"Excuse me, where are the condiments?"

aWe have Ratatouille the movie going on over here. Just with mice, instead of rats.

They were here before we moved in, of that I am certain. These little buggers are wily and comfortable in their home, let me assure you. They would like to thank us for the new spongey carpet and the easy-scurry floorboards too.

I hadn't really been one to have an opinion on mice either way. We only saw two, if that, inside the last place. Then again, we did have Rusty, mouse hunter *picture a mostly white cat with paws on his hips.... and a cape* for most of the years we were there.

Rusty was hilarious. We lived next to market garden fields and often, you would see Russ (in his younger years) in the reserve adjacent to our home, just stalking in the grass. He would often come up trumps, with the tiniest, sweetest little field mice. Sometimes, Steve and I would deliberately cramp Rusty's style and we'd heckle him, like stage parents, from our front yard whenever we saw him creeping in the grass. I myself did not like him catching live bait unless it was in the house and, well, I guess he was just pungent enough to keep them right away from indoors because we never heard scurrying in the walls or saw any kind of rodent whatsoever - it was actually only after he died in 2005 that we realised how good he had been, for it was then that we began to have regular resident rats in the walls, the big river rat kind *shudder* not just sweet little mice, we'd get rid of one lot and another lot would move in - and I guess it was obviously in his nature to go hunt. So to see him catch things outside was too much for my conscience and I would try to distract him. The most fun way was the said 'stage parent' method.

We'd amuse ourselves with, "Oh, Russ! HI! Hi Rusty!!!" and waving madly at the cat, who for all the world actually looked like a very embarrassed teenager being waved to by his mother from the crowd while he was up on stage doing his breakdance routine. Unfortunately for Rusty, he was not the most camouflaged of cats there ever was and his gleaming, gorgeous white coat, daubed here and there with ginger that faded and greyed as he reached elderly years, would stand out like a fluorescent beacon in the tall grassy field. "He hasn't got a hope of winning," we'd say quietly, without moving our lips (you know, in case he saw us), much like the parents of the shockingly bad breakdancer would say, "but at least he's giving it a go."

God I loved Russell. He was such a funny companion.

Aaaaanywho, back to the present. Yesterday, we moved the food out of the pantry and stacked in boxes where it has to stay for the next couple of days. Oh. My. God. My new kitchen comes TOMORROW!!!! by the way. So once it is in, that'll fix a couple of the most obvious holes in the walls and floors. At present, I can see daylight through several places in the kitchen, so really, our house is just like an extension of Mousevegas right now. We've effectively built them a three bedroom, two bathroom extension. And I was awoken this morning by rustling in the kitchen and then I heard a packet of "something" drop to the floor (turns out, it was one of those little two packs of sesame snaps. Gone now. Dragged excitedly back to the den, no doubt. The motherload!). Steve snuck out before me, switched the light on and caught two of the little buggers, mid-chew. They scampered. He reckons he had them cornered. Yeah, right. I think they were just louder than usual because they're pissed we've moved our their food. And just when they had finished their stocktake of the pantry too.

Steve is trying to break the mouse "issewe" to me gently. He will mention casually in passing that he saw one, but he'll do it several days after the event. And I can tell he's been itching to let me in on the latest sighting of Mickey because he'll do the most unrelated "by the way" you ever heard.

Take yesterday, for example. I said, "Well I guess I'd better vacuum in here" (the lounge) and he said very excitedly, "Yeah there was a mouse in here the other night... *cue my look of worry* ...you were asleep on the couch *wry grin moving across his face as he saw my look of disappointment that there are now mice in any room of the house they please* ...and it went running along the wall, stopped at the fireplace and just sat there." Great. Juuuuust great. Did you get it a chequered blankie to put over its knees and a copy of Little Women to read while it sat by the fire, I wanted to ask His Smugness. I know he secretly gets off on the fact that I am not enjoying our little dark and furry night visitors.

To make myself feel better, this morning I let Pepper come in and scare the life outta the little buggers. I imagined them cowering just the other side of the floorboards and walls, not daring to make a noise. Like the Von Trapps in the convent cemetery. Of course, in reality, all Pep did was bump into a few things (hey, she's old and her eyes are cloudy) and pant and puff excitedly as she huffed around the shelled-out kitchen. She didn't even sniff anything. I took her right over to the sliver of a gap between the floor and wall where I saw one diner scurry through this morning and nothing. Didn't even raise a whisker of excitement on her. She was just happy to be in. The dogs are not allowed inside the main part of the house - so don't tell Steve I let her in, shhh - and I thought that the sudden animal sounds in their ceiling might show the mice that we're serious because we've called in a hitdog to "take care of business" for us.

So. Please tell me. If you've had a mouse problem (I use that word ever so gently, it really ought to say infestation) what have been your successful stories of keeping them out? I can't use traps, let it be known. Just can't. I actually have a problem even with the "kind" live traps, the ones where you then have to take Ol' Mousey to a previously arranged destination for a drive-by drop-off. You are going to think I am a push-over, but I just can't bear the responsibility of removing the patriarch of a mouse community, or a baby from its mother, or... or... oh shuddup, I just can't separate them, 'kay?

And now I must go. The rodents on table 5 need more sauce.

Accidental heroine

her·o·ine (hěr'ō-ĭn), n.

1. A woman noted for courage and daring action.

This entry is brought to you by The Wonderful World of MCN. You'll just have to hear me out on this one (or simply skip this post and come back next time) if you're not into cloth nappies.

It seemed an easy enough task when I first started. I was going to make boosters for the LGBB's night nappy setup. But in retrospect, how ambitious was I? I mean... really.

First I had to find the sewing machine. At the back of the 10m garage, I found it. That sounds pretty easy, doesn't it? Heh heh, not when half your house is still in boxes in said garage, it's not. But anyway, after half a day's procrastinating, I hunted properly (a girl look, not the cursory, notorious boy look) and found it. I already had my bamboo fleece *quaking* Oh how divine.

Deciding I wanted to make the very most of it that I possibly could, I opted for some night nappy boosters with old terry squares inside. The protoype lasted extremely well overnight on its maiden run. I made it last week. It was eight layers of terry, eight layers of bamboo. I say "was" because, well, I had to wash it and that's when I realised that the point in the sewing where I had thought "Eh, the needle won't go through the entire lot so, uh, meh, it'll be right" was actually my cue to stop and do it properly. But I didn't.

It wasn't right. After going through the wash, it ended up chunkier in odd spots than my bottom. Oh, sorry. Too much?

So, today I persevered with Mark II. The new and improved edition. Same amount of fabric, tackled differently. What I ended up with this time was, well I'll just say it. AWESOME!! I pre-sewed the terry this time cross-ways (diagonally) and lengthways until it actually looked like a long jaffle-ironed sandwich toasty. And flat? Mate! You should've seen the crépe-esque quality of the thing. Next, the eight layers of bamboo again. Now this proved difficult. I sewed carefully. Painstakingly. Persistence paid off.

But... what was this? Shit, the needle was never going to go through the corners of this thing. There were such stubborn and thick parts that the machine literally shifted on the tabletop. I had to steer carefully, sometimes inching the wheel by hand. I sewed up what I could, my direction somewhat dictated by the thickness of the combined fabrics. I finished, smoothed it all out and that's when I noticed I had left one entire length undone. Looking at it again, I realised, as luck would have it, somehow I seemed to have managed to make myself a POCKET booster! Yaaaaaaay.

