Monthly Archives: May 2016
I Promise. – RRSAHM
I Promise.
My daughter, bless her sweet, timid fairy self, is terrified of death and dying.
Just like my son, she understands death not just as a concept, but as a reality. Death has been an ugly, all-too-regular occurrence for as long as she can remember. She was only 15 months old when her father died; from there, pets and people she loved have fallen like dominoes. I wish I could read her mind, dig underneath the fluffy pink ballerina exterior and see how much sadness has permanently settled into her soul.
When I was a child, death was something that would never happen to me, or to the people directly connected with me. I tell my daughter that things don’t die very often, and that feels like a lie. I guess that to her it is a lie. Evidence tells her otherwise.
I put her brother into his room for a time-out and he shrieks as though the world is ending. “Is he going to be okay?” asks my Bumpy girl, worry and concern etched on her tiny face, “He’s not going to die, is he?”
No, I promise her. No, most definitely not. He is fine, he is going to be just fine.
We find a squashed snail on our way to school and she mourns for it, talks about how very, very sad it is for the next few days.
The kindergarten fish dies and is promptly replaced. I know there is no announcement made- who would tell kindy kids that, really, if they didn’t have to?- but the Bump knows. She knows, far too well, what it means when living things are just not there any more.
I head out for dinner with blogging friends, the first time I’ve been out and left my children at home with The Most Amazing Man. He spends half the night reassuring the Bump that I am not going to die, that I will be home safe in just a few hours.
I am not going to die, I tell her, not for a very, very long time. I will be old and grey before I go anywhere. I promise, I say, and I may just be lying to her, over and over, the way we do with our children, because telling them the truth would just be cruel.
Previous post: Lucid Dreaming.
Next post: My Children Are Trying to Kill Each Other.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Fuck You Too.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Jeans and Stuff.
Craptastic movie reviews
Craptastic movie reviews
A fortnight or so ago, I was invited to a real actual red–carpet movie premiere. With free popcorn and introduction speeches from the director and famous people and everything. It was one of those cases of “I’m almost sure these people don’t know who I am, but I’m taking full advantage of that and going anyway”. (Just to disclaimerise– this was before I took my stance against Pointless Corporate Whoring. And I would have gone anyway. C’mon, jellybeans… it’s a move premiere. With a ’feel good’ dress code. That sounds like fun, yes?)
The worst movie I’ve ever seen.
Anyway. Despite rude and surly cinema staff, it was fun. My mate Kristabelle was my date for the evening. We dressed up. There were goodie bags. And we sat next to famous–type–people, like a movie critic and some Olympic swimmer. We saw Magda in the flesh and she was just as cool as you’d think.
It’s just a pity that the movie sucked so very, very hard.
I wanted to like this movie, I really did. I was prepared to like it, cheering it on. The story of a stay at home mum of two who starts web casting to break the monotony and ease the boredom, and ends up being ’discovered’ and running away to the big city and having to decide between fame and Ronan Keating as her husband doing the washing up in nothing but a pink apron– what’s not to like, really?
It started well– soaring cinematography over green hills, a fresh–faced actress named Laura Michelle Kelly in drab olive clothes, spinning headily in a glorious Sound of Music parody. Which was interrupted by a shot of her twin toddlers eating cow-poo. I know, it should have been hysterical. Unfortunately, at the same time, I think most of the crowd realized that Laura Michelle Kelly– let’s just call her LMK– couldn’t actually act. At all.
The point you realise she can’t act.
To give her props where they’re due, when LMK was singing, dancing, performing the musical numbers (did I mention this was a musical? No? Well. There you go), it was impossible to take your eyes off her. In song, LMK was awesome.
But again, acting probably isn’t her strong point.
Surprisingly, Ronan Keating could act; and did a rather good job with a slightly ridiculous role as a whale researcher who helicopters himself out to Antarctica on an annoyingly regular basis, leaving his wife and kids stuck in rural Tasmania while he listens to the songs of humpbacks. (Yes, really).
Magda, as we already know, can also really actually act. It’s just that the script was so cheesy and so unintentionally sexist it came close to being downright offensive.
On one hand you have LMK, main character, singing her heart out at every opportunity. All the other women in the movie (including a cute, pregnant Pia Miranda and a funny–as–herself Corrinne Grant) hate her. But every single guy she meets– from seventeen year old nerd to tanned, corny pony-tailed busker– fall instantly in love with her. In fact, the pony–tailed, singing busker LMK meets in Sydney seemed to serve no plot purpose whatsoever. Except possibly to perform a song that demonstrated perfectly how not transfer that stage musical feeling to the big screen.
On the other end of the scale, Magda’s character was the ’corporate bitch’, a woman who left her husband in order to shatter the glass ceiling and holds LMK’s devotion to her family and her husband in disdain. Or so we are led to believe. But, evidently, Magda can’t be entirely happy about that decision. Because every time something goes wrong with her somewhat lame evil plan, we see her locked in a bathroom stall eating cookies from her handbag.
Why? I don’t know. No reason was given, nor even alluded to. Maybe it was just because its clearly impossible to have a larger woman on screen without alluding, in some way, to her eating habits.
For pity’s sake.
That was compounded by Magda’s declaration, in the movie’s final scenes, that her husband had, in fact, left her because she couldn’t have children. And that was why she pursued her career as viciously as she did and, apparently, was why she was such a cold hard bitch. She also declared that she was ’Fabulous!’… but not in any way that suggested she really thought she was.
Because, of course, her character couldn’t possibly have been a woman who chose to remain childless, chose not to get married. She couldn’t have genuinely been so passionate about her career that she was happy with the decisions she had made. She couldn’t have even been a lesbian. Not in this movie. Not in a movie where the lead character makes the decision to abandon her career completely, and return to an existence she finds unfulfilling, so that her husband will come back to her and her children won’t be scarred for life. Oh, and, bonus!– the formerly bitchy clique of local women seemingly embrace her. Enough to don multi– coloured rubber gloves and participate in a sing–along. Because, of course, she is one of them now.
Ronan’s bum- the best bit of the movie. Now you don’t need to see the movie at all. Ever.
By this stage, I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d cut to a shot of Magda, alone and crying, surrounded by empty biscuit packets and chocolate wrappers. They didn’t. They did provide an unintentionally hilarious comic ending. Which wasn’t helped at all by the fact that it was filmed in an area very close to TinyTrainTown (where I live), and all Kristabelle and I could say was “Holy crap!! That’s Corbett’s Hardware!!”
Anyway. After a long winded duet with lots of cheesy footage of Ronan Keating standing, boy-band style, on the deck of a whale research ship with badly green-screened footage of the Antarctic rolling blandly behind him; he somehow commandeers a helicopter which he has to set down in the grassy courtyard of a small ‘Tasmanian’ town. It’s playing humpback whale songs from speakers. (Again… really). Ronan, with real actual tears in his eyes, proceeds to compare himself to a humpback whale and declare his love to LMK using some strange synonym that I’m not entirely sure I understood (possibly because Kristabelle and I were laughing so hard by this point that we had actual real tears in our own eyes).
Cue musical number, and they all (except, presumably, Magda) live happily ever after.
***
And this is what’s wrong with the Aussie film industry. For every awesome movie by the Edgerton brothers… there’s also a Goddess.
