Sobbing in the Shower

I had a moment this morning. Well if I am being completely honest, and is there really a better place to do so than anonymously on the internet (unless you count Confession and that only applies if you are of that religious persuasion and feel the need to save your soul)…I had more than a moment.  I had a full-blown Good Cry. That term, I feel, should be trademarked if it hasn’t been already (and if it isn’t, and someone does, and makes a lot of money, I call dibs on commission for the idea), as there are few other terms that instantly bring to mind the precise scenario you try to define.

Don’t say you’ve never been there: lip quivering, nose tingling, eyes brimming, with the bonus chest and stomach pain reserved for those really special occasions. Whether you’ve been holding it in for a while, or it’s brought on by a sucker-punch of a situation, there is nothing so overwhelming yet cathartic at the same time. A Good Cry is best kept until you’ve reached the privacy of your car, your bedroom, or in my case the bathroom. 

Coincidentally (or not, perhaps) it was while I was standing under the shower, spraying cleanser onto the screen, that I felt the urge to weep.  Faced with the task of scrubbing soap scum that no one else in my family seems to see, I felt a somewhat inexplicable and unfamiliar tremble in my lower lip, burning in my eyes, and off I went.  (On the upside, it's a great place to let the tears flow, along with the runny nose that always seems to accompany A Good Cry, and while it's not a great look at the best of times, at least there's no one there to witness it, unless you've invited others to your Pity Party. I mean, with the mirror fogged, even you can't see how bad you look...)

Anyway, as I attacked the scaly screen I started thinking about all the other household jobs awaiting my attention, started plotting the best order to do them in, dreading the energy expenditure required, and being overcome with an enormous sense of failure on multiple levels.

Long story short, yet relevant to this tale: a Special Needs son (another term that sums it up but one that I’m not so fond of), an unexpected permanent disability of my own, a husband who works split-shifts/dog-watch/14-if-not-24/7 with no massive financial return to show for it, a young daughter who I desperately try to not get lost in all of the above- means our home is not a castle by any stretch of the imagination. Not a Hoarders’ Hovel either, but gives a good impression of one at times- I simply cannot keep up with the housework. Which means that I actually actively discourage visitors, and sleepovers are out of the question altogether. There lies the rub.

Kids are supposed to hang out, have playdates, and stay up all night after too much junk food and rubbish TV. Heck, I did all that and then some when I was young. Not my kids. Our 3 bedroom house does not lend itself to extra bodies, not when in the wisdom of the architect the bedrooms barely hold a bed, let alone extra bedding. With the aforementioned revolting shifts, my Beloved comes and goes, and makes coffee, at all hours of the night, so a kids’ camp in the living room is not doable either (allowing that they will eventually drop off to sleep at some stage).

Add to that my screaming lack of pride in our place, and the never ending load of laundry looking at me on the lounge, and I don’t feel able to offer invitations to other people, or their children.

Why precisely this all caved in on me in the shower this morning, I’m not sure. But the trigger was a photo of 7 smiling faces on facebook- showing all the other girls in my daughter’s class at a birthday party this weekend. Every other female except mine. I know they all play sport together, do various other events, and “face time” for hours on end.  They are a nice group of girls really, they all seem to get along in class, all happily accept the annual invitation to our Halloween Party, and begged my child to get some sort of ‘iProduct ‘ so they could include her (which she did, which they haven’t); and yet the photos keep coming of the rest of the class (of the female variety anyway) hanging out, without my girl.

And I know it’s because our lifestyle- or rather the circumstances of our life- means she cannot join the sporting teams, go on shopping trips, or concerts, or just hang out. There's always another appointment to attend, or not enough time, energy, or money at the end of the day.

So while I have to trust that we are doing the best we can raising our children to hopefully head into adulthood as community-minded, well-educated, decent mannered and socially aware human beings, it’s this in-between period that’s stressing me out.  If they are missing out.

Which brings me back to my scrubbing and sobbing simultaneously in the shower.

And now sees me sitting here scribbling with a sick feeling in my stomach, knowing I’m going to have to come up with some sort of explanation, or a big box of tissues, when my little girl comes home from school tomorrow knowing she was excluded again, and quite possibly needing A Good Cry of her own.

At least the shower's clean should she need it.

Jx

© 16 February 2014

Yellow Belly

I am a coward.

Bit strange me saying that as I have never been known to back down from a fight, even stepping up for someone else at times. And one of my most useful (and most used) mantras is : "Feel the fear and do it anyway" (thank you Susan Jeffers). I'm forever telling my kids that it's ok to be nervous, that butterflies in the tummy can be good, and the true definition of bravery is being scared of something but having a go regardless- the ol' "get over it, get on with it" mentality.

But today I am a coward.

Too afraid and uncertain of how to act, what to say, that instead I'm keeping quiet.

