Attack of the breakfast bunnies

Next week we're going to an activity at church called "Who do you think you are?". Well obviously I know who I am, but imagine my surprise when the organisers asked me to talk about myself. My immediate thought was "I'm the most boring person imaginable. Who on earth would listen to me spouting off about my life?" The organiser disagreed with me and insisted I do the assignment. Yikes. With photographs! How would I describe myself in one word or a short sentence? How would my parents and family describe me in one word? My mother said I had verbal diarrhea. My husband called me assertive. My teachers called me a dreamer and I have been called lazy at times. I looked at my own children and thought about how I would describe each of them. Creative, kind, clever, resourceful? None of them are the same. And I hope that none of them would say that they were nobody. No one important. What an absolute crock of kangaroo doo. Everyone is special no matter their abilities. I thought I was defective for so many years because I never had a best friend when others around me had best buds they could tell their secrets to. My mother said not to worry, as the only true friends you could trust with your deepest darkest secrets were your sister. And for my mother, that was true. Auntie Kay was the person she felt the most authentic with. I was 'chatting' to one of my sisters last week and yes, I can certainly take off my 'good manners' filter when I speak to her and she wouldn't take offense. We were considering gate crashing Jeff Bezos's wedding in Italy and both of us decided that we would not fit in amongst all the surgically enhanced bodies and fake tans. Yes, we talk of silly things that showcase our mental ages of teenagers or mentally challenged adults with boring lives. Sorry, my life is boring, my sister, not so much.

I met an 85 year old lady last week who had never, and I mean never, read a book in her life. She was recuperating from a fall and wasn't allowed to play games on her phone and as a last resort, she picked up a book. And the book she chose was one by Bryce Courtney. Yes, he was born in Johannesburg (1933) and died in Canberra, Australia in 2012. Anyhow, she asked if I had ever heard of him, and did I read at all. Yup, I nearly guffawed myself silly but remembered my manners and my kindness filter just in time. She had been told all her life that reading was for lazy people who had dirty homes and habits. Well golly gosh, and here I am reading two to three books a week. I told you some folks call me lazy. When my kids were little I would place my reading of the moment next to the pot of food I was cooking and read paragraphs between chopping vegetables or stirring stuff. My children saw me reading almost every day of their childhoods. Often in the car while I waited for games to finish being played or children to appear out of school time. Maybe not 2 to 3 books a week when I had four little children around, but certainly a book a week was the norm. And yet there are people who have asked me not to post my 'blog' to them once a month because it requires them to read and why can't I just phone if I have something important to say. Well actually, none of this is important stuff, it just helps me with my anxiety issues and the feeling of being connected. I might not have best friends, but I do have mates that I like to keep in touch with. On that same day as I chatted to the older lady, I met a woman who had wrapped her car around a fencepost when trying to avoid a cow. She had been travelling at speed on backcountry roads when an inconvenient cow had wandered in her path. It was an interesting day for weird conversations with people I do not know and might never meet again. 

Did you hear about Napoleon and the bunnies? Alexandre Berthier (Napoleon's chief of staff) organised a rabbit hunt for some soldiers and Napoleon's entourage. Berthier owned a park in the middle of Paris and it was here that the hunt was to take place. Breakfast was served and then crates of over 1000 rabbits were brought in and released. The bunnies ran all over the park while Napoleon and his mates started shooting at them. Then the bunnies united and stormed the people with guns. They climbed up the legs of the men and Napoleon and swarmed in a frenzy. They flanked them and attacked from all sides. Napoleon raced to his carriage, but the bunnies were relentless and climbed in with him. Napoleon had recently promoted Berthier to Prince of Neuchatel, and I do wonder if he regretted the promotion after losing the battle of the bunnies. What Berthier did not realise was the bunnies were domesticated rabbits and they considered the humans as dispensers of sustenance and not things to avoid at all cost. Berthier managed to beat back the bunnies with the help of the coachmen and their whips but Bunnies United were not to be defeated and renewed their attack on the breakfast guests. Do you know who I feel most sad for? Not Napoleon or Berthier or even the coachmen with their whips snapping like firecrackers over the rabbit hoard. No, I feel sorry for the bunnies. They were expecting to snack on the grass and the flowers and maybe meet up with like minded bunnies for a bit of adult fun. And instead they were harassed and hounded and finally, no doubt, ended up in the stewing pots of all and sundry. 

So who do you think I am? Weaver of silly stories, doodler of drawings, listener of the weird and wonderful or brave warrior of motherhood and wife of exceptional abilities? Or was my mother right and I do have verbal diarrhea?