Home Truths 2015

HOME TRUTHS –

The story so far 1

By MATTHEW MILLS

HOME TRUTHS

The story so far home truths 2

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ut your feet up, grab a cup of coffee ~ always coffee, never tea if you're like Matthew ~ and read the first 18 columns in the Home

Truths series. You'll find a familiar cast of kids, cats, guinea pigs and

grown ups - maybe they're just like your family too.

INTRODUCTION

Matthew's regular column in PRIMOLife magazine has won a following thanks to its honesty, humour and insight - but that's not why we've put them all in one place in this special edition.

We've put them all in one place to celebrate the fact that family is really at the heart of everything we do - or at least it should be. For Matthew it most certainly is, and although I would like to say it is for me too, I fail on a regular basis.

Fortunately the column - which is all about our children and the regular trials, fun and games we endure - reminds me of that need for a rebalance. Work dominates my life; family dominates his.

So to celebrate his birthday, here's my gift, a celebration of the talent that it's taken to write so many words every month for nearly two years about our funny bunch of mongrels, moggies and mini pigs.

Happy birthday, my love, Gabi xxx

CONTENTS One man's trash...................................................................................................................................................................................... 4 Pooling resources.................................................................................................................................................................................. 6 Simple pleasures.................................................................................................................................................................................... 8 Easter comes but once a year....................................................................................................................................... 10 A house divided................................................................................................................................................................................... 12 A Mills gallery............................................................................................................................................................................................14 The joy of seven...................................................................................................................................................................................16 Doona days and mopped brows...............................................................................................................................18 Trading up....................................................................................................................................................................................................20 A Mills gallery 2.0............................................................................................................................................................................. 22 Birthday boys and girls........................................................................................................................................................... 24 Professor Plum did it.................................................................................................................................................................... 26 Family ties, firm friends............................................................................................................................................................28 Back to school blues...................................................................................................................................................................30 Cast away.................................................................................................................................................................................................... 32 Camping around............................................................................................................................................................................... 34 Down with homework............................................................................................................................................................... 36 Name of the game...........................................................................................................................................................................38 Groundhog day.................................................................................................................................................................................. 40 Sieze the day........................................................................................................................................................................................... 42

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ONE MAN’S TRASH... home truths 4

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CHAPTER 1 // ONE MAN'S TRASH

couple of days ago, the family across the street put a lounge on their front lawn.

Now, I like to think of myself as a live-and-let-live kind of guy, but I have to admit I felt the first vestiges of panic.

Had this lovely, friendly young household - she’s a nurse, he does something in IT and their three little ones are regular faces playing alongside our brood in our backyard - suddenly decided to channel their inner bogan?

Would I wake up one Saturday morning to find David and Sarah sprawled on their al fresco sofa, stubbies in hand, he in a wifebeater, her in too-short shorts and inappropriate bikini top watching the world go by?

Would their new approach to life be followed by the acquisition of a luminous green Falcon ute, with double-exhausts and nightclub-standard sound system?

No. Thankfully, all was explained when I spied the sign strapped to a streetlight bulk collection had reached our suburb and this battered old three-seater was simply the first thing they decided they wanted whisked away by a council pick-up.

Relief flooded me, but was quickly replaced by the knowledge that I too must now join in. Quick, to the shed, I told my wife, we have tat to unload.

Within hours, I’d decorated my front lawn with a mattress and the oven and hob

that had died in September and had been quietly rusting in the far reaches of our half-acre.

On top of this base I piled a sordid collection of unwanted extravagance - last summer’s punctured inflatable dolphins, the garden chair that had given out under the weight of portly Uncle Colin, the cheaper of the plastic toys bought for the little ones last Christmas that had given up the ghost by the time they went back to school.

Soon the pile stood proud - a modern art sculpture in praise of Western consumer extravagance And I wasn’t alone. The sofa’s appearance, along with the arrival on top of it of the other bits and pieces our opposite neighbours no longer treasured, sparked a domino effect of domestic activity. Similar heaps of unloved iron and plastic blossomed on front lawns up and down our street.

Day one, then, and the piles stood neat and correct, waiting for that local authority ute that would spirit them away to who-knows-where.

But, inevitably, in the same way that the beautiful advent of summer comes with the unwanted onset of houseflies, the bulk collection vultures sniffed the air, smelled our trash, and descended on our street.

Within hours, a steady convoy of utes, sedans with trailers, vans and even the occasional small truck was slowly cruising

past, rough-looking types defiantly eyeing our unwanted possessions.

We lost our oven in that first sweep. The broken vacuum cleaner went too. What was the fate of this dead detritus? Was the bearded bloke in the boardies going to renovate our hob? Would it finish up once more heating noodles in a happy home?

You’d like to think so, but who knows.

And, of course, the vultures are welcome to their booty. Take it, if you want it, but, oh, but I wish they would do it with a touch more care.

The householder’s trial is to regularly rearrange their heap after it has been roughly sifted through, restacking it in a way that won’t draw disappointed looks from the suburbs more houseproud residents.

Vigilant monitoring too, is essential.

Who hasn’t returned from work to find their 11-year-old has propped his new BMX up against the broken bed frame out front rather than putting it away properly, meaning, for maybe hours, that $500 bike had become an unexpectedly high value give-away for a lucky looter? I’ve explained the ramifications too often now to do anything but quickly tuck it away in the carport and thank the domestic gods that we got away with it again.

But, hey, the downside of these collectors is just a necessary evil needed if you want to enjoy the upside of avoiding the countless tip-runs that would be

needed to unload a year’s worth of heavy garbage yourself.

And, when you see your daughter proudly come home with a beatenup dolls house that she’s rescued from number 21’s front lawn, you can just about understand their mindset.

The key is to make sure you can hide that new acquisition among your own pile once she’s tucked up in bed and hope the trash fairies make it disappear before she wakes up the next morning.

And, of course, it does go eventually, leaving nothing but a patch of dead grass and the year-long task of building up another pile, ready to be rooted through, poked at and blown around this time next year. MM

The piles stood neat and correct, waiting for that local authority ute that would spirit them away to whoknows-where.

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POOLING RESOURCES Full disclosure time, PRIMOlifers - I’m a Pom.

home truths 6

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CHAPTER 2 // POOLING RESOURCES

’m not fresh off the boat or anything - it was nigh on six years ago that me, my wife and our brood stepped blinking into the arrivals hall at Perth International, dumped our thermals in the nearest bin and took our first steps across WA’s red dirt.

Since then, we’ve added to our number with our beautiful, true blue Aussie boy, born in Joondalup and raised under the big blue skies of Down Under, and we have paperwork stacking up in the study that will eventually let the rest of us trade our red passports for blue.

So now, then, me and mine think Aussie, live Aussie and are happy and secure in the knowledge that we’re on this side of the planet for the rest of our lives.

Still, though, I can just about remember the early days and the invigorating shock I felt after trading the busy, crowded days of UK life for the laid-back, happy lifestyle of the sandgroper.

And the one big culture rewire I can to this day picture vividly is suddenly living in a house with a pool in the backyard.

Back in the old dart, private pools are the realm of the rich and famous On those three or four days that the sun actually made an appearance, the best I ever remember was a blow-up paddler that quickly attracted a coating of dead grass and kamikaze wasps.

Now, however, thanks to Perth’s property culture and a pervading societal

desire to enjoy ourselves, a below-ground pool is commonplace and part of family life.

And, boy, do I love that.

On day one of our Australian existence, the kids stepped out of the taxi and into the pool, wide-eyed and happy, suddenly convinced that the day in a jumbo jet and the looming new schools were well worth the effort. They soaked off their British background and let the chlorinated waters of our kidney-shaped oasis indoctrinate them in the way of the Aussie kid.

And since that day, our pool has been the hub of our family life.

But it’s not all been plain sailing. When we arrived at the end of summer 2008, the water was sparkling, the decking

Back in the old dart, private pools are the realm of the rich and famous

magnificent, the chlorinator pumping strong and hard to keep everything sweet.

But then my Pommy upbringing kicked in and, as the temperatures dropped that year, so did the quality of our pool.

You see, I didn’t quite get the fact that, as the man of the house, it was my responsibility to maintain, nurture and lovingly care for our wonderful new acquisition. Basically, I thought that that pump thing and the hose with the plastic howsyourfather on the end would automatically kick in now and then and take care of it all.

How wrong I was. By April, the clouds had set in at the lower reaches – if you dropped a flipper in, by the time it reached the bottom it had vanished from sight. By May, our pool was green.

Green. I remember standing looking at it, slowly shaking my head. My wife appeared at my shoulder as said, simply, “that doesn’t look right, does it?”.

Pool maintenance, it turned out, was an art that needed learning – and I realised just how off-track I was when a new-found mate, a born-and-bred-Aussie with decades of experience of backyard swimming under his belt, took a look at it.

I told him that I was thinking about draining and refilling it.

“That’ll sort it out, won’t it?” I said.

When he stopped laughing, he told me I really needed to get help.

So I did. A crash course followed and I got up to speed. Pumps were replaced, chlorinators cleaned, pool socks bought and fitted, creepers upgraded. It wasn’t cheap, but it was worth it. Come year two, the green soup was a thing of the past that, touch wood, will never return.

Now that I’ve earned my poolcare Boy Scout badge, then, we wrap our family life around our backyard pool. We get through inflatable dolphins like no one’s business and use up more towels than a holiday resort.

There are days when our pool is chockfull of neighbourhood kids, afternoons when I spot our eldest just relaxing on a lilo after a hard-day’s revision.

All our brood swim like fishes and family traditions have developed and set – bum balance, human wave machine, and rocket launch are all dad-child activities that mean everything to us and probably nothing to anyone else.

I now dutifully declog, backwash and salt to keep everything lovely.

It’s a labour of love that delivers exquisite rewards.

My favourites? Exhausted kids on summer evenings and, every now and then, just me and my wife, pool light on, sitting with a glass of bubbles in the shallow end when they’re all tucked up asleep. MM

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SIMPLE PLEASURES Hoop and a stick, that’s what I had in my day – and I was damn lucky to have even that

home truths 8

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CHAPTER 3 // SIMPLE PLEASURES

ell, perhaps it’s not quite that severe, but if you’ve got kids right now, you probably know what I mean.

Back when I was a lad, you see, my bedroom was packed with the kind of toys that didn’t do much unless you had a bit of imagination.

The toy cars would only perform tricks if I laid flat on my stomach, eyed them from ground level, made various vroom noises and launched them across the floor into the wardrobe.

My action men, Star Wars figures and plastic jungle animals wouldn’t go on any kind of adventures unless the red bit of the rug became a desert and the giant lion was artfully manoeuvred into an attack position in front of Luke, Boba Fett and the one-armed helicopter pilot.

Yes, we watched TV – three or four channels with five or six programs a day of any interest to a grubby eight-year-old – and, yes, we had a VCR with a lot of tapedoff-the-telly films next to it (could anyone back then actually afford original copies of Superman II or The Jewel in the Nile?).

