Monthly Archives: May 2016
One Last Night in Paradise. – RRSAHM
One Last Night in Paradise.
“Life is like a pipe, and I’m a tiny penny rolling up and down the walls inside.”
Amy Winehouse, Back to Black.
Tonight marks my last night as a born again resident of Paradise.
Starting tomorrow, I’ll be a big girl, an adult all on my own, my own residence to play house with.
One part of me- excited dreamer, optimist to the extreme- is imaging starting all over again.. a pleasant mix of the Purple Before and PlanB. A space to make my own, to nourish my children, to relax.
Have you ever experienced the phenomenon of working, exhausted by your job, only to take a holiday and immediately fall ill with a cold or the flu. Your body relaxes and feels it is finally, finally able to be soft and weak and relax its immune system too. And you get sick.
The other part of me, the realist that is not so optimistic… it wonders if that’s exactly what will happen. I’ll finally felt safe and secure, loved and stable, with people close by to call if something goes wrong… I think my body may just break. My mind just may fall open and expose all the pain inside.
Or maybe not. All this time, I’ve been stronger than I thought.
***
That scared, cynical part of me tells me lots of things. She’s hurt and traumatised and so broken she may never scrape herself back up. She trusts no one at all, and if people get too close to her, she pushes them away.
Burnt.
She screams at me, What if this makes no difference? What if we’re just running again and it brings no relief?
I try to temper her, and talk to her. She is pissed off and angry.
But at least she’s only a bit of me now. Most of her dissolved in Paradise.
***
I’ve had a few people assume that, because I’m moving away from Paradise, a bit closer to where I used to live, I made the wrong decision to move here in the first place, regretted my choice.
I haven’t. Not for a second. I feel blessed to have spent six months here, relatively alone, with my children. We needed a winter near the beach, far away from everyone, to learn to be family again.
To learn to function without Tony.
To prove to myself that I could do this, with minimal assistance in the day to day.
And I did it. It was hard, and I almost fell apart more times than I can count. But it was worth every second, every tear, every second of heart breaking loneliness. I moved here broken, burnt, terrified, traumatised. I’m leaving… not quite whole.
But I’ve come so far. Being whole is relative. I’ll take what I can get.
I’m a survivor. I’m strong. I can handle far more than what I ever thought I could. A
nd I can do it with some level of dignity, some preservation of the spirit.
nd I can do it with some level of dignity, some preservation of the spirit.
This is the rest of my life.
Bring it on.
Previous post: Mentally Unhealthy.
Next post: F*ckwits and Practical Kindness
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: You did it how many times???
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: So… now what?
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Fuck You Too.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Fuck You Too.
I Hate HouseKeeping. – RRSAHM
I Hate HouseKeeping.
But I’m doing it anyway.
There’s some stuff going on here at RRSAHM that you guys may just be interested in. First off- Ive been lucky enough to be included again as one of the KidSpot Top 50 Bloggers. I managed to escape my children long enough to go to the launch party. I wrote on their car with lipstick….
….then posed on it a la’ Picture magazine with my mate Her Royal Woogness.
Photos by the awesome Danimezza.
Anyway. You can vote for me, if you like. People’s choice, and all that. Ta.
Nextly, I was super chuffed to win the LifeStyle section of the Sydney Writer’s Centre Best Blogs 2011. Which was so cool it actually bought tears to my eyes. Thanks to my lovely online sister, Sarah, for nominating me.
More on all these awards and stuff later, I think. The guilt creeps in, of course…. stay tuned for another rollicking journey inside the hell that is my mind, coming soon.
Lastly for now, sponsored posts are returning to RRSAHM. Dum de dum. I’ve written about sponsored posts, and how I feel about them, in the Before. The same applies in the After, especially now I’m a single mum on a pension that barely covers my mortgage… if we catch my drift.
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{ 6 comments… read them below or add one }
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May 16, 2011 at 6:36 pm -
Congrats on your award – hands down agree it deserves every accolade!
And you rock that car pic xx
- May 13, 2011 at 3:59 am
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Awesomeness
Well done. As for the guilt, tell it to go play with the traffic for a bit. Love Sophie xxx
- May 12, 2011 at 12:40 pm
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Wicked!! h0pe y0u reached 0ver and gave y0urself a pat 0n the back….
(in regards t0 the "0"… kn0cked a cup 0f c0ffee 0n my lapt0p…that was the result…guess all in all n0t really a bad 0ne eh?)
- May 12, 2011 at 10:03 am
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Do what you have to do darl – I ain't leaving!
Many congrats on the award, I can't think of anyone who deserves it more. xxx - May 11, 2011 at 10:08 pm
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I hate housework too!! Blurgh!!!
Congratulations on winning the Sydney Writers Centre best blog award, really, really well deserved. Jacqui x
- May 11, 2011 at 9:05 pm
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congratulations, congratulations, congratutlaions!
I sincerely hope that no one gives you flack about sponsored posts.
I don't care if I have to navigate through a sea of blinking pop-up adds to get to your post for the day – you do what you've got to do.
Might I suggest a potential future in the "car advertising" industry?
Previous post: Waking Sleeping Babies.
Next post: Harvest.
The Girl Child. – RRSAHM
The Girl Child.
Apparently, Louis CK says that if you haven’t stuck your middle finger up at the back of your child’s head, then you’re doing parenting totally wrong.
I can’t find a link on the ‘net to back that quote up. I like it anyway.
***
I am near ready to murder my daughter.
The Bump, one day off being a four year old ‘big girl’, is a screeching, wailing banshee; intent on irritating myself, her brother, and the Most Amazing Man to the point where we’re all ready to snap.
And, of course, I no longer have the back-up of my own mum to take her off my hands, to speak some sense into her, to nullify the temper tantrums.
The worst part about is, she’s so damn cute that a lot of the time you forget how disgusting she can be.
She’s been screaming at me for the last half an hour.
***
I’m planning on wrapping her birthday presents tonight, after she’s (finally) gone to sleep. Right now, the thought of doing anything for her is filling me with a hot, childish kind of impatience.
I remind myself that I’ll feel differently, once she’s in the angelic grasp of sleep again. It’s difficult to feel any animosity towards her when you’re looking at her perfect nose, her long eyelashes, her cupid’s bow lips.
Until, of course, she wakes up screaming in the middle of the night.
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{ 10 comments… read them below or add one }
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September 30, 2013 at 7:38 am -
I love, love, LOVE that quote!
Having a girl-child of my own (5yrs old) I can say “I hear ya, loud and clear”. We’ve just been on Hayman Island for a family holiday but it was, for five nights, like Hayman-Hell. Someone suggested a tranquilizer dart gun… I was thinking Tazer..
But the almighty cuteness and kindness that flows out of her the rest of the time – all is forgotten – ’till the next screech-fest
Suzy Mac recently posted…Another tough day at the office
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September 19, 2013 at 6:52 pm -
Oh my god I laughed at your first sentence! Made my day! Mine turns 4 in November and my god she’s bloody hard work. Maybe they’ll get it out of their system now and will be perfect teenagers?!? Pffft. Wishful thinking!
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September 19, 2013 at 4:12 pm -
We must have the same kid. My 4 year old is exactly the same. screams the house down about the smallest things. Ahhhhh
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September 19, 2013 at 1:56 pm -
Mary J has the right idea about having the Bump phone her Gran. My DD would call my mum (without my knowledge) just to tell her that I was being a bitch. I now phone my mum to tell her that DD is being a bitch lol. Skype’s pretty good as well, or facetime on your iPad – anything for a distraction. Yep, I’ve also flipped the bird – behind and in front
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September 19, 2013 at 11:34 am -
Screaming banshee you say? Sounds just like my gorgeous nearly 7 year old girl, who has been at it in a worse way the older she gets. Heaven help us! They are gorgeous though, especially when they’re asleep. Yes, I have flipped the bird behind both of my kids. Maybe phoning Grandma regularly just so The Bump can debrief could help? Though I’m sure you’re chatting regularly! I used to love phoning my Grandma on a daily basis as a kid, and who knows what it was I told her!
