Congratulations to My Awesome Sister!

OK, I admit it, in moments of complete delusion I feel clucky. My uterus twangs, I yearn for a little bubba to cradle in my arms, to smell that perfect newborn smell, to immerse myself completely in the wonders of being responsible for creating a life. Sometimes I block out the chaos that is my life, forget that My Awesome Hubby has been snippy-snipped, and imagine having another little bubba growing inside me. For a moment I feel all glowy and sentimental. Then reality crashes in and I begin to hyperventilate. Nooooooooooo!!!!

So it seems that the perfect solution to my clucky problem has finally arrived….. My little sister is pregnant!!! I am so excited!! Apart from a core feeling that she is waaaaaaay too young to be having a baby (she is soon to be 28), I am over the moon!! There will be a little bubba that I can cuddle and dote on, and then give back!

Now this is going to present some challenge for me. It has been raised in the past that I can be somewhat pushy and opinionated (nooooo….. can you believe it????), and I really do not want to hijack what is essentially *her* experience. However, I also want to fulfil that space left by mum, provide a maternal support and unwavering enthusiasm that only a mother can feel.

So I hereforth grant My Awesome Sister full rights to tell me to SHUT UP and BUTT OUT in the very *rare* possibility that I might attempt to tell her what to do…. but also invite her to ask me anything, everything, so that I can do, be, and say all the things that she needs at this cherished time.

I love you Lis, and I can’t wait to meet your baby!!!!

photo by Boback

Donate for Tahne

This is my online friend Tahne with her gorgeous little girl.

I have ‘known’ Tahne for a few years now. She is a gorgeous, passionate, intelligent woman who loves her family, her chooks, her garden. She makes her own jewellery, is vegetarian, and she is funny. She has the best dreads ever, of which I am incredibly jealous! She is about to undergo IVF to conceive her second child, a process that has been on hold for a really long time due to persistent illness and various odd symptoms.

Tahne was recently diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis.

In order to support Tahne and raise funds for MS, her husband Ashley is riding the Brissie to the Bay bike ride. So far, Ashley is vying for the position of top fundraiser for the bike ride, and whoever earns the most funds wins a family trip to an eco resort. I think Tahne deserves this holiday after a year of sickness and ill health. A holiday like this will help her and her beautiful little family to clear the air and bring in some positive energy before starting the IVF rollercoaster once again.

Please donate something, anything, to help this gorgeous woman and her loving husband. Even a few dollars will help them to have this well deserved break. I have admired the way they have coped with this change in their lives, and am inspired by the strength and commitment exhibited by them both.

To help this cause, CLICK HERE.

Negotiating with testosterone

We are upgrading Awesome Hubbys car. we have had the same one since 2003, and now that we have moved closer to the city he is now required to drive two hours a day, so he needs a better car. Needs one.

So negotiations have started. Within our relationship I tend to be the realist and he is the one with big dreams. We make a great team, he encourages me to take risks, whilst I stop him from taking too many risks. We tend to balance each other out, and appreciate that we are exactly what the other needs. Kind of like a yinyang thing you could say.

Except for when it comes to cars. My motivating factors when it comes to cars include best for the environment, gets from Point A to Point B, and it’s a nice colour. Awesome Hubbys motivations are slightly less, shall we say, tangible.

So Awesome Hubby wants a BIIIIIG car. I ask him why, WHY do we need a BIIIIIIG car? We don’t go four wheel driving. We have a family car. Why do we need a BIIIIIG car?

He says its a family car. We can go camping. It makes sense. It’s safe.

I politely suggest a slightly less expensive car. He toils and troubles over his options, with my occasionally putting in suggestions and opinions, gently, so that he doesn’t think I am trying to spoil his fun. We come up with a few different options, each varying in degree of desirability and sensibility.

So I broach the idea of the sensible option. Spacious, affordable, professional, economical, suits his image as a business man.

He puts forward his idea of his most desirable option. Blokey, masculine, fast, power. All those factors that make very little sense unless you are filled with testosterone.

