tinsenpup

Tickety-Boo

2012-01-20T01:04:00.001+11:00

I keep starting blog posts that decide that they want to be about very big important topics that demand much explaining and context and several flashbacks as well as an earnest paragraph on my hopes for the future and then the entire story retold from the spoodle's point of view. I quickly come to realise that the post I'm working on is going to take FOREVER to obsessively craft, check, check again, check once more in preview mode, post, see a typo immediately after doing so, correct and post again, then check once more, just to make sure and then get a comment and have to immediately re-read the post to contextualise it, because it comes from a perspective I hadn't considered. So then I decide to avoid all that and come back to that post when it's not 11pm and start something else, a little lighter, that after a whimsical paragraph of introduction decides (much to my annoyance, I might add) that it too wants to be about a very big important topic and then I repeat the whole saga.

So I've been writing; just not posting, which I don't think counts. It might, however, depend how you answer that question about trees falling in the forest and nobody hearing. I've also been writing long posts and then deleting them without publishing them, which is also annoying since I'm really not so prolific that I can afford to be deleting my earnest outpourings. Mostly I've just been trying to write a simple little family update and you wouldn't think that it would be that difficult since things are really rather tickety-boo for us right now, but it is and I've already abandoned a post attempting to explain why tonight, so I'm steering well away from that. Instead, prepare to be shocked and amazed as I post "Three Things Too Boring to be in Posts by Themselves".

I wrote that post about G the other day, because I had been asking myself all day how I felt about his suicide. The answer was, 'Not much at all really, just a little odd.' But your comments really spoke to me. I know that I'm loving that shower curtain a little more every day. The following afternoon, I was hanging washing out, my mind jumping from thought to thought, when I felt the quiet around me telling me to slow down for just a moment and take a deep breathe and right then I felt something return to me, some little beloved part of myself that I didn't even realise I'd lost when I burned the bridge that led back in time to my unhappy life with G. Another circle closing.

Ni was working on her own drawings one day last week, so I took a few minutes to join her for the week's drawing session. She set me the assignment of drawing her little mascot, Cassie. Wawa participated by adding some colour to the finished artwork.

If this next item were interesting enough to warrant a post of its own, it would be called, 'How I Killed Christmas', but technically, it was just our sweet little Christmas tree that I murdered and the how isn't much of a mystery. I just forgot to water the poor thing the whole time it was inside being festive. Oops. Sorry little tree.

Hmmm... And now it's nearly 1am anyway. So much for avoiding a time-consuming post.

Not My Burden to Bear

2012-01-17T00:09:00.000+11:00

They say the best revenge is living well. Theoretically speaking then, I've enjoyed tenfold any revenge I might ever have been destined to inflict.

When I was eighteen and nineteen, I lived with a man, G, who was twice my age. He was, in fact, the age that I am now. It's a perspective that offers me the opportunity to laugh wryly and shake my head. He was a very stunted man in more ways than one. He was also a fairly textbook abuser. He would say things like, "No one has ever made me this angry before," while pinning me to the bed. I really don't know if I believed him, even then. After all, he'd been through a divorce only a year or two before I met him. The fact that I was even with him is every bit of evidence you or I will ever need that I was a very damaged young woman when I turned my back on childhood.

G lived for sex and drugs and he would do just about anything to get them. From anyone. Anywhere. Any time. He lied and cheated everyone from strangers to his dearest friends. I believe he couldn't help it. He lied to get what he wanted and he lied when the truth would have served equally well. He would tell outright lies to people's faces and assume that I wouldn't out him. And I didn't. He would take mad risks constantly. For the most part, he made friends easily. It wasn't that he was particularly likeable, he just had a way of making you feel as if you'd always been mates. A stalwart of G's social circle once confided to me that he didn't trust G. He told me that before I'd met him, G had just turned up at the pub one day and blustered in as if he'd always been there. He became a more or less instant fixture in that little bar with its comorbid community of misfits. He was undeniably charming in his bullshit and bluster and people were always bizarrely reluctant to call him on it, even when it was utterly blatant. I was certainly no exception.

Obviously, I eventually left him, which is a story in itself, for another day perhaps - or perhaps not, since it's not a very pretty one. I don't remember ever seeing him again. It took me a long time to stop feeling vengeful towards G. Eventually, deeper hurts eclipsed him and though I will admit that I have kept scars as souvenirs from our time together, I really haven't given him more than a passing thought for several years.

Then in the wee hours of this morning, when I should have been sleeping, I unexpectedly stumbled upon his obituary online - two days before it expires and tumbles into the misty ether of whatever it is that bits of the Internet become once they cease to be. And there, between the scant lines of the obituary and the funeral notice and a few notices from mates, are those all too familiar hints; an effort to protect, belying a need to protect. And I'm not at all sad, because as harsh as I'm sure it sounds, I impassively believe that the world is a very slightly better place today, but I am a little shocked. I genuinely would have thought that his narcissism ran too deep for suicide. I guess there was more to him than I could parse at nineteen. It's been a long time and the way he lived his life cannot help but inflict damage, not just in a circle radiating outward, but in a spiral inward and downward.

So there's the flip side of my living well. The day that I was out with three people that I adore, paying too much for a shower curtain with butterflies on it, G was ending his life. It feels neither bitter nor sweet. It's simply not my burden to bear.

{this moment} - Play

2012-01-13T20:32:00.000+11:00

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want pause, savor and remember. - Soulemama

Life's Heart

2012-01-12T00:31:00.002+11:00

"I can't sing," Doot says when I ask if he'd like to join in our circle for Wawa. He sees me move to interject. I don't even need to say, "Everyone can sing." We've rehearsed this one. "You're right, I should clarify," he adds quickly, "I can't sing WELL." "You're missing the point," I tell him. He's not convinced.

Make a joyful noise, I say. Write, sing, play an instrument or two or three, draw, paint, cook, sew, knit. Create. Laugh. Love. It's all the stuff of life. The molecules that form life's heart are full of chaotic noise and dropped stitches and a green crayon cat whose whiskers are so long they flow off the sides of the page. As a society, we are very good at letting children know, as they stand vulnerable on the cusp of adulthood, that if they don't show conventional talent in an area, they should desist or open themselves up to ridicule. You might just as well tell them to eat only foods that please their palates, those that offer instant gratification, at the expense of others that they need to nourish them.

My children and I belong to a homeschool choir. There are no very confident singers amongst the adults (all women), but my goodness we can make a beautiful noise when we all join our faltering voices together and sing from our hearts.

All this is my way of telling you that number 24 on my list of 52 habits is "Draw with Ni once a week." Both of my children are passionate artists. Wawa seemed born to it. Ni has grown into it a little more with every passing year. I, of course, am far too busy with important adult things like laundry and cutting up cardboard with a utility knife so that it will fit nicely in the recycling bin, except once a week, when I aim to draw with my children. Not because I am good at it, but because it is good for me.

Having admired traditional and modern Aboriginal artworks and artifacts at Bunjilaka at the Melbourne Museum, we searched online and found images of a diverse range of works identifying as Aboriginal art. We discussed what we saw; the colours, techniques that might have been used, what we liked about our favourites and what inspiration we might draw from them. The idea was not to emulate what we saw, but to see what response the works elicited in us.

Ni tried pointillism for this dibby (truck) that she drew for Wawa.

She developed her technique for this beautiful tree.

Wawa, influenced by her favourite artist (Ni) used the same technique for this drawing, along with some artfully rendered squiggles.

Mine is a rather flat-looking, but likeable echidna.

Doot politely declined to participate. :)

Found Poetry

2012-01-10T01:12:00.000+11:00

I like the idea of found art. It's all about stripping an object of its context and assigning it a new arbitrary value and thus a fresh context. It doesn't matter if an object was rubbish lying in the street an hour ago; look at it in a different light (from a different perspective) and who knows what you will see? That's one of the reasons I like shopping in second hand stores. There's less bias on my part; an item is more likely to stand on its own merits rather than brand, price or the store it's sold in. 'Cool' becomes a product of my own mind rather than marketing.

Dust Bunny With Grass - January 2012

Sorting out my very cluttered, disorganised data is on my 52 habits in 52 weeks list. I'm working away at it a little every day (habitually, you might say). I'm making progress (or so I keep telling myself). On my new phone, filed under the category of 'Weird Stuff I Keep', I have an SMS message synced from my old phone that I received mistakenly from a complete stranger in late 2009. It reads like beat poetry. It is so beautiful and poignant and strong and tells an old old tale. I know I've been there. I present it for you today as a guest post of sorts. Superbly practical syntax and spelling is preserved from the original, but I'm going to insert some spaces to make it easier to read.

Well it all went down the drain pritti quik.
All coza drugs.
U neva listened 2 me
its like inside i was screaming
but outside i cudnt speak.
Did u evn care about me at all at the end of it
coz it sure didnt feel like it,
all u cared about was jus takin off n gtn fried
n ditchn me
n goin 2 da beach witout me.
id hav 2 beg u jus to spend a minute with me
ud make me wait 4 hrs n neva evn show up 2 things we had 2 do
lyk lookn at houses.
U put evryone and evrything b4 me
id had enuff.
way enuff.
Thats y that nyt u fukd off
and left me at aron n tash's
sed u left 4 wrk wit silvo n paulie at like 4am
n sed ud b bak at like midday latest.
i waited all that afternoon thru to the nite
til afta midnyt
n thats wen i fukd off took my shit n left
coz u promised me ud b bak
n u wernt
yet silvo n paul came bak at lyk 11
n u wernt wit em,
sed u wer drinkn wit daz
but i knew tht wuda bin a lie
coz at that point u owed him money.
So yeahh.
And that ws da end of us

So is it just me, or is there raw poetry in that?

I Phone

2012-01-08T00:50:00.001+11:00

After much wailing and gnashing of teeth, along with curse words muttered a little too audibly under my breath, I seem to have found a workaround for my photo problem and thus I present number seventeen on the 52 in 52 list; 'Get a new iPhone'. We kind of cheated on this one, since we were planning to save up like the clever, responsible creatures we are and buy one outright to use with a pre-paid SIM. Instead, after spending all of our money on boring rent and bills and food month after month after month (yawn), and since I'd been without a phone all that time, we decided to get one on a post-paid contract, which is a little nerve-wracking given that Doot will be studying (and working) again this year, so we know we have another lean year ahead. Thankfully I now have a shiny new iPhone to console me and keep me warm through the dark days. It should also be noted that cheating and the creative revision of goals is encouraged in this endeavour (the one I like to call 'life'). 'Realistic' and 'practical' are like mantras around here (along with 'Don't throw that!' and 'What's that brown thing on the floor?').

Incidentally, I also bought that mirror last week (it was a cheap one from Aldi), which is not the most thrilling news, I know (especially since it doesn't appear on any lists anywhere...sigh...), but that's the first full length mirror I've owned since Ni was a baby and I had one turned on its side for her enjoyment. For years my subtle self talk went along the lines of, 'If you buy a mirror, that means that you want to look at yourself, which in turn implies that you think you're worth looking at and then people will laugh at you and your delusion.' And obviously when you write it out like that and prop it up on a solid frame of words, it seems ridiculous, but when it's just a little grey worm whispering away in your mind, that has been there whispering away forever and ever, it's just one of a seemingly infinite number of things that you have to learn, with some effort, to question. If I did not have a toddler leaving her sweet little baby body behind for a more advanced model and a big girl on the cusp of the amazing process of growing into her womanhood, I'd probably still be squinting at myself in the shaving mirror in the bathroom.

Then, of course, there's the fraught question of what I actually see (or don't see) when I look in that mirror. That's a whole other blog post, I think. And we'd better just skip right over the shame and embarrassment that has to be overcome in order to even take a photo of myself, let alone stick it up on the Internet. Eeep!

I know that most of us have to recover from our childhoods and the failings of the adults in our lives at some point, but I desperately hope that I'm paving an easier road for my daughters.

Here's a photo of Lyra and I playing Extreme Incy Wincy.

I'm not sure what the rules are, but they seem to involve singing the song then attacking your mama with the giant plastic spider you got from the museum (that you like far better than the lovely white and purple agate that mama bought for you).

No doubt you'll be subjected to my burgeoning love affair with the iPhone 4S' wonderful camera (with a little added enhancement for the above photo). I probably shouldn't have clicked over to Photojojo for that link, since I found this and am now wondering how much we could get for the spoodle and the children's toys on eBay.

Very Limited

2012-01-06T22:53:00.000+11:00

I crossed two things off my 52 in 52 list yesterday. One of them was fun and one not so much, which is a good way to do things really.

Number three on the list was "Have a check up". My attitude towards doctors has de-generated to barely concealed loathing and near-phobia in recent years - not without reason, I hasten to add. I won't bore you with my vast collection of, incompetent, disrespectful, arrogant and/or bullying doctor stories. I generally save those for the hapless people who unwittingly broach medical subjects in my presence. They quickly realise their terrible mistake, but by then it's too late.

I'll try to control my emotions as I tell you that the last time I consulted a doctor was at a public hospital pre-natal check up when I was pregnant with Wawa (who was two in October). That visit triggered some unpleasant flashbacks to the horrible shitfest that was Ni's birth eight years earlier and that very day, I went home and found my beautiful doula who took me in hand and found midwives for me at rather late notice and worked very hard to help me prepare for Wawa's blessed homebirth.

My last pap smear was in 2007. You can read about it here. Yay! Isn't blogging awesome? Finally, I told myself that my family need me and I absolutely must take better responsibility for my health. Then I told myself to shut the hell up and stop being such an annoying prat. Then I told myself that I'm not being a prat, you are, so you shut up! That went on for a while, but eventually, I looked up a doctor I'd seen before who I didn't like, but didn't hate and got Doot to ring up and make an appointment.

Shockingly, the doctor was running well behind when I arrived for my appointment. They asked me to come back in 40 minutes. Then I waited for another fifteen. She ultimately explained her tardiness by saying that she tended to attract "a certain type of clientele". I wasn't sure what that meant, but I laughed nervously then pulled out my annotated list of things I needed to discuss. In spite of the fact that I had booked a double appointment, the doctor seemed to visibly slump and mentioned that she would probably have to work through lunch today. Um... Sorry?

During our allotted time, I had a few things checked that she explained slowly and using small words were probably not cancer. She repeatedly referred to my gluten and dairy free lifestyle as "a very limited diet". I asked what tests I could do to find out what foods or food chemicals I'm still reacting to, but when I explained firmly that I would not eat gluten for the sake of "proper testing" since it makes me sick and puts me into a state of overwhelming anxiety that makes my life utterly intolerable, she shook her head and referred me to a gastroenterologist. I'm not sure that's really what I need, but I asked her to order some blood work, so I'll see what insight into my "very limited diet" that might offer first.

The fun thing will have to wait, since it's ridiculously late and I'm having problems with the photos I'm trying to upload and laptops are far too easy to throw at a wall when your frayed temper finally snaps.

The Modern Toddler...

2012-01-06T22:21:00.000+11:00

...takes breastfeeding self-portraits with the family iPod.

A Good Feeling

2012-01-02T00:02:00.000+11:00

And so here we are. Grand things will come of all this. I've got a good feeling.

Doot worked last night, so we three ate corn chips and animal biscuits and watched fireworks from our bedroom window to welcome the year; all of us exclaiming in unison and Ni and I smiling at Wawa's commentary - "Booful!" "Nice!" "Cooool!" "Nois-see!" "Piddy!" We'd have done the same if Doot had been home, no doubt, only there'd have been less corn chips and animal biscuits to go around. There was much hugging and kissing and smiling and professions that this will be our "best year ever" and in spite of that little part of me saying "You'll jinx us with all this crazy blog talk.", I can just about believe it.

We followed the fireworks with the traditional sparklers in the backyard, upsetting the already anxious spoodle, watching from the bungalow window, until we invited him out to join the fun. Ni, approached the ritual with her usual mix of un-contained joy and utter terror and Wawa got to hold the very last sparkler, while I hovered nervously, trying to stay close enough to rescue her in case she ignored our instructions not to touch the "hot" and far enough away to avoid being blinded by her wildly flailing arm. The spoodle had the rare good sense to keep his distance.

