The honest Mother of a post

"Mum, I was looking at photos in my book last night and I decided.... I like you now."

The first words out of the LGBB's mouth on Friday morning as I stood in our ensuite, straightener in hand, attempting to hide my gaping mouthed surprise. I heard Steve stifle I gasp in the next room.

"Why, thank you, Miss Lolly," I said as warmly as I could. "I think."

"That's okay," she said charitably, turned on her heel and walked off to start her day.

I can only deduce that she saw the smiling photos of me looking back at her that I had subliminally placed into her album about 4 years ago. They are photos of her as a less-than-2-year-old and various members of her family, including the dogs she already loved so much.

And before I analysed too much and asked, "Where did I go wrong?! Does that mean she has not liked me for the past 5 and a half years?", I took stock of all the things I have done with and for her. Within my means and with, at times, my limited patience and energy to give her as much as I wanted (which was always more than what she needed but felt so minimal compared to what I felt she deserved).

To be completely honest here, I only felt the veil of my depression lift last year. About 5 months after the LGBB was born, it descended on me like a stifling blanket and it didn't budge. For over four years. It was a long hard trawl. And I was often almost consumed by the weight of the guilt of not "feeling satisfied" or "happy" now that we had a child.

Add to that her kinder year (last year) was only 11 hours a week with no other child care arrangement, save for sporadic day-long visits to her grandparents, and it made for very limited opportunities for me to get work done when she was not here. So I had to break my own rule sometimes and work while she was home.

Herein lies the issue that has just come to my awareness: Despite doing EVERYTHING for her still, her perception is that I worked all the time "but you don't now so I like you" (as she said in her own words, elaborating after I casually asked why she liked me "now"). It didn't matter that the previous years were all about creating nurturing and learning activities for her to ensure the best start to her life and finding out about the world around her. All she remembers is that she had a mother who worked.

Now, while I know that what has been ingrained in her has been well worth all the effort and has helped to shape who she is, she doesn't know that. I have to fight hard here to keep my own feelings of insecurity at bay and not offload them on a five year-old. I want to rave at her "After all I've done for y...." But I won't. I can't! It's what was done to me. And it conditioned me to stop expressing myself.

Heck, haven't you ever wondered why I am SO wordy now? So expressive? You can thank my mother :)

The fact is, we live in a society where you are guaranteed to not be doing the right thing at any given time. Who can keep up with all those things we are judged on? Ludicrous! Exhausting. Nobody can keep up with every single piece of advice and instruction, and nobody is that "perfect". I decided a long time ago that I was not going to bow to the pressure of what "they" say is best for her. I was going to list here in this post the sorts of things we do and also point out all the other things we don't do, but you know what? It's not necessary. This is our life. This is our groove. I busted my gut trying to do things I thought would enrich her life, not what I thought would win me any accolades.

So why am I slightly gutted (can one even be "slightly" gutted?) that this is her perception of me? That in her mind I have only ever worked and, therefore, not been someone she could like until she has started school? She thinks I don't work now. But the reality is, I just have more time to get the work done during the day so I don't have to do it when she's home from school. I can see how she has worked it out in her head. I'm so relieved that she is satisfied, for now I can be more deeply satisfied too in my work and my hours alone. I love that she is at school. For this reason alone, I have not shed one tear that my daughter is no longer home with me.

The bigger, gnawing pain for me centres around the fact that her Dad - who goes outside the home to work and has always done, it's just a given to her because it's how she has always known him - gets off pretty lightly. He is "so funny. I like Dad. And it's okay, Mum, because I like you now too. Because you don't work." I'm still the one who gets interrupted to attend to every request, demand, plea for help. I'm the Go-To parent. Not a problem, I have no issue with this.....

Until the day I discover I'm the least "liked" parent too.

Anyone got any worms I can eat?

School's in: If there ever comes a day....

From "The House At Pooh Corner" by A.A.Milne (1928)

The kookaburras are laughing as I sit here at 9pm on the first night of our LGBB going to school. It's rare to hear them, certainly this late at night, round these parts. They're having a raucous good laugh.... at my expense, my paranoid ego wants to tell me.

See, here's the thing:  I thought I would have a cry in my heart after today. THE day. The big one that has been looming in my awareness for well over a year now. I put it off and put it off, imagining today. Kind of like anticipating something you want so much to come but you know it'll come with a cost. Come with some pain.

That is how I just naturally expected today to go. Scene:  me back in car, letting myself go into the cocoon of the vehicle cabin, possibly searching for something soppy to play on the radio as a fitting backdrop to my tears.

But no! Not a tear fell. Not even a "Oh my giddy Aunt, but they are SO gorgeous with their enormous shorts down to their shins and dresses down to their ankles, bless them all" blub of happiness (which I am oh so good at.... just ask the LGBB's kindy teacher from last year who pegged me as hopeless right from the first time - of many - that I stood and watched someone else's kid have show and tell and proceeded to cry uncontrollably just watching how proud they were with showing their favourite whatever to the captive audience).

Checking they got her name right

You see on the surface, today was surprise-free. I knew Lolly would breeze through that door, I had a feeling I'd get the briefest of hugs and then she would be on her way, back turned to me and her Dad. I expected I would feel a sense of loss (as with the closing of any long, important chapter) but I haven't. The day went off without a hitch. Lolly did give us a goodbye hug but it was a squeeze so warm and loving and bone-crushing that I knew she was ready to flap her wings and practice flying now.

Retrospectively looking back on it, and tucking the girl in to her bed tonight after a celebratory pizza feast, a foot massage with lavender oil and a tummy-winding exercise (that is... winding as in winding down, not anything to do with a breeze!) - which may not be to everyone's understanding or pleasure, but is our tried and true method of corterizing any remaining threads of connection to energies of the day that are not hers to to be troubled by or to own - I allowed myself to realise the profoundity of the day.

"Mum," she drearily said to me as she struggled to keep her eyes open while I rubbed her feet. "I think you should be a teacher."
"Oh?"
"Actually, you even look like my teacher!" A compliment I will gladly take, given that her teacher is about fifteen years my junior and gorgeous to boot. I can't see it, personally, but who am I to disagree?

The Bag with its own postcode

We then had a chat about how what she really wanted was for me to work at the school so she could see me during the day sometimes.  "Well.... not all teachers work in schools, you know," I informed her. "Perhaps I could be a teacher anyway and just not work at a school." I like to get her thinking.

