Gifted and Talented

There are some people in life who are naturally talented. Gifted in ways others can only imagine.  Maybe they’re athletes who simply excel at any sport they try. Perhaps academics who just ‘get it’ the first time they attempt problem solving of any kind.  Occasionally there are those who seem skilled at carving out a career. Or musical geniuses.  Many, many examples. 

Then there’s the rest of us. The ones who discover we can in fact do certain things we never dreamed possible. Not necessarily with the same sort of success. And only if the circumstances are right. 

We’ve all heard stories of superhuman strength in times of high adrenalin- parents dragging kids out of crashed cars, people holding up heavy objects to prevent injury to others, and me, when I saw smoke coming out of our dryer...I was able to fling the thing out the back door (where it landed -ignominiously for it-upside down). Took two men a lot of grunting to put it back in place when they came to assess it (and surprisingly, it works once again, albeit with a few dents and scratches). 

To a lesser degree it’s how I found I could indeed dance Gangnam Style, after stepping on something sticky on the kitchen floor and being entirely unable to get it off simply by shaking the offending foot. So I stepped on it with the other foot trying to prise it loose without the need for me bending down, only to have it stick to the other side. Hence my horsey dance on alternating feet, to the absolute amusement of my offspring. Did either of those offer to assist? They who are much closer to the ground than their mother, and much more flexible? Not at all. 

It’s kinda like the Spider Dance- you know when you unwittingly walk through a web and start shaking all about trying to get any offending insect off. Voilà!  Instant Breakdancer Extraordinaire!  (Or have I just shown my age and should instead say “Twerker”?) And always with an audience when you least want one. 

Or to take the above example one step further, when Incy Wincy decides to drop in while you’re behind the wheel- you suddenly develop precision driving skills akin to any Formula One racer, trying to get off the road quickly and safely in your blind fear of the thing falling in your lap.  Pity the kids are too young to have a license and can’t take the wheel while you’re trying to find where Wincy went. 

Being summertime here, in a country that claims almost every conceivable venomous creature, there are Spider Dances and precision drivers everywhere you look at the moment.  Numerous social media statuses are stating close encounters of the creepy kind, and not all of them end well. Usually the creepy crawly comes off worse. A friend of mine even said the most romantic thing her husband did for her on Valentine’s Day was to hunt down a Huntsman in her car, and remove it. Everybody now: “Awwwww”. 

No one in my house is fond of the things. My Beloved does his best to rehome the non-nasties and ensure quick if not painless death to others. I’ve been awoken more than once by a tremulous voice from the toilet in the wee small hours calling out for bug spray (and you thought “Redback On The Toilet Seat” was just an old Aussie country & western song)!  But my girlchild takes the cake when it comes to arachnophobia.  Whilst perched alongside me on the bed the other evening, she all but climbed out the window when something fell from the ceiling, right onto Daddy’s pillow.  After careful inspection I realized it was a dead Daddy Long Legs (ironic?) and went to get some toilet paper to pick it up. In either her fear or enthusiasm to assist me (the Jury’s still out on that one) she flicks the thing off the pillowcase and sent it flying Lord knows where, so then I –the aforementioned inflexible mother in the story – had to bend down to the floor looking for it lest it is rediscovered during the night. We’ve all had those experiences and don’t need an encore just now thanks. 

But the helpful thing about this episode was that I rediscovered an ability to not only see my toes, but touch them too; a skill I had thought long-gone.   

So there’s something to be said about finding some inadvertent abilities, and while I may never attain the heights reached by some of those outlined at the start, it’s good to know there are untapped talents still hidden within. As long as the dodgy ones don’t show up with an audience around. 

Jx
© February 2014

The offending (and offended) machine

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

Saving Face

Sometimes being economical can come at great cost.

There I was, thinking how clever I was using the department store's Tester Product of the ridiculously expensive skincare serum that promises so much, and costs a darn sight more.  I'm right in the target demographic (25-65 year old females), I've long longed for it, but have never been able to afford it.  Not at around $AUD250 for about 50ml.

So here I am, planning on saving myself some money by using the store's supply instead- albeit only enough for one spot, on one day...and kid myself I could save my skin one section at a time.

Perhaps I should have invested more time in planning.

At the very least I should have paid more attention to which way the little nozzle was facing before I squirted.

