Apr12019 Jun 19 2019
'Ethelbrook' for sale
'ETHELBROOK'
14 Union Street Kyabram
Outstanding location, luxurious 4bd renovation, huge 1200m2 lot.
This beautiful home, superbly positioned in sought after Union Street, is just a stones throw from Kyabram's central business hub, eateries, hospital and schools. Those looking for the ultimate Kyabram property will be impressed by Ethelbrook's light and airy feel, with the home boasting four bedrooms, two living areas and space for the kids to play in the leafy backyard.
The home's focus is an open plan entertaining zone, where the locally built custom kitchen combine with walk-in butlers pantry and laundry to showcase stone bench tops and splash-back, brushed brass hardware and generous island bench. A north facing, double-glazed picture window filters light in to the home and large sliding doors open to the huge backyard, ironbark deck and outdoor entertaining space.
An impressive entryway reveals the true scale of this gracious Bungalow-era home with soaring ceilings, period cornice, ceiling moulds, recycled wharf timber and generously proportioned living spaces. At the front of the home, a tranquil formal lounge is well positioned for sneaking away for a quiet moment.
Designed with family living in mind, there is a large central bathroom with floor to ceiling tiling, bath, walk-in shower and custom reclaimed timber cabinetry, while the ensuite to main features reclaimed timber barn door and brushed brass fixtures. All bedrooms contain generous built-in robes.
Future rising energy costs have been carefully considered during this brand new, top to bottom renovation, including insulation to ceiling and all walls, ceiling fans to all rooms, efficient split-system air-conditioning/heating and energy saving double glazing.
Outside you will find a lockable shed perfect for a man cave or teenage retreat, single car garage, double carport, original red brick pizza oven and potential off-street caravan or boat parking.
There is plenty of space for a future pool, large shed, veggie patch or subdivision STCA. This beautiful street is heritage listed to protect the integrity of the home long into the future.
Built by experienced local craftsman and designed by a home energy assessor, opportunities like this don't come along very often.
For further information contact Lisa at lisabooth27@bigpond.com or 0407 567 686, or head to Instagram and Facebook @bookenblend. Available fully or partially furnished.
For a video of Ethelbrook click here
Nov142017 Nov 14 2017
Bin night hysteria – so much for tough Aussie farm kids
We arrive home after an evening out and I am standing in the kitchen farewelling my mum who has been babysitting our youngest. It's one of those gorgeous, balmy spring evenings, so the doors are open to the deck and the moonlight is lighting up the backyard.
All of a sudden there are blood curdling screams piercing the night and my eldest two children are sprinting up the hill towards home as fast as their legs will carry them. They cross the lawn in five-seconds-flat and fall in through the sliding doors, slamming them closed behind them.
My daughter is doubled over semi-hyperventilating and crying at the same time, my son looks confused and is out of breath.
Mum and I look at each other wide eyed and I ask, "What the hell is going on?"
It's bin night.
Now no-one likes bin night, but this reaction is a little full-on even for this household.
Bin night when you live in the bush means a long haul down the driveway to the gate to leave the wheelie bins out for collection. It's a job no-one wants to do, especially the heavy recycling bin. There is usually all manner of rock-paper-scissors action between the kids to try and determine whose turn it is, and tonight the eldest two are on the job.
Given we got home late and it's dark, they both headed off into the night dragging the bins behind them and using their phones as a flash light.
And that's when things turned pear shaped.
The story goes like this…
Charlee is walking ahead, she is wandering along using her phone light to check on the possums who have taken up residence in the trees along our drive, and occasionally she flashes the light onto the track to check for pot holes.
Charlee flicks the light onto the path because she thinks she can see a big stick lying across the track.
Only, as she goes to step over the stick she realises…
It isn't a stick.
The stick is moving.
The stick has beady yellow eyes and big white fangs (actually I added the fang bit, but sounds dramatic right?).
Charlee lets out an almighty scream, drops her bin, swings around and starts sprinting for home.
She whizzes passed her brother who has been bringing up the rear, her hair is flying behind her and her screams are all but indecipherable.
Bodhi is shouting, "What's wrong????"
He later explained she was moving so fast she was just a blur. She had suddenly discovered super human speed and was doing an excellent Usain Bolt impersonation as she flew passed him all the while screaming….
"SNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE."
Bodhi is all like… "What is she saying?"
Charlee is moving so fast there are sparks flying off her heels. There is nothing but sand and dust in her wake as she is burning up the track towards home.
Bodhi said he suddenly registered what she was saying and in the darkness and confusion couldn't understand why she was so freaked out (we see snakes all the time here) so thought (somewhat irrationally) the snake must have been chasing her.
So he drops his bin, and starts sprinting after her up the hill.
Which brings me back to my kitchen farewelling mum.
The kids have just fallen all over themselves trying to get in the door and Charlee is a picture of hysteria.
"What the hell happened?" I ask.
For a few seconds I can't get any sense out of either of them and then I realise in between sobs Charlee is saying, "Snake."
Now as I've mentioned, snakes aren't too much of a big deal around here – they are part and parcel of living in rural Australia, and our kids know just to move away quietly if they see a snake.
So given the state the pair of them are in I immediately think one of them has been bitten.
I start freaking out and checking Charlee's legs for bite marks.
Sob. Gasp. Hiccup. Sob.
"What are you doing Mum?"
Sob. Gasp. Sob.
"Where's the bite?" I ask, trying to hide my fear.
"What bite?" she asks.
"Where the snake bit you?"
"The snake didn't bite me," she says looking at me like I've gone crazy.
I straighten up. "It didn't bite you?"
"NO," she says
"But it was chasing her Mum," says Bodhi.
"No it wasn't," she says looking at him like he's gone mad, "snakes don't chase you."
"I know that," he says, "so why were you screaming like a lunatic and running for home?"
"Because I got a fright," she says pouting, followed by more sobbing.
By this stage I start to get the giggles. It could be part relief and part realisation the whole scene is slightly ludicrous.
Charlee still has a slight look of terror in her eyes and Bodhi is trying to catch his breath from the physical exertion of the sprint up the hill.
My hubby enters the room at this stage to find out what all the commotion is about and starts asking the important questions.
"How big was the snake?"
"I don't know," Charlee snaps, "I didn't exactly stick around to ask it how it's day was."
My giggle now moves from a little chuckle to the bent over holding-your-sides kind.