The conversation resolved itself when the LGBB decided she really did want to go to school but wished, at the same time, she could remain a little kid. "Forever." I told her tenderly that I remember having those exact wishes when I was not much older than her. The weight of responsibility and experience already upon my eleven year-old head felt too hard and I didn't want to grow up. It was impossible not to.

So today, I see now, while it was the beginning of the feeling of guilt-free days for the first time in five years (until school becomes a burdensome chore she drags her feet to get to each day and I somehow find a way to feel horrible and guilty about her having to be penned in by the institution while I am not), that this was a day of initiation for both of us.

As mother and daughter, our roles and expectations of each other are about to step up a notch. I hope she continues to be as patient and engaging with me as she has for her first years. Today I had to farewell the little girl, who was really not that little girl any more either but someone waiting in the wings. Waiting for the very moment Miss C opened the classroom door so that the children with the too-big uniforms could spill in to their new exciting space.

Just as the celebrant spoke of at Ellanor's memorial, this is a changing season - where we say goodbye, but also in many respects, it is a hello. A "welcome to your new world" for my Lolly. And I couldn't be more proud of how she began that new life today.

I know she won't always appreciate or even want to hear my imparting of wisdom.
I know one day she will not want me to come near her, let alone massage her, with lavender oil before bed time.
I know one day (sob) that Scrapsy will not get a guernsey as her best, best, bestest friend any more.
I know, once again, I have a daughter who is a child of the universe now. As she always was. And I am so deeply honoured. You know?



But I will always be boundary-keeping my daughter, for as long as there is a breath in me.

It's so brief. Really. She's grown me up a little more today. My little inner child is moping slightly but it won't for long. How can it (and what right does it have) when it sees this buoyant soul beaming back?

“If ever there is tomorrow when we're not together...
There is something you must always remember.
You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.
But the most important thing is, even if we're apart...
I'll always be with you.”

A.A.Milne

Remembered into being

Ellanor was borne into being long after she became a thought. I had introduced her to my closest confidantes before I got pregnant. She included herself in our lives before she was born. She touched down here for the most fleeting of days - 31 to be very exact - and then tripped back off again. Leaving me to gather together all the memories she had left me with, so I could lean on them. Desperately at first. Despairingly, longingly. But always fondly. Even the hard memories. And then I got stuck into sharing them, mostly here on this blog (and my old one). The more I did, the more I discovered that she remained vital in not just my life but the lives of others.


Later in 2004, I had not a clue, not a whisper of a dare of a hope that I might ever feel like opening my eyes for one more day on this Earth, let alone wonder if any more children were to be our fate. It's just lucky for us that it was. That I never continued my thought process to my eventual untimely end (and how to do it).


It's a tricky thing.


She had to leave. I had to stay. But I know why now. 

Miss Lolly, a month after she burst my heart open even wider

The most endearing face in my world, 2008

Even when she makes more work for me, she is still my Heaven - 2011

For if she had not, the world would not have been able to welcome the shining light that is Ellanor's little sister. Like revolving doors, the two girls slipped past each other. Never destined to meet in the flesh.


But those memories I hold in my soft mother heart are Lolly's. They are there for her to wade in, explore, develop for herself. Memories that did not bring Ellanor into being but that ensure she has no beginning or end here on Earth, as it is wherever she goes now. She is the one who is free. She is the one who had the vision to come. And to go. How can I ultimately be anything but impressed by that sheer will? I am frankly in awe of her.


As long as we keep remembering. Their existence will continue to flourish.

In dedication to all the babies who are being cradled 

in the memories of their families this festive season. 

Peace be with you all. 

Together, we will never let them fade.

Hidden talents

The other day, I was cleaning out our guest room to get to the LGBB's old cot. It's going to be used by our sweet little nephew - remember this little guy entering the world? Awwwww, he has his Daddy's perfectly round cue-ball head and the most adorable pixie face. I love him to BITS. But that's not why he's getting the cot. And this is not what I was posting about today.

I digress.

I found my old high school studio arts portfolio. In it were bits and pieces - some old favourite paint brushes (the one with the oh so fine tip, great for creating tiny hairflick lines) and pencils, an eraser (as I recall, this was the oldest, most reliable eraser I ever came across and I used it almost daily on my work... I found it discarded on a desk in a classroom and never parted with it again... SCORE!).

My old tattered once-loved art folder was in there as well. Very dog-eared and becoming quite the fragile, ancient relic (aren't we all?), I turned the first page and gasped. Staring back at me was a rather youthful version of my grandfather. I had clean forgotten that he had sat for his portrait when I was fifteen. I clearly  remember him pulling the wide-eyed, somewhat hopeful look you see in this likeness of him - a fairly good one, I think - and I am really shocked to discover that when I sketched him, I was locking him in to a time before another six years' worth of age would show on his face.

I was GUTTED one day to see that someone had been careless with ink on the top of his head. I am still suspicious about the teacher, for she took some of my work (and others) and displayed it without asking - as if it would be some sort of surprise.... which I suppose it was, but not in a terribly positive way - in a local shopping centre where they were showcasing some of the talent from various schools in the area. Okay. All good. No harm done there. But THIS I found almost inconceivably careless of her/them:

"Are you finished yet, Kirrileh? Oh, choogs."
Oh, Granddad. I still miss him, even after he's been gone 16 years

You know why I blame her, that teacher? This paper is quite fine. It has bled through both sides of this leaf. There are no other blots anywhere at all on my book; no, this page was folded out from the rest of the book somehow and rested somewhere it shouldn't. When I questioned her, she shrugged it off and didn't know how it could possibly have happened. I knew damn well she knew something different but what leg did I have to stand on? Unforgivable! Mrs.... Whatever her name was!

Flicking further through the book, I gasped again. A portrait of my mother this time. Decidedly younger than I see her in my mind. Now, I could go to town on myself and critique the proportions, the perspective, the fact that I didn't draw the chair and cushions she was sitting on so she looks kinda squashed..... quite a fair bit, actually. But no. I will give my fifteen year-old self a break and will simply say, what a wonderful keepsake of a time when I was still so close to my mother and wanted to capture her in that moment. Funny that I forgot this entirely in the intervening years.

my mother

There were various other sketches in there, I remember spending some enjoyable time on these two:

Why does that fish remind me of Paul Stanley from KISS???