I know probably none - or, okay, maybe .0002% - of you readers will understand my joy. But there will be those who know the massive, overstuffed, padded-beyond-recognition night nappies I have to resort to in order to give the LGBB an increasingly dry night. She's never been in a disposable overnight - it's not a 'pride' thing, I simply don't think they have the stamina - and I may as well not start now. So over the past six months, at least, we've had to become very creative with how and what we stuff her night time nappy with.

This is just such a coup! Now her cute little jarmies won't get over-stretched either. Look! Look at the thinness. The thinness of it! And so absorbent on its own, but with the added bonus of a neat pouch to stuff. Here it is (with added padding, no less) ready to go for tonight. Inside a Fuzzi Bunz pocket.



And now for the hard part, of course: "stuffing up" the next three I still have left to make. It was really just a perfect arse-up. So I don't really know if I'll be able to beat it. Or copy it, alas. But it won't stop me trying *glances ruefully at the smoking white stallion with the needle over there*

Here endeth the cloth rave. Thank you for bearing with me. Wasn't sew bad was it? Huh? *tumbleweeds rolling*

Moo baa double quack double quack

I love this show.

I don't know if the LGBB does. But I do. It's so sweeeeeeet!

Oh come on! You phone Hana if you are a little animal in need of help or advice. And you call her by dialling moo, baa, double quack, double quack.

BWAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA *wipes tears*

I am a sucker for the simple stuff.

What light on yonder hill flickers

Or somethink.

Since we moved here to our faux-treechange (it's the kind of treechange where you get the beauty of the trees and some gorgeous foothill territory without actually having to have the mountain goat block of land yourself, ours is a flat dreamy space of just over 1/4 acre.... and we have fruit trees!!! But I digress), I have noticed a light on top of the hill that towers out front and across the road. I never knew how much it intrigued me until last night, when I said to Steve, "That's a street light, y'know", he told me "Yes and you are fascinated by it because you tell me at least twice a week, Lenny*."

Huh? Twice a ... oh. And then I remembered, ever so vaguely (for I am nothing if not vague at times), something about pointing it out last weekend and proudly mentioning I had discovered a whole little world up there ("with a play ground for kids and ... everything", I'd said) when I went off on my trip over the river and through the woods to Grandmother's house. Griswold style. And then I remembered telling him when I had first discovered it. Oh, and I also now seemed to recall mentioning something about it being a street light when I had mused, that time a few weeks ago, that we had been able to see this from our old place and suddenly we had noticed, about a year ago, a very bright light atop the hill at night. We would stand and brush our teeth and look at the light, gazing at it. Or I would, anyway, I don't know if Steve cared to. And wondering who on earth had such a penchant for spotlights that they'd erected one in their front yard.

I don't know why I never suspected it was a street light. I didn't think there would be such suburban things on such a sheer-faced landmark.

And now, I have done nothing to quash the suspicions of my husband that I am quite taken with this light of mystery. Because I've done a whole entry in its honour.


* Have I ever told you about how I came to be called Lenny? And Steve? How he came to be called Lenny too? Lenny and Lenny? No? Tell me if I haven't and I promise, I will soothe you into a blissful slumber with a riveting entry about that as well.

Breeeathe

I'm all a bit flush-faced at the moment. Have just finished the section of the book where Ellanor passes away. It is stomach-churning stuff and, well, I guess I just wanted to mark the occasion by writing here. Here's an excerpt, which brings to a close the first week without her.

Dad and **** arrived the next morning and sat with us in gentle silence. **** had begun to knit a very beautiful matching beanie and booties set when Ella was born. Handing the gift to me now, she offered simply, “I thought that with every stitch, I was helping to save her…” I did not know what to say. It seemed that others had felt, on the outside looking in, that this was a far more precarious start to life than I had felt and I wondered how I had missed it.

I recalled the day when Dad had come to visit Ella, not more than a week before she left, and his eyes were red-rimmed with emotion. Why is he so unsure, I remember thinking. She is doing so well, please don’t reject her and the progress she is making here. And then he had shared with me a dream he had had several nights prior, in which Ella had come to him. She was about seven or eight in the dream and was floating above the ground, saying excitedly, “Look Grandpa, I can fly! Watch me!” He told me he had physically grabbed her ankles and said, “No, you don’t!” and told her to get back down and put her feet on the ground. How poignant the dream now was, considering Ella had hardly touched down here at all. Perhaps Dad had known somewhere deep within him the thing I had never even dared try and face.

Over the next several days after Ella died, I had to gently ease the breast milk out of my system. As I stood in the shower with the warm water spilling over my back, I pressed gently against my rock hard breast tissue. It hurt but then, really, my entire body was in aching pain from the enormous physical impact of having to let my baby go. My tears were hot on my cheeks, my face swollen from crying.
Ella had died on Tuesday. On Saturday that same week, I was in the shower (again!) and thinking nothing much in particular except just of her, when I noticed I could still vaguely get a sense of how Ellanor was feeling. She had been quiet all week and I had not been able to “find” her, no matter how hard I tried, save for the fact that I had the sense she was extremely fatigued, as if the event of her passing had really been a monumental effort for her and she was recovering somewhat, even though she was now not in pain. Suddenly and unexpectedly, at that moment, I received an overwhelming sense of immense love. It was huge, like a massive hug and I knew instantly that it came from somewhere completely outside of me because my emotions were so raw and pained, in contrast. I could not have mustered up that much energy to give the feeling to myself even if I had tried. It was Ellanor. She was smiling, though she said nothing. And I was reduced once again to big tears, except this time a wide smile was now on my puffy red face!

"Thank you, sweetpea” I whispered to her.

Thank God I got that out. It has been hanging over my head since the day I started this in earnest, in May 2007. Feel like I need to go for a jog or something, to release the energy. Phew!

It's my webspace and I'll swear if I want to

wConsider this the blog entry akin to the compilation ep's in your fave long-running tv shows when filming was on hiatus (or they simply ran out of original ideas for the time being). I'm still pretty blerky - this household's word for "needing to puke" - particularly when any food smell is around. Hot water and lemon never tasted so good (or strong).

So, while I am recouping, please... enjoy just one more bleat from moi. Just in case you miss me while I'm gone (which could only be a day, let's face it).

The below quoted blog entry was written last Thursday. The Thursday that was. The day I really did think I had it all worked out and zen. And by late afternoon, the shock, then the acceptance aside, the little bit of anger started to creep in. And this is what I wrote. I saved it as a draft, for surely nobody wanted to hear it.

But then I thought.... "hang on, this blog is about me-me-me!!" It always was. So I'll put it here and maybe just one person will nod and say "yep, I hear you cos I'm there too".

You never know, do you, and I'm nothing if not sharing.

And before I go, just for the record, I am not feeling like this (below) this week. It's always underlying, sure, but that rawness has given way to acceptance once again. It is interesting to diarise it and I am glad I am adding the entry instead of hiding it away and pretending I don't feel this way sometimes. That's just not real of me.

I know I have harped about this before. Not just here but also (moreso and for longer, early on) at the old place. And I have tried ever so much to not whinge and bang on too much for fear of raining on anyone's good day, should they happen across my self-imposed bleat fest.

