One of my personal guidelines for living is this:

…whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things  (Philippians 4:8)

I have a strong belief that the thoughts, images and sounds we allow to fill our minds have an impact on the people we become and so I try to make good choices for my own well-being, both emotionally and physically. And, I use the same guidelines when I’m deciding what I’ll let my children watch on TV.

There are some things that are black and white. Our eldest son, Possum, is 4 and there’s no way he needs to see sex acts, violence, cruelty, horror or a myriad of other things on TV. I also don’t think he needs to hear bad language. I am fully aware that he will come across all of these things some time in the future but I see no good reason for him to experience those now through 4-year-old eyes and with 4-year-old thinking. As such, we simply don’t watch shows that contain any or all of these things. However, I am increasingly frustrated by what happens when we do decide to watch something with our kids.

A regular event in our house is Saturday night pizza while watching Australia’s Funniest Home Videos. Most of the content is kid-friendly and it’s something we watch together as a family. I know when I watch Funniest Home Videos that, by and large, the content will be OK (although some of the hen’s night/bachelor party videos go a bit far and some of the voice over is innuendo-filled). We’ll see cute animals, people falling over and some great coincidences caught on camera. The big issue comes when it’s time for the advertisements.

Late last year, right smack-bang in the middle of Australia’s Funniest Home Videos was an ad for A Current Affair. Menacing music played, along with an image of a deeply distressed woman. Then a gravelly-voice thundered something along the lines of:

He killed her mother. He killed her children. Then he came after her.

The advertisement was for an interview with a woman who had endured unspeakable tragedy when her father murdered her mother and children. I cannot even begin to imagine the level of pain and grief she is experiencing, however I do not think it’s appropriate for my 4-year-old to see that ad. The music and the voice-over all painted a very clear picture of danger. What possible good can it do for Possum to hear that a grandfather has murdered his wife and grandchildren, except instill a fear in him that he just doesn’t need to feel?

This is not an isolated incident. Another night an ad for a crime show clearly showed children being abducted. Whether it be a provocatively-dressed woman promoting something like Cougar Town or a blood-spattered crime scene complete with a body for CSI, commercial television advertisements are taking away my right as a parent to choose what my kids watch. I understand that TV stations want to promote their own programs and increase their viewing share, but surely there are standards that need to be followed. I can choose what actual programs I watch with my family but I am totally powerless when it comes to advertising. So, here’s my solution.

I think all television advertisements should fit the rating of whatever program is showing at the time. If it’s a G-rated program that is airing (like the Saturday night family movie) then ALL the advertisements should be G-rated, regardless of whether the show they are advertising is G-rated. For example, if Channel 9 felt the need to advertise A Current Affair during Australia’s Funniest Home Videos, then they would be limited to inferences: “On Monday’s program, hear the heart-wrenching story of one woman’s loss and grief as a result of a family tragedy”. Shows like Cougar Town, which are clearly aimed at an adult audience, may be limited to a single photo-frame or heading, but so be it. I am not asking television stations to change their programming – I have a remote control with an OFF button and I use it – but I am asking them to allow me to decide what my children are exposed to in advertising.

What do you think? Is that something you feel strongly about too?

Over the past few months I’ve noticed an interesting trend: perhaps more than ever, it is uncool to be a Christian. This Christmas season it seemed that there were more digs, more jibes, more disdain for those who believe and love the Biblical version of Christmas than I have ever experienced. Maybe it’s always been that way and I just never noticed. Maybe I’ve expanded my community (which I believe is a good thing) and am now exposed to a wider variety of beliefs. Whatever the reason, it seems to me to be very unpopular to call yourself a Christian these days. If you do, you are likely to be labelled narrow-minded, judgemental, hypocritical, naive, arrogant and just plain dumb. I don’t have an issue with being called all of these things, because in reality, I am every single one of them.

I am inherently narrow-minded, but God wants me to open up my world, to see the hurting of those in my neighbourhood, my city, my country, my world and do something about it. Contribute. Care. Make a difference.

I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me. Matthew 25:40

I am inherently judgemental,  but God wants me to look at my own shortcomings before pointing the finger at anybody else. Since that will keep me occupied for, I don’t know, a lifetime or two, that doesn’t leave me much time to judge anybody else, does it?

Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? Matthew 7:3

I am inherently hypocritical, doing the very thing I don’t want to do, but God wants me to keep on striving to live by His commands which happen to underpin the laws of the western world. Like it or not, the western world is grounded in Christianity with don’t kill, don’t steal, don’t lie as basic tenets of our society. I happen to think those precepts are worth hanging onto.

If you love me, you will obey what I command. John 14:15

I am inherently naive, not able to comprehend the magnitude of the solar system or the workings of the human brain, but my naivety reminds me of God’s majesty, so I’m cool with that.

The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Psalm 19:1

I am inherently arrogant, thinking that my way is the best way, but then God reminds me that his ways are infinitely superior to mine and I once again resume my rightful place at his feet. He has an eternal perspective, while I am limited to a whisper of time.

‘For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,’ declares the Lord. Isaiah 55:8

And I am inherently dumb, often being swept up in the trivialities of life, our consumer-driven society, the need for more-more-more, when in fact the state of my faith, my relationships, my character is far more important than the state of my house. God reminds me to keep my priorities straight, to love him first and to serve others next.

‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ Matthew 22:37-39

We are all darkness and light. The most dangerous people are those who think they are solely one or the other. Christians have often been guilty of portraying the image that they are nothing but light and that everyone else is darkness. We are no doubt collectively to blame for the image that many people have of us as a group. I’m sorry for those times Christians have let you down, ripped you off or acted without integrity. I’m sorry for the times that I have done the same. I am a Christian because I know I need forgiveness. I haven’t got it all together, I don’t have all the answers and I’m certainly far, far from perfect.

And I know many, many horrible things have been done in the name of Christianity in the past that should not be conveniently glossed over, but please also remember the many good things have also come out of Christianity. Care for the homeless, the elderly, the sick, the dying has often (not exclusively, I know) been the domain of Christian people and organisations for one simple reason: Christians have a mandate to care about others.  We may do it poorly, we may be awkward or ineffective and yet the true follower of Christ genuinely cares about others. I have a responsibility to treat others with respect regardless of their gender, race, sexual orientation, religion, economic status, marital status or any other demographic label you wish to throw in my direction. I know that not everyone will feel the way I feel, believe what I believe, live their lives the way I live mine, but surely I am free to do so without condemnation, even if it is uncool.

1. Family worship

Every year this seems to be on my list and every year it ends up a hodge-podge mess. I really believe in the value and power of family worship. A 5 minute active, kid-friendly devotional at the start of the day with the kids shouldn’t be that hard. But it is. With both hubby and I working from home and with unusual schedules we often tag team in the mornings. One morning he gets to stay in bed, the next day it might be my turn. It’s great to have a morning off but not so great for establishing a family worship time. The evenings are out as hubby is out most nights visiting people and doing Bible studies. So that means we just need to make family worship a priority and a commitment. My kids don’t watch a lot of TV, but there is one show they watch just about every day – Playschool. It’s simply the best program for kids under 5, in my opinion and is educational yet fun. That comes on at 9:30am. I’ve decided that the best way to ensure family worship happens is to have a new rule: the TV doesn’t come on until we’ve had worship. That way, Possum will be reminding me to have worship so he can then watch Playschool. Clever, don’t you think?

2. Find a community project for our family to be involved in.

I am a firm believer in developing a sense of compassion and service in my kids, no matter how little they are. I’m looking for something creative, long term and sustainable that we can do as a family as a mission project. I’d like it to be something practical and local so my boys can see why we’re helping and what we’re doing, but I’m struggling to come up with something. I firmly believe that helping others builds character in children (and adults too). Ideally, it would be something we could do at home…but what? Any ideas?? All suggestions are welcome!

3. Learn to be mentally still.

I’m not a hyperactive person. I can sit still, I can relax, I can chill – physically, that is. I have a much, much harder time turning off my brain. I suddenly realised today how much my brain flits from this to that and back again. I have a gazillion ideas, most of which will never come to fruition because they’ve been replaced in a millisecond by a gazillion more. There are so many things that catch my interest and my mind goes off on these wonderful tangents. Maybe it’s part of being a creative person, but I feel like I need to learn what it’s like to be mentally still. I need to give my brain a break. Some nights, especially when I’ve been writing, I can’t sleep because my brain is still whirring and clunking away like an out-of-control science experiment. I want to learn to meditate in a Biblical sense and to allow my brain to rest. I guess I think of the ability to be still – both physically and mentally – as a sign of maturity. I’m hoping I can use the time this year to work out how I can achieve that myself. I know it’s not going to be easy.

4. Start writing Morning Pages again

A few years ago, a dear friend of mine put me onto the book The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. It was a very powerful tool in unlocking my creative desires and was instrumental in me developing the courage to follow my God-given talent and desire to being a writer. Cameron advocates the practice of writing Morning Pages every day – three pages of uninhibited, unplanned, unedited long-hand writing. Back then I wrote Morning Pages for a long time - six months, perhaps. But in the end, life got in the way. Right now in my busy life with three pre-schoolers, I don’t ever seem to have enough time to write and yet I have a need to write. I’m pulling back on my expectations and commitments professionally in order to keep my life in balance. I’m hoping that Morning Pages might quench my thirst for writing on a daily basis and yet be manageable. If my past experience is anything to go by, I’ll find them invaluable in many ways. Perhaps my first musings can be on the importance of being still.

5. Be gentle

After some challenging words from a family member, I recognise that sometimes I’m not gentle enough with my boys. It’s not that I have to ignore their misbehaviour, but I can deal with it differently. I know I am a strong personality, but I want to be gentle in my strength. Sometimes when the boys are pushing my buttons, my fear of losing control of the situation causes me to react more harshly than necessary. Possum was a very malleable child and easily directed when he was a toddler, but my twins, JJ and Moo are entirely different characters. They are very strong-willed and confrontational, even at 20 months old. (They are also insanely cute and affectionate and purely delightful!) If I’m not careful, I can be at loggerheads with them all day and feel like the only word I’ve said since they got out of bed is, “No!” I’ve decided to try a gentler approach with them both and already it’s working. They try and push me over the edge (they are clever little bunnies who know exactly how to get Mummy riled up) but remaining calm, unthreatened and gentle seems to diffuse the situation much quicker than hitting them head on. It’s not easy to change my response but it’s possible and I’m intending to keep on trying. Cutting back on my own expectations of what I can accomplish in a given day is also helping. Which leads me to my final resolution:

6. Balance

I take on too much, commit to too much, think I can do too much all the time. And although I am the one that primarily suffers when I do that, everyone else in the household pays a price too. They have to deal with a not-so-happy, not-so-calm, not-so-gentle wife/mother. It’s just not worth it. This year I want to give myself permission to slow down and keep things in balance. Yes, I want to be a successful children’s author, but it all doesn’t have to happen right now. I need to take my foot off the accelerator, invest my time wisely in my boys, in caring for my family, grabbing snippets of writing time when they arise and in getting enough rest so I can keep on giving. Balance is difficult to find, but I want it always to be on my radar, especially when I’m contemplating taking on something new. 2010 is my year for taking it slow.