And then there was my end of year project when I was sixteen. I guess I must have been steeped in the magic of J.R.R. Tolkien around this time because, ah, The Hobbit phoned.... he wants his identity back.

You know what, though, I look at these and think, My God! I made these up out of my own head. Was I really ever that good??  At the time, I certainly didn't think so. I had such little belief in myself and my ability as an artist, as a good... anything. Growing up with emotional and sexual abuse will do that to a youngster, I suppose.

But the final, most amazing thing I found in that folder was the fellow below. I spent hours on this. Blissful escapism, pushed through the grey lead onto the paper. He is an old Mongolian tribesman, from the cover of a National Geographic I picked up one day. When my father left, it took him some time to retrieve all of his possessions - being kicked out will cause that to occur to a person, so I've found - and he had left behind his sizeable collection (okay, it was more like every single NG ever printed from 1968 through to whatever the current year was... 1990 or something). Thumbing through it, as I would do from time to time sitting in the study at the front of our foreboding home, I found this man I couldn't look away from.

Funny thing is, I remember being disappointed with myself because the end result didn't look exactly like the actual man. There was a likeness but I thought the picture was flawed because I hadn't made it identical. Mine was softer, not as harsh-looking or weathered. I look at it now and there is a familiarity about him to me, probably because I spent so much time with him back then. Strange feeling, to think you know someone you've never met, just because you sketched their portrait!

I just loved his face. It looked warm, trusting, honest. So I began to sketch it, without much thought of where it would end up or when I would finish. I don't remember how long it took but I consider it one of my best artistic achievements so far....

Have you ever rediscovered something you were good at? Did you take it up again? Did you enjoy it then and do you enjoy it now? Do you want to start it up again but keep making excuses? (I'm good at those... Hey, something else I'm good at!)

Just in time for school: My own (belated) Mothers Day poem

I was cleaning the desk this morning and came across an exercise I have been meaning to complete. It's for the LGBB's kindergarten book her teacher has been compiling all year. It's a page where the mother has to write something to the child, their thoughts about the preschool year. In Lolly's book, there's a gaping page waiting for my contribution that was supposed to be made on/about Mothers Day back in May.

I have been putting it to the side. I think I've been in denial. I didn't want to even GO there. Of course, like so many stay-home parents, on some days I am climbing the walls to get away from the incessant nature of Lolly's grown-to-bursting inquisitiveness and hunger for stimulation and instinctive need to learn "stuff about stuff". Most days I roll with it. Some days I am far from civil about it.

Anyway, today was apparently the day where it all came spilling out of me. It wasn't as hard as I thought it might be. And it came out as a poem... which is weird, because I don't write those.



When I think of all the moments
That stop and make me smile
They always feature you
When you were small for a brief while


If I could pause this time with you
Before you go to school
I'd make the most of it all again
With outings to the pool


And visits to the 'cino shop
Which is where you learned to sit
So quietly with such good manners
While we played "Ladies" for a bit


Sometimes all your friends might come
Again as they used to do
Scrapsy, Bunny, and a teddy or Horace
You've more than quite a few


I'd take you to the park again
Or the library with your bike...
And we can do all these things still
Just after school now if you'd like


You and I have spent so long
Together while you've been home
You have made my life complete
Much more than you could know



So thank you for your happy smile,
Always beaming as you go
The way you find the joy in things
Is a treat to watch, you know



Your little golden head
Belongs to a big girl now
It's your last year home with me
We made it! Let's both take a bow...


You've been such a treasure to mummy
So I would like to say
Thank you to YOU, my lovely girl,
On my happy Mothers Day

Meld only with those who honour who you are Now

Going through periods of change and growth, I have come to respect (and expect) that I will say goodbye to friendships and attachments as I expand my awareness of what makes me tick and that the more I seem to know about the world, the more I don't know.

I was remembering earlier a girl I used to work with. She had an anxious, confrontational nature, served with lashings of victim mentality and manipulation through (excellent, enjoyable) humour. But manipulation, nonetheless. I worked in the back office and she was the "face" of the company out front. I could tell what kind of day I was in for by the number of times she would turn her head this way and that, keeping her gaze on me, as she asked probing questions before I had even put my bag down in the morning after arriving.

Unfortunately for me, I fell in to the trap of placating her. A caller who slighted her on the phone would cause her to slam open the door to the back office - yes, you can bet it is possible to slam open a door.. try it! - and stand in the doorway protesting loudly about what she had just been subjected to. Or if it was just all too hard, there she would be - door slammed open, taking up the space between our two separate areas.

I never realised while I was there but this individual, who was at least six years my junior, was displaying behaviour that triggered reactions in me. Reactions to my mother that I had not long since tried to bury. I would be working away, concentrating on my screen and the interruption to my thoughts became a violation of sorts to me. Towards the end of her time there, I got to the point of feeling a tenseness creep its way across my shoulders and down my back, there to remain until my working day was over. I braced for the almost imperceptible sound of her rising from her chair, keenly listening out for her footfall on the plastic chair mat under her desk, knowing that at any moment I would be a captive audience of one to the latest vomit of "pity me" about to escape her.

Over time, I made the connection. I recognised the similarity in energy between this young woman and my (estranged from me by that time) mother. It was a moment of choice for me; I vowed to change how I behaved - both in terms of what I gave out and how I internalized what was coming at me - if ever I found myself in the presence of this sort of energy. I knew it now. I had known it all along, having grown up (and been raised) by it. But coming across this type of behaviour and energy output from a source external to my familiar circle helped the penny drop.

Years have passed now and there have been a couple of occasions where I could easily have fallen into the trap of shouldering the "burdens" of this type of energy again. But I haven't. I see them coming, usually, and practice (sometimes harder than others, depending on the situation) pure love - that is, the sort of non-placating, non-smother/mothering, universal kind of tough love that enables me to stand apart from the individual but remain in compassionate care and, sometimes, service.

This past-time was recalled while I was working today.  A paragraph that stood out to me read:

Do no bother to your “brothers of blood”, nor to those belongings you once had in bygone times, who act as reminders to you of your lack of “spiritual perfection”.  Instead, begin again and be able-bodied to the basic call to be at one with your spiritual calling. Some “past” influences and experiences in your life will fall away (Death), some will walk by your side (Rebirth), but the sum of it all—both Death and Rebirth—will be TRANSMUTATION.

