Blue Bottles

Someone reminded me last week that I have committed to recording the progress of my Parkinson’s journey, so here I am. 

Please note, I use the word journey, not battle. Battle would suggest I’m in some sort of conflict that can be won and that’s unfortunately not true. This is a one-way journey and there’s no dream destination at the end. I hate it when a cancer sufferer is said to have ‘lost their battle’ with the disease, as if some how they should have fought harder to win. That’s crap! Everyone just does their best with the cards they’re dealt and my hope is, with the continued support of my family and friends, to manage the hurdles of PD as they arise and by monitoring and recording my symptoms and trying viable treatments, to add something to the body of knowledge surrounding the disease before it overtakes me.

 

If you're not interested in my random ramblings, please just scroll on by, but if you’re intrigued by this journey of disintegration– as I am on some macabre, objective, outside looking in level, here’s the next episode of what’s been happening to my brain.

 

Since publicly outing my disease, my heart has been warmed by people asking about my health and from some truly beautiful, encouraging messages that I've received. Mostly the tone is, ‘how’re you going?”, with the emphasis on sympathetic tone and a willingness to help if they can. Sometimes though, it’s a whispered query, with the emphasis on the hidden thought, “thank god it’s not me!” I understand both responses and whilst I totally appreciate and welcome the concern, I also find it a bit confronting, because it reminds me that I have a disease and pity is the last thing I need. The best responses have been the simple ones, some black humour, people taking the opportunity to just check in for a chat, to spend time with me, or to understand that sometimes I have to say no to things I would usually help with. 

 

So, how am I, really? How’s it shaking?

 

I’ve started on PD medication, the first line management tool. Unfortunately, it nauseates me, like really gross, disgusting, feel like I’m about to vomit all the time nausea and it worsens my ever present vertigo. Also, I’m not entirely sure it’s helping the tremor, although people tell me it’s less obvious on the outside, so maybe it is. There’s a huge vanity element in the presenting symptoms of Parkinson’s so I’m willing to stay sick on the inside if it makes me look more ‘normal’ on the outside. Ginger tea helps with the nausea, (so does brandy), and if I discipline myself to eat oats every morning for breakfast, I can cope. Along with my VILIM ball, a complicated sort of mechanical fidget spinner (which may or may not be a very  expensive placebo), and a mind technique of reverse concentration that I’m slowly developing, I can still fool most people most of the time that there’s nothing wrong with me apart from encroaching old age. Thankfully my favourite Cat doctor found a treatment for my chronic back pain so I’m hoping an increased ability to exercise will help keep my gait straight and limbs flexible for longer. I’ve become a bit obsessed with checking my Apple watch stats on step length, balance and step variability and I have a drawing app that I’ve mastered so well that it tells me I have 0% likelihood of having Parkinsons 😂

 

I’m very tired- all the time. Shaking is exhausting. The hand tremor is one thing. When I get agitated or over tired or upset, or angry or any normal human emotion other than neutral, it flaps. And to stop the overt flapping I tense it, trap it with my other hand or sit on it. And so then my other hand or leg gets tired from resisting. If only I could channel the energy of the flap into something useful! The other tremor I have (so far ) is in my legs but its internal, so it manifests as constantly constricting nerves and muscles- like a never ending, whole body tens machine. No matter how tired you get, sleeping is problematic when you can’t relax.

 

Other brain stuff- remarkably I have regained some sense of smell. I need to ask the neurologist about what that means but I'm enjoying the odd whiff of things I can no longer identify. My handwriting has deteriorated to the stage where my signature suggests I have a medical degree. I can’t always find the words I want to say when I need them but I’m getting better at playing charades with myself. I have some short term memory lapses so list making is essential. But also, it’s a great fall back excuse for my lifetime of disorganisation.

