Pinky and how her beautiful babysitter Audrey saved her sanity.

                                          (l-r) Lulu, Thaddeus, Hagar, Padraic.

Audrey made her significant entrance into our lives just prior to Hagar’s. Diminutive, lively, capable and reliable, at sixty odd years of age she brought organization and regularity into our messy lives. For the next eight years Audrey operated as a baby-sitter, sounding board, and substitute grandmother. As the boys grew older and she grew more fragile things became a little problematic.

The guiltiest party would have to have been Hagar, who on more than one occasion locked the poor lady out of the house. 

I would arrive home to find everyone standing on the veranda; Hagar with a hangdog expression and Audrey fuming. From the age of two some type of primal dynamic invaded Hagar’s body and he became a wild, impulsive, foolhardy pain in the bum. This abhorrent conduct persisted all through his childhood and well into his teenager hood.


My dearest Audrey was responsible for toilet training every single one of my offspring. In fact it is due to Audrey that many of the family’s quirky sayings came to be. One day little Jonah was sitting on the toilet waiting for Audrey to come and wipe his bottom. Espying a kookaburra out of the bathroom window he started raucously shouting,

“Kookaburra! Kookaburra!”


From that day on we always referred to Number Twos as ‘kookaburras’.

“Do you need to do a kookaburra?”. “His nappy is whiffy, I think he’s done a kookaburra, can you change him?”

That sort of thing.


‘Kookaburras’ were a prominent feature in my life from 1989 to 1998. I’d give Warren Buffet a run for his money if I had a dollar for every malodorous nappy I changed over those nine years.

When they were still little, in the interests of expediency I would cram all five of the kids in a big bathtub together. Once in a blue moon there would be a dreadful catastrophe when someone accidentally squeezed out a ‘Kookaburra’ in the bathtub.

Ear-splitting screams and a frenetic exodus would ensue, with poo tainted water splashing all over the floor and myself. After ineffectual efforts to placate the panic-stricken casualties, I would have to empty the bath, disinfect it, refill it and start all over again.

On numerous instances I would be drowsily laying in a twilight slumber in the morning, wondering why the baby had not cried yet. Ultimately my curiosity would get the better of me and like some sort of inexplicable rite of passage; Id discover the baby sitting up in its cot, covered in poo.

There would be faeces spread all over the cot, the wall, inside the baby’s ears and hidden in crevices I would not discover for months. With each baby I avowed this regrettable event would never happen again; but no matter how securely I bound their nightly nappy, the messy nightmare repeatedly transpired with each and every one of the five of them.

Hagar was the most delayed in the toilet training stakes. He unequivocally refused to be part of any ‘kookaburra’ activity on the actual toilet. I would have to put a disposable nappy on him immediately after his dinner. He would then go and sit in a distant corner with a meditative expression on his little face and play with his toy cars. After a time he would get up and casually glide past me with a pongy bouquet of fresh turd wafting around him. That was his special way of letting me know he was ready to be decontaminated.

Lulu was about four years old when Audrey finally resigned from her duties and confessed to me that it was all getting a bit much for her. The root of all evil, it emerged, was Hagar.

                                  Audrey holding a 3 month old Hagar

Pinky and life with her toddlers.

We found the most beautiful old Queenslander style house on top of a hill just five minutes’ walk from the city. Previously it had belonged to the Christian Brothers and had been bought and restored by a local builder who had brought up his own seven children within its tongue and groove walls. The rooms were profuse and there were hidden stairways, an underground cellar, a downstairs room and bathroom, a huge rainforest garden and poignantly, a bona fide chapel. It was the epitome of a young boy’s utopia.

As the removal van drove through the gates, followed by our four wheel drive, choc a block full of eager little faces, we noticed a chubby little boy boldly gawking at us from our newly acquired verandah. Now I must confess this did not immediately fill me with glee. I already had three miniature Genghis Khans to look out for and I categorically did not want yet another holy terror hanging around our house every day. Providence, however, had a slightly different notion.

 His name was (let's just call him Newman) Newman, and no matter how brusque or unpleasant I was, he would not take the hint. Every morning at the crack of dawn there would be an insistent banging on our front door. Out I’d lumber with my seven month pregnant paunch to answer the door.

“Can I play with the boys?” he’d lisp in an infuriatingly polite manner.

“Newman, it’s five o’clock in the morning. Do Mum and Dad know you’re here?”

“No, they’re asleep.”

How lovely for them, I thought.

This went on for many years and Newman became familiar with many of the intricacies and complexities of our family’s life, some more intimate than I would have preferred.