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September 19, 2013 at 3:48 am -
Oh god yes, and poked my tongue out too, sometimes both at the same time. Yes it’s childish but boy when it comes down to you doing that or possibly snapping and starting to yell back, I’ll take the relief however it comes.
boodie recently posted…Not “just a cat” -
September 18, 2013 at 10:06 pm -
Children are such a mess of extreme emotions aren’t they? Both theirs and yours!
Miss Pink recently posted…Giving and Getting -
September 18, 2013 at 11:52 am -
don’t worry, you are not the only one with a tantrum throwing girl.
My youngest will be 6 in december, and she still throws epic tantrums and makes everyone want to rip her little tongue out.
her older sisters are grateful that neither has to share a bedroom with her right now.
At the moment I’m putting it down to being overtired and ready for the school holidays,( I’ve noticed that this seems to happen towards the end of each term.)
Maybe she’s finally reacting to the big move? -
September 18, 2013 at 8:20 am -
AH! Hope you are okay, Lori, and that you get some relief from the Bump soon. Do you think her birthday will make it better (or worse)?
Hearing stories about how hideously awful I was as a small child has most likely been the thing that turned me off having kids, for fear of karmic retribution.
Whoa, Molly! recently posted…No, Dude – I Don’t Have To Talk To You -
September 17, 2013 at 10:17 pm -
Ha, yes, and nothing winds that sense of frustration up faster than feeling responsible for someone driving other people up the wall too. Hope tomorrow is better!
Previous post: Dammit, Centrelink.
Next post: Softly.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: It happens on Monday.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Jeans and Stuff.
August 2012 – RRSAHM
August 2012
I add it up in my mind right now and I’m slightly horrified– I went a whole year without mentioning that memory to him. Twelve whole months I just assumed it was safe, never once turned the soil on it to let in the sunshine and fresh air.
So how can I be surprised when the song happened to come on the TV the other day and I smile and say “Look, Chops, it’s the Dino Stomp!” and he looks at me blankly, without the foggiest idea of what I’m talking about? I can’t be, not at all.
I break my own heart and kick myself over and over as I stand in shock, my mind echoing with a empty clang, over and over ‘He has forgotten….’. The consequences of the are startling, terrifying… Forgotten is forever. A memory, once it’s gone… it’s difficult to bring it back.
There are days when I wish I could crawl into my child’s mind and peer around it with a flashlight. Open all the drawers and cupboards, tidy things that need to be straightened, look out through his eyes and see the world the way he does. And I’d go to the filing cabinet tucked away in a corner and open it to ‘Daddy’, and search its contents thoroughly to see just what it holds.
I want to know how my little boy remembers of the man who was his best mate, his hero. I want to see how much of it is truth and how much legend, check in on that every few years from now until… forever, I guess. Isn’t that what mothers do better than anyone, that forever thing?
I see occasional anomalies between what my little boy remembers and what the truth is. He remembers his dad’s orange car, but not that we got rid of it months before he died. He remembers that Tony was angry sometimes, but also remembers that mummy and daddy used to kiss and hug… I can’t help but wonder if one cancels out the other. He remembers going to swimming lessons but has the pool he attended confused with another Tony occasionally took him too. And while a year ago he remembered swimming in the Purple backyard spa with his dad, I think that memory may have extinguished itself too, leaving a dark space and a the thick nostalgic smell of candle wax in the air.
My son tells me a few days ago that “Daddy’s don’t smoke” and the desicion I have to make surprises me. Do I correct him with the truth, or let the much healthier impression he has slide and become truth in his mind?
I do what I always do, when I don’t know what to do. I err on the side of the truth. Well, most daddy’s don’t smoke, but yours did. He thought it was very yucky though, and he was trying to stop.
Tiny little Lego building blocks of all shapes and colors and sizes, stacked on top of one another to create a picture of a man who was not perfect but was a good person, and loved his children very much. Hoping the foundations are strong enough so the whole thing doesn’t topple. Double checking and crossing my fingers that I haven’t missed bits, left gaping holes where vibrant color should be.
I find a gruesome fascination in how very differently my children will remember their father in comparison to the man I remember. I wish I could spool all these memories I hold– my husband feeding our one year old son chocolate cake for breakfast, or whispering to his day-old daughter “You’re not going to date any football players, are you darlin’?”– onto a film, a disk, something so they can be played back in all their richness for my children, the people who will need them the most, over and over again.
Reminiscing, telling my children stories of their dad…. it’s a cold comfort. They take the stories I tell, the words I say, and mold them with their own memories, their own thoughts… and there lies the potential loophole for inaccuracies.
I remind myself that, really, it only matters so much. Is a genuine memory of their father any better than my children’s own little minds creating a hero or a villain for them? It has to be, surely– reality’s a bitch, but it’s always that little bit more palatable than lies, omissions or half truths. Especially when what’s at stake is so huge.
I’m creating memories for my children of their father, lest they are too young to keep them for themselves. I fill big holes with stories and anecdotes and I feel the chilly breeze that comes though them– the absence of so many of his mates to help build this picture as it should be. I support my fragile reminiscing with photos that seemed to be plenty at that time, but now are an unspeakably small amount of visual proof.
But I found something a few days ago, on the external hard drive I’d bought and booted in those hazy six months in Paradise. I thought I’d lost the footage from Tony’s mobile phone when I threw it out, not realizing until days later the travesty I’d committed.
I was wrong. Video footage, files of video footage from my husband’s mobile phone, hidden in the digital depths of my hard drive. I plan to watch it, to sync it and burn it onto a disc for my children.
I just haven’t had the courage to open the files yet.
{ 4 comments }
Memories are such subjective things. We alter and taint them, often to our own advantage. The earlier the experience that created the memory or the deeper into your childhood you’re reminiscing over, the more the memory is likely to be impeded by years worth of experience and impressions.
I have two memories from when I was very young. One I’m almost positive is real and as correct as the memories of an almost two year old can be. I only feel that strongly in my conviction because my mother listened in amazement as I recounted details of her and I creeping into the kitchen of the house I only lived in until I was two. I can remember the structure, color and set up of that house while few photos of it exist, especially of the interior. I remember how the kitchen looked, lit by the cold light of the refrigerator as my mum and I conspired to eat a piece of birthday cake I’d bought home from a party that day before my dad, a compulsive midnight snacker, got to it first.
Why I remember that so distinctly, I’m not sure. Quite possibly the effect of that blue light haloing from the open fridge door, changing a kitchen I saw every day into an entirely different place. In the mind of a not quite two year old, that’s magic.
The other very early memory I think I have is of watching Humphrey B. Bear with my grandfather. If it is genuine, it must be from around the same period of time… he died just before I turned two.
Sadly, as much as I wish it were accurate, I don’t think it is. It’s too hazy, changes too often… it’s the manifestation of facts I’ve been given and photos I’ve seen.
That’s what our mind does. It’s this incredibly complex tangling of pathways we don’t even understand. Our brains have a tendency to take facts we know and couple them with images or sounds or smells that we are familiar enough with to recreate in our imagination. Stir, shake, push to the extremities of your nuerons… and out pops a memory. One so vivid and real and true that it seems as solid as what’s happening right now.
But memory is such a goddamn subjective thing.
I happened to be discussing the Port Arthur massacre with my friend The Doc a few days ago. We argued vehemently as to whether video footage of exists Martin Bryant, gun in hand as he prowls the grounds of the tourist attraction.
The Doc was certain that not only had it existed, he had seen it. He could describe it for me.
No such footage exists, nor has it ever. It’s a memory The Doc’s mind has created for itself, pieced together from massive amounts of media coverage of an event that occurred over fifteen years ago. But he believed it so passionately and was so positive he had seen it, I have no doubt that he would have been able to pass a lie detector test without the slightest hitch of the needle.
Memory experts describe memories as being like a coin on the bottom of a pool. You can see it, if the water’s clear enough. You know it’s there. But it’s obscured, changed and distorted, depending on the water level and clarity. Depending on the time passed, development gained, trauma, distance and so forth; memories become skewed in the same way. (“He was a giant…”)
I had made the naive assumption that my son’s memories of his father would stay preserved and intact, as they were in the months after he died. That the things he would forget would be things I didn’t know he thought about in the first place. That the memories we had shared and discussed between the two of us would be solidified in our common consciousness of them.
