May my love reach you all

This is my new favourite photo of Boy Z. I think it just personifies him. In motion. Hair flying (Enjoy that hair, little one. Male pattern baldness is hereditary). A cheeky crooked smile. A little bit feral. It’s just essence of Boy Z.

It has been kind of a lost weekend. Not like those that were frequent in my 20’s – days of memories lost to booze, drugs and the trappings that went along with them. No, lost in the sense of time that is irretrievable. Lost to a combination of driving rain, a dodgy tooth, a croupy kid and the subtle malaise that accompanies the beginning of winter.

I don’t mean to imply that it was a bad weekend. Weekends are never bad. Time with Dr. O’C and Boy Z and Not Max is never bad. Trying? Sometimes. Challenging? Often. Stressful? Usually. But also filled with laughter and the serenity of a good life. This weekend, however, a rapidly festering abcess sent me into a haze of self-pity and analgesia. A haze that made much beyond a basic level of function impossible for your underwhelming narrator and a fair bit of Friday evening was spent supine on the couch emitting soft moans.

Then the rain came and put the kibosh on our planned football outing. And then Boy Z started barking like a seal, which meant a Saturday planted in front of various kids movies on autorepeat. Boy Z wheezing and croaking and me whinging and moaning.

And then the lights went out.

A power outage, a minor occurrence to adults, is a source of much excitement and consternation to little boys, one of whom has a mild fear of the dark. “Where are the lights?” “Turn the lights on, Bubba!” “When the tricity coming back, Bubba?”

But we settled into that rustic groove that a blackout inevitably brings – reading books by candlelight, bumping into various bits of furniture and relying heavily on my battery powered iPod dock for dancing in the dark. But strangely, not to Springsteen.

And to put the final brushstrokes on the whole Laura Ingalls Wilder scene, the after-hours doctor turned up for a house call. He checked Boy Z by candlelight and declared him croupy. Of course he spoke with a strong Persian accent rather than a Minnesotan and trotted off in a Holden rather than on horseback and then the lights blazed back to life and with it 21st century Australia.

But there are a hell of a lot of worse places to be than 21st century Australia. And a lost weekend in 21st century Australia with these particular 21st century Australians isn’t ever really lost.

This post is all over the place and I don’t have much to say, really. I just wanted to point you to my monthly post at The Greenists. And show off some pictures from a weekend past. One that wasn’t lost.