Here's a photo that nicely summarises this first day of 2012. I call it, "Kitteh is Hot" or maybe "The Toys Come Alive at Night".

Over time, Kitty slowly migrates about the house, faddishly choosing a new favourite sleeping place every week or so. Some of them seem quite odd to those of us uninitiated in the ways of kitty comfort. Much to everyone's delight, her latest spot seems to be the shelves in Wawa's corner. Wawa is happy to embrace her as just another plaything placed in her corner for the sole purpose of delighting and entertaining her. Kitty for her part is tolerating the added attention quite well, but has since pushed those pesky toys off with a dramatic flourish so that the shelf might better accommodate her. The poor thing is very fluffy and tomorrow is set to be even hotter than today. I don't have the heart to tell her.

Circles

2011-12-31T19:31:00.000+11:00

I thought I'd best fight my Christmas visitor-induced urge to hibernate for the next few months and make an appearance before we all bid farewell to 2011. I also need one more blog post for the year to beat my 2008 record. Whoot! (Insert fist pumps.) It has been such a wonderful and challenging year for us. 2012 looks set to be equally challenging and hopefully equally wonderful. I really don't remember the last time I felt this excited on New Year's Eve. Maybe not since childhood. There's a circle closing; bringing healing. I want to dance through a field of buttercups or something. I also feel a bit like crying. Circles. Life is bittersweet.

I've been working on two main lists to help me see what I can make of 2012. One is a list of 52 habits I'd like to work on during the year - the emphasis being on making progress, not end goal achievement. The other is a list of 52 things I'd like to do during the year. The goal is to cross off as many things as I can happily manage, so no penalties for not completing it. It's all rather prosaic stuff, really, so I won't bore you with the whole list. Some of it's fun stuff; some challenging; a decent chunk is health-related stuff that I've been putting off through fear or lack of money or both.

We managed to turn a particularly challenging day while my mother was visiting into a bit of fun and simultaneously crossed the first item off my list early. Doot was quite ill with a stomach bug (the same one I had had a few days earlier) and my mother needed us to drive her to the city urgently to have a chronic ear problem looked at, so while she was waiting around at the hospital, the children and I headed off to the museum to see the sights and cross number 50 off the list. Excuse the dodgy photo (I left my camera's memory card at home and had to use Doot's rather ancient -in mobile phone terms- iPhone), but my view is, if there isn't a heavily altered mobile phone photo as evidence, it didn't happen.

We also bought these beautiful slices of agate at the museum. There was one for each of us (Grandma took hers home with her) and an extra, the light blue one, because it looked like a misty winter sunset and I just couldn't help myself.

I'll be catching up on my blog reading over the next little while. Did I miss anything monumental? Did you have a happy Christmas?

Merry Christmas and Blah Blah Blah...

2011-12-24T22:52:00.000+11:00

I'm just dropping by quickly to wish all who celebrate a Merry Christmas.

My mother has been staying with us for a few days over Christmas and while I thought I would still be able to blog with her here, that hasn't been the case. Her visit has been challenging for a variety of reasons, not least of which is that my sweet, sensitive Wawa is not coping with the sensory and emotional onslaught of her grandma's presence (on top of a couple of visits with friends and family) and is feeling extremely anxious and upset. My poor baby spent almost the entire day today in the bedroom, refusing to leave the room unless carried and screaming if left alone for more than a minute at a time. Even left with her beloved Ni or Doot, she would quickly become anxious and scream for her mama. I'm so sad that I can't make her Christmas what it should be and that after all she's been through in the past six months, I've inadvertently added more stressors.

In spite of the challenges, however, we really are making the best of things and tomorrow there will be a lovely basket of new trains and trucks and whatnot for Wawa, which will hopefully distract her a little and offer some cheer. Poor Ni's gift still lies in pieces. It arrived a few days ago, but there's been no chance to put it together. Thank goodness she's understanding.

A few days ago, before visitors began to arrive, Ni and I made Wawa a fuzzy felt Christmas Tree for her little corner. It was inspired by Kirsty's turf tree on Kootoyoo and has been a bit of fun for her to decorate.

I wish for you a lovely, safe and relaxed Christmas and New Year with those you love best. I'll see you in a few days.

Wawa's Baby

2011-12-19T11:07:00.000+11:00

Wawa played with her birthday doll for the first time last night. It has sat neglected in its basket in the library since she received it in October.

It's not that I'm at all invested in her playing with dolls in general. Trucks and cars and trains and airplanes and the odd helicopter seem to fill her time and her lovely heart as it should be filled, but alternatives don't go astray and might just be needed for the exploration of new territory one day soon.

So I made a Black Apple Doll for her birthday and having created it with love and sweat and a bit of old pillowcase, I admit I tried to sell her on its various charms. It's a good thing my ego is not overly invested in such things, since she did not seem at all impressed by its long, dancing limbs, its soft black felt hair or its simple peaceful face. The only time she actually touched it was to move it unceremoniously out of her way.

Last night was different, however. Last night there were wheels involved. She had spotted them poking out of the top of a cardboard box bound for the op shop. It was an old cheap and nasty doll pusher gifted to Ni once upon a little girlhood that hadn't made the final cut for inclusion in our new household.

Nevertheless, at her request, I pulled it out and unfolded it. She disappeared happily into the house with it. I found her a minute or two later attempting (as is standard toddler practice) to climb into the doll pusher herself. Naturally, I explained that the pusher was just for toys and demonstrated its proper use with the doll.

Her initial response was, "No doll!", but after a few seconds' consideration, her stance softened and she took off careering around corners and bouncing off walls. At regular intervals, a dramatic (and carefully executed) crash would occur, sending pusher, Wawa and doll flying in different directions. The doll would wail, "Oh no!", her long, dancing legs, flying and then the process would be repeated.

As fun as it was to watch, Wawa's doll play didn't last long. After a short while, the doll was handed back and replaced with what was apparently deemed a more appropriate baby.

{this moment} - Taking a Moment

2011-12-16T22:19:00.003+11:00

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want pause, savor and remember. - Soulemama

Things I Know - 16 December 2011

2011-12-16T21:41:00.000+11:00

I'm linking up with Shae at Yay for Home! for the very last time. From next week, Things I Know will have a new host.

This week I know that at 37 I still have a vibrant, active imagination.

I also know that in the dark, this teddy bear looks exactly like a large cat (or possibly a small, but very fierce mountain lion) staring at me hungrily with glittering eyes.

I know that a clean kitchen and a fridge full of food makes the world a very different place.

Wawa is convinced that that pine cone outside the bedroom window is a turtle. I'm loathe to correct her.

I know that even if you're on all fours when you fall, you can still give yourself a pretty nasty bump.

Dirt, water, music and loving touch are elemental things that soothe.

I know that every night before she goes to sleep, Ni likes to pull back the curtain above her bed so that she can look up at the stars.

I know that that is a really lovely thing...except at dawn when the gap she leaves when she closes the curtain lets in the sun that shines like a laser in my eyes to wake me up.

I know that it's probably worth it when Wawa joins her at the window and two sisters stare out into the endless universe and sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star together.

While my little girl is still not feeling right, she seems to have had a slightly better day today.

She spent some time in the bath this evening and I know I'm learning to make the most of my limited opportunities for screen time.

On the other hand, I don't know how Christmas managed to sneak up on me yet again. Every year it seems to get worse.

I know that, as she hosts Things I Know for the very last time, I am grateful to Shae for inventing this clever meme. It makes for a perfect end of the week brain dump.

More Than Her Fair Share

2011-12-15T23:32:00.000+11:00

Little Wawa has been feeling most unhappy these past few days. Yesterday was a challenge for me as my patience began to wear thin and tiredness and frustration showed through beneath. A long bath helped her (and me) for at least as long as she was in it.

Thankfully, she skipped her nap (as she often does) and went to bed early, giving me a chance to finally get our filthy kitchen cleaned and then to get a few meals prepared ahead of time - an economical way to do things if you're short of time and can manage it. A clean kitchen and food in the fridge set us up for an easier day today.

I kept my to do list to a minimum, getting things done in the two or three minutes between tears (Wawa's, not mine...yet). Mostly we took it in turns to sit with her as she attempted to play. As often as we could manage it, someone was there beside her when it all became too much - as it did again and again and again.

We might have to work harder at it on days like today, but it seems vital to get her giggling when we can - getting all those nice happy chemicals swirling about to help soothe her ills, even just a little - to make sure that she remembers, in body and mind that joy is her birthright, even on the hardest or saddest of days.

She's asleep now and I'm more than ready to join her, dragging Ni along as she clings tenaciously to her beloved laptop (as she does, metaphorically, at least, every night). It was a good day, all things considered. We did our best for our sweet girl. I hope that tomorrow brings a more peaceful day for her, poor babe. She's had far too many days like today in her two years of life - more than her fair share.

Passing for Normal

2011-12-11T15:09:00.001+11:00

I'm learning to share myself less and less in the everyday. I've learned the hard way not to discuss life before children (amongst other things), so I hold back if I can. I keep my heart for home. I'm no less honest. My only lies are the pretty lies that spring into existence when I keep my stories to myself or clothe the truth in poetry.

I'm beginning to think that my social experiences over the last seven years, taking place, as they have, almost exclusively amongst other homeschooling families, are somewhat skewed. As rich and diverse as that community is in my big city and as much as it has grown in size exponentially in that same period it is a small world; a sub-culture populated by adults and children alike who, as a rule, don't fit (or don't want to fit) the school mold for equally diverse reasons.

My lack of a true societal cross section aside, however, I've come to the view that the most 'normal' people are those that are most adept at presenting the face they want you to see. It's easy to mistake their manufactured charm for true intimacy or conversely, fail to recognise true intimacy because it comes to you as slick as a PowerPoint presentation. Wait around long enough and there will be glimpses, but only ever that.

The only face I have.

Allusions can be made. They should imply a 'colourful' past, not a sojourn in the fiery pits of hell. There should be space for a slightly nervous laugh; a raised eyebrow or two; tongue in cheek. Chances are they will not have the imagination to follow you to those dark places. Don't challenge them to offer you something more real than a sweet smile. There's really nothing wrong with sweet as long as you're not too invested in it.

Many would argue, but I consider myself better adjusted than most (or at least more self-aware). In retrospect, I feel fortunate that I had the opportunity to face my demons; take them out for dinner and a movie, ask them back for 'coffee', then explain in bed over a shared cigarette that it's been great, but I don't think we should see each other again. Most people just skirt the edges of their dysfunction. I say get dirty with it. Embrace it. Then, when you're ready, let it go.

Just don't talk about it. I've heard blogging can be cathartic though.

{this moment} - Brrrrrrrm...

2011-12-10T22:46:00.001+11:00

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want pause, savor and remember. - Soulemama

Things I Know - The (Very) Late Edition - 10 December 2011

2011-12-10T21:23:00.001+11:00

I'm linking up with Shae at Yay for Home!

As much as I believe in keeping the number of objects in our house to a comfortable minimum, I am still excited when new books arrive.

If you go to great trouble to trace a sewing pattern for a sleep mask from your computer screen, because your printer isn't working, you should put it somewhere safe while you're sewing or someone (not mentioning any names) may turn it into a snowflake (albeit a very pretty snowflake).

Looking up from cooking to find someone peering through the window is always creepy - even when it's just a needy spoodle (courtesy of a poorly placed chair).

I know that 1000 blog posts jostling for precedence in my mind is nearly as bad as none at all.

As ever, Christmas has me feeling mildly panicked. (And by "mildly", I mean "extremely".)

There is little point taking your camera out if you're not going to put the memory card back in it first.

I know that our new couch cover clashes with the drapes, but co-ordinates beautifully with the children. It seems a fair trade off.

I also know that this is the first and last time any of us will see it clean, unstained and without holes from cat claws. Soak it up. Our time is short.

Also, apparently I am now the sort of person who buys $25 shower curtains. What can I say? I was very tired; it was pretty; there were people enabling me...

I know that Wawa's latest comfort toy is going to be tricky to shove in my bag when she tires of carrying it about.

I know that a sore eye and a summer cold (inevitably coinciding with a grumpy toddler with a summer cold) can really make you feel worn out all over again.

I know that the metal Christmas tree that Rex' husband made is really beautiful.

Thank you and a Sore Eye

2011-12-08T22:19:00.001+11:00

Thank you for your comments on my last post. They were very kind. Excuse my absence over the last couple of days. My eye has been sore, so I'm resting it a bit, by looking at screens less. I had a bit of a self-indulgent whinge about the eye thing here which is great, because all that pathetic moaning is time-consuming and it'd be a shame to have to do it more than once.

Zero

2011-12-06T11:00:00.000+11:00

I don't compare myself to others in terms of life achievements. Most of us are born; we grow up; we develop; we have ups; we have downs; we pair up and we buy things. I'm being flippant, of course, but in a very broad sense, that's where most of the people I spend time with are at.

My life got stuck at the downs. It really did. It went down and down and down. In the space of about a year when I was around twenty-three, my anxiety and depression saw me made an involuntary patient in a psych hospital where I was given ECT (electric shock treatment) that stole my memories from me. I struggled to eat and weighed 39kg. I would sit in a toilet cubicle and scratch at my flesh with a sharpened stick, because it was the only thing that could offer respite from the agony I felt in my mind. I was transferred to another hospital where I was raped by another patient. Some time after I was released, the man I loved took his life and I soon returned there for more time behind closed doors.

There were moments when I came from ECT out under the stark summer sky with no sense of myself. No name. No love. No life. No beauty. No safety. No warm arms or soft lips. No poetry whispered through red wine slurs.

I consider that my starting point. Zero. I was born from an utter devastation of the spirit. And in thirteen years I got to here. Now.

So I don't compare myself to others in terms of life achievements. It's all relative. When I was a single parent, I would mostly just laugh at other women's occasional awkwardness or insensitivity, but the patronising words that often accompanied it always managed to poke me between ribs and even now makes me want to ask, 'What were you doing at thirteen?'

Am I a Blogger?

2011-12-05T10:02:00.001+11:00

I've realised that I love blogging. I really enjoyed writing every day during NaBloPoMo. It's also become clear to me that if I don't have to do it (even if it's a self-imposed 'have to'), I won't (or more accurately, I'll write some notes or begin a post and then probably never get back to it). On the flip side, I've also realised, as part of this rather odd process of re-testing my limits (now that I'm no longer crippled by gluten and casein-induced anxiety), that I can set myself a challenge and actually complete it.

Wow! Let me just think about that for a minute. I've been trying and failing to prove something (anything) all my life (I have NEVER not struggled. Seriously. NEVER) and in November, I set myself a challenge on a mad whim and I completed it. It certainly wasn't easy, but I completed it without tearing my life apart or having a breakdown or needing to retreat from the world at the end of it. Wow.

It was a weekend of revelations. As I went about exploring new bloggy vistas, it began to feel a little as if the Internet was speaking to me. Half of the posts I read seemed to have a message aimed square at my chest. It culminated in a post on Diminishing Lucy which I visited via The Rewind, a weekly link up that she hosted this weekend. She was explaining her advanced to-do list technique and how it helped her achieve her goals. I was thinking how impressive she was in a completely alien not-at-all-like-me, I-could-never-do-that kind of way. And then I went off to read other things until it slowly dawned on me, why the hell not? Who knows what I'm capable of now (or what I'll be capable of in a year or five)? Not me.

And so I'm writing a list (or several lists). Inspired by this post on And Then There Were Four which I also read on the weekend, I'm making a 52 in 52 list for 2012 and right near the top there, after some health-related stuff is "blog 5 days a week". I'm aiming to give myself the best chance of success by making it a weekly average so that I can catch up if I get behind and I'm starting early to give myself a bit of a run up.

Even as I write this, I'm thinking, "That sounds like a lot of work. I'm not sure I'm up to it." Maybe not, but I'm going to give it a try. I guess we'll see if the post-anxiety disorder me is a blogger.

{this moment} - Probably Not Mutual

2011-12-02T21:42:00.001+11:00

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want pause, savor and remember. - Soulemama

Things I Know - 2 December 2011

2011-12-02T10:53:00.001+11:00

I'm linking up with Shae at Yay for Home!