But I have to say once again, this miseryguts of a ttc journey history is just here to stay. Granted, it is not the monkey on my back that it once was. Largely thanks to the LGBB over there. And also to the swearing off of ever actually officially "ttc" again. HOWEVER... it overshadows me every day in everything I do. I have mastered the surface stuff, sure - I can carry out a conversation now without discussing my bodily flow, cycle length, brief foray into charting (and IVF and PGD the same year), blow-by-blow of each miscarriage, their length and severity - but there is a pall cast over my life that contains all these memories on a cellular level and sometimes? Well, sometimes I just ain't all Pollyanna about it. I've spent more of my adult life getting pregnant, being pregnant, or losing a pregnancy than not and considering this is my 33rd year and my 30's felt more lucky than my 20's (though, granted, I was bleeding at my 30th bash - having failed our first IVF cycle just days before), I was hoping I wouldn't be pursuing this unusual 'hobby' (whatever you want to call it) into this decade of my adulthood. It seems I can't avoid loss even when I wasn't even inviting or tempting it.

Yes. I'm angry today. I hear anger is good. Anger can bite my heiny. I need an IV-push of chocolate. STAT. Ah, that's better. Typing it out is good. But so is Easter chocolate from the dear husband.

Today, during a rather surprisingly blind-sighting emotional low, is one of those times. I trust I will be back to my usual self momentarily. But sitting here with familiar pain stirring in my loins, my mind is fucking with me. Is it staying, is it going. Are those clots important, given that I am roughly five weeks pregnant. Of course they are. This time, the pain is not so raw. But the survival instinct response in me initially goes into false hope and woeful "oh well, next month" territory. WTF? I wasn't even trying. And I do NOT mean that in any offense to people who are and who can't. Far from it. Steve and I, I guess you could say, have been/are the infertile couple. We're the infertile "kind" who get pregnant at the drop of a hat. Now isn't that enough to fuck with the best of them?

I spoke some months ago (could have been even a year or more) about the fact that the implication from well-meaning family and friends and Joe Bloe's in the street was that I needed to just get on with it now. After all, I had the take-home baby. They weren't necessarily saying 'end of story', but I did feel an overwhelming sense to take my seat and stop disrupting the class. Could've been my sense, but it was what I felt at the time.

I am probably what you could call the product of embittered childlessness left on the boil for too long. The turning point started the year after Ella died. But I didn't truly notice it until after I'd had Lolly. I'm trying desperately to unravel myself back to the point where I allowed myself to finally be wounded so badly that I started putting up these layers of utter misery and woebegone bullshit, so that I can replace them with better foundations and "cheer up for mercy's sake". But I can't do it too fast or I'll rip off the scab with the healing plaster (ewww) and that wouldn't be good.

I feel like getting all Scarlett and vowing "As God is my witness, I'll never get pregnant again" with a shaking fist to the sky as I stand in silhouette. But I can't promise that either. So I am in a no-man's land of sorts. I still don't feel like I truly fit with people who have not had great difficulty conceiving. I sort of fit the mould of bereaved parents but another side of me feels removed from them too. And now that I have this blessed sweet-cheeked, honey-coloured doll-face child who I kiss too often and gaze at most of the day - yes, still, up close, right next to her (how stifling that will be for her when she is 12 and her mum is goofy-grinning at her very loveliness) - I also don't even fit with the crowd who allegedly want what I have. But my head is still there, in that life of struggle I am used to, somewhat. It doesn't ever leave, not fully. Well, it hasn't left me yet, anyway.

This is healing stuff, I know it is, all jokes aside. It's all progress. Muriel Heslop's dad says you can't stop it. Apparently not.

Oh well that's just great

• I got food poisoning last night from some dodgy shop-bought sushi and have had my head in the toilet violently hurling abuse into it since 7am today.

• Today is the day all has gone to shit with my clients' servers and so I've been trying to field calls in between puking sessions. Joy.

• Still feel like crap but am on-call here at home until Steve gets here to look after the LGBB. He had to take her this morning to occ. care and I managed to crawl into the car and go and collect her at lunchtime (oooh Note To Self: DON'T mention food again). It was a very giddy trip.

• I look more yellow than a banana.

• To top it all off, bloody school holidays have started. You know how I can tell (and why I care)? Bloody Oprah! I don't know if it's just my bad luck with the days I am tuning in, but seriously, if I see one more Dr. Oz special or yet more "Oprah & Gayle's Gala Outback Driving Spectacular Knees-Up Hitch-hike" episodes now because they are the 'safe' eps while the kiddies are home..... Sheez Louise.

Bleh. Taking my spinning head and raspy throat for a drink (Roz).

Sorry, Toots, but near 'nuff ain't gonna cut it

I swear to God, this is how I found the LGBB's train puzzle tonight when I went to pack up. Each piece (bar one) allllmost in place.

And for the millionth time, my heart went "Awwwwwwwww" and ripped a little bit more from the sweetness of it all.

If she thinks this is good enough, then she's got another thing coming.*





*and if you thought for even a split second that I am serious about that, I think you'll find this is not a blog you ought to be reading.

Now here's someone who does it with class

Meet my idol.

Someone so refreshingly real and badass who just shakes it off and shares the shaking so the reader also gets the benefit of seeing what grace under fire looks like in the modern-day world of high-speed internet.

Happy Easter, everybunny

Boldly going where this blog hasn't gone before

Well, this is a first.

I appear to be miscarrying a pregnancy of the unplanned kind. Was not more than five weeks along (like most of our lost pregnancies) but the physical pain - as it has been known to vary, just in my own experience - was quite sudden this morning. It burst onto the scene just after I saw the first drop of blood. Ironically, as has most often happened, I was actually sitting on the throne contemplating getting the trusty cup out to use my last test on FMU because this past week of testing has been so faint.

I cannot say I am gutted for it was not planned. However, I am far from relieved either. This is a very new and interesting emotional experience for me and one which I am not going to pass up for the lessons it has brought me. Of course I am disappointed. I just got my head around accepting the "interesting" timing of it all, if in fact it was going to continue. Had begun to grow used to feeling anticipation of telling my Ob, just to see the horrified look on his face *insert wicked eye-glint smiley* I had an inkling before I was even due that I would be testing. By the middle of this week, distractedly my thoughts turned to wondering if this little one was really even ready yet. I guess, as it turns out, he is not.... and perhaps factoring in to that is that neither am I. Not really. But as I said to a trusted friend, I won't really ever be "ready" for another baby. No, strike that. I won't be ready for another pregnancy. But one thing I know by now is that I will sure as hell cope when/if/whatever.

It just amuses me (in the least funny sense of the word) that even when not willing and tempting fate because I've been long off the TTC merry-go-round - lost my nerve, I guess you could say, so am on permanent, self-imposed "hiatus" - I get pregnant anyway. And lose it, pain and all, anyway. What gives?? Jeez, at least let me be one of the lucky ones who is part of (apparently medically-recognised) a MF infertile couple that has the surprise happy-ending pregnancy after all the trouble and the trying and the striving. But nope. Can't have the Hollywood ending. Ho no! Who do you think you'd be fooling trying that trick, then, 'eh? Sit back down and take your Panadeine.

Will I actively start trying now? Not on your life. But I will be taking great pains to remember my folic acid daily from now on (as only I do best, my first thoughts turned to "But.... I wasn't taking any vitamins!") and start treating my body and diet more kindly.

Yeah. I'll get onto that, right after I finish this sympathy chocolate egg.