Of course I was wrong. Aren’t I always?
There’s a song that features on the Australian TV show PlaySchool on a semi–regular basis called the Dino Stomp. Once on a time it was the soundtrack to my son’s favorite PlaySchool DVD, played on high rotation whenever he managed to con us into turning the TV on. Around the time Tony and I got married, that DVD was still going strong.
Tony and I honeymooned in Port Macquarie (of all places… I’m not sure why, either), and we took our then eighteen month old Chop with us. We listened to that bloody DVD a hundred times over the three days we were away. And we danced the Dino Stomp over and over.
I think the last time I remember doing it was in the lounge room of the Purple House. I can still see Tony and his son laughing, performing all the actions, while I mimicked them with a tiny six month old Bump in my arms.
All of us were laughing.
It was like heaven.
To be continued…
{ 4 comments }
A letter for my Tony…
I will never be ashamed of you.
I hate the pitied looks some people give me when I tell them how you died. It makes my breath catch, after so long of being OK with it– I forget that this is supposed to be shameful, to bring shame to you.
There is none, not a particle of shame, not as far as I’m concerned. I love you like fire. Deep in the very centre of me, where we keep the small flames burning of precious oils for all the souls we have loved, I always will. There is a burner, tiny and ornate, filled the essence of the first person I ever loved completely, without fear and hiding bits of me behind masks and cut outs– the first person who ever loved me, completely, in return. It’s flame is tended by my memories, the memories I have of us, when things where blissful and we were so very in love.
Because if what we had wasn’t love, in it’s sweetest most robust form, then I don’t think it exists. It was beyond love, because we built things on it. Emotion is like vapor– houses and children and wedding rings are tangible. They can means nothing, of course, and many will tell you that’s true. A marriage is nothing bar a piece of parchment paper with a stamped or printed signature.
But then, a wedding day can be as simple as willow branch. And ours was– it was the tieing of people, the making of two into one. The base for a heady, fraught emotion that had become something solid, something tall, something real.
And I thought it would grow taller. I really believed, in my heart of hearts, that you and I would grow old together. That we’d have our shit times, and our good times. That one of us might cheat, and be forgiven. That money would get tough and we’d get through it.
That every wedding we danced at for the next forty years, we’d reminisce sweetly in whispers of our own.
And this was only the beginning of it, the fresh and fertile patch of marriage life, where children are tiny and time is precious and life tramples all over your good intentions. This was our nappies–and–Wiggles–and–sleepless–nights–and–rare–dinners–out–and–shhh–don’t–wake–the–baby time. It was guaranteed to be rough. We were destined to fight. And fight we did, like wildfire. The very same way we loved each other.
Because following this it was supposed to be over, in a completely different way to what it is now. Our children would gradually slip into school age, time passing before we even noticed it happening. And we’d move into school–concerts–and–weekend–sports–and–Justin–Beiber–and–friends–over–for–bbqs–and–mature–age–university–student–and–trusting–each–other–through–years–of–compromise stage.
And we’d love each other that little bit more ever year that passed. A love born of familiarity and working through stuff and not giving up… the way a marriage is supposed to be.
Somewhere, a pipe dream way off in the foggy distance, we would retire to a lighthouse and live a simple life of thermos of hot coffee and dawn fishing trips and watching old (1990′s) movies together on the lounge a night.
It’s an existence I kiss softly and whisper goodbye to… fold into a paper boat and softly wish it solace as I let it glide from hands into the open gray sea.
The nappies–and–Wiggles stage is just about over here, where we are, your children and I.. stuck down here on Earth. With no newborn to sustain it and the Chop off to school in mere months… it’s passed before I even realized it was happening. It’s sad, and I regret it already. It makes me angry with you, that you took that from me when I enjoyed it so thoroughly, when it was all I ever really wanted to do.
But at least I can begin this next stage without missing you so very much– because I had never fully visualized it before you died. This day to day little person raising existence I’m living now, I know every time you are missing from a scene you should be in– and that’s always– because I can rememeber so clearly what it was like to have you here. Because I had this perfectly accurate picture in my mind of how it would be.
We start the next phase with a cleaner slate, the kids and I. There are no blueprints for this one, no expectations that are truly impossible to meet. I’ve stopped waiting for someone new to come along and ’fix’ us, or make the three of us feel complete– we feel complete the way we are. I just had to be patient… it took some time to get here.
It’s saying goodbye, in a way, to something that was so tactically, touchably real and replacing it with a daydream of what could have been. I witnessed you here in the little kid phase,I know what I’m missing. This next bit, I’ve never done it any other way except alone.
And that’s easier, somehow. Less painful. The daydream is further off from here, in the distance where I cant touch it, grab it and wring at it, make its nerve endings sting and squelch in pain. The reality of what was missing was far, far too close… close enough to hurt all the time.
We’re in a transition. Watch over us, as you do. I miss you– that’s a simple fact of life, always will be. But I’m missing the Tony who is eternally 34. And I’m getting older.
This is just to let you know, I guess– we’re OK. I know you knew I would be– I think you always knew how strong I could be if I needed to. But the doesn’t abscond you from leaving me.
And you still owe me, remember? I’m ok here, alone… but I’m lonely.
I miss you. I love you.
Like fire.
{ 11 comments }
On Death And Blame. And Stop It Already. – RRSAHM
On Death And Blame. And Stop It Already.
Just when I think it may be safe to celebrate Christmas… that dirty ‘s‘ word. It’s everywhere.
If you happened to have (how?) missed it, a boring Australian radio station that plays thoroughly homogenized Top 40 hits continued to appeal to the lowest common denominator earlier this week. A stupid prank call, complete with dodgy accents and absurd references to corgis. In fact, the corgi references began at about the same time the two relatively green (in fact, the male of the duo– what was his name again?– was presenting his first ever radio drive shift) radio hosts seemed to realize this had been far too easy, and the pitch of their voices hit panic level as they tried to get themselves caught out. Evidently, it shouldn’t have gone that far, and the perpetrators weren’t expecting it to. Obviously. That’s not the way prank calls work, traditionally.
And it’s such immature, back of the classroom, stupid humor. I don’t think anyone expected much more from the radio station in question– this was, without doubt, one of the least offensive stunts they’ve endorsed over the last few years. Think about this one in terms of that complete cultural f*ck up that was the KFC commercial of 2010. If this week’s phone call had been made to an Australian hospital under the pretense of a bad British accent, using a commoner’s communication and in regards to the well being of a much-loved princess and her unborn child; the response of the nurse or receptionist on the end of the line would be to roll their eyes and mutter something about having ‘real work to do’ before slamming down the handset to a swelling symphony of an engaged tone and raucous laughter piped over the airwaves.
But not in the UK, especially not with the recent heat put on British tabloids and paps. Especially not at some unGodly our of the morning. There was no expectation of that kind if stunt, no understanding– and therefore no ingrained cultural wariness– of such a ridiculously Australian joke (”relaxed but uncouth” seems to be the general verdict).
A radio prank call that divulges the medical information of an individual was enough for this three minutes of audio to get a huge dose of headlines. When one of the nurses– not the nurse responsible for divulging confidential information, simply the woman that transferred the call– takes her own life just three days later… that’s so far from funny, I want to be sick. People of the public– the Twitterati in particular– are baying for the guts and innards of two afternoon disc jockeys. The general consensus is that they have ’blood on their hands’.
And I say to that– bullshit.
Years ago, sitting in a social work class, someone round me broached The Question, the one that danced in the back of your mind but you didn’t want to think too much about. What happens if someone kills themselves? What happens if they come to you for counseling and that night they die? And our lecturer responded, slowly and clearly, making every word count, “None of us are so powerful that we can cause another person to take their life. No one is singularly capable of doing that.”