Charlee is still not seeing the funny side and gives me a dirty look.
By this stage even mum is starting to chuckle.
Pretty soon Charlee's mouth starts to twitch.
"Well, I suppose there could be one benefit out of all this," she says.
"What's that?" I ask.
"I think I just broke my 100m land speed record, and in a pair of Kmart sandals."
By now we are all rolling around the kitchen and in typical Aussie fashion, the story of how big the snake was is getting bigger by the second. I distinctly recall her using the term 'python' and saying she hopes the snake doesn't make it over to the neighbours place to eat their five year old for breakfast (for those of you who don't live in Australia – snakes DO NOT eat small children for breakfast and are not comparable in size to a python).
As the conversation is winding up Charlee heads off down the hallway and I call out to her in my best concerned mum voice, "You going to be alright kiddo? Where you off to?"
And she throws back over her shoulder…
"I'm going to check my undies for skid marks."
So much for my tough Aussie farm kids.
Image by @platydracus
Jul92017 Mar 25 2019
The Victorian family putting sustainability first and living off the grid
[Excerpt from Herald Sun Weekend]
Story by Erin Delahunty & photography by Rob Leeson
Lisa Booth says she and husband Steve are "very serious about leaving the planet in better shape than they found it". The sleek four-bedroom, solar-powered house they built for their blended family of six near Kyabram, 200km north of Melbourne, is the bricks-and-mortar proof.
On 8ha previously used as a sand mine, the self-designed, shearing shed-inspired house took six months to build using local builders Leigh Huggard and Glenn Cooper, lots of recycled materials and buckets of elbow grease. It was nearly five years in the planning.
The house isn't connected to coal-fired electricity, relying instead on 8kW of solar panels mounted on a modest shed and 26kWh of saltwater batteries, which store power to use when the sun doesn't shine. A generator for "absolute back-up" is planned, but the family hasn't needed it since moving in a few months ago.
Sitting atop a small hill and surrounded by trees, the 28sq pavilion-style home has two interconnected pods and incorporates the best of passive, sustainable design, namely clever orientation, double glazing, cross-ventilation, thermal mass principles, strategic shading and even a biofuel heater. The small heater burns a bucket of corn or wheat a day to deliver a "slow, constant heat". There are rainwater tanks for water.
The family, which includes Lisa's kids Bodhi, 14, and Charlee, 13, Steve's son Xan, 12, and "blended baby" Jedda, 5, has bottled gas for cooking, a back-up gas heater and hot water, though they hope to use solar for hot water in the future.The Booths don't even have a landline, accessing mobile broadband for phone and internet service.
It's every bit the "super-sustainable home that reflects the simple, honest lifestyle" the family craves, Booth says.
Booth, who has agricultural science and education qualifications and a background in community and agricultural sustainability projects, says the family certainly aren't "tree-hugging, tie-dye-wearing hippies who have given up mainstream comforts to live some kind of utopian existence". They have ceiling fans, a dishwasher, TV, evaporative cooling — all the mod-cons of a new build.
"We love sustainability, but we also love living our comfy, modern existence. We don't believe you have to trade one for the other," she says.
"What we are is your everyday, run-of-the-mill, garden-variety family of six who made the financial and ethical decision to build our home off grid. Yes, it fits nicely with our values, but let's be real: we have not changed our way of living one bit.
"An important reason for building this house was to showcase that anyone can do it. I want other mums and dads out there to know that it doesn't take any extra funds or special skills to achieve a beautiful, functional, sustainable home.
"If we can do this, anybody can; I genuinely believe that. We had a budget, a real family budget, and stuck to it. We did every single unskilled task you can do. It's no million-dollar property, that's for sure."
Lisa says they definitely aren't "tree huggers", their lifestyle is about sustainability
Booth, who shares her life on Facebook and Instagram as @bookenblend, says the couple cut their teeth renovating a 100-year-old farmhouse, Bullara, also in the Kyabram region, using green principles. And while they had planned for that to be their "forever house", the limitations of adapting an old property frustrated Booth, a confessed "sustainability nut", who worked as a home energy assessor before becoming a teacher.
So, when she and Steve bought a block that had sat unused and unloved for nearly a decade — but "was just our block, we knew it when we first looked at it" — she didn't even bother to check how much it would cost to get connected to the grid. And so her next project began.
Booth got out the graph paper and sketched her "dream sustainable blended-family home". While her draft was translated into drawings by a local building designer, it remained virtually unchanged. It exists in reclaimed timber and bricks, Zincalume steel, concrete, steel and lots of double-glazed glass.
The house is steeped in Booth's deeply held sustainability spirit
The house is made from reclaimed timber and bricks
"It was always about building an off-the-grid house, but it had to make sense aesthetically, environmentally and financially," she says. That meant tracking down timber fruit boxes, which were disassembled for use as a feature wall and kitchen splashback and just happened to feature family names on them; getting a massive barn door built out of Victorian ash floorboards reclaimed from the local school; and stumbling across wooden posts once part of the Williamstown wharf slipway to use as carport posts.
The house is steeped in Booth's deeply held sustainability spirit.
"One day, we hope sustainable design principles become mainstream, so when you walk into a building company — be it a project home, local custom builder or a high-flying architectural firm — the very first discussion you have is how to make best use of your land to build a high-functioning, low energy-guzzling home."
The family believe you can have a modern, comfy existence while still living in a sustainable way
Jul32017 Jul 5 2017
The Shearing Shed House
[As appeared in Our Home Magazine, Shepparton News]
Story by Jessica Ball & photography by Julie Mercer
A neglected block of land has been given a second chance at life, resurrected from a deserted sand mine to a modern industrial off-the-grid home.
For almost 20 years the Kyvalley land sat idle but when Lisa and Steve Booth discovered it five years ago they knew it was something special.
"The sand hills in this region are quite rare and it's sad to think that so much of the sand hill has been excavated away." Lisa said.
"There is nothing we can do about that but we can now start the process of revegetating and planting a whole lot more trees."
For the family of six it was important to have a sustainable home that was not too big – therefore economical to build and run – but designed in a way that it had spacious living.
"We wanted to be really smart about the spaces we built," Lisa said.
"We didn't want to have a big McMansion that we would have to heat and cool and clean and use the materials to build."
One of the pieces that would eventually take pride of place in the home – an old wool-sorting table from a Byron Bay shearing shed that was reclaimed and repurposed into a dining room table – actually inspired the the design of the home.