This week, I know...

Putting an unhappy toddler in water can sometimes hit the reset button on their day (and yours).

When you're ten and your family uses up the entire allotted Broadband allowance and your Internet is slowed to dial up speed three days before the end of the month, it is a human tragedy of unequalled proportions.

When you're 37 or 40, you well probably find yourself responding to this human tragedy by sharing informative and helpful vignettes about the dark days before any of us had Internet (shudder). Apparently we have become our parents. Awesome...

I don't actually know for sure, but I think that Lofty (the crane) from Bob the Builder has a crush on Muck (the dump truck).

Also, it's possible we're watching too much children's TV on iView (see also Internet tragedy above). It's a slippery slope, people.

I have missed having a camera that works properly. It's good to be noticing the light.

Hypothetically speaking, I know that if one parent comes home late and leaves a full bag of corn chips sitting on the bench in plain sight, the other parent's first task of the day will be to deal with a two year old demanding "crackers" for breakfast.

I also know that, always one to choose her battles, said parent will put the banana back in the fruit bowl and serve up a pile of chips in lieu of cereal, especially since said parent already promised the ten year old that she could have left over pizza for breakfast. (Hypothetically speaking, of course.)

When I read and comment on more blog posts, I feel more engaged with others. When I write more blog posts, I feel more engaged with myself.

I know it's good to take a day off occasionally.

I also know it's awesome that Ali's back online after an extended break!

I Made it Through NaBloPoMo (More or Less)

2011-11-30T21:57:00.001+11:00

So, much to my surprise, I made it through NaBloPoMo. I did sign up at the very last minute, however, so I might try to keep going for a few more days (having missed the first few days). Then again, I might just go off and clean my house. (Maybe I'll blog about it! Yay!) Then I think there'll probably be a new goal.

I have to admit that I might just about be ready for a break. Last night was my closest call for the month. I think I posted to the blog at about 11.58pm, before realising that I'd spelled a word wrong in the title! Obliging myself to post daily, however, has helped me to improve in some of the areas that present as obstacles preventing me from writing more. Here are a few of them:

Busy-ness - Given that I am so busy just doing what needs to be done on any given day and given that I never, ever fit everything that needs to be done into any given day, it's difficult to justify spending time on anything that doesn't directly benefit my family.

Obviously, this is complete rubbish. I do my family no favours if I fail to care for my mind and spirit, any more than if I were to fail to care for my body. Not to mention the messages I send to my family about my value or the model of womanhood and motherhood I present to my children.

Distractions - There are always a lot of them. My family have been very supportive of my blogging for the last month. I have felt comfortable sharing many of the posts I've written with Ni and she has taken to asking me each night if the day's post is suitable for her to read. Doot has also been following happily along. Having said that, sometimes their desires stand in the way of my ability to blog. I have learned this month that this is not a reflection of their opinion of me, or the time I spend writing, it just tells me that right at that moment, they're not thinking about what I'm doing at all. I have taken to gently saying something like, "Can you get that yourself, please? I just need to focus on this blog post, because it's important to me." Sometimes I need to repeat it. That's okay too.

A not so rare sighting of the

Common Green-Snouted Distraction.

Procrastination - The best cure for procrastination is just sitting the hell down and getting it done. A daily deadline helps make this happen. If, like me, you're someone who waits until the last minute to complete a task, daily blogging is a great remedy. Every minute is the last minute, more or less.

Preciousness - Sometimes I don't want to supercede a piece of writing that I'm particularly proud of. I finally installed one of those nifty widgets down below that throw up old posts. It helps me feel a little better about having my best posts spiral off into oblivion. I ignore the fact that it also rescues my worst posts from oblivion.

Loneliness - Sometimes blogging can feel like singing out into the inhospitable dark, not knowing if anyone is there to hear. Sometimes it can feel like the exact opposite of that.

Perfectionism - I find it very healthy to constantly challenge my tendency to sink into the mire of perfectionism. If you post daily, you can't afford to lament that you don't have a great photo to illustrate a post (or a camera to take one with). You can't afford to get too OCD about proof-reading. It's a personal blog. No one worth bothering with cares if there's the odd error (hopefully it's not in the title, however).

Self-consciousness - As a rule, I worry too much about other people's opinions. This month more than ever, I just wrote what I wanted to, because I really didn't have time to wonder if anyone would actually want to read it or not. Michael said it best in a recent post, "What I have to say is important. It is. I don't expect it to be important to everyone, but it is something that matters to me now." That simple statement resonated with me. I really love it when people read what I write. It motivates me to write more, but in the end, I need to write to please myself, because trying to please others is a fool's game.

In the future, I'd like to work more on planning and working ahead. When I began the challenge, I thought the only way I could make it through was if I could manage to write enough early on, so that I would have a post or two in reserve if inspiration failed me. That's not how things transpired, however. In fact, there wasn't a single day during the month where I actually had a post completed ahead of time. Often I didn't know what I was going to write when I sat down in the evening. Sometimes that was quite evident.

It'd also be great to put aside some time earlier in the day to do some writing before I get too tired and fuzzy-headed.

With that, I'll leave you as fuzzy-headedness undeniably descends.

Thank you for reading. I am very grateful.

PROMPTuesday - Letters

2011-11-29T22:45:00.001+11:00

Do you ever wonder what saved you? What it was that kept you going through the darkest nights of adolescence and beyond to allow you to end up where you are today; a seeker, but a seeker with a strong heart and a snippet or two of wisdom tucked into your jeans pocket. I think it may be the curse of the survivor to ponder such things.

The answer? A handful of people; some luck; a tendency to submit and seek approval and music, music and more music. One of those people and the purveyor of some of that music was one of the pen friends I exchanged letters, tapes and phone calls with when I was around fifteen or sixteen.

Her name was Maura; she lived in Hicksville, NY and she was one of only three people I've ever known who really understood and shared my passion for music.

By way of her Tuesday prompt, San Diego Momma asks if you've ever "found old letters". As it happens, before we moved, I found a folder full of Maura's letters spanning a three or four year period of our adolescence that had somehow survived numerous moves, purges and de-clutters. This evening, with SDM's prompt in mind, I pulled them out and began to read, wondering what it was about Maura and those letters that had been so very important to me. Mostly they're just long, really lovely rambles about music, boys, friends and more music. I think as much as anything, it was enough to know that whatever happened, I always had one friend half a world away who would be happy to hear from me.

At around the time my life began to slowly collapse in on itself and our correspondence petered out, she wrote, "Well anyway, what are your dreams? Tell me. I really would love to hear them." It touched me to read that, looking backwards through time. I can't imagine that anyone else in my life would ever have thought to ask such a thing.

Maura didn't die from lack of sleep as she once predicted. She left Hicksville (you'd have to really, wouldn't you?) and now, feeling strangely awkward about it, I follow her on Twitter (@maura) and don't understand a fraction of what she says since she is all New York and pop culture and awesomeness and I am all homeschooling and attachment parenting and home made deodorant (and also awesomeness). But I will always be grateful to her for caring what my dreams were when even I was having trouble keeping hold of them.

I also wish that I'd remembered her sage advice. It would have saved me a lot of trouble.

The Best Tantrum Ever

2011-11-28T21:55:00.001+11:00

Wawa has been playing with this cute wooden train set. She is drawn to it, as she is to wheeled objects of all kinds. Nevertheless, it frustrates her every time she plays with it. The simple magnetic couplings annoys her 50% of the time when she happens to put like poles together. She seems to understand that when this happens she needs to turn the carriage around, but usually her frustration boils over before she makes it that far. There are also frequent misalignments of track and catastrophic derailments to push her from contented choo-choos to wailing laments or unbridled screeches.

I like the toy. It's a good one; not one of those toys that is all colour and flash, but never works the way it should. It's just a toy that needs to be put away for a few months and brought out again when magnetic couplings and tracks that need to be arranged with care to prevent catastrophic derailments will hold greater charms for her. Right now, however, she feels compelled to play with the train set and she misses it when it's not sitting in its basket in her little corner. As a rule, I'm inclined to follow her lead in most things and so the set stays for now.

When she is frustrated or upset (or enraged, for that matter), she often throws objects. This is not entirely impulsive, as she will often systematically throw pieces of track, engines and carriages one by one in different directions and once her anger is spent, she will ask for help to collect and reconstruct the track. If I happen to be close to hand when her tantrum begins, I know that firm, soothing skin to skin touch and quick redirection can help, but her anger will be simmering.

Like most two year olds, she expresses her emotions vocally, if not verbally, and when she is very, very upset; so upset, she cannot contain her feelings, she will sometimes shove alarmingly large (or small) objects into her mouth or hold them against her chest with her chin.

Ironically, it's when she is tired and least able to absorb life's challenges that she is most drawn to the train set. As one tantrum runs into another, I attempt to divert her with another toy. She invariably responds with, "More trains! More trains!" before returning to the sobbing and yelling and throwing.

It is then, when she is trapped between her compulsion to play with those trains and her inability to cope with their limitations, that I impose myself upon her more forcefully. I pick her up; quickly and quietly pack the trains into their basket and carry her off to the bedroom where milk and sleep can soothe her.

This morning, a now familiar scene was playing itself out on the rug. Wawa was becoming increasingly frustrated. Those trains simply wouldn't behave for her. Finally, she'd had enough. She wailed angrily, picked up a segment of track and held it above her head for a moment then unexpectedly brought it down into the basket. She then proceeded to grab up every train, carriage and track segment one by one and angrily push them into the basket. When she'd done, all that frustration had flowed away into the basket with the trains. She paused for a second then looked at me impassively and asked, "More trains?". So we set them up again, although I did suggest that she might like to throw another tantrum with some of the mess on the other side of the room first.

There is some hope, it seems, that she'll one day develop impulse control. In the meantime, we'll just continue to duck.

Manic Scurrying May Not Be the Answer

2011-11-27T22:23:00.001+11:00

I may have left my run too late tonight. I am capital tee, eye, are, ee, dee. We had a good day though. One of those days where all those things we talk about really do begin to seem possible.

I'm finding a new kind of pace. I'm losing that desperate sense that there's just not enough time to get everything done; that my only hope is to scurry about madly during every unencumbered minute. There really isn't enough time to get everything done, of course, but I'm embracing the radical notion that manic scurrying may not be the answer.

Ni helped make Thai Green Chicken Curry for dinner last night and today we made our family staple, Fried Rice, together. Cooking with my daughter has become one of my favourite things to do. Now we just need to get Wawa involved.

Suddenly, Ni is very easy to teach in the kitchen where not so very long ago, the two of us were all resistance versus push. Letting go and trusting her; showing her my way of doing things, then encouraging her to find her own way has helped. Learning that I don't have to grasp everything with white knuckles to keep us safe and well any more is allowing me to become a better guide. Slowly. Letting her take her time to find and follow her passions within healthy boundaries and mindfully avoiding sensory overload, rather than rushing her from place to place is allowing her to feel her own formidable presence. Now we just need to translate all of that to maths and there'll be no stopping us.

Wet, Wet, Wet

2011-11-26T21:11:00.001+11:00

Today was wet; from beginning to end; from tip to toe; inside and out.

Rain fell all day with soft pitters and plashes against the windows or miniature raging rivers running from the eaves onto the concrete with clattering splashes. We hunkered down; cooked and cleaned and read and made music and the day flowed away from us.

From the outset, Ni and I felt dampened in body, if not spirit and Wawa seemed a little the same. "Coming down with something?" we'd have asked once. Now it's always, "What did we eat?"

Content enough to stay indoors all day, Wawa nevertheless found herself drawn to water. She joined me in the shower first thing. I put the plug in so she could play at my feet and she set to work immediately. When I got out, I ran some more water to make the bath a little warmer and deeper, then imposed upon Ni to sit with her, so that I could make pancakes for breakfast.

After some noisy sister time, Doot relieved Ni as sentry and ate his pancakes by the bath, feeding our steadily wrinkling little one from his plate as she played. Then I took over once more as he headed off to bed, having finished an overnight shift a couple of hours before.

Once out, towel-wrapped and sleek, Wawa followed drier pursuits for a while, but before long she was to be found pouring water back and forth in her little wooden play kitchen. (Or rather her sister's very much-loved kitchen, becoming Wawa's ever-so-slowly by grace of the irresistible force of passing time and childhood's eventual inevitable wane.)

Then there was drawing and playing and reading to be done, but when her sister stepped into the shower this afternoon, there she was, eager not to miss a single drop. During her second lengthy bath of the day, Doot awoke to find her seemingly still bathing. "Tell me she hasn't been in there all day!" he demanded jokingly, with just a hint of genuine doubt in his voice.

Later there was more messy drawing on a white board with paint markers, then naturally she decided it was time to wash away the inky fruits of her labours. An extended splashy, soapy session ensued in the basin, ending with wall to wall water and an unusually clean, floral-scented toddler.

I recognise the primal force in all of us to return, at times, to the water from whence we came. This is especially true for the littlest of us who haven't yet learned to suppress their nature. I have felt it calm my senses and still my tumultuous mind and whenever practical, I try not to deny its kindnesses to my children, even if that ancient craving for ebb and flow finds its fulfillment in a bath tub full of river stones and plastic ducks rather than in an ocean at the edge of the world.

{this moment} - Silly Boodle

2011-11-25T19:59:00.001+11:00

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want pause, savor and remember. - Soulemama

Things I Know - 25 November 2011

2011-11-25T18:57:00.001+11:00

Today I know...

If I don't write something early in the day, I'll find myself only capable of writing a post about how blindingly exhausted I am.

I'll be happy to have our activities over for the year.

Forty-five minutes is a long drive for a piano lesson.

It really only takes a single day for a kitchen to go from pristine to squalid.

My sweet baby woke up singing this morning. I know I'd like to wake up with a song on my lips, even if it is the theme from Bob the Builder.

While I believe them to be the devil's invention and clearly I should have hidden them somewhere more appropriate, I know that textas/markers can keep a toddler occupied long enough to write a short blog post, which is quite a long time, relatively speaking.

I know that a broody hen paints a formidable portrait of devoted motherhood.

I know that it's not necessarily a bad thing that today did not go to plan. While searching for an urgently needed computer disk in the yet to be unpacked boxes in the storeroom (a half day undertaking), I found the charger for my old Olympus point and shoot camera, so now I have something other than an iPod with which to take photos. Yay! (And yes, I know how long ago we moved in - I'm working slow and steady.)

Apparently, beloved dead guinea pigs make awesome fertiliser.

Gratitude

2011-11-24T21:02:00.001+11:00

As a rule, we don't celebrate Thanksgiving in Australia. Of course, we don't have the rich historical context to add a layer of resonance to the occasion, but gratitude is good, so Thanksgiving is one holiday I can fairly happily misappropriate. Here are a few things I'm feeling thankful for tonight:

My wonderful children who keep me striving to be better.

My partner; the magical way we balance one another and the willingness we both have to change.

His job that he loves; that feeds his spirit and pays our bills.

Our spoodle, who has been such a challenge over the past eight months, but who is fiercely loyal, tolerant and protective of our children and has forged a unique relationship with each member of the family.

Kitty, good, patient Kitty, the ultimate low maintenance pet, who has never raised a claw to our children, in spite of frequent over-enthusiastic demonstrations of affection.

Our chickens, who turn our scraps and weeds into eggs and give us their poo to help us grow food. I never want to be without chickens again.

This home; full of love and light and beauty and colour and best of all, us.

Its beautiful garden and its previous occupants who planted it - the flowers that keep popping up unexpectedly, the bounty of fruit and vegetables that nourish us and the grass where our children run and play.

Our lovely, lovely dishwasher.

Our friends and family who do their best to be good to us.

The peace that I am beginning to find after far too long searching.

This blog and all who sail in her.

Happy Thanksgiving to our American friends.