 

On our walk this afternoon, it occurred to me that life with PD is a bit like the beach was at Lady Bay today, covered in blue bottles. You always know that there are blue bottles in the sea but usually they’re hidden, or scarce, and so you forget about them. Truthfully, most days, when I’m at work and my brain is engaged, I feel pretty great and I forget that I’m sick. Sometimes, when I’m totally immersed in a task and in a state of Flow, even the shaking stops. I’m incredibly lucky that I love my job and I work with amazing kids and staff. School gives me a reason to get up each day.

 

But on bad days- the blue bottle days, the mental struggle to stay positive is all consuming. Probably due to the lack of dopamine in my system (not sure if this is medically true because I’m still refusing to google), there are days when the slightest thing, or in fact, no thing, trips me into a spiral of tears and terror. This is the worst symptom so far. This is the battle in the journey. Because my life is good, great even. I have so much to be grateful for. But occasionally the blue bottles taint every positive thought with threats of my limited opportunities and seemingly imminent decline.

That’s the reality. 

 

The biggest message to anyone else who is dealing with a degenerative disease diagnosis – it’s not all bad (yet). Life goes on and the knowledge that you’re about to lose some of the good bits really helps you to appreciate them in the moment. Just beware the blue bottles!

 

Thanks to everyone who's supporting me to keep on keeping on. 

Victory

 

For a parent, what is the measure of success? For me the goal has always been to raise kind, productive, happy humans, who have the capacity to value add to society.

With his big sisters already independently ticking those boxes for some time now, today, I'm claiming my Successful Certificate of Child Raising because this is the day that the youngest of our blended brood turns 21.

Of course, I've written about this 'special' child before, here on my own blog when he turned 10,http://annedemanser.blogspot.com/2013/07/mr-miracle-turns-10.html and later, when Mamamia asked me to do a feature on older mums https://www.mamamia.com.au/older-mum/ . But, 21 is special, and it's something I wasn't sure I'd ever get to see, so I'm indulging myself another time.

As his father articulated at his birthday party last weekend, Taine has always been a bit extreme, beginning with the fact that he was extremely lucky to have been born. I'm not religious so I don't believe in miracles per se but it's hard not to believe that somehow the stars aligned to bring Taine into the world. It was a sliding door moment that led to his conception (TMI, I know- sorry), but if our friends had come in for a coffee after dropping us off after the staff cocktail party, we probably would have been tired and sober enough to just crawl into bed to sleep, but they rain checked the coffee, and we weren't tired, or sober, so...

6 weeks later I found myself on a gurney in the X ray department, looking at the ultrasound screen , steeling myself to be told about yet another blighted ovum that would need a D & C. Instead I saw a tiny, blinking light, a heart beat. A. HEART. BEAT!

A natural conception at 45, with one severed Fallopian tube and the other damaged. A one in 100,000 occurrence they told me. Another 6 weeks later, the stakes grew higher with a CVS to test for genetic abnormalities; a 1 in 7 chance that there'd be problems to prepare for. There were no problems. Weekly monitoring for my 'advanced' maternal age? Unnecessary. After planning for an induction if I reached 41 weeks, my water broke on his due date and bingo, 'elderly' me gave birth, without intervention, to a perfect baby boy - it's no wonder we've never won Tattslotto. That sort of luck rarely strikes twice.

We called him Taine, an acknowledgement of his Kiwi heritage - for Tane Mahuta- god of the forest, Taine Randall - All Black legend and Taine Ruaridh Mhor - a tall, red haired Scotsman said to have arrived in NZ in the 12th century. Surely the most researched name in history! Interestingly, Taine is very tall, his beard (and sometimes his hair) is red, he's definitely a nature lover and given different circumstances his speed may well have lent itself to rugby.

And then the baby grew. And grew. And grew. He refused to sleep until he was 5, broke a couple of bones, struggled to learn how to read the first 100 words, never learnt how to put a dish or a piece of clothing away, lost everything he owned at least once (wallets, keys and phones multiple times) and ate everything that was put in front of him (or hidden in the cupboard). Otherwise, he was a drama free individual. He visited 14 countries before his 14th birthday, crossed the Tasman more times than we can remember and relished in his role as the 'funcle' to his growing brood of niblings. Suddenly he was over six feet tall, finished school, left home and able to wrap us in the best bear hugs imaginable. And when I say suddenly, legitimately I mean the aphorism, 'its gone in the blink of an eye' is true. Every second was precious. Don't we all wish time would allow us to linger in some of our children's moments for longer?