The natural materials and "boxy" shape of the table are reflected in the design of the home, which has affectionately been dubbed the Shearing Shed House.
"Wool was sorted on (the table) for probably 70 or 80 years. It was built to function really well but it also just happens to be beautiful and that's kind of how I view this whole house," Lisa said.
The home itself is comprised of two connected and light-soaked pavilions.
Inside and out the abode offers stripped back charm with a minimalistic mix of clean lines, back metal, recycled timber and red brick.
Peppered with second-hand pieces and natural materials, the industrial aesthetic is met with warmth and character.
Lisa found some fruit bins for sale from a grower in Stanley and she decided to use the panels from these in the home's interior. The name Stanley had extra meaning as it was also the name of her beloved grandfather – who passed away not long before the installation of the panels.
Brass fittings take centre stage in the home's two powder rooms. Lisa was thrilled to pick up the bargain garden taps, building the room around them. "I love the natural look of brass and it ages differently and I love that idea that a material takes on its own life." she said.
Almost every room has north-facing glass for passive energy gain, with the sun-splashed concrete slab and recycled internal brick wall storing and releasing heat to keep the home comfortable.
Large windows on the north and south sides bring the outside in and allow for cross-ventilation.
With 8kW of solar panels and 26kWh of salt water battery storage, the house is completely powered by the sun.
"We live totally off-grid and have not changed our lifestyle at all." Lisa said.
"We're not totally self-sufficient because we're using some LPG gas and that was a compromise, but it feels damn good to know you are not connected to the grid."
Multi-purpose areas make the best use of space in a compact home. With exposed brick, and a reclaimed wooden desk, Lisa said the space was one of her favourites. "Turning that space into a study nook just created another usable space rather than it just being a hallway," shed said.
Keeping the home warm, even when the sun is behind the clouds, is the biofuel heater which gradually releases heat into the home. "It can burn corn or wheat and it takes about a bucket a day," Lisa said. "It is a really slow burn – we go through about a tonne to a tonne-and-a-half of corn per winter and it just slowly burns away. It uses feed grain corn or wheat so it costs about $300 for the whole winter." A gas log fire acts as a secondary heat source to raise the temperature quickly.
Recycled timber salvaged for the benchtops has created a butler's pantry-meets-laundry that effortlessly fuses modern and industrial style. Rescued from the Kyabram P-12 College's home economics room, the recycled timber has been given a new life. "It's a combined space because there was no way I was going to be able to justify the space of two rooms," Lisa said. "It's brilliant because it's tucked away out of sight."
Follow the family's sustainble journey on Instagram @bookenblend or Facebook.
To read more about the Booken home head to Designing and Building Our Off-grid Home or About The Build
Jun62016 Jul 5 2017
My brother broke his neck: Boys & safety, why the big deal?
It's a normal Tuesday night. I am climbing in to bed after a long day and am running through the mental checklist…have I signed the school notes? Turned off the heater? Locked the doors?
It's cold. I have on bright orange bed socks and one of my hubby's old T-shirts.
The phone rings.
It is my sister-in-law, Jane.
Her and my brother and their two children are away on a three month secondement. Jane is working as a nurse in an Indigenous community in Arnhem Land. My brother Mark has flown home over the weekend to tend to their business.
We caught up with Mark the day before, to have a drink and hear all about their adventures in the NT.
"Hi!" I answer excitedly. I can't wait to ask her more about the buffalo poo story.
"Hi," she says.
I immediately know something is wrong. The tone of her voice is weird.
She gets straight to the point.
"Mark has had an accident. He is in the hospital. He is on his own. He has just been told he has a broken neck."
She has not even finished the sentence and I am pulling on pants and a jumper. I am hopping around banging into things trying to get my sneakers on with one hand whilst holding the phone with the other.
She is still talking as I get in the car.
"Wait!" I say. "I need to go back in and put on a bra." Not really sure why I think a bra is an essential item at this point in time.
She waits.
It is a 25 minute drive to the hospital. Jane continues to give me all the details she has. I then phone my youngest brother Josh. Josh lives in Melbourne near the Alfred Hospital, a hospital well known for spinal and trauma specialties. Mark is being air lifted to the Alfred and we arrange for Josh to meet him at the other end.
This drive feels like the longest 25 minutes of my life. My mind is racing.
How bad is it going to be?
Am I going to beat the air ambulance?
Who do I need to phone?
Is he going to walk again?
Is he going to die?
And then I think of Mum.
During my childhood it was a weekly, and sometimes daily, event to hear Mum telling my brothers…
"If you keep this up you boys are going to break your necks."
Now Mum can be a bit of a worrier, but in all honesty, I think she had good reason to trot out the 'break your neck' speech on a regular basis.
My brothers put her through hell.
They were typical farm boys. They were in to dirt bikes, waterskiing, shooting…basically anything that goes fast.
These types of pastimes are not just a country boy's right of passage, they are an opportunity to prove you can go faster, jump higher and fall harder than all your mates.
They are a natural high, they are a heady mix of reckless abandon and calculated risk.
But it was made worse by the fact that my brothers were pretty good at these pursuits, and it only made them push harder, go longer.
I have photos of them on one particular dirt-biking trip. They discovered if they hit a dam bank at just the right speed it would catapult them high enough to jump right over top of Mum and Dad's four wheel drive.
My brothers have mellowed a little in their adulthood, although I use the term a little loosely. They still like to go fast and occasionally do stupid things, like bare-foot jump starts off the back of a houseboat (who even thinks of these things?).
However, the dare devil gene is now playing out in the next generation. My son started riding dirt bikes at age three and my nephew is currently knee boarding behind the speedboat – at age two – no hands!
And suddenly, my brothers' views on safety have become more closely aligned with Mum's.
We are very, very firm with our kids about safety. Helmets and protective gear when dirtbiking, lifejackets and wetsuits when near the river, the list goes on…
So why then, if we have such strong views about the safety of our kids, do we not have the same regard for our own safety?
On this normal winter day, Mark was at a mate's farm and took the new ATV for a spin. An ATV is a cross between a four wheel motorbike and a go cart – only bigger and faster.
Mark did not put a helmet or seatbelt on.
He was just "taking it for a little spin" down the lane.