Employing my most reasonable tone, I said to him, ‘OK, I thought you wanted a second family car, and does this car reeeeaaaalllly match the professional image you are trying to project, as a successful, well respected podiatrist?’ I really thought this was my secret weapon, the thing that would persuade him to see my view, how I would get MY way.

Then he pulled out HIS secret weapon… ‘But do I reeeaallly have to fit into a box? Do I have to not have something I really want in order to fit into everyone elses idea of what I should be?’

Straight away I was disgusted with myself, having flashbacks to my own struggle with fitting into a box, and my conviction that everyone should have the courage to stand up, break the mould and do what they choose irrespective of expectation. I backed off and decided to fully support him in the purchase of his vile blokey car. Either he thinks more like me than I thought he did, or he is very cunning!

SO if he gets his blokey car does that mean I can get dreadlocks?

Demon drink – a daughters perspective

Todays blog entry was inspired by this post at HERevolution.

Hi. My name is Shereen, and I am the daughter of an alcoholic. Or was. At least, I think I was. Oh, it is so hard to be sure.

I guess it seems pretty conclusive. when someone dies from Alcoholic Liver Disease then I guess the assumption can be made that that person was in fact an alcoholic. But the label ‘alcoholic’ does not seem to fit, and I feel it does a disservice to my mum’s memory.

I do remember alcohol being a significant part of my childhood, with my parents sharing quiet conversations over beer or wine at the end of each day. I did not realise that my parents drinking habit was not healthy, as they did not get drunk, were never messy drinkers, did not drink heavy liquor… I can count on one hand the amount of times I actually considered them to be ‘drunk’.

My parents led a fairly stressful lifestyle, working long hours putting their heart and souls into running their various small businesses to give my sister and I a good start in life and set up early retirement for themselves. I guess somewhere along the way their drinking became a bit of a crutch- they did not drink to get drunk the way you would expect of true alcoholics, they drank to relax, to be able to sleep, to switch off their minds and find peace at the end of each day.

I think the problem with utilising alcohol as a means to relax and dull the edges of stress, is that it is a convenient fallback when times get really tough. After mum suffered a haemorrhagic stroke she hit a deep depression, and she continued to drink on an already compromised liver, and before long she had irreparable liver damage.

There is an underlying sense of shame associated with alcoholism as a disease, and as the daughter of an alcoholic it is hard for me to accept that we couldn’t help her out of her pain, that we were not enough for her to want to live in sobriety, why she couldn’t JUST STOP. It is hard to grieve for someone who has died when you feel ANGRY that they did this to themselves, to their grandchildren, to us. To accept that she is gone and but for that demon drink she would still be here.

I hear people say ‘I know I should drink less, but hey, I would rather live a good life and die early, than sit in the corner being bored and live to a hundred!” and I just want to shake them, shake them until their eyeballs rattle, because I have watched someone I love die from alcohol abuse, and let me tell you, she was not living the good life. When a liver slowly dies it affects everything that makes you who you are, physically, mentally, emotionally, psychologically. It is not one non-stop party, put it that way.

After seeing what has happened to mum, and how the lure of the drink can take hold, I myself do not drink at all. I am scared of alcohol now. It is surprising how my non-drinker stance seems to threaten people. People are incredulous, they ask me ‘Are you sure?’, reassure me that ‘one won’t hurt you know!‘ they offer me non alcoholic substitutes, soft drinks in wine glasses to make me feel ‘a bit more special, part of the crowd’ . And I am asked ‘WHY?’

You can imagine how my honest response would go down in a party type situation.

So I lie. I just say I don’t really like to drink. But the real reason is I am scared, because my mum was a normal, loving mum like me and she died. If it can happen to her, maybe it could happen to me too?

The Bring-a-Plate Conspiracy

Nothing sends me into more of a spin than being asked to “bring a plate”. The whole process gives me conniptions. I never know what to make, or how much. In what shall I serve it? What if everyone brings the same thing? And perhaps worst of all… WHAT IF NOBODY EATS WHAT I BRING??? Visions of my lonely culinary creation standing stoically amongst plates laden with nothing but crumbs is my ABSOLUTE worst nightmare!

This morning Angel Face had her year 2 liturgy at school followed by a morning tea in the undercover area, and her class was asked to bring something savoury. Oh why does it have to be savoury??? I can whip up a mean sweet sensation, but savoury is not my love or my forte!

