Monthly Archives: May 2016
July 2010 – RRSAHM
July 2010
Welcome to the Carnival of Personal Blogging
This post was written for inclusion in the Carnival of Personal Blogging hosted by Good Goog and Blogs With Wings. This month our participants have shared their journey to personal blogging. Please visit Good Goog – Begin By Being Personal to view everyone’s posts.
***
Ding Dong,
Is it just me, or is this place jumping the shark?
Maybe.
You see, I am having a wee bit of a blogging breakdown over here. An Interweb identity crises. Some writing performance anxiety. The dreaded bloggers block.
This is what happens when I think about sh*t too much.
Allow me to explain. (Everything but the Fonze. You can figure him out for yourself.)
The blue-sky-flow-chart-question-table I have going on in my head at the moment runs something like- For whom do I blog? Why am I blogging…? Is it because I purely enjoy the writing, or because I enjoy people reading it too…? If people hated my stuff and no one read it, would I still be here? How long till everyone gets jack of me, and takes their bat and ball and goes home? Will I still hang around the ballpark if they do?
And herein, I think, lies the problem.
Don’t get me wrong- I love to blog. And I love to write. Every time I finish a post, complete one ready to publish with links and stolen piccies and tags, I get an enormous swell of satisfaction it feels really good it makes me hot all of those sound wrong, but you know what I mean. Blogging makes me happy. But if the question is- if no one was reading, would I still blog?
And… uh…. probably not.
I’ll be honest- I never started to blog as a private journal, a record for me. While I’m proud to wear both my personal blogger and mummy blogger name tags, this blog is only a teeny tiny part of me and it’s a very rare occurrence to see anything that’s too dark, or too personal, that cuts me too deep, or infringes of the privacy of people I love. I have plenty of other playgrounds for my demons to run around in. My litmus test for blog inclusion is a simple question- “would I be happy to put this on the side of a bus, or announce it from a loudspeaker in Martin Place at lunchtime?”
If the answer is yes, then I hit Publish.
Erm. I’m the honest, open type, obviously. There’s honesty and then there’s, well, honesty. I practice both.
I don’t write anything on here that I’m not happy to share publicly, or that I wouldn’t want my mother knowing, or that I wouldn’t want my children to see in 15 years time. (While we’re on that topic, I find it astonishing that anyone thinks my blog will be still be around in 15 years. I do have a relatively short attention span, and there must be a limit on the amount of crap Google cache’s).
I started my blog because I was bored and needed a hobby that wasn’t physical enough to strip away any of the remaining energy I require to hang on to my last remaining shred of sanity. But this ain’t therapy. I blog for amusement purposes only. The amusement of myself. And other people are amused, too, which is helpful. I’m narcissistic and conceited, and I bore of things easily- if people were not reading, I would not still be blogging.
But people are reading, bless you all and your little cotton socks. And I am feeling the pressure, just a wee bit. You see, part of my problem is- you people think I’m funny. I’m not sure why..? I can never tell which posts are actually funny and which posts are just funny-in-my-head-funny. I’ll have an idea for a post these days and say to myself “Is that funny? Or just dumb?” (Such as- is buying haemorrhoid cream really an amusing subject? Or is that just me…?)
I thinks I need to stop this. I think I need to go back to the ol’ school blog style- if it makes me giggle, then it’s funny. If it makes me tingle, then it’s good writing. I’m taking my lesson from B’s Letter to Her Bloggy Self, and reminding me to blog for… well.. me. Some cliches, they are cliches for a reason. And that’s cause they work.
I’m scraping in just in time with this for the Blogs With Wings Blog carnival being held at the Good Goog. Just call me a carnivaloholic. 
{ 22 comments }
Yeehaaa,
And welcome back BlogFloggers!
I must say thank you all berry much for crossing over from Mummytime last week to play here on RRSAHM. I had a fantastic time blog hopping mah way through the linky list. I laughed, cried, got clucky (not quite that clucky) and entered me a few competitions.
Now, I note there has been a wee bit of confooosion with getting the blog hop code into your post. So here is Lori’s Fail Proof Guide To Stuffing Up Your HTML TM. (See? The little ‘TM’ means that’s trademarked. Heh.)
Whatever.