As a wee baby he came to school production rehearsals in his pram. By 3 he was insisting on a new costume for every occasion and turning every opportunity into a performance. At 5 we took him to a professional stage play in Melbourne and he analysed the plot before most adults had time to take their seats. On the soccer field he would wear his playing bib as a turban and do interpretive dance in the defence line. Despite playing footy & cricket and all the other things that country boys are 'supposed' to do, he's always been a performer, weathering the storm of bullying and rejection that inevitably comes from stepping outside your assigned box, and growing all the more resilient for it. We added singing and dancing lessons to his weekly routine of footy/cricket and swimming training and bathed in the sunshine of our son excelling in a theatre world that we had learnt to love.

At 21, he's found his place with a beautiful tribe of creative souls at uni and is loving life. It's yet to be revealed how that Art's degree will make a difference in the world, but the storytellers throughout history have always been vital to the health and well being of society so, I'm confident there'll be a ripple effect somewhere from his serendipitous conception. In the meantime he's already pretty good at lending his bartender's ear to the woes and worries of his customers, and his shoulders to the friends who need him, (and bear hugs for his mum).

Glitch

In his movie, "Still", Michael J Fox describes the first moment he discovered there was something seriously wrong with his brain. He says, "A moth's wing fluttered against my cheek", and when he moved his hand to brush the feeling away, his pinky finger kept fluttering; it was 'auto animated'.

I turned the movie off at that stage - about 2 minutes in, because the resonation of that image had just given me a self diagnosis that I wasn't yet brave enough to contemplate. It was August last year and the week before we'd been driving to school and that same moth had fluttered its wings on my thigh, where I suddenly found my right hand 'auto animated', an alien. appendage that, despite all the focus I could muster, refused to do what it was told.

I'd not long had Covid (again) and chose to think the tremor was an after effect. I went to the doctor, passed the finger to nose test, the reflex test, the stand on one foot test and I walked the straight line as sober as any judge. But it turns out there's only a few things that can cause a resting tremor. Brain scans and an MRI ruled out a stroke or tumour- something to celebrate. Blood tests ruled out vitamin deficiencies and hormonal imbalances. And so, in the absence of any other possible reason, the doctor, and the specialist doctor after that, and the second opinion doctor after that used the word Parkinson's. I preferred the word denial. Hadn't I passed all their tests?! I tried to prove to myself I was ok by taking on a few extra responsibilities at work. But Parkinson's answers too  many of my random ailments over the past few years to ignore it- anosmia, vertigo, joint pain, restless legs, insomnia, fused ligaments, illegible handwriting :-(

So, here I am, launching this new, shaky chapter of my life, avoiding Dr Google (still in denial) and re evaluating life goals. My pipe dream of living a long, productive life ending in a gentle demise in my 90 yr old sleep, is lost. There's nothing productive or gentle about end stage Parkinson's :-(  

I can hope however that it takes a long time to progress that far and anyway, maybe a different bus will hit me before then. In the meantime, my 366 project takes on a new meaning; I will #makethemostofit. There'll be no more sweating the small stuff for me. I will suffer no more fools or let unkind words or rotten weather ruin my days. I will stop worrying about what other people think of me and concentrate on thinking the best of everyone else. I have plays to enjoy and places to explore and grand children to watch grow. I will continue to get out of bed every morning and do those things - until I can't.

Clearly, I'm feeling very sorry for myself but this is definitely not a plea for pity post - public writing has always been my go to therapy and I simply don't want the stress of explaining the diagnosis face to face or the distress caused to others by me crying when they tell me how sorry they are for me. So far I'm doing fine. My brain is still a disorganised but reasonably creative sieve, and while I have some aphasia, I start with more words than most people so I have plenty of spares. I can still solve Connections and Wordle in under 5 minutes. 