I trawled my vast cookbook collection, attempting to find that illusive savoury treat that would be both nutritious and memorable, utilising whatever I had in the cupboard, requiring as little time as possible to prepare. The perfect savoury solution was not to be found.

I considered piking on the whole homemade deal and just bringing something…SHOCK…. store bought! I quickly rejected that idea. NO, I am going make something from scratch, and everyone is going to think I am the perfect mother, they are going to marvel at my culinary genius, they will all want to come to my house for dinner. I will reveal that hidden talent I have for effortlessly whipping up something fabulous!

So I eventually decide to make mini quiches. I toiled over the hot oven, whipping together eggs and vegies in a frenzy, artfully placing lovingly halved cherry tomatoes in the centre of each one. My mini quiches were sensational!

The next dilemma I faced was deciding on the appropriate serving receptacle. A plate? A container? A platter? I decided on a large, square container, and I labelled that container clearly… a clever ruse that looked like I was marking my property, but in actual fact was designed to announce to everyone that I MADE THESE AWESOME HOME MADE QUICHES AND THEREFORE I AM A FANTASTIC AND TALENTED MOTHER!!!

We arrived at school and Angel Face placed the container of quiches on the designated table, and we all went to the year two Mass in the school chapel. After an hour of singing and praising the Lord it was time for the good bit- the morning tea! Waiting to bask in the glory of my culinary prowess, I arrived at the undercover area, ready to judge all those parents who brought *SHOCK* store bought fare.

I searched the laden table for my quiches, only to find someone had laid them out lovingly onto a square platter. Smugly, I figured they obviously thought my awesome quiches were TOO GOOD to be in a plastic container. Helping myself to a range of food, I saw a container similar to mine holding Samboy Barbecue Chips and Cheezels. Pfft, who would bring THOSE additive ridden evil things to a function such as this???

As I travelled down the table and closer to those nasty snacks, I realised with a sick dread…. SOMEONE HAD REMOVED MY QUICHES AND PLACED THOSE SAMBOY CHIPS AND CHEEZELS IN MY CONTAINER!!!! And the container was placed in a way so that OUR NAME WAS SHOWING ON THE SIDE, ANNOUNCING TO THE WORLD THAT I HAD IN FACT SUPPLIED NASTY ADDITIVE FUELED CHIPS TO OUR CHILDREN!!!!!

I looked around furtively expecting other home cooking mothers to be shaking their heads at me in disappointment and ridicule, and I weakly stammered, “no, you don’t understand… the quiches….” I lowered my head in defeat.

I bet the person who brought the chips also brought the platter displaying my quiches in a calculated ploy to claim glory for someone elses home cooking efforts. It is a conspiracy, I tell you!

I did it!

So I have done it. I have bitten the bullet and lodged my application at Uni. It is ten years almost to the day since I graduated and I am back- older, wiser and with an entourage!

Mr Curly Wurly and I went to the Uni this morning to hand in the appropriate forms that will hopefully see me enrolled into a Graduate Diploma in Professional Writing and Publishing. I figure that if I am going to spend this much time on my laptop I might as well become qualified at something!

I parked in my ‘usual’ spot, and cruised down the pathways of my old stomping ground. It was like visiting the corridors of my memory. I could see myself, a ghost of an alternate reality, inhabiting a life left behind a long time ago. There I am on my first day, rushing to a lecture at Building 210 after becoming hopelessly bogged by parking in the sandy section of the carpark. And there I am sitting nervously outside the exam room, waiting to go inside and purge all that trapped knowledge onto my standard issue exam booklet. Now I can see myself sitting on the chair where I used to wait in the hope I might catch a glimpse of my love interest, who is now my Awesome Hubby.

Walking down that central pathway at University brought me back to my more authentic self, and I once again felt like that Groovy Student with the world at my feet. The smell of promise and anticipation transported me away to a fantasy future filled with success and accolades, and my heart began to sing.

But for Mr Curly Wurly and my slightly more conventional outfit, and the passing super styled students plugged into their MP3 players, I could almost believe I was back in 1995. I felt the last decade melt away, and I almost felt like I had never left.