Oh, and for those playing at home, this was loss #8.

Storing brains for the winter?

So the followup confirmation of the LGBB's paed visit are in. One thing stands out to me.

Weight: 50th centile
Height: 50th centile
Head circ.: 98th centile

How does that happen? That's, like, nearly 50% larger than the other major measurements. Gawd. I'm having visions of having to ensure I don't ever give Lolly one of those straight-across-the-forehead fringes. You know the ones, ladies. They were the fringes that made your primary school classmates look, well, big headed. I remember poor Lyndal Ferguson had one. So did Belinda. And Kelly. I didn't. Mine wouldn't comply because I had a cowlick on either side of my part line. Attractive!
Not only that, but Mother would have it cut by a barber. A barber. I ask you... As soon as I could master a hairdryer (and was allowed), I began to style my hair on my own. I will never forget the day, in first year high school, when I discovered that if you dried your hair until steam came out, oh! Rapture! It stayed straight, even on frosty mornings. Straight! Unfrizzy!! I thought I had invented it, I was so excited to be free of the frizz. Not that I straightened it all the time, mind. But just the power to know that straight hair was in my control. The world was miiiine!

Lolly has inherited not only my cowlicks, but Steve's. I pay careful note of the fact that my own hair seemed to be going along quite fine until I was given a ridiculously layered haircut when I was about eight or nine. Then, especially with puberty setting in (and an equally large head to that of the LGBB's), I was really on a downward spiral in the crowning glory department.

So. Cowlicks and a big noggin. They seem to run in the family.

* Not an easy feat if you only had a little bright orange Braun hand-held travel sized hairdryer that was overworked, having serviced a family of four children, and probably not much more powerful than your Dad's electric shaver - if he was so posh as to have one back then.

Lazy fluffy parenting at its best

I want one.



Cute Dog Plays Fetch With Himself - Watch more free videos

Seriously need to broaden my TV

I can't even believe I am about to admit this and I only hope to heck just ONE of you at least has Nick Jnr, or sees ABC Kids.

I have developed another bizarre crush. It's what happens when you spend so much time with the same person. I'm not even going to claim responsibility for this one, it's all the LGBB's doing. She loves the show LazyTown so I have to watch - well, ok, I don't have to. I wish I didn't watch it to be honest. Those rubbery figure characters are downright creepy. I refuse to learn any characters' names, to try and convince myself I am not forming a crush.

But when I see the flash of blue and those steely thighs.... something just comes over me. I get all fixated. And I. Must. Watch. The athletics.

Let it be known for I want it to be clarified that, even more strangely, Magnus Scheving (the guy who created LazyTown and plays Sportacus) is so totally not attractive to me out of the blue suit. Apparently, he needs to be donning that hat and ridiculous moustache. Whaaat?

Oh God. Is Sportacus my McDreamy?? What is going on?

The upside of sad

I had a spinning out moment last Wednesday night. Totally missed that it was a White experience (left over from having done that healing ray the week before.. or was it two weeks? I forget already).

I went scrounging around for any help I could the following day, absolutely desperate to get away from my own head and the pain I was feeling. It was something that has been building for a while now, I suppose, and prior to some very grounding phone calls with two of my most glorious of friends the following morning, I honestly thought I had been completely on the wrong track this whole time. They had to remind me I was most certainly not! Nor was I going insane. One of them, quite spookily, even told me that I was not a charletan (I had been thinking that very word but didn't voice it, so it was interesting to me that she picked up on the fact that I had come to a point where I felt somewhat fake - I am certain now that this feeling has come up because I have not properly begun to walk my talk). I guess the stakes are now being upped as I work forward through these layers.

But herein lies my lesson (and dilemma): I am off the beaten track with my path/my work! The more conviction I have in my own truth, the more those closest to me will be able to support me. How can I fully expect to have someone stand beside me if I am unclear and unsure of what I am doing. Belief in me. This is where it has to start. And I am still getting there.

I reached out and made an action plan of sorts. One piece of information, by way of email advice, came my way and I copy it in part here in case it is of use to anyone reading:

Please remember that polarity assumes a role when we are close to breakthrough, close to beginning again, close to re birthing and close to coming out of the closet.

Please remember it is energy. That we engage it, we manifest it and we can change it through how we react with it and to it.

Please remember that the energy that comes to you via your experiences is in you -- the law of like attracts like.

I think it is really important to remember this (for me personally, at the very least) so that I don't get so caught up in the emotions of interactions with people. By design, humans fear change. If I am changing - and growing - through my healing work, of course that incites fear in somebody who prefers that I not go through any pain or anguish to get to that place of greater understanding about myself. The short-sightedness of this, though, is that one can stunt their own growth if they acceded to stop what they are doing at the first sign of internal struggle. Put simply, if I were to listen to my partner and stop this work now, then the expectation on me is that my pain and sadness and retrospection will cease. The follow-on effects of this include being easier for him to support me. Unfortunately, I think the cause and effect of doing this is not quite so simple. It doesn't work that way.

I have to remember this is not stepping backward but ever spiralling up. I am learning and what a steep learning curve it is. I visited my Homoeopath (remember him?! What a harsh critic I was after our first meeting, one which assisted in resulting in the LGBB... oh... not like that!!) last Friday, instead of reaching for the phone to contact a GP and jump on anti-depressants - for I was literally at a point where I just wanted to escape the sadness, confusion, fuzziness, anger and stress - and found myself sitting with him listening to something that had not struck me before.

He said that he always enjoyed my visits. I was floored. Prior to making the appointment with him, I had almost forgotten he existed (it's one of those things where, in the moment, you just lose all clarity and forget to reach for your usual supports - sort of like heading straight for the morphine drip instead of attempting a Panadol for a headache). It took The Guardian Friend to prompt me to call him. Which I did. SO... anywho, I felt funny admitting that I was writing a book. He is someone who intimidates me somewhat with his own learnedness. Is that a word? So I was really taken aback that this intelligent eccentric practitioner was telling me he got something from me when I came to see him. Totally unlike anything he has ever said to me in the two plus years I have been seeing him.

When I explained that I had been told by my husband that I was "going like this" lately (and illustrating a very wavy ocean, peak and trough visual with my arm) in comparison to him claiming to be steady and implying I should be the same, he corrected me. Not unusual for him ;) "You're not going like this", he said, copying my arm movement. "You are actually doing this." And he made a steady incline shape with his arm on the diagonal. "You might be moving around a bit on that upward path.... but you are going up. When someone is like this and remaining steady (putting his arm flat), they are not moving at all." There was no doubt in his voice. I wanted to cry, I felt so understood and validated. And I realised this was all I had wanted. A friend telling you you are not going mad and you're on the right track is one thing. But someone totally objective saying it is even more liberating.

How is it that even he, someone I haven't been to for over four months, can see? And not only that, but confirms what I knew - as soon as he said it, I remembered, "Ah yes, I am climbing, I am getting there." Still, why did it take someone else to say it for me to remember what I already know?? Where is my strength of conviction when someone challenges what is closest to my heart?

This cloud around my head has GOT to be clearing sometime soon. It just must! I refuse to stop until I see sunshine, whenever that is.

Pet Peeve #7,294

Why do the older generation (I'm sure it's not limited to them, though) insist on cutesying up their words when talking to an infant?

