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.