What this says to me, as I remembered how I was struggling in that time with walking away from that person I worked with (and I still had several others in my life who leeched me in the same way, even though their personalities were different), is that sometimes the fear of change is what prevents us from changing. It says that just because I have behaved in a certain way for however long and it's expected of me (either by myself or external forces) that I will continue to take it because I know I can handle it, doesn't mean I have to. Or, indeed, that I need to. No. That actually serves to become a defeatist kind of devolutionary way of handling things.

I know, for me in my circumstance, I had to really look at why I kept attracting the same kind of friends and acquaintances. Not to blame myself, but to learn from it. Working with this girl was the straw that broke the camel's back - so to speak - and something in me said, "Right. Enough. I'm ready to start anew from Now.... ok, now.... How do I do that again?"

And the rest, with all my study now seven years in the making, is history.

Slowly, very slowly, I began to redefine myself. After Ellanor died, I was forced to start again! I guess I could have chosen not to. But I would have been denying a hell of a lot, had I done that. So with diligence and taking it very easy on myself - for I begin again, and again, and yet again all the time! - I define my own Now. I attract those close in who enrich and fulfil what I do and who I am today. I daresay for the most part, I know the ones who will continue to be there for as many "tomorrows" as I can foresee. But I also know that I don't really know how I will change and evolve either, as they are continuing to move through their lives too. The fluent movement of friendship has been something I have come to wonder and marvel at - the ones you thought would remain, the ones you were SURE were destined to end explosively and the vast number of surprise delights to be found in people that support your place in your own life. As you are. Now.

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There are other posts to be written about this. As well as the flashback moment I had recently regarding my own time in preschool and the conditioning surrounding being raised by a very sick mother.  But I am diligently trying to practice keeping posts short these days! (Hmmmm...... how'm I going? cough.... not exactly acing the short post thing so far)


Do you recognise repeat performances in your life? Of friends, family or perhaps colleagues who treat you the same? If so, I wonder what your next step has been/will be (and please don't feel you need to answer this in the comments, although I always deeply appreciate and welcome them! This is personal, private stuff. Email me if you wish, too :)

A little bit of give

I sat with the LGBB on the couch this morning while she watched one of her latest favourite movies...

Her secret love's no secret....
an-y-moooore

Opposite the couch is a wall where Ella's picture hangs. This one:

I sat gazing at it while the movie played.

Oh the Deadwood Stage is a-rollin' on over the plains

With the curtains flappin' and the driver slappin' the reins

Beautiful sky, a wonderful day

Whip crack-away, Whip crack-away, Whip crack-away!

I got lost in the photos and everything else in the room slipped into the shadows. Even Doris Day. It was just me and my girl. My first girl.

Before the movie was over, the LGBB came back into view. I shelved my precious stolen thoughts out to Ellanor and got back to chores at hand. Lunch was made, chortles were shared (Lolly loves the part where poor old Francis has to dress up like a girl because the hick townsmen were expecting a "real live woman".... if you don't understand, then you've missed out.... it's an old Hollywood musical thing).

Then she laid down again. "I'm tired," she said. She's been saying that all weekend. And just laying down wherever she is. This morning, she woke with a headache and it didn't leave all day. The trooper that she is, though, the LGBB didn't make much of it and didn't complain of it being sore. If I hadn't known any differently, she was just a tiny bit darker around the eyes (something that comes out in her naturally pale complexion whenever she's a bit under the weather) but that was about it.

I held true to my word on the promise of a craft session after lunch. What was going to be a rocket ship turned into the Love Boat. She decided it was a ship and I was commissioned to fit-out the peg passengers.

He's king of the world. He's also largely ignored by the other passengers.

The Party Ship. With the playboy, Cleopatra, a washed-up woman in red and
a ballerina attempting valiantly to keep her remaining thinning locks....

Not sure he should be looking at her like that,
especially when only in his Y-fronts.

But she only just made it to the playing part (she was itching to play with it while we were making it all together). No sooner had I lowered the boat to the floor for her maiden voyage than my girl grabbed a cushion and also lowered herself to the floor.

"I'm too tired, mummy," she said again. It was the first time my brow furrowed and I decided I didn't like something about all this. You know when you just have that moment? She still had her headache and I commanded her to our bed for a rest, where she slept for two hours.

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In the midst of the sleep designed to relax and re-charge her, the LGBB woke screaming, terrified. I raced in, wondering if the pain had gotten worse. "What is it?" I asked calmly, rocking her. She was trembling. And hot. And scream-crying. Staring at the wall behind my head.

I got her out of the room and changed the scenery a bit. In the kitchen, rocking together in a chair, she managed to get out that "a man was dancing me too fast." What the? Her description made it sound like one of those awful dream sequence scenes in the movies where the fish-eye lens camera is being stared into by the maniacally laughing crazy-character as we, the audience/camera, gets spun around. I agreed with my sweaty little poppet that that would be a bit scary. "But it's all over now and it wasn't really real, was it?" No reply from her.

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While all this was happening, I fielded a phone call on my mobile. A number I have seen as a missed call about half a dozen times in as many days. They never leave a message. This time, phone in hand, I was able to answer and solve the mystery.

"Hello there, it's Lou here from Heart Kids..." and Lou proceeded to launch into a typical telemarketing "we need you and your dosh" speech.

Now, this is where I normally huff and puff and wait to say loudly but firmly, "No thank you, we give to our chosen charities already but best of luck... *click*"  But Heart Kids is something close to my heart. Today, especially, when I was already feeling so drawn to Ellanor and with my heightened mama-care reflexes towards Lolly, it seemed fitting that I should receive the call.

Lou - well, Heart Kids - did well for himself. I came away $50 lighter and have a jumbo-sized beach towel coming my way within "seven working days". I find it no strange coincidence that on the preschool fundraiser shopping tour I went to last weekend, I carried around a beach towel for the LGBB (she doesn't have one and we're taking a beach holiday soon) and ended up putting it back on the shelf, not making the purchase. Just this morning, I cursed myself for my decision not to buy the towel. I sighed that I'd have to go to a shop and probably buy one at full price.

Now I know why I didn't buy it. Tricky, clever Universe.