If hundreds of people can come to this blog, read my story and tell me my husband’s death was not my fault, when I was just feet away from him and we were arguing hard… Then how can anyone hold these two relatively insignificant people responsible for the life of someone who they interacted with for only a few short seconds, half a world away, on the end of an international phone line? It’s not possible. It’s not logical.
I’m not arguing that this wasn’t stupid, disrespectful, offensive and whatever else you can throw at it thing to do in the first place– it was. But this is not something that could be foreseen. Journalists (using the term arguably in this instance) cannot be held responsible for micro–managing the emotions of every person they come into contact with. There was no breach of this particular woman’s privacy here. The violation was in broadcasting confidential medical details, and exposing the ineptitude of one institution’s handling of incoming phone calls. It’s sad beyond sad that the outcome was this woman losing her life. And I can say that because I’ve been here (am here), I know first hand. But blame can’t be thrown on radio hosts… any more than it can be poured on me.
Perhaps– in fact, in all logical probability– it was that prank phone call, and the ensuing fall out, that provided the ‘final straw’ for the UK nurse. But if that last back breaking straw had been, for example, a traffic offense or a speeding fine; would we lay the blame on the copper who wrote the ticket?
To quote Gawker, the main cause of suicide is life. And unfortunately, life has a way of throwing down final straws, in all their forms, all over the place, every day.
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{ 24 comments… read them below or add one }
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February 8, 2013 at 5:51 pm -
It can be applied as part of oils, candle lights and uses important oils to aid relaxed the
body, it not only smells good – and is relaxing as part of itself, but
inaddition it has chemically therapeutic effects regarding the figure.
A crate trained dog definitely will perpetually try to be welcome and additionally protected as part
of his crate whenever you are away the house. This style of panic is definitely normally restricted in order to the time of reduction and also will progressively disappear. - December 14, 2012 at 5:34 pm
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I totally agree with the person who wrote the Anonymous comment that started with "I don't think the two idiots killed her." I hadn't even considered taking into account her culture and background – in India honour killings are common if you bring shame to your family. And boy was she shamed.
No you can't blame the DJs, I do blame the station head honchos who aired the call – no you can't directly cause a suicide, but playing a "prank" (and sorry, a prank call is something like "is your refrigerator running" not tricking someone into giving out highly confidential information) that will cause public humiliation and put a career in jeopardy has to be punished whether suicide was involved or not. And there are some situations where suicide can be blamed on someone, namely bullying (one school had a "lets make this kid kill herself day and she did it. Yes, people are that powerful.) Your situation is different Lori, there's no way it was your fault.
- December 11, 2012 at 11:44 pm
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It was the British media who called for the nurse to be sacked for transferring the call, then as soon as she killed herself they all turned on the two Aussie radio hosts and blamed them!
This woman obviously had alot of other stuff going on in her life, all she did was transfer the call, she wasn't the one spilling the beans on the Duchess' medical status.
Prank calls happen all the time on radio, to blame a death or suicide on the pranksters is just absurd. The British have a tradition of turning on us Aussies at the slightest opportunity, splashing headlines across their newpapers for every conceivable sin against the Queen and country.
Remember that headline years ago in the days of having Paul Keating as the PM? "HANDS OFF OUR QUEEN"! because the PM touched Her Majesty's back in a courteous way but without realising what he was doing. You'd think he had cut her right arm off the way they carried on.
- December 10, 2012 at 11:19 pm
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First of all, I totally agree with you. While this was stupid, thoughtless and lots more besides, no one person has the ability to make another person choose to end their life. My first thought after hearing about this on the news was, "what was going on in that poor woman's (the nurse's) life that she felt she had to end it all?" I refuse to believe that this crank call was singularly responsible. That said, I do hope people who think this kind of thing is actually funny will think twice before causing a complete stranger undue stress and (very public) humiliation.
Second, I just read your Twitter feed. I am so, so, so, SO sorry about George! You are so right – the Universe owes you and your kids huge. HUGE. (((HUG)))
– Crystal
- December 10, 2012 at 11:08 pm
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My concern is that after the 'prank' the radio station does not seek permission to air it ? Some won't be happy but it's a lot more respectful and ethical to at least ask the person if they can air the joke ? Its media training 101. On and off the record etc. additionally as Lori said handing over medical records are the bigger issue here. The right to privacy v freedom of speech ? Can we have it both ways ? Darrell
- December 10, 2012 at 3:06 pm
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So very much agree with what you've written here.
- December 10, 2012 at 1:38 pm
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So very well written. Thank you. Agree wholeheartedly.
- December 10, 2012 at 10:56 am
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It's such fundamental common sense that it baffles me that you are even having to write this post in the first place.
The whole way the media has presented this as if the woman's suicide is linked in any way is just ridiculous. Time to ditch them and start again.
- December 10, 2012 at 4:09 am
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I completely agree but feel so terribly sorry for her and her family
- December 10, 2012 at 2:53 am
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I don't think the two idiots killed her. I do think they set out whoring for attention at the expense of another human being, and they knowingly caused humiliation in a extremely public manner, especially in the after math, after their insincere apology followed by another string of obnoxious promotion of the event, trying to capitalize and gain fame by rubbing in her incompetence at recognizing different English accent, these series of decisions and actions were far from innocent. You can't pretend they didn't think it would cause shame and humiliation and suffering, they just didn't think it would be enough to cause suicide.
And honestly, let's say she really suffered for it but not enough to kill herself. Would it be okay to cause that much distress to a stranger whose mental state you don't know, just to get the world to pay attention to you? The DJ wanted the spotlight, and even now they're gloating and capitalizing on it, in the mean time their non-consenting victim was crushed in the attention that she did not seek nor welcome.
They couldn't have known how much humiliation would drive a person to commit suicide; as an Asian brought up to value honor over life, duty over self, I find it entirely reasonable (if not expected) to commit suicide after having brought shame to an organization I represent. As an ESL, I can also relate to the humiliation of living in an English speaking country and having my imperfect command of English brought into the spotlight.
I've never understood this kind of humor. On the rare occasion when I'm stuck in someone's car and have to listen to this sort of program, I always feel sorry for the victim they pranked.
- December 9, 2012 at 5:23 pm
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I feel sorry for the nurse and the presenters, it's all blown so out of proportion!! A silly prank, a nurse who isn't perfect..I'm a nurse, (all this nonsense about confidentiality!! it is not black and white at all) and a young woman with morning sickness. The hounding of all involved and the bullying attitude of self righteous people, they should be ashamed. When did the British press ever care about the Royal Family's privacy..and I'm English. Saddens me altogether, well said Lori x x
- December 9, 2012 at 4:53 pm
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Hear hear, my lovely. I think you are spot on. Can't wait to see you in March and give you a gigantic hug – I completely agree with you. 100%. Kx
- December 9, 2012 at 4:07 pm
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For me it highlighted the stupidity of these calls. I don't blame the dj's, I feel terrible sadness for the nurse and her family. What is does highlight is how a radio announcer cannot know the mental health state of those they call and the terrible effect public humiliation can have on some one already struggling. I've never found radio prank calls funny and its one of the reasons I no longer listen to commercial radio. The best way to prevent this sort of thing – stop prank calls!
- December 9, 2012 at 2:49 pm
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I agree with Kelloggs Ville. And you cannot compare this to a parking ticket ever….
- December 9, 2012 at 2:25 pm
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I agree no one bears responsibility. But I have heartfelt sympathy for the nurse. I have been the 'phone person' a few times in my life, and made many embarassing missteps due to lack of training, unfamiliarity with the industry, being 'out of the loop' with management, gullibility and trying too hard. Or 'just not thinking'. Lucky for me, these errors never made the international news.
- December 9, 2012 at 12:56 pm
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You know Lori as a social worker I often feel the weight of the world on my shoulders when people share their thoughts about ending their life but I also see that in removing my own feelings of self importance my job is only to be a sounding board for others, a safe place to talk through all the layers, what they do next is out of my hands. The fault doesn't lay in the hands of the ones that made or took the phone call, no one is at fault.
- December 9, 2012 at 12:48 pm
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It's great to hear another perspective. Very refreshing! I love that last quote. It sums the whole thing up perfectly. Fantastic piece!
