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Gritty Grannies

Gritty Grannies

Epigenetics and Me There was a time, long before I was a mother, when I believed I had been handed the hardiness that comes with generations of struggle. From the whole new-Australian settler thing, back to Ireland and its conflicts and famines. I felt it every time I ate a potato. And I believed that it came from my grandmothers. Last week, I read a Facebook post on family history and its effect...

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ena-me, ena-ma

ena-me, ena-ma

On Aussie Mothers’ Day ~ for my anonymous, compassionate, and thereafter regular, daughter. [For ‘the record’ (whatever that is), she was three.] You, looking at me with such horror. Me, trying my best to seem in control. Your Dad drops his jaw in bewilderment.  I return your look with equal mortification. Yes, I did have to stick that harsh little torpedo up your butt. I took...

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