Abigail's Graduation

"To Dr. Abigail Carter ..."

Samuel beams proudly as he holds up his champagne glass. The others in the room, which includes many relatives and many of my dearest friends, to the same. We are celebrating an important day. This afternoon, after many years of hard work, I graduated from university with a PhD in English Literature. To be honest I'm surprised at the number of people who took the time to be at the after-party that Samuel has thrown in my honour. Ursula and Richard are here, along with Gavin and Kate. In another corner stands cousin Wayne with his wife Marta and beside them is my best friend Carmel with her wife, Chloe. Billy is here, along with Bazza and Cheryl from next door and our friends Darren and Glad. Shannon holds the hand of Jason McAllister and keeps turning ad staring at my dad, as if she can't believe that a major celebrity is standing in my living room. Every is here, even my very young daughters who sit in identical (but for the colour coding) capsules beside me. 

Even a year ago, I never would have dreamed that such a situation would be possible. 

After the toast, there are many words of congratulations and lots of cooing over some very lovely little girls who everyone adores (myself included, though I wasn't quite so happy with them at four o'clock this morning). My Dad can't quite seem to get his head around the fact that he's a grandpa. "What's the problem?" I offer him a smile. "The media has been saying you look like a grandpa on stage for years."

"Yeah, but who cares what the media says ... You're as old as you feel."

"And having a daughter with a PhD and daughters of her own makes you feel old right?"

"Yeah Abby, but in a good way ..." Dad chuckles, as if letting me know that everything is all right. "Anyway, I heard from your Auntie Julie's lawyer the other day."

"And?"

"She could be out by Christmas." Dad beams. "It's about time Abigail. Fifteen years, she's been inside. That's long enough to pay for a moment of insanity. Especially when you consider the circumstances."

Mmm, perhaps. "But just don't tell her that, whatever you do." Dad lowers his voice. "I wouldn't like her to get to excited."

I'd like to ask my dad more on the subject, but I'm interrupted by Glad who wants to congratulate me on the PhD.  Funny how she's not so jealous these days. I guess that might have something to do with the new job we lined up for her ... she's the receptionist at the Adelaide branch of my Dad's record company. "What are you going to do now?" She asks.

"I've picked up a small amount of teaching work at the university, but I suspect my hands might be full for the next little while." I stare down at my daughters. Little Charlotte is getting restless, as if ... Well let's just say that Mum has to leave her own party for a moment. I return a moment later, with a slightly cleaner and drier child in my arms.

I find Billy sitting on the lounge. It was good of him to come, considering all that he has been through over the past few months. I haven't blogged about it much, but  it was a massive blow when Olive left him and an even bigger one when he discovered that he was not Baby Billy's biological father after all. (Incidentally, Baby Billy is now known as William and the name of his biological father - John Smith, better known as Bulldog - now appears on the certificate.) "Thanks for being here," I tell Billy.

"No worries." He shrugs. "I didn't have anything else to do. And ... it's not like she's here."

Olive now lives in Melbourne, along with Bulldog and William. They are both would have loved to come, and Olive is looking forward to meeting her nieces, but they're having too many financial worries at the moment, or something like it. Never mind. Olive will be back when she wants something, I'm sure.

But the best news is Shelby followed her Melbourne. Good riddance.  

With baby Charlotte still in my arms, I keep walking through the room. Carmel is by the bookcase, talking to Samuel who is holding Emily. Carmel gasps as I walk toward her. "Wow ... they really are identical. How on earth do you tell them apart?"

I giggle. "We have ways ... Charlotte has a little mole on her cheek. Emily has a birthmark on her foot."

"Oh," Carmel nods. We both watch as Ursula walks toward us. "And Anne," I continue, staring at my other daughter, "Has more hair than her sisters."

"Red hair." Ursula sighs. "Identical red haired triplets. What on earth were the odds?"

"Sounds like the sort of stunt that only Abigail could pull." Carmel lets out a laugh. She turns to Samuel. "How on earth are you going to put up with three more rangas in the house."

"God only knows." Samuel offers me a smile. "Then again, after everything Abigail has put me through over the years, I'd say I've had some solid training."

"You'll need it."

"Gee." I let out a sigh. "Thanks."

Caesar Salad Blues

Who would have thought you could burn a caesar salad? Then again, why should I complain. I'm too fat and tired these days to complain.

Thank God my thesis is over and done with. Right now I barely have the energy to type ...

Dinners

Samuel is being a gentleman and has taken over with most of the cooking. Actually, Samuel is being a gentleman and taking over most of the housework. (Well, all the things that we don't employ someone to do.) With only a few weeks to go until our precious little daughters arrive, I'm finding it harder to move around. (Which is a polite way to say that I'm sore, bloated, covered in stretch marks and utterly bloody exhausted. To think of all the years I wanted to get pregnant and then I end up ...)

Samuel's cooking has never been great, but I appreciate all of the effort he has gone to in these past few months. He even made a bed for us downstairs, so that I don't have to keep walking up and down the stairs. (Which is really, really thoughtful of him.) 

Due Dates

Thesis complete and submitted. Now for the next important due date ...

