Warning: this post is as long as the book, and not nearly as interesting.

The Sri Lankan High Commission is holding a food fair today. With my mouth watering at the thought of freshly cooked hoppers (try to imagine a crepe cooked with coconut milk and palm sugar), I asked my father if he was interested in going. He paused for a while (I know he was thinking about those hoppers) and then he said that he just did not feel he could go to the Sri Lankan High Commission after everything that had happened.

Let me caveat this post. I am Sri Lankan Tamil, born and raised in the West. I have Sri Lankan Sinhalese relatives and friends whom I love, obviously. When I meet Sri Lankans, Tamil or Sinhalese, I do not think about the conflict. I am most likely thinking about hoppers. Warm, coconutty, heart-attack inducing hoppers.  This post is not about the conflict in Sri Lanka, it is about my attempt to explain it to a seven year old and her ability to explain it back to me. And it is about hoppers.

I will never understand the intensity of my father’s feelings about the conflict in Sri Lanka, I guess because I simply was not there. But whenever he feels the need to make a futile stand (in this case by denying himself fresh hoppers), I feel the need to stand by him. I suppose it’s because he is half the origin of my species.

And so I had to explain to Prima why we were not going to the Sri Lankan Food Fair. Trust me, I thought about lying but a behavioural child psychologist suggested to us recently that we shouldn’t do this so much. She obviously wasn’t Sri Lankan.

I started with, “There are lots of different types of people in the world Prima. They have different languages, religions and ways of thinking. The differences are interesting. Usually all these different types of people get along very well because really they are just people underneath.”

Strictly speaking this is not exactly true. Human beings seem more likely to fight with each other than not, but Prima is slightly neurotic and she already has trouble sleeping. I did not want her stocking up on dried goods, anticipating a foreign invasion at any moment.

I then continued with, “There are two types of people in Sri Lanka, the Tamils and the Sinhalese. Both of them are very good people.” I explained that we were Tamil and talked about who our Sinhalese relatives and friends were.

We then moved onto the war. Prima explained that a war was when people fought with each other using armies, guns and light sabers. I told her that in Sri Lanka people had been killing each other for a very long time, and just in case she was a closet sociopath incapable of distinguishing right from wrong, I reiterated that hurting and killing people was bad. I then told her that the war was over.

Prima: So why can’t we go get some hoppers?
Me: Because some people are still upset, hurt and sad about the war. They have to learn to forgive each other and look after each other.
Prima: Like how I look after my brothers?
Me: Exactly.

I then felt compelled to “test” Prima’s politics, in case I had inadvertently prejudiced her for life.

Me: Are you upset with any one about the war?

Prima succinctly and insightfully gave her perspective on why a new generation of Sri Lankans, Tamil and Sinhalese, born away from the conflict, should be able to break hoppers together.

Prima: No, I’m not upset. I wasn’t there. I just want some hoppers.

Then the control question: Do you like Tamil people?
Prima: Yes
Me: Do you like Sinhalese people?
Prima: Yes
Me: Why?
Prima: I like all people.
Me: Why?
Prima: Because all people are important.

Whilst I said a quick prayer of thanks to God in all his multi-faith, multi-regional, multi-galactic forms, that my daughter’s young and beautiful mind was still open, Prima said: I bet the monkeys never fight like that.

Me: Monkeys? What monkeys?
Prima: You know, the monkeys. You said millions of years ago we were all monkeys. Charles Darbin wrote about it in his book, The Orshin of Species. Monkeys are so playful, I bet they never fight like this.

I got very excited, thinking that Prima would grow up to be the greatest social anthropologist of our time, because at seven, she clearly saw how ironic it was that we considered our own species so advanced and yet even monkeys didn’t engage in prolonged armed conflict.

Whilst I was still marvelling at her insight, my little genius said, “Mummy I love monkeys. Can I have a pet monkey please, please can I? And a hopper?”

Today, instead of going to the Sri Lankan High Commission’s food fair, we went to the Carmelite Chapel’s annual fete. A nun told me I had lovely children (those nuns don’t get out much) and then she asked me where we were from. I gave the usual answer: “I was raised in Australia and my family is originally from Sri Lanka. We are …” The ending to that sentence is an automatic response. A conditioned response. I usually say, “We are Sri Lankan Tamil.”

Today, for a change, I stopped myself short and just said, “We are Sri Lankan.”

