Zesty Mumma's Words

A life lived without passion is a life half lived

Archive for the tag “children”

Hard Work isn’t a dirty word, it’s a Necessity For Success

Yesterday I had to prepare a submission for a business owner. She was asked to speak about what she felt were the key elements of her success . I know this person very well and am one a small group who have seen how hard she has worked to achieve success.

Below is the list I prepared for this submission.

*          Vision  – You need to see where you are going to be able to make a choice of which path to take.

*          Passion – Loving what you do is vital cause it is going to get hard sometimes and only love will keep you going.

*          Respect – For your customers, Staff and suppliers cause you’re not alone on this journey.

*          Innovation – to be the best at what you do you have to be a leader not a follower. Striving to be ahead of the pack gets you noticed.

*          Tenacity – Last on this list but it may be the most important.  There are days when you will be barely hanging by the skin of you  teeth. You will need all the will you can muster just to lift your head off the pillow some morning’s. Tenacity is vital cause you’ll have to fight tooth and nail to make a go of it.

There have been times when I have honestly wondered how she survived but no matter what or how she was feeling she just kept going.

Which brings me to my point. Up until recently there has a trend that goes something like this. “tell a child they can be anything they want to be and the they will succeed.”


What about working hard, Is it a dirty word?

Success ALMOST never just happens. I am not just talking about your working life either, hard work is needed in every facet of your life.

No One Told Me it Was Going to Be Like This

We all have them and a lot of us are them. What am I talking about, I’m talking about Parents. For most of us this role is the most important you will ever undertake. The most rewarding, the most precious but also the most challenging.

When your children are babies there is no denying it is hard. Oh the pain of it all. The sleepless nights, the crying and in my day the nappy washing. But those moments when they laugh for the first time or they snuggle in contentedly, they are gold and you never, never want to loose them.

As they grow the joys come in different ways. The first time they ride a bike, the many hugs and proclaimations of love you receive are precious beyond words. There are challenges no doubt but you do your best. You try one course and then you rethink that and you try another way. Yes you make mistakes but no matter what you do, ultimately you do out of love. Some of us definitely make better choices that others but most parents make decision based on what they feel is best for their child.

I am not going to mince words here, teenage years are hell. I can’t speak for eastern societies, but in the west we have so many influences good and bad that are bombarding these developing young people that you honestly feel like you are in a war. I am really happy for the parents who say they had no problems with their adolescents, but for most of us just opening your mouth to breath was considered provocative.

By the time your children reach their twenties you think you can breath a sigh of relief. Phew you think “I made it”. They are doing their own thing, leading productive lives and making their own choices. Then every now and then, just when you least expect it, boom, suddenly they are sixteen years old again and berating you, saying, “nothing I ever do is right with you is it mum you have to make me feel bad don’t you?” Where did that come from, like a whack on the skull you didn’t see coming.

And all you did is ask them if they took medicine for that cough.

Aarrgh is all I want to say.

Uni Night – Fun for all, Especially Your Mother


The car glided over the intersection at the top of the hill, the panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean sparkling in the early morning sunlight was breathtaking. Driving at that hour of the morning could almost be considered a privilege. Streets usually congested with traffic, resemble airport runways, no stress, no road rage, time to think. Time to be thankful for my home on the Sunshine Coast.

You may be thinking that this all sounds lovely but what’s the purpose of all this driving, could it be only for pleasure? Not likely with petrol prices the way they are. The question can be answered in five words – Uni night at the Tavern. If you’ve never had children between the age of 18 and 23 you may never have realised the iconic signifigance of this type of event, it’s a rite of passage thing.

Then you get in the one o’clock in the morning phone call.

Mum can you come and pick us up” said the voice of my beloved son on the other end of the phone.

No I told you I’m not going to pick you up when you go to the Tavern. You choose to go to that place, you get yourself home” said I in my best strong mum voice, all the while picturing my boy standing shivering on a lonely, wind swept Burnett Street.