My father has a theory - well, of course, it's not his theory but the way he tells it, you'd think he had been in the think tank as they discovered what he was explaining when in reality, he no doubt just read it on some RSS feed - that babies teach us how to communicate with them. They "goo goo, babble babble" and we repeat back to them. I have a friend who, no matter how hard she tries, used to find she had to talk babble and naturally pitching her voice up a few notes when talking to the baby LGBB, despite herself. By her admission, she just couldn't help it. And it was hilarious to watch her squirm (the friend, not Lolly) as she heard herself doing it.

That aside, I want to know why - when the child is obviously understanding and speaking on a recognisable level and one can have (albeit short) a conversation with them - some people give names to things that are not the actual word for them.

What am I on about, you ask? Let me explain.

The LGBB knows what a car is. She knows what going in the car means. Hell, she even says "Let's go? Cah? See kids?" So not only does she know what it means, she bloody well makes requests for destinations. Her grandparents know this. But they insist on calling it "Tatta's" (or more like "tattass") - it makes me feel uneasy and not only because I always thought tatta's were *aherm* a woman's breasts. More specifically, whether she wanted to go tattas in the broom-broom. Lolly, much to her credit, looked blankly at me much like Grover does when he looks to camera as if to illustrate the weariness of his position.

And when we got set to go for a walk in her pram a couple of weeks ago, they asked her if she wanted to go walkies. I admit to being slightly offended at that point!

I'm actually starting to become inclined to ask if they think she is a puppy. Or at least if they are used to "dumbing it down" for all the babies in their lives. And I did politely explain that Lolly doesn't know what tatta's is/are (depending on your definition of what the word means) or broom-brooms. Or walkies for that matter. I managed to save them any further anguish over what cutesy word to call the pram by advising them that we actually call it ..... drum roll .... a pram!

So what gives, do you think? Does anyone know what I'm talking about? I just don't see the point in calling an inanimate object or a regular exercise, like a walk or going in the car, anything other than that - you only have to then retrain them what the correct thing is eventually (unless you're happy with a 26 year old who says they bought a new broom-broom).

Oh, look, perhaps I don't know what I'm talking about. The kid looooooves her grandparents. Maybe it's because they say funny things. Perhaps she thinks they're really cute. Or really intelligent for having this parallel language that her parents don't have.

It. Has. Begun.

*cue the minor key*

Water and gas are 'Go' for ... off. Or something. We now have a non-functioning kitchen. Steve and I began ripping it out (the kitchen, people) today after the plumber capped of the gas pipe and disconnected water and so far, we've lost the island bench and stove cooktop.

It's ace, it means the new kitchen is really coming, it's all happening. But it'll be a long two weeks until it's put in. Until then, there's the kitchen down in the LGBB's "wing" of the house that we'll be using, at least while she's awake, but it's going to take quite a bit of co-ordination.

The perfect antedote

I have decided my best option is to join 'em. I speak of the damn life-snatching moments that keep stealing my time away from me.

So. Armed with a beach towel, some jugs (er.... the pouring kind) and the LGBB's tea set, we set up camp in the little swimming pool again today. I sweltered my skin off and she tra-la'ed around the pool for almost two hours. My only job was to sit and watch her - she made it so (she is at that stage where I must give FULL attention or else bear the incessant consequences) - and it was easy to let work, the computer, the phone, everything but the hot breezy afternoon get put aside.

Now, to the antedote part. You will need some props to replicate this.

Take:

1 toddler
1 dog
1 shallow body of water
1 tea cup
1 collander

Combine all ingredients and soak for at least one hour. Watch hilarity unfold. Enjoy!

Our particular brand of fun came firstly when the over-zealous "cuppa TEEEEEEEE?" maker among us kept imploring with the dog to come and have said cup of tea. Jazz was more interested in panting right in my face (as if I needed any more proof that today was ridiculous weather for March). So the requests from Lolly, with her tea cup perched daintily between prune-wrinkled fingers and her arm stretched out so far it nearly popped from the socket, became ever more frantic in pitch - "Cup....tea? *octave change* CUPPA TEEEEE? JASS! JASSEEEEE!" Poor poppet. Eventually I had to put her out of her servery misery and take the cup and pretend to give it to Jazz. And wasn't that therapeutic in itself: I flung the cup up so the water flew into the air - ever seen a dog try to catch mid-air water? Let's just say... sucks to be Jazz.

Then the collander was noticed. And the LGBB, bless her confused little heart, spent the better part of the next 20 minutes trying to fill it. So tricky. She even tried swapping hands with the jug she was "filling" it with, I guess just in case the right hand was dodgy at it. I like her problem solving.

When hot days and Aldi blow-up pools meet

"We come in peace" - The Bubbleboy... and Girl.

So the good news is, she's gorgeous

And apparently very advanced with her language and communication. Of course, that had everything to do with the fact that the LGBB told the Paediatrician this morning - not asked, told - that he was "Finished?" I mean, it was posed as a question and said with the most angelic little voice. But the pudgy hand on his to remove the tape measure off her leg and the set chin and unwavering gaze as she said it made him stammer, "Oh... finished? I... yes, I suppose I have." Bwahahaha, adda grrl.

Then she crawled (can you strut while you crawl? Is it possible? Because she now struts - can't wait to see her walk) to the door, pointed to it, looked at me and said, "Open door?" and proceeded to sit on her haunches waving goodbye to the Paed - "Bye, doh-ter, byeeeee."

Ok, now to the not so great news.


After the second little "turn" thing that Lolly endured in January this year (the first one at ten months if you remember back that far, I sure as heck had to strain my memory even when I vowed it was an experience that would freeze me each time I thought about it), she was referred to a Paediatrician. Today was that visit. He was, as I mentioned, impressed with her communication skills. Great. All above average. Gross motor-wise, though, things are a bit more suspect. I can now officially (not that I ever wanted to) say that medically, we cannot rule out she's not had a very mild seizure or two, although honestly I do not believe in my heart that this is what happened. I have doubts, though, that there is not something going on in that little body of hers. And I guess my worst fears have been realised today as I came away with paperwork for a complete blood check, hip ultrasound, an updated physio referral and a bloody EEG to be done at the local big hospy. He's nothing if not thorough and I am glad he is checking it all out, but he's doing it based purely on facts and history - including that which was sent over from pathology of her last two visits to the ED.

I just would prefer to know that he is going on my "mother's hunch".... but he's not. He is actually doing all this because he is not satisfied with her stability on her feet and he could not rule out something neurological. And I admit that this scares me quite a lot. Best to have it all checked out and I truly hope nothing untoward will be found and her bouts of listlessness remain inexplicable (and unrelated to her GMD).

Of course, all that being said, I am hopeful (and cling to that hope) that she is just roolly sluggish. Now that she is about to hit 20 months and still not cruising furniture or weight bearing properly (or for very long), though, along with the Osteo's diagnosis of low muscle tone in her legs, I don't think I can use the "she'll do it when she's ready" out clause for much longer. I know people still tell me she's just taking her time. It's just that they don't see what I see and don't witness how much she avoids using her legs.

It's all a bit of a worry and a lot of a wait - we won't have the EEG done until next month sometime, have to wait for them to call us - and back for a revisit with the Paed to discuss results and "where to from here" in mid May.

Would ya mind distracting me while I pace til then? Send me, I dunno... send me your fave You Tube links or something. Throw me a bone. Tell me a joke *tapping screen* Hellooooo?

