changed once I reached a certain age.

Setting the Stage

I realise that by sharing certain things on this blog I could possibly be opening up a can of worms.  I am not only revealing things about myself, but I am very likely going to touch on things about other members of my family - one of these being my husband.  It may not come as a surprise to the majority of people who know Jim, but for the record, Jim is a planner. 

We moved into our little home in late March 2006.  For the year prior to this I had been on Jim’s case about the fact that I was about to turn 26 and that my biological clock was ticking.  Some of you may be thinking that these days 26 is a reasonable age for a woman to have her first baby, but for me (given that I wanted to be done having children by age 30), 26 seemed old. 

 My mother was in her 41^st year and my father in his 47^th year when I was born.  I was born almost 20 years after my sister and 17 years after my brother.  My sister married the day after my first birthday and moved to New Zealand with her new husband.  I had a wonderful childhood, but it was very different to that of my peers.  It was obvious to all that my parents were much older.  My mother and father were indeed energetic and I never noticed the age difference as far as that was concerned but I did in other ways.  My mother was born in Holland in the year 1940.  She migrated with her family to Australia in 1953, she being only 12.  None of the family knew any English.  They all learned as they went along.  The family was sponsored out by a family who lived in Legana, Tasmania.  This is where my parents met.  My dad’s best friends were my mother’s twin brothers.  When I was born, my mother took one look at me and called me her little “poppy”.  Poppy, means dolly in Dutch.  The nickname Poppy has stuck ever since.  In fact, I rarely heard my father call me by my given name.  There are still a select few people that call me Poppy today. 

I remember one occasion whilst I was camping with my mum and dad at Bridport (which we did every summer holidays), I had been playing on the beach with a little girl by the name of Tamara.  I had seen her around previous summers as she would come down for a week with her sister to stay with their grandparents in their caravan by the beach.  Whilst we were playing on the beach together, Tamara’s grandfather said “this little girl (referring to me), is here with her poppy too”.  I very quickly said, “No that’s not right, I’m Poppy”.  This was common. My parents were often mistaken for my grandparents.

I recall at a very young age, probably six or seven, lying awake at night contemplating.  I used to be concerned with my parents age.  I remember getting upset, thinking that my parents would not be around to see me graduate from school, get married or become a mother.  I worried that my children would never get to have the kind of grandparents that their other friends would have.  To this day, I clearly remember those feelings of concern.  Fairly deep for a child of that age perhaps, who was living in a loving and nurturing home.

My dad’s mother had passed away long before I was born.  My Opa passed when I was 7 and my Oma (who I was pretty close to) passed when I was 15.  My dad’s dad lived till his 103^rd year and he passed whilst I was overseas serving a mission for my church.  Today, I see many children at parks around Melbourne with their grandparents.  Whilst my brother and sister spent time with grandparents (primarily our Oma whilst mum was at work in the orchards nearby), I didn’t really have that and I guess a part of me, misses that. 

Finding Our Love Nest

The prospect of being able to say “our baby was made in China”, or Egypt or any other of the foreign places we went to was something that I found enticing.  Stupid really now that I think about it.  I had no real idea of what being pregnant was like.  I didn’t even know how long it took for a foetus to grow in the womb.  I new it was nine months but when I heard people talking in weeks, I was completely lost.  Just another reason why I think I married someone wonderful with numbers.  The language of mathematics confuses me.

When Jim and I returned from overseas we lived with my parents.  The plan was to stay their briefly until we found our feet.  Soon after we had obtained jobs and I had started my degree at university, we purchased a little love nest.  Our first home!  It was a lovely little three bedroom home in Summerhill, Tasmania.  We had been looking for a little while at quite a few houses but nothing really grabbed us.  Jim’s aunty - a real estate agent – mentioned that she had a little home on the market that was worth having a look at.  We walked through the front door and immediately I noticed the apricot-coloured walls.  There was also a hint of cigarette fragrance in the home and that certainly was not a selling point for me.  As we parted company with the agent, we both mentioned how we felt really good about the property.  I could even imagine us in the home and what we could do to make it just that little bit “Stancombe”.  The colour of the walls was the first thing that had to go.  We discussed the price together, prayed about it and offered a lazy $20,000 less.  We figured that it was worth a shot.  What did we have to lose? 

Jim’s aunty giggled at the offer and was close to not going to passing it in.  I believe at this stage it is important to note that my darling husband is… well… some have said “tight”.  I like to say “frugal”.  Jim and I were in Melbourne for the weekend when we received a call from Aunty Kathy to say that our offer had been accepted.  Jim’s frugality came through for us and we became the proud owners (in partnership with the bank), of our own little brick and tile house.

