Star Online

The boys scooted ahead as we walked down to the park after dinner the other night. It was a ritual we’d formed for the week we holidayed at my house.

“Watch both ways, then cross,” I yelled out to them both as they stopped in the middle of the road to look.

The little park was filled with kids, staying with their grandpas and yiayias. I sat on the bench in the early evening breeze watching the men run red-faced and sweaty around the ground with kids twice their age.

On the swings a little while later, I was propelling Chickles into the stratosphere and Beau was chatting happily to the kid next to him. They were talking about girlfriends and the other kid Yianni, at ripe old age of four, had two of them on the go.

“My dad has boyfriends,” Beau grinned at his new friend as they swung into the sky.”He even kisses them.”

Suddenly the world was stuck in that moment. I gasped as the grandma pushing the other kid stared at me quizzically. Chicky’s swing came whooshing past my face while I recovered with a feeble cover-up.

As our holiday continued, so did the so-called boyfriends. David Jane jumped into the passenger seat for a trip with the men to get gelato. Spoonfuls later, we were whizzing through his iPad looking at his photos of his alter ego Bo Gan.

The boys reported quietly when he left, “Dad, he has sparkly toenails”.

Then George for breakfast, Anthony for coffee and so on.

Friends jump into this caravan of my revolving family. All of them enter the car with a kiss and a hello.

Walking home from an empty park later two nights later, Beau was a little quiet.

“What’s up, handsome?”

“I just hope when I grow up I will see Yianni again.”

They’d promised to catch up, but Yianni didn’t come back. Beau was touched by their first meeting.

“You may, sweetheart, you just never know what will happen.” I rubbed his head as he scooted down the road.

“You just never know,” I repeated to myself as I lagged behind them.

Sue and I had a sneaky day trip down the south coast away from work recently — she’s a dreadful influence on me.

We ate breakfast in Brighton Le Sands, watched the planes landing and taking off and caught up on the kids, boyfriends (hers, I’m still looking) and work.

We walked across the road to get back in the car. I thought about our old work in Melbourne and what she was working on at the moment.

“You know, you should open up some gay retirement villages.” I stuck the key into the door and opened it for her.

“Just not with saunas or hot tubs,” we cackled. “And only hot orderlies.”

“Can you imagine, seriously. There are so many people who would prefer to be looked after in a gay-friendly village.”

I started picturing Zimmer frames and disco balls in the community room.

We drove over the escarpment and through valleys of green bordered by frothy foamy beaches.

I wondered what will come of our elderly, what will become of me, when I get to that age.  Will an adult Chicky want to make me Vegemite soldiers?  Will Beau creep home at some ungodly hour, forgetting he left me in the bath?

Do I want a stern straight woman or man who doesn’t understand me or my people or do I want José from True Blood as my chamber man? Si señor!

Sure, I’m being stereotypical about the whole chasing José around the hospital-cornered beds, but I guess it’s something that will start to influence the next wave for businesses to invest in. There is a market for it.

I have some older friends who I think will live out the remainder of their days in solitude, visited by stray cats, young visitors who forget to keep in touch and long walks around Betty Bay.

I want a Disney experience when I hit the pastures. I want spinning teacups, handsome and friendly faces to lower me into a bath and when I reach to switch the light out, I want to be able to lean over and give my partner a peck on the lips and sleep curled up right next to him.

Well, it only took him seven-and-a-half years, but it has finally arrived. My eldest son has a boy crush. At least I think it’s a crush. Chick is following suit, but this is really Beau’s story.

Timomatic is a newcomer to MTV and in as much time as it takes him to flip onto his back and spin, he has captured my mini man’s interest.

I don’t mind, he’s a sexy guy, dances well and seems to be a happy chappy, smiling as he gyrates.

I’m grateful. It could have been Beyoncé in her one-piece spandex and black sneakers squealing about love on top … you get where I’m going? Yep, I can still see me pulling down my singlet top to pout out an Olivia Newton-John single one day, it’s not a cool image.