Today, however, just a few busy decades from those halcyon days, I pad around my house, in and out of my kids’ bedrooms and see a very different world.

Games consoles, tablets, PCs, Macs, smart phones, the odd DS – these are

the trinkets of choice that decorate my children’s space nowadays.

Even some of their actual toys are packed full of microchips. Any of your daughters got a Furby?

Those things are scary, especially if you pick them up at the end of the night to put them away and the blessed things ‘wake up’, open their eyes and emit some demonic squawk pleading for a cuddle or some such nonsense.

Yes, PrimoLifers, it’s a different world nowadays.

Still, you can’t just blame the children.

My wife and I are as much at fault, even if we do kid ourselves that ‘we need the technology for work’.

We boast smart phones, a tablet or two, the work desktop and the pretty little laptop.

In fact, let’s do a quick inventory of the gizmos our suburban home currently contains – one desktop Mac, three PCs (admittedly one is very, very old and clunky), two tablets, three Iphones, one Nokia, two laptops (one’s school-issued to our 11-year-old, so I suppose that’s not too bad) one 3D-DS, one not-3D DS, at least three Ipods, an Xbox and the latest Nintendo.

A list of shame, I’ll grant you – and it gets worse. Our five-bedroom house has six televisions, four of which are hooked up to Foxtel.

I am literally hanging my head in shame writing this.

In mitigation, I can offer that we have five children, so we have a tiny excuse for stocking up on so much hardware, but, still, that’s one heck of a lot of money this household alone has thrown at Gates, Jobs, Murdoch et al.

And, I realise now that it’s quite a recent thing.

Our eldest turned 18 last year and I can vividly remember the conversation my wife and I had a week before his 15th birthday after she suggested his main present should be a laptop of his own.

“Why?” I asked, honestly bemused.

“We’ve got the PC in the family room, he can use that. Surely that’s enough?”

But she cited the frustration of child one wanting an hour on World of Warcraft when child three needed to catch up on Mathletics, the angst when I had to submit 800 words on Rudd’s leadership woes at the same time that she had to sort out the credit card bills.

And, despite my main concerns – the internet’s, shall we say, more raunchy side and our boy’s unfathomable ability to bypass just about anything parental controls could throw at him – I eventually relented and that moment, I know now, was when the floodgates opened.

Now, then, I kid myself that we’re not

too tech-dependent a family.

Dropping round friends’ houses and clocking their surround-sound bedecked theatre rooms with tennis court-sized tellies before sitting outside listening to Springsteen on their array of hidden Bluetooth speakers makes me feel like we still have a way to go until we’re the opening scene of a science fiction movie.

But, still, is it too much? Are our children missing out on the thrill of innovation and imagination in favour of negotiating Mario through Bowser’s castle or swapping status updates on Facebook?

It is a worry – and one with a darker side that’s not for a backpage columnist to

dwell on, but you know what I’m saying.

In truth, though, I think not. I’m writing this in the backyard on a hot Saturday afternoon while my wife has coffee with her mother in the city.

Our eldest is getting ready for Birds of Tokyo on the beach this evening, child two is at the skatepark.

My middle boy is in the pool and my

little girl is over the road braiding her hair with her bestie. My littlest, five and full of wonder at everything, is chasing a battered Matchbox RV across the kitchen floor with a plastic Donkey Kong.

In fact, it turns out that the only one on a computer is me.

Time to hit shutdown and get on with the day. MM

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Our five-bedroom house has six televisions, four of which are hooked up to Foxtel.

EASTER COMES BUT ONCE A YEAR home truths 10

(although Matt Mills isn’t quite sure when)

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CHAPTER 4 // EASTER COMES BUT ONCE A YEAR

have some very strict theories on how my family should go about the various holidays and celebrations the year throws at it.

Christmas, for instance, should be all about the joy of simply being together, a time to feast on traditional bounty and revel in the glow of quality time with your clan. Birthdays should be a moment to elevate a child into the spotlight for a day of undivided attention or deliver a couple of bottles of good wine and three or four hours of good company to an adult.

Anzac, Labour and Australia days should be a celebration of both history and family, a time to reflect on how lucky we are to have been left the legacy we have by our noble ancestors over a barbecue, a board game at home or a picnic blanket in Kings Park.

I am, though, a working father of five, so none of these holidays ever plays out anywhere near my frankly quite pompous requirements.

Nope, when push comes to shove, me, my wife and my brood are the epitomy of modern-day holiday consumerism, which means that most of these special days pass in a whirl of wrapping paper, AAA batteries and gritted teeth and end in little more than a medicinal three-fingers of scotch and a couple of groaning credit cards.

It’s the 21st-century way, though, isn’t it?

As much as I want to hold onto the traditions of Dickens and the early pioneers of this great country, the siren call of K-Mart and the relentless peer pressure of keeping up with the other suburban Joneses means I’ll always cave and jump on whichever holiday bandwagon is rolling into town.

As such, Christmas will always be a present-fest with barely a ding dong merrily on high and precious little mention of the baby Jesus and birthdays will be a panicky trawl around electronics shops for the last iGadget or MA15+ killfrenzy Xbox title.

I do, of course, enjoy the end result.

Part of my duty as a dad is to ensure that each and every one of my brood get ‘a day to remember’ at least a couple of days a year – and, on a personal level, I get the kick of finally sitting down with a glass of SSB once the day’s nearly over and revel in having once more successfully negotiated a big day.

But, still, mostly I can’t help but be left a little bit exhausted and wondering just where the magic of these celebrations has gone. I say mostly, however, because there is one exception – and it’s on the horizon as I sit and write this now.

Easter.

Now, I was raised in the shadow of

Christianity and all that that entails – my school had hymns, prayers, a head teacher with a dog collar and a monthly trip to the cathedral for a eucharist – but I’ll admit that I take the word lapsed to new and greater heights.

So – and I offer this up a bit shamefully – it’s not the tale of the benevolent bearded chap rising from the dead to save us from all our sins that gets me goosepimply around this time of year. No, it’s the simplicity of the celebration that really floats my boat.

For all its importance in the Christian calendar, Easter is the one that doesn’t take hours of preparation and organisation – which is lucky really, because I never really know when it’s going to happen.

Its penchant for picking a Sunday based on the vagaries of lunar cycles means that it seems to crop up anytime after Anzac Day and before our middle child’s birthday in June.

As such, I just wait for the nudge from my wife a couple of days before the big weekend and nip out for six chocolate eggs – one each for each of the kids and one for the big kid I’m married too – and a couple of packs of hot cross buns.

The buns, of course, mark the beginning of the holiday, another part of Easter that I love. There’s no countdowns,

no endless school concerts, no advent calendars to deal with – just, hey it’s Friday and I’ve got the day off so let’s eat toasted currant buns.

Then there’s Easter Saturday which is, basically, just a Saturday. Then the big day arrives, coolly dropping by without much fanfare or palaver.

We do have traditions for the day, but, again, this is why Easter rocks so hard for me.

Ours is an Easter breakfast, the only day of the year when all seven of us sit around the table first thing and enjoys toast, bacon, eggs, OJ and good coffee together.

The chocolate eggs are laid out on each place setting, one big one each, generally themed on each child’s fad du jour, and one smaller one, a Kinder egg, perhaps, or those sickly caramel things that appear at this time of year.

And there are presents involved, but our family takes it as read that while Santa Claus does gifts by the sackload, the Easter Bunny is very much a one-child-oneparcel kinda guy.

And he makes them work for them – each child’s place setting has a letter from the big-eared, buck-toothed holiday icon, written in a hand remarkably similar to their father’s with a poetic clue as to where their tiny gift is hidden.

This is the only problem the season offers me – there are only so many places one can secrete a gift-wrapped stationery set or pair of socks and sometimes it’s hard to devise a rhyming couplet that will point

a five-year-old to the dishwasher – but it’s a task I revel in.

And then, breakfast over, me and my wife can revel in the knowledge that our holiday duties are over and there’s nothing left to do than to loll around for the rest of the day waiting for a nice bit of roast

lamb before wine o’clock. And then, when Sunday’s over, there’s another day off waiting.You can’t get better than that.

So thank the Lord – literally in this instance – for Easter, the low-stress, lowcost holiday even a parent can enjoy.

Enjoy every moment, PrimoLifers. MM

it’s the simplicity of the celebration that really floats my boat.

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A HOUSE DIVIDED I'm not sure exactly why there's a Dockers scarf hanging up in our living room.

I home truths 12

’m not sure exactly why there’s a Dockers scarf hanging up in our living room Not, of course that Pav and the lads aren’t a team worth supporting – that’s a given, we’re a purple house through and through.

No, the dilemma I have is that I can’t quite lose the niggling feeling that we should have pinned our colours to the Eagles’ mast when we finally got sucked into the wonderful world of AFL fandom a couple of years ago.

The problem, you see, is that while Family Mills can regularly be heard chanting ‘Freo way to go’, our nearest and dearest – my mother-in-law, father-inlaw, sister-in-law and brother-in-law – are passionate chooks fans.

Yes, we’re one of those clans you see featured in the local rag whenever a Western Derby comes round, one half loudly espousing the coaching genius of Ross Lyon while the other is quick to ask just how many flags the Dockers have brought home in their short but exciting history.

CHAPTER 5 // A HOUSE DIVIDED

It’s a strange situation – in all other areas me and my brood see completely eye to eye with my wife’s family. We’re loving and loyal, look out for one another and like the odd glass of wine around the table in the backyard. But when that siren sounds, we all go a bit Montague and Capulet.

And, although I hate to admit it, there’s no getting away from the fact that grandma and co definitely have the moral highground.

My Pom roots meant that for many a year I dismissed Aussie rules as a game unworthy of my interest. Raised as I was on soccer – the beautiful game, the world game – I argued that footy was all about fighting and tight shorts, that it could never match the silky skills involved in what I called football. Even when they pointed out that, as an Ipswich Town fan, I’d not often borne witness to the beautiful side of the beautiful game, I stuck to my guns.

But slowly and surely, footy reeled me in. The in-laws gently urged me to get involved and, sure enough, I began agreeing that the artistry of Adam Goodes, the presence and drive of Gary Ablett, the sheer speed and athleticism of anyone who makes it to an AFL club, were indeed worthy of a place in the sporting elite.

I could see that they were pleased with my metamorphosis – and, quite rightly, they sat back happily and waited for me to jump on board the Mighty Eagles bandwagon.

They were, after all, proper fans. Full members for more than two decades, they have a wonderful ritual for match days and their seats at Patersons are never empty. They were there in ’94 when Mick Malthouse – who bears a striking resemblance to my father-in-

law – led them to glory against Geelong.

Their house is bedecked in West Coast memorabilia, they have plied our kids with Eagles guernseys, hoodies and T-shirts since they first started to walk.

So, of course, they were more than justified in expecting us to follow the family line and bleed blue and gold, just like they do.