I gave today. It was such a small thing, really. Ultimately, I know that no money in the world is going to help some causes if it is ordained to go "that way" - look at our girl, in the best medical care - but I will always extend my circle of thoughtful care and consideration to those families going through the toughest trial of their lives with precious children with sick hearts. Every time I look at my girl's beach towel.

Do you give to charity? Do you have a blanket "sorry, no" rule for telemarketers? Or does it depend on the day?

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Update: Tonight, the LGBB is much better. After a bath,  a sausage in bread with a good serve of fresh steamed vegies for dinner and a play with her cherished Love Boat with Daddy, she is tucked up happily in bed. But not before storytime. Steve came back and reported that he decided to himself that he would read her something they had not read for a long while. He started looking on the shelves for the book silently and then heard the LGBB in the background say, "Oh, Dad, it's in here." He turned around and Lolly opened up a bedside table drawer and pulled out the very book he had been looking for.

He blames me for passing it on. I say to him once again... no harm, no foul. But it's going to make teenage years interesting I think.

12wbt: Reflections of Accountability - One Month In

This is by no stretch a sponsored post or a review. This is just my usual tell-all spill which I tend to do periodically if you'll be so kind as to bear witness to my latest discovery about myself. Shall we?




I just want to start by saying if it seems to you like every second person is talking about this 12 week body transformation (12wbt) thing, it's because it is astoundingly good! In my very humble opinion. And with the proof of 18 stubborn centimeters already lost from my frame. So far. At every turn, there seems to be a ready-reckoner by way of a timely video message from Michelle herself that speaks right to the gnawing age-old habits just lurking in the background waiting to pounce on me like some big meanie and say "A-HA, knew you couldn't hack the hard work. Here... have a chip or 100." I've dabbled in forcing a bit of "old food" (sugary stuff) down in this past month - with little detriment to my overall progress so far, I might add, but not doing myself any favours - because I figure, I am going to encounter some of these falling off the wagon times and this 12 weeks I am viewing as my testing ground. The control is the food. Rather, the lure of the unhealthy choice stuff. You know what I've discovered? I've lost the taste for it. The enjoyment is all but gone! I had half a melting moment two weeks ago as a "reward"....... It was the best thing I could have done because I knew straight away that it was no treat. The "treat" would have been a glass of water and my favourite salad when I got home. Huge lesson for me. Huge.

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Accountability and Application. I often mistake "accountability" for "responsibility". Somewhere along the line, I also fooled myself into believing that "knowledge" was near enough to "application" to be considered as good as the same thing.

With the shedding of my weight and the re-toning of my once-fit body, I am re-familiarising myself with my shapely arms, my strong thighs, my muscly powerful shoulders. I have the incentive of a finely crafted online weight loss and fitness program to thank for getting me back into the swing of it. The psychology behind my lack of effort to resume caring for myself is a little trickier, though, than handing over my credit card number to purchase the three-month package.

Thing is, I blamed my body for a long time. I thought I had stopped, but I have come to accept accountability for continuing to reward or punish my appearance depending on how I was feeling on the inside. Basically... it's a mental thing.

For six years - the better part of last decade, the 2000's - when nothing else in my life was going to plan I would hit the weights with my personal trainer. I might not have been able to carry a child, but I could put my body through its paces. Feel the burn, feel alive even if I could not nurture a life.

Pretty soon, I was blaming my exercise on my miscarriages. So I added yoga to my regime. No fewer than two early pregnancy failures happened directly after attending a yoga class. I'm not sure if you've ever experienced something like this, but for me it was the fastest way to make me not repeat what I had just been doing in the previous 1-24 hours of finding that first tell-tale spot on my pants. The very technique I had taken up to create some space and inner peace in my busy "work until I am successful creating a family" life became a source of fear as well.

In reality - and I have since become quite the well-read and practical expert on miscarriage - I know now that the pregnancies were failing days, possibly a week and sometimes more, before I was ever alerted. Nothing I was doing was causing them. Even with the knowledge of our specific male genetic factor, my blame game number on myself continued until Lolly came along. And then some.

Those years between 2000 and 2006 were an endurance marathon I'm not sure I would have signed up for if I had known what was to be held within them for me. I may have had a great recovery time from a flat-out boxing session with my trainer - something I recall being proud of at the time - but I could not chase away the niggling self-torment that by keeping fit, I was somehow ruining my chances of becoming a mother. Although I was reassured at every turn by my trainers and my health care providers, the armchair experts on the home front were wary of all my exercise. They were concerned and confused, even, as to why I would spend money on going to a studio to work out. "Have a baby! Carry that around all day, that'll give you muscles!" Yes. Someone actually said that to me. Someone who should have known better, as my recurrent (by that stage) miscarriages were not unknown to them.

Little by little, my weight crept up. The more I eased off the training, terrified as I edged towards the age of thirty that my fertility might also begin to decline if one of these babies wouldn't stay to satiate my mono-focused need to have a child, the more I justified my "eat treats" with a sense of self-punishing self-nurture. Both. At the same time. I deserved to be kind to myself, my internal voice would coo. I also deserved to punish my body, my sabotaging voice would claim equal rights. Both trains of thought ended in the bowl of ice cream or the bag of chocolate bullets.

Once Steve and I had done our two rounds of IVF in 2005 my body was so bruised from the 2004 birth and death of Ellanor and then the further two miscarriages the same year that, by rights, I should never have been ready or able to carry the LGBB to full term in 2006.

But I did. And I added 31 kilo's to my already solid frame in the process.

I really, and I mean really, paid my body in what I thought was kind. Food=Comfort=Nurture to me. For so very long. Like so many people.

So then I found myself with the baby we had yearned for (and lost) on so many occasions. But I was consumed by my sense of duty to my new role as Mother that all care and concern for my fitness - if not my health - went sailing out the window. Most devastating of all to me was the deeply distressing fact that I was so disgusted with the sight of myself in photos or video that I have scarce little photos of myself with my only surviving daughter. I was too ashamed that I now appeared so much huger than I felt.

And somewhere along the line these past five years, it just became the norm. The huge flab of skin on my tummy that looked like a second "rear end" out front.... the arms that tone so naturally quickly, all the definition in my waist that I worked so hard to get. All of it, so far gone that it felt like another person's body I just had on loan for a while there in my twenties.