Back to boy crushes. Beau put the dancing on pause and disappeared into his room, only to return dressed in jeans and sneakers and a hat on sideways grinning awkwardly, asking me for help to find his checked shirt. He was blushing.

“Of course sweetheart, let’s look.” I guided his shoulders into the room with my hands. I opened the wardrobe door.

“Here, this is similar to Timomatic’s, that should look cool.” I smiled with an air of irrelevance so he didn’t think I was making a big deal about it. You know, parent play-acting. I really am up for an AFI this year.

Tim and the boys went dancing that afternoon, all dressed the same, all throwing themselves about smiling happily. As long as we parents didn’t sedately spectate, the boys were fine. The minute Dawn and I looked over and commented on how cute they were, they dived onto the couch and blushed.

Rubber bands on your wrists with yellow nail polish, BoyToy belts and white heels, AHA! big hair caked in hairspray blow-dried sky high, Boy George eyeliner — all of this eventually fades or hopefully gets thrown into the back of the cupboard.

It’s the basics that keep coming back when we grow, we emulate the closest to us, those that interest us.

I’m still grateful that Beau leaves out my Clinique Happy after he has used it so I know he still wants to be just like me.

I figure if you’ve been following these past three years, you’ll have a couple of good insights into me — so I thought I’d add to the knowledge and wrap up the year with a list of my 10 most influential forces for 2011 à la the (Sydney) magazine.

Ten: After 25 years I’m still singing Kylie tunes. So uncool was she at the beginning I used to play my Enjoy Yourself tape under the bed on the lowest volume.

Nine: The world of mascarpone. If I could use it as a face cream I would.

Eight: Discovering that catching a bus is not exercise. I discovered the post-35 spread since moving to the Meyer Mansion.

Seven: Markus Zusak and David Nicholls wrote their ways into my mind and when I finished crying, left me staring at the wall in awe.

Six: Bulk buying. Since I believe I am a long lost descendant of Rome, I look at lemon trees and see curd, I look at the ground and see tomatoes,I look at wholesalers and buy 3 kg bags of nuts. Why? I still have no idea.

Five: Nigella. I know. She makes me smile. Four: The three Mrs Meyers. Like any son, we are attached to our mothers. I am also very attached to my Nana. I have flowers in my garden just to follow her. The boys idolise their mother Dawn too, so she influences me.

Three: The fellowship. Sue, George and Rosanna. The stitch-work quilt your nana once made, in human form.

Two: Him. He is a few people mixed into one sentiment. You know who you are. And I love you.

One: The mini men. Two people couldn’t push and pull me more. I feel raw with them and they make me feel every second of sunshine and moonlight. When I have nothing left to give, they help me find more.

Quentin Bryce’s blonde hair gently falls back into sprayed place as it billows in the breeze. She smiles for the media after swearing in Gillard’s third ministry.

My hair stuck to my forehead after a sweaty lunchtime bout of boxing. I looked like a Beatle. It was a nondescript day for me. Neither here, neither there.

My eldest son, seven years lod, sat in his classroom listening to his teacher, knowing he would go home to his mother, to food, to safety, to love.
Another small child of the same age, plus nearly 50 others were rescued from chains in a darkened basement in a Pakistani madrassa, left without food, and beaten. Beaten for ‘being out of control’, rehabilitation for drug addiction that may or may not be true.

Children and teenagers sent by parents who can ill afford education, but believe their children are receiving religious studies. Learning not of higher prophecies, rather the lowest of acts. Acts compounded by propaganda. A garden of hate.

Propaganda through these unregistered ‘schools’ is enough for me to stare into the brown eyes on the screen and wish that those boys grow up without hatred and wishes of extremist proportions. They belong in the same world as my boys.Gillard’s new ministry had the privilege of education and freedom, growing into the people they are today. Policy issues aside, we are a safe country.

Halfway across the world, I wonder what goes through people’s minds sending their children away, locking them up, mistreating them and then expecting them to be upstanding citizens. Ignorance is still a crime.

It just doesn’t make sense, the inequity in life disturbs me. How do children grow in this environment? They are our next leaders. Noble or demonic, they are next in line. The darkness that grows in extremist minds doesn’t blossom into anything. Instead it bleeds onto the ground when it is expelled.