But, no. We fell in love with footy and, with a shameful lack of loyalty, a total disregard for the support and love they’ve shown for us over the years, we gave our hearts to Freo.

Exactly why, I don’t know. Maybe it was our love of Fremantle itself, with its beautiful, historic architecture, its artisan vibe. Maybe it was Ballentyne’s impish charm, Crowley’s naughty-boy grin, Sandi’s towering presence.

Dan, my brother-in-law, will tell you that we were simply a bunch of fair-weather fans jumping on the 2013 bandwagon when the Dockers finally came good, but, whatever, the deed is done and, slowly, we are all coming to terms with it. And, more and more, we are starting to enjoy the rivalry this tale of two teams produces.

Match days now are one of my favourite times. Cementing Dan’s theory

My Pom roots meant that for many a year I dismissed Aussie rules as a game unworthy of my interest that we are but fair-weather followers, we watch the Dockers from home, the big lounge room TV cranked up to full volume, my wife on the sofa, me on the edge of an armchair.

Pre-game, we prepare nachos and guacamole, chips and dips, readied at arms length to be picked at as the action unfolds. The kids bounce around us, laughing long and hard as I roar my appreciation of a Michael Barlow mark or their mum vents her despair at a wasted opportunity with a truly unfeminine moan of disgust.

Her phone pings regularly with sledges from Dan and her mother – and my wife tries to give as good as the gets. Me, I stay out of this SMS to and fro, knowing full well that, as I’m still not quite sure exactly what prior opportunity is, Dan would walk all over me – and, of course, as the polite son-in-law I would never want to offend our family’s matriarch.

Then, come the long break, if it’s an evening game me and Number Three son will ignite some logs in our backyard firepit and we’ll sit around discussing the game so far, working out where on the ladder we will be if the the next two quarters go our way.

So, yes, we have finally seen the glory that is Aussie Rules and have happily dived into its frantic world of contended possessions, behinds and unfathomable rules. I find myself scouring the back pages of The West for news of Waters’ injuries and, as a family, we all happily arrange our weekends around the fixture list.

Everything, then, is good – and thanks to the tolerance of my in-laws I’m learning to fret less about our disloyalty.

I’m pretty sure now that only if Pav leads us to victory against the Eagles on grand final day are they going to disown us for turning purple. MM

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home truths

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MILLS GALLERY

TOP TRIO Rottnest was one of the family's favourite holidays so far simple pleasures, freedom from cars, phones and deadlines on a perfect little island in the Indian Ocean.

Right, us at Sandalford Winery before completely getting our money's worth at the Sting concert.

Below, our many, many animals.

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THE JOY OF SEVEN home truths 16

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CHAPTER 6 // THE JOY OF SEVEN

here’s a rumour going round that I only landed this backpage column gig because I’m sleeping with the boss It’s a scandalous allegation, I give you, but, as with all these gossipy tidbits, I feel the best way to address it is with the truth – and, PRIMOLifers, I have to hold my hands up and say that it is at least half true.

Yes, to come completely clean, I have to admit that I have been romantically involved with Gabi Mills, the esteemed editor of your favourite new lifestyle magazine for some time. Quite a bit of time, to be honest. We’re talking a decade and a half. This has, I can confirm, been no recent office tryst.

But, of course, careful readers of this magazine have probably already put two and two together and come to this conclusion a while back.

It’s not rare, for instance, for my rambling car reviews to include long test drives that coincide with Gabi’s travel pieces. And every now and then one of our five children will get a mention in, say, a PRIMOPicks as well as in the magazine endnote you’re reading now.

Oh, and of course there’s the whole same surname thing.

So, yes, my boss is also my wife – a situation which, while not fantastically uncommon, is one that isn’t completely the norm.

Some of you may furrow your brow at the arrangement, suggesting that such proximity in careers could throw a spanner

or two into the works of the wedlock machine, but I can reassure you that, on the whole, we tick along together quite well – not least because I’m your workfrom-home-type writer while Gabi is the powersuited, office-bound, important meetings around big, shiny conference

tables kinda girl.

So, mostly, our professional paths don’t cross too closely – she never, for instance, orders me to change the toner in the photocopier, fetch her a cup of tea or cancel her four o’clock with the man from building maintenance.

So, yes, my boss is also my wife – a situation which, while not uncommon, is one that isn’t completely the norm.

I do, though, have one work duty that comes as part and parcel of being wed to a high-flying media type and that is to take over when she needs to nip onto a plane and sort something out in a far off city – not, I hasten to add, to don a shiny leisure suit and take her place in the office, but to make sure that life at home, and the dayto-day here-and-theres of our five kids continue to go smoothly without her.

Now, I know that there are plenty of modern dads out there that are more than happy to get hands-on with their brood, but those of us that do the three or four days home alone without our better halves will tell you that there’s quite a bit of difference between babysitting for an evening and taking the helm solo for a longer stretch of time.

Our family’s most recent adventure

living a while without mummy was a week or so ago when Gabi accompanied PRIMOLife’s gun young footy columnist Myles to Melbourne so he could fire tough questions at AFL legend Dermott Brereton – the youngster is great at contended possession stats, but still not completely up to a trip to the Eastern States on his own.

The children, as always, greeted the news of this trip with a stoic sigh, kissed their mother goodbye and braced themselves for three days of Family Mills – Dad Style.

It’s not, you have to understand, that I’m not up to the job So far, Gabi’s always got to count five kids as she leaves and five when she comes back and the house has always still been standing on her return. And I’ve only ever had to dial triple zero once – an incident involving our then-three-year-old and a can of gloss paint that, although had a happy ending, I decided not to mention until she returned from South Africa.

No, I’m actually not too bad at it all, if

that’s not too boastful. The thing is, though, during the day to day as Gabi’s wingman, I can enjoy the happy chaos of a big family knowing that the tedious bits – washing, cooking, vacuuming, that kind of thing – will fall into place.

Sans Gabi, however, I have to admit that I go into full military mode. Concerned as I am that everything will fall to pieces, our normally happy-go-lucky brood has to adapt to a strict routine as the gears grind in my head and I strive to make sure I have all the domestic bases covered.

That means, my children will tell you, it’s not as much fun.Yes, we’ll finish up on the sofa cradling coke floats (them), SSB (me) and bowls of Doritos in front of a rerun of Pitch Perfect, but not until after I have made sure that each and every chore is completed, that homework’s done and school bags and uniforms are laid out for the next morning.

Basically, it’s just not as much of a giggle – and as for the meals I serve up, well, all I can say is that my cooking ability is the main reason our kids are not big fans of frozen chips and nuggets.

But, we grit our teeth and get through.

And eventually, Gabi’s back, a big box of Krispy Kremes in tow and the children breathe a sigh of relief and look forward to getting back to the chaos.

Me, I just get reminded once more that we can muddle along as six, but seven works better for this noisy clan. MM

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home truths 18

DOONA DAYS AND MOPPED BROWS

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CHAPTER 7 // DOONA DAYS AND MOPPED BROWS

his morning, much to Daisy’s dismay, it was Sam who stayed tucked up in bed as the daily school run prep raged across the house.

She huffed and puffed, venting her perceived unfairness, muttering blackly under her breath that she wasn’t sure at all that her big brother was actually sick.

Gently, I pointed out to her that he had woken up the day before – a Sunday – with his bottom lip swollen to, frankly, quite comic proportions and that if this didn’t merit a day off and an exploratory trip to the doctor then I didn’t know what she thought did.

“I bet he’s got homework to hand in that he hasn’t done,” she told me with all the bold conviction of a 10-year-old girl unhappy that she was up and about at just after seven on a chilly winter’s morning.

That, I have to admit, is probably my fault.

With hindsight, I tend to be a trifle cynical when any of my brood claim ill health, especially on a weekday morning in term time. Unless they have been sweating under a blanket the night before, my default setting is that, as Daisy suggested a few hours ago, they’re spinning a tall one after realising that Mr Slipper will be waiting for their unwritten book review when they amble through the school gates.

Tough fatherhood, I’ll give you, but

there’s no getting away from the fact that Sam – the boy who has been known to hide his glasses in the laundry basket in a bid to find a reason to stay home – has form.

Today, however, I’m confident that he’s not swinging the lead – he’s an innovative chap, but I’m pretty sure that inflating his lower lip to Jagger/Fyfe proportions is beyond even him.

So, no, the doctor awaits him at just after 11, I’ve told the school they’ll have to do without him for a day and warned my boss that chances are, once more, family duties will mean I’m late to my desk.

I’m hoping, of course, that the good doctor will send us on our way with a few calming words and directions to the pharmacy to pick up some kids’ Nurofen – our children are, touch wood and sing praises to the guardian angels that watch over them, a robust lot.

My wife and I know just how lucky we are in that sense, but even optimistic souls such as ourselves can’t help but fear the worst when they’re not a hundred per cent – especially nowadays when those stupid medical websites will generally scream that you should be calling the Flying Doctors for any symptom you can google.

But, I’m staying confident. It’s a new symptom for Sam, but I’ve checked just now and his lip is no longer the balloon it was yesterday, so I’m hoping for the best

and that we will continue our charmed life.

And, hey, at least this time there’s no vomit. Large-scale puking, is the most common side effect we deal with in this house, so I’m glad it hasn’t reared its head this time.

I still shudder when I remember the night a few years ago when Daisy and Sam both landed one of those 24-hour bugs at the same time and I spent a hellish Saturday night on the floor of the room they shared at the time getting spewed on by one or the other at regular, half-hour intervals. It was days, I tell you, before I finally managed to scrub the smell off me.

But it’s not just the bugs that nowadays bring the vom to our kids – our eldest has passed the 18-year mark which means he’s having a go at the whole alcohol thing.

Generally, he’s a responsible enough chap, but, like all of us at that age, gets it a bit wrong every now and then, so the poor boy has been introduced to booze’s curse – and my wife and I have had a different puke variant to clear up.

Give him his due though, number one son’s a trooper, he knows that a hangover will never be an acceptable excuse for a sickie and I watched with a strange, probably inappropriate, pride a couple of Sundays ago when he stoically dragged his banging head and queasy guts into work rather than, as he

Large-scale puking is the most common side effect we deal with in this house

put it, “let down his mates”.

It’s a trait, to be fair, that I like to think he has inherited from his mother and I. We too foster that Protestant work ethic which means that we’d need to be bleeding profusely from an open head wound to not reach the office – mainly through a misplaced sense of duty but also

because in a house with five children the most comfortable place to be under the weather is generally at our desks rather than at home.

But no, all in all, we’re a healthy bunch.

Felix, our 16-year-old, may regularly need a trip to the emergency room to fix a skateboard stack injury, but thankfully

anything more serious tends to pass him by. And, Oli, sweet five-year-old Oli, so far seems strong as an ox, a situation that is beginning to dawn on him as having a bit of a downside – a full year of kindy and nearly 100 days of pre-primary and he’s yet to have a single doona day.

