From the backyard orange tree to the mighty river. The evolution of the family picnic.

April 16, 2013

I can’t remember going on a picnic as a kid. It’s not something we did.

In fact, I don’t think I knew anyone who went on one. It may have been that my circle of friends were all smelly boys.

Dad was the driving force behind our anti-picnic stance. I don’t think fancy outdoor dining was something they taught him during the war.

I can’t recall Mum ever making the suggestion. Lunch was had at the kitchen table. Sandwiches, except for Sunday. Then we’d wolf down a roast, before starting a game of footy or cricket outside.

The closest thing we got to a picnic, was what took place under our backyard orange tree.

It was anything but spectacular, that tree. Not that big, and a pain if you were fielding at mid-off. Still, it had character.

It was where Dad liked to gather, when the neighbours came over. The wooden chairs were old and uncomfortable. Sometimes covered in grime. No-one ever complained.

The adults would have a beer. Mum would sip a shandy. Or two. And the stories would come thick and fast.

There would be food on offer. Sao biscuits and Coon cheese, if memory serves me correct. And the odd packet of chips. Hardly gourmet fare.

The reason I bring up this rambling episode from my past, is that I went on a picnic over the weekend.

It’s another one of those things I didn’t get, for many years. And now I do. I’m a picnic-convert.

Living by the river, I see picnic spots every day. Mental notes are made, as I go for a walk. There are so many of them. Huts, and benches, and seats. All with magic views.

Those enjoying their feast as I wander past must get a little nervous, as I eye them off. I see mothers cover the bread rolls, just to be sure.

I’ve established I prefer seated areas to the grassy ones. Easier on the back. Less chance of ant bite. Yes, I’ve done my homework.

The girls don’t quite share my enthusiasm. When I announced that we were off for a Sunday picnic, I detected rolling of the eyes. Such an activity required movement, and an interruption to phone usage, which neither had been planning.

There was also the matter of having to walk. All of a few hundred metres. Daughter Two is a big fan of driving everywhere we go. If she thought I could squeeze the car in the lift to get down to the pool, she’d be in the front seat.

After ignoring all protests, we set off, with our plastic bags full of goodies. Hot chook, bread rolls, lettuce, tomatoes, mayo, drinks, biscuits, and grapes. The plastic plates and cups were in another bag.

I’d been hoping we could get into a little hut with amazing views down the river. I see it most mornings, and had always thought it would be perfect for us.

We were in luck. It was empty. I celebrated. The girls pointed out that the bench was dirty. Sigh.

As we munched our tucker, the girls came around. Hard not to enjoy such surrounds. Even if it meant missing out on Disney Channel for an hour.

We were joined by a large frilled-necked lizard. Another joy of that magnificent river. He almost sat on the bench with us. Passers-by took photos. He ate a stray grape. The girls thought that was cool.

We’ll return to our new spot soon. I might even go all out and buy one of those fancy picnic baskets. At least they won’t be able to complain about carrying bags.

It’s not quite the old orange tree, but it’s ours. I reckon Mum would approve. Not sure about Dad though. Although he’d be happy with that dirty bench.

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Why it was more than just a win. The Mighty Mare shuts up the narks and the haters.

April 14, 2013

It’s not often you get surprised by racing people.

Salt of the earth, most of them. The older ones have pretty much seen everything.

Sure things beaten. Camels that sprout wings. Jockeys finding fast lanes, and zip-tight pockets, all on the same day.

It takes plenty to get their attention. Even more to get them excited. And that’s what happened yesterday.

I saw something I’ve never seen, in forty years of loving the racing game. It was at a pub. Not one of your fancy inner-city places. This was an old school establishment, with blokes who still eat white bread, and wouldn’t be able to name a fancy imported brew in a skinny bottle.

Like everyone else, they gathered around screens just after 5, to watch Her in action. The usual rowdy conversations stopped. All eyes were on the Number 9, in the black and salmon.

As the race unfolded, there was none of the usual boisterous barracking. It was almost a respectful silence. Until the Mighty Mare hit the front.

They cheered. Someone yelled ‘Go Girl’. Ok, that may have been me. And then, something I’ll never forget.

This crowd in stretched t-shirts and well-worn thongs, started clapping. Loud, sustained applause, in a suburban pub. They love Black Caviar so much, this mob, they couldn’t help themselves. And it was perfect.