{ 12 comments }
Who Is Bunny? – RRSAHM
Who Is Bunny?
I know some of you must be curious, because he appeared here so abruptly, with little introduction, around the same time I went to Melbourne… a friend of mine who I just call Bunny. And yes, he’s a bloke.
I’ve been meaning to explain him, it’s just never come up… but now might be the time. Because, quite frankly, he’s mad at me, and thinks he’s not my bestie anymore. And I hate that.
So… my Bunny. For those of you who have been playing along at home, Bunny’s been a constant in this strange, new, un-Purple Life the last few months. He came to Melbourne with me, narrowly avoided hitting a cow. In fact, he’s my Melbourne mate, the person who understands why I love it the way I do.
He buried Scarlette for me, crying tears for her and I, doing the difficult job of plowing earth over her face.
He killed a massive, scary eyed spider for me, and climbed through my bathroom window when I lost my keys.
You know all of that. I guess I should fill you in on the bits you don’t know.
Like the way he took the day off work to help me move house. Like the way he put up with my cat crying at him the whole way from Paradise to TinyTrainTown, stuffed in a small plastic cage.
The way he has held me while I cried, while I sobbed. The way he has told me, repeatably, that I’m still lovable, that I’m still real, that I’m still a good mum and a top chick. That this wasn’t, isn’t my fault, and I’m doing the best I can.
I’ve never told you all that, in the first few weeks after Tony died, Bunny was my only salvation.
I barely remember it now, but I know how it felt. I remember nights on Bunny’s lounge, him trying desperately to distract me with funny movies and YouTube clips. Eating pizza and smoking ciggerettes, staying up late in the humid heat of summer. Crying myself to sleep, Bunny rubbing my back and telling me it was going to be OK.
Bunny takes phone calls in the middle of the night, when my breath catches with anxiety. He stays with me, when I am far too terrifying for everyone else, when the heat of my pain burns peoples skin.
Having been through this, lived through it… I count my true friends now, on my fingers. The people who have never let me down, have always been there for me. The people I can trust with my life, with my soul…
My Bunny, he’s at the top of that list.
In a world with so few people who are good and loving, right down to their very bones… Bunny is the most wonderful person I know.
My best mate. My soft place to fall.
Bunny… the best thing that I’ve gotten, new and fresh, that didn’t already exist in the Before… the best thing to come from this awful thing that happened to me… it’s you.
***
OK…. I’m totally going to blame this massive f**k up on the fact that I’ve been sick for the last few days.
Thanks to the one person who pointed this out, and the thousands of others who ignored my blatant stupidity.
Why, yes, I did publish a whole post about the awesome new newsletter I have starting this week… and I did forget to include the link to where you can actually sign up to receive it.
Altogether now….. duh.
So…. please, work with me here. Give me another chance. Sign up to the RRSAHM newsletter, titled What Lori Did and What Lori Did Next.
I promise, this time, that link, it works.
***
And it seems we have another anonymous admirer to add to my ever growing cache of nameless Net admirers… Mr (or Mrs) Cheers, more clues are much appreciated.
Leave a Comment
{ 23 comments… read them below or add one }
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April 10, 2012 at 10:15 pm -
You silly willy
Let's be frank – it's a euphemism for anal sex. I think my pic should be there though as I was the first. - March 14, 2012 at 7:00 pm
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"Bunny… the best thing that I've gotten, new and fresh, that didn't already exist in the Before… the best thing to come from this awful thing that happened to me… it's you."
Even in darkness there always comes light.
I believe thatM2Mx
- December 13, 2011 at 6:11 am
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Wahey for Bunny! It's so important to have someone like that in your life
- December 5, 2011 at 8:13 pm
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Friends like Bunny are a true gift from God. He sounds amazing…
- November 26, 2011 at 5:24 am
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Perhaps Bunny is not interested in women at all? Is that why you haven't scooped him up as your own??
- November 25, 2011 at 1:04 am
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Bunny and Lori…sounds good to my ears.
- November 25, 2011 at 12:26 am
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In nearly every one of your posts there is a line that makes me think "…wow".
This time it was "…when the heat of my pain burns peoples skin".
You convey such emotion in only a small number of words.
- November 25, 2011 at 12:13 am
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To Bunny – for all of us who can do nothing for our beloved Lori except pray, send good thoughts, and comment on the blog – we thank you.
Please don't be mad at Lori anymore. She's top. She loves you, is grateful for you and she NEEDS you. - November 24, 2011 at 9:57 pm
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Bunny sounds like an incredible guy!
- November 24, 2011 at 9:55 pm
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What a funny bunny! I say keep that one! x
- November 24, 2011 at 9:27 pm
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Your Bunny sounds like a furry adorable specimen.
- November 24, 2011 at 3:12 pm
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We all need a Bunny. So glad you found yours. x
- November 24, 2011 at 2:00 pm
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How strange that i just assumed Bunny was a woman…
Anyhoodle, Bunny the Bloke sounds like one awesome dude. Job well done Bunny! - November 24, 2011 at 12:59 pm
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So what is the possibility of you and Bunny becoming an item, because it sure sounds like he's good for you and you're good for him…. Just sayin'
- November 24, 2011 at 12:46 pm
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God Bless Bunny!
- November 24, 2011 at 12:19 pm
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I think you love Bunny, and Bunny loves you. What are you waiting for?
- November 24, 2011 at 12:11 pm
- November 24, 2011 at 11:40 am
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Your Bunny has nice eyes. There's a difference between being mad at you and not being your bestie anymore.
I hope he comes around. Friends like that are hard to find.
- November 24, 2011 at 10:22 am
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Love that blossoms from a beautiful friendship is often the best love of all. Sometimes we don't really see what has been under our noses all along ;]
- November 24, 2011 at 9:34 am
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He sounds awesome Lori. You deserve to have someone in your life who is there to catch you.
High five, Bunny x - November 24, 2011 at 9:12 am
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So the answer to this question is implied, but… I take it Bunny isn't an option in the romance category? He seems so very lovely.
- November 24, 2011 at 9:09 am
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Bunny sounds gorgeous just like you. We all need a Bunny buddy, mine is back in the UK, miss my Bunny heaps.NX Have signed up for your newsletter
- November 24, 2011 at 10:22 am
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What a lovely post
I think everyone needs a Bunny! Im so glad you have someone there for you like that. True friends are indeed so special
Previous post: Internet Dating 107- Black Widow.
Next post: Internet Dating 108- Something Different
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Brunching With a Tweet of Bloggers.
Dim Sum the House Cat – RRSAHM
Dim Sum the House Cat
Aloha,
Well, it seems we have a situation here. Yankee Lori mentioned a few days ago on her blog that she is a big softie, who has a tendency to take in un-homed animals. I offered her my cat. She said no. Her very funny hubby made the observation that the cat is Australian. Therefore, they would not understand a word it says. I can see how that would cause problems.
I did try to break this news gently to Dim Sum, cat of the Purple House. He was not impressed. His problem, you see, is that while he is fed, watered, has a soft bed, is de-fleaed and vaccinated, he is just not happy. He feels tormented, both by the dog, and the Chop. He lives in constant anxiety at the thought of the Bump learning to crawl.
To address your primary concern- it is clearly not a valid one, and Dim Sum did confess his dismay at your sweeping generalisations. Obviously, with a name like Dim Sum, he speaks Chinese, so the fact that he is ‘Straylan really shouldn’t be a problem.