You’ve got to pick me up, someone head butted me and I’ve got a fat lip and the bouncers kicked us out.”

I was up the hill in seven minutes flat, pulling up in the Woolies driveway. I can hear your voice of judgement right now as I write. The voice of accusation that says “you push over”. How could my son ever be at fault. I have no words of justification other than he’s my son.

The seathing monster that lives deep inside every mother, the one that lurks and waits, ready to spring to the defence of your six foot, broad shouldered, eighteen year old son, because no one can protect him like you, was desperately fighting for release. I sat there eyeballing the bouncers standing outside while two boys walked toward the car. Then I realised that the boys walking toward me weren’t my son and his friend and that I’d driven straight passed them. They had been sitting quietly on the curb on the other side of the street. I’m sure I heard someone say “pshyco mother” as I drove away with my pride and joy safely belted into the passenger seat, with no real evidence of any fowl play. It did enter my mind that possibly the revving of the car I was sub counsciously doing, while directing all this protective energy at the bouncers, could have been badly misconstrued.


At least this weeks call came at a semi reasonable 5.30 am.

Mum can you pick us up I’ve got to go to work.” says my boy.

No, get someone else to take you to work” hissed I, mother of the year.

There’s no one else to take me, come on Mum” pleaded my son. 

Pulling the car over to the side of the road at an uncertain address, I thought about how many ways a mother sacrifices for her children. Sleep, no matter how old they are. Money, no matter how old they are. Time, it is never your own. Sitting there honking the horn and muttering to myself something about this being the last time, even I didn’t believe it.



We are the product of all who have gone before us. Have you ever thought about things that way? In a world where some people don’t even know their own grandparents, I wonder how many of us have ever really considered the people who went before them.

When you have children you look upon the tiny infant as a clean page, ready for the life experiences that will mould them into the person they will become. As the child grows it sometimes displays traits that you may have seen in Grandma Rose or uncle Ted and you realise that rather than a totally clean page there are imprints and watermarks that you may not have noticed initially.

I’ve never known any relatives, I don’t know who’s traits, good or bad, I have received. I was Five when we came to Australia and I haven’t been back. When I was given a stack of birth, death and marriage certificates from my maternal grandmothers family, it was the first time I had any information about any family members further away than my grandparents. My mothers disjointed postcard sent to my during a trip to England alerted me to their existence. It read in part “…….lots of family history to bring back, very exciting.” and I have to admit I did dream, if ever so briefly, of blue blood running through my veins. The oldest of these documents was dated at seventeen eighty five which was three years before the first fleet arrived in Australia. Your instant reaction might be to ask was there anyone rich or well known amongst ancesters, sadly no.

What I found instead was ordinary people, living ordinary lives. Policeman, miners, signal men, ambulance drivers, even something called a maltster, which seemed to appeal to most of the men I have spoken to. They were all literate and educated.

As I followed the men through history; however, it was the women that touched me. There was little information about them other than their age and date of birth, marriage or death (which unfortunately for most was very young). What stood out glaringly however, was that each one, up until my maternal grandmother, was illiterate.

Mary Hobson, Jane Graydon, Sarah Wells and Mary Jane Grant, could only leave their mark, a cross on a page. In some of their cases, only a wobbly mark at that, so unfamiliar were they with the use of writing tools.

Poor, illiterate women, not even taught to sign their own name. I couldn’t help but consider the fate of women through out history. Repressed and suppressed by lack of education as they have been and in many countries still are, having little power over their own lives.

The more I pondered their lives they became real people to me and I could almost picture them. Strangely a sense of obligation descended upon me. I owed something to these women. I have had education and I have had choices. I don’t know what that something is just yet. It may only be that I ensure no daughter or grand daughter of mine ever be uneducated.

We live in a time when so much is taken for granted sometimes it is good for us to peer into history to see just how far we have come.

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