A new year is a great opportunity to think about the changes we’d like to make in our lives. What’s on your list this year?

1. He is a great provider for our family. He has always looked after our financial situation and I trust him to make good financial decisions. That is such a blessing. (And I get to stay home and be the primary carer for our boys.)

2. He is the most amazing Dad. I think my love for him deepened when we had kids. Seeing him play and talk and teach our boys is joy-giving to me. He is an awesome father and our boys are blessed to have him as their dad.

3. He supports my writing. Writing is my dream, not his, yet he often asks me how my writing is going and celebrates with me when I hear back from a publisher.

4. He always fills my car up with petrol (gas). I have a magic car – it never runs out of petrol. It’s on ‘empty’ one night, and then lo and behold, the following morning it’s full! I used to think their were petrol fairies in our garage, but I’ve since learned my husband goes out in all weather to make sure I don’t have to bother getting petrol.

5. When we go for a walk, he picks up any rubbish he sees lying around and takes it home to put in the bin. Just something little like this speaks volumes to me.

6. He is an explorer and wants to find out what’s around the next corner. This hasn’t always been something I have embraced, but without him my life would most certainly be a lot more boring!!

7. He is an emotional guy. He’ll tear up at a sad movie or a sad story, just like me, and I really appreciate that. It shows me what a sensitive heart he has.

8. He’s the person I go to in tears when I’ve found myself in a situation that I find difficult. He hugs me and listens to me and tells me everything will turn out OK. Most of the time I believe him

9. He does all those outside icky jobs, like unblocking drains and cleaning out the gutters, just like my dad used to do. I know I could do them if I had to, but I really appreciate the fact that I don’t have to!

10. Although he’ll joke about how it’s hard to be humble when you’re perfect in every way, he is the first to admit when he’s made a mistake.

11. He has a passion for God. That doesn’t make him perfect, but it does mean he’s striving to be closer in character and nature to Jesus every day.

12. He is my number one supporter and encourages me to follow my dreams and my heart.

13. He’s a great visionary, imagining what exciting opportunities we might have in the future. That’s contagious and it’s always fun to dream with him.

Happy Anniversary, honey. I love you.

My husband doesn’t travel for work very often these days, but this weekend just happened to be one of them. He and a bunch of other ministers were invited to attend a training seminar in Sydney and he jumped at the chance. I vaguely remember him leaving for his 5:30am flight on Friday. I’m used to looking after the kids by myself so I’m not particularly worried when he goes away. We cope well, me and my boys, and everything actually runs very smoothly. I find that my days have a rhythm to them that is quite relaxing. This weekend however, the wheels fell off.

It all began late afternoon on Friday. We’d had a great day and I’d got the house nice and clean ready for Sabbath and the weekend. We were heading back from the shops when Possum announced that his tummy felt a bit funny, “Like there’s a burp in there that won’t come out.” Moo had vomited once Wednesday night and again on Thursday morning so my tummy bug radar was on high alert. That sounded like a pretty good description of that awful feeling you get before you start throwing up to me.

Possum skipped dinner and put himself to bed at 6pm. That’s when I knew we were quite possibly in for a rough night. (Or should I say I was in for a rough night. Hubby was safely ensconced in his hotel room in Sydney, lucky thing.) I raced around trying to get the twins ready for bed so I could devote my attention to Possum. I bathed them as quick as I could, but not quickly enough. With shampoo suds still on their heads, I heard the unmistakeable sounds of vomiting coming from Possum’s room. What to do?! Safety had to come first, so I called out to Possum and told him I’d be there as soon as I could. Then I whisked JJ and Moo out of the bath and dried them off in record time. Wearing just a nappy each, I deposited them behind the child-proof gate and headed for Possum. Poor little guy was miserable. He was heaving his heart up (with a duet of howls coming from the twins) and there was nothing I could do about it.

It was a long night. Possum vomited pretty much every 30 minutes or so from 6pm till 1am. I put a mattress on the floor in his room and tried to cuddle him through the worst of it. And I tried to ignore the queasiness residing in my own stomach. Did I have the bug too or was it just a sympathetic response to dealing with vomit for hours at a time? I couldn’t bear to think about it. Meanwhile, I was acutely aware of one other fact: JJ was most likely next.

My prediction proved to be right. Just as I went to get the twins out of their cots at 7:30am I heard that unmistakeable sound again. Ladies and gentlemen, we have the trifecta. And so today I had two vomiting children and one still recovering. This morning was tough as I tried to look after my crew who all desperately needed me and were prone to vomit at any given moment, but after a long sleep for everyone, things improved. We spent the afternoon outside in the sunshine and fresh air blowing all the germs away. All the boys managed to keep down some food and I haven’t dealt with vomit for over 12 hours now. Things are really looking up!