A Mother-Daughter Tale

2011-11-23T22:03:00.001+11:00

Almost every night since she was tiny, I have read aloud to Ni before she goes to sleep. If we have time, it will be a graduating series of books (from picture books to non-fiction to novel) designed to help her with the ever-challenging task of winding down each evening. There have been periods where, by necessity, this has been a lengthy process. Lately we have been staying up later than we should, enjoying our respective passions in the quiet of the post-toddler evening. As Ni is better equipped to calm herself now that she is older, we often truncate our reading to just the essential, shared novel.

For a few years now, we've enjoyed reading a series of books or an author's catalogue. There's been Harry Potter (of course), Carole Wilkinson's Dragonkeeper series, The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings, the long and much adored Neil Gaiman's children's books and Laura Ingalls Wilder's wonderful Little House books. While I was pregnant with Wawa, we read Phillip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy. The protagonist of those books is a rather beautifully rendered, spirited, courageous, loyal and strong young girl. She might even be able to give you a hint as to Wawa's real name if you ever find yourself curious.

For some time now, we've been reading L.M. Montgomery's books, starting with the lovely Anne of Green Gables. She has taken us on a journey through Anne's enchanted girlhood right through to her life as a wife and middle-aged mother. These have been wonderful books for a mother and daughter to share. It's as if Anne begins as Ni's protagonist and becomes mine. Then we come full circle as the books begin to focus on the adventures of her children.

We have one more to read in the Anne series, Rilla of Ingleside, which apparently focuses on Anne's youngest child. I joke that if we continue, we'll find ourselves reading Anne of the Retirement Village. While waiting for the last book to arrive, we moved on to Montgomery's Pat of Silver Bush. What a lovely surprise it proved to be. Pat is as loveable as our dear Anne and is, without doubt, "a kindred spirit". Every time Wawa demands milk, Ni joyfully joins us on the couch to sneak in a little extra reading time. Much to my annoyance, I have also caught her trying to convince Wawa to ask for milk while I am busy doing other things. It has been a while since we felt so engaged with a book. I have particularly happy memories of half days spent in bed reading Harry Potter and an urgent dash to the shops for the next book in the series.

I am noticing only now how many of those books we have read most recently feature ordinarily extraordinary girls coming of age. It's as if we are being drawn to the tales we will soon need to gently set us down ready for the next slightly thrilling chapter in our mother-daughter tale.

I Am Your Hummingbird

2011-11-22T21:07:00.001+11:00

In some ways, she's still so much the little girl, lost in her own world, except now she has ear buds carefully in place to facilitate the ride. This is her meditation. It always has been.

There has always been swing swing swinging or bounce bounce bouncing or, ugh, spin, spin, spinning. She's a proprioceptive seeker. Her brain finds peace in movement. I can relate.

Don't tell me I must rest; my body at rest is my brain in turmoil, unless it's on my terms.

Every now and again Doot looks wistful, becomes misty-eyed and says, "I'd just love to sit on the couch together; snuggle up and watch a movie." I shake my head, sigh, look away. "That'd be great..." I say, "...if you WANT me to get all depressed and DIE! Geez!" Instead he and his brother meet at their mother's house for movie nights every week or so. I suspect that there's less snuggling than Doot would like, but I'm accepting that I can't be all things to all people and apparently, so is Doot, however reluctantly.

This is me during the worst year of my life; 1998 - the year THP died. The photo was taken by Doot. It was also the year he and I met. Can anyone say, "awesome timing"? I spent a fair bit of time in the psych hospital that year. It was also the only year of my life I had cable TV (thanks to Doot). This is no coincidence. I would lie on the couch for semi-catatonic hour after semi-catatonic hour and watch Rugrats and CatDog on Nickelodeon. There was always something vaguely watchable to help keep the enormity of tragedy on the periphery of my battered mind.

Now I am the hummingbird to Doot's sloth. My hummingbird is calm amidst a blur of movement. Ni is more of a Pacman, joyfully frenetic, with hand-eye coordination to match.

I'm not sure where Wawa fits yet, she seems to have a balance the rest of us lack, but at 6pm on a rainy night when my two year old tells me she needs to be outside jumping on her trampoline, I break out the coats. I learned the hard way.

Tired

2011-11-21T21:06:00.001+11:00

I'm tired tonight. Surprise! I just wish I could shake this feeling of being worn out. Honestly? This is about more than tiredness or a challenging month or even a challenging year (let alone a challenging lifetime). I really need to find a doctor who'll work with me on getting my health to where I want it to be. I'm still struggling to get our diet right for us. It's really not normal to sit down to a bowl of home made soup for lunch and immediately feel like I need a nap afterwards.

But!...We did stuff today. Look! Here's some bad iPod pictures of nice organised homeschooly type stuff being done, in case you think I just lounge about pondering the important questions and then blog about them. (Sometimes I muse as well and yesterday, I'm pretty sure I mulled over a couple of things.)

I don't believe for a second that anybody really wants to read my ramblings every damn day, but I can definitely see the benefit (to me) in establishing a daily writing habit. It certainly gets easier and I think I would get better at it eventually. Surely? Although, I might possibly be best served writing blog posts of substance before I try for something more substantial than a blog post. (Insert cheesy grin.)

My Baby's Back, Hey La, Hey La, My Baby's Back

2011-11-20T23:22:00.001+11:00

On Thursday, Wawa awoke from more than just sweet toddler dreams about trucks and puppies. During the night, she had finally escaped the after effects of her vaccination nearly a month ago. Most notably, screaming at the slightest provocation was replaced by normal toddler expressions of frustration. She also woke up hungry for food and not just for breast milk.

Quite literally, her vocabulary seemed to have undergone a couple of months' worth of development in a single night. I asked her a question and was surprised and delighted as she strung together a sweet rudimentary baby sentence, earnestly delivered with a nod of affirmation at the end for emphasis. She is explaining all manner of fabulous thing to us and expressing her wishes most eloquently and sweetly.

She had a grumpy, teary, needy day on Friday after an early morning phone call woke her before she was ready. Over the weekend, however, she has continued to delight us all. She is singing and dancing and prancing and laughing about the place. Suddenly and much to my surprise she seems to know every word to songs she's been hearing for weeks and months.

She sat on the rug today and put together a wooden train track and played quietly with the trains off and on all afternoon, complete with chugging and tooting sound effects. Last night she did not wake, hungry, at 4am, but slept from around 1am to 7.30am and I can't tell you what a difference that makes.

Did I mention last night that the last few months have been hard? Because seriously, they've been HARD, but tonight my house is halfway to being clean and we have all eaten good nutritious food and suddenly all things are beginning to feel possible again.

My Brain is a Fractal

2011-11-19T22:23:00.001+11:00

My brain is a fractal today. It's one of those days of the month; in the cycle of me, where I aim to keep my peace, but seldom succeed. I've done okay today, but there's still time (and a blog post to be written).

I've been cleaning; making progress; cooking; pretending I'm organised, although the mess that is my home belies the truth. I've hurt a bit and worried about my health. Some time in the last few months, I went from feeling like a stupid kid, struggling to keep up; desperate just to be taken seriously, to feeling middle aged and left behind. I'm sure I've missed a step somewhere.

This has been the year of moving house and having a toddler (reinventing herself daily when she wasn't just being unwell); a ten year old growing to fit the world; and a new/old partner. I've remoulded our lives to allow him a space; let down metre thick concrete walls to love and be loved and in the process, made myself a better, more patient person. All of it it has demanded focus close to home. In spite of all my musings and conclusions on friendship and isolation, I just couldn't have been a good friend these last few months. I couldn't have made new friends; I know I'd only have drawn more bullshit to me and I've allowed more than enough of that into my life in the name of friendship. Lately people just make me tired.

Sometimes you need the opportunity to look inward, rather than seeing yourself always reflected through others' eyes, especially eyes tainted by their own journey never taken. Sometimes you need to be still and quiet so you can feel your own heart beating in your chest. So this is me creating irony out of thin air by blogging my quietude. This is me learning how to be. Sometimes I am a contradiction.

{this moment} - Water

2011-11-18T22:14:00.001+11:00

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want pause, savor and remember. - Soulemama

Things I Know - 18 November 2011

2011-11-18T21:11:00.001+11:00

I feel like I've been treading water my whole life. Now I know it's time to swim or fly or soar like an eagle or some other equally high-five-inspiring simile.

Money might not buy happiness, but having enough of it sure makes happiness feel more attainable. For instance, I'm feeling pretty happy knowing that all our bills will be paid next week. Yay!

Big mall shopping is not fun, but it's bearable if everyone keeps smiling.

Growing food for my family is one of the most useful and satisfying things I've ever done.

I have the friendships I deserve. If I want better friendships; I need to be a better friend.

I know I need to sleep more.

The Clutter Chronicles - Respect Your Anxiety

2011-11-17T10:04:00.001+11:00

I liken this journey of simplifying our home and our lives to peeling the layers from an onion one by one. Each time I go back over old ground, I peel back another layer to reveal something slightly sweeter and more essential.

It has been a slow process. With each layer there are new lessons to be learned, assimilated, lived and sometimes learned again. I wonder what I will ultimately find when all the layers have been peeled away. Perhaps the process continues in one form or another all our lives as we learn to let go of geriatric hurts and corrosive habits.

For some, de-cluttering or simplifying will be nothing more than a response to an over-accumulation of possessions. For others, however, it will be a journey of the spirit and will, perhaps result in permanent, far-reaching change. Either way, let the journey be what it will be. Give it time to unfold. Focus on making steady progress, rather than meeting specific time-based goals.

Which brings us to anxiety, an unwieldy topic if ever there was one, but one we ignore at our peril, because for many of us, anxiety of some form lies near the heart of our clutter problem. We use those onion layers as insulation against fear. Most notably, the fear of not having enough. No amount of "de-cluttering' or "getting organised" is going to facilitate long-lasting change if we are not prepared to look deeper than our overflowing cupboards.

A few years ago, at her request, I spent many hours over several months helping my mother sort, store and discard hoards of possessions, like old calenders that she thought "might be worth something", plastic shopping bags full of soap and drawers of unused stationery.

It was an awful, dusty, overwhelming job and just a few months later her house was more cluttered than it had been when we began. Pushing herself to "get rid of stuff", as she put it, triggered a period of even greater accumulation and general chaos in her environment.

She recently repeated the process, enlisting the help of one of her sisters. This time the job needed to be completed more quickly as my mother was moving. At the end of it all, she seems upset that she was pushed to give away things she wanted to keep and worries that so many of her things now seem to be missing.

My advice is to respect your anxiety. Don't let it be in charge. Challenge yourself, but understand that it is a powerful force and needs to be handled with some care.

You can read more on clutter here.

PROMPTuesday - How to Be a Good Friend and Have Good Friends

2011-11-16T21:27:00.001+11:00

As tempting as it was to write another post about shopping (animal supplies and the supermarket today - Yay!) I've been wanting to join in with San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday for a while now. I used to participate back in the day and have wanted to re-join the fray for some months, but I was waiting for the perfect prompt. Every week it's been: too hard; too time-consuming; too sad; too silly; too boring; OMG! You can't be serious! and so on. Then today, she said the magic words, "laundry list". I'm definitely at the list stage of NaBloPoMo. (It comes right after denial and anger and just before bargaining.)

The prompt is to "...laundry list something that sounds complicated..." (but maybe shouldn't be.) Remember when you were five and you were at the park? You'd just run up to another kid who was about the same size as you and say, "Wanna play?" and they'd say, "Ok" and then you were friends. It's more complicated when you're a grown up, but it really shouldn't be as complicated as it is.

So here it is: How to Be a Good Friend and Have Good Friends with the disclaimer that I am in no way an authority on this subject. In fact the opposite is probably true, so this is partly advice to myself and partly reminders of what I should expect and tolerate from others.

Make time. If your friendships matter to you, make time for them. Even if you're busy or tired or stressed, if you value your friends, you'll put aside an hour for a coffee and a chat.

Conversely, as Mark Twain said, "Never allow someone to be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option."

There are friends and there are friends. Don't confuse the two.

Support your friends' endeavours, even if they're not your thing.

Recognise that our efforts are relative. If you live on ten acres and have an orchard, you should still be able to muster enthusiasm for a friend's backyard herb garden.

There's no quota on success. Be happy for your friends' achievements. They take nothing from you.

Common ground is important.

Helping goes both ways. If you have a friend who is always happy to offer help, they're probably a very nice person, but if they won't accept help in return, they're a charity, not a friend. (And vice versa.)

Make sure you have something to offer.

Sri Sathya Sai Baba said, "Before you speak, think - Is it necessary? Is it true? Is it kind? Will it hurt anyone? Will it improve on the silence?" If you often find yourself saying things about a person that you wouldn't say to their face, they are probably not your friend. Further, if you have a friend who spends much of their time gossiping about others, you're probably not the exception to their rule. Don't travel the low road with them.

Even if you really like someone, don't ignore the signs. Follow your instincts.

Find the balance between honesty and confrontation.

Make your expectations clear. Be assertive.

Have your priorities clear. Maintain healthy boundaries.

Remember who you are. Don't give friends the power to define you.

Be both reliable and understanding.

LISTEN!

Expect the same in return.

I'm not sure that this list simplifies anything at all, really. I'd love to hear what you would add. I need all the help I can get.

Big Fat Raspberries

2011-11-15T21:41:00.001+11:00

Most days I don't even notice how tired I am until I leave the house and try to converse with the humans out there. Then I feel it bouncing off them in waves and I just want to sit down where I am and breathe deep.

These are the days when it's more difficult to have something to say here. There are words of substance ordering themselves slowly, painstakingly, but most days I don't have the processing power to line them up in those neat little rows, bookended by capital letters and full stops, so we're left with, well...me, I guess.

Ni, Wawa and I stubbornly avoided going out today, in spite of shopping and errands that needed doing. Ni was lethargic and emotional after yesterday's adventure and I felt the tiredness oozing out of me just thinking about herding the children into the car.

Ni finds shopping exhausting.

Wawa feels it has redeeming features.

Right now while my little one is feeling like a raw nerve and needing more of all I have to give, it feels right to be a little quieter; to not push so hard; to choose my battles. These times are as essential to life as those days of great rollicking joys. And oh, there are so many sweet moments even amidst the endless challenges.

There's sunlight and the sweetest little girl 'reading' Hop on Pop to us and knowing the crux of every page by heart, though half the words are not yet part of her vocabulary and a wonderful, adoring big sister, reveling in that sweet little girl and so much cuteness it could bury you alive.

Literal and metaphorical growing pains for that big girl present new challenges every day, but they come with this astounding process of blossoming that makes me smile and terrifies me all at the same time. She is embarking on her own journey now.

And, People, there are raspberries growing in our backyard. Raspberries! Ah, be still my beating heart. Bestow thy voluptuous, ruby red kiss upon my waiting lips.

But no one I meet in coming or going has time for such bloggish ramblings. It's all, "Right! There's no such thing as just tired. Tiredness reflects an underlying problem. Hush now while I explain how to chip, chip, chip away at those children until you have them more conveniently shaped."

Sometimes it's just a bit of tiredness that can be dealt with best by being quiet and gentle and kind while eating just-picked, sun-warmed raspberries.

Thank you for reading.

I Didn't Change the World Today

2011-11-14T23:02:00.001+11:00

Our tax return arrived. I discovered it within minutes of it landing in our account. I've been checking for it. Now we can let that stale suspenseful breath out for a little while at least. It's not over yet though. We know it's only a matter of time, but we can't help feeling the injustice of it all. I'm trying to let it inspire, but sometimes it feels like a noose. We're always one minor disaster away from falling. We had every reason to believe that our hard work was about to pay off and now it seems that we have a few more months of tight-rope walking ahead of us yet.

I'm just a bit tired, really. At least the end is in sight and these lean times are a good training ground for us to make our dreams real over the next few years.

Poor baby, Wawa, is still grumpy and off colour after her last vaccination a few weeks ago. I realised today what a challenging few months this has been for all of us. Wawa hasn't felt good for more than a week between vaccinations and cold after cold after cold. Our house moving spanned that whole period. There are still boxes in the store room to waiting to be unpacked. I just hope she feels well soon and resumes her happy toddlerhood. Seeing her unhappy and clingy for so long hurts my heart and wears me down.