Then Mr Curly Wurly wet his pants…. just to bring me back to earth and remind me that I am different from that Shereen of Days Gone By. I am now the Groovy Mama Student! Soaked in wee, I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. I can do this! And I am gonna ROCK!

Pre primary roster and the papier mache incident

After six weeks of anxious anticipation and excitement the day has finally arrived. For once, when my little Cupcake asked me “Is it today?” I could say “Yes, it is today.” Pre-primary roster day.

All those weeks ago when I scrawled my name on the roster sheet, I thought “Pfffft! that is aaaaaages away!” With the blink of an eye the day has come and my little Cupcakes enthusiasm is palpable. I try to match her excitement whilst masking the dread I feel at spending the morning with 25 five year olds.

Summoning all my courage, we enter the class room and sit down on the mat to hear a story. After the sweet chorus of ‘good morning and god bless you’s!’ the teacher animatedly announced with a flourish “We have Mrs R here today, and she is going to help us with the PAPIER MACHAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”

For a moment I am baffled- what is machaaaaaaaaaaaaaay??? I followed the direction of her expansive gesture toward the craft table, and took in the 25 expectant eyes looking at me, and I thought ‘Oh no. Papier mache. Give me strength…’ I managed a weak smile, and pretended I knew all there is to know about papier mache.

The first group of kids arrived and I hastily looked at the papier mache instructions whilst they donned their aprons. Papier Mache flowers…. okaaaay…. so the object of the exercise is to cling wrap a bowl, cover *half* of a strip of paper with watery glue (mixed by me, the papier mache novice) and press it inside the bowl with the dry section poking up over the lip of the bowl. Hmmmm, can’t be *that* complicated?

The next hour proceeded in a flurry of newspaper and glue, with me occasionally citing instructions.

“The dry paper pokes UP, gorgeous.”

“Uh uh, sweetie, we don’t wash our hands in the glue, now, do we?”

“Hon, you really ought to wear an apron, your mum won’t be too happy if you cover your uniform in glue.”

“Oh, lovely, but we are making a flower, not a boat!”

“Hey beautiful, we put glue on out artwork, not on each other!”

“Sweetpea, please don’t shake your gluey hands, I already had a shower this morning!”

*clenched teeth with a polite, grimacing smile*

I felt the last remnants of caffeine disappearing from my bloodstream by about the tenth papier mache flower, and I was reminded once and for all why I do not undertake such activities within the home. I found myself pleasantly relieved when the teacher announced to the class “OK boys and girls, now it is time for RELIGION!” *sigh*

The kids assembled on the mat to talk about Celebrations, my little Cupcake perched territorially on my lap, her best friend kinda hanging from my neck, and some other random child attached to my arm. It wasn’t long before pins and needles set into my right foot- I think I was probably more fidgety than the rest of the class!

Recess time came and I eagerly observed the contents of each childs lunch box, analysing the amount of additives in each one and totally judging the parents by the amount of evil prepackaged food within. I smugly admired my daughters fruit, cheese and crackers and salad sandwiches, ignoring her disappointed expression as her friends downed colourful treats loaded with artificial colours and flavours. They don’t call me the Lunchbox Nazi for nothing!

By then it was time for me to leave, and after kissing my little Cupcakes shining, proud face I was reminded why I subjected myself to Pre-primary roster in the first place. It is humbling that such a simple gesture can mean so much to someone so small. TO be able to bring that much happiness with papier mache…. it was worth it all!

Now I am sprawled on the couch with a steaming coffee at hand. Once the caffeine has hit my system and I have had a good lie down, I will be almost completely recovered…

In despair

Today I am in despair. I feel flat, lifeless, spent, wrung out. I am tired.

Where is that perfect, calm family I always imagined would be mine? What happened to laughs, teamwork and a clockwork quality to our day? Where everyone has their chores, completes them responsibly and with respect for the family unit? How did it happen that chaos reigns and I have become this frazzled wreck?