When we moved to our new home in 2007, Lolly was almost two. I determined to walk all the streets of our charming new community, so rich was it in opportunities to really huff and puff and get fit and see some cracking scenery while I was at it. But I've never done anything of the sort. Sure, I have justified my inaction with plenty of seated work. I have finished writing a book (amongst many other computer-related projects), for gawd's sake. You can't do that standing. But, see, there was no balance. And definitely no accountability.

Now, my day generally begins with a 6am start and the dog is raring to go before I can grab my cap off the hall stand hook. I adore the old familiar surge that courses through my entire body. Without any of the toxins that I was ingesting the night before, my body can quite easily rise at this time and get me where I need to go. I can walk and par-jog 5km's these days, up some mountain goat-like hills and back down some equally mean ones in the space of that one precious hour before heading home to greet my five year-old for the day.

I have come to realise that my mind was holding me back. My self-reward/self-punishment cycle had to stop. My body has actually done me so proud. Always. It responds scientifically, if only I would get out of my own way and just fuel it correctly. In the first month of this 12-Week Body Transformation, already I have seen the visible evidence that I was not too far gone to even bother trying after all. I am a self-starter, just like I always thought I was. I can do this. And I must. For I have kept myself out of too many photos with (and now for) my baby for too long. Heck, I'm not even so afraid to vlog any more because I'm making peace slowly with my appearance (compare the latest one to the first deer-in-headlights one I did a few short months ago!).

From now on, my accountability to myself is going to remain front and centre. It isn't enough that everything in Michelle Bridges' 12wbt program is pretty much all familiar to me. It matters not one tiny skerrick if I don't apply it. That was what I was missing. Hmmm... pretty crucial point!

I have welcomed myself to my New Life proper now. With the invaluable assistance of the thinking largely being done for me, the final layers of my healing are being shed so willingly. I find I have no emotional ties to what I've been holding onto.

If you are looking for something to catch you out on all your fall-back methods of justification - the things that keep you caught in your own cycle of self-destruction disguised as self-soothing or similar - this program will blow you out of the water if you are truly ready to let it all go and give over to the responsible, accountable way you could be living your life.

And if you hadn't already gathered, I can't recommend the Michelle Bridges 12WBT program strongly enough! She had me at Pre-Season Week 1 and it's been a cathartic journey ever since. So give it a go. I'd love to hear from you if you decide to.

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?

Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality. 

Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see.

- the incomparable Queen

I am watching my blog stat's dwindle a long, slow decline these days. I see conversations on Twitter and I just can't join in. Farcebook is fast becoming a ball and chain. It all feels heavy, the weight of this new social-media responsibility to reply to this, comment on that.

I see you all and I love what you're all doing. But I feel somewhat like the Bubble Boy lately. Can't quite put my finger on it. But one thing I can say is, for once in my life, it's not depression driving the outside-looking-in feeling. Huzzah!

There is a strong urge to purge at the moment. Many are doing it via getting their feelings out in blog form. And readers/followers of me will know I am nooooo stranger to that. What I am doing now, though, seems to be rather more tangible than the written word. But at the moment, my focus is not on writing. Right now, I am having to resist throwing out everything we own. I appear to be downsizing everything - what is the old adage, you have to let go of the old to let the new in?

Lately, I am feeling an apparently insatiable need to get physical. I am literally immersing myself in the physical world around me. Lightening my load as I do it. Engaging in this "real life", there is not much room for blog hopping and countless lost minutes on Twitter (which is my other... "real life"...).

In no particular order:

• I'm gardening like it's going out of fashion. Wait. It IS going out of fashion in some suburbs, I'm sure of it. Thirty local indigenous plants have gone into our backyard in the past fortnight with much more to come - look out for a post soon entitled.... "My Native Flora Brings All The Birds To The Yard", subtitled: - and their nectar is better than yours. No seriously, I could teach you but I'd have to charge.
• Life has given us lemons. Lots and lots of lemons. They say when life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Looking at my tree and contemplating that... well, that'd amount to a buzztonne of lemonade. Seriously, I'm literally picking so many lemons off our tree that I could keep every fish and chip shop in Melbourne in the little wedges for the next 12 months.
• I'm exercising daily (something I keep falling out of the habit of but this time I have to stick to it and properly bed it in because I NEED to feel fit again, I miss it after six years of lethargy)
• I find myself feeling the need to quiet my mind and prepare for next year. Hear me out! This is a big transition the LGBB and I are going through at the moment - she is off to school and I am heading into the world of..... glorious free time. Five days a week. I have heard people laugh at me (yes, AT me) when I say I won't know what to do with myself, jokingly, and they say I'll be bored before the first term is up. Ahhh, don't think so. Someone hold me to that, won't you? Will one of my blog readers still be reading then, I wonder? Steve? Wanna hold that baton til about April next year? I think you're the only one left reading, soooo whaddaya say.... cheque's in the mail, by the way.... [lone cricket chirping]

All of this means that my focus is on those (and that) around me in my physical world. My work and my study takes me out enough as it is, without the cyber-unseen world to do it as well. I am grounding myself at the moment and it feels good. Reaching out and wading in the immediate things I can see and feel and manifest - like a garden or helping out a neighbour or fellow preschool family - is what is enriching me right now. 

I have noticed for some time that this blogosphere (now spread so far that it affects and is effected by the Twitterverse and good old Farcebook) takes care of itself, whether you're here or not. Movements like RUOK day are great. But what about tomorrow? The in-your-face-ness about constantly having to be online to be remembered online is something I am still coming to terms with and working out how I truly feel about it. Everybody does it, it seems... but does that make it okay, healthy even, in the longer term?  It seems the only way to do be read/remembered/discovered in the first place is to constantly stay in touch, although it's a heck of a lot of clawing your way to the outside of the growing pile of online users and, as much as I adore this community and my blog, it just gets very... what's the word? Tiring? Neglectful of the physical world around us?

Do YOU know what I mean? Do you even agree? I may possibly have managed to offend my last few readers (ok, I'm being drastic, it's not all that bad... 100-something hits a day but still.... that's way less than what it was a minute ago, but more than it was 3 minutes ago, such is the nature of the Internets). But surely I'm not the only one thinking it's all a bit much. Truth is, I feel inadequate daily for not having the gumption to consistently do the same level of pimping and online exposure as I see the majority of my "peers" doing. Just. Can't. Keep. Up. And getting to the point where I'm unsure if I even want to try.

