Beating Around the Bush

A column with Cathy Stubbs

Vision v Reality

I have often found in life that the anticipation of an event holds more pleasure than the event itself.

Our annual camping holiday by the beach, for example, always seems like such a fabulous idea until we actually get there, and have to erect the tent in a torrential downpour or a howling southerly gale.

Despite many years of evidence to the contrary, in our dreams of that camping holiday, wind and rain never appear. In the months before, all we can think of is warm, balmy days of frolicking on the golden sand with a calm blue ocean as a back drop.

We conveniently forget sunburn, bickering children and attacks by swarms of sand flies and mozzies. The nights of unspeakable torture trying to sleep on a camp stretcher are blotted out by a holiday vision which has little basis in reality.

What about childbirth! Was there ever an occasion when the vision was so far from the reality?

My original vision of childbirth included a few hours of discomfort during which I would maintain my composure, think happy thoughts, produce a dear little baby and go home with it as though nothing had changed.

This was a far cry from the reality where the pain finally caused me to go completely hysterical, where all my thoughts were of obtaining drugs, and where the resulting baby saw to it that civilised life as we had known it ended there and then.

I remember a weekend in my childhood where my parents decided to take us to Canberra for a day of sight seeing.

My only recollection is of my parent’s vision of a nice day out being shattered when one of my brothers managed to plunge two metres over a ledge into Lake Burley Griffin.

We formed a human chain of siblings in order to haul the wet and freezing brother from the murky depths of the lake, and discovered that while the lake looked quite charming, the smell of someone who had fallen into it was far from it.

Naturally, nobody had allowed for such a catastrophe, and there were no spare clothes. The stinking brother was ordered to the back of the stationwagon, the windows were opened, and with a chorus of complaints about the odour, we turned around and went home again.

And so it was, when a friend and I decided to take the children on an idyllic bushwalk last weekend. A warm sunny day, eager children, a spot of rock climbing. What could be better?

And indeed, all did seem to be going rather well until the three older children scaled a cliff, and against my better judgement, they convinced us to follow them.

My friend and I helped the youngest child to the top and were rewarded with a lovely view of the valley below. It was then of course, that I realised that getting up was one thing, but getting back down again was going to be quite another.

While the gravity of the situation slowly sunk in for the responsible adults, the stupid children decided that then was a good time to begin a game of tips right on the cliff edge. As my vision of a pleasant walk in the bush slowly faded out of sight, I did the only thing left to me, and that was to freak out.

With my heart in my mouth, I was forced to relive the Burley Griffin episode and do the human chain thing again. One by one we lowered the children back down the cliff to safety.

By this time I was almost speechless with anxiety, and made a silent vow.

I swear, next time I get such an idea, I shall drive into the parking area, point out the bush from the safety of the car, and then return home before anything goes wrong!

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