So, I remain quietly confident that Sam’s inflatable lip will be nothing more than another story to tell in days to come and an iPhone picture to embarrass him with on his 21st.

We’re blessed with healthy children and for that we’re grateful – far too many parents aren’t anywhere as lucky.

If what it takes to stay that way is a few mornings late to work and the occasional night with child-sick in my hair, I’m more than happy to take that deal. MM

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TRADING UP home truths 20

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CHAPTER 8 // TRADING UP

elix’s moped finds it as hard to get up in the morning as he does – dodgy battery that we’ve been talking about replacing for a while now – so the other day he had to walk to college.

He was stoic enough about that, but come quitting time the idea of a 20-minute yomp home found him less enthusiastic. A plaintive text landed on my phone asking if I could ‘plz’ pick him up.

My innate Victorian dad tendencies reared their head for a second – “no, child,” they bellowed while authoritatively stroking snow-white mutton chops, “the walk will do you good.”

But then I remembered that, in truth, his bricklaying course does actually knacker the poor boy quite extensively, so his call for the dad taxi was justified. Also, of course, I’m aware that, long-term, my 16-year-old’s going to be earning considerably more money building WA than I’m ever going to generate writing about it, so it’s no bad idea to keep on his good side.

So, to cut a long ramble short, I head down to his college after texting him back to tell him to meet me by the front gates – his younger siblings were already home from school and I don’t want to leave them fending for themselves any longer than I have to.

I’m a tad annoyed, then, to see neither hide nor hair of my second eldest as I

cruise up the street towards the college.

Other students are streaming out and I can see a few tutors and one or two other mums and dads. There’s a massive tradie, orange hi-vis jacket gleaming in the winter sun, covered from mussed-up hair to massive steel-capped boots in dust and grime, gesticulating animatedly at me, but no sign at all of Felix.

Oh. Hang on. That is Felix, isn’t it?

Yes, in all honesty, without the merest hint of poetic licence, I had not recognised my second-born son. I decided not to mention my parental faux pas to him as we drove home – instead I let him show me just how calloused his hands were getting and talked him out of his plan to take up cigarettes so he could fit in better during morning smoko – but I mentioned it to my wife over a glass of wine later that evening.

Her take was simple, mainly because she admitted to having done it herself. Basically, she said, when it comes to our eldest two – Felix and his 19-year-old brother Henry – we both still expect to see children, but the truth is that we now share our home with a couple of hefty great men.

Both of them are taller than me now – a fact that is at its most striking when I’m standing between them. At just a touch over six foot myself, I’m not used to being dwarfed, but when I’m next to both my eldest I feel like like Ballantyne walking

out onto Patersons next to Sandy and Nat. As a dad who used to regularly carry both boys around a decade and a half ago – neither were that fond of walking, one of the few traits they’ve both hung onto – it seems ridiculous now that they were ever the size where I could lift them onto my shoulders.

But it’s not just the physical change that, when I take a minute to step back and assess it, can be a bit of shock. No, there’s also the fact that they’re not the kids they used to be.

What happened, I wonder, to the boy that used to sit under the table in restaurants – a trait of Felix’s which my wife and I came to accept as the norm, despite the furrowed brows and whispered words of fellow patrons?

And where is the six-year-old Henry who couldn’t help but smile whenever he was in trouble, a peculiarity that so often led the poor boy into deeper and deeper grief, his grin seen as insolence rather than shaky confidence by ill-attuned educators throughout his school career?

The simple answer is that they now live only in the memories of me, my wife and the select band of friends and relatives who have watched them grow and mature into what I am confident in reporting are pretty good young men.

Both now have girlfriends – steady

ones, not just the recess-long romances of childhood. Both now have goals – Felix forging his way to a profession where he never has to sit indoors at a desk, Henry constantly looking at ways to develop his fledgling retail career to generate the cash he craves to sate his healthily accumulative desires.

They’re still chalk and cheese, two very different young men, but still as close as near-age siblings can be. And neither is a chip off the old block – a fact I’m strangely proud of. Both have looked out on the world and worked out what they wanted rather than following some family trail, their skillsets different to mine and their mother’s, but equally useful in

My innate Victorian dad tendencies reared their head for a second

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carving out a bright future.

And now, we’ve learned that the next stage is on the horizon – Henry is officially looking to move out. He and three like-minded mates are trawling Peard Real Estate’s rental offerings as I write this, a move sparked not in some small part with his growing frustration at being an adult living in what is still the home of a young family – his other three siblings range in age from five to 12.

It could be then, that in a month or two my wife and I will be sitting on a back deck somewhere with my eldest drinking one of his beers in his house. I imagine that big old tradie I gave a lift home too will probably be there as well. MM

home truths

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MILLS GALLERY 2.0

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KOOKY EYES Left, Daisy does love a selfie.

Far left, the kids got to feed llamas, horses and chooks at Balingup Heights.

Above, wedding day cuddles with the biggest small boys all dressed up to the nines. Shortly afterwards, Felix fell out of a tree.

BIRTHDAY BOYS AND GIRLS home truths 24

B

CHAPTER 9 // BIRTHDAY BOYS AND GIRLS

y the time Oli’s comes around, I’m actually a bit over the whole birthday thing.

That’s quite an admission, I know – and I do try my best to keep my enthusiasm levels high – but the horrible truth is that by his big day I’m pretty birthdayed out.

It’s so not the little chap’s fault, of course. No, the blame lies fairly and squarely at the feet of me and my wife and our ridiculously bad planning, family wise – a trait which has somehow managed to land us six birthdays in eight very short and very expensive weeks.

There are seven of us, you see, me, my wife, our four sons and our little girl, and only Sam, the 12-year-old, celebrates his special day outside a birthday season that opens in the first week of August and draws to a close on the last day of September.

Like I say, fantastically bad planning on our part – and, it has to be said, an embarrassing insight into what us Millses get up to over Christmas and the new year.

(Do the math, people, and you’ll see where I’m going with that.)

As I’m writing this, we’re nearing the end of it all. There’s just 10 days to go till Oli gets to wake up a year older – I know that because he’s rocking pre-primary numeracy right now which means he can keep a very vocal countdown, reminding

all and sundry every twenty minutes or so just how long there is to go.

Just last night, my wife and I were discussing it and, though upbeat, I could sense a touch of weariness in her too. The thing is, we’ve still got the cards up from the last one and the thought of starting preparations afresh for the next is a tad daunting.

The only thing I can compare it to is the production of this magazine.

It’s busy, busy, busy getting everything organised then you have a brief moment of completion elation and suddenly you’re looking at the deadline for the next one.

The other problem – again a consideration when putting together PRIMOLife – is that we can’t simply do the same thing over and over again, each one has to be different if it’s going to be successful.

Birthday-wise, our first challenge is Henry’s, our eldest. At 19, he’s at that stage where most everything my wife and I do is pretty lame in his eyes, so picking a celebration path can be a minefield – a situation that’s compounded by the fact that a part of him is still a big kid so simply containing the whole affair to a tasteful card is out of the question. Basically, he wants presents and a treat, but whatever we serve up may well result in a bit of teenage eye-rolling. Rock and a hard place,

anyone?

Also, Henry entered gainful employment a while ago so everything he desires he has bought himself, meaning there’s not much left for us to hunt down and wrap up.

A tough one to open with then, but I think we managed. For presents, we went down the ironic road – a bobble-head version of Game of Thrones heroine Arya, a mug in the shape of a skull, that kind of thing. We topped that up with a six-pack of his favourite pear cider and let him off the financial contribution he grudgingly makes to the household and gathered his grandparents, girlfriend and siblings in the backyard to toast his health before letting him head off into the night with his mates.

One down, then, but a couple of weeks later we’re back again with Felix. At 17, not quite as much of a headache – among his gifts were many practical things he needed for his newly-landed bricklaying apprenticeship, stuff we’d have shelled out for anyway, so the timing for this one at least was good. Dinner in a posh restaurant was treat enough for our easiest going child.

Next, though, was the nightmare week – my wife on the Tuesday and my daughter on the Friday. How I let this state of affairs happen, I will never know.

I’m not insensitive enough to know

that kitchen utensils aren’t generally appreciated by one’s better half – the idea of ‘here’s a breadboard, now go make me a sandwich’ is not really likely to keep the romance alive – but it’s difficult to source enough gifts to ensure every child has one to hand over without falling back on a pair of purple tongs. But still, I think the mix

of practical and pretty I picked out hit the spot, so we were quickly onto Daisy’s big day.

As the resident princess, hers is the highlight of birthday season – and the most draining on our credit cards. This year the big prize was a pair of guinea pigs.

Not expensive on their own, I grant you,

but setting up their hutch and other bits and pieces hits the bank balance – not as hard as two tickets to 1D next year, which she also desired and received, but hard enough.

The treat was two friends round for sleepover and a loud, fun lunch at Grill’d.

A big success, then, but frantic and a touch tiring, which meant it was fortunate mine was next as we could calm things down a bit. I like my advancing years celebrated quietly, so a nice bottle of wine outside with the kids around me was more than enough. Present-wise, I twist my wife’s arm to be thrifty and to think practical rather than fancy. It’s something she’s become quite good at – one year I got a shower curtain.

So, that brings us up to speed, with just one more to go – and by the time you read this it will probably have gone.

I’m guessing it’ll be loud, exhausting and maybe even a little more expensive than I’d like but, for all my weariness, I know it will actually be brilliant – as, with hindsight, they all have been.

After all, what’s a birthday if you can’t put happy in front of it? MM

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PROFESSOR PLUM DID IT

B home truths 26

oard games may have evolved since I was a lad, but rolling the dice is still a sure-fire way to have fun.

Look, as much as I don’t want to come across as one of those slightly unnerving families that insists on living in a bygone era, I have to admit that we do love a good games night in our house.

I’m talking the kind of games that are played on a board or with a pack of cards, that necessitate tracking down pens and paper, hardback books to lean on, a dice or a thimble or some-such to replace a missing counter.

Real games. IRL games.You know

the kind of things – ones where you need at least one other person to play rather than simply a computer and a decent Wifi service.

Don’t get me wrong – we absolutely embrace the whole CPU-based entertainment thing under our roof. The eldest and middle children have both been known to disappear for hours on World of Warcraft marathons, Daisy, our 11-year-old daughter, is a massive Sims fan and our sixyear-old, horror upon horrors, has a games console in his bedroom.

But, despite all this, we all still love to regularly step away from virtual

CHAPTER 10 // PROFESSOR PLUM DID IT

amusement and actually get our hands dirty around the games table – a fact that, as a long-confessed game addict, I’m very, very grateful for.

We’re quite faddy about what we actually play – games come and go, become firm favourites, get dismissed as boring then resurface again all the time.

Currently, Cluedo is back to the fore.

As the age suggestion on the box will tell you, it’s not really one we can involve our youngest in, but once he’s safely tucked away in bed on a Saturday night, we all rush to Dr Black’s mansion to battle to be the first to find out who knocked the old boy off his perch.