No one is too sure exactly what happened, but the ATV rolled. When it came to a stop Mark's foot was pinned under the ATV. Mark and his mate were able to free him and he walked away from the accident. Apart from a sore shoulder and a fair bit of blood from a gash on his head, he thought he was ok.
He convinced his mate he was fine.
He then got in his car and drove home.
On the trip home Mark started to feel tingling in his hands and realized he couldn't move his head to look for oncoming traffic.
He changed course and drove to the hospital.
Once he presented at the hospital he was immediately immobilized. He then disappeared down a dark rabbit-hole of uncertainty.
He had to hand his body and his destiny over to a team of health professionals.
The hospital staff discovered he had a fractured C7 and all else was put on hold until they could get him to The Alfred Hospital in Melbourne.
I sat with Mark for seven hours that night while we waited for the air ambulance. Some of the wait was entertaining, they had given him a fair bit of morphine and he was talking total shit about spreadsheets and pink elephants.
But some of it was not. When the morph wore off, he was left with pain and the fear of the unknown.
It was quiet and dark in the belly of the old hospital. Sometimes Mark wanted to lie quietly. Sometimes he wanted to talk. But I know he kept playing the tape in his mind about all the things he could have done differently that day.
He kept repeating,
"I am a dickhead, why didn't I put the seatbelt on?"
I kept replying, "Yes, you are a dickhead."
At least we agreed on this.
By the early hours of the morning we were advised it wasn't possible to get the air ambulance in and he would have to travel by road ambulance (it was a very foggy night).
This was not good news.
The doctor explained Mark's injuries were considered life threatening and he was not to move.
I remember a moment of mayhem when Mark needed to vomit. They couldn't leave him on his back – but they didn't want to move him either. It is amazing how in the blink of an eye your life is reduced to the simplest of things, moving, not moving, breathing, not breathing, vomiting, not vomiting.
The lowest point of the night was watching him being loaded into the ambulance. I knew he had three hours of hell ahead of him. It is not a smooth road from here to Melbourne, and we had no idea what awaited him at the other end.
For the first time since I had been with him he looked scared. Really scared.
After the ambulance pulled out of the hospital driveway I got in my car. But I couldn't drive yet. I sat very still and tried to steady my mind. I looked down and noticed my bright orange fluffy bed socks poking out of the top of my fluro pink sneakers and started to cry.
The next few days are a blur. It turned out Mark had a broken neck and a complicated clavical fracture. To operate on him they needed to involve the nuero team, cardio team and spinal team.
For the three days until they operated on him, Mark laid on his broken clavical and broken neck and could only stare at the ceiling. His fate was still largely unknown.
It was wait and see.
Mark turned out to be one of those miracle stories. After a hugely successful operation he was announced out of the woods. All going well, he would make a full recovery.
But the gap between Mark returning to full health and becoming a paraplegic, or even worse, not being with us, can be measured in a portion of a millimetre.
His spinal cord was spared by the barest of margins.
Whilst Mark was recovering in the Alfred he was philosophical about the circumstances which put him there. In an effort to lighten the mood he decided he should start a mythical foundation, he would be the founding (and hopefully only) member of the DBAD foundation.
It's slogan…
'DON'T BE A DICKHEAD (DBAD) – SAFETY FIRST'
Mark was released from the Alfred a week after his operation. The day of his homecoming was also his birthday.
Mark's birthday party by all accounts, should have been a jubilant occasion. We were celebrating him making a full recovery and his return home.
Instead, there was a really weird mood amongst us.
There was an elephant in the room.
No one was saying it, but we were all strangely aware that had Mark's vertebra moved another poofteenth of a millimetre, we would have been at his funeral that day, not his birthday.
The DBAD foundation is now a running a joke in our family. Every time someone does something stupid we threaten to induct them into the DBAD hall of fame. Although, Mark thinks his position as head honcho and largest DBAD, is pretty safe.
But underneath all the ribbing and jest – there is a deadly serious side.
Why is that boys, particularly rural boys, think they are invincible?
That it won't happen to them?
Is it part of our culture that we don't think it's tough, or cool, or manly to be safe?
But Mark will tell you – it can happen to you.
So take the extra time, put on the helmet, put on the seatbelt, put your safety first. Because, despite it's auspicious sounding title, Mark does not want anyone else to join the DBAD foundation.
He is happy to remain the luckiest dickhead going round.
Me and my dickhead brother
Apr282015 May 10 2017
Domestic abuse – Grey is not OK
This story is not mine to tell. However, I have been trusted to tell it, and the responsibility to get it right feels huge. But if this story can help one woman recognise an unhealthy 'grey' relationship – then my work here is done.
I am sitting on the couch enjoying a laugh with my girlfriend who has dropped by for a cuppa. It's one of those gorgeous sunny autumn days, the doors to the deck are open, the TV is on quietly and I am feeling light and relaxed.
I go to the kitchen to organise a refill of tea and return to the lounge to discover my friend (let's call her Jo) staring at the television, tears streaming down her face.
I do a double take.
I look from the TV, to Jo, and back again.
I sit quietly and wait for the reporter to finish. She is interviewing our wonderful Australian of the Year, Rosie Batty, about the launch of her new app – iMatter. The app has been designed to help young women identify unhealthy relationships and deal with abusive and controlling behaviour.
The story is rousing. Rosie Batty is as inspirational as ever. But it's not particularly tear jerking.
Jo gathers herself.
She looks at me and with a wobbly voice says, "I think I was in an abusive relationship."
My brain immediately pictures her gorgeous, gentle husband and I can feel the panic rising in my chest.
She can read my mind, "Not now Leese."
"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask her.
"Yes" she says emphatically. "But I don't know where to start, because I have never talked about it. Never admitted it. Never acknowledged it."
"Why not?" I ask gently.
"Because I'm not sure I have the right to," she says. "Domestic abuse – it is such an ominous, insidious title. It conjures up images of battered wives with black eyes, their husbands bombed out of their brains on crack dragging their partners around by the hair."
Well yes – that was exactly where my imagination had gone. And I am not going to lie, I was struggling to reconcile this mental picture with my strong, intelligent, educated, friend sitting across from me.
"That is the black and white version of domestic abuse, its clear-cut," she says.
I still look confused.
"As a society this is the type of abuse that outrages us, it's in your face, it's indisputable. It's like the Stephanie Scotts, Jill Meaghers and Rosie Battys. These acts of violence towards women are shocking and unimaginable."