- December 9, 2012 at 12:17 pm
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This was not a 'prank'. It was a deliberate attempt to breach security and obtain personal information that they weren't entitled to. It is not a joke. It is an intention to underhandedly deceive and cannot be defended on any level. I'm am sure the nurse had many things happening in her life and this was not a main cause, it would however appear to be a catalyst. You are totally wrong about British cultural awareness and whilst I respect your experience, you cannot defend the indefensible especially given the presenters total lack of remorse in their recent quotes. They may not have blood on their hands but they should be thoroughly ashamed of themselves, with or without a death involved.
- December 9, 2012 at 11:53 am
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I tweeted something similar yesterday and nodded the entire way through this post. I have been close to those who have suicided (though not as close as you) and know a terrible concoction of many things add up to that state of mind and outcome. No one thing.
People need to quite baying for blood every time something bad happens. What are we? Dingoes? I think the acronym and old school advice holds true: if you cannot say something nice then STFU.
- December 9, 2012 at 8:27 am
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Lori, this is one of the things I adore about you. You and I, we think on the same wavelength. It was a stupid prank, and maybe it should have been better thought through and simply not done, but I do not think that the blame for the woman taking her life is anyone's fault. At the end of the day she was the person who acted.
I just think terrible occurances like this add to the cotton wool syndrome our kids are growing up in. We are hyer aware of mental illness sometimes and so we are too scared to say something stupid, or make mistakes because it may cost someone their life or last shred of self esteem or something.
It was a stupid prank, but they couldn't predict that it would cause someone to take their life, and I am positive that wasn't their intention. - December 9, 2012 at 7:09 am
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The British media got onto this story when it first happened and ran with it. It was just a bit of a joke story in the Australian media and would have died down after a day or so. But the British papers had it as their lead story for the three days before she killed herself. They also invited comments from readers which meant there were tons of comments calling both nurses 'stupid' for being duped. The British media hyped it up and this is the result.
- December 9, 2012 at 6:48 am
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I agree Lori. I had this conversation with my mum earlier today because she was of the opinion that the that DJs ' made the nurse kill herself '. I told her there had to have been other underlying issues and yes the call may have tipped her over the edge….. But how were the callers to know that? They were a bit silly and immature but they didn't do anything maliciously….
- December 9, 2012 at 3:27 am
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I'm so glad someone is pointing this out. Thank you!
- December 9, 2012 at 1:17 am
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I'm here in Canada, and the bit that seems be be swept under the rug is the fact that she was the *transferring* call. I agree, that even if she was the nurse who gave the info, it *still* wasn't their fault. And as tragic as it is that she felt she needed to kill herself, I actually LOL'd (in shock) when I read here that it was the transferring call.
I disagree with your sentiment about Britt vs. Aust, and the ensuing outcome (divulging info)terribly uncouth Radio prank calls happen here (what!? in Canada? the *nice* people!?), they must happen there too. They got a couple of tired end of shift (daft???) nurses who got so excited at the fact they where talking to royalty, they stopped thinking and just did it.
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Random Ramblings of a SAHM: RUOK- Part Two.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Sedation
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: FlogYoBlog Friday*.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Not OK.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Soul Cancer.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: The ‘Yay For Spring’ GiveAway
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: I Can’t F*cking Shut Up Wednesday. With Words And Stuff.
A Photo Post From Paradise… – RRSAHM
A Photo Post From Paradise…
Some pictures from Paradise….
For those who doubted the kangaroos-in-the-front-yard-claim… (Not that anyone actually did. Whatever.)
I love to swing.
And the kids think the playground is pretty groovy too.
Not to mention the beach. We seem to spend a lot of time there…
And also at the river. Which looks like this.
And this.
And this.
Like I said, Paradise. And the offer of my spare room is still open…. (Psychos need not apply, I have plenty of them in my head already, thanks very much.)
Leave a Comment
{ 34 comments… read them below or add one }
- April 29, 2011 at 11:42 am
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Lori, this looks fabulous. I know why you call it Paradise… x
- April 26, 2011 at 8:46 pm
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You are living in writer's paradise. Wish I was there too.
- April 26, 2011 at 1:04 am
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I'd have a hard time sleeping at night when all that fabulousness continued happening outside my door…
- April 25, 2011 at 9:36 pm
- April 25, 2011 at 8:57 pm
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Beautiful. x
- April 25, 2011 at 8:19 pm
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Spare room? Where's my suitcase….
Oh wait, they're expecting me at work on Wednesday. Bummer! - April 25, 2011 at 3:43 pm
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Is the offer serious??
I'm sure they make mail bags as big as my kids now days, and they'd love that room.
Lol. - April 25, 2011 at 12:45 pm
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That's beautiful. The kids would love it =)
- April 25, 2011 at 11:14 am
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Looks lovely, reminds me of Pambula where i went on holiday in Feb, it was paradise down there
- April 25, 2011 at 11:00 am
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Beautiful. Perfect. I'm glad you have found paradise
- April 25, 2011 at 9:34 am
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Gorgeous photos! What a beautiful place!
- April 25, 2011 at 9:02 am
- April 25, 2011 at 5:56 pm
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How purdy xx
- April 25, 2011 at 7:43 am
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looks lovely
- April 25, 2011 at 7:38 am
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I want a kangaroo on my front lawn. I really, really do. Love your little slice of paradise, girlfriend. xx
- April 25, 2011 at 5:13 am
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Awww, sitting at the dock. Looks great.
- April 25, 2011 at 1:46 am
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Ahhhhh…lovely.
Oh is the Kanagroo your pet? Kidding…maybe…I'd call it Louis. It looks like a Louis - April 25, 2011 at 1:12 am
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I love it.
- April 25, 2011 at 12:06 am
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Just beautiful:) So happy for you
- April 24, 2011 at 11:36 pm
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A KANGAROO in the front yard? Hard to imagine…
- April 24, 2011 at 11:29 pm
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That looks like a little piece of relaxation to me. If only I could apply for the spare room.
- April 24, 2011 at 10:23 pm
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Thanks for sharing photos of your little piece of paradise, looks just like what most of us would love. xxx
- April 24, 2011 at 10:22 pm
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Lovely…
- April 24, 2011 at 10:20 pm
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Wow… This place is beautiful! i would LOVE to come over. =)
- April 24, 2011 at 10:17 pm
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We had an eight foot tall bastard in our yard once. The police had to come and chase it away.
I hate em. They are pests here.
And I almost have my bags packed, lovely.
- April 24, 2011 at 9:54 pm
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That looks like utter bliss! The roo in the front yard shot is amazing! Your pictures make me feel like a cocktail or four! x
- April 24, 2011 at 9:50 pm
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wow – so lovely. I think you are wise to surround yourself with beauty and simplicity while you all grieve and heal.
- April 24, 2011 at 9:48 pm
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It looks like Paradise is just what you need. It certainly seems like a gorgeous place – or have you just omitted the photos of the riff-raff?? Can't wait for pix of you doing bombs off the jetty…xxxxxx
- April 24, 2011 at 9:32 pm
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Love love your little piece of paradise, punkin.xxxx
- April 24, 2011 at 9:15 pm
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Wow!!! Now that really does look like paradise!!! Wish I knew where…might have to make a paradise move.
- April 25, 2011 at 6:11 am
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It would be really awesome if that WAS a teeny tiny top-hat.
- April 25, 2011 at 5:45 am
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Are you wearing a teeny tiny top-hat in that second shot?!
- April 25, 2011 at 12:42 am
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Bugger!
I was super keen on the invite until you said psychos aren't welcome!Haha.
It truly looks like Paradise! - April 25, 2011 at 12:35 am
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Gorgeous photos, Lori.
That kangaroo is something else. The only ones I've ever seen were in zoos.
Enjoy your little slice of paradise- you deserve it.
XOXOXO
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Next post: And Another Photo Post From Paradise…
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Exhaustion.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: The House In TinyTrainTown
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: In The Powder Room
Breastfed.
Breastfed.