I don’t know if you’ve seen Cluedo nowadays, but it’s had a modern update, which is, I suppose, actually quite cool in a ‘did you really have to do that’ kind of way.

The characters have been given modern visages – all trendy and up to date, none of them old any more – and have lost their honorifics. Professor Plum is no longer a wizened academic, for instance, but simply Plum, a handsome twentysomething with glasses. And the house itself has been updated, with fewer squares and redesignated rooms – the ballroom’s been replaced by a games room, the hall by a courtyard and there’s no place for a library any more.

But, despite Hasbro’s best efforts, the game basically remains as it was, so my wife and I ignore the attempts to gild this classic lily and enjoy the intrigue while providing chips and fizzy drinks to stave off the inevitable sulks when one sibling uses their guess to pull another from the study to the living room for no other reason than they know they’re desperate to get to the bathroom.

Oh, and we insist on reinstating the protagonists’ titles – as such Daisy is always Miss Scarlet, my wife Mrs Peacock, Sam

Colonel Mustard, Felix Reverend Green and I get to keep my scholarly allusion as the fusty purple one. For some reason, it’s still the case that no one wants to be Mrs White, despite that fact that she’s no longer the sour-faced cook but, ironically, a very pretty black woman.

It’s not always a board game on games night, though – cards play a big part in our evening routine too.

For me, handling a deck correctly is a vital life skill – my goal is for all my children to be able to fall back on the poker table if all their other moneymaking schemes don’t pan out. As such, we’ve introduced them all to cards from a very young age – starting at snap

and sevens, through rummy, whist and blackjack as we work our way towards Texas Hold ’Em. And it’s not just the difference between a straight flush and two pair that we’re trying to teach – the culture and language is vital too, we reckon. After all, who can’t see the importance of their offspring calling a two a ‘duck’, a Jack a ‘Johnny Cake’ or knowing exactly why three kings should always be referred to as ‘a pack of Marlboro’?

Also of course, having a pack of cards at hand gives Daisy a chance to practice her close-up magic, a skill which I like to think she has inherited from her old chap. Her distraction skills are coming on a treat – you’ll be looking the wrong way when she pulls those four aces from the pack.

Other mainstays in our games catalogue include the kind of pastime that doesn’t even cost you the price of a deck of cards.

Consequences is a favourite – that game where you pick a subject for

a story, write the first line on a piece of A4, fold it over and hand it to the player on your left to add the next paragraph.

Results vary from the hilarious to the poetic – Daisy’s tale of pre-teen crushes working well alongside Sam’s zombie apocalypse recount and their mother’s long-held love of haunted house yarns.

Simpler still, though, are the word games, which need not board, cards, pen or paper, just a bit of imagination.

The alphabet game, for example – pick a subject and go round the table naming a thing beginning which each letter, while waiting to mock the poor sap who has to provide an animal beginning with Q – and the classic ‘I packed my bag and in it I put’.

How do you actually get that elephant, the canoe and granma’s knickers into one holdall?

We love these – and have taken things a stage further with the invention of a game we’ve dubbed simply ‘The Hardest Game In The World’. The rules are simple – with no hesistation at all you go round the table just saying a word, any word as long as it’s a noun. The only thing you can’t do is repeat a word or um and ah in anyway.

Sound simple? Try it. I’ve never lasted more than two rounds – but the belly laughs and good times it and all the other games we find to play more than make up for, this time at least, not coming first. MM

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...handling a deck correctly is a vital life skill – my goal is for all my children to be able to fall back on the poker table if all their other money-making schemes don’t pan out.

home truths 28

FAMILY TIES, FIRM FRIENDS

CHAPTER 11 // FAMILY TIES, FIRM FRIENDS

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he first properly hot weekend of the year should have been a time for celebration – but a dark cloud hung over our house.

It mainly emanated from Daisy, our 11-year-old daughter, but six-year-old Oli was none to happy with the world either.

Sam pretended not to be bothered – but clearly was a bit sad – and me and my wife realised that we too had quite heavy hearts.

What had caused the dark funk that was fighting the beautiful WA sunshine was the simple fact that the family across the road were finally moving out.

There’d long been talk of this eventuality, but at chez Mills we’d learnt to deal with it in the same way Americans had learnt to live with the threat of nuclear war in the 60s – it was almost definitely going to happen, but if we just carried

on as normal and made like nothing was wrong, perhaps everything would be OK. But, while the US managed to negotiate the Cuban missile crisis without the worst possible outcome, here in our little world we weren’t quite so lucky.

Rumour of the impending move had hatched almost 12 months previously, a couple of years after Mr and Mrs Ordongo moved to our northern suburb from their native Kenya and rented the four-bed, two-bath over the road from us.

Like thousands of immigrants before and after them, they’d grabbed a bolthole from which they planned to look around for the perfect place to settle – but, of course, this lack of permanency went completely over the heads of the Ordongos’ four beautiful children. As such, Bridget, who’s now 15, Bianca, now 11,

Billie, now six, and tiny Blanche, who’s now nearly mastered walking, quickly melded into the mass of happy childhood that makes up our street.

The wonderful thing about where we live, you see, is that, somehow, it’s slipped back in time to the 1970s. Luckily, it’s a 1970s with wifi, Foxtel and a really strong mobile phone signal, but, as far as the way the kids live in it, life in our road is very much the rose-tinted memory of that fashion-challenged decade that those of us who grew up in it remember.

Through some blessed coincidence, the majority of houses up and down our road are homes to young families. Being the northern suburbs, we come from all over the world – our house holds the obligatory Poms, the quartet of Bs represent Kenya, there’s a brace of South Africans, an Asian or two and the Kiwi clan with the baby and the labradoodle. And, of course, there’s longer-standing Aussies too, third-, fourthand fifth-generation immigrants and Indigenous families both.

Of course, the kids care not about the lands of their ancestors, so run as a pack, regardless of skin-tone or accent. Couple that with the fact that truly bad weather is a rarity and you can almost guarantee that as long as it’s daylight the kids will be out and about doing stuff together.

More often than not, they seem to be doing it in our house – although I’m sure the other mums and dads up and down the street think the same thing. But still, our backyard always seems chocka with kids of various sizes on weekends and long summer evenings, our pool is generally full of little folk when the mercury rises and our biscuit barrel and secret chip stash is always suspiciously empty whenever I fancy a hobnob, miniature Mars or pack of Twisties.

All of which I rather like, to be honest.

For me, there’s a rough vitality in street friendships that you don’t find in those forged at school. Don’t get me wrong, our kids share their classrooms with some lovely tykes, but a proper street-friend is somehow more natural. A street-mate can be any age, boy or girl. It doesn’t matter what maths set they’re in or how quickly

they’re picked on the oval.

But, most importantly, they transcend their parents and, I like to think, are the first steps towards independence for many a youngster.You don’t, for instance, have to rely on mum or dad to arrange a playdate or drop a street-mate off.You don’t have to pack a bag, worry about saying please and thank you at the right time. There’s no time-scale, no rigid organisation – you just hang about together when you want and go home and watch Cartoon Network when you don’t.

Yes, you still have to ask if you want to go on or host a sleepover, but, with a street-mate, you can arrange it as dusk is falling, offering a spontaneous continuation of the day’s adventure.

And in the long summer holiday, when the impracticalities of regularly seeing your tightest school buddy can chip away at a friendship, those endless days together with the kids next door, round the corner and

So yes, it’s been a sad weekend, watching this lovely family pack their rental van and drive off. over the road cement relationships. If you want proof, you should see our secondoldest Felix and his best mate Tyla in action – they’ll be bros for the rest of their lives, but have never shared a classroom or worn the same school uniform.

All in all, then, when part of this young, free community of kids is told they are going to have to move away, it can actually be a very, very sad day indeed.

For us, things were made worse by the fact that Daisy and Bianca are very much BFFs. Outside school time, they live in each other’s pockets – B’s been on holiday

with us a couple of times, they are ever present in each other’s houses.

And no less important is that Oli and Billie are also inseparable – their short lives so far have been lived together, padding around together, growing up together, creating a lovely odd couple relationship.

He’s a good four or five inches taller than she is, but she gives as good as he gets whether it’s with an Xbox controller, Nerf gun or colouring book.

So yes, it’s been a sad weekend, watching this lovely family pack their rental van and drive off. Daisy tried

her best to choke back the tears as they disappeared around the corner, but failed – soon both her and Oli were sobbing and wondering when they would see their friends again.

Thankfully, we answered that question later that evening, when Bianca and Billie popped round. They’d moved 10 minutes across the suburb – a long way for little legs but nothing a sturdy cycle and the occasional lift from mum and dad can’t solve.

The gang, I’m pleased to report, are still very much together. MM

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BACK TO SCHOOL BLUES

I home truths 30 CHAPTER 12 // BACK TO SCHOOL BLUES

t’s time for the kids to put on their school uniforms for the start of another year of learning but not before an anxious wait for school supplies colours the last few days of the holidays.

The boxes are beginning to pile up in the corner of our bedroom – three now, a big brown stack of cardboard packed with textbooks, texters, protractors and pencil cases.

Yep, in our house the countdown to the end of the long, long summer holiday and the beginning of a new school year is in full swing. The boxes, of course, are the ‘book lists’ – that strange Aussie tradition of making parents provide all the literary and stationery requirements their kids will need for another 12 months of education.

I say strange because as one of the many ex-pats not educated in this big red isle, this strategy has always struck me as, well, not really the most efficient way to go about things.

Yes, it does generate those lovely firstday-of-term scenes in which hundreds of neatly groomed school kids struggle gainfully across the playground on day one of the new school year laden down with packages often nearly as big as they are.

Oli, our six-year-old, is always good for some comedy gold as he stumbles blindly towards a new classroom looking for all the world little more than a box on legs.

Then, of course, comes the chaos of thirty odd children in each classroom ripping open their cartons and rifling through the goodies within while their new teacher tries to patiently guide them through where to put each new thing.

And while this piece of educational

anarchy is going on, of course, each new tutor group will inevitably have one or two pupils sitting mournfully on the sidelines watching the unpacking with envious hearts because their boxes still hadn’t arrived come the big day.

Right now, Daisy is convinced that will be her. With, as I write this, just eight days to go before the 2015 term begins none of the boxes delivered so far have her name on them – we have all of Sam’s kit and half

of Oli’s but so far nothing for our soon-tobe Year Sixer.

It’s a situation which is causing our little girl some very real stress. No pre-teen wants to be the odd one out and her fear of not having all her gluesticks in place on day one is beginning to boil over – her mother and I are regularly accused of being far too tardy in placing our order despite the fact that we actually lodged it while our NYE hangovers were still ringing true.

In fact our desperation to get the order in on time meant that once more we didn’t get round to diligently checking through the required reading to see if we already had a copy of I am David or the must-have Indonesian textbook kicking about on our overflowing bookshelves.