Too right it is. No confusion there.
Jo continues, "I am not Stephanie or Jill or Rosie. The type of abuse I suffered was grey. It wasn't cut and dried like physical acts of violence. So I have never known what to call it, or what category it falls into, or even if it was abuse at all."
There are categories?
"Rosie Batty's messages keep coming at me, from the newspaper, from the television, from my laptop. She's everywhere. She says things like 'violent relationships aren't limited to black eyes', 'abuse can be psychological, emotional and verbal', 'abusers confine you, bring you down, and insult you'. And I keep thinking…that was me."
I am a little stunned.
"But I feel like if I say my relationship was abusive then it is minimising or disrespecting the women who have the bruises and horror to match. So I've never said anything – to anyone. I've hinted, but I've never had the guts to call my relationship what it was."
"Jo," I say quietly. "That's what the interview with Rosie Batty was about… it's why she created the iMatter app."
"I know," says Jo.
"Do you want to look at the iMatter app together?" I ask.
She nods.
I open up my phone and download the app. While I am waiting I gather some essential resources, a pack of Tim Tams from the emergency stash, a box of tissues and a bottle of wine.
We have moved on from tea.
I settle myself on the couch again. The app has downloaded. There are some handy quizzes to help start conversations around domestic abuse.
"You ready?" I ask.
"As I'll ever be," she replies.
"Were you able to disagree with your partner and have your own opinions?" I ask.
"Yes, but there were consequences."
"I remember one particular topic we couldn't see eye to eye on. Our children were little, I was working part-time and he was working long hours. I was exhausted and felt like I couldn't keep up with the house duties, so I asked if we could get a cleaning lady to come once a fortnight for a few hours."
"He was appalled, his mother hadn't needed a cleaning lady – so neither should I."
"Eventually I made the decision I really needed help, so I went ahead and arranged for a cleaning lady to come. He never stopped me, but it became one of his favourite ways to belittle me. He enjoyed reminding me – often – that I was so lazy and useless I needed a 'maid'."
"We have been separated for a long time now and recently got into an argument over an issue regarding one of the children. When the argument wasn't going his way he trotted out the old chestnut, '…and this coming from a woman who needs a maid.' And sure enough – all the old feelings of self loathing came rushing back."
"Did you get accused of cheating?"
"I remember an occasion when I had been on a rare girls weekend away. When I returned I excitedly recounted my weekend and mentioned we met lots of interesting people, including a couple of larrikin blokes."
"He asked me point-blank if I had slept up with any of these men. Even though I was horrified by the question, I answered honestly. I had chatted with a few of the blokes and enjoyed their company – but that was it. He launched into one of his rages, calling me a dirty slut and a whore. Apparently I didn't have to sleep with someone to be a cheater."
"For a long time after this event he would tell people I cheated on him. The most baffling part is, I genuinely think he convinced himself I cheated. Because if I was a cheater – then I guess I deserved his treatment."
"Did you get shown equal respect and appreciation from your partner?"
"He was the breadwinner. My role was to support him and raise the children. He didn't actually say this in words, but it was communicated in actions."
"I remember one occasion when he had been working particularly long hours. If he didn't eat properly his moods were worse, so I baked a batch of chocolate muffins. It was a nice day so I loaded the kids into the pram and walked to his work. When we arrived our toddler was over-excited to see his dad and went bowling into his workplace, squealing and waving his arms around like a lunatic. As I handed over the muffins he hissed to me 'get the f@#k out and don't ever bring the kids here'."
"Did you always feel safe?"
"When an argument escalated he was a very intimidating man. He is a big guy and would use his physical size to his advantage. I don't mean by belting me – he never actually hit me. However there were plenty of occasions I feared he would."
"During many of our fights I would feel the need to get away. I once tried to barricade myself in the bedroom. I sat down on the floor with my back against the door and jammed my feet up against the opposite wall. It was an awkward position given I was heavily pregnant. In the process of forcing open the door he pinned me up against the wall with such force I was sure my ribs would break. I was screaming that he was going to hurt the baby, but in these moments he was hearing nothing."
"On another occasion we were in the bedroom and he had a pillow in his hands. During our conversation he became very frustrated and whacked me with the pillow. The blow winded me considerably."
"I remember another occasion trying to get away from him. I ran outside and curled up in a ball on the back lawn. At the time I was crying and begging to be left alone. He followed me into the back yard, stood over me and repeatedly told me to get up you stupid bitch."
"Did you need to ask for your partner's permission to do things?"
"Yes, but in a subtle way. He didn't say I couldn't do things, but he would make it difficult. In his eyes, his work came first, and I was expected to share this view. Therefore, when I wanted to be involved in things it was only possible if it fitted with his schedule."
"At one stage of the relationship we decided to attended counselling. One of the things he agreed to in the sessions was to be at home for an hour each evening to help me bath the kids and allow me to go for a walk. For a week or two after every counselling session he would stick to the agreement, but it was only ever a matter of time before I was back on my own. It's hard to explain – but sometimes I felt trapped in my own home."
"Did you make excuses for your partner's bad behaviour?"
"Always. I blamed myself. Because that's what low self-esteem does to you."
"Were you happy with the relationship and hopeful for the future?"
"At times, yes. When things were good, they were really good. But when things were bad, they were really bad. I think I knew deep down I couldn't stay in this kind of relationship forever. As much as I wanted it to work for the children's sake, by the end I was a broken person."
Jo has finished answering all the questions in her calm, no-nonsense manner.
She is composed and dignified.
I, on the other hand, have emptied the contents of the tissue box.
After a while I ask, "Why do you call this grey? This seems very black and white to me."
She answers, "I just gave you my version of events. There are always two sides to every story. I was not a fine, upstanding version of myself during this time, in fact, I barely recognised myself."
"Go on," I urge.
"The abuse can go both ways – which is why it is so toxic. There were times I would pick a fight with him, knowing how it would end. I would use bad language and yell and bring up topics that I knew would upset him. Some days I would be craving any kind of interaction with him, even if it was horrible – it was better than nothing."
"So why do you think women stay silent about this type of abuse?" I ask her.
"Because we carry some of the responsibility. We think that if we are a better partner, lover or mother – then it will stop. But also because much of this type of abuse occurs in everyday homes – respected men and women with respected jobs. It happens to people like you and me, and probably more of our friends than we care to think about."