I couldn't make this up if I tried

Ok, so last Thursday I did White Ray. White is the Ray of the Will to be Well (for refreshing the Energy Well of the Free Spirit). Right? That's the background to this.

I have had a dragonfly - a big, noisy one - flitting in and around the deck for the past week or two. This morning, sitting at the kitchen table working on my book, it came sauntering in the door I had left open for Jazz and Pep, and started bashing itself against all the walls in here and around my head.

Being the girl I am, I squeaked a stifled scream and retreated into the entrance of the house, leaving him to it and willing him back out the open door. He didn't and continued to really bang himself into things. Resting on the kitchen window sill, he seemed quite frantic to get back outside. So I inched past the kitchen and opened wide the windows out to the deck, hoping on his next round of the room, he'd just keep banging against walls until he found the "open wall" and flew out. But he didn't. He perched on the kitchen blind and there he remains, even as I type this.

He looks far too delicate for such acrobatics. I took this as something I need to look at. After all, there is no water around here and certainly none on the deck or inside the house, for him to be searching for insects or other food. And he has only been hanging around in the past fortnight (that I have seen/noticed, anyway).

So I went to my growing reference library of work books from Peace Space. I started with the White Ray manual, having just done this one - we didn't read every single mandala in the work book, for we would have been there a second day if we did - because I could see in my mind's eye the line drawing of the dragonfly and the heading... so I knew it was a paper I had seen somewhere sometime.

Lucky for me, Dragonfly energy is part of White Ray healing, so I found it in the first place I looked. Heh! And here is what it means:

Dragonflies live in two realms, water and air. Dragonflies mate in mid-air and lay their eggs in the water. The eggs hatch into nymphs and can spend up to five years in the water before they emerge into full-grown dragonflies. Adult dragonflies chase away other predators seeking their eggs and maintain a watch over the area where their young develop.
Dragonflies are mostly seen flying along riverbanks and waterways in their search for food. in mid-air, they scoop up their food - other flying insects - with their spiny legs which are held out to form a sort of catching basket. Being territorial, the Dragonfly "patrols" a fixed area and is often seen landing on bushes or trees to rest. Their most used sense is sight, their eyes having 30,000 lens facets that detect the subtlest movement or shifting in the light.

Dragonfly challenges you to understand the watery emotions of your child-self and the responsibility you now shoulder as you move from water (your tears) to emotional maturity.
Dragonfly calls upon you to find emotional balance in all that you do. To find this balance, there is often a need to get fresh air and new light into the situation or issue that concerns or limits you.
Dragonfly tels you it is time to go out an dcheck your boundaries for intrustions that can create illusions and thus deceive you.

Get rest for yourself so you can release stress and find reason within concerning what is bothering you. Meditate or take a walk in Nature to clear the air and your airways for new light, new thought and new focus to enter. Make room for your instincts and sense of sight to express themselves. Do not be satisfied with just one view of the issue at hand. Look at things from all points of view. Discern what is correct for you. Let new ideas take shape so you can grow.

Dragonfly signals to you that you must find your own solutions.

Once again, the timing of this little visit inside the house this morning is not lost on me. Today, the section I felt compelled to write about was my "sensitivity" and how this was presented to me as I grew up as being something I should try and shut down/out. That there are two meanings, as I came to learn as I grew up, to the word "sensitive".

I have found these varied but connected meanings today, from dictionary.com:

1. endowed with sensation; having perception through the senses.

2.	readily or excessively affected by external agencies or influences.

3.	having acute mental or emotional sensibility; aware of and responsive to the feelings of others.

4.	easily pained, annoyed, etc.

14.	a person who is sensitive.

15.	a person with psychic powers; medium.

So yes, I would say I am probably a little of all these things. A combination. I am writing about the pain in being called 'sensitive', in its negative sense, and I can see I was immature in my handling of the accusation. I didn't own my sensitivity (both being sensitive and being a sensitive) until very, very recently. In no small part, I have my friends to thank for this awakening. At least, for keeping me right on track with staying with it and accepting it as not all bad to be sensitive (mind you, I could do without feeling every little thing! That bit's a pain in the ass at the best of times), if nothing else.

To me, the appearance of this dragonfly reminds me that I am maturing, have matured, emotionally into more of my being in belief than ever before in my life. Whilst also acknowledging and nurturing that little girl I was previously and all she endured and experienced in order for me to have a pretty full suitcase by now.

Why I wouldn't be good at marketing campaigns

I was standing reading the back of a box of cereal - as you do when you're trying to wake up and focus - and read the heading on the blurb: "Breakfast starts with breakfast". Only once Steve read it and corrected me (after I emphatically tried to tell him I'd learned something today from a box of cereal and he told me patronisingly that it was ... well, pretty dumb logic) did I realise it actually read "Success starts with breakfast."

The worst bit? The former actually seemed perfectly reasonable to me in my head.

And the tagging continues?

Okay so I'm a bit slow to get to all my homework (yeah thanks for that, Danni!), but here goes.

Here are the rules:
1. Link back to the person who tagged you.
2. Post these rules on your blog.
3. Share six unimportant things about yourself.
4. Tag six random people at the end of your blog entry.
5. Let the tagged people know by leaving a comment on their blogs.

Six Unimportant things about me. Hmmmm. Only six? This might hard....

1. When I was little, I lurrrrrved my sister's Fashion Plates. You remember the little plates with the embossed outfits on them? You chose a head plate, then a torso plate and a bottom plate and then you put them all in this little plastic box contraption, arranged a sheet of paper over the top, closed the lid and then used this special black crayon to rub over the paper, revealing your model and her outfit on the paper. Then you coloured it all in. Voilé! Fashionistas beware! I was set to take over the world with my dazzling array of combination outfits. The flariest tweed fabric flares. The flickest Farrah-flicked hairstyles. The most pigeon-toed (must have been fashionable in the day) legs. SO cool.

2. My little toes are puffy. They are like two bits of puffed rice. And the toe nails? Well... they are just demented.

3. I can't stand holding a bag of cornflour. URRRRRGHHHHH *shudders like Sideshow Bob stepping on a rake* It's almost worse than nails down a blackboard to me.

4. I can play the recorder. No, like, seriously super-well. Yuh-huh. I started out with all the other seven year-olds in grade 2, on their plastic recorders, and then all of a sudden - without asking me - I began going to the music teacher's home for proper private lessons. I upgraded to a *woooooh* wooden descant recorder. And then, before I knew it, I was aged eleven, still going to weekly recorder lessons, promoted to the treble recorder (by now I was in love with my two recorders and the richness I could put into the music in front of me), doing extra-curricular recorder duelling with my music teacher's extended group of students (children and adults) and uh, generally getting jiggy wi' it. On the recorder. I even got to play the bigger recorder again, the Bass, although me little fingers hardly reached. I would try and practice stretching them on my desk at home, so that the following week if she let me play the bass again, I might this time reach all the holes to actually play the damn thing. But oh, the sound it made *swoons* It was truly beautiful. My teacher taught me (heh! fancy that) what it is to love the recorder. Stop laughing!
Did music exams each year (total of four, I got A's and a B - the most nerve wracking things, I'd have to study music with my teacher beforehand, then go the piano accompanyist's house and do a couple of practices - all the while kinda not really aware of what I was doing and why I had to go into the scary big music room at some academy-type place, unsure even of which suburb I was in ... hey I was only 8, 9, 10, 11... you get the picture).
And then just as I was really getting into it and was aware that I was doing these exams each year and mini concerts n' stuff, my music teacher said she could no longer teach me any further. She had taught me all she knew. I was twelve. She strongly recommended my parents send me to the Victorian Conservatory of Music in the city. But seeing as the thought of me having to possibly get myself in there on my own scared the pants off of me, and more pressing the fact that it was probably really expensive, I never went further. Which kind of sucks because I wonder sometimes now just how far I could have gone.