I am offering again to pay for his air ticket. He is looking forward to seeing chipmunks, squirrels and Disneyland. Please reconsider.
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{ 5 comments… read them below or add one }
- March 17, 2010 at 6:41 pm
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Love cats. LOL cats.
- March 17, 2010 at 6:45 am
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My husband will take the cat if you send me the return ticket…
- March 17, 2010 at 3:26 am
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While he is a handsome fellow, save for the annoyed look, (Dim Sum, not hubby) hubby is still not inclined to take in another family member. You see, while hubby is funny, he does require a captive audience and every new member brought into the household is yet another distraction for his one audience member – moi. It's all about hubby's self-preservation.
Please assure Dim Sum that he would be more dismayed at our house because he would have a total of 5 dogs and 2 cats to be annoyed at. And I have to say, he looks quite at ease with the dog he already has.
Dim Sum needs to understand that the catnip isn't always greener on the other side.
- March 16, 2010 at 9:33 pm
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If Disneyland falls through, you are welcome to send him to Adelaide. Benson would love a playmate and I miss having a cat. Oh, and we speak Strine perfectly here :o)
- March 16, 2010 at 9:25 pm
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Lol. Seal the deal by sending along the translation book, "far out brussel sprout" or what was the other one? 'alright vegemite'? :p
Previous post: Muse Wars- Challenge Four
Next post: Wordless Wednesday- Who is this ginormous child….
I Took A Gun To School. (Really. I know. How freaking stupid). – RRSAHM
I Took A Gun To School. (Really. I know. How freaking stupid).
Yo,
The lovely Megan from Writing Out Loud has asked me to come guest post at her place. We’re chatting about the crazy, stupid things we did in high school. My story involves firearms.
And to further entice you, here’s a picture of High School Lori. On her way to her Year Ten formal. With an absolutely atrocious perm.
Surely that’s enough of a teaser? Yes? See you there, then.
Leave a Comment
{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
- October 20, 2010 at 4:50 am
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Off to check it out!
- October 19, 2010 at 12:25 pm
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I think you look smashing!
Previous post: It’s BlogFlogging Day!!
Next post: “It’s Getting Hot In Here…”
blogging
blogging
‘I think, therefore I am’ is the biggest, most destructive lie you’ve ever been told. You are not your thoughts, nor your emotions. You are the being behind them, the one that witnesses and experiences and watches them.
You are not what you think. Your head is stupid, and your thoughts lie.
You are the entity that experiences this.
You are the Universe, experiencing itself for the first time
***
I bounced around for the first twenty five years of my life absolutely festering with anxiety.
I never knew that was what it was, though. I thought I understood the term ‘anxiety’, but only in regards to acute panic attacks; where you can’t breathe and can’t do anything but you can’t sit still, the terror you feel clawing at the insides of your chest to get out and escaping in heaving, wretched sobs.
But panic attacks are the extreme end of the anxiety scale. It took me twenty five years, a bad bout of postnatal depression and an awesome shrink to finally identify that the frazzled, constant tightness in my chest wasn’t a sensation felt by everyone, all the time. It wasn’t even ‘just me’, just how I functioned. It was something separate to me, making me feel that way.
The constant gnawing worry that never left my side, the feeling that things were never quite right… that was anxiety. The obsessive compulsive tendencies- cleaning things, straightening them, adding up numbers and reducing them back down to single digits… that was all anxiety, too. The epic dread that prefaced meeting new people, walking into situations I’ve never encountered before? That was the anxiety, too.
And that annoying chronic procrastination I indulge in; it’s rooted deep in the burning, fluttering, sizzling core of anxiety as well.
I think of it like uranium like x-rays- it looks harmless, so nondescript and defeatable. But it’s insidious and sly and it burns away at you from the inside out- silently and slowly, causing such violent damage.
Knowledge is power, and power is not control but acceptance. There’s all kinds of treatment for anxiety. The first and most useful and basic is simply knowing it’s there. Being aware of it. Not internalising it.
All that anxiety isn’t me. It affects my life… but I know it’s there, and that gives me an advantage, a one-up.
Misery loves company. Anxiety loves silence and denial.
***
This blog post is written to raiser awareness for Beyond Blue’s ‘Get To Know Anxiety’ campaign.
It’s not sponsored. Just important.
{ 6 comments }
There’s been a thread of holier-than-thou judgement of my parenting in a few comments left of late.
It’s made me afraid of using my own space in the way that I find most therapeutic– spilling all my secrets into the digital Neverland. I don’t like being afraid. These are comments that pick and pluck at the spot where I am weakest– my own parenting skills, and the way I navigate life with two little people. The possible damage I may be inflicting on my children.
I think it’s the soft spot of all parents. We’re all hyper-aware of the responsibility of raising little people. We know we will be judged. From the moment we reveal we’re carrying a baby, until long after we’ve passed away. Forty years from now, should our child break all social codes and do something terrible; one of the first places people will look for answers will be with us. Where did we fail? In what facet of parental responsibility where we so inept that it can explain what went wrong with our children?
And we are judged on the tiniest, most inconsequential endeavours. It seems so socially acceptable to comment on the parenting of other people and the probable fate of their children; and to do so with such casual study of their situation. There’s a self-justifying benevolence in the social sport of picking apart another mum because she works, or doesn’t; or smacks, or doesn’t; on whether her children are well-behaved and polite, or not. The behaviour of children is seen as an obvious manifestation of their parents child rearing skills, or lack of them. And we seem to encourage ‘keyhole judgements’– taking a tiny slice of a story and attributing it as the rule, when it just may be the exception.
I think, perhaps, that’s one of the elements that digs at me so much, in regard to comments left here lately. The arrogance of assumption of people feeling that because they’ve read my blog, they then have the right or the obligation to comment on my parenting; on the lives of myself, my mum, and my children.
You only know what I tell you here. Judging me on what I choose to share with you is the online equivalent of judging a parent at a local playground after watching them interact with their child for two minutes. It doesn’t give you enough information to make calls like you do, to look down on someone else because they’re not doing it the way you consider to be ‘right’.
I share a lot of my life on these web pages. I write without thinking much about how I’ll be perceived. I tell stories about my children and myself. That leaves me inherently open to judgement… that’s okay. It’s part of the give and take of blogging. People have every right to voice their opinion, particularly when there’s a comment section inviting that very thing.
But this isn’t so much about me, or my ‘emotional state’. This is about the bullsh*t judgements people feel they have a right to make, when you never know enough about a another’s person life to make that call. Whether you’re their best friend or they’re someone you see for thirty seconds in the local supermarket, or because you’ve read what they’ve chosen to share with you.
It’s about how we make parenting, mothering in particular, into some righteous, beautified social test. It’s about the way a mother and her actions are considered wholly objectified public property. It’s about the way women are expected to ‘embrace mothering’ and your children are supposed to be your ‘whole world’. The way mothers are crucified and shamed if they don’t hold up to other people’s ideals of what a ‘good mother’ should be.
It’s about the way we’re not allowed to say what sometimes might be the truth. That you can love your kids desperately, think they are the most awesome little people… and still not like being a mum very much at all.