She looks at me with a thoughtful expression, "Ultimately – I think we stay silent to preserve our dignity and protect our children."
"I still can't believe this happened to YOU," I say, shaking my head.
"You are probably not going to understand this Leese, but it might have been easier to admit to my situation if he had hit me. Then I would have been able to give it a name. His behaviour would have been inexcusable and it would have been clear in my mind that I was living with abuse, rather than all the shades of grey."
"But you eventually got out?" I ask, searching for the positives.
"Yes," she says, "but in the end I got out because I hated myself, not because I hated him."
Since that day on the couch Jo and I have discussed the idea of sharing her story many times. In the beginning we were apprehensive, it was never going to be an easy thing to do. But in the end the motivation came when we thought about our daughters, sisters and mothers.
Because this is what we both now understand….the violence we see towards women on TV and read about in the papers is the tip of the iceberg. It is absolutely undisputed that this type of abuse is hideous and outrageous. But almost more frightening, is the thought of what lies beneath.
Exactly how big is this iceberg?
We fear there is a staggering number of women out there in 'grey', unhealthy relationships. Like Jo, they may not feel like they have the right to think of their relationship as abusive, or perhaps they don't recognise the signs.
A shocking 22% of girls under 20 have experienced dating violence. More worryingly, many of these young women misinterpret the abusive behaviour (such as excessive jealousy and controlling tendencies) as signs of affection. If educated, worldly women like Jo struggle to label a relationship as "abusive" simply because they are not beaten black and blue, how can we expect our young women to?
It is our job to educate the next generation. They need to know the early signs of abuse and that these often escalate to more life-threatening forms of violence. Rosie Batty's message is clear:
'Violence is a continuum – it starts subtly and then escalates. It will always get worse without intervention.'
I want my daughters to know, I want your daughters to know, that Jo's story is one of abuse. Bruises and broken bones are not the only indicators. If you feel like you are in a relationship that is unhealthy, unsafe or disrespectful – get out.
Because grey is not ok.
As a society we cannot change the way we view domestic abuse unless we talk about it. So let's talk…please comment on, discuss or share this post here or over at the Facebook page.
Leese x
If you or someone you care about is experiencing family violence please call the Safe Steps 24/7 response line on 1800 015 188.
Apr92015 Jul 5 2017
The upside of co-parenting
I don't miss my kids when they are gone.
Really. I don't.
It is school holidays right now – this means we have an empty blended nest. The three eldest are at their other homes. For two of them, this means they are gone for the entire holidays.
When I separated from my ex-husband it wasn't practical for the kids to spend more than every other weekend with him during the school term. Therefore, over the school holidays we reverse our arrangement – the kids stay with him the majority of the time and come home to us for special events (trips, holidays, birthdays etc).
This means over the christmas break my children are at their dad's full-time for about five weeks and visit us every second weekend.
I feel privileged to have my children live with me the majority of the time. But I also recognise it is critical for them to spend extended blocks of time with their dad (over and above every second weekend visits) to build a deep, meaningful relationship.
So when I am asked if I miss my children when they are away, the answer is…
Gasp!
I know. It would be more socially acceptable for me to lay about crying the whole time they are gone, to declare I miss them every second of every day, to say I can't wait for them to come home.
The truth of the matter is, I am comfortable knowing they are with someone who loves them as I do. I am secure in the knowledge they are being loved and cared for. Maybe it's not the exact way I would do it – bed times are negotiable and soft drink is on the menu – but they are safe and cherished.
School holidays are a time for me to slow down. They are sacred. I try to read a book or two, enjoy a glass of wine in the evening, catch up on my BAS statements (wait, that one's no fun) and spend quality time with my hubby and three-year old.
It doesn't mean I love my kids any less.
Some of us mums find it difficult to separate from our kids, we try to hold on to every extra minute we can – each of which denies a father one less minute. This worries me, because it may be an indicator that a mother's self esteem and self-worth are too closely connected to a child needing them.
I am certain no mother means for this to happen, or even wants things to be this way, but it is an unfortunate and all too common symptom of loss, separation and divorce.
Regardless of the cause, it is too much for a small person to be responsible for their parents' happiness, to be the sole reason a parent gets out of bed in the morning.
We have a choice to view co-parenting as a positive or negative scenario. Yes there are negatives (like less time with your child), but there are also wonderful upsides.
So if you are one of the millions of us sharing a child's life – pour a wine, open a good book, go see a friend, find something you love to do. Because co-parenting is a wonderful opportunity to take the time to be you.
Just you.
No guilt required.
Even though it may not be the way we imagined raising our kids, it is what it is. Make the most of the time you have with your kids – but don't forget to make the most of the time you have without them.
Besides, it's not like we left the kids tied to a tree somewhere so we can flit around drinking wine & reading books – right?
(Disclaimer – if you did leave your kid tied to a tree to enjoy a moments peace, I won't tell anyone!).
I always love feedback – leave a comment or come chat on the Facebook page. If you would like to read more about co-parenting check out If you can't be good at marriage, be awesome at divorce; 8 rules for happy divorced kids.
Love people not things, the story of a reindeer poop snow globe
It is 2am Christmas Eve and I am woken from a deep sleep by the overpowering smell of burning plastic. It takes a few seconds for my brain to clear before I give my snoring husband a shove and shout,
"STEVE, I THINK THE REINDEER IS ON FIRE!"
I leap out of bed and make for the door. As I skid sideways out of the hallway into the kitchen I take in the smoke billowing from my oven and a blue haze hovering above the kitchen bench.
Yep, there is no doubting it – the reindeer is a goner.
This was not a good start.
This was supposed to be our first Christmas embracing simpler, more meaningful traditions.
But there is nothing simple or meaningful about a char-grilled reindeer. Only an overpowering burnt rubber smell.
But we best back track.
You see, as a family we had begun to question the consumer focus that had slowly, but surely, hi-jacked our Christmas. I couldn't pinpoint when Christmas had become more about acquiring stuff rather than being grateful for what we already had. But the mad dash to the shopping mall Christmas Eve was a dead give away.
My siblings and I also acknowledged that if we really wanted or needed extra stuff in our lives (a new watch, perfume, dust-buster, spanner set…) we lived a privileged enough existence to go and get it. Then and there. When we want it.
So a few years ago it was agreed the focus of our Christmas gift giving should change.