5. I had a dog named Sheba when I grew up. Doesn't everybody have at least one dog called Sheba in their lifetime?

6. I got sick once (it only takes once) on mixed nuts at Christmas time and it took me years - if ever - to work myself up to eating peanut/mixed nuts again. And scorched almonds. Mum used to put out bowls of nuts and chocolate coated sultanas... and white Christmas *blegh* I gorged myself on them, at age about 6 or 7, because I was a little piggy and boy oh boy, was I siiiiiick.
And I also did the same thing in later years with cream, ice cream and, most strangely, battered sausage on a stick.
Always happened when I had eaten my fill, then pushed the limits by just eating more - as little kids do if you let them - and urgh.... well, suffice to say, I have several permanent psychosomatic food aversions now, whereby if I eat them I am instantly, vomitously ill.

Hello, lover

Steve has given his blessing for changes in our marriage.

He sat me down last night, told me he had seen me struggling for so long now. Last week, my call to him on Friday that we needed to talk over the weekend and work something new out came after he had apparently already made calls of his own and made his mind up.

He had decided to bring a third party into the relationship. And last night .... I met her.

Despite being younger, prettier, lighter and faster and infinitely more powerful and intelligent, I have no jealousies. For she is to be mine. For me to write my book on. I can now take my writing anywhere - backyard, coffee shop, bushland park, front porch, couch. Anywhere the inspiration fancies and takes me. And we've got an airport too which means it's all wireless internet connectivity. So I can also blog out back too! (eww, that sounds a bit messy, come to think of it)

I have not been this in love with a piece of expensive machinery since he brought home the 21" iMac. Which I thought was the most thin, streamlined, powerful computer I had ever laid eyes on - and immediately shoulder and elbowed Steve out of my way to stake claim (it was my computer, after all) as soon as he had set it up for me.

Well what did you think I meant? Get your minds out of the gutter! Honestly... tut tut, shame on you.

Little bit nauseating

Tuesday 10th February, 2004
I’m not sure about today. It feels a little unsettled. Our girl is still breathing very fast, around 100, and I’m just not comfortable.

I'm up to "that section" of the book now. Going through and diarising my journal entries, interspersing them with the rest of the story as it unfolded - I couldn't record everything in writing, but interestingly, now that I am going through it step by step, it is eerily easy to recall smells, sights, sounds, feelings, emotions, words that occurred during those days with her.

This was the very last journal entry in the diary I was keeping as I sat at Ella's side.
I can't believe how unnerved I was, I couldn't shake it. There seemed no noticeable reason for me to be that way. Nobody appeared that fussed, but I had the monitor blinking behind me and reminding me she was still dependent on her artificial environment.

And then she died two days later. They hadn't been suspicious of anything being "up" until that morning. But two days before, I had known. Somehow, somewhere in me, I had known. I didn't speak up because I thought it was just me being overly cautious or stupid.

I reiterate now something I have since said sooooo many times: DON'T go against your initial gut instinct. It knows. Now I'm left with the "what if's" and "if only's" that plagued me in the days after Ella's death. People said then, and will continue to try and placate me now, that I couldn't have known. There was probably nothing anybody could have done. But they don't know that. I don't know that either.

I know for certain that Ella's ultimate death could probably not have been prevented. But I still carry immense guilt and a burden that I had been sitting on a dire alarm signal for two days before the infection, that was now raging in her body on the day she died, finally became apparent to doctors. I knew. And I sat on it.

Listen to yourself and be guided by that voice.

Over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house we go HO!

The good news is, surely I have lost 4kg. Let me explain.

I went for my morning walk this morning. I started out just after 6:30am, deciding to take a slightly longer route than usual. There are sets of stairs dotting the foothills around here, some only the locals know about and others visible from kilometers away and so making them easy to spot. One day, walking down around the streets in the valley here, I saw a steep local road. The road dwindled to a track and the track turned into stairs. Vertical stairs, going straight up into the trees, or so it looked.

After I found out from my neighbour that there is an excellent set of about 100 steps, leading from a lower crescent road to another, winding higher up the ridge - handy! - I decided to set myself the challenge. By the time I reached the top I was wheezier than a 78 year-old chain smoker. But I'd done it. Trekking back down the narrow sealed road, I was able to take in the view from up there, the roof of our house included. It's an awesome little pocket, that's for sure.

So that whole walk takes around thirty minutes. It's not too easy, but I wanted slightly more of a challenge. And today, boy did I get it.

I did my usual circuit, but at the top of the stairs, instead of wussing out and going left (the way I normally go) and heading down the steep hill, I decided to try my luck going right. The road was just as narrow - literally edge to edge is one car's width, there are no gutters - and it took me slightly higher up and curled around the ridge - God knows how those homes are up there and how much they cost to build, the views are a-mazing, even from the road - then down the other side. I was now on the opposite side of this peak to what I normally am. I knew where I was going. Oh yeah, I'd studied the Google map. All I needed to do was follow this road straight and then I'd see the stairs that would lead me back near the local landmark I had seen from the streets below a few weeks ago.

As with every map, though, it never quite looks the same if you haven't got many things to go by... including a copy of the map right there in front of you. I came across a triangular sort of intersection with a park in the middle (strange little oasis, considering the surroundings, I thought). But on I clomped, hoping I would see something obvious to trigger the right way to head. My thighs were slowly releasing the lactic acid build-up from the earlier set of stairs I came up and were gradually stopping their screaming at me. The road meandered back to the top of the ridge and now I was walking along the top of it. Another walker came up another road, straight up from the direction of the shops, this seemed to be also a wussy way out, I was determined to find these stairs - just so I could always say I did them. I asked her in passing where they were and she said cryptically, "They're tricky to find, you have to walk down a driveway towards a house.... up that way. Good luck!" Uh, yeah, thanks for that bland description of where they are. I thought, I'll be right, they can't be that hard to spot. And on I walked.

The sealed road ran out eventually. It was uphill all the way. Now I was still on a single lane road but dodging potholes and tyre ruts. Up and up and up. Every time I looked up, there seemed to be a crest or a promising looking "driveway" which could very well lead back down to steps on the left. And each time I came to the crest, there was just more road beyond. And going .... up.

Eventually, the road started to wind back down. A slight ease in the hill. And in my breathing, mercifully. I had my water bottle with me, I'd drunk three quarters of it by now. A thought crossed my mind that Steve might soon grab the LGBB, get in my car with her and come looking for me. The sun was up now. Ooops, he'd be shitty because he wanted to get to work. Did he think I was now like this? Because I was getting there at this point.

When I saw a break in the bush, I looked through to my left, saw a train going past waaaay below and quite fast, so I knew that I was well away from the station - between stations, actually - and that I was probably closer to the next town than my own. Oh dear. I never was that good with directions. Taking them or studying them.