I'm not sure yet how to turn this major negative into a positive but I'm open to suggestions. I can't be a famous Parkinson's pin up like Michael J or Alan Border but I know that documenting illness journeys always adds to the body of knowledge for incurable diseases, and so maybe my story will unfold to reveal something that helps someone else down the track. At the very least I will add my voice to those advocating for greater awareness of, and funding for the disease. And continue to live my very Ordinary Life.

Vale Glenise Quinlan

Today, I put on a dress and went to the funeral of my great friend, Glenise. Several years ago, when I dabbled more frequently in blogging, Glenise asked me to write something about her, “on that website thingy’ when she died. Of course I said yes and then put it away in the corner of my minds where I keep the things that will never happen – because truly I believed that she would be in my life for ever. She was one of the constants of my universe. I don’t know why my particular voice was important to her but here goes.

 

Glenise- Sue, Glen, Chooky, Mum, Gran – she went by different names to different people but every name was the definition of a do-er. When she saw a task that needed doing, she did it. Such was the nature of this woman that the many of her good deeds have gone unsung. She didn't do things for accolades or fanfare, she just saw a need and took care of it. I looked around at all the people at her funeral today knowing that all of them had something in common.

Somewhere, in their time of need, Chooky had cooked for them, driven them somewhere, looked after their children, washed their clothes, consoled them, advised them, picked them up when they thought they were broken, dusted them off and put them back on their feet. She did all those things for me, and I feel a bit adrift knowing that my life jacket is gone.

 

I don’t know if there’s a definitive list, but I lost count of the numbers of vulnerable little humans that Chooky took into her care as foster children. It wasn’t unusual to have her ring late at night – “I’ve got a 2 month old arriving at midnight- do you have any blue baby clothes?” She loved all those babies as if they were her own. She showered them with love but also with the routines so necessary for a good start in life. The nurturing extended to all of her friends’ and neighbours’ children as well. The kitchen at Glenise and Frank’s was always full of miscellaneous mischief makers- and their little faces lined the walls in framed portraits in ever increasing numbers, sometimes updated from baby to school uniform to wedding photo. When Taine was a baby and I went back to work, Glenise was the obvious choice as caregiver. There’s no one I would have trusted more with my own precious miracle. We called her the Baby Whisperer because when she put the baby down to sleep, that’s what the baby did.

 

Glenise was the ultimate good Samaritan. She had an ear for everyone and an action to match. Countless numbers of us have poured our hearts out to her over a cup of tea, or a sherry, or a brandy and dry – or bubbles on special occasions. She nursed us through sicknesses and heartaches. She chauffered us to appointments and kept vigil with us in hospitals and waiting rooms. We all received congratulatory messages for the slightest success and she never forgot a birthday. And we never forgot hers. 

 

Her Boxing Day birthday was just another reason to extend the Christmas celebrations. Her Christmas tree was as big as her heart and underneath it was a present for each one of those framed faces of the extended family of children on the wall. Each present was hand picked and exactly what we wanted because she knew us all so well. For my kids, Christmas was rounded out with a visit to Chooky’s on Christmas night.

 

If you were really lucky, as we were many times, you’d be included in the Christmas Day feast; a smorgasboard of roasted magnificence, all cooked by Glenise on the wooden stove, complete with the pudding that had been hanging from the kitchen rafter for weeks, and eaten about 3 o’clock in the afternoon, after copious glasses of champagne and bowls of nuts & bolts. 

 

Christmas lunch was just an elaborate version of the regular Sunday roast that appeared on the table like magic, every single week. Somehow that Sunday roast always spread far enough to feed whichever grand child, visiting relative or stray visitor happened to be about. In 2005 Glenise and Jess came to NZ with us on a school trip. Glenise cooked that Sunday roast, on her own, for 40 people in a tiny caravan park oven.