My kids aren’t a burden. As I’ve said– they are awesome little people, and I’m honoured to be able to spend the bulk of my time with them. But changing dirty nappies, making school lunches, being yelled at, moderating temper tantrums, listening to whinging, and all the other stuff that comes with small children? That’s a burden. I’m not fond of it. Not at all. I don’t have to be.
Don’t get me wrong, there are some bits of parenting that I thoroughly enjoy. Deep conversations and answering questions. Showing my kids new things, taking them places. Watching their face light up with new concepts my new knowledge. I love playing video games or curling up on the lounge watching movies with my son. I love playing with my daughter’s doll-house (sometimes I even let her help) and painting her fingernails. I like doing the fun stuff. But I find the hard stuff really difficult. And there’s nothing wrong with saying that.
I became a mother, not a martyr. Giving birth didn’t provide me with some selfless gene that made me suddenly enjoy being every aspect of raising kids. I’m inherently selfish. Most people are; we just find ways to temper that against the realities of life and the needs of the people we love.
My children are the most important people in my life. They always have been and probably always will be. But I allow myself to have a life, and a personality, outside of being their mum. I’m devoted to them, but I never want them to be responsible for my happiness. I want to teach them that all of us are responsible for finding our own. I’m happy to sacrifice things. But I keep things, too. And I want to teach my children– my daughter especially– that that’s an okay thing to do. Women are expected to give and give and give until there’s nothing left of themselves but a shell that functions, providing for people’s needs. It doesn’t have to be that way.
I’m the first to admit that I find spending time alone a necessity. I’m okay with that. I’m also quite happy to admit that I do spend whole weekends with my boyfriend. I’ve confessed to temporarily running away from my kids and wanting to leave for good. I’ve stated– and I stand by it– that some days I just cannot handle my five and three year old (which I’m fairly sure shocks absolutely no one) and everything falls down in a screaming heap.
Why do any of those things have an influence of the effectiveness of my parenting, anyway? Do you have to spend every second with your kids, to parent well? Or is it that you can’t have other focuses in your life? Do you have to enjoy every aspect of motherhood in order to ‘embrace’ it? Are you allowed to like parenting without being particularly enamoured with the really-little-kid phase of it? Can you love your kids without liking being a parent at all?
I’m predicting that even writing that last paragraph is enough to have me labelled as unfit mother– one who’s probably causing deep, awful emotional agony– in some people’s mental filing system.
Again, I’m (surprisingly) okay with that. If you’re that attached to the concept of martyred parent that it personally offends when someone else doesn’t live up to it… I kind of feel sorry for you.
To the commenter who wrote this one; and anyone who feels the same…
I originally had a few hundred words written here, defending myself and my parenting. Then I decided, f*ck it. I have no obligation to justify myself to anyone.
So all I really want to say is this.
Get f*cked.
And bite me.
{ 30 comments }
Every time I remember that I’m going overseas in less than one months time, I panic slightly. I am not ready for this. As usual, I’m disorganized, not really sure what I’m doing, and running just that little bit late.
Yesterday I got four needles, two in each arm. It seems trekking into Borneo requires vaccinations for typhoid and rabies (two shots down, another one to go); as well as boosters for tetanus, MMR and hepatitis (one blood test to see if I need them- I did- and one hep shot done, two to follow). And there’s malaria tablets to be taken, too.
I’m on my third course of antibiotics to ensure my burst eardrum is well and truly healed before I get on an international flight; and I’m taking a ‘practice’ flight domestically in a week, just to make sure I’ll be okay.
My mum, being worried about me, as mothers generally are, has managed to make me a million kinds of paranoid about getting sick while I’m overseas (in a country where I don’t speak the language and the medical care is probably not quite what I’m used to… fair call). With that in mind, I’ve taken it on myself to get all health-kicky. Water, good food, walking four kilometres whenever I find a spare child-free hour.
Passport photos. Flattering.
I’ve (finally) gotten my passport and the photo is traditionally awful. Thanks to a reader of mine name Lisa, I have a comprehensive packing list of everything I should take (such a huge thank you to you, Lisa). I’m using Lisa’s list as a master spreadsheet and adding the gear I’ll specifically need for this trip.
I don’t actually possess a lot of the things on either of the lists (and I’m still trying to figure out what a lot of them are… voltage stabiliser, anyone…?). But I’m working on it. A massive thank you to Manda, another reader of mine, who sent me my very own super-tiny-but-packed-with-everything first aid kit.
It’s both strange and lovely, the way the littlest things– like being able to cross ‘first aid kit’ off a list of one hundred or more items– make you feel as though the entire task is more manageable.
I’m planning to blog as much as possible while I’m in Indonesia, but, realistically, that depends on my Internet access. I’ll be MIA when I’m in the jungles of Kalimantan, evidently. So prepare yourselves for an orangutan overload upon my return.
Any fundage you can throw to Orangutan Odysseys are muchly appreciated– click here or on the widget below.
And I’m still most definitely up for travel advice, especially regarding international flying, internet accessibility, local customs of Bali and Borneo, packing tips, and anything else I haven’t thought of yet. Cheers.
{ 9 comments }
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Fuck You Too.
Food
Food
My children are fussy, finicky eaters. The Chop especially. He takes after me. The Bump has inherited her father’s appetite (”Can’t talk, eating…”), but has still been sadly influenced by me. Both my kids will pick and pull at food. They often demand nothing but garlic bread for dinner. On the rare occasion I do get them to the something new, they gag to the– point I’m almost positive it’s involuntary.
The anti–food phenomenon is absolutely my fault; and the requisite parental guilt is gutting and hollow and flagellating. I’d always naively assumed that the process of teaching my kids to eat healthy would be one of those things that just ’happened’, as if by some kind of magical intervention. I think things like that a lot. My own mother made parenting look so easy.
Actually, to be completely honest, I’d always assumed that The Chop and The Bump would pick up their dad’s relatively healthy taste for all manner of different foods. Had he stuck around for long enough, they might have.
But it didn’t quite work out that way and, after the sky fell in, so did my attempts at cooking. My little darlings have developed the eating habits of their mother. Very, very bad ones. Or, as I like to say, we are ’simple eaters with limited tastes’. Because that makes it sound so much better.
Like most kids, mine would both eat nothing but junk food, given half the chance (and let’s face it, so would I). In order to maintain some control over what we munch on, I’ve taken to trying not to fill the kitchen cupboards with junk food. If all they will snack on is yoghurt, fruit, sultanas, cheese and biscuits…. then that is all I will buy.
In theory, that works wonderfully.
In reality, it’s never that easy. Some days it feels as though the array of foods my children consider ’acceptable for digestion’ is shrinking and waning– they eat less and less. Each week they strike another foodstuff off the list with declarations of “I don’t like that!” and “Neither do I!!”
I get the feeling God is laughing me and my foolish best–of-plans intentions. Home made baby food. Carefully prepared toddler snacks. And two kids who, some days, seem to get all the nourishment they need from a packet of popcorn, an orange and a tub of yoghurt.
Somewhere along the line– a year or so ago, I do believe– I gave up on the dream and illusion that was raw, unprocessed foods, and started buying anything that looked even reasonably healthy and appealing, in order to get the little darlings to eat something– anything– other than milk arrowroot biscuits
Most attempts have been utter failures.
The Bump and I spent an inordinate amount of time playing with these. They look just like they’re having a conversation, do they not?!