No, for the seventh year running we just ticked ‘buy all’ knowing deep down that as we also have two older boys that have been right through school we probably now have enough copies of Destroying Avalon to paper the spare room.

And it’s no easier for the more organised parent – one mother we know bemoaned the fact that she had to spend the best part of eighty bucks on a new edition of a history textbook when an elder sibling had just completed the year using the previous version. What part of history, she asked wearily, had changed so much that they needed to buy a new version?

previous years in dog-eared margins.

The hand-me-down textbook is a thing of beauty and education - imagine, for instance, if Harry Potter had had a brand spanking new copy of Advanced Potion Making instead of Snape’s annotated tome – things would have been considerably worse for Hogwarts, I can tell you.

But, no. I know I am sentenced to negotiating this palaver for many a year to come. Oli still has more than a decade of schooling in front of him and, frankly, WA’s love of red tape means that I can’t see the booklist process being simplified any time soon.

But still, deep down I don’t think any parent is going to complain too loudly, simply because they know that there is a pay-off to all this.

Despite the organisational nightmare that is getting your brood ready for the new

The hand-medown textbook is a thing of beauty and education All this palaver then and I haven’t even mentioned the fact that this mass acquisition of A4 folders and colouring pencils comes only a week or so after Christmas. My credit cards have actually melted.

One would think then that perhaps a rethink might make life easier for everyone. Is there really no mileage in schools bulk ordering everything they need and having it all stored neatly away when the children arrive on day one?

It turns out much of the stationery is pooled anyway – seriously, I kid you not, everyone buys their own pack of Crayola and then they’re all dumped in a big tub

together.

It wouldn’t even have to hurt the school financially – they could still bill us but just sort out the logistics themselves, maybe even getting a bulk order discount on the way.

And could teachers not take the responsibility of recycling textbooks?

Collecting them in at the end of the year and then redistributing them to the new intake?

As well as saving a few bob, this would ensure that kids today get to enjoy the delights of reading the doodles and comments of their counterparts of

31

school year – the hunt for lunchboxes, the scrabble for new shoes, the panic at realising your 12-year-old has grown so much over the holiday that none of his uniform fits him, the despair at digging out a backpack and realising that no one removed the banana sandwich from the front pocket on the last day of last year and it’s now evolved into a creature with its own intelligence and belief system – there is always the promise of payback on the horizon.

Yes, despite all the shenanigans and stress, there will be a point soon when the kids are no longer on holiday.

Totally worth it. MM

home truths 32 CHAPTER 13 // CAST AWAYH

CAST AWAY

T

here isn’t, of course, a good time for a child to break a bone, but our lot seem to be able to pick the worst possible moment. They are, in fact, masters of adding insult to their own injuries.

Take Henry, for instance, who still holds the record for the most inconvenient moment to snap some calcium.

Back when he was in Year 9, he was desperate to join his mates on the school ski trip to Thredbo. Now, if you know a bit about school trips then you’ll be well aware that snow-based excursions top the league as far as cost goes. But, hey, thanks to a year’s run-up letting us pay off the fees bit by bit and a considerable amount of scrimping and saving, we eventually saw him off from Perth Airport, massive backpack packed full of surprisingly

expensive padded ski clothes.

And then on day one of the 14-day experience – no, scratch that, morning one – he stood on his snowboard, slipped, crashed down and broke his arm. He hadn’t even made one descent, let alone caught some air on a sick oli.

They patched him up of course, but he spent the rest of the fortnight helping sort out helmets and sipping on hot chocolate.

So, yeah, not brilliant timing from the eldest.

But it’s the kind of thing that Family Mills have learned to expect over the years, so when, a couple of weeks ago, I heard the screams emanating from the backyard as Daisy’s thumb bone broke, I was already calculating the collateral damage as I raced to assess the physical cost.

She had been practicing handstands and cartwheels, something, pre-injury, she could be found doing pretty regularly since gymnastics and dance became her major motivation.

My wife and I still remain basically optimistic coves, so we ice-packed her up, spoon-fed her a bit of kids’ ibuprofen and went to bed hoping for the best, hoping that come morning a good night’s sleep would have it all sorted.

No such luck. It was, of course, still ‘very, very sore’.

My wife drew the short straw and took her to Joondalup for the long wait in the emergency room. Even at this point we still clung onto the fact that everything might be OK, but eventually the x-ray showed the chance of a tiny break in her

scaphoid and the cast was duly applied.

Only that evening did we voice the true reality of the timing of the break.

“Two days after her first gymnastics session,” sighed my wife.

“Yes. And two days after we found the three hundred bucks for the term,” I sighed back, despondently sipping my wine.

“Yes, and two days before her first rehearsal for the school show,” my wife added. I nodded sadly, but then was struck with a silver lining.

“At least it’ll be OK in time for camp,” I said, brightening up.

Oh, foolish soul. I had, of course, well and truly jinxed the situation – and as such it was karma that it was me who took Daisy to the follow-up appointment a week and a bit later.

We drove to the trauma suite in high spirits. Somehow, we had convinced ourselves that the whole thing was over.

We’d had a few days in a cast, but now

everything was going to get back to normal.

The doctor, a lovely, bright young woman with a brilliant bedside manner, tried her best to sugarcoat the truth, but, as the scaphoid was indeed busted, she told us she had no choice but to get a new cast put on which would stay put for another five weeks.

At this point Daisy was quietly stoic.

She was still polite and cooperative as the nurse chatted happily and applied an actually quite pretty pink cast to replace the now tatty ER version. It was only when we reached the hospital car park that she let her true feelings vent.

Quietly, she asked me for my phone and brought up the calendar. Gears clicked as she worked out that while the cast came off in five weeks, camp kicked off in four.

The tears that followed put the original injury to shame.

I of course, did the bad dad thing and reached for anything that would make her

... the last thing I want is for my beautiful gymnastic dancer’s career to be curtailed by a badly healed thumb bone.

happy again – in this case pledging that I would have words with the doctor and make arrangements for the cast to be taken off early, a promise that she has latched on to and, I imagine, won’t let go of.

It was a bad move, of course, I know full well that one should trust your doctor.

After my only time in plaster, a full leg thing as a teenager after slipping on ice while dancing with my little sister at a bus stop, I ignored all talk of physio and as such was cursed with a left knee so dodgy that even a bit of mild New Year’s Eve twerking can put it out. So the last thing I want is for my beautiful gymnastic dancer’s career to be curtailed by a badly healed thumb bone.

It will probably be then that she does attend camp with her cast in place, but hopefully she’ll be OK with that.

After all, her initial plaintive pledge that she would ‘never be happy again’, has proved false, thanks mainly to some TLC from grandma and Aunty Caroline in the immediate aftermath, some shopping with mummy on the weekend and the realisation that, in Year 6, cast means celebrity – ‘there was a queue to sign it, daddy, even two boys wanted to’ – and the chance to have minions – ‘in sports, someone was picked to throw the T-ball for me’.

Her lovely gym school has, of course, given us a credit note for next term, which has cheered up both Daisy and my credit card no end, and the school show director has reassured her that she has no problems with having a cast in the cast.

Hopefully, then, all will be well in five weeks time and we’ll weather this storm, making us all the stronger for next time Daisy breaks a bone. Which, knowing our luck, will probably be the day before her wedding or some such but, hey, we’ll sort something out. MM

33

CAMPING AROUND Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to camp she goes for one of the tribe and one thing is certain.

Not everything will come back that’s been packed so carefully.

H

home truths 34 CHAPTER 14 // CAMPING AROUND

i ho, hi ho, it’s off to camp she goes for one of the tribe and one thing is certain. Not everything will come back that’s been packed so carefully.

It’s going to be a little less noisy round at our house for the next couple of days.

Not silent, of course, just down a notch, one less voice laughing and shouting to make itself heard above the others.

Daisy, you see, is off to camp – the first school excursion of the new academic year. Her bags are all packed and ready, a huge green tube packed with hoodies, leggings and new undies with a cosy sleeping bag strapped on top, and me and her mum are revelling in the smug satisfaction of being nearly sure that we’ve sourced everything on the extensive equipment checklist.

And it is quite the list, especially if you bear in mind that she’s due to leave tomorrow morning and then return on Friday, only just a little over two days later.

Each kid, the list states with a stern authority, must turn up with a bath towel, a beach towel, bathers, long pants (loose and tough), two or three T-shirts (must cover shoulders and stomach), a couple of pairs of shorts that hide at least two thirds of the thigh, a school hat (no baseball caps), two jumpers, a waterproof jacket – oh, the list just goes on and on, a good half dozen more clothing requirements before we even get to the miscellaneous sundries such as the personal water bottle (1 litre), day pack, books (to read) and lip balm.

The camp organisers, it seems, have considered every eventuality and constructed an inventory to fit – and they’re not leaving any wiggle room which may let, say, an old-before-hertime Year Sixer sneak a sequined crop top and matching short shorts onto the bus in lieu of sensible climbing clobber.

In fact the only touch of individuality the list has allowed is in the area of teddy bears, which, it graciously has decided, are “optional”.

Daisy, of course, used the list as an excuse to take her mother on a shopping

spree, somehow managing to convince us that very few of the mountain of clothes packed into her chest of drawers would fit the bill.

On their return she proudly showed me the new additions to her wardrobe and the other essentials that the short expedition requires. Among them, of course, was item number 34 on the

checklist – a small torch.

“Haven’t we already got a small torch somewhere?” I asked. “Didn’t we get one last year, when Sam went to camp?”

The reply was a confident no, backed up with claims of having “looked everywhere”, and once more I was left to simply ponder the mystery of the camp small torch.

It is a fact, you see, that Family Mills has never sent the same small torch to more than one camp – which, when you do the math is actually quite a feat. Daisy, is our fourth child and now a veteran of three camps. That’s three small torches right there. Sam’s in Year Eight now, so that’s at least half a dozen more. And then there’s our oldest two, both of whom have now left school – I can’t even begin to count the small torches they’ve been through.

So where have they all gone? All these small torches that have been plucked from K-Mart or servo shelves? Honestly, I’ve no idea. All I know is that I’m pretty sure that when Oli, our youngest, finally graduates Year 12, I’ll come home from the

ceremony and see a cupboard that I hadn’t noticed before, open it and find scores of small torches, illustrating 30-odd years of small torch fashion. But I probably won’t be able to put my hands on a couple of AA batteries.

Anyway, small torches aside, at least we are confident that Daisy has everything required and all that’s left to do is for her to lug her massive green bag across the playground tomorrow morning and get in the queue for the coach.

As one of those parents who tends to overlook the minutiae of my children’s lives, I have to admit that it’s only recently that I’ve found out that Daisy is not at this point facing a long, long coach ride.

No, it turns out that most of the camps my children had been to are in the Perth metro area, a fact that, considering the vast size of WA, surprised me. Somehow, I’d always pictured them heading out into the bush and pitching their tents miles and miles away from anyway.