We were blessed to be the recipients of the $7000 first home owner’s grant.  The deal with that you had to live in the property for six months within the first year of purchasing it.  My parents were headed off in their campervan, bound for “the big island” to vacation for 5 or 6 months.  This was looking perfect for us.  The idea was that we would housesit for them, rent out our little home for 6 months (thus having someone else pay the mortgage for that period of time) and then we would move in.  Sounds ideal huh?  And truly it was.  Alas, my father took ill and on the day they were supported to catch the ferry to the mainland, he announced to my mother that he was “physically and emotionally not able to go”.  Having just leased our home we were stuck.  Stuck living with my mum and dad for six months.  Was it terrible?  No not really.  My life as a wife for this period of time was very cushy.  For anyone who knows my mother, they know that she is always busy.  She is a doer.  She washed for us, cooked for us and even ironed my husband’s work shirts.  I think if I’d have left the bed unmade she would have probably gone and done that for us too.  This was her way of saying “I love you”.  It had been this way my whole life with mum.  I do think a mission was the best medicine for me to grow up and learn to do things on my own.

There is more to these living arrangements.  Things got a little more crowded up on ‘The Hill’ at my parent’s abode.  My sister and her husband had just sold their home and were in the process of building a new family home on the acreage that adjoined my parent’s property.  As a side note here, I must confess that my favourite television program is an Australian drama titled “Packed to the Rafters”.  I mention that because The serieis centres around the characters Dave and Julie Rafter and their three children, Rachel, Ben and Nathan.  Season one begins on the eve of their 25th wedding anniversary.  The couple thinks that they are finally about to have the house to themselves.   But home is a very welcome refuge for their children and when unforseen problems loom, they return like a boomerang.  After Dave faces unemployment, Julie's father suffers a panic attack, son Nathan and daughter-in-law Sammy need a place to stay, daughter Rachel leaves her abusive boyfriend, and son Ben moves next door but continues to drop in, the household is 'packed to the rafters'.

Need I say more about where my sister, her husband and their three teenage daughters resided over the coming months.  I can identify somewhat with my favourite Australian drama.  In Genesis 2:24 we read: Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife, and they shall be one flesh (emphasis added).  Let's just say that this scripture has more meaning to be now having lived through this 'packed to the rafters' situation.  Yes families are wonderful, they are central to God's plan for us, but I have learnt that when it is time to leave the nest, leave.  Tank goodness each one of us has an eternal perspective, and that even after this experience we still love each other and desire to be together forever.

The Growing Urge to become a Mother someday

I was never the kind of adolescent that cooed over little babies. I admired them for what they were but I was not really one for wanting to hold them.  It was during my time as a missionary in a family ward in Arizona that I actually took a real liking to little children. I actually started to feel like I was warming to the idea of one day becoming a mother.  It’s not that prior to this time in my life I didn’t want to be a mother, I just felt that it was all way too far away to give it much deep thought.  In saying this though, I had the name ‘Nyah’ chosen as a potential daughter’s name after watching the movie ‘Mission Impossible 2’ when I was about 19 years of age.

I got married in December of 2004 to my best friend.  Our courtship was unusual compared to that of our peers.  Jim and I had been good friends for a while but although I thought he was wonderful to be around, he did not share the same faith as me.  To take things any further was pretty much out of the question as far as I was concerned.  It was around the time that I received my call to serve as a full-time missionary for my church that Jim and I started dating seriously.  Our brief Summer together in 2002 was wonderful.  It felt like everything I had imagined falling in love would feel like.  We laughed ALL the time and at silly things.  Everything in the world was wonderful.  The sun was shining, the birds were chirping and everything around us smelled sweet.  I remember lying awake at night, my face aching from smiling so much.  I parted for Salt Lake City, Utah in January of 2003 with certainty that I would marry that young man when I returned, but uncertainty of how it would all piece together. One thing I did know was that the Lord wanted me to serve a mission.

Both Jim and I did much changing over the 18 months that I was overseas.  We wrote each other every week without fail and each letter I received from him are pieces of his growing testimony of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.  We grew in love for each other and our love of the gospel.  Jim was baptised in December of 2003 and we were married in the Brisbane Australia temple for time and all eternity the following December.

It was amazing how the Lord had brought the two of us together. Still today I am in awe at how Heavenly Father provided such a wonderful companion for me.

A few months prior to our marriage, Jim and I made plans together.  We made record of things that we wanted to achieve in our lives together.  One of those things was to travel the world.  Given that we both planned on having a large family someday, we realised the reality of that happening once we started that family.  We therefore decided that the best time to travel the world was soon after we tied the knot as husband and wife.  Thus began our journey to 21 countries throughout the world together in the year of 2005 (www.jkadventures.blogspot.com).

The desire I once had of becoming a mother, soon turned into a nagging urge.  This, during our first year of marriage as we travelled the world on a shoe string.