When I was young, life was a breeze. Things were happy and uncomplicated. Here’s a glimpse of my life from early on, while I’m in single digits.

When I was 6 months old (1978), we moved from Ngaruawahia to Whangarei (both are in the north Island, New Zealand) as my dad accepted a new position as the branch manager of the company he worked for.

I don’t think I was fussed by the move and for a few glorious years, it was just the three of us and I was the apple of my parents eye.

I was nearly three years old when my darling sister arrived. By the sounds of it, this took a bit of adjustment and apparently I was not impressed that I had to share the olds (parents) with this new kid.

On one occasion, the green eyed monster came out with a vengeance, as apparently I was not impressed at the ladies at the doctors office cooing over my sister. It was at that time that I took our sisterly bond to the next level and bit her toe. The ladies thought I was some sort of demon child. They obviously got that wrong, as my sister would prove later on who the naughty one was. I was the good one, you see (mostly). Don’t get me wrong, I could be a brat but one thing I never truly mastered was the art of harping. But mum pleeeaasssee. My sister had it down pat and boy was she persistent.

Nearly three years later, another little Pepper graced us with his presence to complete our family of five. I would find out later that there were a few little Pepper’s that didn’t make it (mum had a few miscarriages before my sister was born). It makes me sad to think of mum and dad going through this. While my (our) circumstances are different, I can now sadly fully understand how difficult that must of been (especially more so for mum).

We lived in Whangarei for about five years and I was so young the memories are few and far between. I know I started school there for a little over 6 months and that was where my siblings both graced their presence (not at school in case I wasn’t clear).

I remember learning to ride a bike when I was really little as my dad converted my tricycle into a two wheeler. It must of been a tiny little thing. I remember my first big girl bike and having to learn to ride it on the road as our section was sloped and having to stand on a beer crate to get onto the bike. I still love bike riding to this day.

I remember charming the elderly neighbours with my fabulous character and them hooking me up with lemonade.

I remember a few of my birthday parties and being totally pissed (upset) that I didn’t win pass the parcel when it was my birthday, how rude. Obviously I thought my birthday girl privileges exceeded the guidelines.

I vaguely remember asking great auntie Rita what was so great about her. She wasn’t that impressed by this question apparently. It was evident that my natural curiosity developed early.

I also remember the time santa came. I swear that I saw him but sadly I found out a few years later he wasn’t real, so this apparition was probably a dream (but I’m not going to rule it out). I was super impressed my new trampoline came all the way from the north pole. How did santa fit it on his sleigh?

Sibling number one was only two when the trampoline came and sibling number two wasn’t quite yet a twinkle in the parents eyes, so it was my trampoline you see. I made no bones of telling my siblings about the trampoline hierarchy usage that applied because after all it was my trampoline (so I liked to think).

When my little bro was a couple of months old, the old man (dad) was offered the branch manager role back in Hamilton, so off we trotted (actually we drove) back to the Waikato, five years later with a couple of extra kids in tow. This was the Labour weekend of 1983.

When I was writing this I imagined mum and dad trying to deal with a five and two year old and near new born, over what was probably a five or so hour car trip (it would be faster these days with all of the fancy motorways). Imagine how many times they had to stop and how many times they were asked “are we nearly there yet?”. I don’t think any of us had carsickness issues at this stage just to paint a picture of other journeys.

It wasn’t long before I started a new primary school, Forest Lake School. It was one of the happiest times of my life. I had no idea at the time how rare it was to have a Maori principal who was also a women. It’s cool to look back at that, considering this was the 80’s and an employee at the post office got sacked for answering the phone with the greeting kia ora.

My school was multicultural and there was a bilingual class and I had no idea that that was not the standard. It might have been in the north island but not so much in the south (so I found out later). I treasure the fact that I can still remember everything I was taught in Maori, although it’s not very often I can drop the song oma rapeti (the translation is run rabbit run) into conversation and the rest of my te reo needs some work. I wish I realized then, how important Maori language would become to me and I wish I pursued it further in school.

I was just a “normal” kid making friends and hanging out with my mates. For me, age nine was a time when I became more aware of my surroundings and the similarities and differences that exist.

I started to notice that I didn’t like it when people picked on my mates. I can’t recall exactly what happened but these kids were being mean to my friend and so I decided to tell the mean kids they better watch out as the girls dad is in a motorcycle gang. That might of been a little bit of a stretch, he was more of a blue collar dad who owned a motorbike. Anyway, my friend was horrified at the idea of her father being called a “biker” and that story was quickly withdrawn. I remember feeling a little hurt, as after all it was a well intended lie. My desire to defend the underdog would be something that stayed with me throughout life.