I suppose it makes sense – I can understand that, as a teacher, you’d want to limit the coach-time as much as possible – but I can’t help but think that they’re missing out on an important childhood

experience. For me, the long coach trip, packed full of smuggled lollies, backseat larks and spotty kids throwing up on Mr Slipper were one of the highlights of my childhood excursions, not least because of the comfort break at some servo along the way when we’d happily run riot.

But still, a little less than half an hour after pulling away from school tomorrow, Daisy will turn up at camp and her latest adventure will begin.

Having fond memories of childhood school stay-aways, I can appreciate that she’s getting to the age where ‘what happens at camp stays at camp’, but I actually can’t wait for her to be home and share the edited details of her experience, adding to the tales that have become family folklore over the years. Tales such as the time Sam, who shares my predilection for nocturnal rambling, zombie-walked from his dorm to the teachers’ mess, scaring the living daylights out of the assembled adults, Henry’s day one broken arm and Felix’s kayaking catastrophe.

Yes, I’m sure she’ll return with a lot of tales to tell. No small torch, of course, but a lot of good memories. MM

It’s going to be a little less noisy round at our house for the next couple of days.

35

home truths

It’s a pointless task too far this month as the family collectively throws in the towel thanks to a ‘fun’ Indonesian assignment.

36 CHAPTER 15 // DOWN WITH HOMEWORK

I

was in Woolies doing the weekly food shop when my phone chirruped. It was a text from my wife.

“Don’t forget shampoo x” I replied simply with a K, like the youngsters do, hoping my blunt response would get across that actually I was quite in control and she could trust me not to forget anything. It didn’t – a couple of minutes later another text landed.

“And we need pasta. And toothpaste x”

I fired back another curt K hoping that would be the end of it. But no.

“And bacon x” Another pause and then again the little beep.

“And get 5 batang buncis and couple of buah wortel. And some garam secukupnya x” Presuming an autocorrect crisis, I rang her to find out exactly what she was on about.

“Batang buncis?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “Five of them. And two buah wortel.”

A pause and then she sighed deeply before explaining that this wonderful collection of unpronounceable vowels and consonants were in fact things we had to source this weekend if we wanted Sam to get his homework in on time.

Yes, it turned out my wife had just had an email drop in her inbox explaining that the latest assignment our 12-year-old had been set was to create a traditional Indonesian dish – a tahu isi to be precise – following a recipe written in the language of its original creators.

Now, before I go on, I have to state that I’ve always tried to be one of those parents that is very, very supportive of their kids’ school. I’ve always encouraged them to

follow the rules and will generally back their teachers, presuming that after years in uni studying how to educate youngsters they’ve got a better idea of what they’re doing than I have.

But this – this was the final straw. This was the moment when I finally gave in and had to admit that after nearly 15 years of battling with it, I simply cannot stand – or understand - homework.

I know it’s an institution and all, but seriously, the stress and hassle that invariably goes with homework in our house makes me wonder how anyone could argue it is worthwhile.

Of course, I can see the lovely idea behind this latest task – and I’m sure there are some wonderfully organised families out there that will revel in their time together knocking up an Indonesian appetiser – but, after years and years of these kind of projects, I can guarantee that things aren’t going to go smoothly when Family Mills have a crack at it.

The cooking bit we could probably just about manage - my wife is actually quite clever in the kitchen - but the reality of things is that Sam isn’t exactly top of the class in Indonesian.

Couple that with the fact that, as ex-pat Poms, his mum and dad grew up learning French, German and Italian as our LOTEs of choice, we’re not going to be much help deciphering the instructions.

As such, I’m guessing that we won’t get much further than step one – tahu dipotong segi tiga, wortel dan buncis

diranag kecil-kecil persegi – before tempers start to fray and the buah wortels start to fly.

So, although we’ll give it our best shot, I can almost guarantee that the end result will be a load of washing up, an unhappy and probably a bit demoralised YearEighter and a tahu isn’t where we’d hoped there would be a tahu isi.

I know that sounds defeatist, but frankly after more than a decade and a half of struggling with assignments various children have brought home from school, I simply can’t find any more optimism.

I still have the memories of the earthquake diorama – green painted shoe box with a wooden spoon stuck in it to represent tectonic shake – and the bicycle safety poster – ‘why is that man lying on an ironing board?’ the eldest asked his

... after nearly 15 years of battling with it, I simply cannot stand – or understand - homework.

younger brother on completion – to know that early ambitions will ultimately end in defeat.

And, sadly, it’s not just the A-list projects that bring woe to our household – the day to day grind of Mathletics, journals and reading lists wears us down too.

As two working parents, we honestly try our hardest to find time to nurture and coax our brood into enjoying 72 frustratingly similar algebra equations, but frankly we’d much rather be sitting outside with them on the deck playing Uno. That attitude, of course, means that Sam – and Felix and Henry before him – has drifted into the world of green demerit stamps for non-completed homework and the relentless detentions said stamps bring.

Detentions, I might add, that bizarrely are designed to serve no practical purpose – my suggestion to one teacher that Sam should do the homework he hadn’t done that had earned him the detention while he was in the detention was met with nothing more than a bemused stare.

So, finally I’m going to put my hands up and declare to the world that I do not think homework is a good thing. After all, on a serious note, there isn’t a psychologist in the world who would say that parents bringing work home with them every night is a positive thing for their families – so why do we carry on pretending it’s a benefit for children?

At the end of the day, however, I know there’s nothing I can do about it – homework, like taxes and death, is here to stay, we just have to put up with it.

In the meantime, I’m off to ask the shelf-stacker where to find the bumbu yang dihaluskan. MM

37

NAME OF THE GAME Despite our brood having perfectly good proper ones, we just can't help picking silly nicknames for us all. And it seems we're not alone.

T home truths 38 CHAPTER 17 // GROUNDHOG DAY

he latest crisis to hit our 12-yearold is a very 21st-century kind of affair – and, as such, it was hard at first for me to grasp the enormity of the situation.

The problem, it turned out, was that he’d been locked out of his World of Warcraft account after ham-fistedly typing his password wrong one too many times.

He claimed caps lock was to blame.

World of Warcraft, for the happily uninitiated, is a computer game played over the internet. It involves dwarves, spells, hit points and running around an unfathomably large playing area along with hundreds of thousands of other like-minded fantasy fans killing dragons and occasionally shouting ‘lol noob’ via a chatbox.

Anyway, my suggestion that he should see his password malfunction as a sign from the gods that he should go and read a book instead was met with massive indignation. He had, he explained, spent many an hour crafting his paladin into a force to be reckoned with and there was much work still left for him to do.

Important gig then, so I decided it was not my place to stand in his way and set about going down the password retrieval labyrinth.

And that’s when things got difficult.

The security question WoW had set when Sam first created his account way back when – a vital piece of info we needed to provide to get back in – was ‘childhood nickname’. That seemed simple enough until we tried to enter a response.

“It’ll be Boo,” I told him with confidence, referring to the very first nickname he was saddled with when still a babe in arms. Nope.

“Sorry, we do not recognise that answer,” WoW’s website told us.

“OK . . . try Sammy.” Another no.

Sammy Sam was next, an extension of the

classic. Still no. Over the next frustrating ten minutes, we tried every nickname we could think of. Mule – a phonetic deconstruction of the second syllable of Samuel. The Muler, the natural evolution of Mule. Glee, from his first word. Gleeson, another extension. So onto the ones with no real explanation – Monkey Face, Chipshop, Pigdog, the list went on, but none opened the portal back to the World of Warcraft.

I had to, then, admit defeat and promise to phone WoW HQ and sort it out, leaving a peeved middle child to mutter under his breath: “Couldn’t you just have called me Junior or something?”

But the truth is nicknames are a big thing in our house, as my wife pointed out later when I asked her if she had any suggestions as to which of Sam’s many monikers WoW could have been looking for.

“There’s just too many,” she said and went on to list the main ones our five

children have endured over the years: Oliver, our youngest at six, is, obviously, Oli. But he is also Losty, Lostandfound and Christmas Cake (from his middle names Christian Jake) to name but a few.

Daisy, was Dazzle as a baby and I still can’t stop calling her Baby Girl, despite her now being 11 years old. Her middle names too have borne nicknames, Tabitha Rose morphing into the likes of Twobits and, my personal favourite, The Twice-Bitten Rose, over the years.

Felix, meanwhile, is fine with being addressed as Lixie, but nowadays, at 17, he would rather we didn’t use Locksmith or Lixamophone when his mates or girlfriend are around.

And Henry? Yes, H is a cool nickname for parents to give their firstborn – remember S Club 7? – but did it really have to be corrupted to Ash and then on from that eventually to Aschenbecher, which, it turns out, is German for ashtray?

I was left then wondering whether we’d taken the nickname too far, but my wife was quick to assure me that we weren’t alone.

I was left then wondering whether we’d taken the nickname too far, but my wife was quick to assure me that we weren’t alone.

“Look,” she said, “I’ll prove it. Let’s see what PRIMOLife readers think.”

I’ve probably mentioned in the past that I’m married to this magazine’s boss and, powerhouse that she is, she has sway over all PRIMO platforms. As such, she

tapped quickly at her laptop and, via our Facebook page, asked our many likers whether they too were prone to the odd silly nickname.

And it turns out that there are people out there that make addressing your second-born Lixamophone look like quite the sensible thing to do.

Sam, it turned out, isn’t the only Boo in the world – Rebecca Stanborough’s

11-month-old is one while Karen Thompson’s little girl started as Lara Loo, then Loo, then Loo Boo, but now, she says, is mainly Boo. I love the poetry of that evolution – and Linda Manso obviously likes a good rhyme too as her tot is ‘My Boo, I Love You’.

And there are some gloriously silly names out there – Gay Ann De Wit is mum to Jo Po Pooh Bear and Core Core Apple Core. Kate Bousfield, who, like us boasts five children, has Grommet, Lolly Legs, Fluffy, Reggae and Beanie – and is carrying on the tradition through her grandkids Shakey and Terrodactal.

Which, of course is a reminder that nicknames are not a new thing – Karen Lamond’s dad called her and her sister Agatha and Gertrude, cheekily referencing Cinderella’s ugly sisters, and Ursula Fitton posted: “My brother was always called Tonsils. I never asked why. He’s nearly 60 now – think it’s time I asked.”

The names kept coming – Princess Poopsy, Little Dude, Little Man, Missy Moo, Roon – so after a couple of days of replies I was confident we weren’t a madhouse for indulging in silly, but loving, names.

Thanks, then, all you PRIMOLifers who replied. All I need to do now is get on the phone and get Flute’s account reactivated before I go and pick up Slipshod and Moonface. MM

39

GROUNDHOG DAY My life follows a set path every morning thanks to the shackles of the school run routine. And that’s just the way I like it.

home truths 40

M

CHAPTER 15 // GROUNDHOG DAY

y life follows a set path every morning thanks to the shackles of the school run routine. And that’s just the way I like it.