And I actually thought that the SPC Fruit Crush–Ups thingies I had been sent to review would end up the same as most everything else I’ve tried– that is, relegated to the occasional parcels of untouched food that I pass on to friends whose children are less fussy than mine.
Initial trials showed the Fruit Crush–Ups to be unsuccessful, led in opinion by the Chop (the Bump, in general, defers to his decisions. As little sisters do). I’m not sure how this conclusion was reached. The packets are pretty. It’s one handed, which is important for busy kidlets. and there are six– six– different flavours to choose from. No child can be that fussy.
Except mine.
Numerous attempts to beg, bribe and coerce the children into just trying the bleeping things, please, resulted in… Failure. I froze them. I chilled them. I decanted them into glasses with straws and bowls with spoons. (All of that refer to the SPC’s, obviously, not the kids). I even put the strawberry over ice cream, for pity’s sake.
Fruit Crush-Ups over ice cream. Like au naturel strawberry topping!
No, nay, nuh–uh, no way. Ugh.
“Please? Try it? Just once?” I beg the Chop, “it’s for my blog.”
That results in a wary, slightly worried look. He knows that ’mum’s blog’ is where lots of cool things– like PS3′s, road trips and Skylanders eventuate from. “You will still have your blog but, if I don’t try it, right Mummy?”
“Yes.” I sigh, “of course. But really, you should try them. They’re yummy. They’ve been named Product of the Year!” I am clutching at straws here and he knows it.
“No. Thanks.” At least he’s polite.
Eventually, I resort to total subterfuge and stealthily pack the Fruit Crush–Ups into lunch bags, for big school and daycare, hoping to sneak them into my kids subconscious via peer pressure and distraction. Unfortunately, the Chop is far too old for this kind of disillusionment, and the Crush–Up returned untouched.
But the Bump… she’s still just a baby, bless her, and it’s far too easy to play with her mind sometimes. At the daycare teachers insistence that the Fruit Crush-Ups were, in fact, ’way cool!’, the Bump not only tried it, but loved it. And has polished off half a box of them since then.
Total success.
***
If you’d like to broaden your kids foodstuff intake and add an extra half piece of fruit to their day in a stealthy squeezie pack that can be frozen as an ice pack for lunchboxes (killing both the snack and potential food poisoning birds with one frozen stone!); I’ve got a whole terms worth of SPC Fruit Crush–Ups to give away– that’s eight of each six flavours, RRP $1.29 each, all to the one lucky winner. To be that winner, tell me in 25 words or less–ish; what is the ultimate subterfuge you have pulled on your kids, to get them to eat what they don’t want to?
This comp is open to Aussie residents only. It opens now and closes midnight 22nd March. The winning answer will be whatever tickles my pickle and makes me smile at the time of drawing. Winners must have a valid email address, and will be contacted soon after the competition closes. Winners have 48 hours to respond to the winning email or the comp may be redrawn. My desicion is final and no bitching, whinging or discussion will be entered into.
This post has been sponsored by the awesome people at SPC.
{ 5 comments }
As I’m sure I’m mentioned once or twice or a thousand times before; I love going to blog events. Conference, meet–up, PR schmooze fest… I don’t discriminate. My fellow bloggers are my people– my over–sharing, nerdy kinfolk.
Amongst all the stuff I find myself attending, the bestest of them all is the quad–yearly Bloggers Brunch. Which has now been extended to include the Social Mums Say events. (Long story, short– you don’t have to be a blogger to go to this one. Register here).
I get to catch up with people I worship and adore daily through the screen. On this occasion– fresh and sparkly and still very firmly in my Melbourne bubble– I got to eat, drink and play with MagnetoBoldToo, Toushka Lee Who’s Even Shorter Than Me, Thing Who Is With Stuff, and my lovely Jo from Chicken Bees.
One thing we get to do at these events is eat. Lots. Because eating is awesome.
As you may have picked from the jellybean decor, my irrational fear of vegetables or indiscriminate hate of seafood… I’m really not a health–food kind of chick. (To the amusement of most everyone I know… The Most Awesome Man In The Universe is, of course, a vegetarian).
So when I discovered that Philadelphia was one of the brands we’d be meeting with at the Bloggers Brunch last year, I was initially so much less than enthused that I stashed a couple of lollipops in my handbag, just in case. Because, in all honesty, all I could think was… cream cheese. Which is about number 12 on my (long) list of things I really, really don’t like eating.
So I was more than happily surprised to discover… cake. A whole table of cake.
A whole table of cake covered in chocolate.
And all of a sudden, Philly became one of my favourite brands ever.
While I’m slightly better with baking (making sweet stuff I can stuff my gob with) than actual cooking (making boring or evil foods such as vegetables), I still suck at making cheesecake. Which was, as far as I knew the only sweet stuff you could make with Philadelphia. In fact, the last cheesecake I attempted was a unset, kind of sweet, sloppy mush studded with hard little cubes of re–set gelatine.
The Philly ladies assure me that cheesecake is not actually that difficult. And even if it was, I wouldn’t necessarily have to make one. There is, apparently, a whole range of product destined to shift Philadelphia’s status from ’boring and healthy, to be eaten with rabbit food’ to ’oh my goodness look at that cake!’
And, in celebration of that, we have all stuffed our faces with delicious Philly desserts, in the most unladylike fashion, for the last three or four functions in a row. They are that good.
I think there’s a recipe I’m supposed to be sharing with you here. But, really, in the spirit of RRSAHM, I should probably just let you in on my recently discovered, super decadent, ridiculously easy and simple dessert idea.
Step one: Take one tub of chocolate Philly icing.
Step Two: Locate spoon.
Step three: Eat straight from the tub until you are so full you can barely hardly move.
Because, sad but true– that happens to be the way I cook.
You’re welcome.
This awesome Social Mums Say wrap up sponsored by Philadelphia. For more Philly inspired recipes visit www.philly.com.au
{ 8 comments }
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: The Crappest GiveAway Ever (really, this time)
What the hell is that? It's FYBF!! – RRSAHM
What the hell is that? It’s FYBF!!
Mushi mushi,
A humongous thank you to all those who played “What the hell is that?!” here on RRSAHM yesterday. As we know, Object Two was a pair of chicken fillets. Cleavage enhancers. Boobie lifters. Not PlayBoy breastfeeding pads. Or *ahem* hemorrhoid packs. Thanks anyway Jen.
And the answer you’re all waiting for…? Well, Object One was, in fact, not a tampon but…
An after dinner mint from a cheap and nasty family restaurant!!
I know. Disturbing much, yes? A mint that looks like a tampon. Minus the string thing. Yuck. I’m pleased to report, though, it didn’t taste like a tampon. (Yes, I ate it. What….?)
Congratulations to everyone who got it correct. You win… nothing. Yay!!
OK, that’s enough of my waffle. On with the flogging!! If you haven’t flogged before, welcome, and here’s all the nitty gritties. If all the HTML bizzo confuses you, just ignore it and link up anyway. OK? OK.
The Rules.
- Follow my blog, the Random Ramblings of a SAHM. I never seem to get to reading all the links here. But believe me, I try. Not that any of this is my idea anyway- FYBF is MummyTime’s brainbaby, I’m just minding it for a bit.
- Grab B’s bubbly button and post it on your sidebar.