I'm exhausted with pimping myself, basically! So I'm going to be primping my garden instead for the next while. 

If you need me, that's where you'll find me. Now if you'll just excuse me while I let myself out and make a soothing cuppa, I've got some lightening to attend to.

Wherever you are and through whatever medium you're creating your own reality, don't forget to get out there amongst the mundane right in front of you. You might surprise yourself and enjoy it!

Love!

Better the devil you know: Facing a demon in the garden

I dug out no less than three blackberry root balls in the garden yesterday. For some reason, I needed to do hard physical labour so the weeds got an absolute shellacking.

As I wrestled with the stubborn, deep roots that would not give ground, I mused about the fact that these things have been here in the corner of our front yard for over a year. I've barely given them a cursory glance in all that time. About six months ago, when the bushes were in full pelt, strangling the beautiful native shrubs around them, I had a go at Steve for not containing them and overpowering them before they got so out of control. Dumbfounded, my husband (correctly) assumed it was better to simply don his gloves and get hacking than argue any rational points he had regarding timing of removal, proper equipment to do the job once and for all, or his already long To Do list for that weekend.

But the problem didn't go away. I cursed the return of the blackberries. Having been poisoned, they were weaker now. But they were beginning to grow and get healthier again, having staked a good position for themselves.

There is a young grevillea that I planted the year we bought this house. There is also a menacing, determined blackberry stump with a trunk thicker than the grevillea right beside it, strangling the life out of it. I can see the native is weakening, its leaves are yellowing. The blackberry is gaining strength beside it. They are fighting for the nutrients in the ground, both of them struggling to survive. I can't have that happen again. It's time for the plant to be saved. No more letting things take their course on their own.

So I intervened.


As I pulled and yanked at this blackberry yesterday, having conquered three other smaller ones nearby and feeling high on "Take THAT!" power, one of its thorns pricked my thigh deeply through my pants. I felt like I had been bitten by a snake. When I looked down, I saw that it had sunk into my flesh and I had to delicately remove it, being careful to pull it out the way it went in. I don't know if it was the rush of the pain registering in my head or the hunger for that euphoric feeling of the roots giving way to my force, but I suddenly felt like I was doing battle with the demons of my childhood.

I don't speak of my molestation on here. I don't feel it necessary. I will never go into detail, that's for sure. That, too, is not necessary. Suffice to say, for three years (at least) from the age of six, my innocent life as a child was stunted, interrupted, stolen. These were not sporadic, random happenings. These were systematic, ever-present, regular sessions. I know the scenes well. I know my feelings about it all very well. The healing is all but finished.

An event happened recently that enabled me to see just how far I have healed in the past couple of years  (this is something that has taken me over thirty years to properly and safely release). The push-pull yesterday with that unrelenting, strong blackberry was no accident. I began to curse it under my breath in my sunny, beautiful front yard. I felt safe. I felt in control. I felt I could over-power that fucking sucker of life and save the beautiful young plant trying to blossom and grow alongside it.

It is a delicate operation - their roots go deep, side by side. One false move or a premature stab and I risk severing the life cord of the precious plant by mistake. So I backed away from the project for the day. I was starting to get a little stab-happy with the spade, like a woman possessed.

The cut. Running parallel with the vein. An ass-hatty reminder
 that this thing HAS to stop walking beside me.

The blackberry remains, for the moment. It did not yield. But it will. It stung me, as if to remind that it is still there. Still present. It won't let go without a fight. But it is weakened now. I really worked hard at destroying it. I will conquer that invader. To save the organism that is now healing beside it.

I have scars. The blackberry got me. Again and again it got me. But I know I can beat it now. Those barbs don't sting nearly so much with the realisation that I am stronger than it. It has to go. I felt the roots giving. I'll not let the sun go down today without removing it ceremoniously from its place. Its purpose has been served.

Thank you, blackberry, for what you've shown me today. Now... piss off!

Returning to the back yard in the late afternoon sun, I took a seat and was treated to the LGBB practicing her skipping with the skipping rope. I gazed past the roof of our house and saw our spectacular liquid amber, naked in all its late winter glory. It was leaning towards the sun. I had never noticed how much so until that moment.

It knows what to do. And look at the tall, thriving tree it has become in its lifetime.

We all know what to do, to survive.  Don't we?



Where are the barbs snagging you in your life? Are they deep-rooted? Have they served their purpose and is it time for you to do some weeding?


Don't forget to lean towards your life-giving Sun.

Don't judge me

Apologies in advance if you were after yet another D&M from Yours Truly. But this one is the piece-o'-fluff post that wrote itself - you know the ones? - over several weeks. The elusive post that was always going to have to be a work in progress because, dagnabbit, I kept thinking of things when I didn't have pen, paper or iPhone handy to jot points down.

So. Finally. Here it is. A piece I shall entitle......

Don't Judge Me

• Sometimes? I buy chocolate and don't share it. Not unheard of, I know. But when Steve asks if there's any, I tell him there isn't.... (don't judge me)
• I gag at the sight of spit on the footpath. I know I do this. Yet, still, I search for them, sometimes rather obsessively - particularly on train station platforms and the ramps leading up to same. I know not why.... (don't judge me)
• When the LGBB brings home lolly bags from parties, if there are any fun-size Smarties packets I keep them for myself before she can see them.... (don't judge me)

• I play with the dog by running around the island bench in the kitchen, calling her name to make her keep following me, even though I tell the LGBB not to use the bench as a lap circuit. In my [somewhat flimsy] defense, I do this when she is in bed.... (but still, don't judge me)

• I deliberately plant earworms in the LGBB's head because she sings them in the "voice" of Scraps, her soft toy dog. Seriously, until you hear good ol' Scrapsy belt out The Entertainer in a tuneful series of "bar-ar-ar-ar"s, you haven't lived. So... (don't judge me)
• I actually think I like the bloody cat.... (don't judge me)
• I get irrationally frustrated by eating sounds. As in, the sounds of people eating. The slurpier, the worse I take it. In fact, I can't even sit still thinking about this and typing it. My leg is jiggling in irritation.... (don't judge me)
• I tend to make stupid lists in my head. Good ones. But forget to write them down. A lot. Book plots, story connections, shopping lists for yummy recipes. Lost. I even sometimes announce an impending good blog post on the promise of such a list coming back to me. It often doesn't. And I post any old drivel in its place.... (don't judge me)




What don't you want to be judged for?

