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

The Worm Has Turned

My kids made some new friends during these summer school holidays.

I'm not sure I like them very much.

Now I want to make it clear here that I am not one of those 'Helicopter Parents' always hovering over their kids watching every little thing they do.  I like to think I give my children enough space to make their own decisions, which are hopefully the right ones.

Nor do I have to "approve" their choice of playmates- suffice to say I trust my kids to choose wisely, lest they get led astray and suffer the consequences.

No, no, I parent from the periphery most of the time, with a gentle reminder every now and then as needed.

But this time I really had to step in and have an intervention. This was one relationship I did not want to see become long term.

At the risk of grossing anyone out, especially those who might be in the midst of a meal right about now...I'm talking worms.

I suspected something was afoot, er, abutt, when I noticed a spike in appetites of both my children, along with a general increase in irritability, but it was that telltale scratching that gave the game away. I now knew who was hanging out with my kids.

According to the Royal Children's Hospital in Melbourne, threadworm is a common childhood infestation, and it's almost a rite of passage for Aussie schoolkids to bring them home. Mine were simply smack bang in the middle of normalcy. I should be so proud.

After this delightful discovery, it was off to the pharmacy for the latest worming treatment.

How proud was I, when after wandering up one aisle and down the next one, with two itchy kids in tow, boychild spotted an assistant and helpfully called out (in his biggest bestest voice no less): "Can you tell us where the worm treatment is please?"  Another Kodak moment in motherhood right there folks.  Thankfully, 'tis the season, and we were but one family making that same enquiry that day.

We were then faced with a big decision: to go with the one-size-fits-all suspension, or the ever-so-attractive chocolate squares that promised to take threadworm, roundworm and hookworm out of the family equation.

Happily, the kids wanted to try the special chocolate, and only my Beloved proved a problem in taking his medicine like a big boy (apparently I should have offered him the kid-friendly choc squares too, rather than the adult option I went with for us). But I was determined to follow the recommended advice and treat the whole family at once. All for one, and one for all, and all that.

Of course the real fun begins once the treatment is taken... you gotta make sure that every single family member has clean clothes and bedding every morning and night for at least the next three. Bath towels and hand towels too. Oh and don't forget to vacuum thoroughly around all the beds each day, just in case any eggs are left lying around. Those hardy little devils can lay in wait for up to two weeks for their next host. Evil eggs.

With this in mind, I pretty much took up residence in the laundry, Dyson in hand. (We had a lot of sandwiches over that time. With PLENTY of handwashing done in between.)

Happy to report that all the attention and treatment seemed to do the trick, and the budding relationship my children had formed was budding no more.  We're now at week three and worm-free.

So imagine my dismay when I turned up at vacation care yesterday to collect my kids only to be informed that a suspicious little bug had hopped off girlchild's head.

Ah headlice, my old foe.

I feel another intervention coming on...

Jx

©2012

Tears of a Clown

I’m thinking about kicking a black dog.

Now, before you go all RSPCA at me, let me clarify: I’ve been putting a lot of thought, time, and effort into how to get rid of Depression.

If you’ve ever been diagnosed with it, you will know that I’m talking about more than feeling peeved you didn’t get invited to that party, or upset that you had a fight with your other half, or even frustrated and worn out by this whole parenting thing. No, I’m talking a deep-seated feeling of inadequacy, lack of motivation or any sense of achievement, or a sorrow that you cannot seem to shake if you allow yourself to stop and think about it.

On the outside you might seem as happy as chirpy as ever. Or if somewhat subdued, not totally withdrawn. You might still be getting up out of bed, going to work, going through the motions as a wife and mother, and adding something to the world each day. You might be doing it all with a smile on your dial. Furthermore, you might even be the one that others have always relied on to lift them up when they’re feeling low.

But inside, you know you’re faking it.

It’s called The Black Dog. And let me tell you, there are way better pets.

First time I faced Depression was when one of my best friends was killed right before my horrified eyes by a speeding driver. I was 14 years old and I don’t know that I’ve ever truly shaken that one off. Ironically (which I’ve only just now realised), this time it’s also due to a driver- but this one was apparently putting on her lipstick as she drove, and slammed into the back of our car when the line of traffic in front came to a stop. I was injured, my kids were injured, and my car has never been the same since.

Long story short: I lost my job, we almost lost the house, and I gained a Black Dog.