So I turned back. I was bitterly disappointed in myself for not finding those blasted stairs though. I had really wanted to find them and go that way, now moreso because it was surely going to get me home faster than retracing my steps. Thankfully, at least it was downhill from here. I came across a school girl - "great, is it THAT late" I thought to myself - and she dutifully blinked her big Amber Dempsey eyes at me from under peroxided pink-streaked hair and said "Oh, they're a long way from here!" in reply to my question about where the *$&#^ing stairs were. She gave me directions, just as unclear and amiguous as the first lot, but I did pick up just enough to keep a look out for when the road went back to bitumen.

Ok then. So I kept retracing my steps and eventually got to the *ahem* sealed section and off the tyre-pocked dirt road, the ruts on which I was using as very short-spaced stairs of sorts, though it was really jarring my legs, and then I spotted this t-intersection I had missed on the way up. Figuring I had nothing - except 10kg - to lose, I started down it. It was a steep downhill run this one. Everything up there was either fecking steep up or steep down. Gah. But about 10 metres along, I saw that there was a driveway running parallel with the road I was on. And beyond that was a path suspiciously looking like it might be public access (it was hard to tell because all the houses on the hill appeared to have their own very well engineered paths and steps from their carports to their homes and yards). So I went back up the hill and thought, "Bah, I've got adrenalin on my side if I'm wrong and now trespassing down some strange driveway".

But it was the right one. The top of the precarious vertical stairs down greeted me with a groan - they need to fix that old wood! - and down I went. Not sure if the knees thanked me, but it felt like such a good work-out, the entire trip.

When I finally made it back to our street, I started to muse if I was going to walk in the door to hear Steve on the phone, akin to Ellen Griswold, explaining to someone that "I don't know her exact height and weight, all I know is that she was a genius with food additives and a saint with children and ... and ... Clarke!" It took me almost two hours. Not bad for a twenty minute "I'll be back before Lolly gets up" morning walk, huh?

I've been Tagged

Well I never!

This is so funny - not that I am saying it's a funny thing to do, just what my reaction has been to being tagged - I have been sweating this little bit of pop quizz-esque homework like I have waited until Thursday night before starting my English essay. Ooops, what would Mr Maile say?!

In truth, I have not had a moment to scratch either of me sizeable butt cheeks since Friday and so now I find myself, spare of time (all 10 minutes of it before dinner) and eager to put words to screen before I lose the meandering thoughts that are all floating around *in there* just begging of me to clear the server and free some disk (read: brain) space.

So, on to the challenge. Can I call it a challenge? It's a challenge to me, because I can't remember what I was going to write, so we'll see how this ends up....

I've been tagged by this relatively new reader to my years-long musings and what I have to do is discuss three reasons why I blog. So here goes:

1. In the beginning... I just started. Just like that, in Sept. (I think? Or Oct?) '05. I can't remember why I started or how I even knew blogs existed, but I had soooo much going round and round in my head then that I just had to type it out. I still do that to this day as the need arises, although things are a lot more guarded and cagey round here due to several little misdemeanors along the way (long story, skip that, and no I won't provide links to back-posts!). In those moments, I learned what it was to write something and, by so doing, put quite a lot of my energy out there. Sometimes I post/ed, published the post and then deleted it - hours or minutes later. It was almost as if, by simply writing it out and seeing it "in print" (on the screen in this case) in my own words was enough for me to heal. To sometimes see that it wasn't worth putting all my energy into "out there in public". So to that end, this blog has taught me what my energy is worth putting into and where it goes - if it's to not-such-a-good-place, then I've deleted posts (sometimes after they've been viewed by one or several). But when I have deleted, it's not through any "cowardly" means, it has simply happened by way of my realising that ... "This is so not worth my effort and energy."

If you read my ramblings long enough, you may know that pretty much everything I write is dripping with everything I have. Meaning, I don't write half-arsed.

Besides all this (aw my Lord, this is a very long wordy #1), what I wanted most was to have a space to just .... write! Write whatever the hell I wanted about whatever. Whenever. I felt I had so much to say. I wanted to have a place to say it, sorta kinda sheepishly, for it is hard to see my thoughts and opinions blazoned across my screen and realising they might appear on others' (inevitably, given it's the www we're dealing with here), but in a forum where I did not have to apologise, answer to, vet my thoughts or edit for anyone. Or at least, through my blog I found I could get to a point where I am comfortable that what I write, I stand by - without feeling the need anymore to apologise or backstep or remove a post, because I have learned what is important enough to stand upa nd argue for. All those posts which remain in my blog, therefore, are all things I stand by. I wanted to get it all down so I could get to my future. But (and here comes reason #2)....

2. I did not realise that by way of my blog, I was actually testing myself in the public arena. It has become a practice ground for me, in a way. What to write. What not to write (and I do thank most profusely, once again - although I seem not to be taken for my genuine word when I say this - my teachers of this lesson, for it took a few goes to get it, I'm a bit slow like that). This blog has been my teacher, my healer, my big eiderdown comforter. It's the quilt, if you will, of my growing into the new me. Each important post along the way creating that patchwork, the ones which really came (and come) from my sore heart have been monumentally cathartic (for me) and it is handy and rewarding to have them historically time-lined. I can see where I was and where I have come to - I just can't see where I'm going, nor do I fully want to (cos where's the fun in that, 'eh?).

And all the comments I have received along the way have been awesome for my sense of place, coming to grow my optimism for my specific job for humanity (the book), my soul. Without the buffer I have somehow had the generous good fortune to have flocked and encircled me here, I doubt there would have been much of a drive to continue. Or get going.

3. It's just kind of fun to talk about... well, nothing but shite! *note to self: talk about MORE shite more often on here, shite-talking is good for the soul* Sometimes I want to post about stuff all. And who else wants to hear it somedays? So I write it here. And I still feel heard. Even if nobody comments. I know they read. So in their reading, I have been heard. That's enough for the likes of me. And as an appended #3 (so, like, can I cheat and say Reason #3.5...), I really truly enjoy the time out. It's me time. It is time for me to stick my head out of my cave and look at "what she's doing" (for she inspired me whilst on her own PGD path). Or her (because she is as sharp and bold as I wish to be). And - a new time-permitting-obsession - her!

So there you have it. My (very abridged, I might sidle in here) version of why I blog. I love it. It's my 15 minutes' break with the coffee. It's the sanity in my flights of fancy (and otherwise), which I really do require so that I don't lose touch with reality - such is the nature of my upcoming and fledgling work and growth - and it is my portal to connecting little threads of comeradery with people I like and want to know, more innately than face to face, for I find that words on blogs are the stuff of people's true personas. The ones they don't fully divulge to friends in the flesh or family or sometimes even partners. It's different, blog communication, and I really enjoy it.

Thanks for the tagg! I've enjoyed the introspection. Always good for a bit of a spring clean and sharpening of the senses. And without further ado, I guess the last business I need to do is tagg Amoir, this gorgeous chick, this funny bugger and my ever faithful backup grrl (who may miss this as she's out of town... wink wink) to not break the chain. Consider yourselves IT!

The rest of you regulars, ashamedly, don't have blogs (that I know of)! Paul, the day you get a blog is the day hell will freeze over, I know, but I'd SO obsessively read it. Go forth and blog, all of you, I say! *slapping you with my white gloves to accent the challenge in a gentlemanly manner* If only so I have more people to legitimately tag.