- Link your First Name and/or Blog Name and URL of your linked post (not your homepage) below.
- Add a short description (max of 125 chars). It could be a description of yourself, your blog or a teaser to your latest post. But be warned, Mr McLinky List doesn’t seem to groove on apostrophes, quotation marks, or other forms of punctuation. Use them at your own risk.
- Follow at least 1 linkyer/blogger (Be nice and spread the love).
- The list will be open for linkyers on Fridays (and for the foreigners Friday as well).
- A new and fresh link list will open every Friday. And you will have to link up AGAIN. The previous link list does not carry over to the following week.
- And lastly, have lotsa fun. I mean it. If I detect anyone not totally loving the awesomeness, I will bump you off the linky list. (Joking) (Kinda).
Leave a Comment
{ 15 comments… read them below or add one }
- September 18, 2010 at 9:32 am
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That picture scary much??
- September 18, 2010 at 9:11 am
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Mm, mm. Yum. Cheap and nasty.
- September 17, 2010 at 11:52 pm
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Hey Lori-
Found you via Maxabella Love's blog and love the flogging idea. I have done other follow blog days before and swore off them. They all seemed so artificial, while yours seems genuine. I am happy to be here!
- September 17, 2010 at 11:37 pm
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Thanks for hosting! I missed out on all the fun with the game, ah well maybe next time!
- September 17, 2010 at 9:24 pm
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Missed yesterday's game – damn! Looks like a rather dodgy tampon doesn't it! Gotcha with the chicken fillets though
- September 17, 2010 at 8:18 pm
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I forgot to leave you some love this morning. 'Tis no fun for you without a bit of thanks! I was totally onto you with the chicken fillets, but it could have gone either way with the tampon and the mint. I still think the restaurant needs to re-think the bombonieres!
- September 17, 2010 at 5:06 pm
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I find tampons a little too dry for my taste – mints are better
- September 17, 2010 at 2:08 pm
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OMG, you made me snort with laughter in the middle of the Virgin Blue lounge. How embarrassing! (But funny)
- September 17, 2010 at 11:43 am
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I;'ve come over after hearing alot about this Friday post from Maxabella and I'm glad i visited – what a fun little blog I find myself in! Happy days to you!!
- September 17, 2010 at 10:40 am
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I was thinking it was a mint! Happy FYBF!
- September 17, 2010 at 8:41 am
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Lori, just wondering where is the code today for us to add the linky to our blogs? Doesn't appear to be at the bottom like it normally is. Cheers.
- September 17, 2010 at 8:05 am
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I missed 'what the hell is that?' – must get over here daily if you're going to be playing such fun stuff!
Thanks for hosting, you know I love it. x
- September 17, 2010 at 1:59 pm
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tampon – i was certain. "Wow this mint is absorbant!"
- September 17, 2010 at 10:19 am
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I knew it!
- September 17, 2010 at 8:43 am
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I was sure that was a tampon….and had no idea what the others were. Makes sense now.
Previous post: Let’s Play “What The Hell Is That?!”
Next post: The Business of Backyard Birthing
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: It happens on Monday.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: The Crappest GiveAway Ever (really, this time)
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Food on the Un-Foodie Blog.
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What To Say When You Don't Know What To Say. – RRSAHM
What To Say When You Don’t Know What To Say.
He looks at me. He says, “I was lost in the dark and you found me. I was hot—so
hot—and you gave me ice.”
hot—and you gave me ice.”
Lisey’s Story, Stephen King.
***
A comment on a post published a few weeks ago now…
“I would love it if you would turn this “platitudes” idea around and write on how to properly deal with people, like yourself, who are experiencing the extreme emotions surrounding devastating loss and long term grief. What is the best way to walk up to the raging fury of despair and provide true comfort in the absence of empathy. I have tried my best to find something not-annoying to say. So far the best thing I can come up with is “My heart weeps for your pain.” But maybe the best thing to say is “Can I pick your kids up for a playdate this week?”
Is suffering a prerequisite to understanding suffering? Can I be of any service to my suffering friend unless I share her particular pain? If anyone has insight on this issue, its probably you.
BTW, I have always wondered — why jellybeans? Is it an Aussie thing?”
Thanks for asking, Cynthia.
First things first…. I wish I had a better answer that what I about to give you.
I’ve touched on this one briefly before– the best help I was given in the long, soul–flailing months after Tony died came unbidden. I had literally a hundred people tell me to call them if I needed anything, anything at all… the problem was, I didn’t even know what to ask for.
Imagine if, suddenly, the emotional guidelines of your life crumple, leaving you shell shocked to even cry, standing in the middle of the wreckage of who you used to be….
The big wide world only cares to a certain extent. While you fall apart on the inside, the basic premises and faculties of civilized society must continue.
There still needs to be food in the cupboards. The house still has to be cleaned, washing done, lawns mowed. And children still need to play– more than anything else, children still need to play.
Life must go on. But while you’re still surveying the rubble, listening with a stethoscope for pieces of your soul that may have survived; all those details become an impossibility. Details, details, details… annoying craws that catch in your temples like headaches and disrupt the very process of surviving.
In that situation– any situation where life as someone knows it has fallen apart and left a bare skeleton of stark reality behind– it’s always practical help, practical kindness, that is the most useful and that the recipient will remember long after a million offers of lip service have faded. I was extremely blessed– people like FaerieSaerie, the Pixie, the Bear and the Kitten were like angels who simply came in and did what they saw they could do, what was needed…. the simple things I just could not.
And if in doubt, always offer. Always. It’s better to offer something, to say something, than to say nothing at all. The silence once the sympathy wears off and people stop saying “I’m sorry” is nearly impossible to stand.
***
The words “I’m sorry” are sneaky and slippery and you find yourself saying “I’m so sorry, I’m just so sorry…” to someone deep in grief even when you know you shouldn’t, even when you know that’s the last thing they want to hear.
I know that’s how they are, those ‘I’m sorry’ words, because I find myself saying them sometimes, wishing I could catch the thread of them and spool them back into my mouth even as they’re leaving the tip of my tongue.
It’s just what you say when confronted– and it’s always confronting, real grief is never pleasant– with someone in mourning. Every movie you’ve ever watched tells you so, tells you that this is the social norm and the respectful thing to be done.
By the end of the long, hot Friday when I buried the man I loved every “I’m sorry” felt like another sun warmed stone of hardened lava cracking into my legs, my shins, my thighs, my arms tied high on a stake of a pain and unable to deflect the bone splintering blows.
I’ve gotten better at defending my flesh. I’ve heard and tested every possible response from “What for, you didn’t do anything” to “You’re not nearly as sorry as I am“. These days I respond to every well meant “I’m sorry” with a small sad smile and the slightest shrug of my shoulders and reply softly “Can’t be helped….”
Years ago when I was studying to be a social worker, I vaguely remember attending a class given by a midwife that looked at the possible roles of a social worker after a birth. She handed a photocopy of a photo around the class, a family of three in greyscale passed from hand to hand. A father and mother cradling a tiny, perfect baby… a baby born perfectly still. “Now, what would be the first thing you’d say as a social worker, walking in to this situation just hours after a still birth?”