 

On top of the love she showered on everyone else, there was the love Chook had for her sisters, her own girls and their families. A prouder Mum, Gran and aunty there never was. And then there was Cappy. As I said at Frank’s funeral, theirs was one of life’s greatest stories of passion and tempest.

Having a sea faring husband meant Glenise had to be a master of adaptability, switching from independent, solo parent to family dynamic on a regular basis. While Frank was away, Glenise managed her household as well as any sea captain. When Frank was home, they disappeared to the bedroom for days on end. Sometimes they drove each other crazy but she would have followed that man to the end of the earth – in fact she once did just that, when she took off on a solo backpacking trip in her 50s- trekking around Europe, staying in hostels and catching up with Frank in different ports.

My first memory of Glenise is her voice on the end of the phone- in particular on the end of the exchange phone where she worked as a telephonist on the switchboard that connected one phone to another in Mortlake. You’d ring the switch and tell them what number you wanted and they’d connect you. Except when Glenise was on duty, you often didn’t need to be connected at all, because she was the keeper of all knowledge in town. She could tell you who was home, who was not, and if they weren’t home where you could find them and whether it was a good time to ring. She knew if the butchers was open, if it was raining, whether the mail had been - she was the original Google.

 

Her own phone number ended in 098 and she kept that number right through until today. I guess, as a hangover from the telephonist days, even in the days of caller ID, she always answered the phone with that number – ‘Hello, 098”. Sometimes I would try to one up her by answering her phone call with “hello 098” and she’d say, "Annabel, how’d you know it was me?"

 

There’s another memory that I share with dozens of closet card sharks in the district. Glenise’s card playing skills were second to none. From genteel Crazy Whist afternoons in the lounge rooms of the ladies of the district, to the caravan parks of Warrnambool and Lake Bolac, the jar of gambling coins followed her everywhere and the regular Saturday night after tennis, which later became the Friday night- into the wee hours of Saturday morning, year round blackjack games in the Quinlan’s lounge room were the stuff that legends are made of. Those games were serious business, but like everything she did, they were just another way of bringing people together.

 

It would be remiss of me not to mention tennis. Tennis was Chooky’s game. While she loved to watch the cricket, it was tennis that she played. I’ve often been confused how her granddaughter became a champion Australian cricketer, because with the amount of Gran’s genes in her she could equally have been belting it out with Ash Barty at Wimbledon instead. In truth, Glenise wasn’t the best tennis player in the world but she was one of the most resilient and determined and that wily backhand of hers outsmarted a lot of would be champions. I remember one day we played in 40 degree heat and most of us wanted to call it quits but we were playing against Jude’s team and if Judy was playing on, so was Glenise! For many years we played country week together in Warrnambool. We’d start at 9, play till 5, go back to the van for a couple of sherries and then we’d walk back over the road and play the twilight comp. And then come home to start the card game. Her energy was boundless.

 

It seems brutally unfair to me that the last part of her life was robbed of that energy but today was a glorious day for tennis, so I’m taking that as a sign that Chooky’s already back on the court somewhere.

 

And that brings me back to my initial thought  – the conviction that Glenise would always be with us- because, of course, I realise now that this is true. The energy of someone who touches so many lives, in so many ways, can never be lost. She was a champion for the underdog, a supporter of the unsupported, a carer to the care givers, a helping hand to anyone who needed it. She’ll stay with us in every kind word we say, with every act of altruism we perform. She taught us all that it’s possible to be a truly good person. That’s Chooky’s legacy and we can honour it by doing our best to be the type of friends to each other, that she was to us.

The Corona Chronicles- March 2020

March 28, 2002

I'm resurrecting my blog to chronicle the bizarre twist in history that is the Covoid-19 virus. I'm confident that, like other disastrous moments in history, this nightmare too shall pass and hopefully, in another ten years time, my grandchildren will study 2020 at school as a weird but successfully solved blip in our lives. And then in 50 years and 100 years time their children's children will study it too and maybe their great-great grandma's journaling will provide a useful primary resource for them.