Visits and Lunch

Visited Auntie Julie at the women's prison today. Seeing as the weather was so nice (first time I'd seen the sun all week, yay!) I had lunch in Moseley Square. Which, naturally, after encoutering several, ants, flies and a pack of teenage girls in bikini tops and track pants who kept batting their eyelids at someone called Skylar and would take the Lord's name in vain every time they saw someone or something that didn't quite fit in with their idea of normality, reminded me exactly what it was that I preferred to eat lunch at home. "Oh. My. God. Did you see that?"

"Jesus Christ! I'd never own a scooter like that."

"He must be like, gay."

"He is a she."

"Oh my god!"

"It's a she who looks like a man."

"I wonder if she has a beard?"

"Bet she's a lezzo."

Riveting stuff. Not. I finish my lunch and waddle away, ignoring comments of, "Hey is she pregnant or what ..."

Thesis

Edit, edit, edit, edit, must keep working on thesis ... babies due soon, PhD due sooner ... 

Irish Stew

Wow. I don't think that I've been this embarrassed since the time that a pair of tourist tried to crack onto me in Moseley Square and Samuel ended up teaching them several new words that weren't inside their phrase books. The source of my latest embarrassment comes in the humble form of a pot of Irish stew. I thought that it would be a nice idea to cook a little something for my friends Darren and Glad, as Darren hasn't been doing so well lately - he's been very sick and poor Glad has just about worn herself out looking after him. Also, it has been a few weeks since Darren got sick and most of their friends have more or less dropped off now. It's funny - when Darren first came home from the hospital practically everyone who had known him was around there, offering get well cards, casseroles and anything else that might make his and Glad's lives a little bit easier. Now that it's obvious that Darren's illness is an ongoing thing, most of their friends aren't quite so enthusiastic to help out. So anyway, I thought that I was doing a really nice thing by remembering them and taking a little pot of Irish stew around. Pity I didn't check first that Glad was a vegetarian.

"Of course, it was a lovely thought Abigail." Glad offers me a condescending smile as she forces the pot back into my hands. "I mean, since Darren is sick and all, I've completely forgotten how to cook."

"I just thought it would make things easier." Feeling a little awkward, I stare down at the pot. Bloody hell. I'd even brought my very second best casserole dish, the one that my mother-in-law gave me as an engagement present. It cost over three hundred dollars and came air freight from Paris. Or so she tells me at every possible opportunity. (Oh, who am I kidding. I hate that casserole dish. In fact, I'd been secretly hoping that Darren or Glad might break it, or at the very least forget to return it.)

"Well, perhaps you could find some other unfortunates who might like your charity." Glad more or less pushes me toward the door. "There might be someone out there who enjoys your pity. I don't."

What a bitch. I'm half tempted to tell Glad that I hope she starves to death and that it's no wonder that she can't find anyone to help her seeing as she is just going to be rude to them, but I bite my tongue. After all, that might upset Darren and he hasn't done anything wrong. Plus I don't want him to get stressed or any sicker. It was horrible enough just being there when he had his initial heart trouble and calling the ambulance.

"Did I hear something about Irish Stew? Hello Abigail."

Darren walks inside the room. I watch as he takes the pot from my hands and places it on the counter. "Careful with that," Glad's voice echoes through their tiny flat. "The doctor said not to lift anything heavy. And you have to be careful to avoid saturated fats. Irish strew is practically all fat. Ugh." Glad pulls a face.

"How are you Abigail?" Darren turns to me. "Got time for a cup of tea?"

"Mmm," I murmur, "I'm not sure ..."

"Wonderful!" Darren claps his hands together. "We'll all head to the kitchen for a cuppa. How are you anyway Abigail? How's Samuel?"

"Working as usual." From the corner of my eye I watch as Glad flashes me a dirty look. Wow. She really doesn't want me to be here.

"Pass on our regards. You heard from your mum recently?"

"Of course not." I roll my eyes.

"Glad doesn't hear much from her mum either." Darren nods as Glad switches the kettle on. "The two of you have more in common than you think."

"Shut up Darren." Glad slams a mug down on the counter. 

"Just saying." Darren looks a little sheepish as he sits down at the table.

"Maybe I should go." I walk toward the door. The last thing I want is to cause an argument between Darren and Glad. "Thanks for the offer of a cup of tea but ..."

"You don't want to hear me and Darren have a domestic." Glad rolls her eyes. "Because, of course Abigail, people in your perfect little world don't have domestics. I bet you and Samuel never fight."

Glad obviously doesn't read my blog. "My life isn't perfect," I tell Glad.

"No." Glad rolls her eyes. "You've just got your big house and PhD, and your rich adoring husband. And that's not mentioning the rock star dad."

And Cedric. Glad had completely forgotten about Cedric. "What would you know about my life?" I asked Glad. "And what makes you think you're qualified to judge me. And why is it that every time I try and do something nice, you throw it back in my face."

"You're a bitch." Glad's eyes narrow.

"You're a bitch." I pick up my handbag. "See you later Darren, enjoy the Irish Stew."

"He's not eating any." Glad's voice follows me out of the flat. "Why don't you just take it back? Here."

And it is just then, as I am walking out the door, that an entire pot of Irish stew comes flying through the air and lands all over my new, cashmere sweater. Gee, thanks Glad.