The arrival of our tax return meant that I could make a couple of purchases that we've been putting off. One was Wawa's first pair of summer sandals. I opted for independence over natural materials, so Ni, Wawa and I headed off to the Croc shop at the behemoth mall half an hour away.

What an experience! Going there reminded me how small we have made our world and why. I think we all felt overwhelmed. I shelter myself amongst somewhat like-minded people and pretend that we are a cross-section, but we're not.

Wawa seemed a little disconcerted by the whole shoe buying process, but she wore her Crocs home and spent a good half hour putting them on and taking them off, so I think she likes them well enough.

Ni bought a couple of Jibbitz, little plastic decorations that fit in the holes on top of the Crocs. They were loose in sectioned bins with only a tiny bar code attached.

While I was distracted, the woman in the shop put the Jibbitz onto this card...

...and then into this plastic bag.

I was too worn out to tell her she could keep her gratuitous packaging. Some days I just can't seem to muster the energy to change the world.

Arny Ann

2011-11-13T21:06:00.001+11:00

Some time during the last year, I finally found myself able to forgive my mother for all the things she did and didn't do think or feel while I was growing up. I forgave her for laughing at me and competing with me; for being disloyal; for not loving me enough and for a million other slights perceived and real. And after all that worn out hurt and anger washed away, there was only compassion left.

My mother hasn't had the best time of things, but she doesn't ask much of life, so she does okay. It took her a very long time to get over my dad leaving her, even though he was never very kind. Now she's living an hour and a half away and she's not been well. I worry that she's lonely, but I know that she's living in the place where her soul rests and that she waited a long time for the chance.

Today she called to tell me that her nephew, my cousin, had died suddenly of what looks like a heart attack. He was 47, ten years older than me, so I had little to do with him growing up and I haven't seen him for years. I remember him as a mysterious, fascinating and slightly frightening teenage boy. He had a confusing poster on his bedroom wall of a barely dressed woman draped over a sleek car.

As an adult, he still called my mum 'Arny Ann' and would wrap his arm around her shoulder, grin cheekily and give her a squeeze, then make a joke and laugh too loudly and she would look embarrassed and pleased. When most other members of her large family were brushing her aside, he invited only her to his wedding, because she was the only one who seemed to care. She was chuffed to the core at that. I'd say it was one of her brightest moments.

Today there was no hint of the melodrama that usually accompanies her announcements of a death, even when they're tempered with grief. She just sounded defeated and worn out and sad and I wish she was closer so I could put my arm around her shoulders and give her a squeeze tonight.

Penguins and Fish Custard

2011-11-12T10:43:00.001+11:00

I've been awake since 4am with Wawa. With one thing and another, I got to sleep after 12.30am. That's...um...minus the three; carry the one...Ah! Got it!...Not enough sleep! That's the price I pay for her early night.

She's 'reading' The Cat in the Hat at the moment. I was reading it to her, but she was dissatisfied with my rendering. She may have disliked my additions to the story where the cat was arrested for trespass; the fish took out an Apprehended Violence Order against the cat and the Department of Human Services had a thing or two to say to the children's mother about the children being left alone 'All that cold, cold, wet day.'

In addition, while breastfeeding Wawa for what felt like several days, I left rambling, semi-lucid comments all over the Internet. Apparently ~~exhaustion induced delirium~~ tiredness makes me ~~insane~~ chatty. Lucky Internet!

I gave Wawa some brown rice puffs and a banana and then made chocolate custard for myself, while she watched Playschool on iView. Frequent blogging is helping me recognise a pattern of poor nutrition this week. Sigh. Yay frequent blogging! Since, in my mind, the word, 'breakfast' implies having woken after several hours sleep, let's just call what I had 'a nap', so we can call the custard, 'dessert', which I had after dinner. There, now i feel much better.

Here's the recipe in case you, too, feel the need for dessert today. I can't pretend that this custard is in any way healthy or nutritious, but it is gluten, dairy and refined sugar free (if you want it to be). Note that measurements are metric.

You need:-

3 cups (750ml) of rice milk - Any milk will work. I've also used cow, almond and coconut.

120g of honey - 120g of cane sugar works equally well, it just tends to disagree with me. (It says that custard is not an appropriate breakfast food. I say, "Shut up! I'm making dessert.")

40g of cocoa - Raw cocoa or cocao is full of lovely anti-oxidants and whatnot, but our budget won't stretch that far at present.

40g of cornflour - If you're gluten free, watch that your cornflour is actually made from corn. A lot of cornflour is actually made from wheat. In Australia, it will be labeled, 'wheaten cornflour' or similar. To my mind, this seems a little like buying potato chips, only to find they've been made from carrots, but what do I know?

Gently heat 2 cups (500ml) of the milk in a medium saucepan. Add the honey and stir. Don't let it boil.

Meanwhile, sift the cocoa and cornflour into a smallish bowl. Stop yourself from accidentally pouring the remaining 1 cup (250ml) of milk into the sifter as the result of exhaustion and instead add it to the cocoa and cornflour, whisking until smooth.

When the milk and honey is hot, add the cocoa mixture quickly and continue to whisk until the custard thickens.

If you want to serve the custard in smaller bowls or containers, it's usually best to do it now as it will form a skin on standing. My serving suggestion is to slop it into a bowl, garnish with extra love and eat with a runcible spoon (or a tea spoon if you don't happen to have the runcible sort handy). Conversely, if you're a Doctor Who fan like my daughter, feel free to serve with fish.

I usually like to make a double (or possibly an octuple batch) so there'll be more for later.

Here's a few beautifully styled, artfully grainy iPod photos to give you a feel for the dish. I call the first one, 'The Custard Was Delicious'.

Here's a close up.

And here's an arty one where I moved the spoon and positioned the iPod so there'd be some classy looking books in the background.

I'll leave you now. Wawa and I are going to watch a documentary on yurt construction and sustainable living on iView. In the end, Wendy helps Bob the Builder erect the yurt and Travis the tractor saves the day.

Hopefully I'll write something of substance when my brain begins to function (more) normally again. Penguin.

{this moment} - A Warm Body

2011-11-11T22:18:00.001+11:00

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

Inspired by SouleMama.

Things I Know - 11 November 2011

2011-11-11T16:25:00.001+11:00

More on clutter soon, but today I'm joining Shae at Yay for Home! for Things I Know.

Salad spinners make fabulous play things for two year olds.

You will tire of turning the handle on the salad spinner long before the two year old tires of counting and cheering.

Centrifugal forces are fascinating, whether you're two, ten or thirty-seven and whether it is demonstrated using sophisticated machines and blood products or plastic vegetables in a salad spinner.

Children will wake if you whisper too loudly in the kitchen, but will sleep through an electrician using power tools a few metres away.

Life is always better when you're sleeping in a clean, freshly made bed.

Dishwashers are awesome, but you still have to load them and turn them on for them to really be effective.

Writing a blog post every day for a week is really not as difficult as you might have built it up to be, provided you're prepared to let go of you're perfectionism. Just nineteen more to go.

Having Too Much

2011-11-10T22:27:00.000+11:00

Like most people I know, I've struggled with the issue of having too much. As far as problems go, it's one we often don't approach with the gravity it may warrant. After all, it is undoubtedly the by-product of living in abundance, at least for those of us in Westernised cultures.

It's only in the last couple of years that I have asked myself if that abundance, subsidised by developing nations and coming at a terrible cost to the earth, is really the blessing we assume it to be.

Further, for many in our own communities, that abundance doesn't manifest itself in better job security, higher pay, more education or improved nutrition. It is evidenced by the ability to purchase unhealthy convenience foods and poorly made electronics at seemingly inexpensive prices. It is a false affluence that leaves our children overwhelmed by a preponderance of toys and gadgets that neither meet nor respect their developmental needs.

A few years ago, I felt overwhelmed by our possessions, so I began the process of de-cluttering that continues for me today. What began as a desire for less has become a process of fundamentally changing the way we choose to live.

De-cluttering our lives has led to more benefits than I can count, many of them unexpected. We have begun to make space in our home for us to live well. As I feel inspired, I'd like to share some of the things I've learned and am learning along the way.

Thank you for reading.

Good Karma's Right of Reply

2011-11-09T22:17:00.000+11:00

Today has been the antidote to yesterday - good karma's right of reply.

Wawa is still grumpy and screamy, but let's gloss over that with these cute, but poor quality mobile phone pictures of her playing in the unused dog kennel, shall we?

Aw, look at that. She's sooo sweet. No evidence of screaminess there!

In the past, my efforts at cooking with Ni have met with mixed results. Today, inspired by Melissa at Vibrant Wanderings, I decided it was time to try again and what a difference a little time has made to my beautiful late bloomer! She made delicious fried rice for the whole family, deciding on ingredients, chopping and cooking with a minimum of assistance and instruction. And she did it all with genuine enthusiasm, which makes all the difference to her devoted teacher.

We all ate lunch together outside, then Ni and I planted tomatoes while Wawa played. Later, after Ni had done her school work, we painted river stones, inspired in part by, Color Me Katie. We made some for Wawa featuring simple shapes and colours and a few for ourselves as well.

This was the kind of day you dream of in your more idealistic moments as a homeschooler (usually right before reality intrudes).

And just to make a great day awesome, I ran out of time and ended up making pancakes for dinner!

Six...Seven...Six...Seven...Six...Dibby

2011-11-08T20:54:00.000+11:00

This day just got the better of me. There's only so much positivity I can muster in any 24 hour period and today's quota was utterly drained long before the sun went down. It was a typical Tuesday really, just sadder for some reason - tiredness perhaps.

All these petty sorrows accrued until I couldn't brush away their weight - awake too early; running late; surly ten-year-old raining on my attempt at happy hoop-la; driving; a friend not taking time; an acquaintance blustering and dismissive; feeling stupid and contagious - impotent; more failing to connect; following a grumpy toddler; giving her my energy; my love; my smiles; more driving; through the door with a tired, grumpy ten-year old and a still grumpy (always grumpy) toddler; more smiles; making allowances; attempts to cheer; giving the big girl her way in spite of her rudeness; yet more grumpiness in spite of the smiles and the allowances and the attempts at cheer and the getting of her way.

And that's it. I have nothing left to give. All that's left is an insurmountable pile of unpaid bills; never ending mess; a toddler still grumpy and screamy after her last vaccination along with a nagging fear that she may not recover herself and a ten year old who is such an amazing person, she regularly takes my breath away and who I adore with every last aching shred of my being, but who has always been so challenging to parent that I think I've been burnt out for her whole life.

And tomorrow I'll greet my children with a smile on my face and do it all again. And I really wouldn't trade it. Not for a second. Go Figure.

Doot just came in to tell me about Wawa counting money in the kitchen. "Six...seven...six...seven...six...dibby [truck]" and with a smile and a laugh, I remember who I am and that tomorrow will be better and I will be better and the bills will get paid eventually and that I went out and bought some river pebbles to paint with my children tomorrow and there are much worse ways to spend your days.

Thank you for reading.

Dumb Days

2011-11-07T19:38:00.001+11:00

Yesterday was one of those dumb days that just compounds exponentially as it goes on. It began before 4am. Or was that the previous day ending? It's difficult to tell when you're barely conscious.

Wawa has been regularly napping late in the day, running her nap through bedtime to the morning, waking (only partially) for milk and a quick nappy change when it's deemed necessary. This is quite nice, as it makes for a less demanding evening and allows me to experience the novelty of feeling productive on occasion.

The drawback is that sometimes she stirs at around stupid o'clock, ravenously hungry, particularly if she slept through or wasn't interested in dinner the night before. Then she feeds and feeds and feeds; then drifts off; then stirs and feeds some more, which is not conducive to restful sleep on my part. This will pass soon enough and I don't generally view it as a problem.

Yesterday, however, she fed and fed and fed; then demanded "more" from the other breast; then fed and fed and fed; then demanded "more" from the other breast. I drowsily offered her the first breast again. She rejected it in outrage, chanting, "More! More! More!" I offered her the second breast again. "More! More! More!"

For reasons that on occasions like this are difficult to fathom, Ni sleeps in her bed beside Wawa and me. At this stage of the morning, she remembers (with some confusion, I imagine) hearing me declare in exasperation, "There IS no third breast! There is NO third breast!"

After some quiet negotiation, Wawa picked one of the reject breasts and started to drift off again. At this point, the bestirred Ni decided she was cold and began an elaborate blanket arranging ritual that involved much fluffing and waving of extra blankets. Wawa rolled over to see what the excitement was all about. As Ni settled, I coaxed Wawa back and she began to drift away once more.

Then Ni decided she was still cold and began to rifle noisily through drawers looking for long pants that met her stringent pant requirements. As Wawa became restless once more, I implored Ni with a series of annoyed grunts to be quiet and get back into bed. She did and in the ensuing silence, Wawa settled once more. Then Ni decided that she was actually cold enough to risk annoyed maternal grunting and got up once more to find those long pants. I convinced Wawa to snuggle in again as Ni finally returned to bed appropriately panted. We all began to doze peacefully once more.

Then the phone rang. At 4.30 in the morning. I got up quickly to answer it since my mother has been unwell and I thought she might need me. A woman gabbled in my sleep-deprived ear in a language I didn't recognise. Fairly sure it wasn't my mother, I sighed, mumbled something about a wrong number and hung up. Back in bed, I was still hopeful that I could calm a wriggly toddler through the magic of breast milk.

Then Ni decided that she needed the toilet. In a minute, she yo-yoed back into bed and drifted immediately off to sleep, while I gradually settled Wawa yet again.

It was then that Doot came into the house to get ready for work. (He has his own bungalow bedroom in the yard)."DOOT!" squealed Wawa excitedly and off she went to greet her beloved Doot and the day.

So I plodded through my day feeling more than a little off kilter and ultimately quite glum. And somewhere in my delirium, I decided that it would be a good idea to increase my blog production from a post every now and again to a post a day. (Thank you for your encouragement on yesterday's post. It's nice to think a few of you might be dropping by occasionally.) By the end of the day, I was feeling like a husk with no words left to cobble together and seemingly no hope of ever writing another coherent paragraph. (Some might say that that has come to pass.) But I awoke this morning better rested with a few sentences bumping about in my head, so I scratched some of them down and here we are. So far; so good.

This sublimely, mundanely ridiculous life - I really wouldn't trade it.

Thank you for reading.

Yet Another Blog About Blogging

2011-11-06T17:37:00.000+11:00

I think I just signed up at the last minute to participate in NaBloPoMo, which will mean posting on this blog every day (remaining) in November. Eep! I'm not sure I can do it. I have reasonably clear priorities at this stage in my life and blogging probably doesn't feature in the top ten. I don't think I need to re-prioritise but I do think that at this stage in my life, I should be managing my time to allow for writing.

I began this blog with the clear intent of establishing a writing habit. In my very first post, I said, "I'm here because I want to start writing again and I know that it's not so much content that counts, but habit, at least to begin with. If you write nothing, you certainly won't write anything good. If you write a page a day for a hundred days, there may well be a few gems in there towards the end."

Three and a half years and nearly 200 posts later (more than half of them published in the first nine months), I'm effectively no closer to my goal. Which is not to say that I haven't derived enormous benefit from blogging. Or that I haven't developed new skills as a writer (respect for the rules of grammar not withstanding), just that writing has failed to find a place in my daily rhythm. I'd like to change that.

Further, my life has changed quite considerably since I began writing here. Discovering that the truly crippling anxiety disorder that had clouded my very earliest memories found its root in undiagnosed food issues, began a process of personal metamorphosis that I have not been able to do justice to here. I wish that this blog could become a better reflection of who I am now and who I strive to be.

I'm not sure I can do it, but if nothing else, my efforts will become another part of this bittersweet journey.

Two

2011-11-05T17:53:00.000+11:00

Two days before her second birthday, Wawa had a vaccination. “Hang around for a few minutes.” said the GP afterwards. “Just in case.” So we sat in the waiting room. She had some milk, then wriggled off to play. A minute later, her eyes rolled back into her head and she fell backwards. I grabbed her up and called for help as she cried and struggled to find her way back.