I started to notice differences between my family and other families too. I remember going to my friends house for dinner and we were having spaghetti on toast. I was innocently eating my tea when the mum said “Nicola can you stop eating with your mouth open?”. I remember thinking, oh my god I wish my spaghetti would eat me instead and hopefully they’ll just think it’s the warm glow of spaghetti reflecting on my cheeks. I remember going home and feeling angry and embarrassed and wondering if my parents were aware of my uncouth ways, but didn’t they say anything. I probably ate with pursed lips for a while after that though, although I still eat quickly. I can’t remember if I ever said anything to my family about the “spaghetti incident” (fellow gunner fans will understand the clever use of this term, although it’s not their best album), or if I was too embarrassed. I’m still friends with this family to this day and I’m thankful my friends mum had the balls to say something as she saved me from further embarrassment, no doubt.

I did find out a few years later I was not the only family member who required some guidance on table manners. I remember we were out for breakfast and my little brother poked his sausage with the fork and started biting straight into it (without cutting it up). I would of been close to being a teenager at the time, so he would of been in single digits and I remember being completely mortified. I told him in no uncertain terms what I thought of his behaviour. I don’t think he was too worried but I am thankful that I did manage to learn tact, but that would come later.

That led me to a few other learnings. One important learning was that my mum never growled or liked to say no (within reason) in front of visitors, so you could get away with a little extra when there was company around. I have no doubt I used that to my advantage on more than one occasion.

The other thing I learnt was that different families have different standards. That same friend came to visit on a different occasion and she commented to me on my room being messy. I was shocked, as I had just cleaned my room before she came over. It certainly made me more aware of my surroundings. At that stage, my sister and I had been separated from sharing the same room. My sister was a bit like the Tasmanian devil and it was clear that we could not live together (in the same room anyway).

There was so much going on that year, unless I have spliced some of the memories together. One of the biggest impacts in life, has been music. I absolutely adored listening to the radio. Whenever mum and dad went out, I’d get their records out (I don’t think I was supposed to touch the record player), crank up the volume and listen to all sorts of music. On the radio I’d be listening to the likes of Guns n’ Roses who would be a solid favourite from the day I heard them, with little competition. As for the records I played, there were all sorts of randoms I liked such as Leo Sayer and Dr Hook. My partner now says to me, man you know some random songs.

Around this time, I also noticed boys. Now, don’t get too excited, there’s nothing raunchy going on, I just happened to notice I liked looking at their bottoms (how they looked in their shorts to be clear). To be fair, it wasn’t all boys, just a couple. I wasn’t looking at their front packages and it would be a long long time before things elevated to touching levels.

The other big thing that impacted me was learning the “f” word (see you do learn things in school). When I first heard it, it was like a rush. I hadn’t heard my parents say it before. They must of been bloody saints, who manages to rare three children without busting out the “f” word on occasion. How did I even get to the age of nine without hearing that word. It seems some kids first word is fuck these days (perhaps a slight exaggeration). Anyway, being a lover of words, I knew it was a special one and although I tried to use it as often as possible, I knew I must never say it in front of my parents if I wanted to avoid the wooden spoon or jandal. Back in the 80’s people were actually allowed to discipline their children and wooden spoons and jandals were favourites for kiwi parents. Everybody remembers the threat “you wait until your father gets home”. Don’t worry, I’m not condoning violence, just saying getting a tap on the ass (not the sexual kind) didn’t hurt any of us. I remember one occasion when my mother said “don’t fuck, I mean muck around”, it was like music to my ears. I must of tried with all my might not to show any facial reaction. It probably took me another 10 years to get my “potty mouth” in check and it was probably that long before I heard mum say the “f” word again too.

It’s hard to fathom that this same year, my auntie accidentally told me santa wasn’t real (not much to add there), that I noticed boys clothed bottoms were fun to look at and learnt the “f” word for the first time. I’m pretty sure the album Appetite for Destruction came out then too, what a year!

Those first nine years were pretty good to me. I survived with only a few small bruises and scrapes. I’m not overly sure how I never broke anything. I did give it a good crack, like that time I jumped off the top of the lullaby and accidentally flipped over the trampoline and landed on the cobblestones and the many other bicycle and skating incidents.

There were some good learnings during this time and as I said it was some of the happiest times of my life. I still feel like the music I listened to back then, takes me to my happy place even now. In my next blog I’ll talk about the slippery slope into double digits, where things started to change a lot for me (and change me).

I have included a picture of me and my little sister for your entertainment pleasure (excuse the quality). I was around 3 and she looks pretty fresh out of the oven. I’m pretending to be asleep and pose for the picture but it appears she isn’t as delighted. This photo kind of sums up the relationship with my siblings when we were young. It would be another 15-20 years plus before the three of us actually wanted to spend time with each other on purpose and we’d actually become great friends.