But still I had a support group to run, a camp to organise, committees to attend, causes to champion, friendships to nurture, a husband and children to care for… so I forced myself into motion and tried hard to turn that frown upside down. Because, after all, no one likes a whinger do they.

So here’s where “Smokey” Robinson comes in, with that song. OK, so the inspiration’s a little off, he got the idea from an opera- ‘Pagliacci’- which is about clowns who hide their hurt and anger behind painted-on smiles. But it’s the same concept- pretending to be happier than you feel.

*But don't let my glad expression,
Give you the wrong impression.
Really, I'm sad, (Sad, sad, sad, sad.)
I'm sadder than sad. (I hurt so bad.)

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not at the stage where we need to hide the sleeping pills or anything (in fact I wouldn’t get any sleep without them, I’m sure), but it’s really tough some days. Especially when life seems to be just hunky-dory for everyone else on this big fat planet.

But I’ve got to keep going, don’t I, for the kids, for my Beloved, and for myself. And if I can find a little something each day to make me LOL, then I’m looking for it (bonus points if it’s a ROFLMAO)!

So forgive me if this blog seems a tad melodramatic, or not as ‘up’ as some of the others I’ve done. No doubt it’ll take me even longer this time before I decide whether to post it or not. But maybe it’ll touch someone else who’s got that bloody Black Dog for company at the moment, and if there’s one thing that usually brightens my life, it’s making someone else’s a bit better.

In the meantime, I’ll keep trying to give myself some more laugh lines.

And so, just as “Smokey” gave a nod to an opera in his lyrics, I tip my hat at you and your hit song Mr Robinson, for summing up how so many feel:

*Just like Pagliacci did, I try to keep my sadness hid.
Smiling in the public eye,
But in my lonely room I cry.
The tears of a clown, When there's no one around.

Now...where’s my makeup?

Jx
©2009

*Tears of a Clown, 1967, Tamla/Motown label, Written by Stevie Wonder, Hank Cosby, and William "Smokey" Robinson

Recipe for Disaster

Oh I know he means well.

And I know that old adage that "it’s the thought that counts".

But sometimes I just have to wonder what exactly is going on in that brain of my Beloved.

Especially when it comes to food.

OK so he doesn’t go as far as wearing a kitschy ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron or anything that implies he actually knows what he’s doing. But each time he’s let loose anywhere near a kitchen it’s like the Masterchefs in reverse. Only nowhere near as organised to start out with.

For instance, our first date.

Wisely and thankfully he chose to treat me to someone else’s gourmet genius that time, as I‘m not sure I’d have lived to tell the tale otherwise.

Now, usually one is trying to impress the other party on such an auspicious occasion. You go to great lengths to make yourself look good, smell good, sound good, and try desperately hard not to do anything to dispell the myth that you are good at everything.

So, why, I ask you, would you order the red curry at the Indian restaurant?

Yes, I’m afraid any chance of romance goes out the window when you are busy chugging a jug of beer after a generous first forkful of your main meal.

Even the priciest personal hygiene products and a restaurant’s entire supply of serviettes cannot compete with full body perspiration in full swing.

And any pretence of politeness doesn’t stand a chance in the face of such obvious discomfort, as I tried to cover my laughter by sipping my drink, which in a show of karma went down the wrong way, almost causing me to choke to death.

All I can say is ours is obviously a love to last a lifetime, as here we are still together some 20 years later, with many moons and many meals in between.

See, not content to just impress me as a cool calm customer of the epicurean kind, my Beloved has also, over the years, attempted to show how hot he is on the other side of the hotplate.

To date, his culinary clangers include: a pot pie where the pot became part of the pie, so well was it cooked.

Using vanilla essence instead of parisian essence whilst attempting to reproduce his grandmother’s homemade gravy.

How about Sticky Date well and truly stuck to the plate?

Or, when aiming for some father-son time in the kitchen by making anzac biscuits for Anzac Day…well let’s just say the troops from the local fire brigade were on standby for any subsequent attempts at bonding through baking (which fortunately were few and far between).

These days I try to steer him towards recipes of the no-bake variety, and even they can get out of control (turning a mild-mannered man into a rampaging Ramsay). Last time he dug out the frypan, our small son was heard to exclaim “so, these are pancakes, except they look different and taste different.”