In that minute before her eyes became calm again; before she came back into her body, I saw two endings to that day - the one we lived, where she was monitored and checked and felt better in a little while and where we took her home with instructions to watch carefully and another one with tubes and grave faces and grey-green walls. In retrospect, I feel extremely blessed to be able to say that that minute was my worst yet as a parent.

She's not a big fan of cake, so behold the majesty of her birthday pile o' bickies.

Two Deaths; Two Burials

2011-10-16T18:21:00.000+11:00

The first was my iPhone. It was a sudden death or maybe a sudden coma, since it still turns on - it just doesn't do anything else. We're in the midst of a couple of months of serious frugality before things finally lighten up a bit (I hope), so I have to wait a while until we can afford to have it looked at. We're not burying it yet though.

The drawback to using such an awesome tool at somewhere near its potential is that it can demand some serious and instantaneous adaptation when it stops working.

The second was Tamburlaine; the guinea pig we hand raised after his mother rejected him at birth. I poured all my floating, pointless baby love over that runty little rodent when Hammond and I were trying (and failing) to conceive Wawa. We've lost guinea pigs that were special in their own way before, but this little guy was family. I asked the vet to euthanise him when his kidneys failed after surgery. Then I cried a bit and the vet was very serious and sympathetic, even when Wawa, who I'd had to bring along and had left on a chair in the corner with Doot's iPhone, put a really loud, silly youTube video on at the height of the scaled down melodrama we were staging.

Tambles was the second burial; the first was Wawa's placenta. And yes, she's about to turn two. It was stored in a plastic ice cream container and moved from freezer to freezer and from house to house. Finally Ni and I bought a big half barrel pot and some flowers and committed it to the earth.

We went for the pot so that we could take it with us when we leave this rented house and also because the spoodle has been known as a bit of a digger. I thought we might be less likely to see him trot past merrily with a half eaten placenta if it was in a pot, near the door and covered with plants. I did have to re-plant a few after what looked like an exploratory snuffling, but so far there have been no nightmare visions to haunt the children's dreams.

Having said that, Wawa watched me bury the placenta and, with some certainty, declared it to be, "kitty dubbem" or "cat food" in your more prosaic tongue. I'll have to keep that in mind when it comes time for the ritualistic disposal of the next placenta we might happen to come by.

We followed the tub model for Tambles, but taking no chances, I propped the pot on a tree stump where he shall (hopefully) rest, if not in peace, at least unspoodled. A placenta is one thing. An actual furry little family member is quite another.

In unrelated news (meanwhile, back at the ranch), I just hit "Mark as Read" on nearly 1000 blog posts in my reader. I think I probably need to give myself a break and just do things like that occasionally instead of living in a perpetual state of chasing the present.

Into the Light

2011-10-12T12:50:00.000+11:00

The discussion about the rights and wrongs and oddly passionate indifferences of breastfeeding has continued at Edenland. You can read my initial response to that post here.

It has been eloquently pointed out in Edenland's comments that sometimes people, men or women, who are neither perverts nor ignorant, feel uncomfortable when faced with a breastfeeding woman.

I have some sympathy for those people. I understand what it's like to feel uncomfortable in the world at times, but the fact remains that if you feel disturbed by a woman feeding her baby or toddler, then your discomfort is your problem. That mother probably has enough to deal with without you asking her to take responsibility for your feelings.

I was raised in a house with an oppressive father and a submissive mother. They were and are both good people, but in their efforts to get by in life and raise their children as best they could, they created that unfortunate dynamic. As a consequence of growing up in that environment, I find most men intimidating to some degree. In conversation I am too agreeable; I smile too much; I laugh too loudly and try too hard to ingratiate myself. In short, I often feel uncomfortable around men.

But I've never yet told a friend that their male partner wasn't as welcome in my home as the rest of their family or that he should sit in the bedroom, alone, during the visit. I just hide my discomfort as best I can and try to ignore the fact that these lovely people happen to be men. I worry only that my nervousness may in turn make them feel uncomfortable.

I've never yet complained about all those damned men frequenting the food courts in shopping centres. I've never suggested they should find some other way to feed their children, even though their presence makes me feel uncomfortable.

Quite clearly, those men are just getting on with their lives and my feelings are my problem.

What we really should be talking about is a society so degenerate that most of us will, at some point, suffer angst over something so natural that we were doing it when we still lived in the trees.

It's time to stop justifying our baggage on the spurious grounds of morals or hygiene or misplaced concerns for child welfare. It's time to own our feelings and bring breastfeeding out of the parents' rooms and into the light.

Breastfeeding a toddler during a choir performance,

because it's a fact of life that children will

get hungry at the most inconvenient times.

Seriously, Just Don't Look if it Bothers You That Much

2011-10-09T19:19:00.000+11:00

The awesome and inspiring Eden from Edenland (who I might have a teensy blog crush on) wrote a typically thought-provoking post about her own and others' attitudes towards breastfeeding. The following began life as a comment on that post and was cut and pasted over here when it graduated to rant status.

I've recently come to the conclusion that other people's issues with my choice to breastfeed (or equally NOT to breastfeed were that the case) or where I choose to breastfeed or the way that I choose to breastfeed or how long I choose to breastfeed is a result of their own baggage and not even a little bit my problem. It's not my job to tell adults to grow the hell up.

However, I do think it's terribly sad that women tend to be so blinded by their own defensiveness. I've supported breastfeeding women as best I could, even if it was just by offering a drink of water or sitting down for a chat while they undertook that thirsty, lonely work. I've also passionately defended and supported women who did not breastfeed. And make no mistake, they need our support most of all. Many are raw from negative experiences with breastfeeding and then have to face ignorant, insensitive banshees implying they don't want the best for their babies.

The shame of it is, it's those very same women who I've reassured and just simply agreed with, as they angrily debriefed, who I find asking me to warn the room in a general announcement before I breastfeed, allowing their husbands to leave so no one will feel uncomfortable. (Sure, because that's not awkward at all!) Or it's those women telling pointed, admiring stories about other women who managed to breastfeed four children for a few months each without ever doing it in front of another soul. (Um...Okay?)

I think it is genuinely shameful that we can't see past our own bullshit to the fact that we are all just doing the best we can. It's actually incredibly easy to lighten another woman's load with a nod or a smile or a word of kindness. Instead we seem to be focused on how another mother's choices make us feel about our own choices, whether that be defensive or threatened or smug. The same kind of self-absorbed thinking leads some heterosexual couples to make the bizarre argument that same sex marriage somehow cheapens their own vows.

We might as well accept that there are an awful lot of those women out there, waiting to pounce on emotionally vulnerable new mothers. If they're not making passive aggressive comments about breastfeeding, they're offering thinly veiled criticism in the form of patronising advice or telling stories designed to communicate how much better they did it. Let's all agree not only to ignore them when they turn their gaze on us, but to support others, who may be targeted, however we can.

Most of all, let's agree never, ever to be those women.

{this moment} - Dressing Up

2011-09-16T21:00:00.001+10:00

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

Inspired by Soulemama.Soulemama

Poopie with a Chance of Vomit

2011-09-16T13:56:00.000+10:00

I awoke this morning to a soft log of cat sick smeared into the end of my dusky pink lambs' wool blanket. Thankfully the new aqua blanket is my current favourite. It was washed twice in two days last week after poor Wawa sicked on it the day after I bought it.

I showered and dressed, then headed out to give the chickens their scratch. I collected their poop in a bucket and threw it in the compost while I was there, then headed back inside to deal with the kitty litter, naturally stepping in a steaming pile of spoodle-poop as I went. Cleaning that off my shoe gave the kitty time to go outside, eat a heap of grass, then run back inside ahead of me and do a big grassy supplementary sick on the kitchen floor.

You know it'll be an interesting day when you've handled three lots of poo and a couple of vomits before the toddler is even awake.

Here's a picture of a couple of chickens in lieu of the obvious.

The Cuckoo's Nest

2011-09-15T11:39:00.000+10:00

Kitty's tail is thumping the window rhythmically. She stands on her hind legs and mews plaintively. One of the neighbour kitties is in the garden bed beneath the window defiantly doing what kitties everywhere do wherever they damnwellplease.

Wawa (Ly) is sitting on the couch enthusiastically 'reading' aloud to herself, having spent a good half hour already this morning with my iPhone, navigating YouTube with disturbing competency. Remember that slippery slope? We are on it. Somewhere near the bottom, in fact. She spent most of her time looking at videos of diggers in action. I find it hard to believe these even exist, let alone in such numbers.

Ni is building something Minecraft-esque on her iPod and absent-mindedly singing the theme from Play School, replacing most of the lyrics with the word 'spoodle'. "There's a spoodle in there. And a spoodle as well. Spoodle-oodle-oodle. Spoodle-oodle-oodle-oodle. Spoodle-oodle. Spoodle-oodle. It's spoodle time."

Doot (That Guy) has left for school. He's finishing a traineeship, so he gets paid to study and has to turn up. Today is their last real day. In his mind, he's already done, so he really wasn't making any kind of effort to be on time. It at least made for a relaxed morning. It was a nice departure from the usual chaotic rush.

I said, "Do you see how nice life could be if you weren't always rushing to be on time?"

He said, "You're right, Babe! I should just stop caring if I make it to work on time and have nice, relaxed mornings." (Grin.) I was probably asking for it.

They're doing a unit on mental health. Yesterday they watched A Beautiful Mind, because, apparently, Russell Crow was the best person to teach them about schizophrenia. He's hoping for One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest today, I suggested The Shining might be more instructive.

Me? I'm not sure. I'm happy - feeling the new season with my whole being; a beginning and an end in the best possible way. It's the midpoint between the sense of hopelessness I inherited in childhood and have carried all my life and it's opposite. But I am struggling; really struggling to re-engage socially. I remind myself that I used to just walk away without a glance behind. I'm improving. Maybe. I'm thinking too that it's time to engage differently. But that's another post. Or not.

Good Morning

2011-09-06T07:38:00.001+10:00

I think I've become a morning person. It's odd. I never believed it possible. My need for night time darks seemed set in stone all these years. In spite of this, I like being up early. There have, in fact, been long periods where I have woken with the sun and left my bed to greet the day, but regardless of how long this lasted, I never ever stopped feeling foggy-brained and exhausted. Until now.

Now I realise how some people manage to be so productive. Not that night people can't be productive; just not me so much.

So we finished moving out of Mouldy Manor and we dealt with the real estate agent's attempt to steal our entire bond (yes, that's right, after having to evict us when the house became derelict due to lack of maintenance). I finally found my inner warrior and told them where they could go in a rather formal and forthright letter. They made a far more reasonable counter offer and I accepted, avoiding a Tribunal hearing. I'm calling it a win. At least I didn't let them exploit me one last time for the road.

I'm still slowly (oh so slowly) unpacking and giving things away, but I found the cutlery tray last week, so that's good news. No more eating with the baby fork when the third fork is in the dishwasher. I make progress every day, but there is just so much stuff. I have stacks of boxes packed with objects that seem to bear no relation to one another.

I also paid all of our bills last week, a few of which were more than a little overdue. This week it's the post office. (Sorry if I owe you mail. You're not alone. I'm on it, I swear.) And hopefully many other things from my seemingly endless list. As each item is crossed off, it is as if another burden is lifted and I become a little more carefree.

I'm chuffed to the point of manic infantile giggling that spring has finally arrived. Sun and warmth and blossoms exploding everywhere are working magic on me, body and soul.

I'm catching up on my favourite blogs (which I think is pretty much my natural state). I don't like to write before I read. It doesn't feel right. I like to know what's going on with you before I start blathering on mindlessly about cutlery, but there are a lot of unread posts in my reader. Some of you are impressively prolific. Some of you write extraordinary pieces that demand that I ponder the inscrutable. Curse you and your self-discipline, intelligence and talent. Curse you all.

The Journey Back

2011-08-15T17:52:00.000+10:00

So contrary to earlier indications, our interminably long move finally came to an end, or at least the moving out bit did. There is still much unpacking of boxes and arranging of furniture to do, however the desperate single-minded focus on a job too big to contemplate has gone. I'm looking around, dazed to see that life has gone on while I lived and breathed cardboard. Hello beautiful world. I missed you terribly.

That focus, while undeniably useful at times, is another bullet point in the long list of reasons I struggle to build and maintain satisfying relationships. I'm improving though. This time I managed to at least shoot off a few stilted emails here and there.

Traditionally, the exclusionary focus has been a completely closed circuit and often impossible to shrug off at its end. And let's not pretend it's really focus. That's actually shorthand for 'overwhelmed and overstimulated'. The first thing that goes when my head is too full is my ability to cope with people outside my immediate family. Their needs and perfectly reasonable expectations become untenably cumbersome to me. Let's be honest, their very existence when dwelt upon for more than an instant can bring a twist of anxiety to my guts if I happen to think I owe them an email or something more.

It is being made a little easier to return this time by the recent coincidental and very gentle intrusions of a few of you into my world outside the Internet. Thank you. You've had me smiling. And if I owe you an email or maybe something more (or less), please be patient. I'm making my way back slowly.

{This Moment} - The Park

2011-08-12T09:12:00.000+10:00

The Mandatory 'Why I Blog' Post

2011-07-21T11:51:00.001+10:00

I've been wondering lately if I have anything left to say here. There are so many things I would like to be able to express, but writing with purpose is much more difficult than just channeling the fully formed rambles of my sub-conscious mind.

But then there are times when the conversations and connections I have and make here on the Internet are the nearest thing I have to a social life. I don't have a voracious social need, so while it's not a substantive enough sense of connectedness to leave me feeling satiated, most of the time it gets me by.

A few days ago, I stayed up late to share my pain with the Internet, or at least the four people who regularly read this blog. Michael left a comment and wrote this on his blog and so, in response, I'm finally writing the mandatory 'Why I Blog' post.

I can relate to Michael's comment about a blog being "a desperate appeal for attention and approval", but it's primarily been more than that for me and if you'll excuse the presumption, having enjoyed his blog for some time now, I suspect it is for him too.

In spite of the fact that I'm not very good at it by most standard measures, blogging has been an extraordinary experience for me; it is not hyperbole to say that it has immeasurably changed my life for the better.

On it's most basic level, it's a grand conversation; thoughts and ideas bounced back and forth; expanded, expounded and compressed.

It's also been profoundly cathartic. I've been able to effectively let go of compounding pain and trauma from my past that had become a terrible burden to me, simply by recording the stories here and having them acknowledged by just a few generous and supportive souls.

Following from that, my blog persona is, ironically, often a truer reflection of me than my real life interactions will allow. I'm still more honest in the world outside the Internet than benefits me, but I have learned to hide aspects of myself and my life from most people in order to ensure an easier passage and less disturbed frowns. That process of live-editing can be exhausting and sometimes it's a relief to be able to just get on here and over-share, knowing that should my ramblings cause discomfort, closing a browser window, unfollowing or unsubscribing in a reader are fairly easy and non-confrontational acts.

For someone who tends to get a little lost in her own head at times, the opportunity to lay things out in a (somewhat) ordered manner and invite the views of others can be invaluable in maintaining a balanced perspective.

Given that my real life social interactions can be Spartan at times, writing it down and sometimes having it acknowledged or even validated allows me to file it away. In the absence of that opportunity, I can enter into a real life conversation with a list of things that I need to say; to have acknowledged. When this is the case, I am not truly present in that interaction, which means that I'm not giving proper attention to the person I'm speaking with, which, of course, makes me a poor friend.

And so to sum up, blogging is good for my mental health and makes me a better person. Having said all that, however, I do very much understand Michael's need to derail his approval seeking. Sometimes a habit, so ingrained that it has a life of it's own, needs to be approached sideways. If you can't play the game in a healthy way you might need to step out of the game altogether. But more on my efforts to sublimate my own approval seeking when I have more time. Moving is taking forever and I'm starting to fear I won't have everything done by my deadline.

I'm looking forward to seeing where this next step takes Michael's wonderful blog, Always Going, Going Going on Beyond.

The Shark Net

2011-07-18T13:38:00.000+10:00

I just read Robert Drewe's memoir, The Shark Net. In it he paints a vibrant portrait of Perth in the 1950s and '60s as he tells the story of his childhood and coming of age. His tale is underscored by and intertwined with a series of disturbing murders taking place in the city at the time. It was a great read.