‘I’m sorry’, I thought– it was all I could think, young and blissfully untouched by death. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry…’
“Well” spoke up another student, older than most of us, returning to study after her own children had grown, “you’d say ‘What a beautiful baby.’“
“Exactly” smiles our teacher for that day “They’ve heard everyone say how sorry they are, how awful it is… by now they probably need that acknowledgement that their baby is just as gorgeous as any other….”
That stuck with me for years afterward, a clear bell strike on a cloudless day. The simple power in it, in not dipping to the pain of death but basking, just for a moment, in the simple joy of life– in the beauty of a power, however still they may be… in the eyes of their parents, they are the most perfect baby ever created.
It’s not an easy thing to do, to stem the flow of apologies for something you had no part in. It’s something we’re trained in even as children– saying sorry makes it better, saying sorry makes it OK.
The adult truth is that is some situations nothing makes it OK. There is not a single thing you can as to make things better.
So don’t try.
Just be honest.
Nobody ever means it when they say “I’m sorry” to someone who’s grieving someone they loved. They might say “I’m so sorry for your loss” and you know what? That’s an OK thing to say. Because they are. It it still sounds stuffy and rehearsed and like a cop out in the face of the raw emotion the person in pain is dealing with.
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So say something you mean. Say “I’m so sorry you’re hurting, it hurts to see it.” Say “I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now.” Say “This isn’t fair” or “This is fucked” or “I hate that this is happening to you.”
Say “What a beautiful baby.” Or “He was an awesome person and I’ll miss him.” Or “He loved you very much.”
And if things are falling to pieces for someone and they keep going wrong, it’s OK to say “This is shit and I’ve got nothing for you. But please know that I know your pain.” Because really, when someone says something like “It will all work out of the best” or “Sometimes things happen for a reason”; most of the time what they mean is “Life sucks but I’m here for you.”
And failing all that, open you arms in offer of a hug and say “I don’t know what to say”… because sometimes that’s just the simple truth.
Because even the simple fact of saying “I don’t know what to say” is better than saying nothing at all. As I said, the silence of a thousand uncomfortable people…. it’s deafening.
*Part two of Cynthia’s question- the jellybean bit- coming soon.
Leave a Comment
{ 15 comments… read them below or add one }
- October 6, 2012 at 1:32 am
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Thank you so, so, so much for this. I've been to 8 funerals in the past 3 years (6 of them with my children), and I often find myself not knowing what to say to the bereaved. Saying I'm sorry feels so trite, but I need to say something. Thank you for giving me more words.
- October 5, 2012 at 12:46 pm
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One of the really good things about the Jewish practice of shiva after a death (the closest relatives sit for 7 days with friends and relatives coming to keep them company) is that the etiquette / religious rules of the situation is that the bereaved gets to lead. One comes in quietly sits down and doesn't speak until spoken to. If the bereaved wants to share funny stories, you share funny stories, if the bereaved wants to sit quietly, you sit quietly.
- October 3, 2012 at 2:34 am
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So many people have a hard time finding the right words to say, even someone like me who sadly gets to see so much pain.
This is something I had written about never really being able to understand someone else's pain.
http://www.newdaynewlesson.com/you-can-never-really-fully-understand/
There was also a comment that really stock with me about not comparing your pain to someone else's.
- October 2, 2012 at 10:41 pm
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You mentioned my personal favourite — "This is fucked" … Indeed.
- October 2, 2012 at 8:54 pm
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Beautifully put as always Lori. I always feel like you say exactly what my soul was trying to say but couldn't find the words.
One thing…..
In response to an earlier comment,I often hear people compare grief. I honestly don't think you can. Ever. Not everyone has the same things to lose. Pain is pain.Just like no one can tell anyone how or when to grieve, no one can tell anyone what they are "allowed" to grieve for or how much they are allowed to feel it.
By the twist of a life I never chose, I have not had the privilege of having children, so for me, my dog, who is old & sick and has been my best friend & the only one to share my home with me for 16 years, is a LOT to lose.
I don't mean to minimize or disregard anyone's pain or right to feel. It would be nice if the world didn't judge my pain & worry or right to feel it either. They have not lived my life…….
Jen xx
- October 2, 2012 at 5:45 pm
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I just started reading your blog and have been catching up the last few days on some of your older posts. This post is so true, I stopped saying I'm sorry after a friend lost her father and said the I'm sorries drove her nuts, because as you said, why say sorry when you didn't do anything. Of course, sorry doesn't always mean I apologise, it can mean I'm sorry to hear that but I stopped saying it. But then it leaves you in the awkward position of what is the right thing to say? I think I lean towards "oh no that's awful." Is there a right thing to say?
- October 2, 2012 at 5:10 pm
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Love and mung beans
- October 2, 2012 at 3:58 pm
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So true. Particularly the practical stuff. Say it, mean it, and sometimes you have to just go in and do it because the bereaved person doesn't know how to ask or hasn't even noticed it needs to be done. I am always inspired by the way you've coped and the way your friends have helped you Lori
- October 2, 2012 at 3:25 pm
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Or as someone commented on your blog in the way-back-when-right-after-the-After "This is some seriously fucked up shit".
I never forgot that one!
Big love Pix xxx - October 2, 2012 at 3:24 pm
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I'm all good with the "I'm sorry" comments myself.
I hate the advice of the "you should" people… "so and so put herself on match.com and found a new man in a month – you should do that".
…..and the thing I'm finding that I really hate NOW??? The people who swore they'd "do anything, just ask" when he died …. and now if I ask I just hear crickets (and its a rare thing for me to actually ask anyway).
I cracked the shits and wrote a post about some of the comments I got recently here: http://widowsvoice-sslf.blogspot.com.au/2012/09/misconceptions-from-ill-informed.html
…and when I look back at what I wrote about practical help just after he died, I think it still rings true(here: http://corymbia.wordpress.com/2010/08/14/helping-a-bereaved-person-101/) - October 2, 2012 at 3:10 pm
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I often find myself saying "I'm sorry, I just don't know what to say" and I feel like an idiot, but I know its better than silence. When I lost my dad I was shocked by the way people avoided me, it wasn't their fault, they were paralysed by the fear of saying the wrong thing and instead said nothing. My best friends sat with me in silence while I cried. Sometimes you just need to physically be there.
- October 2, 2012 at 3:00 pm
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Wow. I will never forget that perfect answer for the perfectly still baby. Rocked me to the core, that one.
- October 2, 2012 at 11:12 am
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I believe that experiencing suffering does give you an insight into someone elses suffering to a certain extent.
In my situation, (having had a family member take their own life) I feel I've got a better understanding of grief (whereas I had none before), especially when it is as a result of suicide.
However, I've been through this from my perspective only, and I think when people are grieving, the experiences of others aren't necessary helpful anyway, because grief is so, so personal.
It is hard to know what to say though. I had so many people say things that were really unhelpful and try to give me advice (or say that they understood and they were so sad when their grandparents died of old age or their dog died etc). Although I knew they were trying to help, I just wanted to shout "No! You have no idea!!". But as you say, silence is also deafening. It's so tricky.
I also agree with you, Lori that practical help cannot be underestimated. Food (especially food that can be frozen and reheated) is always appreciated, as is having someone to deal with everyday stuff like bills, and make eveyday decisions (For me, I was completely unable to cope with any of that)
- October 2, 2012 at 8:26 am
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That was really helpful. And I'm sorry for the number of times I must have said 'I'm sorry'
- October 2, 2012 at 8:05 am
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I love how you write, Lori. Xxx
Previous post: Spring Clean, Part Two- White Vinegar
Next post: Bearing Witness.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Hanging… On…In….There.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: So… now what?