And do you know the best bit? I survived. Even though it wasn’t fun, it was hard and there were moments when I didn’t know which disaster to tackle first, I did it. I had numerous calls from my lovely husband who told me I just had to say the word and he’d catch an early flight home. Maybe it’s pride, maybe it’s independence, but I’m not in the habit of asking for help and by the time he got home the worst would probably be over anyway, but I did appreciate the offer. If I was lying in a heap on the bathroom floor myself it might have been a different story, but I wasn’t. And so I just got on and did what sole parents the world over do. They cope. They do the best they can with the number of arms they have and with their hearts full of love. And I take my hat off to them. I had to do it for a weekend. Some of them do it for a lifetime.

The timing was so bad it was hilarious. Of all the weekends for my husband to go away, it’s the one weekend where the kids start dropping like flies. But that’s just life and you can choose whether to laugh or cry. I chose to laugh. Even in the thick of it I was chuckling at the ridiculousness of it all. And at the forefront of my mind throughout the last 24-hours has been the best piece of advice my darling mother ever gave me: This too shall pass. Guess what? It did. You can come home now, Honey! The crisis is over, although I am still feeling a bit queasy. What time does your flight get in again???

1. JJ is an explorer while Moo prefers to stay closer to me. JJ will happily wander off to see what’s around the corner and I really need to keep an eye on him.

2. JJ is an expert climber and scales ladders, climbing frames and stairs in record times. Moo isn’t quite as confident and gets to the first rung before calling, “Mamma!”

3. Moo loves slides and goes down the biggest ones he can find with a delightful squeal. JJ loves to climb to the top of the slide but won’t go down unless he’s with me.

4. JJ and Moo are both fascinated by anything with an engine. “Broom broom”, accompanied by the hand-signal of a revving motorbike, is the most common sound in our house. JJ wants to climb on anything that has wheels, while Moo runs away from the rubbish truck because it’s too noisy.

5. Moo loves to snuggle and will sit for a long time on my lap just to have a cuddle. JJ will give me a quick squeeze and a kiss before wriggling to get down and go exploring again.

6. Moo is very musical and loves to dance and sing to anything (today at the play centre he was grooving along to “Play That Funky Music”  and then signed ‘more’ when the song finished). JJ likes music but not to the same degree.

7. Moo will engage anyone that looks at him by smiling and playing peek-a-boo. JJ is just as likely to look down, avoid eye contact and burst into tears if a stranger dares to try and talk to him. It’s actually hilarious to watch as he freezes and simply won’t move until I come and rescue him.

So there you have it. Identical twins may look alike but they are as different as every other sibling pair. And it’s so much fun studying their individual traits. I love my Demolition Crew to pieces

Kid-Wrangling is not for the faint hearted. Indeed, I believe it could qualify as a bona-fide extreme sport, especially if you happen to be blessed with twins or triplets or more. There are a certain set of skills required for expert Kid-Wrangling, but I’ll just mention a few key ones here that are most relevant to parents of twins:

1. The ability to chase two children running in the opposite direction simultaneously.

To achieve this first skill, you as a mother must have Go-Go-Gadget arms, an iron grip and the ability to do the splits at a moment’s notice. You must also be able to ignore the wicked giggles that accompany the escape plan that your twins cooked up when you glanced away for an instant and not allow their delight at your precarious hold on them to get you so fired up you make a scene. Keeping calm is a must for any expert Kid-Wrangler.

2. The ability to push a double pram whilst holding down the arms of your twins who are intent on belting each other and/or developing a lifelong habit of kleptomania.

Twin prams are about as wide as a small delivery van, which is fine if you were, I don’t know, wheeling it on the road. However as most shopping aisles are the width of an anorexic dog kennel, you will encounter problems. These problems may be two-fold or occur simultaneously.

The first problem is that your twins may at any moment decide to extend their wings. You didn’t know they had wings, did you? They do. And they work as a team. Twin 1 will extend his arm out the side of the pram precisely as you are walking through the underwear section of Target. Twin 2 will do the same on the other side of the pram where the low-lying bras are found. If you are lucky you’ll manage to get a matching set of Elle McPherson “Intimates”. What is more likely, however, is that you will get a pair of granny undies big enough to use as a mainsail and a teensy, tiny bra (with no underwire – you’d forgotten that they actually make bras without underwire) that you think you wore once when you were about 11. And, if you are particularly fortunate, you won’t notice that you have these items until you go to exit the shop and your pram beeps. Your twins will of course delight in the beeps and want to come back again and again. As the Target employee reefs through your bags and gets the sniffer dog to do the once over on your pram, the expert Kid-Wrangler will smile sweetly while holding the teensy, tiny hot-pink-purple-polka-dot bra aloft nd make a delightful and witty quip about wanting to get back into shape. If that fails, dump the granny undies and run.

The second scenario is that the twins extend their internal wings. This is more problematic than situation 1, as although they are not stealing entirely inappropriate underwear, they will inevitably clobber each other over the head. What begins as accidental very quickly turns into a full-on brawl in the pram, complete with hair-pulling, biting and arm twisting. As a fully certified Kid-Wrangler it is your job to pin the arms of said children to their bodies whilst simultaneously pushing the pram and making a graceful exit. To do so, lean forward and rest your bosom on the pram handles (you didn’t know said bosom would come in so handy, did you?). Then grab one twin’s arm in each hand and place firm downward pressure. Continue to walk in this position, making sure a) your post-twin pregnancy/breastfeeding bosom is not inadvertently overflowing out of your slobber-stained, stretched t-shirt and b) your bottom (which has never been quite the same since carrying twins) is not stuck out too far or you’ll look like a waddling Kid-Wrangling duck. Kid-Wranglers don’t waddle.