Not that I'm not worried my silence will send the wrong message. It's just, I don't know what message to send.

So  I sit.

And send none.

And then fret that my fear will take too long and I'll miss the chance to say anything at all.

Here's my dilemna: two people are in two different hospitals, neither of them near, both fighting for their lives. It's been a while since I had an actual conversation with either of them and now the clock is ticking. Fast.

What do you say to someone you once had no trouble filling hours talking to? How do you express the feelings you yourself can't even clearly understand?

And when is the right time, when time is running out?

I've previously pondered the dynamics of human relationships that get waylaid by life. Friendships that are interrupted by the very act of living. Some you can pick up where you left off- if only the chance comes up. And I've philosophised before about the family connections that get cut off by word or deed - or both- from one party or the other. But the human animal is a funny creature- one that relies heavily on "later"...until it's too late.

So, coward that I am, and desperate to not have the final memories be bad ones or sad ones, I haven't actually spoken to either of these people, who were once so dear to me. I've sent balloons to one, SMSed the other, and left a slightly cringe-worthy message on the machine of the mother of my friend, I was so tongue-tied at the time.

Me, the one who they say was born talking (if family mythology can be believed). Me, who could allegedly talk under water with a mouth full of marbles (an untested rumour). Me, who has been known to get paid to speak for a living.  Me, who is sadly, strangely, silent now.

I simply cannot find the words. Nor trust my voice not to break.

A coward indeed.

And I am so afraid that when I find my courage, it'll be just too late to say anything at all.

Jx

©2012

For Our Grandparents

There he is, my dusty soldier,
I can but see him in the gloam;
he's travelled far and witnessed plenty,
now he wants to make it home.

He was but sixteen when they signed him
(he wrote eighteen on the page)
they didn't ask- they needed numbers-
so didn't question 'bout his age.

They fit him out with guns and khakis,
they hacked away his lovely hair,
they sent him far across the water,
where he went, they didn't care.

He made mates and stole thru' jungles,
he saw bombs and bullets too.
Then the dying and the bloodshed
began to chill his soul right through.

He missed friendships and his family,
he wanted kids to call his own,
he wondered if he'd ever see them,
if again he'd make it home.

Spent his birthday in the trenches,
bully beef, and half a cig.
And with firing in the distance
he was told to fight, or dig.

As for we who sit here waiting,
not a letter, not a sign,
no telegram- for that we're thankful,
at least our boy's still got some time.

So while we wait, both sides of water,
for the end, or truce at least,
we prize the past and hope for futures,
him back home to live in peace.


Blasted bodies in the trenches,
Sunken ships upon the reef,
Just one thing will ease the suffering-
Stop the wars, and end the grief.


Lest we forget...


Jx
©1995

The Ghost of Childhood Past

I’ve just had word that another old schoolmate has died.

Well, not that we’re that old, really. I mean, sure I’m staring down the barrel of the big 4.0. but I’m still a few months off yet. I can still claim to be young-ish (even if the face that greets me in the mirror some mornings looks frighteningly tired and old).

No, what I mean is, a friend from long ago when we were carefree- the way kids are meant to be.

Sure, we’ve lost touch- as most mates do once you’re not forced to spend 6 hours in their company, 5 days a week, for up to 13 years.

Life kinda gets in the way.

Until someone you used to know dies.

And then there’s the flurry of phone calls, emails, or SMS…firstly to pass along the sad news to someone who might not know…or the messages madly trying to find out why a “kid” you grew up with, has their name in the Obituaries.

Makes me wonder why we don’t take more time, or spend a little more energy keeping in touch while we’re all still fit and healthy.

But there’s your answer right there, isn’t it?

When you’re in the prime of life, sometimes we get so busy just living that we don’t stop and think until perhaps someone isn’t.

Oh I know we’ve all made an effort here and there- sending the occasional Christmas or birthday card, forwarding an email that says “I’m thinking of you”, or even dropping a note or a smiley on one of the many social networks rolling around.

I know I sent a message for this former chum a good couple of years ago now, on one of those “school friends” sites. Didn’t get a reply so I left it at that. Won’t get one now.

But in the face of this news, I’ve already touched base with two other mates, with whom the contact is sporadic but always as comfortable as ever. I guess it’s different if you can date your friendship way back to wagging preschool together by hiding out in the cubby house.

Still, I don’t see them as often as I’d like. Mind you, we all live in different cities now, occasionally different countries, so it’s a little difficult to kick back with a cuppa or a cold one with a friend when distance is your foe.

And so I sit, wondering why yet another classmate has gone too soon.

Thinking of all those who I really should make contact with.

And being thankful for those who I do get to catch up with for a laugh.

And I offer up a silent prayer for the children that I played with...the teenagers I hung out with... the adults I spent time with… who now get to watch over us all.

Jx
©2009