Today is the first day of real impact for me. Up until now I've been at work so life has seemed relatively normal, seeing other people and quietly preparing for but not really affected by the crisis.

I had a basic mathematical understanding of exponential growth before but now we're living it, through the deadly statistics of the pandemic and the rapid change to our lifestyle.
Three weeks ago it was the Labour Day weekend. We went to Hamilton to watch Shakespeare in the Gardens on Saturday and to the MCG with 87,000 other people to watch the World Cup cricket final on Sunday. I was more careful than usual with my hand hygiene and I was little anxious in the crowded entrances but I didn't really feel at risk.

Two weeks ago, we went to a wedding. I remember thinking I should be more careful with my physical distancing but there were lots of lovely people there that I hadn't seen for ages and it seemed silly and over cautious not to hug them.

By last weekend, the reality of the numbers around the world started to sink in. Our exchange student was recalled to France and we began to panic about her safety - and our safety taking her to the airport. Suddenly the need for gloves and alcohol wipes and sanitiser was very real.

School holidays began early for the kids and that eased the pressure a bit but at the same time raised the anxiety that life as we know it was about to change forever. And then yesterday, I finished work for the term and there was no reason why we couldn't retreat to our own little bunker and try to do our bit by keeping away from everyone else.

And so begins an eerie, anxiety ridden, uncertain time for everyone.
The best we can do is stay hopeful and do what we're told. I cry every time I think of not seeing my grown up kids or my beautiful grandchildren for the foreseeable future. My heart breaks for Taine, stuck in the house with us with no sport or theatre or face to face contact with friends. I'm disappointed about the holidays and adventures that we'll miss. But I know we are the lucky ones. As public servants we get paid regularly, we live in the country where personal space is plentiful and although my age puts me just into the higher risk category, we are, for the most part, mentally and physically well.

When the school holidays are over, we'll be flat out navigating our way through online learning. I feel like we're pretty well prepared for that but how it will work in actuality remains to be seen. Its hard enough engage some kids when they're at school; no doubt distance will not make their hearts grow fonder!

But for now, we need a routine. Exercise, healthy food, intellectual stimulation, sleep, repeat.
Today we managed most of those goals. I walked 4 km, Geoff invented a delicious zucchini and sweet potato soup, I read a couple of education articles and, in a major show of self control, waited until 6pm to open the wine.

We can only control our own behaviour and our own reactions.
It feels ineffectual but he least (most) we can do is stay home and let our brave first responders get on with their jobs.
One day at a time.
#stayhome #staysafe #stayalive

Birthday Week

As my own children and the children I’ve taught know, I pride myself on knowing EVERYTHING! There are no secrets kept from me because of my superior ability to put two and two together and smell rats in the least obvious places.

So I am considering it the coup of the century that my husband and friends managed to pull off a birthday surprise heist at the weekend.

Geoff says I’ve been sooking that nothing was being planned for my big birthday – obviously sooking is too strong a word but I admit I was starting to feel a little unloved. I’d been rationalising the lack of planning to soothe myself- just got back from an amazing holiday, busy at work, one child not in the country, birthdays are just another number etc, etc… Given his track record of awesomeness at celebrations, I knew Geoff wouldn’t let me down but, you know, self doubt, old age; I was beginning to think maybe the magic was finally fading.

The almost last straw was his suggestion to Jaime that she pick up a cake from the cheesecake shop on Tuesday so we could blow some candles out after swimming. A cheesecake? Really? For my 60^th birthday? All I had requested for my birthday was one of @icingonyourcake’s magnificent creations – and now, apparently, I was getting a last minute, don’t even ask me what flavour I want, probably will forget I need cream with it, store bought…..cheesecake!

One of my ‘best girls’ had organised to take me out for dinner at the pub on Saturday night as a pre birthday treat. Tired after a day at the footy and still harbouring some despondency over the cheesecake, I really didn’t feel like it but I was so grateful to Steph for at least making an effort that I committed to going, despite being in the same clothes I’d had on all day.