It’s what the critics don’t get. What this champion racehorse has done to a nation.

She has reached far beyond the punters. People from all walks of life are talking about racing. They’re watching tv, and reading sports pages, to find out what’s she’s up to.

Families are going to the races to watch her. Thousands of them. Stands that have been empty for years, are packed again.

The narks choose to ignore all this. These small minded nobodies want to find fault. They want to criticise her owners, and her trainer. And it’s a disgrace.

Peter Moody is at the forefront of dragging the industry off the floor. At a time when the gambling dollar is under threat like never before, he’s become the public face of everything that’s exciting about racing.

He shares her, like a proud father shows off his favourite baby photos. Does interviews with good grace and great humour. Makes us feel like we’re on the journey with him. Which of course, we are.

Forget the rubbish you hear about her beating inferior fields. It’s utter crap. Trainers have been dodging the Mighty Mare for years now. Because they know they can’t get anywhere near her.

She demolishes anything game enough to challenge her. Believe me, there hasn’t been a horse sitting at home in a stall, that could have changed a result that she’s been part of.

They don’t hand out Group Ones. She’s won fifteen of them. Mostly untouched.

But that’s not the most telling factor in this wonderful story. Winning races is only the start of it.

She’s become part of the family. Our kids will tell their kids about a horse that could fly. Everyone will have a story, about the day they saw Black Caviar. And amazingly, the great majority will have never won a dollar on her.

She’s so good, most of us don’t need to back her. And those that do outlay something, keep the ticket to put in the pool room.

We’ll never see another like her. And we’ll never see a greater example of what really makes people go to the races.

Nothing beats seeing a champion in action. Just be thankful that those around her want to take us along for the ride. That deserves another round of applause.

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Great lessons in using public transport. If only I could find a timetable..

April 9, 2013

I stood on the platform, doing a fair impersonation of someone with absolutely no idea.

You wouldn’t think catching a bus would be too difficult. I’m told lots of people do it every day.

They know where they’re going. They have studied timetables. Possibly with the help of an academic.

I had made no such preparations. Foolishly, I decided it would be a simple task. Men don’t need timetables. Everyone knows that.

What I didn’t realise, was that a bus travels through my local busway about every four seconds. Each with a different number.

Of course, I had no idea what number I was looking for, to get me to my destination. There were no timetables on any of the walls. Staff members are no longer employed to help dumbos like me.

At this rate, I would not get to enjoy the cool drinks on offer a few suburbs away until around midnight. And that wasn’t an option.

I decided that the only thing I could do, was to stop one of the buses whizzing past me. Surely a kind driver would point me in the right direction.

It will come as no surprise to you, that I chose the wrong driver. This fellow was obviously at the end of a long shift. Or he was just a prize nark.

The fact that he had been delayed by a confused passenger annoyed him greatly. He told me this, loudly. Explained that he wasn’t going my way. Hadn’t I seen his number?

I advised that his number meant nothing to me. This enraged him further. By this time, bored passengers were uploading our colourful conversation onto YouTube.

He eventually sped off, leaving me alone again on the platform. About now, I was reflecting on what a great decision it was to decide against catching a cab.

Help finally came, in the form of a mother struggling with a pram and four small children. Her keen eye detected a big kid in strife.

She showed me the App on her phone, that came up with the timetable I’d been looking all over for. The elusive bus number, that was nowhere to be seen at the actual bus station, had been in her phone all along.

I thanked her, and waited for the 111. As it turned out, it got me close to my destination. But not quite there. This meant I walked up a large hill, cursing the bus system all the way.

When I made it to the pub, late and sweating, my friends managed to have a giggle at my misfortune. It was around then, as they made fun of me, that I noticed the purple bus.

It was driving past us every fifteen minutes. Like clockwork. And stopping just metres away. After all that, I didn’t need to know a number. Just a colour.

I’ve now established that the purple bus can get me to my second favourite hotel on any given day or night. And get me home.

For all I know, there may be a fleet of coloured buses criss-crossing the city right now. I don’t need to know where they’re going. I’ve found my bus. And I still don’t have a timetable. Just how men like it.

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Why Shaun Dwyer deserves to win a Golden Slipper.

April 6, 2013

If he’d been wearing a cap, the trainer would have looked like a limo driver.