My father taught us to pray, and so as children, we prayed for the big, global concepts (an end to poverty and hunger, peace in Sri Lanka, more Smurf figurines for children everywhere).  We were not encouraged to pray for material things for ourselves but asking for qualities (such as courage and determination) was acceptable.  I have dutifully, even religiously, followed the above parameters of prayer my entire life. That is, until a few nights ago, when I started asking God for “…one hour of sleep, please. Just one, I know you’re busy…”

For the last month, the House of Duck has been a House of Plague. It started with Newborn and a chest infection that lasted 2 weeks. At night, after screaming for two hours, he would finally fall asleep for 40 minutes. During this time I would condense a day’s worth of activities (including: eating, brushing my teeth, talking to our other three children, checking homework, micro-sleeping with my eyes open whilst Prima read to me etc), before slumping in an unwashed heap, just in time for Newborn to wake up.

He and I then got on an endless merry-go-round of 30 minutes of sleep, followed by 25 minutes of crying, followed by 30 minutes of sleep, followed by 25 minutes of crying.

This would continue until the sun mercifully rose and the day started. Things always seem marginally better in daylight.

Newborn eventually recovered and for a few days, all was well in our small but highly contagious world. Then of course Secundo (aged 5) came home with another chest infection (a new, more virulent strain it seems) and it was not long before Tercero (aged 2) and Newborn got it too.

Husband and I got back on the merry-go-round for another couple of weeks, and during this time, I compiled a list of “indicators” for next time – signs that will tell me in the future when it has all gone pear-shaped.

Signs to watch out for in the middle of an endless night of sleep deprivation:

1. I started talking to myself and referred to myself as “darling”, probably in a subconscious attempt to comfort and coach myself through until dawn;

2. I memorised the television schedule from 12am until 6am and started to look forward to the 4am re-runs of Star Trek (the original series);

2.1 When Newborn woke up for the eighth time in the night, I would reach for the alarm clock saying to myself “Don’t panic darling, it must be 3:30am, Star Trek will be on soon…” Of course, if it was only 12:42am, I would “treat myself” to an episode of Battle Star Galactica (the remake) which was all set up in the DVD player, with the remote control and a box of Ferrero Rochers by my bedside;

3. When Newborn vomited on me, I no longer changed clothes, preferring to dust off the chunky bits and fall back into bed, feeling damp and smelling milky;

4. I tried to teach Newborn the moves to MC Hammer’s “U can’t touch this.” He and I both found this hysterically funny and it provided a welcome break from the crying and coughing.

5. I started googling words such as “legal limit Nurofen for Children” (apparently I reached it at midnight); “strong paediatric sedative over the counter” (apparently this is only sold in countries I would be afraid to visit); “paediatric home lung suction device” (apparently this hasn’t been invented yet) and  “do it yourself catheter” (so I could wee and rock the baby at the same time);

6. I started wishing this viral infection would go bacterial so the doctor would stop telling me “there’s something going around, it will help build his immunity” and give me some antibiotics;

6.1 I told the doctor that immunity is over-rated, unless it is diplomatic immunity which looks like fun;

6.2 I started wondering how long it would take me to retrain as a GP so I could write my own prescriptions for antibiotics;

7. I lost all compassion and sympathy for my sick child, resenting the constant crying and exhaustion it was causing;

7.1 Against the advice of Gina Ford, one time I made eye contact with Newborn when he woke up.  I decided I would try smiling at him – he looked back at me from the crook of my arm, and still half asleep, he gave me his biggest, gummiest smile.  It was so beautiful, I started crying.

7.2. I started asking God for a little sleep.

Last night I slept for eight hours, with one 20-minute interruption in the middle of the night, when Newborn had a coughing fit and needed a feed.

Tonight might be a good night, it might be another bad night, but today I feel like a whole new person. And when I say my prayers tonight, I shall say thank you that this is only a chest infection, I shall ask for the big, global concepts (including an improvement in infant and child health) but if God doesn’t mind, I will also put in a quick word for a small but important concept: more sleep for parents everywhere.

My husband has just set off with Prima (aged 6) and Secundo (aged 5) for the last ski of the season.  I like saying “the last ski of the season” because it makes us seem like some Austrian family whose children could ski before they could talk. Actually, we are a Sri Lankan family and unfortunately our children have inherited my sense of balance. I have been known to fall over from a standing position, whilst sober and stationary. Despite having three generations of Ear, Nose and Throat surgeons in our family, this inner ear defect has gone undiagnosed for 36 years, to the great detriment of the potential career as an Olympic skier that I might have had.