I recall with mortification, one Father’s Day morning my then husband and I were fulfilling connubial duties in the bedroom. It was about seven o’clock in the morning and Newman, Thaddeus and Jonah were outside our door discussing the logistics of building a swing in the mango tree, when I heard Newman ask Thaddeus to go and ask his Mum if she had any rope.

“I’m not allowed to knock on the bedroom door,” retorted Thaddeus, “They’re having sex because it’s Father’s Day.”

And that was pretty much the extent of any matrimonial relations back then. Father’s Day and birthdays.  Not my birthday of course, that was for sleeping in.

                         Newman and Jonah

Of course Padraic, was brought home from hospital to that rambling old house. Bizarrely, there was an actual snake hanging out of the letter box as we drove through the gate with our newborn.  I tried not to contemplate that this was some sort of sign, a portent of things to come.

Life became busy with playgroups, preschool and school. In order to recharge everyone’s batteries we took a family holiday to the Gold Coast and to visit my parents in Mt Tambourine. At some stage I became concerned about the amount of car sickness I seemed to be experiencing, even when I wasn't in the car. Coffee was a no go as well, so I did the sensible thing and bought a pregnancy test at the Australia Fair Shopping Centre and traipsed off to the toilets to determine my condition. A bit of an authority on pregnancy tests by now, it took me less than the prescribed three minutes to spot the blue line. Number five was on his or her way.

Back in the tropics, our neighbours were also becoming conscious of the fact that Newman was also going to have a new baby brother or sister. Probably due to the fact that they had all that lovely spare time to sleep in and get up to other activities, whilst their son was eating us out of house and home!

Newman the neighbour, as previously mentioned was an enterprising young lad. On many occasions he instigated the establishment of lemonade stands or fruit stands (mangoes that had fallen off our tree) on the footpath out the front of our house. By now, Thaddeus was only about nine and Newman and Jonah, seven years of age, and yet the entrepreneurial skills of the trio were unmistakable. One time, Newman got wind of the council allowing a one off opportunity for a free stall to be set up at the local Cotter’s markets. Systematically the three of them ransacked every cupboard in our house, managing to collect an assortment of eclectic items. These articles were professionally price-tagged and catalogued, loaded into the back of Newman’s father’s utility, and no doubt hawked to the various naïve wretches wandering the markets that day.

The boys made an absolute killing. Returning home with jubilant faces and pockets stuffed with filthy lucre, they celebrated their success with copious amounts of lollies they’d bought on their way home. For months after that, there were many occasions when I’d go combing the house for some inexplicably missing item and could never find it. Newman, Thaddeus and Jonah are still marvellous friends and in keeping with their economic aspirations and creative flair, formed a band in their early years of university. They don’t celebrate their successes with lollies any more though.

                            Jonah and Hagar at front, Newman behind.

Pinky and the Curly Years

When there were Three.

At the time Hagar was born, Thaddeus was almost four years old and Jonah three. I can remember calling in to the local Coles with my then husband on the way home from hospital in order to purchase the necessary supplies (including disposable nappies of course). I was shuffling around as best I could with the pain of Caesarian staples piercing my still inflated belly. It was my job to push the trolley (with newborn Hagar asleep in the baby capsule) and gather the nuts and berries, and my husband’s job to watch the two remaining villains. As I deliberated over which breast pads would soak up the most leakage, I beheld the man of the house walking towards me with a jaunty four year old.

“Where’s Jonah?” I asked in alarm.

“I thought he was with you,” came the accusatory reply.

Immediately a sick feeling of dread developed in the pit of my stomach. We frantically took off in different directions searching up and down the aisles, panic rising every second. The post pregnancy hormones were flooding my body and placing horrific images in my head. Someone had abducted him. 

This was my punishment for being greedy and having too many babies too close together. Sobbing and terrified I pushed the trolley all around the store calling out loudly, ignoring the agony of the staples tearing at my flesh and drawing quite a bit of curious attention. Finally I went to the front counter to ask for a call to be made over the Public Announcement system. The red- coiffed woman behind the desk gave me a seen-it-all -before look and rasped into the microphone, “There is a lost three year old boy in the store wearing a stripy one-piece. Please return him to the front counter”

I took off again desperately searching under shelves and around corners. Within minutes we heard the PA system asking us to return to the counter. There the fugitive stood , innocuously eyeing off some lollies under the counter, in his little stripy outfit, looking every bit the runaway convict. Two kind, magnificent ladies had found him trying to cross the busy road outside the shopping centre. It was at that moment I decided to leave them at home on future shopping expeditions.

That incident, regrettably, was not the last of young Jonah’s forays into the wide, wide world. Hagar would usually awaken demanding his morning nourishment at about five o'clock in the morning. After feeding him, I would make myself a cup of tea and sit serenely on the verandah generally counting my blessings and ponder how lovely my life was, what with my three gorgeous boys all safely tucked in bed. 