My daughter, my beautiful sunshine baby daisy girl; she weaned herself from the breast a few days ago. She is fourteen months old.
It sounds self-possessed, but my daughter’s weaning happened so quietly, so quickly, and I was so distracted by the hum of everyday life, I barely even noticed. I didn’t pay any special attention to her last feed. But, by some fortunate glitch of the mind, I do remember- I’ll always remember- nibbling at the fingertips of her tiny, chubby hands the last time I fed her, her giggling and squealing, shoving baby fat hands into my mouth for mum to do that again.
My sweet, delightful princess. She was so easy to feed, unless you consider those few weeks between reflux being appearing and being medicated, and I barely remember them, so they just don’t stand to be counted. She fed straight away after birth, both breasts, and really hasn’t stopped eating since. A happy, confident little girl, rarely distressed enough to need the warmth and closeness of a breastfeed to comfort her. She sleeps well, voluntarily dropping her midnight feed. Then, as I frantically chase her three year old brother to scoop and manhandle him back into his bed again, she falls asleep, three nights in a row, with no quiet, warm bedtime feed from mum.
And that is it. It is over.
Breastfeeding had become so much a part of my life, such a natural thing for me to do, that I only noticed it for it’s absence. Activities you’ve accepted, habitual and ritualistic, that you enjoy; you lose your gratitude for them and they become another flicker of the mundane. Changing nappies. Preparing food. Washing clothes. Nourishing a child.
My son, my first child, he weaned at the same age my daughter is now. With my son, feeding was far more intense- he has far more intense personality than she. At almost three, he would happily go back to the breast, and has requested it more than once. No, thanks. After nine months of pregnancy, fourteen months of breastfeeding, then another nine months gestating and another fourteen months lactating, stacked one on top of the either like weights on my sexuality, my femininity, my independence, I am shamefully overjoyed to have my body all to myself again. To donate blood again, if I choose to. To be inked again, if I should choose to. My body is own. Without having to incubate. To fatten no one but myself. And my body is being selfish with it’s kilojoules, now they belong to no one but me, and is stockpiling them on my hips, my thighs, my belly.
Everywhere but my deflated, drooping breasts.
While feeding my daughter was a pleasure, feeding my son was torment and torture. He wouldn’t feed, at all, for 24 long hours after his birth. A lactation consultant introduced us to nipple shields, a small, thin shield of plastic to cover the nipple and desentitise the hot shards of pain that shot through my chest. A God-send. The only thing that allowed me to keep breastfeeding my son.
But, sometimes, I wonder if those nipple shields were a curse as well. I breastfed both my children exclusively, not a drop of formula. But my son should have almost certainly had a bottle of formula, at one stage in those first horrid, incapacitated weeks. Weeks when I hadn’t slept for more than consecutive hours since my son was born. When I was sobbing every time I fed my baby, from the agonising pain and the pure exhaustion; when I was kicking my legs in agony as he latched; weeping at the thought of the next two-hourly feed.
In a perfect world, everyone would breastfeed. Everyone would have seen women breastfeeding, everywhere,all their lives. If a mother couldn’t produce milk, if their baby wouldn’t latch, they had access to human milk, to a wet nurse, to a lactating family friend who would happily feed their baby for them.
That doesn’t happen anymore. That tribal community is gone, and there is only so much we can do to replace it. Some women- most women- have never seen a mother, up close, breastfeeding her child.
Everyone has seen someone give a baby a bottle.
Formula, it’s a necessary evil to the world of breastfeeding mums. Women have to work. New mothers have little to no access to the support the need, with feeding their babies and so many other little things, little things that matter so much when you are suddenly, awe-inquiringly in total responsibility of the health and well being of a tiny, fragile life. We have such a long way to go, re-establishing breastfeeding as a norm.
Formula, In Real Life, for mums who can’t feed, or don’t want to, it’s a blessing. Breast may best, but In Real Life, what’s best is not always what’s right.
I don’t know what would have happened, had I relented to my husband’s requests and given our first baby a formula feed. I would have slept, perhaps. Would he have ended up a formula-fed baby? Perhaps. Would I have had issues with that, held resentment toward breast feeding mums in general? Knowing my own mind as I do- most probably.
But- isn’t there always a ‘but’, when it comes to our babies?- at the same time my son should have, logically, become formula-fed, in the midst of the blackness of severe post natal depression, breastfeeding saved me. Breastfeeding was the only thing I was doing right, the only thing I was any good at it.
So what if I couldn’t wrap this tight enough that he didn’t kick himself undone, or calm his constant screaming, or tape the disposable nappies into tight little balls to pop into the bin? I was feeding him, I was providing for him, and that was all that mattered.
I was feeding him, so I must be his mother. Even if I didn’t feel like a mother at all, even if sometimes I felt nothing for this baby, sometimes I wanted nothing more than to leave the house alone and come back and have him asleep, I was feeding him. So I must be his mother.
I got lucky. And stubborn. And possibly a bit stupid. But we made it, in the end. Fourteen months of feeding my son. Then a pregnant food-source, a newly discovered ability to walk and a virus that dehydrated me and sucked my milk almost dry, and just a little bit of encouragement from me, and it our time breast feeding was over.
Then, however, I knew there was another baby on the way. Another baby to feed, to hold close. To sniff the talcy, milky smell of. And the knowledge that breastfeeding, this time, would be easier.
Breastfeeding is a learned skill, not an intuitive one. But it is almost like riding a bike. Once you know how, you know how.
This time, there is no other baby on the way. No tiny, curly newborn to clutch at my skin, to cry high pitched and desperately and cause my nipples to tingle and my breasts to leak sticky yellow colostrum. No smell of milk and softness, the flowery talc of warm skin pressed against my own.
My beautiful baby girl. It’s been so lovely, feeding her, giving to her, have her slurp and suck the life from me, absorb the best of me through my milk. I will miss it. The feeling of being needed, of being necessary, of being loved in such a complete way. The exquisite sweetness of a tiny child, falling asleep on the breast, your nipple slipping from the corner of their mouth as they sigh and their bodies relax and flop heavily in your arms.
Breastfeeding is so powerful, so empowering, for children, for women, in so many more aspects than physical health. I’m so proud of myself, of my body, for what it’s done, for the beauti
ful children it’s grown.
But to have my body to myself again… it feels like healing. Replenishing. Taking a much needed recuperation from the simplistic yet intense business of growing, of nourishing. The act of feeding tiny lives.
Leave a Comment
{ 39 comments… read them below or add one }
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December 18, 2011 at 11:48 am -
Amazing, touching, very truthful and heartfelt… I could go on. Loved your post. I had to defend my breastfeeding ways. Breastfed my 2nd child until age 4 believe it or not. Our first until 14 months. Both made their decision. I was so enormously moved by the experience. So sad when it ended but yes… having my body back was good and brought about much needed rest. We adopted a child and I so wanted to breastfeed him too but it was too "weird" to the world around us I capitualated and felt sad about that. I'm so enormously resentful of the world that pushes formula and tells us as women it's okay. It is okay but it's not at the same time. Thank you for your words.
- August 10, 2011 at 6:48 pm
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I just re-read this post today after Holly linked up. I didn't comment the first time I read it. Likely distracted by something shiny.
But I just loved reading it again. I can so relate. I was in agony unlike I've ever experienced feeding the first time around and second time around it was just so damn easy. I know I will miss it when it's gone.
- February 7, 2011 at 9:14 pm
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I felt this blog very deeply. Having a very bad few days. And the light of my day is feeding my son. He is 8 months (I fed my other two boys till they were 22 months), and when I read your words I could feel his finger tips in my mouth and smell his soft skin.
Now I know why I want another one. Regardless of how bad my day was and how feral my older two boys are, there is just something primal about feeding your child. You are right. It is the only thing that went right all day. - November 27, 2010 at 1:53 pm
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Of all the things I miss about the "baby" days, breastfeeding is one of them. (And one of the things I'm sad I may not get to do if/when I have another.)
Beautiful post, Lori.