After our last family skiing experience a month ago, (which involved a freak blizzard, zero visibility and stalactites of frozen mucus from little noses), I was impressed that the children were prepared to brave it again – until Secundo happily told me that Daddy had promised that they were going to the snow but they did not have to ski, they were simply allowed to watch. Of course Secundo had not made the causal connection between the child-sized skis in the boot of the car, skiing and the fact that his daddy is a bald-faced liar. I understand and sympathise with husband’s reasoning behind this particular lie. If he told the children the truth, he faced the prospect of a three hour drive, trapped alone with Prima and Secundo, who would whinge, negotiate, cry and then make themselves vomit the whole way there. Not even the McDonalds Golden Arches, shining like the last bastion of bribery and (premature cardiac) corruption on the highway, would get him through.

And so he has lied.  The only problem with this particular lie is that when he arrives on the ski slopes in three hours and has to renege on his promise, Secundo is going to transform into a human rights lawyer, determined to uphold the rule of law. His opening statement will begin with, “But you promised…” and it will all be downhill for Daddy from there.  If Prima senses that her brother is losing any ground to his father, she will pull out her trump card and vomit in the car park on cue, distracting Daddy sufficiently for Secundo to make a come back. The little Ducks hunt as a pack.

Husband and I lie to the children all the time. Actually, one could argue that it is not really lying.  It is the temporary postponement of the inevitable revelation of a stressful truth through well-intentioned concealment.  I am not sure what the Oxford English Dictionary would say about this, but most parents would agree with me that this is not strictly lying. In any event, we tell ourselves that we do this to prevent the children from feeling anxiety. Previous lies have included: no we are not moving from London to Australia; no we are not moving from Canberra to Sydney; no we are not firing that nanny you love.

Sometimes we lie to both the older children; sometimes we lie to one and tell the truth to the other, making the other complicit in the lie (I’m not sure what that is called but I am sure that parenting experts would not recommend it); and sometimes we lie to each other about the lies we have told our children (for example, “No husband, I did not promise the children a packet of chocolate frogs before bedtime if they let me finish this blog in peace…”)

It’s not that our children have a heightened propensity towards anxiety.  They just have a heightened ability to both articulate it and argue their way out of the source of the anxiety. We naturally would prefer to inflict anxiety at the last possible moment (for example, a few days before we boarded the plane for Australia) rather than a few months before.

Like any liar, we sometimes get trapped in our own web of lies. The children seem to have (a) a hansard-reporter-like memory, often throwing entire transcripts of our exact words, back in our faces; and (b) an uncanny ability to construct a cogent argument (for example, “But Mummy, last year you said that next year we could get a puppy. This year is last year’s next year.”)

Today, whilst husband is put on trial somewhere in the Snowy Mountains by the Advocate General and his Vomiting Sidekick, I shall be enjoying only having two children with me, one of whom is six months old and therefore can not talk back yet. I’ve planned coffee, lunch and dinner with friends and I am going to shower for longer than six minutes.

On their return from the snow, when a morally outraged Secundo inevitably interrogates me about my role in The Great Snow Conspiracy, I shall deny any knowledge of my husband’s deception and lie like my life depends upon it.

When I was a teenager, my father once tried to explain and extol the virtues of the arranged marriage.  He said that when people fall in love, they are acting on an emotional, physical and hormonal impulse.  The behaviour is not necessarily rational or reasonable. When the feeling fades or dissipates, if certain “fundamentals” are not in place or if there is not a compatibility between these fundamentals, then the relationship was unlikely to be a happy or lasting one. He’s a real romantic, my dad.

On the other hand, the arranged marriage (again, Marriage According to Appa) is when wise, experienced and mature people (such as one’s parents, grandparents, the family astrologer or that busybody at the temple) make an assessment of the “fundamentals” between two people (and their extended families) to ensure they are in place and compatible.  On this basis, a marriage will be rationally and reasonably arranged.

In the case of my grandparents, the bride and groom do not see each other until the day they get married and they will spend the rest of their lives living with some one else’s assessment of their compatibility.  If they are lucky, as my grandparents were, they will grow to love each other deeply whilst also irritating the hell out of each other daily.