Shaun Dwyer was standing beside his car at Toowoomba airport, with door open. He was there to pick up a journo. Someone he’d never met. Or heard of.

Still, he welcomed me as if I was an old friend. He talked freely on the way to the stables. There was a warmth, often found with those who ply their trade away from the bright lights.

I was doing a story about a small trainer going up against a giant of the game. Shaun V Gai. The first lady of racing had the favourites in the Magic Millions. The bloke from the Darling Downs had an outsider.

We had a cuppa, and he told me a bit about his background. Learning from the likes of Bart and TJ. Little things. A lifetime, getting better at his craft.

He showed me his pride and joy. Regimental Gal. She looked a million bucks. While we were there, the trainer never took his eyes off her.

On the ride back to the airport, Shaun told me he thought she could win. He didn’t say it in a boastful way. More matter-of-fact. He’d done everything he could, and she was ready.

On race day, she did exactly that. Won like a good thing. He was swamped in the ring post-race. But still found time to thank me, for my support. A bloke he’d met once. Who’d done one story on him.

I’ve been thinking about that encounter, in the lead up to today’s Golden Slipper. The similarities are striking.

Shaun now operates out of Bendigo. Still keeping out of the city. He’s up against Gai again. Of course, she has the heavily backed favourite.

He’s been putting all his efforts into one horse. Villa Verde. I’ve never been to Bendigo, but I’d bet my last on the trainer only having eyes for one horse in that stable.

Everyone has dropped off, after Overreach did a job on her last start. Barrier 17 won’t help either. And Gai’s horse does look a star in the making.

But there’ll be no better prepared starter this afternoon than Shaun’s grey. Trust me, she’ll look a million bucks.

I’m going to have something on her. Slippers are funny races. The first 200 metres can be like herding cats. I’m hoping that she can avoid any trouble inside, and get the cash.

If she wins, keep an eye on Shaun after the race. He’ll thank everyone who’s had anything to do with her. And a few others who haven’t.

There would be no more deserving Slipper winner. I’m hoping Shaun Dwyer gets to ride in someone else’s limo tonight.

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The art of singing to babies. How much damage could a Kenny Rogers song do?

April 2, 2013

The thing with babies is that they’re so small.

You forget, when you haven’t held one for a while. A decade qualifies.

The girls and I paid a visit to a great mate’s bub last weekend. A 5 week old bundle of cuteness.

They were impressed with how easily he went into my arms. It’s something a Dad never forgets.

All these years on, and the little bloke slipped straight into position. Cradled into my forearm. Tiny head safely tucked away.

He looked up at me, with blue eyes that looked years older. What was he thinking?

I suggested to the assembled gathering it may have been something about the large, rough melon above him. I noted there was no serious disagreement.

At 5 weeks, there’s not a great deal to think about. Sleep, milk and poop pretty much does it.

The girls were amused to hear his mum describe an emerging wind habit. My mate tells me he is approaching Olympic class for flatulence. The bub, not him.

It’s always fun to see new parents in action. Absolute love and devotion. There is no concern about a lack of sleep at present, because it’s still fun. We’ll check back in 4 years. My money will be on a different answer.

It took me back to when the girls were tiny fart machines. I could have said that differently, but this one line will be enough to embarrass them for days.

Daughter Two was a sound sleeper as a baby. Still is. It was rare that we needed to attend to her during the night.

The Teenager was a different proposition. She would wake, constantly. There were tummy issues, and she found it difficult to sleep for more than a few hours.

I frequently volunteered to bring peace back into the household. My answer was to sing to her.

I would bundle her into my arms, and head downstairs. Gentle rocking and soothing tunes.

I would start with a bit of Eagles. Those smooth sounds were often enough to get her back to slumberland. ‘Take It Easy.’ ‘New Kid In Town.’ Then ‘Hotel California.’

Hushed tones, of course. Just enough to relax both of us. Doing laps of the rumpus room.

From there, I’d move into a little Creedence. ‘Proud Mary’ or ‘Have You Ever Seen The Rain?’ Joe Cocker would play a role with ‘You Are So Beautiful.’ The most fitting of songs for her.

It’s hard to imagine that anyone could be having a whinge after exposure to such a collection. But if the mini version of The Teenager was still grumbling, I’d bring out the big guns.

Kenny Rogers has been putting people to sleep for years. And I mean that in the nicest possible way.