- November 26, 2010 at 6:05 pm
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This is a great post! I've breastfed 4 babies, all for different periods of time for varying reasons. It drives me nuts when I read biased self righteous blogs telling mothers what they "should" be doing. It was so lovely to hear someone tell both sides of the story in a gentle and understanding way. Well done! Kirsty (Shamozal)
- November 26, 2010 at 2:25 pm
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I'm playing catch up after a week of sick kids (and husbands, well, husband, I only have one…) anyhoo, this is a gorgeous post! I love love love it! Well done boobies!
xxx
- November 26, 2010 at 10:11 am
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Word on the street is awesome kids wean at 14 months
- November 26, 2010 at 10:08 am
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Beautiful. I always thought I'd be ready for the weaning, that I'd lead it and we'd have a final ritual to end the special bond but it almost passed me by. I was in tears when I thought it had ended, surprising myself at how affected I felt. Then two days later, I must confess I offered her what I hoped would be my chance for closure, one last feed. She was happy to oblige and I savoured the moment of intimacy before gently and silently saying my "goodbyes" to this phase of our lives. I'm glad I captured the moment in my journal in both words and photos from the past months. Then it was all over with my little girl shy of 18 months.
- November 24, 2010 at 9:01 pm
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oh well done on such a lovely balanced post on breast feeding. Its one of those things in life, like raising kids, it can bring so much joy and so much pain!I felt similar to you after feeding my daughter for 13 months. Part of you is relieved not to be tied in that way but part of you kind of aches for that bond again!
- November 24, 2010 at 7:51 pm
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Beautiful, just a gorgeous post. With my baby boy almost two weeks old and literally constantly attatched to my nipples, leaving me exhausted and emotional, I appreciate that you've written this and shared it with us as it's reminded me that what I am doing is important.
- November 24, 2010 at 7:26 am
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Just wanted to say I LOVE this post! My fav so far. Well done of feeding 2 hungry little babes too!
- November 23, 2010 at 9:06 pm
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I am still breast feeding my last baby (not really a baby at 22mths!) There is part of me that would like my body back, but the other part doesn't want to drop the bond either. I have seen other mothers try so hard and then be so sad if breast feeding doesn't work out. I am eternally grateful that I have been able to experience this so positively.
Lovely post Lori.
- November 23, 2010 at 8:12 pm
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Great post, Lori.
When I was pregnant, I couldn't bear the thought of milk coming out of me. Couldn't bear it. Didn't want to breastfeed at all. Then my beautiful girl was born and it was like she knew not to make it hard for me, that I'd give up if she did. She fed well from that very first feed; it was like she just knew what to do, and the midwives were teasing me saying they thought I was hiding other kids from them because I looked like I'd done it all before too. And because it was so straightforward for Miss A and I, I had to do it. You can't give up on something when you don't have any excuse, right?
And it ended up being such a great experience (apart from the mastitis, but we'll forget about that shall we?!) and I'm so grateful I had the chance to do that for her. It really is a special time.
- November 23, 2010 at 7:59 pm
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I love a good BFing story. Good for you Lori. Enjoy the freedom and continue to remember the nice moments
- November 23, 2010 at 5:34 pm
- November 23, 2010 at 2:49 pm
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Oh Lori, this is so beautiful. Such a moving post. So full of the breadth and weight of mother-love. Thank you.
Like Styling You, I had problems breast feeding both my children. I worked with lactation consultants but they both lost weight and I was told by their pediatrician to put them on the bottle. I cried. I wanted so much to breastfeed. xx
- November 23, 2010 at 2:49 pm
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Absolutely beautiful post. I'm so glad I found this. My baby girl is 6 weeks old and to say it's been a tough time breastfeeding is an understatement. I started out with so much milk that she wouldn't latch. I've had mastitis, a breast abscess that was drained 3 times with 6 needles and now after all the antibiotics I was on I've got thrush in my breast. Yesterday I wanted to throw it all in. I'm in pain, tired and of course very emotional. But I'm determined to keep going – for my baby girl.
- November 23, 2010 at 1:49 pm
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Beautiful post Lori!
- November 23, 2010 at 12:51 pm
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It's funny, with my first baby I couldn't wait to have my body back! With my second (seven years later) I found it so hard to give up breastfeeding, but felt it was time when my son was around 16 months. I cried for days!
Loved this post!
- November 23, 2010 at 12:38 pm
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lovely post.
Breastfeeding was my saviour too… the only thing that made my girls mine. Fighting to breastfeed them gave me the link and bond that didn't occur naturally for us and despite it being horrible it was important and wonderful too.
- November 23, 2010 at 11:15 am
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Gorgeous post Lori – my DD and I are continuing our breastfeeding relationship now at 15 months and I so hear you on the PND fog and breastfeeding… you put into words how I feel – breastfeeding saved me (and my daughter) and helped so much during the really bad PND days.
Thank you for sharing your story with us.
- November 23, 2010 at 9:25 am
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Such a beautiful post. Makes me miss feeding my little girl… but excited to have another shot very soon.
- November 23, 2010 at 9:21 am
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You did a great job, Lori. x
- November 23, 2010 at 8:36 am
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I remember it exactly the way you described it….. beautiful xx
- November 23, 2010 at 7:34 am
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Lovely post Lori, reminded me of the snuggles I used to have when feeding my little angel. If only life weren't so complicated these days and our society helped women to breastfeed longer.
- November 23, 2010 at 7:18 am
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That, my dear, was beautiful.
As i read, i watched my 11 month old crawling around, and marvelled at how he has grown, remembering that soon it will be 1 yr since he left my body… it is amazing what our bodies provide for our children, and i want to thank you for putting it into words. - November 23, 2010 at 4:17 am
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Both my sons were breast fed and never had formula; they also went from breast milk to whole milk, from breast to cup neither ever used a bottle. I loved nursing them and am glad that I had the time with them.
- November 23, 2010 at 2:44 am
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Oh goodness me did I ever come over here on the right day! Breasts just happen to be my specialty. Joking aside nice piece. Not too dissimilar to my wife's experience (except for the length of time – 14 months!! that is an absolute age – you must be knackered! well done on surviving to tell the tale with the memory intact
- November 23, 2010 at 12:57 am
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I loved this post, it reminded me of my happy breastfeeding experience and actually made me quite broody! Am I ready to do it all over again?!
Thank you x - November 22, 2010 at 11:49 pm
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So, so lovely. Well done Lori – you're so right about breastfeeding being a powerful thing and that moment when you get your body back after all that nurturing and nourishing is a powerful moment too. I am starting to look forward to that day more and more keenly x
- November 22, 2010 at 11:27 pm
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I agree with your comment about some women never seeing another woman breastfeeding. When my second was little I went to california to visit my brother and his wife (she's american). and when I started feeding my brother looked horrified and said 'you can't do THAT in public' – I thought it was just that he was my brother, but his wife agreed 'nobody ever does' she confirmed. However, once I established that I was not in violation of any public nudity laws I carried on unperturbed. And after a few days they got used to it. SIL went on to have 2 kids of her own, and breastfed them both – I only hope she was a little more relaxed having had it shoved in her face by her unsympathetic aussie relative
xxx - November 22, 2010 at 11:13 pm
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Lovely post, Lori. It broke my heart that I did not produce enough milk to sustain my three kids when they were babies. I was/still am so pro-breastfeeding. I had all the help in the world at hospital and afterwards. I fed on demand. They all latched on. And then there was nothing to offer them. Poor baby no. 1 (now 15) still eats like he doesn't know where he'll get a meal from. At six weeks he weighed less than he did at birth. I was a first time mum, I didn't know what was going on. Baby no. 2, my gorgeous undiagnosed-for-eight-weeks- reflux baby girl. Screamed and screamed and screamed. Will never forget that Christmas Day. First medication they tried was administered via a bottle. That was it, supply vanished.
8.5 years later, I thought, surely this would be it. I'll be so relaxed, it'll all come together. Relaxed, I was. And so was he. Until he stopped putting on weight at eight weeks of age.
To stop the guilt, I part-fed all three up to six months of age. But the guilt was/is still there.
Not all mums who bottle feed do so because they want to. They do it because they've tried every other means. And they want their babies to nourish.