We had already been doing Kris Kringle (KK) for a few years. It worked well, so we retained this part of the tradition – and changed the rest.
From that point on, gifts had to be handmade, personal and inexpensive.
Doesn't this sound lovely?
A word of warning – it is much MUCH easier to go to a shop and buy stuff.
So back to that first Christmas Eve. My hubby will tell you he is not particularly creative. The closer it got to Christmas the higher his gift anxiety became. To make matters worse, he had drawn my sister-in-law in the KK. She has the brains of a doctor and creativity of Martha Stewart. The pressure was intense.
It was the day before Christmas and he still hadn't come up with a gift idea. We were doing some last-minute shopping when he spied a DIY snow globe kit. It came with all materials required – including plasticine to sculpt a masterpiece to display in the snow globe.
He had found his get out of jail free card. I could see the relief on his face.
So, it was midnight, Christmas eve, the gifts were wrapped, the food prepared, and my big, manly husband was sitting at the dining table rolling pink plasticine between his fingers, over and over and over again.
"What are you going to make?" I ask, trying to hurry the process up.
"Shhhh," he says, "I'm thinking."
I wait, longing for my bed.
"I've got it!" he exclaims. "I'll make a reindeer!"
"Good for you," I tell him, all the while thinking….I'd like to see that.
About fifteen minutes later the man proved me wrong. He nailed that reindeer. It was the cutest looking pink plasticine reindeer I've ever seen.
He proudly inspected his masterpiece and placed it on a baking tray. The instructions said to bake it at 250 degrees for 20 minutes or until it becomes hard. He popped it in the oven and suggested we lay down for a few minutes to wait for it to cook.
You know where this story is going don't you?
So there I am, staring at my smoke-filled kitchen, when Steve strides across the room, yanks open the oven, removes the oven tray, opens the back door and flings his reindeer (tray and all) into the middle of the driveway.
"F@#K the reindeer," he says, and slams the door.
He then goes back to bed.
The next morning, as the first rays of dawn were stretching over our paddocks, I snuck out to the driveway and rescued the reindeer (and my oven tray). However, it no longer looked like a reindeer. It looked like a shriveled up huge black dog poop.
As the guests began to arrive I reminded my hubby that our sister-in-law is not only intelligent and creative, she also has a wicked sense of humor, maybe she would see the funny side of the dog poop snow globe?
He looked at me doubtfully. But given he was out of options he wrapped up the snow globe and sat it under the tree.
My sister-in-laws response?
Well, lets just say the char-grilled reindeer has gone down in history.
We recently helped my brother and sister-in-law move and she still had the hideously ugly thing sitting on her dresser. The dog poop snow globe is often fondly reminisced about at family events and never fails to deliver a belly laugh.
We all claim we hate the homemade present. The grumbling about whom you have drawn or what you are going to make starts about June. If you get an early start on your homemade present it elevates you to a superior status that allows you to send all sorts of obscene text messages to your siblings announcing your greatness.
The competition is fierce. Last year one of my sisters-in-law super-glued her hand to the dining table. There have also been allegations of cheating, cleverly rebadged as 'outsourcing' by my husband.
To date we have had homemade chook lifters, robber stoppers, ginger bread house replicas (to scale mind you), rum balls as big as your head, animated cartoons, and of course – dog poop snow globes, to name a few.
As you can see, some of my family members can rely on their humor to pull out a good homemade pressie. I'm not that funny. So I have to resort to time-consuming constructions of thoughtfulness – like this floor cushion made out of my brother's favorite old T-shirts and other memorabilia.
The truth is, the homemade gift has become the not-to-miss Christmas event. Adults and kids alike crowd around to laugh and point at the epic fails and ooh and ah at the masterpieces.
The moral of my story is – we have reclaimed Christmas. But more importantly, our kids have also eagerly embraced the idea. For the past two years my children and their cousins have chosen to do their own homemade KK – with some, er, um, interesting results!
The shift away from giving stuff has worked so well we have applied it to birthdays and other special occasions. We have found a great way to do this is to invest in experiences rather than stuff.
For example, I have just returned from spending the weekend in Melbourne with my eldest son. His passion is music, so his birthday present was tickets to see Ed Sheeran and a night in the city.
I have had the most memorable few days with my son – ever. I took him on a tram for the first time, dined at a beautiful water front restaurant and after the concert we walked home along south bank under the twinkling fairy lights. It was a magical experience (although 'epic' was the 12 year-old term used). But it would never have occurred had we have given him stuff (like the requested iPad).
Last Christmas, my brother and his fiancé gave my kids a 'parent-free' weekend and trip to the zoo. For my dad's birthday, the kids organised him a 'Booken style' gold class cinema evening where they played his favorite movie and waited on him with his favorite foods. In May I am taking my nieces and nephews to see the musical Lion King – it is their Christmas present.
All of these experiences are moments in time we will never forget. They are about us being together. They are about us experiencing new things.
They are about giving the ultimate gift – our time.
So I will leave you with this thought…
If a reindeer snow globe resembling a burnt dog poop is one of the most memorable Christmas gifts I have ever known….do we really need all the stuff in our lives?
PS If you enjoyed this post you might like to have a read of Five lessons everyone should learn from my pop. Oh, and don't forget to leave a comment or come chat over on the Facebook page.
Mar242015 Jul 4 2017
A single parent salute
My three-year old didn't sleep last night.
This in itself is no big deal – after all, it's a rare occurrence and the poor thing has a nasty head cold. But for me, that place in the dead of the night – when there is no light, no sound, only your brain whispering you can't do this – is when all the fear comes rushing back.
Today, my sleep deprived self wants to pay tribute to single parents everywhere. I have glimpsed your world. I think you are truly remarkable – each and every one of you.
My first baby slept. He was one of those textbook kids; he slept through from eight weeks and was a healthy, thriving baby. Don't get me wrong, there were a few rough nights – but all in all, I had this parenting thing in the bag.
Thirteen months later my world turned on its head. I gave birth to baby number two, a beautiful little girl. The first six weeks were lovely, and then suddenly she developed a respiratory problem associated with severe reflux.
The next twelve months of my life are a black hole. I can't tell you specific events from this period, because they are gone. Maybe this is a survival mechanism, or maybe my brain wasn't functioning at full capacity.
My baby girl slept in roughly half hour cycles (once you could get her to sleep). She would become distressed in the horizontal position, so I slept much of this period upright in an armchair with her cradled into my shoulder.