He starred in all our late night singalongs. Meaning he was perfect to get a baby snoozing again.

First up would by ‘Coward Of The County’. Then, one of the all time greats. ‘Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love To Town.’

“You painted up your lips and rolled and curled your tinted hair. Ruby are you contemplating going out somewhere? The shadow on the wall tells me the sun is going down. Oh Ruby, don’t take your love to town.”

She would be drowsy by now. You probably are too. Perfect timing for the highlight of my midnight whispering performance. ‘The Gambler’.  And by the end of the great man’s anthem, she would be asleep.

You might laugh at such antics, but Dads are nothing if not inventive. You won’t find my methods in any reputable baby book. That might be why they worked.

My mate has cool modern technology to fix such problems, so he probably won’t need my song sheet. That’s ok.

The Teenager still won’t go to sleep. But now it’s because of friends and phones, not farts and food. Not even the great Kenny has an answer to that.

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Every owner’s worst nightmare. Our horse is as slow as a wet week.

March 30, 2013

As racehorse owners, we have a list of excuses.

Actually, make that a folder. Or a large book. A shelf full of them.

As I have said on these pages before, we are eternal optimists. Better days are always just around the bend.

On the darkest days, when we tail off, a furlong behind the second last horse, there is still light.

This is because we pay money to experience these joyful times. Cash, to experience crushing lows. So there has to be a reason.

Track too hard. Track too soft. Poor ride. Ride was too clever. Track bias. Goat track. Needs more distance. Can’t get the distance. Missed a crucial workout. Worked too hard. Lost a plate. Dropped the whip. Too hot. Too cold. Get the picture?

Our horse has been something of a riddle. Beautifully bred, he promised so much.

But there were problems. He was struck down by colic as a youngster. Had to have surgery. We ignored all the well-read scribblings, that they never come back the same.

He went shin sore. Twice. Lengthy stints in the paddock. Came back, and struck wet tracks. Did I mention he can’t run in the wet? And by that I mean, he is barely able to lift his wonderfully conformed legs, if there is so much as a spit on the ground.

It goes without saying that all but one of his starts have been on wet tracks. Hopeless. Guess how he went on a good surface? The most exciting win I’ve been involved with.

And there is our dilemma. He showed us something that day. Enough to make us think that we had a special one. All we needed was a dry track, and the race clubs would be lining up to woo us, ala the Mighty Mare.

That was the thinking, up until last weekend. A run so bad I find it hard to re-visit.

He jumped in front. Was placed to perfection by Ryan Wiggins. We hit the straight, and looked every inch the winner. Until, our bloke stopped as if shot, by a sniper in the stand wearing gumboots.

We ran last. Passed by horses that will do nothing in their uneventful careers.

Finally, there were no excuses. Nothing more could be said. He wasn’t a star after all.

He’s on his way to a new trainer now. No hard feelings there. We have no idea what the future holds. We don’t even know what state he’ll be running slowly in.

There could be a miracle around the corner, but I doubt it. We own a slow horse.

That lumps us in with the great majority of racehorse owners. We all dream of owning Black Caviar. But the reality is, we don’t. We own horses that struggle.

A new chapter awaits. We love this game so much, we’ll keep plugging away. Maybe with a new excuse or two. I just hope that sniper doesn’t find out where we’ve gone.

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And on the Seventh Day, someone decided we’d have race meetings..

March 23, 2013

I’m old enough to remember when we didn’t race on a Sunday.

Some of you will find that hard to believe. No races anywhere. Nothing.

Horses would stay at home. Trainers and jockeys would do other things. Like go to church. Or the pub. Or they’d go to church, and then the pub.

I can remember Mum and Dad sitting at the kitchen table on a Sunday morning, going over the Saturday results. There’d usually be a hard-luck story somewhere. But never the chance to have another bet.

I have a fair idea how they would have reacted to Sunday racing. The old man would have shook his head. Bloody madness, he’d mutter. Mum would be working out where she could have a sneaky double.

It’s all so different now. We’re in action every day. Sometimes night and day. I’m torn about whether that’s a good thing.

I know plenty of industry participants who hate Sunday racing. Trainers who don’t get a day off. Jockeys who have to travel hours, for a few more rides. If they don’t go, they risk losing favour with the boss.

I know where they’re coming from. Few other sports compete every single day. Maybe with the exception of darts. And they’re allowed refreshments.