When Steph arrived to pick us up, Geoff staged the most ridiculous stalling tactics I have ever seen, and yet I still didn’t twig! I sat in the car and twiddled my thumbs while he waffled on about toothpaste accidents and needing to change his clothes.

When we got down the street they informed me we were going to Olivine instead of the pub. 

“Have you booked?” 

"Nope, we’ll be right, there’s just the 3 of us” 

“Well, that’s just silly, there’s lots of cars at Olivine and hardly any at the pub, why don’t we go there?”

It never occurred to me that I knew the owners of all those cars.

It never occurred to me that the function room was in darkness and yet there were people in there.

People waiting for me. Lovely friends and family, waiting for me in my dirty clothes, unbrushed hair and no make up. Wonderful conspirers the lot of them, dreaming up a birthday dinner, right under my nose! What a beautiful, warm fuzzy of loveliness.

And of course, there was cake. A magnificent, lindt ball covered creation complete with all things dear to me; books and my missing glasses, a goal shooter’s bib and little figurines of the twins and Theo.

I’ve never been so happy to have been lied to.

PS: I also got my cheesecake- served with a triple dose of love from my best boys. Completely spoilt and it's not even my birthday yet!

And tomorrow, I'll be elderly. Thoughts on that at a later date!

366- #Thingsthatmademehappy 2016

This year I completed another 365 project (taking and uploading one photo every day). Actually I completed two, one on Insta and the other on Flickr and they were 366 projects because of the leap year, but whatever... semantics. The important thing is that I followed the rules, created a visual diary of our year, discovered some great photographers on Flickr and learnt a little bit more about photography along the way.
I only cheated once, as in there was just one day when I didn't take a photo and so I used a screen shot to make a yesterday's photo satisfy a today's date upload.

My theme for 2016 was #thingsthatmakemehappy
Here's the top 10 things that satisfied the hashtag

My kids- Nothing makes me happier than having all of them in the same place at the same time.

Christmas present weekend to Rye

Mothers' Day

This man - He's the best cook, the best travel buddy, the best kisser and luckily he's also very photogenic.

The Lover and the Lunatic - Being a grandma is beyond wonderful. Every minute spent with these two is a joy.

This is my favourite photo for 2016. Sums up their relationship perfectly.

I took this selfie the day Jaime told me she was expecting no3. It was hailing outside the car and I was imagining how all 4 of us would fit in the car on rainy netball days in 2017!

The Sharks- The Mortlake Junior Sharks had a very successful season. There were plenty of shuffles to photograph and I got to coach an amazing group of kids again this year. Then, in one of life's curly turns, suddenly the Sharks were no longer. I'm so sad that it's over but incredibly happy that I had the opportunity to coach again and to work with a great group of people.

Practice makes perfect - 4 perfect flicks

Our animals-

This was the last photo I took of these two together. We lost them both this year, just a few weeks apart. The original 'odd couple'.

My job - I moan about it a lot but really, I have the best job, in a great school, with awesome kids.

The opposition debaters never stood a chance

Graduation time

A fun filled trip to NZ

Who knew the dictionary was so exciting?

Performing Arts- I think the skills developed in performance pave the way for success in life and the happiness in creating a great performance is contagious.

Les Miserables

Big Fish

Indigo and Juliet

Lion King Jnr

Vietnam - Right up there with the best travel experience I've ever had.

HCMC - crazy town

 Fresh chicken

Hoian- one of the happiest places on Earth

Special events-

Pascale came back to visit and we managed a surprise assembly appearance

The Bulldogs won the flag. How good was that!

Sunsets - They were my standby when nothing else had made me smile. Its lucky we get so many beauties.

                               

      

  

      

     

     

And so the sun sets on 2016. Thanks to everyone who's allowed me to photograph them or tag them and thanks to my Instagram and Flickr followers for their feedback.

 Before tomorrow morning I need a theme for 2017's 365.

Any ideas?