As a younger man, I prided myself on my spontaneity.

Yes, I was shackled to the yoke of employment and new-found adulthood – a startling world that, it turned out, involved paying your own bills and having no one to blame if the fridge was bare but yourself – but these millstones aside, I was confident that I used my freedom and independence well.

Any day I wasn’t at work would be an unwritten book, a chance to go anywhere or do anything. I’d wake up of a morning and feel a 400k road trip was essential. Or perhaps seeking out a new restaurant, a dawn to dusk session in a waterfront bar or a long, long walk in the great outdoors was the go. Even, maybe, all that was needed was half the contents of Blockbuster Video, a barrow-load of popcorn and a willing duvet partner, but, whatever my mood was, I reveled in the freedom to pick and choose.

The buzz was that I didn’t know what was coming next. I was out in the big wide world shouting ‘come at me, bro’ and eating up whatever twists and turns were ahead of me. Deadlines and demanding editors aside - and in truth journalism boasts more spontaneity than most other vocations so earning a crust wasn’t exactly

humdrum either - I had no routine.

Nowadays, I have just realised, that is not the case.

This lightning bolt of comprehension hit about ten minutes ago as I pulled the car into the drive after dropping the kids off at school. It’s Wednesday, so it’s the third time I’ve done the school run this week, probably about the 17th or 18th this month. This year then I’m around the 80 mark and, as a father of five whose eldest started kindy in 2001, I reckon my career stats are around 2,500 not out.

That’s a lot of school runs – and not a lot of spontaneity.

School runs, you see, are one of the parental duties that most clearly illustrate the concept of routine. They have to be, you can’t be messing with them.

In our house, they’ve just about always been my domain. My wife and I have always managed to stagger our working days so she’s at work at the crack of dawn and I’m at my desk afternoons and evenings, meaning the school run and day care is my job, tea, homework and baths is hers.

So a decade and a half of getting the kids to school has seen me hone my skills to the point that I now run them with a military precision, perfect timing – and absolutely not one iota of spontaneity.

Here’s how they go.

My phone alarm goes off at 6.35. I hit snooze. Nine minutes later - 6.44 - the alarm goes off again. I hit snooze again.

Nine minutes later - 6.53 - it goes again.

Snooze again. 7.02 it goes again. Time to get up.

Into the kitchen, I flick on the kettle, then do the wake-ups. Daisy first, I open her blinds, kiss her on the head, tell her it’s morning. Oli next. He likes a glass of milk and his TV turned on. Then Sam. Light on for him and standing at the end of the bed till I hear a grunt of recognition.

Our eldest two, now both working, are no longer part of the school run but sometimes I wish that they were. They, like their mother, were larks and would rise quite easily, the other three however are, like me, owls and loathe any time pre-9am.

School runs, you see, are one of the parental duties that most clearly illustrate the concept of routine.

As such, then, my remaining tasks are punctuated with revisiting bedrooms to make sure that my youngest three are up and about, occasionally walking on eggshells if one of them is particularly not into the AM. Onward though and the next task is delivering Sam and Daisy’s uniforms to their rooms and putting Oli’s on the heater if it’s a chilly morning.

I cut fruit and put it into pots for Oli and Daisy and add chips and chocolate to their lunchboxes for recess, then stick cereal in bowls for breakfast. Fill the waterbottles, check backpacks for library bags and order two lunches from the online dinner ladies that have replaced brown paper bags - Sam has cash for the

canteen.

Now, I change out of PJs into jeans and hoody then manoeuver Oli out of bed and onto the sofa. He’s six and is most of the way to getting dressed on his own, but still needs a hand some days.

Then inventory check. Permission slips, laptop, correct coloured socks, Smartriders for the older two, news bag as necessary for the youngest. Then it’s into the car, defuse the ‘who’s in the front’ argument then it’s the drive to school - a process that sees me in the exact same road position every day in order to hit the perfect park at the perfect time.

Kisses for Sam and Daisy at the gates and I walk Oli in. Backpack in locker,

lunchbox in pigeon hole, waterbottle in his hand. Kiss on the head at the door, maybe a quick convo with some of the mums and then I’m away, back in my car and back home.

Which is where you found me ten minutes ago, pondering on the rise of routine in my life and whether I miss the days when anything could happen.

And then I see a piece of sugar paper that has fallen out of Oli’s backpack, an alien figure holding what might be a pencil but may also be a laser gun scrawled on it below the words ‘my favrit thing is school’ and, hey, I realise everything’s OK. I’ll get back to spontaneity when they’re all at uni. MM

41

SIEZE THE DAY

I

home truths 42 CHAPTER 15 // SIEZE THE DAY

had a brief glimpse into the future last week – which was strange because I was very much in the middle of the here and now.

I was out diorama shopping with Daisy, the kind of activity that you’ll regularly find my family doing at this stage in our lives. With three school age kids – and two who have only recently shed their blazers and headed out into the world of TAFE and full-time employment – we tend to spend a lot of our time sourcing the kind of tat that’s apparently necessary to get our brood properly educated.

So it was, then, that I was traipsing around the mall with my 11-year-old daughter picking out texters, cottonwool balls, A1 pieces of card, cowgum, glitter and countless other things that in our heads were going to combine with a cardboard box from Bunnings to adequately represent the terror, devastation and natural fury of the Boxing Day Tsunami.

At this point, the future was a long, long way away – I was more aware of a depressing sense of déjà vu than any prophetic epiphany as I marveled at my daughter’s ultimately hopeless optimism, memories of her brothers’ attempts to recreate the Fall of Pompei, Cyclone Katrina and the Great Kalgoorlie Quake of 2010 reminding me of the disappointment to come.

But then we decided to take a break and grab a coffee and a snack. As it was just the two of us – a rare combination in our over-large family – I let Daisy choose the venue, so suddenly we were sitting in Jamaica Blue, me nursing a delightful flat white while she sipped daintily on an iced chocolate.

And then she started chatting – and the crystal ball moment pounced. Gone was the inane babble of young children, the beautifully clunky attempts at conversation and the random thirst for knowledge, and instead we traded thoughts on her school, her peers, the pressure of homework, the joy of her dance classes. We moved on to

my work and her mother’s, then money became the topic before touching briefly on her realisation that perhaps everything the school chaplain said shouldn’t be taken at face value.

In short, it was a grown upconversation – and I loved it.

Here’s why.

Almost since we first signed up for parenthood, my wife and I have daydreamed about a Christmas to come when all five of our children return from their adult lives and gather round our dining table. It’s a Christmas we haven’t yet experienced, one where the content of the presents under the tree is immaterial, where the greatest gift is that we’re all in the same room together.

Let’s say that it’s Oli’s 21st Christmas.

He’s six now, so it’s hard to imagine what he’ll be like 15 years down the

line – young children are all about the now, a whirling mass of life, high on the experience of today with no thought of tomorrow – but I like to picture him tall, stocky, tousled-haired with the barest touch of his early years still there in his big round face.

He’ll talk of his uni studies – he’s by far the cleverest of the lot so he’s our best bet to bring a degree or two to our bookshelves – and blush scarlet when Henry ribs him about the pretty, bookish girl he took to the indie cinema festival.

Because Henry will be there, of course, maybe even with wife in tow, a grandchild asleep in the now-spare room that was once his teenage cave. He’ll be 35, an age when he’ll have a lot behind him but still a lot to come, an age, I’m defiantly sure, when he’ll look back on the things that haunted him as a young man and flush

with justified pride at how he overcame them.

But, of course, he’ll still like to rib his little brother – and will probably still offer up the odd playful clip round the ear.

Sam will be 28, which again is difficult to picture. If I were to ask him now what he’ll be up to come 2030, he’d say leading the last WA resistance to the zombie apocalypse from his Rottnest Island stronghold, but personally I prefer my view that he’ll finally be really finding his feet, that his confidence in his imagination, humour and calm leadership has broken through the inertia that his fear of failure so often brings and he’s working in a world that loves him and he loves back.

Carpentry, maybe, building beautiful things.Yes, that or zombie-slayer, both

In short, it was a grown up conversation and I loved it.

kinda work.

And then there’s Felix. Will Ashley, the girl who burst into his life six months ago, be sitting next to the 33-year-old version of our kind, gentle second son? It’s hard not to picture it.

Nowadays, Felix isn’t just Felix – he’s Felix and Ashley. He’s in the midst of that relationship that will stay with him all his life, the first taste of what it really means to be in love. And she’s wonderful, has added to him, enhanced him, and right now her not being around is unimaginable.

So, yes, I’ll say he’s there with Ashley, a bit in her shadow but lit up by her presence, like he was the other night at his 18th birthday meal – the other option is just a bit too sad to consider.

Finally, then, there’s Daisy, 26-yearold Daisy. She’ll be sitting next to me of course and will later curl up on my lap for a while even though she’s a bit too big and my bones are a bit too frail.

I’ll know her like I know her now – and, while I don’t want to wish our lives away, I can’t wait to meet my grown-up daughter who just put in that brief, early appearance in Jamaica Blue.

We’ve got a lot to talk about, not least just how bad our tsunami diorama turned out to be. MM

43

HOME TRUTHS

The story so far

ABOUT THE AUTHOR MATTHEW MILLS is a rock star. Or at least in the unofficial biography of his life, that's how he'd like to have been remembered. Sure, he may not have packed out the stadiums of the world with his band, The Lovely Lads, but he's certainly a rock star wielding not a V-shaped axe, but a biro pen. Multitalented, authentic and dedicated to the power of the written word, Matthew's first novel is, as ever, still just around the corner. In the meantime, this collection of columns will sate his fans' appetites.

home truths 44 CHAPTER 1 // ONE MAN'S TRASH

Man, we were so bummed when Matt and his band couldn't be bothered to show up and support our gig in Norwich. Yeah, sure, we thought. You go and drink warm beer and play pool instead – at that point Nirvana was as far away from super-stardom as The Lovely Lads would remain for their entire career.

No biggie. Still, I like to tell the story that Smells Like Teen Spirit was inspired by the ennui of Matt and his band mates on that fateful night. Thanks, man.

It's a little known fact that Harry Potter was inspired by a fleeting meeting between me and Matthew. He won't know this, but I spotted him on a visit to Largs back in the day. I saw this studious, glasses-wearing guy, who just looked...what's the word...magical. And yes, that's the day the legend was born. I'm so glad that he's finally getting the recognition he deserves, and in no small way my enormous financial security is due to Matthew's face. And no, he can't have some of my money.

I used to have a poster of Matthew on my wall when I played Buffy the Vampire Slayer. He was my free pass - I know, I know, you'd think that with Spike and Angel and all the rest of those hunks hanging around I could have had my pick, but no. It was the enigmatic, guitarist-cum-writer who floated my boat.

Either him or Giles. Anyway, now I've moved on to, hang on, no career to speak of, so I guess Matthew wouldn't give me a second look now. Can I give him my number?