Another part of me enjoys the Sunday action. It lacks the intensity of a busy Saturday. A few late flutters over a cool drink can be fun.

I’m frequently drawn to the action in the West. Late in the day, listening to an old-time band at my favourite pub.

Of course, we can go further afield with ease. They’ll be going their hardest in Hong Kong and Singapore. I can hear Dad muttering again.

It’s all about revenue. The more meetings, the more turnover, the more cash coming back. And it doesn’t matter how much anyone complains, it won’t be changing anytime soon.

We have our bloke running around tomorrow, an hour away from the city. Of course, that means it will rain tonight, and the track will be a bog. Regular readers will understand.

I won’t be there. Too bloody hard to get organised late on a Sunday arvo. I’ll be in that pub instead, with some country classics being belted out. I’ll find a screen, and cheer the house down if we can turn things around.

So here’s the deal. If we win, I’ll be a great supporter of Sunday racing. If we get rolled once more, the industry needs to have a long hard look at itself. Yep, Dad is shaking his head again.

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Going through life, hand in hand with my girls. As long as no-one is looking.

March 19, 2013

Daughter Two has had enough of hand-holding.

There’s been no official edict. No declaration. It’s just not cool.

Her hand is no longer available. She’ll show affection in her own, 12-year-old way. Usually via a quick hug.

She has gone down the same path as The Teenager. Although it must be said, the older sister was less definite about it all. She would forget sometimes, and grab Dad’s hand. Until she remembered that it’s not the done thing.

Daughter Two was one of the great hand-holders. Her tiny hand would be in mine wherever we went.

It’s one of the special things about being a Dad. Trying to make those around you feel safe. Little girls know all is fine in the world, when Dad is clutched close by.

From parks to shopping centres, and everywhere in between. Crossing the road. On the way to school, and on the way home. ‘Hold my hand Daddy.’ Music to a father’s ears.

We were at the movies on the weekend. Just the two of us. Another thing I love about being a Dad. To giggle through a flick, munching on too much popcorn and slurping iceless coke, is indeed a treat.

On the way to the cinema, I made a grab for those delicate fingers. I knew what the result would be. But I did it anyway. That’s another special thing about being a Dad. The ability to annoy.

She pulled her hand away, and laughed. We were both in on the joke. I pointed out that it used to be the other way around. That she used to grab MY hand. Another laugh.

‘Dad, I was, like, 6. All little kids do that. I’m older now.’ And so she is.

I explained to her that there is a cycle in this hand-holding business. Sure, a ban was in place right now. But things would change.

She would again want the same feeling of comfort that little girl had, a few years back. During boyfriend problems. And marriage. When she had her own children. Our hands would be back together. As far as lower-level carpark speeches go, it was a pretty good one.

She laughed again. ‘First of all, I don’t have a boyfriend. And I’m not getting married. I’m DEFINITELY not having kids.’

So there.

Deep down, she knows I’m right. It’s just that when you’re going on 13, an admission that a parent might know something about growing up is forbidden.

We had great fun in our movie. Sharing the same drink, demolishing the popcorn, and guessing the plot early.

As we walked back to the car, I put my arm around her. Briefly, and in part, to protect her from traffic. Old habits die hard.

She shrugged it off after a few seconds. With a laugh. Just long enough to say how much we mean to each other.

One of the tricks about being a Dad, is keeping up. Something that was fun yesterday, can be lame today. And then fun again. It’s all about listening. And getting instructions off their Facebook page.

I’ll keep trying the hand grab every now and then, just to annoy her. I don’t care how old they get. A Dad still has to have some fun.

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The never-ending search for apprentices with old heads on young shoulders.

March 16, 2013

We all have to start out somewhere. And make some mistakes along the way.

Michael Clarke lost his off stump more than once as a kid.

Billy Slater didn’t break every tackle. Believe it or not, he wasn’t always the first picked in those early teams.

Someone had to teach Dawn Fraser to swim. Way back, when someone encouraged her to do another lap.

In racing, the stars of the future begin as apprentices. It’s anything but glamorous.

Few other sports have their best young prospects start work at 3am. Not many footy young guns deal with buckets of animal poo throughout their working day.

Apprentices will muck out stables, and ride as many horses as they can. Gruelling hours, for little return.