And since it’s supposed to be the rule in our house that whoever makes the meal gets to sit back and relax afterwards (which, funnily enough only seems to work when anyone else has done the work), guess who gets the pleasure of tidying up the kitchen? (Once I can find it, that is.) I must confess that there have been times when it has been far easier to throw out and replace equipment than hold out any hope that it can be used again in the manner for which it was intended.

Plus I have now made sure that there is none of that brown glass cookware so favoured by bachelors, left in our house, ever since the explosion (I am sure my eardrums will come good again someday…at least I hope). It is indeed amazing just how many places baked beans can stick in your standard family kitchen.

Hark, do I hear the slow cooker coming out of the cupboard? Sounds like my cue to rescue the ladle from my loved one…

Bon Appétit all!

Jx
©2009

Good Morning...Let the Stress Begin!

Whoever said that Motherhood is not a fulltime job has never seen it from where I stand…

Daybreak, no not even that yet and already I hear my 7 y.o. son on the way to the bathroom for his morning ablutions. A split second later, my 5 y.o. daughter tap taps on the bedroom door: “Good morning Mama, can I use your toilet?”

And so begins another day.

Actually, that’s how a good day starts at our place.

On a bad day, I’ve been up half the night with one child or another. Or with the dog whining outside because he’s dragged his bed halfway across the back patio and tipped the sheepskin off it again. Or I’ve had one of my less pleasant bouts of insomnia with bonus night terrors because my Beloved forgot to lock the door again when he went to work in the middle of the night. (Ha! May as well hang a sign out the front saying “Come on in; unattended and unsuspecting woman and small children inside!”), and grudgingly greet the dawn with yet another headache from lack of sleep.

So anyway, back to the original, happier start to the day…

After they empty their bladders they open their arms to me for our traditional “morning cuddle”. If I’m lucky, my daughter also serenades me with ‘the morning song’ - a little ditty I made up to help wake the kids up in a happy mood (I’m yet to discover one that works on their father!); my son, being all of 7 years old now, is way too old for that baby stuff, of course.

And then it starts…“Mu-um, I wanna watch that show on TV”, “Can I have another piece of breakfast?”, “I don’t want that on my sandwiches”, “I haven’t had my medicine yet”, “Can I go to someone’s place for a playdate today?”, “Do you know where my hat is?”, “I was supposed to give you this note yesterday”, “Do I have to go to school today?”, “I feel sick”, “I broke my shoelace again”, “When’s dad coming home?”, “I haven’t got anything to take for News!”, “Do you know where my splint is?”, “Why do I have to go to school?”, “I really feel sick”, “There’s no toothpaste left”, “When can we have a lunch order?”, “I hate doing homework”, “We forgot to clean our shoes again!”, “Mummy, I really truly feel sick now”

After all that, we have the usual mad panic to get out the door and down to school before the assembly begins, deliver the bags safe to the classroom and my children safe into the hands of the teachers for the next 6 hours, often a quick stop in at the office, then I get to begin my ‘real’ work for the day.

Given an all-too brief period of time before the afternoon school run, I manage to do a casual job, run an online support group, check the secretarial details of just one of the committees I’m on, try to catch up with people I’ve been neglecting, try to pay bills I can ignore no more, run to the shops (being creative with the family meals on an artist’s budget), glance again at the online certificate course I’ve signed up for (and estimate just how many assignments I can squeeze in before the final deadline), run another load of washing through the front loader and dryer, attempt to fold and put away the stuff that’s done, unload then repack the dishwasher, empty the garbage bins, sort the recycling, check the mail, clean up after the kids, clean up after the dog, clean up after the husband, clean up after myself!

Once the kids are collected it’s empty the school bags, identify or simply throw out uneaten foodstuffs left in lunchboxes, assist with any assessment tasks, ensure the uniforms actually make it into the laundry and school shoes are somewhere they can be found the next day, provide afternoon tea, referee any arguments along the way, do the artistic hunter-gatherer thing in time for tea, bathe the kids, repack the dishwasher, feed the dog and put him out for the night, read with the kids, turn off any unused appliances, lock up the house, all while keeping the children quiet while daddy gets some sleep.

And once the other half and offspring are finally quiet at the end of the day, I find time to reflect on an old piece of advice a lady once gave me - count your kids, and if you still have the same number you started out with, congratulate yourself!

Then I try to manage some sleep before it all begins again.

Yep, if that aforementioned 'whoever' had to walk a mile in my shoes, I am sure that before too long they would take off at a run - in the opposite direction!

Jx
©2009