I am a little ‘faith confused’
We live opposite the synagogue and adjacent to St John’s Anglican church.
Grandfather on my father's side was likely Jewish, our children are Catholic and according to all the children's school records, I am Greek Orthodox, hence the black hair.
Perhaps I could self-describe as faith unorthodox.
Two of our children were conceived on what I have fondly re-branded as Bad Friday.
One was conceived in a VW, the other on a Japanese futon. In hindsight, these acts were both somewhat sneaky, unintended and also ironic homages to our victory over the Japanese and Germans in WWII. But I digress.
Both Bad Friday kids are Capricorns and their beautiful temperaments vindicate my choice of sex before Mass.
Any chance of sex this most recent bad Friday, or in fact the past two (bad) Fridays has been nailed by the stunning poor performances of my husband’s team... the Sydney Swans. First they lost to the Western Bulldoggies and then, merde! they went and lost to Collingwood the following Friday.
This week, I had half a chance because they played West Coast on Thursday. I tipped the other bird.
While my Bad Friday habit had its origins at Easter, Friday has been infamous most of my adult life.
What is Friday without fish and chips, footy and that other f-word, especially if your team wins?
And so it has always been, and even better if my team (Carlton, Collingwood and/or Richmond) beats his team, the Swannies. Yes, I'm also footy-confused.
Friday has been infamous most of my adult life ...
It is no coincidence, then, that one of our family's favourite UK comedies features a befuddled family that could be us?
Friday Night Dinner, is about the Goodmans; with a Jewish mum (Tamsin Grieg), dad (Mark Ritter) and their two sons. It’s chaotic and it's our family's go-to-watch when we're all home together.
It calms us to see ourselves depicted to parodying perfection, almost down to our naked naughtiness.
Singlet-clad husband, always ‘boiling’, hides stashes of his fave foods safely from his prying, Masterchef-loving, noisy wife.
Our kids recognise us (and them), and after almost 10 years we don't grow weary of its chaotic depiction of family life.
I love to reminisce about the days when I, the faith-confused mum, dad and three kids would walk down the hill to The Apostles to celebrate Easter Sunday Mass. ‘Mum has risen’, they’d chide.
Brother Paul was a Sydney Swans supporter and when Barry Nas played the church organ, the Collingwood song could be heard as we wiggled and giggled, waiting for Father Chris Hope’s arrival.
In those days the Easter turkey would be left roasting. For at least three years I managed to escape Mass early, before communion and any baptisms, claiming ‘important’ kitchen duties.
That was terrific, until the kids got wise and blocked my early exit by putting me firmly at the window end of the pew, unable to escape.
Easter wine of choice was always a Morris durif (sparkling shiraz) which went down a treat when we ate our hot roast lunch outside in the clean, crisp autumn sun.
Today, I will have been the Easter bunny and husband will have stumbled his way across a carpet I covered in chocolate eggs. We will drink a quiet durif and fall asleep during the footy.
Note to self: Am I the only mum who still posts Easter eggs to adult children interstate?