“Can we go home yet?” I whined to my mother, as she squinted at me through her camera lens.

“Smile, darling!” she encouraged as I wailed and thrashed in the arms of Scooby-Doo. I hated Wonderland, despite my constant nagging to go there. I endured each visit because I was obsessed with fairy floss and I hadn’t yet figured out that you could buy it from any standard lolly shop. Once I’d gotten my sugar fix, the theme park’s crowds made me nervous, the rides didn’t seem safe, and the life-sized cartoon characters roaming the grounds and posing for photos completely terrified me. Most kids ran to these characters, swarmed them and jostled for a hug with their new furry friend. However, I was under no illusion that these beings were my favourite cartoon-network personalities. I wasn’t fooled by the costumes or the funny voices. I knew exactly what they were: creepy adults wearing full-body suits in order to  lure children into close physical contact.

Which is why I ran from Scooby-Doo as soon as he let me drop to the ground. I ran straight into Fred Flinstone, and when he too tried to scoop me into his burly arms, thick with muscles from whittling away hours in a prison gym while serving his pedophilia sentence, I punched him in the crotch and turned to my parents.

“Can we go home now?” I asked. And we left.

Most people who grew up in Sydney were probably dragged down to the Hawkesbury at some stage during their childhood to visit a popular tourist destination known as Butterfly Farm. This is a magical place where many rare species of insects reside and you are free to roam among them, observing and absorbing at will.

One weekend in the early nineties, my parents decided that my brother and I should experience the faunal wonders of this Butterfly Farm.

“But I hate bugs!” I whined in the car.

“Don’t be silly, they’re harmless,” my parents reassured me.

And so we made the long drive while I whinged and sulked and everyone ignored my pathological fear of insects.

When we arrived, my parents led me around, pointing out various beetles and spiders, while I hovered near the exit and glanced, terrified, towards the glass cabinets that writhed with creepy crawlies.

“Shall we go look at the butterflies?” my father suggested.

“I hate things with wings,” I reminded him.

“That’s ridiculous,” my mother said, “How will you ever travel internationally or select sanitary products?”

And so I was forced to enter a room filled entirely with winged creatures that flapped around my head and cast evil stares in my direction and scared the shit out of me.

I was trying to be brave and enjoy the butterflies the way all the other kids were, but after a few minutes, one of the hideous beasts suddenly made its way over and settled upon my upper arm.

I let out a blood curdling scream and swiftly clapped my hand down on the butterfly, whose lifeless body then dropped onto the dirt floor.

A moment of silence passed, not in respect for the delicate and endangered life that was just lost, but in horror of the four year old child who had snuffed such a (generally considered) beautiful creature.

“I’ll bet that happens all the time, huh?” my mother joked nervously to a Butterfly Farm employee standing nearby.

“No, that was the first time,” he replied.

And we left very quickly.

Me: Dad, there’s something gross on my neck. Can you take a look?

My brother: Is it your face?

Dad: It’s eczema.

Me: I’m going to my room.

Somewhere around my fifteenth year, I sat at the kitchen table one evening, doing my homework and eating a frozen piece of banana cake. My mother entered the room and looked from the cake to me.

“What?” I asked her.

“It’s not that you’re fat, darling,” she explained, “You’re just…flabby.”

My mother is generally oblivious to anything I do, say, wear or inhale, so she is constantly endangering her heart’s health by noticing my tattoos, piercings and the like up to 12 months after their advent.

Last night she picked me up from the airport and immediately exclaimed, “Annik! You’ve shrunk!”

Pleased that she had noticed my new sleek figure, I proceeded to explain my recently tweaked workout regime and how I have been hauling arse out of bed at 5:30am every morning to exercise, but it has obviously been worth it because now I am thinner and hot.

“No,” she interrupted, “I think you’ve gotten shorter. Are you slouching even more than usual?”

My extended family has always been split into two categories: Dad’s side, and the exciting side. Seven people came out of my maternal grandmother, twenty-two people came out of those seven people, nineteen people came out of those twenty-two people, and another person has come out of those nineteen people. Mixed in have been twenty-six spouses, two adoptions, and three dead babies. Trying to remember everybody’s birthdays is a total bitch.

When I was still young enough to be forced into family holidays, my parents would cram my brother and I into the Commodore and drive us up to Bundaberg. There we ran amok and slept at whatever aunt or uncle’s house we happened to end up at after sunset, until my mother could no longer stand the heat, crammed us back into the car and drove back to Sydney.

I spent most of my time in Bundaberg at my Aunty Dee’s house. Apart from the lure of a sprawling mulberry tree and the privilege of helping my Uncle Sam make home brew, I chose this particular house because I was fascinated by my older cousin Alice. She had inherited her mother’s fierce temper, lack of patience and volatility, and their arguments could reach spectacular heights in mere seconds.

“Did you pick up some bacon?” Alice would ask, standing in front of the open fridge.
“Oh.. Sorry, I forgot.” Aunty Dee would reply.
“Well I’m not making dinner then. You can all fucking starve!”
“Don’t talk to me like that, you bloody prima donna bitch. Get the hell out of my house!”

Then Alice would slam the front door, climb into a boy’s car and speed off down the road. It was better than fireworks.

My relationship with my own mother was based on rare and polite exchanges, but I was willing to try and liven things up.

The week before Easter, my kindergarten class was a frenzy of activity. We drew bunnies, made cards, and fantasised about eating chocolate until we vomited. Meanwhile, our mothers competed fiercely to create the best Easter Hat for the annual Easter Hat Parade. Well, most mothers… As usual, my Mum forgot about this until the night before. “Aww crap,” she said, staring at the calendar, “How the hell am I meant to make you a hat before tomorrow?” Then, exhibiting about as much enthusiasm as she showed for housework, she glued some glitter and bunny ears onto one of my brother’s baseball caps.

“I can’t wear this,” I protested, “It’s stupid!”
“Don’t worry,” she promised, “I’ll be there to deck anybody who makes fun of you.”

But on the day, as I stood in line waiting for the Easter Hat Parade music to begin and cringing with embarrassment at all the other kids’ cool hats, Mum was nowhere to be seen. Finally, halfway through the ceremony, she appeared at the back of the crowd with a cup of coffee in hand. I decided this was a good time to try out my newly learned conflict-resolution skills.

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN, YOU BLOODY WITCH?” I shouted across the quadrangle.

Short of hearing, and thinking I had called her a “bitch”, my mother marched through the lines of children, dragged me out of the Easter Hat Parade, and belted me in front of the entire student body of my primary school and their parents.

I did not win the Easter Hat Parade that year.

Me: What exactly does the groomer do for your dog that you can’t?: I bath her myself, but the groomer is supposed to give her a clip, clip her nails, express her anal glands, etc.

Kahlee

Me: I’m sorry, I thought you just said ‘express her anal glands’??

Kahlee: They get stuff in the glands in their butts, and if they’re not expressed every 6 months it can be painful for them.. You kind of squeeze on their butt.

Me: Surely that’s not really necessary? Do dogs in the wild walk around with sore butt-holes all day?

Kahlee: Dogs in the wild don’t eat processed biscuits.

Me: Another tragic example of how humans have ruined the world.