If you'd like to read, The Shark Net, leave a comment to that effect and I'll send you my (well read) copy for free. If more than one person claims the book, I'll choose a recipient randomly later in the week. If it's not claimed it'll go to the op shop on the weekend.

Nice Cape

2011-07-16T03:27:00.001+10:00

I've been trying to catch up on some of my favourite blogs, but I find myself leaving lengthy, slightly needy comments, so I'm guessing I should probably be indulging my need to write over my need to read.

It's very late at night. I ate some chocolate while the children were in the bath earlier and such is my woosiness in the face of sugar and caffeine (gasp!) that now I can't sleep and I'm afraid that it seems the clock just struck maudlin-o'clock. I remember compulsively snorting line after line after line of speed and bouncing around in my own head like this. Is it ironic that all it takes now is a bar of chocolate (eaten equally compulsively)? Maybe it's karma. I'm pretty sure it's something. Let me know if you have an idea what.

I've been quite socially isolated for several months now. A few events coincided to instigate a period of exile. It's gone on long enough now though that I'm losing proper perspective and becoming poor company when I do find myself in close proximity to adult humans not of my household.

To be honest, life has never fitted well. It's like a velvet cape that I so want to wear, but once I put it on, I know I just look like a failed hobbit. And then I sit in my ill-fitting cape, the hood drawn up around my face, watching everybody else flit by in comfortable little groups looking like packs of badass vampires or enigmatic elves or even nuggety but pragmatic dwarves.

I recognise that much of that ever-present sense of alienation is in my head, but the habits of a painful childhood tend to be the hardest to shake off.

Those coinciding events? One of them involved finding out that a woman I had allowed myself to grow unusually fond of wasn't who I had convinced myself she was. All the evidence had been laid out before me, but I'd been persistently ignoring it despite its mounting nature. It was only in the face of the undeniable that I was finally forced to confront my poor judgement. That was a bummer. I think I should be better than that now. I don't think I should be making mistakes like that anymore. Who do you trust when you can't trust yourself?

I confronted the situation - which proved pointless and painful for all involved. There was no reason to cause her distress by then, she had already walked away. It was a lame attempt to connect more authentically and frankly it was and is a definite case of shitting in the nest. Writing this here probably makes it worse. Ouch.

I keep craving greater honesty though. I am me. This is who I am. I am not always good. I just want to stop seeking your approval and I don't want my life to turn to shit when you decide you don't like me.

Even Funnier...

2011-07-05T14:32:00.001+10:00

So yesterday we served a notice of our intention to vacate (downloaded here) on the agent, giving 29 days notice - one more than required to account for potential bullshit. Today the landlord's notice to vacate, giving us 60 days notice, arrived via registered post. I think it had to have been posted yesterday morning - BEFORE we hand delivered ours in the afternoon - to have arrived so quickly.

I always have a big old anxiety attack when a letter arrives by registered post. No one sends good news that way. Let's face it, I have an anxiety attack every time the doorbell rings. The people I want to see on my doorstep all wait until they're invited.

A few months ago, we put a fair bit of time and effort into finding a house in an area I have an attachment to (on account of it being filled with trees and making me breath deep whenever I am there). I was set on raising my children there.

That first lot of house-hunting was pretty awful. There weren't many properties available; rents were expensive and the open for inspections were pretty demoralising for all but the estate agents. We looked at a few, which involved a lot of driving; many baby grumps and big girl whinges and a fair bit of grown up bickering. We applied for a couple. One application was approved by the agent and rejected by the owner, which led to raised and then crushed hopes. Then, since there were unrelated, but valid, reasons to wait a while, we let ourselves off the hook temporarily, since none of us felt we could continue with the process. But I hadn't let go of the dream of living in the tree place.

And then I posted a blog post and got determined and compromised a bit and got us a house.

And then we all served notice on one another. If we didn't have a new address today, I cannot describe what a state of panic and outrage I would be in to find that after eight years of both the agent and owner regarding requests for maintenance and repairs with contempt, I am now being evicted, because they chose to let the house deteriorate to the point where it can't be fixed with us living in it.

Not to mention that I would still be thinking that finding a new home was going to be a near impossible task.

As it stands, I opened the letter with a deep sense of foreboding; looked confused for a minute then shook my head incredulous.

That is some highly coincidental timing right there.

Funny that...

2011-07-04T19:14:00.000+10:00

Funny thing about blogging... The act of describing things in words and reading the perspectives of people you respect but don't know all that well can sometimes create an extraordinary catharsis or a powerful catalyst.

In the case of our decaying home, letting go of some of my shame and telling you all that I live in a complete shithole owned by a seemingly very greedy man, also helped me get the fuck over my tenaciously clung to dreams of living amongst the trees (at least for now while the rents are high and our income is low) and choose an interim step in our journey. It also helped me get over my feelings of intimidation when dealing with real estate agents. My loathing is another matter, but if you behave like one besieged, the attacks will soon follow, so perhaps the less said on that, the better.

This time instead of trying to motivate my dear partner to action on MY agenda (because, eek!, I can't possibly do this alone), I just let him know that the children and I were off to look at houses and he happily joined our party of his own accord. Funny how that works too.

We liked the first, but I patently rejected the next two. No whispering behind hands so the agents wouldn't hear; just, "Oh no, this will never do." Funny how you can change; grow; develop like that - like waking up in the morning to find that your baby has seemingly grown inches overnight and learned fifteen new words in her sleep. Bam! I'm two inches taller and blithely navigate the Melbourne rental scene. Magic.

We applied for the first one; told ourselves and each other a little too loudly and casually that, "OBVIOUSLY we won't get it." and I planned out the inspections I would attend on the Friday. We've made that mistake before - falling in love with a house; planning where the furniture might go; imagining it our home. This one was just a house. Albeit a very nice house.

We didn't discuss the fact that it had the most beautiful new kitchen I've ever seen. With a dishwasher! Finally! And a bungalow so That Guy can enjoy his own space (while we enjoy our own space). And lots of light and built in robes and polished floor boards and a gorgeous lower maintenance garden. In a quiet court. At a very reasonable and affordable price. We didn't even mention it, because OBVIOUSLY we wouldn't get it. And then we did.

We signed the lease on Friday. They even approved the spoodle, god-love-them (little do they know).

And I am packing like a mad creature (whose children are breathing mold spores in their sleep). Even after all my decluttering, I have found that I have far, far more books and things in general than I want to drag behind me through the world. I've been looking at Minimalism in 21 Days on this blog and thinking that while I have everything packed in boxes, I want to take the opportunity to re-reassess as I unpack. I think I'll pick a staging area and then only bring into our home the things we love or need.

Just So You Know...

2011-06-22T03:07:00.001+10:00

I've been feeling insular lately. This must be a time for looking inward. Perversely, I'm also craving connections with others and yet feeling the impotency of those cravings. Connecting is hard. And risky. I'm really not a good judge of character.

Mostly I think it's just that we've all been sick with minor, niggling life-changing complaints for months now. We've been shut up here for far too long. It doesn't do much for my thinking. It skews my perspective and brings out the misanthropist in me.

The walls of our house are covered in mould. The roof is in poor condition; the gutters rusted through. I worry that the damp in the roof and walls might affect the wiring and cause a fire. I clean off the mould and within a week or two it's back. I don't even make it to the other side of the room before it's time to start again. I've been asking the real estate agent to fix it for years. I probably shouldn't say this, but what the hell; in my experience, it takes a special kind of asshole to be successful in that line of work. (I'm sure that that real estate agent you know is totally an exception though.)

Ly is going through that mandatory clingy stage that makes it hard to get things done. Not to mention that she's napping through dinner and then keeping us awake well into the night.

That Guy can't shake the lingering effects of the last cold and has been away a lot on virtual orc hunting trips. He tells us they are not so much bad as misunderstood. I pretend to care. I don't do a very good job.

Our home ed choir performed in public for the first time. It was a lantern parade to mark the winter solstice. The singing felt good. In the middle of our performance, Ly reached the limits of her endurance and began to protest, so I breastfed a grumpy, sleepy 12.5kg toddler standing up while performing in front of an audience for the first time in a dozen years. I should put that on my CV. I would if I actually had a CV. The parade felt slightly surreal, and was quite beautiful. Come back light. We miss you.

Also, Ly has been playing in the spice cupboard again and smells faintly of curry and cinnamon.

A Gluten Free Ramble and Oddly Unrelated Photos

2011-06-02T02:05:00.000+10:00

Yesterday was one of those days; not bad really, just lacking focus. To be honest, it's been a challenging couple of months. We all tag-teamed a stomach bug over Easter - first from/to another family we often share experiences/viruses with and then amongst ourselves. On the tail end of that and feeling a little worn and delicate, we made the rare decision to buy some gluten and dairy free take away food and found that it was most decidedly not. It was in some ways an elucidating experience, but not one I would rush to repeat.

We're not sure of the precise origin of the contamination, but we were left in no doubt that we had been poisoned. I started to feel nauseous half way through my coffee, which I discarded. Within fifteen minutes, anxiety held sway.

At first we thought that it was a consequence of That Guy accidentally ordering caffeinated coffee, but I soon began to experience the chest pains, breathlessness and foggy head that I have come to associate with a gluten or casein (from dairy) food reaction.

That night I was buzzing until after 4am. Ni too found herself nauseous and trapped in the old boisterousness that had once held her captive. Ly cried piteously in her sleep.

My symptoms continued for most of the week that followed, the unrelenting anxiety peaking periodically, throughout the day, in full blown anxiety attacks. Ni struggled to find peace and continues to feel mildly nauseous. Ly who had never eaten gluten or cow dairy before, changed overnight from a happy, calm, sometimes grumpy, sometimes demanding toddler to being an often miserable little person caught in a cycle of screaming tantrums and exhausted distressed comfort feeding. That lasted for nearly four weeks and ended as suddenly as it began. Our sleep routines have still not returned to normal.

We've decided that there are just too many people who see a gluten free diet as an annoying fad for us ever to be able to safely eat out, even where it is claimed that food is gluten and dairy free. Not to mention the fact that gluten is so pervasive in our food supply that it really is difficult to avoid. I still get caught out myself occasionally. Most people know that gluten is found in wheat, but often that's as far as their knowledge goes. So when you ask, "Is there gluten in this?", it's difficult to know if they really understand. It's in soy sauce, malt and many seasoning powders or syrups. It might also be found in yeast, vinegar or vanilla essence. Do I really trust the person serving me to know all of that when they assure me that my food is free from gluten?

That was all by way of saying that yesterday was one of those days, but I did manage to take half an hour to roll over a couple of logs, get in people's (and kitty's) faces and play with my new toy. It's a mobile phone macro/wide angle lens that I ordered from Photojojo after seeing it in action on Schmutzie's Phoneography site. The photos you see here were taken with the lens attached to my iPhone 3GS through the Hipstamatic app. They're not the best photos, but they make me want to rub my hands together; give a throaty giggle and mumble something about the possibilities - oh, the possibilities. Muahahahaha!

Also, just while I'm complaining, I want to take the opportunity to say, it's been REALLY cold here - the coldest autumn on record. And I really don't like it. That is all.

Stretch

2011-05-29T02:08:00.001+10:00

I lie in bed and stretch myself back to my full height. The children have their father's genes for height and are gaining fast. I'll need that extra centimeter or two to muster the authority to say, "For heaven's sake, put that iPod away!" twenty or thirty times today. The gap they're both closing steadily, allows me to view the resulting poutiness from the appropriate angle to facilitate the mandatory slightly haughty dismissal. Interesting fact: only one in every 722 people can pull off haughtiness while looking up. I see myself standing on a chair one day soon.

There is a sleeping toddler sprawled at my back. The hot water bottles gave out hours ago, but the baby is proving reliable yet. It's a shame my adoration and conscience won't allow me to push her down to the end of the bed to warm my feet. Damn it! If I'd managed to properly house train the spoodle, he'd be perfect for the job. He hasn't been invited into this room since the fateful day he pooped on my bed. It was hard not to take that personally.

The primary issue with the toddler as a bedmate is that throughout the night, she raises her chubby little legs at right angles to her body and then swings them down swiftly to sweep the blankets off us both. The whole night is a battle of semi-wakeful blanket sweeping and replacing. It doesn't seem a very desirable trait evolutionarily speaking. Perhaps it follows a tendency to overheat. Or maybe she has an aberrant hot climate gene or two in there. You might have noticed from the photos a distinct preference for nudity. It's going to be a very long winter.

{this moment} - Wonder

2011-05-27T21:43:00.000+10:00

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

Inspired by SouleMama.

That's New

2011-05-21T10:38:00.000+10:00

I woke up bemused at the machinations of my subconscious mind. There you were, come to visit in a dream once more. Hello, by the way. It always feels like a precious gift to see you, even when it's sad or weird or just plain dreamlike.

Once more you were back from the dead. Again, I was moving furniture to accommodate you... And your...um...new girlfriend...ahem... She's lovely, by the way - quite beautiful and really, could she be any nicer? Jealous? Ahahaha! Oh, you make me laugh with your dead boy humour. Ahahaha! Okay, maybe just a little.

But I think this is your blessing on my life with That Guy. Or the blessing of my subconscious. Whatever. Survivor guilt be damned! You're doing just fine without me mooning over you into my dotage.

Note please that my hidden self did not merely conjure up your noble ghostly presence to intone spookily that it was time to move on and let go of the past. Woooooo! Instead I gave you a beautiful companion and let you move on too. I've still got your back, dude. I don't believe in Heaven, but clearly, I'm making an exception for you.

Big loves, Boo. You have me smiling today. I'll consider this a birthday present one day early.

{this moment} - Dulcimer Too

2011-05-20T17:22:00.000+10:00

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

Inspired by SouleMama.

Mix Tape - Cloud Factory - The Clouds

2011-05-18T13:07:00.000+10:00

Once again, I hit shuffle on the iPod and this is what came up; the song and the story.

Cloud factory, you're so tall like a beanstalk
But your clouds, they're all made of lead

The Clouds played this song the night he fell in love with me.

It was 1993 or 1994. We were at the newly gentrified Prince of Wales in St Kilda. We resented the renovation. It seemed like just another effort to wipe the world clean of us; to remake the dark corners that defined us and turn them into something palatable for the middle class brats who wouldn’t even take the time to sneer at us then and who are my friends now. It’s strange the way things go.

I walked away from my last boyfriend weeks before at the Prince, the pre-reno carpet sucking stickily at my feet as I stepped softly into the night. But that’s another song and another story for another day.

We were there with friends; his and mine. I struggled with his friends then; with most people really. Nothing much has changed. But that night none of it mattered. That was the night we were in love.

I remember him smiling at me with this beautiful, pure golden smile. How many of those did I ever see on his face? A single smile untainted by the sadness in his eyes or the size of his pupils.

And then it was gone and once again we were living in the shadow of the inescapable obsession that had such a tenacious grip on his heart. He liked to think of it as an ill-fated fairy tale - the unreconstructed sort, although I think he honestly believed at times that he would have his happy ending. It’s odd to think of those troubled days as innocent. Hindsight is an ironic bitch sometimes.

Much later, he made a considered differentiation between ‘true love’ and ‘real love’. Even he could see that the ‘true love’, the promise of the fairy tale, was a cruel lie; that the princess was a fading, narcissistic junkie, but knowing wasn’t enough. Knowing is never enough. It certainly wasn’t enough that he called me his ‘soul mate’ in his suicide note. A decade and a half later, it is still not enough to wear the ring he gave me around my neck, although it is inscribed with the words, ‘Real love is forever...’ It’s not nearly enough.

But we did have that night; that one night with the heady buzz of the Clouds filling our ears and softening our hearts to sweet mush.

Is anyone else game to try? Pick a song randomly or by design and write about the first memory that comes to mind. If you do have a go, share a link in the comments.

{this moment} - Dulcimer

2011-05-14T12:00:00.000+10:00

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

Inspired by SouleMama.

{this moment} - Beauty

2011-05-07T00:25:00.000+10:00

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

Inspired by SouleMama.