“You know, if you just hold still, your leg wouldn’t get stuck in this elf stocking.”

I picked up a tiny green pointy-toed elf from the change table. His legs were kicking high. He giggled.

I propped him up against his brother Beau who was decked out as a miniature Santa. I jumped around, taking happy snaps of elf boy and Santa baby. The boys were one and two years of age.

Last weekend, we were at a work Christmas party for the kids. The mini men were dressed in normal T-shirt and shorts, though I wanted to put them in reindeer ears.

A bell was tinkling and it got louder and closer. There was a firm grab of my shorts around my legs. I looked down and Beau was peering from behind my hip.

“Whatchya doin’ Beau?” I stroked his head. “It’s Santa, go and say hello.”

His head, with eyes still planted firmly on the red monster coming toward him, shook from side to side.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” I bobbed down and his bottom lip was quivering.

His face was crimson from the pressure of blood rushing him. Either he was going to implode or fly away.

“I d-d-don’t like Santa.” I looked for Chick who was under Dawn’s armpit, hiding.

“Really? You seem to like him when he drops off lots of presents.”

I laughed, I could still see him as Santa baby sitting on Santa’s knee years ago.

Later we were shopping when we heard bells pealing. The men stopped dead in their tracks and then flight took over and they bolted behind me.

I couldn’t stop laughing (yes, not great parenting, I know) but we couldn’t escape the Santa army.

I did start imagining creepy Santas cornering us at all angles like zombie Clauses with drone elves, but right now I had to contend with frightened minis.

“It’s alright guys,” I said as we fled out the side of Myer. “I’m not keen on big, hairy men in tight red fur either.”

Rosanna and I took David Jane out to Kathy Griffin for his birthday last night.

The Opera House forecourt was adorned with lots of hot, happy men. We were talking about the GetUp! marriage matters clip and in the light of the early evening I was thinking it would be nice to be in a relationship again. Hell, even just for someone to argue with me about roadmaps.

Madam D-List opened the show by proposing that she should speak ‘ranga to ranga’ with our prime minister about gay marriage to thunderous applause and cheering.

I looked at the crowd. We were all different. Among a few thousand people, there were parents, boyfriends and girlfriends, sons and daughters. But here, at the end of our rainbow, there were no husbands or wives.

These furry and fresh-faced men and women who pay their taxes, part their hair on the right side of their head, call their mums once a week and care for their mates and community are without society’s blessing … but for how long?

On an empty dancefloor, it takes one person to get up and start dancing, but another to follow before more join in. As much as it’s true under a disco ball, it’s as true as it is to get governments and societies to change.

It’s also true that the lead needs to be courageous and confident, and the followers to be stoic in their resolve to remain unaffected by others, when finally, there are no spectators, only a common rhythm.

We’ve done so much to assist a public conscience vote by showing just how obvious this inequity is. Let’s hope our leaders look to their hearts and experience a private conscience moment before they get dressed every morning.

Anyway, all this rallying and placard-waving is hard to juggle with kids’ Christmas parties. Let’s just say we’re equal and get on with the real stuff, like getting lost on a road trip using paper maps.

Author Fay Weldon spoke the truth when she said “If you put a single black sock in with the white wash, everything comes out grey”.

Last Monday I woke up and the image of Beau sitting on my bed the day before, crying into his knees that he wanted to go home and not be here, jumped into my mind as I got out of bed.

The twang of feeling awful about reprimanding him stuck in my stomach as I got ready for work. The reasons for this outburst are trivial in the light of day but I kept chewing on the image walking to work.

I remembered the quotation of Fay’s I used to have on my fridge and started to recall the good things from the weekend with the mini men. There were a plethora of great moments, a stack of cuddles and giggles and a few moments of stern parent face.

I apologised to Beau an hour or so later after the outburst and pulled him into me for a hug. I didn’t try and explain myself, I just told him I was sorry for being cranky at him. He responded as I thought he would, and we spent the remainder of the day swimming with Chicky, laughing and colouring in.