In hindsight, it was probably my underactive thyroid that caused my problems but I'll never know for sure. No-one at the time had a concrete answer or solution.
- November 22, 2010 at 11:13 pm
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I think I'll need to read this post a few times, there are so many beautiful and honest thoughts in it. My little man weaned himself when I was 6weeks pregnant with this one that's on the way, and I remember realising it with a bit of sadness. I miss those special cuddles, but we have other special times now.
I hear you with the fog of PND and I hung onto the breastfeeding so tightly, because I thought at least I could do that right.
Enjoy having your body back to yourself! I have a while to go before that happens! - November 22, 2010 at 11:12 pm
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great post!
- November 22, 2010 at 11:03 pm
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Beautifully said Lori. I wish that I could remember the feelings-both physical and emotional that I had when breastfeeding my son, but I can't. It seems like that year is completely gone from my memory. Everything for the first year is such a blur. I wish I would have paid closer attention. If I ever get the opportunity to do it again, I certainly won't let it become a blur again.
- November 22, 2010 at 10:59 pm
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Beautiful post , you did a great job !
- November 22, 2010 at 10:52 pm
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Lovely. My favourite part of breastfeeding is when Tricky looks up at me and smiles but doesn't drop the nipple
- November 22, 2010 at 10:46 pm
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Beautiful <3
- November 22, 2010 at 10:43 pm
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Oh wow. What a fantastic post, Lori! I got shivers, and my eyes welled up with tears, and… oh, just a great post
{ 1 trackback }
Healing. – RRSAHM
Healing.
Once I’ve written out the darkness and had a big cry and carried on like a child in a temper tantrum for a bit… I feel better. It’s not so much hopelessness as helplessness. And once I realise that, I’m just irritated with myself… really, after all that’s happened, what do I have to be afraid of? A state of the mind is simply that. There is no reality, only perspective.
But it’s still this annoying head–fug that won’t go away; an itching, anxious boredom. A feeling like I want to move, to flee; not in terrified panic, but more in exasperation. I want to find somewhere wide and open an achingly beautiful and run, feet barely touching the ground until I am out of breath, spent and exhausted enough to collapse myself, my body that is pumping with blood and irrefutably alive folding into a sweating, laughing heap. I want to scream and have it echo and bounce back at me from far off mountains. I want to feel small and insignificant in the face of the Universe. I want to recognize my place in the world, stop being so f*cking self important.
***
It was The Most Amazing Man In The Universe’s birthday this weekend and I run away with him. I take him to Paradise and drown in the solitude and the sense of calm he brings. It feels selfish… it feels, some days, as though The Most Amazing Man In The Universe puts up with a lot. Like he has to prop me up so much, and I’m too depleted to give much back.
That sucking feeling, that sensation of being a thirsty sponge of need. He promises me it’s not that way, that he absorbs as much from me as I do him from him. And because I trust him so, I believe him…. and I sink into him, the sensation of laying next to him still feels like healing.
I feel like a wreck, a mess right now– shuttered somewhere between daybreak and darkness. I tell myself, over and over, to just shut my eyes and hang on tight- nothing ever stays the same for long.
***
And it doesn’t. Paradise works it’s usual magic on me, and three days of laughing and and talking and walking and being loved does intense wonders for my soul. We run, up and down paths cut into a walking track that’s really more a tourist destination. I lay on the lap of the man I’ve fallen ridiculously in love with on the dark coolness of the beach and stare up at a universe of stars; and I feel tiny, no bigger than a speck of the sand that dusts my feet like icing sugar.
I pick out moments where I am happy, floating on the purest moments of just being; and I string them onto a long wound thread that I can wrap tight around my hands on the nights where the world feels lonely and I miss him.
I feel cleansed again, lighter. I start to take a proper look at myself, at the circles I seem to be running myself in. I start to move a bit toward happier again- it feels like it’s time to start making decisions again, rather than just going with the flow.
As I tweeted this morning, I am trying to have an epiphany… it’s just that my three year old keeps interrupting me. I’ll keep you posted.
Nothing ever stays the same. And things, again… they’re changing.
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{ 5 comments… read them below or add one }
- March 13, 2013 at 9:38 pm
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I love this. The curious you. The one seeking, not just for answers or hope, but just seeking for information.
Miss Pink recently posted…Gliding Into A New Perspective -
March 13, 2013 at 11:19 am -
We all need to run away and recharge sometime. I’m just glad you have an Amazing man to keep you company
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March 13, 2013 at 10:50 am -
Oh Lori! So happy to hear the light is peeking through.
You deserve happiness and you being happy will have a knock on effect. - March 13, 2013 at 8:54 am
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I get cases of the ‘run-aways’ too. As if instantaneous relocation will somehow fix things, as if my problems won’t follow me. And you know what? Maybe they won’t!
I’m so glad to read about your dreamy weekend in Paradise, it sounds like it was exactly what you and I and probably everyone needs right now.
Whoa, Molly recently posted…Anxiety -
March 12, 2013 at 4:21 pm -
*hugs* It’s wonderful to read about how karma (providence, fate, simply life, whatever) is bringing you some happiness again. God knows you deserve it. Thank you, as always, for the openness and beauty of your writing. xxxxx
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{ 18 comments… read them below or add one }
Yes you are, and yes you can.
I didn't think this step meant you'd regretted the last one. I thought it meant simply that you were ready to make the next one.
I'm wishing you all happiness that can be found. Can't wait to hear about the house.
To paraphrase a much more eloquent person than myself, Lori – may the road rise up to meet your feet. I hope your move is going well (as well as a move ever goes, I suppose!)Am thinking of you, your babes, and this new chapter in your life, and sending love xxxxx
I'm positive that you are going to be fine.
There'll be good days and bad days, but the good will far outweigh the bad.
All of you will be fine.
Wow – such a powerful post.
Congratulations.
I know wherever you go – you will rock
Congrats on the new home, I'm glad you had the chance to stay in paradise, like the others said, it was an important step. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life. xx
I think you are awesome. Remember: you have a blank canvas now. Choose to paint it however you like!
Good luck and enjoy this wonderful new step in your journey… one day at a time.
I am just so damn proud of you Lori. I can't wait to hear the new stories that are created in your new home!
and yet another door opens. Embrace it and enter the next phase.
We are with you!
You are fantastic. And I hope the move went awesomely and you're loving your new little slice of this world.
Loved that farewell post.. Paradise gave you time & a sense of the kids & mummy … Managing in a safe & familiar place with people you knew. So many familiar connections & more are closer to home… Old home… Tony & Lori's .. But this journey, with 2 kidlets & you, into a house to make a home brings you a chance to grow into a new life … And who knows what may lie ahead… Good times xxx
Congratulaiton on the new home. Sometimes we all need to step of the merry go round and look at where we are.
Enjoy your new home.
of course the first move wasn't a mistake, it was a change, a movement, a step in life. If every time we altered something it was a mistake, what a mess we would all consider ourselves to be. A winter in paradise was right for that season of change. Now a Summer in a new home. Even thouh it is yours it doesn't have to have the intention of forever. Circumstances are forever changing, as are our needs. You are the sky, the rest is weather xxx
You sound ready for the next thing. It is time, it seems then, to move on. Hope the move goes well!
You are a survivor, you are strong, you are awesome. Rock that shit, bitch xx
Hi Lori,
Way to go! I'm pleased that paradise was a place where you could heal somewhat.
All the best with your next move. You are definitely a survivor!
Trisha
Another new chapter for you. The beach is such a healing place I think you were wise to spend time there, even a short time, and find your strength again. I hope the move goes well.
xxxCate
I think the optimist in you is right – you're going to rebuild, now that you've had some time to heal in Paradise. It was a necessary step. but it's served its purpose and I can feel how ready you are to move on. As ever, I wish you and your kids nothing but the best.
If you are doing it, then it is the right move for you, just like paradise was-it was a stepping stone on your journey. I read something good this morning,"spend life looking through the windscreen not in the rear vision mirror" easy to say I know, but something to think about.Good luck with the move, hope it all goes smoothly.