I’ve been neglecting path: ethic. More to the point, I’ve been avoiding it.
It’s not that I have nothing to say. I always have things to say!
But it’s just finding the time to sit down and write it, and write it well. And I’m definitely a proponent of finding the time to write. So when I say, ‘I don’t have the time to write for path: ethic,’ what I’m really saying is that I don’t want to make the time to write it.
That sounds quite rude, especially to those of you who read, so let me explain myself further.
Yes, I’ve been a little remiss with the links lately. Who knew summer holidays, swimming lessons, stationery shopping and work (plus the usual busy-ness) would keep me run off my feet these last several weeks? Well, everyone, probably, but it still always comes as a surprise to me that there are not enough hours in the day.
We’re expecting a warm day today–not as warm as Perth, but still summery–and I hope to be able to pick the last of the boysenberries and pretend to get organised for another school week (but no doubt I’ll end up working and/or reading a book and patting the cat. Possibly taking the dog for a walk. Maybe eating some cake…)
Before First Offspring was born, I read. A lot. All about babies. Having sat many an exam, I guess I treated the pregnancy and impending child-rearing like a test, and studied accordingly. I learnt about all different parenting techniques, and weighed up the pros and cons of routines, attachment, co-sleeping, vaccinations… really, everything. And one of the philosophies was that the word ‘no’ was an unhelpful word, to be avoided, if possible.
We bought our Offspring a little backyard pool a few months ago, as a Christmas present, and yesterday was the first really warm day since Christmas when we could use it. So I spend most of the day watching them while worrying that someone would drown. It’s exhausting (although the good news is, nobody drowned). Today is going to be hot again, so I’ll be taking them to the beach, so I can watch them and worry that someone will drown, but with a different backdrop. Ah, summer with children who are yet too young to be able to swim properly! What joy.
I’ve been busy with family over the past couple of weeks–our Offspring have been on their school holidays (a two-week break) and also, my cousins, whom I’ve not seen for over a decade, came to visit. It was really great to see them, and meet their children (and introduce ours) and now our Offspring are sad because I told them that the cousins live on the other side of the country! Still, it was lovely to see them all getting along, and my cousins are as awesome as they ever were.
A friend of mine and I were talking online recently, where he was teasing me about something I’d said, and we were light-heartedly discussing my work in the coal mining industry. Of course, I’ve never worked in the coal mining industry, which my friend knows (hence the joke) and I responded that I was intending to take up a position with Philip Morris instead, the humour being that both of these industries were facing falling profits and had questionable practices when it came to ethics and/or the environment.
I’ve read a lot in my life. I remember (or remember being told) that I came home the first day of Year One and was disgusted because it was just like preschool. ‘We didn’t even learn to read!‘ five-year-old me exclaimed.
But once I did learn to read, I was hooked. I devoured the home reading books from school. I read all the books in the bookshelf, whether or not they belonged to me (except Trixie Beldon. Never really got into them) and asked for more for birthday and Christmas. At high school, I would read our English class novel within the first week and then beg friends in other classes to lend me theirs. I remember my mother throwing up her arms in frustration at sixteen-year-old me, when, on the morning I was due to travel overseas for six weeks, I was sat at the kitchen table trying to finish Tandia so that I didn’t have to take it on the plane (I only had 30 pages or so, and I wanted to be able to leave it behind so that I could take another book. Space was at a premium in those pre-Kindle days).
Sometimes, when there is a particularly emotive issue making the rounds in the news and social media, I find it hard to write about it. Last night, I reblogged my post from last year, because I thought it was relevant, but also because I wanted to say something about the flood of refugees and their treatment, and I didn’t think I had the ability to write coherently, given how difficult I found it to see some of these pictures, and how easily I could imagine myself in the same situation.
A couple of weeks ago, the Handsome Sidekick put on a movie for our Offspring to watch. It was Paper Planes, an Australian film about a boy trying to make it to the World Paper Plane Championships in Japan. It’s a sweet story, if a little cheesy at times, and there were some elements with which I could really identify, having grown up in country Australia. We thought our Offspring might also enjoy it. As it began, though, Second Offspring noted that the main character was a boy, and said, ‘Why do these movies always have boys in them? Why not girls?’ and I replied, ‘I KNOW, Second Offspring! I have asked myself the same question, when it comes to stories.’
I received call a few months ago, asking if I’d mind participating in a survey. Since it was only going to take up seven minutes of my time, I thought, sure, why not?
The questions were mainly about consumer confidence. I was asked if I thought housing prices were higher than they had been this time last year. (I said no). I was asked if I thought they would go up in the future (I said yes). Then he asked me if our financial situation were better, worse or the same now, compared to the same time last year. I had to think. Our Offspring are getting older, and we’ve needed to pay for items we didn’t need before. I said that I thought we were slightly worse off, financially, than we had been. Finally, he asked me if I thought we would be better off at the same time next year. ‘Oh, better,’ I said, almost without thinking.