How I feel after today: Re-enacted in a single shot

This... is Jazz. Too tired to even get off the couch she knows she shouldn't be on.

Any resemblance to actual owner purely incidental

I am absolutely beat.

Hope your day has fared better. Care to share? How has your week been shaping up so far?

The great circumnavigation of the boob

It's certainly not what I was expecting, but when I went to the Cardio Lab to get fitted for a heart monitor today, I was asked by the efficient young male... er, what would they call him? Doctor? No. Student? Shit, I hope not. Cardio Boy? It's the best I can come up with, although probably quite derogatory... to strip off my top half entirely to the waist. And put on the gown with the ties to the front.

I had that momentary flash of alarm grip me, thinking quickly, "What?! Why? That means he's going to see every single solitary stretch mark left by that LGBB and the saggy..... AAAAAEEERGHHHH!! Abort mission, abort mission." But thankfully in the next moment, I gathered my senses - for how else did I think he was going to attach the electronic nodes to my skin to measure my heart activity? - stood upright and got to the task of stripping off. Rather uncomfortably, I must say, as you do when you're taking your clothes off in front of a boy called Chris who you met only 8 seconds before you walked in to an office that is clearly not even his.

Next thing I know, I'm lying on the bed, ties to the front, being instructed to keep my arms at my sides while Cardio Boy sticks the ECG things all over my chest. Circumnavigation of the boob (and a little beyond), if you will. Not exactly your most natural pozzy.

Now, I'll admit here that I'm not the most ideal patient. I tend to make stupid jokes when I'm a tad nervous or feel vulnerable in a medical setting. Particularly when (and did I mention yet?) the ties are at the front. Or when they're even at the back, for that matter, which is where most of the openings of any hospital gownage have been in my vast experience of hospital interiors. And theirs of mine. Oh dear.

I didn't break the ice much when I asked if he even worked here, pointing to the name on the desk that wasn't his. Then I made my dork status worse, I think, when I casually mused that if I were 26 and not 36, I reckon I might be much more affronted by his request that I disrobe completely on top - while he was still in the room, just shuffling papers beside me.... >Awkwarrrd<..... - and I also didn't win him over when I kept getting my arms in the way once he had begun the test and he had to keep instructing me, robot-fashion and very efficiently - because they kept going up into that sort of half-bent Defend The Girls position, rather like a man does across his frontal region when he's playing wicket keeper during backyard cricket and an overly zealous toddler is not in complete control of the bat and swinging to hit the ball(s).

So Cardio Boy is attaching these things and doing a baseline something-or-other. And then he's attaching wires and the whole process begins to feel long enough that I wonder, as I stare hard at the ceiling, whether he's trying to work out why my nipple is under my armpit (hey.... breastfeeding, it's a miracle but it sure leaves things more in a state of whimper than baZOING-a... for me, anyway). To break my unease, I quip, "I s'pose if you ever tire of this, you could always be useful to the bomb squad."

It may have been that he was deep in concentration, it may have been that he is too young to have seen the countless references to the nail-biting action scene where the hero is agonising over the red-wire, blue-wire scenario to save the day.

But all I got was a titter.



I should say before I go that, yes, I've got myself a bit of a heart issewe. Something I've noticed for a couple of years now but growing noticeably more persistent lately. Nothing much else to report because I don't want to list symptoms here and do all that. If there's anything I need to let you know, you'll know when I know. And thank you to those of you following along who have been so caring about it, it means a great deal to me :)

You Are There: Hearing the words for the first time

I began my long-awaited call to duty this week and took my first round of grief counselling calls  (miscarriage related). They were, of course, really poignant for me on a personal level. I have begun to see my role as a future counsel take shape. I like what I see. Most of all, I am shocked at how little it takes out of me while I am still being of great shape-shifting, behaviour-changing use to others I am in dedicated service to - going on feedback such as that which I received just yesterday from one of my lovely clients (not a grief counselling recipient), who called me a "miracle" (err... perhaps I ought to give her Steve's phone number and he can fill her in on all the ways I might not quite be one of those...).

Such humbling work, I can't even share it for it is not mine. But I will get a post out before long regarding my personal growth from what I have been involved with. Sometime. Not yet.

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It's time to share with you another moment when something so sweet and uplifting has come through all my conscious filters to reach me in a most intimate, private, lonely, sole, soul space.

I was in the kitchen by myself, cooking dinner for the family after a long day working outside with Steve. He was with the LGBB while she had her (much needed - she made puddles today in a back yard that was already a mud pit, soooo much fun!) bath.

I started an iTunes genius mix, which had the old regulars in it:  Madeleine Peyroux, Biréli Lagréne, Eva Cassidy, Sara Gazarek, Sarah Vaughan, Nina Simone, Ella Fitzgerald... We listen often to music like this. One of our latest finds (and favourites) in the past year or so has been Stacey Kent, thanks to none other than Steven Tyler, of Aerosmith fame. She sings beautifully and complements our stable of gorgeous music perfectly.

I've heard the album of hers that we have many times now. Certainly heard this particular song so many times that I couldn't count for you how often it has played through our speakers. But tonight, for whatever reason, while I was thinking back on the week that has been, I was unconsciously casting my net out wide to capture the essence of my forever-babe.

My beautiful Ellanor.

While I busied my hands, pulling pasta out of the cupboard, shallots out of the fridge, heating the olive oil in the pan, thinking at the same time about the little piece of us who would never take her place at the table after a bath, the song below came on. And I heard the words for the very first time.

Love songs are like this. The more wistful or yearning, the more they could just as easily be singing about a lost loved one and not just an unrequited love.

So, I hope you enjoy the voice of Stacey Kent and this charming heart-pull of a song.

In the evening
When the kettle's on for tea
An old familiar feeling settles over me
And it's your face I see
And I believe that you are there

In a garden
When I stop to touch a rose
And feel the petals soft and sweet against my nose
I smile and I suppose
That somehow maybe you are there

When I'm dreaming
And I find myself awake without a warning
Then I rub my eyes and fantasize
And all at once I realise

It's morning
And my fantasy is fading like a distant star at dawn

My dearest dream is gone
I often think there's just one thing to do
Pretend the dream is true
And tell myself that you are there