Currently my days usually start unreasonably early, after a night of broken sleep, at least one little someone wants a cuddle and/or a drink at some point between 1.45am and 5am. Mr J always wakes up incredibly grumpy, and by the time he warms up L will melt down. So for the first hour or so at least one person is crying or screaming, and by then my nerves are jangled.

Then the negotiations start.

‘No, you can’t watch TV until you are dressed and breakfasted.’

‘Have you brushed your teeth?’

‘Is your lunch and drink bottle in your bag?’

‘Can you bring your plate over to the sink please?’

‘Put your shoes on please.’ ‘PUT your shoes on!’ ‘I SAID PUT YOUR SHOES ON!!!!!’

‘Hop in the car guys. If you wanted your DS you should have got it before. WHy didn’t you go to the toilet before??? Please don’t elbow each other. Can you stop fighting?? CAN WE PLEASE JUST GET TO SCHOOL WITHOUT ARGUMENTS AND CRYING FOR ONE DAY IN OUR LIFE????’

Every. Single. Morning.

I swear, I would imagine that eventually the message would get through that there are certain things that need to be done in a day, so why does everything need to be a fight? Why do I have to ask more than once? Why is it my asking voice doesn’t get heard, and then I have to yell?

I am drained. I might have said that already but I will say it again. I am DRAINED.

I always have this internal struggle that I do not want to *control* my kids, but then how does stuff get done? Often people provide me with advice about discipline, setting boundaries, having firmer rules, but I don’t want to be that sort of mother. But the *lack of control* bothers me too. How do you find that balance, where you allow your kids to make their own decisions, and for those decisions to be the “right” ones for the functioning of the household? Short of outright bribery, I can’t see a way.

I always wanted to have my kids close together so that they would grow up and be mates, but in doing that I think I have had to let go of certain things in the process. Perhaps if my kids were spaced further apart I could be more patient, ensure a consistent routine, and actually be the mother I always imagined I would be.

I want to be present and available to my kids but they always need me at the same time! And there is only so much of me to go around, so rather than achieving that focus I so desperately want to have I end up failing all of them, and I wonder if this will affect the relationship I enjoy with my kids in the long term. I want them to remember me as happy, fun and fair, not screeching at them to put on their shoes.

I feel incredibly disheartened.

HERevolution

I was incredibly honoured to recently be one of those invited to guest post at Jodie Miller’s humanist personal growth blog, HERevolution .

The ‘brief’ was to write about a life changing experience, and I found it incredibly hard. I wanted to write something positive and uplifting, and I worked on another piece tirelessly, trying to get it right- but I couldn’t get past the fact that the death of my mother has been my most significant life experience to date. I scrapped my original piece and started afresh. So here it is . Check it out. And I would like to let family members know that it is about my mums final moments, so bear that in mind when you click on the link.

Whilst you are at HERevolution, have a good look around. It is a wonderful, thought provoking blog by someone who will be immensely successful as an author one day. Thankyou Jodie for allowing me to contribute to your blog. (And just letting you know- Jodie loves blog comments *almost* as much as I do!)

A strange compliment

The other day I was out and about, and I bumped into someone I hadn’t seen for a while. After exchanging the usual pleasantries she exclaimed in complete admiration “You are looking really good! You don’t look like a mother at all…. well done!”

Well I admit to a swelling of the ego and a brief self pat on the back… yay, I rock! I don’t look like one of those awful things…. a mother! How good am I that I don’t look like one??? How shameful and embarrassing for those who have succumbed to that god awful motherly demeanour!

So, what does a mother look like, anyway? I assume since I don’t look like one that there must be some sort of maternal fashion criteria. And I assume that regardless of lifestyle, ethnicity or background as soon as a baby is passed through a womans birth canal all of a sudden she assumes a common mumsy appearance. Which is what? Softer around the middle? Covered in vomit? Grey hair and a housecoat with slippers?

And why is it a compliment to say I don’t look like a mum? Is being a mother something to be ashamed of? Should I pretend these kids belong to someone else in order to save face and be ultra cool? Do I need to pretend that I haven’t been awake all night, that I don’t spend my life cleaning and cooking, or doing the school run… are these embarrassing secrets, like picking your nose or having stinky shoes?

Why is it the ultimate achievement in life to appear to be something or someone you are not?