Of course, on particularly sensitive days when you’re hormonal, you find yet another pimple as you’re applying your anti-ageing cream (oh the irony!) and cry at the latest Kleenex commercial on TV, your twins may decided to create situation 1 and situation 2 at the same time. In this case your children will be collecting various intimate apparel to be used in the fisticuffs that is happening in the pram. Just remember, a graceful exit is always a requirement of a Kid-Wrangler.

3. It is a great idea to get your children used to having some quiet time, for example taking them to church…but maybe not if your husband is the preacher and therefore unavailable to help.

When settling your children in church it’s a good idea to take some toys to amuse them. They cannot, however, be a) noisy, b) used a projectile or c) cause grievous bodily harm to anyone in the near vicinity. Don’t bother with having two of everything as they only ever want what the other one has, so doubling up isn’t going to solve anything. Each of these toys must be able to hold the child’s attention for at least 5.3 seconds. Divide that into an hour’s church service and you will need a semi-trailer load of toys, all of which must be balanced neatly underneath your pram in true Kid-Wrangling style.

It’s also prudent to choose your seating wisely. Don’t sit too close to the back doors or the sound and smell of the great outdoors will cause your toddler twins to plan the Great Escape out under the back of the pew and disappear into the garden in a split second. Too close to the front is not good either, especially if their daddy is the minister, or the entire sermon will be drowned out by the calls of “Dadda!” in stereo. And it may just be wise to inform the people in the pew in front of you that they are likely to get cars, miniature skateboards and a variety of animals zoomed up and down their back for the entire service and you hope they don’t mind and get a real blessing from the message today.

And remember as a Kid-Wrangler you must always possess the ability to cuddle both your twins with your whole self simultaneously. This means having a child balanced on each leg and wrapped around each shoulder yet somehow entirely embraced by your ever-loving Kid-Wrangling arms. Rocking side to side is always a good technique, however be aware that if your twins suddenly decide to shift their weight you have no free arms left to save yourself should you lose your balance. As their combined weight is equivalent to a large polar bear, you must always keep yourself perfectly centred both emotionally and physically. Losing it either way is just not the Kid-Wrangler style.

After the service is a great time to mingle and let the children run around and let off some steam. As a Kid-Wrangler you must always keep a visual on your children amongst the legs and skirts and shoes of the other parishioners, whilst carrying on a meaningful and heartfelt conversation about the petunias in the front garden. When one of your twins has a meltdown due to tiredness and hunger, you must navigate your empty pram through the crowd whilst balancing the crying child on one hip and holding the hand of the other, who is only too happy to walk. When you get to the car you must unload the semi-trailer load of toys, nappy bag and everything else you forgot you left in the pew last week and then proceed to buckle the children into the car.

As the upset child has increased their wails to full-tantrum mode, you must then Kid-Wrangle him into the carseat. As he’s arched his back in a manner that would impress an Olympic gymnast, this involves pushing him firmly in the middle while grabbing the centre piece of the seatbelt up through his legs and simultaneously threading at least one arm through the seatbelt and securing it. (I sadly inform you that Kid-Wranglers are only equipped with two arms and yet this amazing feat is possible with practise.) While the child is screaming blue-murder, the expert Kid-Wrangler must also fend off helpful parishioners who wish to comment on the car you drive and the fact your child is indeed throwing a tantrum. And just to prove that identical twins aren’t always so identical, they will make the comment that “One twin is happy, and the other isn’t.” You don’t say. Your job as Chief Kid-Wrangler at this point is to grit your teeth, count to ten and breathe deeply, swallowing all the pent up frustration and rage so as to avoid bloodshed in the carpark. It wouldn’t look good, considering you’re the minister’s wife AND a certified Kid-Wrangler.

So there you have it. Kid-Wrangling 101. It’s a piece of cake, right? Speaking of which…I’m sure I’ve got some survival chocolate around here somewhere. It’s my secret weapon. I should know. I’m Karen Collum, Kid-Wrangler.

All too soon, we had to say goodbye. Wearing a paper cap and pale blue gown, I held my 4-year-old son’s hand as the doctor injected the anaesthetic into his vein. With his eyes still open and his breathing temporarily halted, I was escorted from the small, metallic-scented room to the corridor outside. A motherly hospital volunteer took me by the arm and said, “My darling, you don’t have to be strong anymore.”

The fear and pain and sheer terror that I had managed to keep tightly packed in a padlocked chest within my belly, away from the sight of my son, erupted and I fell into my husband’s arms, our combined sobs drowning out any of the other hospital sounds. Our precious Samuel was lying on a cold, hard table and in just moments, his chest would be cut open, his sternum sawed in two and his heart stopped. A heart-lung machine would keep him alive for the next few hours.

Possum’s diagnosis came unexpectedly just a week before his 4th birthday. Barely two months later and we were living the day we had dreaded since those words were uttered: open heart surgery. Possum had been a normal, healthy, active, growing child full of life and verve and laughter. Over time, I noticed a gradual change. He would walk when the other kids ran; he would sit on the couch instead of jumping on the trampoline; he would ask to play a boardgame instead of going for a bike ride. Combined with a string of viral infections and a strong dose of mother’s intuition, I once again headed to the doctor.

A heart murmur was initially downplayed, then reassessed, then given priority. Within a week of the murmur first being identified (and more than a few answered prayers along the way) we were at the Emergency Department of the Mater Children’s Hospital to get some answers. God was with us then, and He continued to be with us throughout the chest x-rays, echocardiograms and the startling news that Possum had a congenital heart defect: atrioventricular septal defect (AVSD). AVSD is usually diagnosed at birth or shortly after. The fact that it lay hidden for almost four years surprised even the most experienced doctors. The fact that Possum had been so well was even more surprising. But then came the bad news: the only way to correct the leaking valves in Possum’s overworked heart and prevent further, irreversible heart damage was open heart surgery.