On one of these harmonious occasions my musings were interrupted by the sound of what sounded like very large dogs barking their heads off. Immersed amongst this sound I could hear a small child screaming. How terrible, I thought. What could be going on? Thank God my little darlings are safe and sound in their own bed.

Within seconds the screaming became louder. I hastily moved from my chair to the front gate to investigate.

 I could see a small child running very fast with a tormented look on its face carrying what appeared to be…. Good Lord, it was Jonah, tearing down the road towards the house being chased by what appeared to be the hounds of the Baskervilles. I sprinted out to meet him, scooped up the distressed child and yelled at the dogs, who immediately lost interest and trotted off. 

Whatever it was that Jonah had been carrying was strewn all over the road. Carrying the absconder in my arms I went over to investigate. There were rolled up newspapers all over the road. Today’s edition no less. The little reprobate had snuck out of his bed, taken himself on an exploratory walk and had for some reason decided to collect all the neighbours’ freshly delivered papers.

It wasn't too long after that incident that the by now, familiar feelings of queasiness in the mornings and aversion to coffee began yet again. The small Federation cottage we lived in at the time was far too small for a family of six, so it was time to start seeking out a more spacious address. Enter stage right, a rather enterprising, annoying, lovable and adventurous four year old neighbour, Newman!

Pinky's Experiences of Childbirth- not for the squeamish.

#1 Son- Thaddeus-The Philosopher

“I think I need an epidural," I hissed at the midwife. 

“But you’ve only been in labour for one hour,” she replied in a bored manner.
It was true. The doctor had put in the Oxycontin drip at nine- thirty and for the love of God it was only ten-thirty. 


It was my first baby and I knew from antenatal classes that a first labour can go on for a very long time. Seriously though... the pain was unbearable. If anyone had told me that it hurt this much I would never have allowed myself to get in this situation. 
“You’ll be alright, Pinky,” suggested my then husband, “Don’t be a sook.”

The next contraction ripped through me, 
“No, please. I need an epidural.”

The midwife looked at me disparagingly and went off to call the anesthetist.  It took him about twenty long minutes to arrive and by that stage I really wanted to call the whole birth thing off. 
“Just curl up in the foetal position so I can get the needle in your back,” he calmly requested whilst watching the tennis on the overhead telly. 

As I managed to twist my pain- racked body around I felt a bizarre sensation.“I… um, think I have to push,” I gasped. The midwife gaped at me incredulously. She put on her rubber glove and proceeded to inspect my cervix. 

There was no need for the epidural. After three pushes my first born son was born. 

I cried for joy for three days.


#2 Son- Jonah-The Policeman

I was a private drama teacher with a studio in the back room of my house and I was in the middle of an afternoon lesson with a group of students. I felt a sharp pain shoot through my pelvis. Number two baby was actually due today.

Two hours later there had been no more pain. 
Even though with impending labour you shouldn’t really eat, I was starving hungry so I created a spectacularly large chicken salad and proceeded to scoff the lot. 


It was February in the tropics and the only food a heavily pregnant woman could cope with in the humidity was cold chicken and salad.

Twenty minutes later I felt the first intense contraction... and four minutes later there was another.

 It was time to ring the hospital. I wasn’t taking any chances after my first born had taken a mere hour and a half of labour. 

It was nine-thirty when we arrived at the hospital. By ten-thirty I knew it was time to push. But something was wrong. I felt an overwhelming urge to push, but I knew if I did… something else was about to come out too. 
“What’s the matter?” asked the midwife in concern. 
With the pain of childbirth all sense of humiliation and modesty flies out the window. 

“I think I need to do a poo.” I responded.
The midwife rolled her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I continued, “But I had a really big meal just before I came.”
“Just do it on the table.” she sighed. “You’ll never be able to push the baby out if you don’t get rid of it.”

At the next push I dutifully obeyed her orders. 
The room was filled with the easily distinguishable bouquet of excrement. I saw the intepid nurse collect the stinky parcel with a paper towel and carry it off. 

Hopefully, to somewhere very far away...


“Well,” acknowledged my then husband, “that was the ugliest baby I’ve ever seen.”
It took one more strenuous push for my second son to enter the world. He arrived just on time for his due date. This punctual characteristic would follow him for the rest of his life.
He had a bruised and purple face and screamed like a banshee. I think his vocal chords had been bruised during the rapid journey down the birth canal because his crying was raspy and grating. 