Did it go into my waiting hand?  No.

Did it make it anywhere near the skin in question?  No.

Instead, a decent dose of expensive serum landed squarely on my shirt, in the general vicinity of my mammary gland. To be totally and embarrassingly honest, I found myself doing my best impression of a lactating lady; well and truly wasting about $10 of said serum in the process.

Multi-skilled mother that I am, I simultaneously swiped at the affront to my front, whilst looking around to see who had witnessed my misfire.  Happily, it was one of those days where staff was in short supply (as opposed to being accosted by many the minute you set foot in the door), and other customers were fairly sparse as well.

Nevertheless, I was left red-faced and wet-chested as I quickly but casually made my way away from the cosmetics counter, and back to my car, fighting the urge to cross my arms or hold my handbag up as a shield of sorts. Or something not so casual as that.

Now, I'm not saying anything against lactating mothers. Heaven knows I've been there / done that / had the milk stains to prove it. It's just that a decade down the road, I don't have the luck or the luxury of a screaming infant in a stroller to justify the look.  And quite frankly, looks were what I was trying to avoid right about now.

Since I was shortly due to go into a new school and teach a group of children I had not yet met, I thought it best to detour via my house and change my shirt before I went. Kids in classrooms don't need much to distract them at the best of times, let alone a substitute teacher with stains right at eye level...

So, sad to say, I still don't own the aforementioned miracle serum; my skin didn't even get a one-time treatment for free.

And my so-called clever, economical idea cost me time, effort, and no chance at all to save face.

Jx

©2013

Kicking Back

For the past 2 years or so I have been in a kind of Fitness Protection Program- whereby I was protecting myself from any further pain by simply avoiding the punishment of a workout.

I know they say 'No pain, No gain', however I have been in so much pain that there wasn't anything to gain from going to the gym and putting myself through it.

But I couldn't justify keeping my gym membership going unless I was going to the gym. For something other than saunas at any rate. So I checked out the program for something to ease myself back into it, and hopefully start strengthening and toning again.

Before the surgical mishap, and after an inauspicious start to my yoga career, I was finally getting the hang of it and didn't overbalance or embarrass myself anywhere near as much as I used to. I even felt better for it.  And just quietly, liked the look of my yoga pants too.

But after almost 2 years away from exercise equipment of any kind, it was with great fear and trepidation that I set foot back in the gym.

Yogalates promised to provide a good mix of both Yoga and Pilates and proposed that even beginners could carry out the routine.

Having been a copywriter myself for many years, I know only too well that the product doesn't always live up to the promotion. And so it was with my first foray into Yogalates.

The first hurdle was getting into my tights, after so long a break. Sad to say sitting on the couch doesn't cut it for keeping one in shape. (Unless of course the shape is a sphere. It's plenty good for that.)

I was also thankful that I chose to attend this class alone, and didn't phone a friend beforehand. That way I was only embarrassing myself in a roomful of strangers. Albeit fit, toned, and strangely flexible strangers.

I even tried to choose a spot at the back of the room, well away from any mirrors. But avoiding mirrors at the gym is like avoiding those who like looking into them, so I still saw myself from a number of unflattering angles as I tried to keep up with the class. This was a lot harder than I expected, and hurt a lot more too.

Long story short, 40 minutes later when the instructor asked us to take to our mat for relaxation, I gladly hit the floor. Only to find, to my horror, that my body was nowhere near as relaxed as I wanted to be.

After all the strenuous activity, I found my muscles twitching and shaking in a kind of post-traumatic shock. While everyone else was calmly stretching, my legs kept kicking in a crazy beat that would leave Michael Flatley for dead and he has the honour of setting a record for having the fastest feet!

Trying to be more mindful than manic, I had stern words with myself and eventually started to calm down. Just in time for the class to be over and we all had to get back up again to go home.

Shakily, I rolled up my mat, thanked the instructor and ensured her that I hadn't found it too difficult, and would be back soon (fingers firmly crossed behind my back, which now I think about it, probably wouldn't work in a room full of mirrors).

Then made my way to the car for a quiet sit down before I was able to drive home again.

Yet I have promised myself that I will get back to the gym...as soon as I am certain it's not gonna hurt me to do so.

In the meantime, I'm going to forgo the Yogalates and just stick to Lattés instead.

Jx

©2012