My husband and I have developed a new concept (we are ground breaking like that). It’s called the Arranged House. It is where my husband goes house hunting in Sydney without me because apparently some one has to stay in Canberra with the four little ducklings. If he finds a house that, after his rational assessment, has certain fundamentals in place and is compatible with our family, he makes a proposal.

The house and I won’t see each other until the day we exchange contracts and pay over a deposit. It is a risky strategy, because we would then have to spend the rest of our lives living with my husband’s assessment of our compatibility.  If we are lucky, the house and I will grow to love each other deeply whilst also irritating the hell out of each other daily.

On Monday, the Duck family, had an Arranged House.

Four days earlier, on Thursday, husband made an offer on our future family home without me seeing it. The offer was accepted that night; on Friday morning I thought I was having heart failure but it was just cold feet and we pulled out. I spent the next 12 hours internet dating every house for sale in the North Shore. I must have looked at hundreds (ok, may be forty) – but I looked at them for their “fundamentals”.

When my father talked about the fundamentals of an arranged marriage, he meant:

• is the boy from a good family and well-raised – I think this is code for is he a nice person and are you sure his extended family will get on with our extended family? (no one really knows what “good” means);
• is the boy educated and a professional – I think this is code for can he earn a decent living and support the family? (no one really knows what “decent living” means and fathers often forget that they educated their daughters so we too know how to help support the family as well as bear it);
• do you share the same values in relation to raising children (ie.  will you both agree to educate the children intensively, encourage them to become professionals and engineer them to marry within the community); respect for family (ie. will you both agree to house your elders instead of checking them into the nearest/furthest retirement village) and respect for religion?
• is his planetary alignment compatible with yours? As planetary misalignment is grounds for parental veto, this is code for: if I don’t like him I will pay the astrologer to find astrological incompatibility.

When my husband and I decided on the fundamentals of an Arranged House, we meant:

• is the house from a good neighbourhood and well-built – this is code for (a) are the children going to get mugged on their way home from school – no; (b) has the foundation been destroyed by termites and damp – no; (c) is it walking distance from schools and trains – yes; (d) does it have more space than London – yes; (e) does it remind us of London – yes; (f) are we close enough to the city so we don’t feel Lost in Suburbia – yes;
• is there enough bed space for 4 little ducklings and three grandparents (including one who will live with us permanently from the beginning)? – yes, if we stack some of them up;
• is there enough floor space for numerous siblings, cousins and friends who we hope will come over whenever they feel like it? – yes, if we implement a rota system;
• if you add up the digits of the house number, is the sum (2) numerologically acceptable to my parents and in-laws? – yes.

By Saturday morning, having not slept properly since Thursday night, I realised that the house had everything we would need for a long and successful relationship.  I was in Canberra, the wrong city to pay the deposit and so I had to ask my cousin A in Sydney if he would cover me – he agreed but was tied up in surgery. Apparently he is a real doctor and can’t just close up a patient in mid-excision at my request.  So I had to ask my uncle – I heard him swallow hard on his heart medication and then agree, because he is my mother’s brother and he would do anything for us. Saturday was spent negotiating and rowing with the agent but by the close of temple, it was done.

And so on Monday I went to visit our house for the first time. I asked my husband to take me there before the agent arrived, just in case I burst out crying.  I asked my cousin T to come because she is both eternally optimistic and an impressive liar (for example, that morning she told me I have lost all my baby weight). I asked my brother to come because when I am upset, no one makes me laugh the way he does. My husband’s stress levels hit a historic high – he had chosen the house for us and if I hated it, he knew I would spend the rest of our (short-lived) married life punishing him for it.

I saw the house and within minutes I realised what my clever husband had known all along.  The house met all of the above criteria and our final one:

• can we grow old together in this house, learn to love it, feel grateful for it and live happily in it as we enjoy and traverse the daily blessings and challenges of life?

– Yes.

Two years ago, Tercero came rushing into the world.  I’ve been feeling nostalgic about my pelvic floor muscles, apologetic to my perineum and I’ve been trying to remember what it feels like to sneeze without clenching (hard). In honour of the great day, I have reprised the birth announcement that we sent out at the time.  All names have been changed to protect the identity of those involved – as such it seems a little nonsensical when you get to the part about how and why we gave Tercero and the others their names but trust me, their real names are sweet.

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Tercero’s Birth Announcement

 Part 1 – The Birth Story