Even the nurses couldn’t stand it. He was supposed to spend the first night up at the station with them, but they wheeled him down and left him in my room all night.
After his bruising went down we could see his prominent dimples. I could see at once that this little soul had been here before.
When I had arrived at the hospital the Gulf War was in full swing. On the day I left the headlines read that it was all over. I took that as a very good omen.

#3 Son- Hagar-The Agitator

It was three weeks before my third baby was due and I was at the obstetrician. The baby was in the breech position which apparently wasn’t good for a natural birth. 

Being pregnant three times in three years had evidently stretched my womb to the point where it was still comfortable enough for the baby not to have to turn around. 
My then husband was a lawyer,(this profession tends to make doctors a bit nervous) so I suppose the legal ramifications for something going awry with attempting a natural birth were too much for Dr. C to consider. Therefore I was to check in that night for a Caesarian section to be performed the next morning.


For some reason I had developed a mild case of paranoia during this pregnancy. I had become ultra- hygienic and health conscious and only bought and served organic food, had changed all our pots, pans and jugs to stainless steel and had become extremely superstitious. 

It was the thirteenth of April and I didn’t like it.

We arrived at the hospital and were immediately led to room thirteen. This did not bode well.
“Is there another room I could have?” I pleadingly asked the nurse.
“Not really, Pinky," she replied patiently, "only a room that doesn’t have a television.”

I tossed it around for a few minutes and decided to forget about the superstition and take the room with the telly.
At nine o’clock the next morning my third gorgeous son was born. 

Being a Caesarian birth his head was perfectly shaped, unlike the jaundiced and sucked mango appearance of the previous two babies, his skin was unblemished with bruising and he looked like an angel.


“The jewel in the crown,” pronounced my then husband.
He was such a pretty baby, the hospital came and took his photo for their promotional brochure.
In the early weeks of his life he slept for so long I would have to go and wake him up to make sure he was alive. We ironically gave him the nick-name, “Hazard” as he was such a quiet, sweet baby. That was probably tempting fate.



#4 Son- Padraic- The Insurgent

At five o’clock on a Sunday morning, my wispy blonde, round faced and huge eyed fourth son entered the world. Again it was a nippy, uncomplicated and natural birth. 

He grew into a cherubic baby with an unusually muscular bottom. All the other boys were skinny, scraggy little newborns but #4 was quite a burly little bruiser. 
It may have been because he was a week overdue by the time he was born. It was a badly conceived February birth again and the heat was unbearable. 


In an attempt to motivate the baby to begin its descent down the birth canal I had adhered to all the old wives tales I could drum up. I traipsed up and down steep hills for hours on end. I ate an entire pawpaw and drank a gin and tonic to hurry the contractions along, but nothing seemed to work. 
This tardy mindset has personified Padraic for the past seventeen years. Even now he finds it necessary to leave us all waiting in the car while he goes back into the house for the eighteenth time to retrieve some item he failed to remember.


My father dubbed him ‘Swee’Pea’ after the baby in Popeye. He had a massive head and gigantic round eyes, giving rise to the convincing likeness of a frightened possum. 

He was without doubt, the jolliest and giggliest baby of them all. At least, that is, until number five was born and his position was usurped.

#5 Daughter- Lulu- The Authoritarian
I knew the baby was a girl at the four month ultrasound. 
Jonah was at the obstetrician’s with me and even though he was only five years old, he managed to keep the secret with me throughout the entire pregnancy. 
Jonah is like a vault. Even to this day you know you can always trust him to keep his mouth shut. 

It would be needless to say I was euphoric, overjoyed and relieved. I was sick and tired of buying blue and yellow sheets and nappies, toy trucks and cars, shorts and t-shirts and Thomas the Tank Engine videos. I yearned for soft pink frills, princess style bed linen and Barbies and fairy wings.

I did engage a painter to cover the walls of the nursery with a dazzling pink shade so I imagine our friends and family were making astute conjectures. Although they may have assumed I’d gone a bit peculiar and had decided to do the pink thing no matter what.
The day Lulu was born I blubbered unremittingly. 
I was elated. She was not the greatest beauty to behold I might add. In fact looking back at photographs she actually bore a striking resemblance to the character Kramer, from the Seinfeld series. 



Mercifully her facial features settled down over the next few days and she lost the monkey-face manifestation. 
My then brother-in-law had a radio travel show and he happened to mention her miraculous long-awaited birth after four boys, over the air.
Our hospital room was soon filled with pink helium balloons, pink teddy bears and rabbits, and of course pink flowers. It was a truly joyous occasion.

When I brought her home from hospital the reality of my predicament hit home. 


I was in proprietorship of a six year old, a five year old, a three year old, an eighteen month old and a newborn. 

Fun times ahead for Pinky!