The lucky ones will get a few mounts for a leading stable. Most of their winnings will be kept from them, until their apprenticeship is complete.

Can you imagine the next Broncos superstar having his cash withheld for the first years of his contract? You’d hear the whingeing from your back yard.

There’s no reserve grade for young jockeys. They’re out there for all to see. Risking their lives, just like the seniors. At the mercy of punters like us, complaining through our pockets.

More than once, I’ve been guided by the old punting adage. Take off 3 kilos for an apprentice, then add 4 kilos for an apprentice. Harsh, but often true.

Some are outstanding, from the first time they jump on. Dig out a video of Darren Beadman winning the Golden Slipper as an apprentice in 1984. Or Wayne Harris when he kicked off. Class, with pimples and a mullet. Hugh Bowman too. Was always destined for greatness.

Look hard today, and you’ll see some amazing talent. I might be biased, but I don’t see any better than young Tegan Harrison in Brisbane. She gets horses to win for her. Soft hands. Great balance. Wonderful judgement.

Watch her in action this afternoon. She gives them every chance, every time. Tegan is a worker. That old story. The harder you work, the luckier you get.

I saw her win at Doomben last weekend, in a driving finish. Cost me the cash. Even so, it was mighty impressive. She’s riding beyond her years.

Not every kid gets it right. Some get sick of the hours. And the crap. From animals and humans.

Others get caught in the lifestyle. Too many parties makes it mighty difficult to start work before dawn.

They will fall by the wayside. End up doing something much easier. While the chosen few ride their way into greatness, and riches.

An apprentice rode our horse during the week. He was a visitor from interstate, and I didn’t know him from Adam.

To say he butchered our bloke would be an insult to those who wear white aprons and cut up rumps. We cornered around 12 wide. He was so close to the cars he almost got charged for parking.

It didn’t cost us the race, but it sure didn’t help. Would Beadman or Bowman have been out there? I doubt it.

That’s the thing with apprentices. They have to learn the trade. Even if it costs us along the way.

Clarkey ended up Australian skipper. Billy is an Origin hero. And Dawn? Well, she went alright too.

I hope we’ll be singing Tegan’s praises in twenty years time. And plenty of other kids starting out now too. Just one tip. Stay away from the bloody outside fence.

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Smile, Dad, and bite your tongue. Daughters who want to be the life of the party.

March 12, 2013

It’s party time. Every weekend, it seems. Day and night. And anywhere in between.

The girls have hit the fun stage of their young lives. The Teenager has been leading the way. Daughter Two is keen to make up for lost time.

Parties are springing up like post-monsoon weeds. Both ladies seem to be firmly on the major invite lists.

As difficult as it is for me to set aside the terror that such activity brings all Dads, I must admit that I’m happy for them. They’re finding new friends, and celebrating their youth.

Think hard, and you’ll remember doing the same thing. The excitement of a group invite, to the biggest bash in town.

There’s nothing like getting your best buds together for a kick-arse party. But with impeccable behavior, of course. We never know who might be reading.

There are a few things that seem to be different these days. One relates to attire.

It would seem that a rule was introduced recently, that forbids young women from wearing the same outfit to consecutive functions. New clothes are essential.

I hear this constantly. Forget looking into that bulging cupboard. The latest top and skirt combo is an absolute must.

The reaction to denial in such situations, borders on hysterical. It’s like they’re being deprived of oxygen.

I remember no such urgency as a young man. In the words of the great J. Cash, I would find my ‘cleanest dirty shirt’. The pile on the floor to choose from was large.

There was nothing else to wear but the favourite pair of jeans, and we were away. Not complicated, or expensive.

The other great difference I notice today is that the sexes seem to have no trouble talking to each other. The interaction appears to be very natural.

I get to see photos of the girls having fun, plastered over numerous social media sites. There is usually a muscle-bound young man lurking nearby. With a flashy smile. An easy manner. And a clean shirt.

Back in the day, it took us years to work up the courage to talk to the opposite sex. When we did, it was typical male gibber, usually related to how we fared at footy earlier that day. Looking back, it’s a miracle that any girl uttered a kind word in our direction before the age of 20.

Returning back to the world of extended credit cards, things will only get worse, of course. I’m ready for what’s ahead. So I tell myself.

As long as the girls are happy and safe, then I’ll be fine. Until the next batch of photos. It’s going to be a long decade.

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