Having heard . . .

Surprisingly, we've had a few emails from her -- she's arrived safely, she's lost her journal (what? I spent hours on that, gluing in her itinerary on separate days, writing little notes from home, writing out addresses etc), she's bought a lot of DVDs. Silly girl. I told her not to buy anything until she's back from her two treks. Now she'll have to carry them!

We're all missing her -- even Sir Talkalot, which is the greatest surprise. I knew I'd miss her. I expected it. The Gadget Man's been reduced to rumblings about where she is, and consulting her itinerary every five minutes. All right, all right, that's an exaggeration! But he looks at the map at least twice every day.

We had her Opa's birthday, and put out a photo of her to represent the missing one -- because that's the one thing she said she was sorry to be missing. My, the bond those two share -- it's touching, but will be scary the day something happens to him. She's so devoted to him -- always has been. I still remember when she did have that febrile convulsion, and woke from unconsciousness crying, not "Mum, Mum", but "Opa, Opa". Yes, that made me feel really good! Made him pretty happy though.

And so we go on with our relatively uneventful lives, which seem that little bit less chaotic than usual, but quieter, more melancholic, and not at all living vicariously through all that she is doing. (Only because we don't exactly know!)

Good morning, Vietnam!

She's gone. After all that planning and all that scrimping and saving to get the funds together, after the school's concern that she's not punctual enough, and all the medical clearances (because of her scoliosis, her ADD, her allergy to bandaids, the fact that she had a febrile convulsion at age two, and one other thing that I can't currently remember) we've had to get, she's finally gone.

She stood in the car park, loaded up with pack and daypack, and I don't know who was more nervous: her or me. But I didn't let her know that I had anything but the utmost faith in her going on this journey. My mother said that she wouldn't have let me go at PS's age. And she's not very mature for her age -- but then neither was I. I did a lot of growing up on my travels (but then I was 24!).

This expedition will try her, and there will be times when, no doubt, she will be lonely, homesick, and wishing she had never gone. But there will be times that will exhilarate her. Times that will challenge her and make her grow. Times when she has never felt more alive.

Am I nervous about her going? You bet -- and if anything goes wrong then I'll never forgive myself. But neither would I forgive myself if I held her back. Two days I gave her the most precious gift a mother can ever give: I gave her the world.

Our day in the mountains

Here's a typical day in our chaotic life:

(i) Drive Princess Sleepyhead to choir rehearsals for a concert she's not going to attend because she's going to be overseas. The drive is 3/4 hour each way, and we should, of course, for good measure take a wrong turn and not have the Melways with us!

(ii) Many hours later, pick PS up from the rehearsal and cajole her into going on a trek up in the mountains (even though it's late) as training for her real trek that's happening in far too short a time.

(iii) When we (all four of us) arrive at the mountain, have PS refuse to go on the walk.

(iv) Let The Gadget Man and Sir Talkalot go, but before driving to the top to meet them (because it is, by this time, very late), decide it is silly for us to sit in the car for an hour or so when the whole purpose of the exercise is for PS to do it.

(v) Send PS up after them to tell them to come back.

(vi) Find a car park (no mean feat) and sit at the bottom for half an hour, and realise that PS isn't coming back.

(vii) Presume she must've caught them up and been convinced to go on, so drive up to the top, and find the boys already there (even though The Gadget Man has said it's a 1 1/2 hr walk up).

(viii) Ask where PS is and realise, with horror, that they haven't seen her.

(ix) Find out there are two separate tracks up, so let the boys take one each down, and meanwhile drive back down to the bottom and find another car park.

(x) Find within five minutes of arriving that TGM, on the steep path, has run all the way down. No sign of PS.

(xi) Start worrying in earnest. But not panicking yet. She might still be on the main path. She must be, right?

(xii) Realise there is a third track going off sideways. Let TGM, who grew up in the area, take that.

(xiii) Wait. No PS. No Sir Talkalot.

(xiv) Finally, spot PS coming from behind me and find she'd gone up partway, couldn't find them so decided to come back. Then she couldn't see the car and was cross with me because I hadn't waited, but noticed a whole chain of car parks, so went off investigating those, in case I was in one.

(xv) Wait for the boys.

(xvi) See ST arrive, and then realise his hand is streaming blood. He'd been coming down with his hand on the railing, and there was a protruding twig that went through the webbing between his thumb and hand.

(xvii) Wait for TGM.

(xviii) When TGM finally arrives, call in briefly at his dad's and clean up ST's hand.

(xix) Drive an hour to our local hospital, so they can glue his hand up and tell him he's not to stretch it for a week. He has a piano exam next Saturday, which he isn't ready for, and the doctor absolutely forbids him from practising, so now I'll have to let the teacher know.

Just another typical day in the suburbs really.