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Jeans and Stuff.
Label All The Things – RRSAHM
Label All The Things
The Chop starting Big School meant we went and did all those ritualistic things you do when your child starts school for the first time. In fact, maybe they’re the things you do at the beginning of every school year… I’ll have to get back to you on that.
The Chop and I bought school shoes (Lord have mercy on the mother who leaves it till the weekend before school starts to search out an elusive pair of size 11 black runners with Velcro or elasti–laces to suit little fingers). We purchased a bag– at the Chop’s request, a ‘proper’ school bag, with the name and logo of his primary school on the front. I took him for the haircut– the very first one I’ve ever seen him excited about.
And I bit’s and pieced together his school uniform, spending only what I had to… little boys are hard on clothes, and experts at misplacing jumpers, hats and goodness knows what else.
I even too it upon myself to iron the new uniform. To put that into context for you… I. Don’t. Iron. Ever. My daughter has a small, wooden play ironing board… she has no idea what it is, or what it might be used for.
I think the best advice I’ve been given from seasoned mums who have done this whole shuttle–small–children–off–to–school thing before was from Gemma at My Big NutShell, who I ran into at the GLAD sandwich making class a week or so before school began. And her advice was very simple.
“Label ALL the things!”
To which I of course said…“Label all the things…?”
To which Gemma replied, again, “ALL the things!!”
Or do battle with lost property at some later stage.
So, with the help of my buddies at Stuck On You, I labelled All. The. Things. Most of them, on Gemma’s advice, twice. Some even thrice.
I labelled shorts and socks and shoes and undies and jumpers and pants and bags and lunch bags and pencils and sharpeners and erasers and pencil cases and hats and drink bottles and food containers and excursion bags.
I briefly considered labeling the child himself, lest I lose him (they’re all dressed the same, after all) but decided against it.
Given that the first week of Big School left us minus his drink bottle and hat despite all that effort… I think “Label all the things!” is up there with the top genuinely useful advice I’ve been given about kids.
Cheers, Gemma.
***
Because Stuck On You are awesome and seem to understand mine and my children’s inherent inability to keep ourselves organized, they provided me with labels of all shapes, sizes and uses again this year.
Their shoe labels stick like… well.. Glue. For lack of a better synonym. And the dye doesn’t run off onto small sweaty feet even in the height of summer.
And the iron on labels actually molt their entire selves to whatever fabric you happen to be applying to them to. And last and last, no matter how man times you wash them.
Just be very, very sure to follow the instructions. Or your labels– and your iron– will pay for it with sticky, gloopy molten labels everywhere. (Not that I know this from hasty experience, or anything.)
Speaking of– or from– hasty experience, while I have the traditional totally awesome Stuck On You prize pack to give away for you all– details below– I also have what we’ll call a bonus prize.
But this prize is only for people named Jones.
And the advice that comes with it is this– be very careful when placing your Stuck On You order. Especially if a small fairy–child is screaming at you while you do so. Otherwise, you may end up with the default labels. In the default colour, default font and default design.
With the default last name.
So. If your last name happens to be Jones, just mention that in your entry and aside from that, let us never speak of it again.
To win the actual prize– an awesome Value Pack from Stuck On You- fill in the form and let me know, in 25 words or less–ish– what’s the best advice you’ve got for mums who’s kidlets are off to Big School, PreSchool or DayCare for the first time?
Competition ends midnight Sunday 17th Feburary, AEST . Aussie residents only. Answer that I like for whatever reason at the particular time of drawing the winner, wins. My decision is final and no discussion, bitching or correspondence will be entered into.
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Happy labeling, new school mums. We’ve only got another twelve or thirteen years of this ahead of us. Which works out to, on average, about four hundred different labels. Of all shapes, sizes and denominations.
May God have mercy on us all.
Leave a Comment
{ 7 comments… read them below or add one }
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November 12, 2013 at 6:13 am -
Hey, I just noticed that your “Label all the things” art is from Allie Brosh over at http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com. She doesn’t mind you using her work, but appreciates a credit.
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February 18, 2013 at 3:01 pm -
That’ll teach me to wait until Monday to catch up on your blog!
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February 18, 2013 at 10:22 pm -
Dammit
Next time… x
Lori Dwyer recently posted…This Is (Still) Not A Foodie Blog.
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February 14, 2013 at 10:16 pm -
I am not a Jones – alas, nor a Smith…
I remember, in the weeks leading up to boarding school, the torture of sewing labels onto clothing. There is still a pair of mustering socks somewhere with one sock labelled with my sister’s name, and one with mine…
- February 18, 2013 at 10:21 pm
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Sewing scares me… praise the lord for iron-on’s?
Lori Dwyer recently posted…This Is (Still) Not A Foodie Blog.
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February 14, 2013 at 6:28 am -
I think you meant February 17, for the end of the contest. I know it’s been a crazy time for you, so I’m just gentling bringing it to your attention.
- February 14, 2013 at 5:07 pm
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Thanks for letting me know Chris- fixed
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{ 8 comments… read them below or add one }
I am not trying to be pushy or second-guess you I promise, and I apologize deeply if this makes you feel that way even a tiny bit!
I don’t do yoga myself and I don’t have children either but I am a homecare nurse for kids with disabilities. I have a good friend who is a yoga therapist whose child passed away a year ago leaving his two young sisters behind. I would have to, and could, ask her which yoga therapy helped them the most but I know she told me it did help them find ways to express things they were feeling but could not articulate or understand.
Love that is all you can doto reasure them they have gone through more than most at there tender age lets hope they don’t have to go thought another one for along time
Oh Lori my son (just turned seven) is exactly the same about death. My little one was diagnosed with leukaemia last year and has also had to have THE talks about “Will I die” ect. He gets so worried about me dieing ,he gives me hugs n tell me loves me “Just in case I die” about twenty times a day. Poor little kids shouldn’t have to worry about death but what can you do? xx
Probably one of the deepest posts I’ve seen in a while Lori. Tears and sobs as usual.
Brad (Griff) xox
Griff recently posted…Trippin’ Around – Part Three of some…
Good grief, this post hit several nerves. When a child so young struggles with the concept of death- the knowing it’s permanency, the beginning of that fear… we try to protect our children from that. Then we remember that perhaps it’s more of a case of guiding them though rather than softening it all with sweet little lies. There is barely a thing in this world that is harder. You and I know that there are things out there that ARE harder, but this is right up there. xoxo
I feel for her, it may be with her for a long time. I still stress when people are late – I assume they’re dead. My husband knows he has to let me know if he’s running late but sometimes he forgets and I spend the entire time thinking he must be dead.
Would it help her if you sent a txt message while you’re out as a form of reassurance?
You’ve had a hard road, both of you =) But she’s bounces really well. Brushes herself off, checks in to make sure she’s really ok, and gets back into sparkling again.
You’ll look good as a grey haired granny.
Poor Bump
I had a lucky childhood where we didn’t even lose a dog until I was 14. We are much better equipped to deal with death and loss at that age. Reassuring her is all you can do – and with you as her strong, caring Mum, I know she will be ok x
Michelle Holland recently posted…Caring for a Depressed Person