Not living with the boys, I have become aware of the need for quicker than usual perspective on events and moments with them, which also filter into other facets of my life. Throw a single bad moment in and it shouldn’t cloud the whole weekend.

I guess if we take a moment to examine the events in our lives and our community — I won’t even name the most recent furore in branding changes — but think of the great moments in early March we’ve had in previous years, we can’t say that one mismanaged event will ruin everything.

And like two little men sitting on their Dad’s bed, upset at the morning’s arguments, the joy of swimming, cuddles and raspberry scones afterwards make the best of a sneaky black sock in the wrong pile.

There was a singular fang hanging over Beau’s lip. He was too busy fixing his clothes to hold his lightsaber to tuck it back in.

“Daddy, can you tie my cape?” Chick had a set of black plastic fangs protruding from his mouth.

“Magic word, Chickles?”

“Pleaseshh,” he sucked back some dribble. Mythical evil is one thing, manners are quite another.

I’m not surprised miniature vampires have manifested around the house lately. I’ve been catching up on some True Blood and while the men haven’t been watching over my shoulder, they have leftover fangs from
Halloween and decided they prefer them to their own teeth.

The other night, I was sitting at the kitchen bench with Beau doing his synonyms homework. I had spent the last two nights finishing Season 1 and was about to crack out Season 2.

“N-no, it’s a word that has the same mean…” I caught a shadow move behind me.

“Chicky, come and finish your reader.” Silence.

“Chick, are you there?” I could hear his muffled breathing.

He came out from around the corner. “But Dad, I already read it.”

Dressed in his pyjamas, black cape he’d borrowed from Batman’s outfit, his fangs, topped off with a black felt hat, looking at me with big blue eyes.

I laughed and set him and his fangs free.

Later as I tucked the boys into bed, Beau started hissing at me with his contorted vampire face, which is hilarious but still seriously scary.

“Love you, sleep well boys.” I giggled as I opened the front door and heard them hissing again. It was pitch black outside and the street lamp was glowing through the windy leaves of the tree next to it.

“Drive safely.” Dawn closed the door behind me.

There wasn’t a soul outside and the wind could mask any noise creeping up on you.

I got to my carpark an hour later and the eerie fluorescent lighting and grey cement sent chills up my spine. I ran to the door and fumbled my key, sending me into a mild panic. Home safe, I still reached for the remote. I love a good scare.

“I’ve smiled for long enough — now, can we go?” I begged Dawn to wrap up the parent drivel on the school’s church hall steps last Saturday night.

All the kids were dressed in their nice clothes, rolling around the grass and climbing trees. I noticed one of the girls lying flat on the ground while some of the boys from Beau’s class jumped on her in turn. It was a bit odd. Bella just did the communion procession, so I remembered who she was.

“C’mon guys, let’s go,” I hollered over their playful din.

The next morning flipping pancakes and dishing out crunchy nut cornflakes sans milk for Chick, Beau delivered his knockout statement for the year.

“Bella wants to sex a boy at school.”

Dawn coughed into her coffee and my pancake felt like it hovered mid-air for a moment.

“Really?” my voice nearly broke, and Dawn was giggling into her cup.

I kept it light, it was breakfast after all.

“Beau, do you know what sex means?”

Chick jumped in. “Yeah, it means that if you kiss your willy it will wee.”

“Oh my god, you two! Who on earth told you that?” I held the plastic spatula up as if it was my hand, resisting the information.

“Actually, don’t tell me.

“Well, the only thing I can tell you right now, is that if you’re old enough to have this sex as you are describing, then you are old enough for the responsibility of what comes — like having mini people for instance, having babies just like you.”

The boys looked thrilled to have thrown their boxer shorts-wearing father into the same sizzling pancake pan. There was almost delight oozing from the freedom of their knowledge.

It was like they were telling me something they were sure I knew about, but not convinced that their version of the truth was known to someone so old and out-of-touch like their dad. I mean, parents don’t have sex, do they?

I flipped some more flat cakey discs to Beau as he sat proudly on his stool.

Parents 0, Kids 1 — and we’ve only just begun.