As much as we felt prepared, nothing can truly prepare any parent for the rush of emotion that floods every sense, every pore, every cell of your body when you hand over your child for major surgery. And it doesn’t come much bigger than open heart surgery. For five hours Mike and I walked and prayed and paced and prayed some more while Possum was in theatre. I had this compelling urge to scream to people I passed in the street that my son was having open heart surgery. Stop smiling! Stop talking! Don’t you know what’s happening right now? My baby, my long-awaited, prayed for, miracle baby is lying on an operating table with his heart cut open, being kept alive by a machine. But the world kept turning. For that five hours my own heart existed on the outside of my body, laid bare and vulnerable as I felt every heartbeat of separation from my baby. Then the surgeon came with the news that the surgery had gone well, that the valves were repaired and that Possum was being transferred to the Paediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU).

Walking into PICU for the first time is a daunting experience. It is noisy and mechanical and machine-driven with beeps and alarms sounding from every direction. In contrast, the staff are smiling and relaxed and calm. We were escorted to a little area just opposite the nurses’ station where a series of monitors displayed colourful moving lines and a bank of oversized syringes piled on top of one another like bricks in a wall. And underneath the wires connected to the heart monitor, underneath the drips in each arm and splinted hands, underneath the central line into the neck and tubes draining bright red fluid from his chest, lay our Possum. He was unconscious when we first saw him, a ventilation tube through his nose doing his breathing for him, every muscle still. Not even a flickering eyelid or a twitching finger. His stillness was disconcerting and yet I rejoiced when I saw him. The pale, ashen-faced boy I had said goodbye to five hours earlier was gone, my olive-complexion boy back in his place.

For six hours after surgery we sat next to Possum patting his hand and talking to him, we chatted with the nurse who was an easy conversationalist and excellent practitioner and we were reassured by the updates of how normal Possum’s status was. The surgeon appeared, a man of few words but great skill, who after a brief scan of the multitude of screens and lines and printouts, declared that he was doing well and could be woken up shortly.

Hearing my precious son’s voice for the first time after surgery was a gift, pure and simple. “Mummy, I want a drink.” Fluids are heavily restricted after heart surgery to allow the heart adequate time to rest, so unfortunately I couldn’t give him what his body craved. Instead, I stroked his head and sang to him, the gentle lullaby sending him peacefully back to sleep.

Our time in PICU continued throughout Monday night and into Tuesday one of us by his side at all times. Possum continued to progress well and on Tuesday morning had a visit from the physiotherapists whose job it was to get him standing as quickly as possible. The chest drains caused him a great deal of pain and yet through gentle persuasion and the promise of a sip of water, he took his first step towards healing and stood beside his bed less than 24 hours after surgery.

From there Possum’s recovery was nothing short of miraculous. He laughed, he joked, he watched the portable television in PICU and asked me when he could go home. Of course he experienced some post-surgery discomfort, but he handled it well and was easily settled. He was kept in PICU for a second night purely because the Close Observation Unit he was to go to next didn’t have any spare beds. Mike and I took shifts again to sit by his bed while the other slept in a tiny, cupboard-like bedroom off the Parent Lounge.

The Parent Lounge is a peculiar place. Through extreme circumstances you are thrust into other people’s lives, all of whom have children in PICU like you. You instantly share a bond with these people and an innate understanding of what they are going through. Every parent in PICU has their own story to tell and the people I met were willing to tell me theirs.

Betty has been in the Parent’s Lounge for over a week now. Her 17 year old daughter, Tammy, was in hospital purely to get her epilepsy medication sorted. Ten days ago she went into a coma and no-one knows why or if she’ll ever wake up again. Betty’s husband died four years ago while waiting for an organ transplant. Her home is in Grafton so she’s away from all her friends and family through this terrible time. Her three adult sons, all of whom are laughing, country boys with ready smiles and quick wits, are staying at the motel down the road for a few days. They all gather in the Parent Lounge taking turns to go and sit by Tammy’s bed, two at a time, while the doctors try and unravel the secret behind her coma. I asked Betty what her gut instinct is telling her. She looks at me without tears, her grieving having already begun ten days ago, and says, “I don’t think she’s going to wake up.” I tell her I’m praying for her but my words sound empty. She tells me that someone once told her that God doesn’t give you more than you can bear. Sometimes, I’m not so sure that’s true.

Tammy has been in the Parent Lounge for the same time as us. Her son, Ty, is 10-months old and was born with his skull fused together. His head has become elongated and misshapen. The skilful team have separated his skull, inserted a plate and reshaped his head. He’s doing well, and like Sam, is only in PICU for the immediate few days after surgery. Ty has just woken up and had a full bottle. Tammy giggles with delight. “His head looks like a little soccer ball. It’s going to take me a while to get used to.” I share in her thankfulness that things are going well.

The last family I encounter come into the Parent Lounge late on Tuesday night. Mike’s sitting by Possum’s bed for a few hours and I’m planning on getting whatever sleep I can. I talk with Betty for a few minutes and then stand to leave when a young couple, accompanied by both their mothers comes in. They are talking loudly at first and plonk themselves down on a couch in the corner. Conversations are not held in private here as the room is too small. Eventually there’s a break in their talk and I ask them about their child. The young mum, who can’t be more than early 20s, smiles at me and tells me about her son, Levi. He’s 5-months old. He’s had open heart surgery today too, with the same surgeon as Possum.