I did everything you are not supposed to do.
Sometimes, after I had checked everything I could think of (was she warm, hungry, comfortable, tired, over-tired, wet?) I would hold her to my chest, put my head phones on and turn the music up loud enough to block out the crying.
We had a mechanical baby rocker that had a sticker on the side which read: Do not leave child in rocker for in excess of 10 minutes. Sometimes, at about 3am, she would settle in the rocker – I think the upright position and gentle swaying brought her some comfort. There were nights I would strap her in and curl my body around the rocker, so that if for some crazy reason she fell out, she would land on me. And I would tell myself, I will just rest my eyes…just for ten minutes.
Some nights she would settle as the first rays of sun would reach over the horizon. This was also the same time my one-year-old would wake up ready to take on the world. If the baby was finally asleep, I would set up his toys beside my bed and pray he might play for half an hour whilst I lay on the bed.
To the outside world all seemed rosey – but I was barely functioning.
I have always been a dreamer, a person to shoot for the stars, but during that time – all I wanted to do was lie down.
I now know why they use sleep deprivation as a torture mechanism.
Because I felt tortured.
Somewhere during the black hole I booked myself an appointment with my GP. I turned up looking like hell. I had put on 15 kilos (this is a very large number for someone with my tiny frame), my hair was unwashed and my eyes were bloodshot. In his gentle concerned voice he asked me what was wrong.
"I think I have post-natal depression," I said.
He did his due diligence and checked me over. After a thorough assessment he said to me, "Leese, you don't have post-natal depression, you have exhaustion."
Oh. I could have told him that.
He proceeded to tell me, "If you can't get someone to have the kids for two nights, I will put you in hospital and you will have no choice but to sleep."
Right there was my problem.
Because for the first time in my whole life – I was alone.
By now my marriage had broken down and my rock solid support network, my family, was MIA.
I grew up with the sort of family you can depend on, no matter what. They are forever my safety net. But at this particular point in time we had almost lost my Dad to Pancreatitis and he was in intensive care in the city. Mum needed to be with him. My brothers, usually my next port of call, were both traveling.
Dad meets my baby girl for the first time
So it was up to me.
For the first time I had to stand on my own two feet, with no crutch in sight.
I was angry.
I was sad.
But mostly, I was so freakin' tired.
I have an Auto Immune Disease called Ankylosing Spondylitis (AS). Some people carry the gene their whole lives and the disease never kicks in. I have learned it is often a period of high stress that activates the disease. It is no surprise then that the symptoms of my AS started to show up at this time (although it was another eight years before I received an official diagnosis).
This disease makes your joints swell, inhibits your mobility and in general, makes you feel like you went five rounds with Mike Tyson the night before. This disease was breaking me down.
So what got me through?
It was the small things that saved me.
There were some beautiful girls that lived in my small town that would walk with me. They would take turns pushing a pram and I would push the other, so as not to put too much stress on my sore joints.
These walks were my therapy.
During this time I would go to my Auntie's to put on a load of washing because I couldn't afford a new washing machine yet. It wasn't uncommon for her to turn up at my house a few hours later with it all washed, dried and folded.
And I would almost cry with gratitude.
My life had become about surviving each day.
Some days I would focus on a time of a day that I knew was better – like early afternoon – and I would count the hours.
Some days I would cope by staying in my pyjamas all day and eating nothing but toast (um – that probably explains the 15 kilos).
Ten years ago – just getting through the day (I think that is mashed banana on my knee!)
But it was the nights – it was the nights that nearly did me in.
So last night, at 3am, when my three-year-old (the fourth and last child!) woke me up for the tenth time, I had to remind myself I am no longer that person. Because on the other side of the bed was a man who got up as many times as I did – even though he had to go to work at 4am.
For the rest of my life I know that he will be home at the end of the day to help out. I know, even though I am tired and sore today, it is short term. I know, it will not go on for weeks, months or even years.
I am so grateful to have the opportunity to do this over. To know what it is like to to raise a child as part of a team. Partly because of the joy, but partly because when I look back now and compare this experience to my single parent years, I can safely say – there is no comparison.
I had every reason to feel like I was drowning during those years – because I was.
So I want to say to the people out there doing small things (or big things!) to support a single parent. Keep doing them. Please. Because you have no idea how much difference you make.
But more importantly, to all you single parents out there – forget football stars and pop princesses – you are the true champions.
As always I would love you to comment or come join the conversation over on the Facebook page. If you enjoyed this post, you might like How Kid Number Four Changed Everything or How I Went From Contentedly Divorced to Happily Married 🙂
Feb152015 Apr 10 2015
What happens when you keep your unlikely new years resolution
I started this blog on January 2. It was the result of a new years resolution.
I have a list – it's called 20 Things. It's a bit like a bucket list. I was inspired to write my list after I read the super cool blog 100 Things. A bloke called Sebastian Terry has dropped everything to wander around the world ticking off 100 things on his bucket list.
I probably don't have the luxury of leaving Steve and the kids and taking off around the world to complete my list. But there is nothing stopping me slowly working my way through the 20 items.
I have ticked off a few. I completed my post-grad in Education. I have visited a fortune-teller. And now I have started my blog.
Here is the thing though. I didn't really think anyone else would want to read about the inner ramblings of an exhausted mother of four. But it turns out – a few people do, and I can't tell you how surprised, happy and humbled I feel about that.
So it turns out I have outgrown my initial blogging website in the first two months. I have now (after much swearing and yelling at my computer) upgraded to WordPress – this should keep me going for the long haul. Thanks also to Angie Makes for my cool new theme.
Check out my new site at www.bookenblend.com.au. Please advise me of all spelling mistakes and general stuff ups – because I did most of the work late at night buzzed on chai tea (I'm a rebel I know).
As always – thanks for reading and come join the conversation on Facebook.
Me in less than 150 characters? Optimist. Sustainability enthusiast. Accidental blended family boffin (thanks to many years of epic fails). Wine appreciator. Country girl. Easily excitable. I knew I could't keep it to 150 characters.
Where we hang out
The Booken Tribe
Boots, Leese, Bodhi, Charlee, Xan and Jedda.
Most raved about posts
Designing and building our off-grid home
From farmhouse to green house
If you can't be good at marriage, be awesome at divorce
The things I ramble about