The Second Bite - The Detox

2011-05-04T15:56:00.000+10:00

These events take place in January 2009 and continue the story that I began to tell here.

I decided to try a two week gentle detox diet that excluded common allergens like gluten and dairy. Within a couple of days, the gut pain I had been experiencing since childhood had disappeared completely. Other symptoms also began to lessen immediately.

Meanwhile, I had stopped trying to orchestrate carefully timed visits from Hammond. I was trying to exhale and just be with him when he felt right; to make love with him for it's own sake; to let go of all that futile baby-making resonance.

I had been working hard to find a way to embrace the fact that there would be no more babies for us. I was searching for a way to deal with the energy that my wanting had bestowed upon me; a place to keep it where I could somehow ultimately transform it into something useful. I was thinking about all those children in the foster care system. Perhaps one day, when the time was right for Ni, I could take all that yearning and somehow transform it into love for children who need it. I felt as if I was making some progress; as if I was finding peace amidst my sadness. And then Hope raised herself up and cast her dark shadow over me once more.

That week, I began to experience the odd symptoms that I had thought were very early miscarriages or just SOMETHING going awry and then...nothing. On Friday my period was a couple of days late and I spewed my bitterness out in a never published, long deleted blog post in which I cursed that foul bitch, Hope, for her cruel tenacity.

To settle the question and box Hope up under the stairs once more where she belonged, I stopped at Coles on the way home and bought a pregnancy test. I felt resentful as I ran through those familiar motions.

And then this happened:

And given that my recent research had told me that ingesting gluten could cause miscarriage in a woman with any degree of gluten sensitivity, getting my new diet right took on a very sudden sense of urgency.

My head buzzed with emotions that don't have names. The ends were burnt off the tendrils of grief creeping through my brain, stopping them in their tracks; overlaying them with unremitting, desperate joy, but not yet dispelling them; leaving my head a strange and darkly beautiful garden in which our baby would grow.

Mix Tape - Bitter Sweet Symphony - The Verve

2011-05-02T00:57:00.000+10:00

When I was pregnant with Ly, I started working on the ultimate mix tape. The idea was that I would listen to it during labour. As it happens, I ended up listening to five hours of stockpiled Hamish and Andy podcasts, which probably kept my brain better occupied with endearing and amusing dross. The iPhone mix tape, however, is listened to often. It contains songs that I have loved at one time or another from the age of four to last week when I added a couple more. It is the soundtrack of my life - so many songs; so many stories. Today I hit shuffle on the iPod and this is what came up; the song and the story.

It was always late when we left my mother's house. We had been driving over every week or so in a vain effort to help her deal with her out of control clutter and yard work (in spite of the fact that I struggled to keep up with the house and yard at home). It was a long tiring drive. Once there, everything we touched was coated with dust and the mess and clutter was just overwhelming. Little Ni, struggled to cope amidst the sensory onslaught, so grandma would usually put children's videos on to keep her occupied while I mowed the grass or tried to help her sort through and arrange mountains of stuff.

In retrospect, it was naive of me. After all those hours of work, the clutter was back just a few months after we stopped. I was dismally under-qualified to be of any lasting assistance to her with a problem that goes far deeper than the accumulation of a bit of clutter - back to a childhood characterised by the collected stings of never enough.

Ni and I were driving home one night after one of these visits. We were both feeling cheerful in spite of a long day - happy to be headed in the right direction at last. A home made mix CD was playing. I was singing along to the Verve's Bitter Sweet Symphony.

As we came toward an intersection, I saw a red hatch approaching from the opposite direction. As we drew nearer, I eased my foot off the accelerator as the other car rolled slowly into the intersection, indicating a turn. I relaxed as the car came to a complete stop.

The next thing I knew, the hatch was moving into my path and I was slamming down the brake pedal with all I had and tensing for the inevitable impact. I felt oddly calm and resigned as if I'd been waiting my whole life to have this crash.

The other car filled the windscreen. It was impossibly close as we ploughed into it and the front of our car crumpled like an empty Coke can. The noise of screeching and crushing absorbed all else as I pushed impotently on the brake pedal and bit my lip.

Then we were rolling backwards and the brake offered no resistance beneath my desperately stamping foot. I reached for the handbrake just as we hit a pole, we bounced off once more and finally stopped as I yanked the brake upwards.

I staggered from the car, stunned, angry, lip bleeding. People came to help. I comforted Ni. At some point, the other driver, a young woman, came over, distraught and sobbing, to apologise and my anger slipped away in an instant as I reassured her. Ni complained of a sore stomach, so an ambulance was called. My body began to react. I staggered a little as I helped Ni into the ambulance and found myself the subject of instant fussing. At the hospital, I was x-rayed and we were both examined. There was no major damage. A friend drove us home. The adrenalin had left me feeling oddly cheerful.

The following day I awoke to a hurt that seemed to permeate every corner of my body. I found that the whole thing had an unexpectedly profound effect on me. I felt quite depressed for some time. It was hard to get out of bed. I'm not sure why. It was just a confronting experience. It bothered me that it was meaningless that I was a good, careful driver; that there was really nothing I could do to avoid hitting that car once the driver made the decision to pull out in front of us. There is so much in life that we can't control.

I still like the Verve though.

Is anyone else game to try? Pick a song randomly or by design and write about the first memory that comes to mind. If you do have a go, share a link in the comments!

Waldorf Fail

2011-04-29T20:04:00.000+10:00

We are by no means Waldorf purists, but we do derive much inspiration from the approach when it can be practically incorporated into our days. Even by our decidedly slapdash standards, however, Wednesday marked a rather distinct Waldorf fail. I was becoming sick. The baby (or rather, toddler) had been sick and was only just becoming well. Our needs met in the middle and demanded drastic action. So I sighed; cut myself a whopping great slice of slack and put a DVD on my laptop for her.

When she was a tiny newborn, I watched as her eyes were drawn inexorably to the television in the corner. It's a simple fact that my children, like many of their peers, are drawn to brightly glowing screens like moths to...well, brightly glowing screens. I thought about Ni (nine at the time) and the way screens have been a double edged sword throughout the first decade of her life. I thought about how I had used the television as a background to my evenings; a way to fill the room and make it feel warmer; to help keep the loneliness at bay as well as something to focus on just enough that I could better filter the sensory overload constituted by beautifully boisterous and demanding Ni. I thought that, quite honestly, I'm not sure how I would have coped with that brilliant, voracious, never-sleeping first born, hungry for constant engagement with her solo parent, had it not been for Bananas in Pyjamas, Playschool and Bob the Builder. And then I took a breath and put the television away in my wardrobe. It's still connected to Ni's Wii, so that she can play when she has the occasional urge, but I've removed the antenna.

Surprisingly (or perhaps not), we haven't really missed it at all. In recent years, Ni's screen-based interests have switched to the more satisfyingly interactive world that her computer offers, so it wasn't a great leap for her at all. At first I planned to keep up with favourite shows online, but so far, it is only Doctor Who that has seemed worthy of the effort.

I hasten to tell people, when we have the television conversation, that plenty of (too much) screen use still goes on in our house, lest we begin to take on that saintly or elitist air that those who have managed to do away with that great altar of consumerism often adopt or have thrust upon them. Even in the less than mainstream circles in which we move, eschewing television seems to be quite often viewed as a radical act; something desirable, perhaps, but beyond the reach of the ordinary family for a multitude of perfectly valid reasons.

Ly was delighted by the children's DVD I slipped into the laptop for her. It featured a puppy that looked like one of her favourite toys. She did wander back to it periodically to point at the puppy and declare, "Oof! Oof!", but after a few minutes of watching, she was demanding that I read to her.

Having watched that old DVD of Ni's with new eyes, I probably won't put that particular show on again, but when another day arrives that demands I pull a rabbit out of my ailing hat, I may well allow myself the option of another DVD. I will be ever aware, however, that with that DVD I stand at the peak of a very slippery slope.

A Waldorf spoodle utterly mesmerised by his first exposure to video.

{this moment} - The Conversation

2011-04-29T19:32:00.000+10:00

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

Inspired by SouleMama.

{this moment} - Story Time

2011-04-22T19:51:00.000+10:00

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

Inspired by SouleMama.

The First Bite - The Call

2011-04-16T23:59:00.000+10:00

The last couple of years have been filled with one life-altering event after another. I took a break from this blog for over a year when I found that there were just too many things to say and not enough words to say them. I am by no means a prolific writer and I became overwhelmed by all the stories I wanted to tell. They seemed to form a bottle neck as they tried to escape and I found myself muted. Here's my attempt to take a single, initial bite of the elephant.

I think it all begins with my body clock. A few years ago, an alarm began to sound that seemed to become increasingly shrill with every passing moment. I've told the story of my conversation with Hammond. Astoundingly, he gave the answer I really hadn't even given myself leave to hope for.

I knew from the outset, that given Hammond's crippling mental illness, I would probably have to deal with the requirements of pregnancy; child birth and ultimately, child-raising, alone. I was well aware that I was asking a lot of myself. I had done it before, after all. Except that the first time I did all of those things in a state of perpetual grief, since doing it alone was by no means the path of my choosing.

So our love-making took on a greater purpose, at least for me, while my body clock filled my head with it's obnoxious ringing. I could see too that Hammond did not seem to be traveling well. I knew from the very bitterest experience that I was helpless to do anything but watch the storm as it clouded his mind.

There was also, ultimately, the question of my own health. My symptoms were as varied as they were vague and ranged from joint pain to moodiness; from gut pain to extreme tiredness, from chronic sinusitis to severe anxiety. They had been accruing quite literally throughout my life, but I now felt an impending sense of doom as they all seemed to be engulfing me at last. After putting it off for as long as I could, I finally dragged myself along to see a GP, convinced that I had cancer of one sort or another or at the very least an iron deficiency that could explain the preternatural tiredness I was experiencing.

The doctor ordered a few tests, and reassured me immediately on a couple of counts. A week later, the tests ruled out ovarian cancer, cervical cancer and an iron deficiency. "This," the doctor told me, "is just where you're at right now." Of course, my doubts remained, but she told me that I was in good shape for pregnancy and that, at least, was great news.

And then nothing happened. Nothing happened for quite some time, in fact. Except a few more symptoms tacked themselves on to the list; others worsened and that alarm continued its shrill and urgent call. I still felt tired and increasingly emotional. Each month began a new cycle of hope and disappointment. The worst months were those where there was nothing to hope for, when I had called Hammond only to find that he was interstate, too busy with work or not well enough to visit. There were other months where I would suffer very heavy, late periods, accompanied by nausea, aches, weird pains and unusually bad cramps. I became convinced I was having very early miscarriages and although there was no way of knowing for sure, it left me feeling sad and vulnerable.

In the meantime, I had decided that my gut symptoms might be caused by Irritable Bowel Syndrome. It seemed my best prospect was to manage the problem as well as I could.

Then we caught up with a good friend and her two children. She told about their visit to a naturopath who recommended that she and her son avoid gluten and how much better they were both feeling as a result. Many of their symptoms sounded familiar. Later, after they left, I began to research gluten and the many symptoms it can cause in those with any level of sensitivity to it. It pretty much had me covered, right down to infertility and miscarriage...

{this moment} - On My Knees

2011-04-15T21:20:00.000+10:00

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

Inspired by SouleMama.

{this moment} - Unrequited Love

2011-04-01T22:29:00.000+11:00

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

Inspired by SouleMama.

A Prosaic Slice of Morning and a Magpie Dogfight

2011-03-29T11:00:00.000+11:00

After a timetabling misjudgment on our part with That Guy's work roster and a reshuffle on work's part with shift times, I ended up having to keep everyone awake so that I could bundle them into the car in the rain at twenty to eleven to go pick him up, which lately, as Ly welcomes four new teeth at once, is not as big a stretch as it might sound.

As a consequence, and to ensure everyone in the house got an adequate amount of sleep, the spoodle had a sleepover in the mancave with That Guy. I sneaked into the retreat before the children awoke and left a couple of 'surprises' so they wouldn't be disappointed on their morning 'treasure' hunt for spoos and spees... No, not really. We all know I'd only be hurting myself.

In the absence of their customary early morning spoodling, the children slept late. This is how children (and cats) appear when they are allowed to sleep unspoodled.

A rare sight indeed. I haven't included a photo of Ni, because she was, at the time, sleeping peacefully and happily under an unusually large mound of tangled blankets with both her mouth and eyes half open. While, generally speaking, a sleeping child seems to most fully embody the beauty and every day magic of childhood, a child, however beautiful and magical, sleeping with her eyes open is just the weeniest bit disturbing.

The children's extended slumber gave me the opportunity to work for a time unhindered. I've noticed that I breathe differently when I'm alone. There's space for a sigh or a slow drawing of breath to the darkest unused corners of my lungs.

I was hanging washing when the sulphur crested cockatoos flew over and were intercepted midair by the resident magpies. A screeching flapping dogfight ensued that I will never be able to paint with words. As the cockatoos escaped intact, I felt a moment of exhilaration mixed with frustration that I was alone in seeing that cool, unsharable thing and then I drew breath and smiled to myself. Events take place in this world that are drawn for me alone to witness.

The household awoke too soon, (I am always simultaneously filled with joy to see them and disappointment that I didn't achieve more while they slept) and I was swept away into the tumult that is our shared morning. From then on I took my breaths how I could get them.

Use the Force (Homeschool Group) - Rewind

2011-03-25T22:59:00.000+11:00

I'm joining in with Life in a Pink Fibro's Weekend Rewind and since no one really read this the first time around (in October 2008), I thought I'd repost it, since I quite like it.

There is chaos before me and chaos to the left of me. There is a wall to the right of me, but it looks as if it might get chaotic at any second (plastered, as it is, with a random jumble of educational posters). I know better than to keep chaos at my back though, so don't even ask, because that's where I'm keeping a dirty old couch cushion right now.

DK is playing a Star Wars game with a little boy. There's a lot of very dramatic lightsaber play, involving leaping, spinning and the occasional air kick. Now they stand facing one another, hands outstretched, a few centimetres apart, expressions of exertion and aggression marring their sweet little faces, as 'the Force' passes between them. In spite of an apparently huge effort on her part, she is slowly forced back, by some silent agreement, without the two of them ever speaking or touching.

She saw her first Star Wars movie, Revenge of the Sith, only last night. It's fairly graphic; not the best starting place for a largely uncorrupted seven year old. I didn't expect for a second that she would be riveted to the screen when I left it on to paint the background of our evening's activities and I couldn't possibly have expected that this installment of the franchise would be such a departure from ewoks and Jar Jar Binks.

Nevertheless, there she was, finally understanding what the boys of her acquaintance just seemed to be born knowing. And in the space of an evening, she was indoctrinated. Now at the mid-morning of a new day, she stands before me, a Jedi fully formed.

{this moment} - Drawing

2011-03-25T15:51:00.000+11:00

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.

Inspired by SouleMama.

Very Boo Radley

2011-03-22T22:49:00.000+11:00

Last night I dreamed you into being once more.

I dreamed that you returned to me - dropped off by your elder sister; reluctantly entrusted to me again. You were weak, delicate, even paler than usual. And I thought, 'Oh, how awkward. However will I accommodate these two men?' - the man I chose to open my heart to after thirteen years and the one who returned from the dead after thirteen years.

I know why you're here. I've brought you back from the dead to fight for me; to convince me that if I can't be with you, then I should only be with a man who's too broken to love me in return. Or alone. I know that you come to me as the pathetically textbook product of survivor guilt. I know that you are me.

Because if it were really you, you'd kiss me on the forehead and tell me to move on; love; live. Be happy. Be whole.

Then you'd say, 'Boo Radley' to kill the moment.

We made a promise to one another; a pact to live or die as one. I need to remember that it was you who broke that pact; not me. It was you who made that awful mistake.

I am so sorry that I was there in your madness with you; consumed by the pain of living. But if I hadn't been there, wouldn't you have felt yet more alone? Maybe I'm not sorry then. Maybe.

I know too well that these aren't the last tears I'll shed for you. If I live a hundred years or one, there will always be another reason to grieve.

Still missing you, Boo.