As their story unfolds it becomes clear his condition is not as straightforward as Possum’s. A few days after birth he was diagnosed with a chromosomal abnormality called Williams Syndrome. There are a range of possible physical and mental indicators, including arterial or pulmonary stenosis or narrowing of the valves and arteries of the heart. Unfortunately little Levi has more complications than most. In his short life he’s already undergone a hernia operation at just 10 days old and then a heart procedure a few months later. During that procedure the cardiac surgeons attempted to expand the arteries in his heart using a balloon catheter, but his stenosis was so severe he had a cardiac arrest on the table and had to be revived. Open heart surgery was the only option left.

Levi is now in his second surgery for the day. The first began at 2pm and took eight hours. He was transferred to PICU in an extremely critical condition and his parents, Steve and Sheree, got to see him for just a few moments before he was whisked back to theatre for more heart surgery, this time through his back. It’s now after midnight. The family are quite understandably on edge and are trying to hold it together. The grandmothers proudly tell me how well Levi has been doing lately and how he’s been putting on weight. Sheree tells me he’s just started rolling. The delight in her eyes when she mentions his name brings a lump to my throat. I imagine if it were one of my babies who are at home being cared for by my mum.

As the clock ticks over, I tell them it was really nice to meet them and sincerely let them know I’ll be praying for the surgeons and for Levi. One of the grandmothers in particular thanks me and I sense she’s also a Christian. I go to my tiny bedroom and settle myself in the strange bed, willing sleep to come and ease the physical exhaustion that I’m feeling. My mind is having trouble shutting off, however and it takes some time to settle. I spend the time praying for Tammy, for Ty, for Levi and of course for Possum.

In the darkness, as sleep begins to embrace me, a terrifying sound permeates the thin fibro walls. It is the sound of wailing, of crying, of hearts breaking into a million little pieces and blowing away on the wind. Then I hear Steve’s voice rise above the cries. “Please! Just let me say goodbye to him, please! I just want to say goodbye. Please let me say goodbye.” Then I hear Sheree – a mother’s grief crescendos into a sound that I will never, ever forget. “No! This isn’t happening. Please tell me it’s not happening.” I feel it in the pit of my stomach and the nausea washes over me. The tears stream down my face as I pour out my heart to God. Please, no. Not Levi.

I lay there and listen to this most sacred moment in a family’s life until I can’t physically bear it any more. I have to leave before my own despair or nausea overwhelms me. It’s wrong for me to hear something so private, so painful. A family deserves to be surrounded by loved ones, enveloped in hugs, tears mingling together at times like this, not listened to by a stranger whose son is recovering better than expected in a bed just metres away.

I pull on my clothes and struggle to find a way to exit. I must walk through this devastated group of people and I know I must acknowledge them and their grief and their precious baby. But what do I say? Then I hear one of the grandmothers, her voice loud and strong: “He’s not dead yet. They said they’d do everything to save him.” A wash of relief seeps through my bones. There’s still hope. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I walk into the lounge where the family form puddles of tears and pain and disbelief. I catch the eye of one of the grandmothers and utter something totally inadequate and yet it’s all I can say: “I’m so sorry things aren’t going well. I’ll be praying for Levi tonight.”

I almost run to Possum’s bed where he lies, sleeping peacefully, Mike asleep in the recliner next to him. I rouse Mike and once more collapse into his arms in tears, this time for someone else’s child. Once I have composed myself, I send Mike home to get some sleep. There’s no way I will sleep tonight.

As the hours when night is at its darkest inch by, I pour out my prayers to God for Levi and his family. I settle Possum when he wakes and reassure him that I’m still there. I try and close my eyes in the chair, but all I can hear echoing in my ears is the heart wrenching sound of another family’s grief. Just before the first sign of light begins to penetrate the darkness, a nurse gently tells me I’m going to have to leave the unit while they bring in a child from surgery who is very ill. She doesn’t have to tell me it’s Levi. He’ll be Possum’s next door neighbour in PICU for what remains of the night. As I leave for the Parent Lounge once more, I pray fervently for little Levi again, this time my prayers tinged with hope.

When I punch in the code and unlock the door to the Parent Lounge, Levi’s family has grown. There are now grandfathers present, as well as an aunt and uncle and a brother. Sheree smiles at me as I come in. “Sorry if we upset you earlier.” Through my own tears I brush away her concern and assure her that I only left because I was heartbroken for them and wanted to give them some privacy. The family chat to me like I’m a long time friend. I pull up a chair next to Uncle Gary and his wife, Shelly, and listen to the family recount the night’s events.

The first visit they had from the doctor was to tell them that Levi had arrested on the table and they didn’t think he was going to make it. His heart had stopped and although they were still working on him, there was a less than 5% chance he would live. It was the shock and grief from this news that I heard through those thin walls a lifetime ago, although in reality it had just been a few hours. Shortly after I’d left, a nurse had returned to tell them that Levi’s heart had started all by itself. Their grief was replaced with hope and even some laughter as their minds and bodies tried to process what had just happened. And then, not long ago, the surgeon himself, that man of few words but indeterminable skill, had sat beside them with tears in his eyes and told them they had managed to finish the procedure. Levi was brought back to PICU with his chest still open, still connected to the heart-lung machine and in the most critical condition imaginable, but he was alive.

I rejoiced with them, laughed with them and shared with them as they gave me the privilege of being part of their family for a few hours. Then as the sun began to shine in earnest, Sheree and Steve were summoned back to PICU to see their baby boy. One by one the extended family left, having lived through the most harrowing night of their lives. I just wished I could do something tangible to help. In the end I was able to offer Steve and Sheree the room I had been staying in so they could get some sleep but be close to Levi. It was then I discovered they lived just a few suburbs away from us. Raelene, Levi’s paternal grandmother, lived even closer. And the minister she rang in the early hours that morning pastors the church just up the road from us and is on the local minister’s fraternal with Mike.

Raelene hugged me as she left and told me it was a blessing having me there. I shook my head in disbelief. I hadn’t done anything. I was helpless. Totally, utterly helpless. And then the room was quiet once more, filled only with my continued prayers for a tiny baby that was quite literally fighting for his life.

Possum went up to the cardiac ward later that day and only spent two nights there before coming home. His recovery was and continues to be incredible. We have been supported throughout this stressful time by literally hundreds of family, friends, acquaintances and strangers from across the world who have prayed for our Possum. We have been blessed. And yet, I hesitate to use that term. For ever since that night just over a week ago, my heart has been with Levi and his family.

I found out yesterday that Levi died two days after his surgery. Although his heart was beating by itself that Wednesday morning, further tests revealed that he had suffered irreversible damage. On Thursday his young, beautiful and brave parents turned off the heart-lung machine and let their little boy go.

I’m struggling to come to terms with this. I’m struggling to make sense of it all. I know God loved Levi and He loves Levi’s family just the same as He loves us, so why were our prayers answered and their gut wrenching wails seemingly unheard? I know in a world of sin and sorrow and pain and heartache the unthinkable happens and people die, children die. And yet, there often seems to be no rhyme or reason, no pattern or meaning. I know God could intervene. I know with a whisper He could have restored Levi to health, but He didn’t. And that seems to be the way. In my experience, God rarely intervenes in the natural order of things. Possum’s heart was not so damaged that it couldn’t recover from open heart surgery, Levi’s heart was. That is the natural order. And yet as long as I live I will carry the sound of those young parent’s grief with me.

Perhaps Philip Yancy in his book, Prayer sums it up best:

“For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.” 1 Corinthians 13. No human being, no matter how wise or how spiritual, can interpret the ways of God, explaining why one miracle and not another, why an apparent intervention here and not there. Along with the apostle Paul, we can only wait, and trust. (p239)

It’s not a numbers game of whoever has the most people praying wins or whoever wants the outcome the most gets it; it’s just the hard, harsh reality of life on this imperfect planet called Earth. For now, I can only wait and trust and thank God for each day I have with my son.

I asked Possum the other day if he saw any angels while he during his heart surgery. He giggled and his eyes crinkled up at the corners but he didn’t hesitate. “Yes, Mummy,” he said, “there were 68.” Sixty-eight is the biggest number Possum knows. A legion of angels surrounded my son through his surgery and I have no doubt there was a legion surrounding Levi as well. I hope they have an army of angels wiping away their tears today, tomorrow and in the long, hard weeks and months to come.

I’m haunted by that night in PICU and yet I’m thankful for it all the same. I don’t know why God chose to have me there at that time, but all I can hope is that I was a vehicle for His love at a time when the family needed it the most. I can’t imagine their grief. I can’t imagine having a baby’s room filled with a cot and toys and clothes and no baby. I can’t imagine having to take the car seat out of the car for one last time. I can’t imagine how Sheree and Steve’s arms must ache to hold their baby boy once more. All I can do is pour my heart out to God and pray for Him to come quickly so Levi and his family can be reunited in perfect health, without tears or pain or surgery or sorrow. And today, I ask you to join me. Heaven can’t come soon enough.

Mike and I had a late night Wednesday night as neither of us could settle. We cleaned the house, decluttered the patio and generally did everything we felt we needed to before spending a week or more away from home. And with less than 4 hours sleep, we were up before 5am to get to the hospital by 6:45am. I woke Possum at 5:30am and got him dressed and gave him the last drink of water he was allowed to have before his surgery. The bags were packed, we were ready to roll and then at 5:45am the phone rang. It was the scheduling lady from the hospital ringing to say Possum’s surgery had to be postponed. The surgeons had been operating through the night on another child and simply needed to sleep.

We always knew this could happen so I wasn’t particularly perturbed by the development. In fact, I was relieved that they would reschedule rather than push their doctors beyond their own limits and potentially put my precious boy at risk. So yesterday was spent catching up on sleep and generally relaxing. We have now been rescheduled for Monday, September 14. As it’s not a common event for surgery to be rescheduled, it’s highly unlikely that it will happen again, especially on a Monday. They don’t operate over the weekend so there will be no cases from the day before that might need attention. The only possibility is that an emergency situation might arise, but we’ll deal with that if and when it happens.

I really do think this delay is a blessing in disguise. Possum is still a bit croaky with a cold and these extra few days might help him rebound quicker post-op. I didn’t sleep much last week and so the extra few days has allowed me time to rest, especially since my Mum is here to help with the twins. All in all, it’s not a bad thing. And I’m hoping that as we’re already packed and everything is pretty much ready, that I might get a half-decent night’s sleep on Sunday night.

Possum and I were on the front page of the local paper on Wednesday. It’s not the best picture of him, but it’s hard to get a 4-year-old have a natural smile with a complete stranger!!