If you’re on Blogger, click on the bottom of the linky list where it says “Click here to get the code” (as shown above in my super cool Picniking efforts). Copy the short code that comes up. Then, in your post editor, click on the “Edit HTML” tab (as shown below in my super cool Picniking efforts) and paste the code at the very bottom of your post. Don’t panic if you click back to “Compose” and it comes up as nothing at all, it will show up when you hit Publish Post.
If you happen to be on WordPress you’re on your own I have no freaking idea Mr McLinky tells me that this code may be a good idea…. (another Picniky thing to stop Mr Helpie Helperton Blogger converting the HTML to rich text. Sorry. Can you even copy and paste that…? I don’t know. Whatever. There is probably an easier, quicker way to do this, but I don’t know how. I can actually hear Brenda wishing she had given FYBF to someone who actually knows what they’re doing with this InterWebby thing).
Try it out, let me know how it goes. Please don’t hold me responsible if it crashes your template.
If you haven’t Flogged your Blog before, please feel free to jump on in and your link to your list. To add the button, just copy the code underneath it and add it your post, as per the directions above. If that’s all a bit too much, don’t worry about it this week and add your link anyway. OK? OK.
The whole point of it is to find cool new blogs to read, and get your blog out there to find other cool new people to read it. So what are you are standing around here gawking at me for? Grab your aviator sunnies, slap on your social-like trilby hats and get Floggy wit’ it.
The New Rules (which are kinda almost pretty much the same as the Old Rules)
- Follow my blog. (*ahem* *cough* My Blog. Me me me. Me me. You get the picture.)
- 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.
- 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).
{ 15 comments }
Nom nom,
My little Chop, at two and half has been a hardcore dummy addict for most of his life. That’s a ‘soother’ or a ‘pacifier’, I think, for the non-Aussies. The Chop was given a dummy by a midwife when he was 24 hours old. I had buzzed her, desperate- why would this small, undeniably cute but wriggling, screaming child not sleep? Surely 4 hours was a very long time for a newborn to have been awake….?
“Do you have any objections to a dummy?”
Erm… I think, maybe, I did have, at one stage. Whatever. Right now I just needed to get my exhausted, battered body and muddled mind off to sleep.
The Chop slept for three blessed hours that night, with his dummy firmly plugged in his mouth. It was one of the longest stretches of sleep he had for the next eight months. And he and his precious ‘dodie’ were, from that point on, the best of friends. When he stopped breastfeeding at fourteen months old, he got really attached to it. And after his sister was born, when he was 21 months old, it almost broke my heart to see how much he needed that comfort when my hands were otherwise full.
Despite all the very positive things his friend the dodie did for him, the Chop was showing all the signs of a serious addiction. He wanted his dummy all the time. He would get agitated if he could see it but couldn’t get to it. He’d even tell me about the adventures of his dodie when he got from Mummy’s Respite Day While The Chop Plays With The Nice Ladies At The DayCare Centre.
And me? I’m the enabler. As many dramas as the silly thing caused it if got lost, dirty, broken, or- heaven forbid- forgotten, I just couldn’t bring myself to take away the cheap, multi-colored piece of plastic that bought the little guy so much comfort.
So imagine my surprise when we picked him up from Mummy’s Respite Day and discovered he hadn’t had his dodie all day. Even for a sleep.
Hmm.
“Do you think, if the dummy fairy came and bought you a present, she could take your dodies away? You’re a big boy now, you don’t need them anymore. Maybe the fairy will take them for some babies who need them?”
The Chop looks at me. He’s sizing me up, estimating the strength of my resolve and how much bargaining room he has to wiggle around in. I’m sure of it.
“Fairy come, take dodies, bring chocolate eggs?”
OK, kid, deal-io. I can’t argue with that.
The dummy even made an appearance in our wedding photos…
Best of luck, Man, sourcing chocolate eggs at this time of year. But hey, you volunteered to fetch the bribery.
Long story, short (not… really?) the dummy fairy will be visiting us in the Purple House just as soon as the Chop wakes up from his nap, or the Man gets home from work with the required bribery supplies.
I’ll let you know how the trade off goes.
And I’m not 100% sure how I feel about trading a comfort object for food. Surely that can’t be healthy….?
I’ll have to think on that one a bit more. I’ll let you know how that goes, too.
{ 19 comments }
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Steamy Windows
Page not found
You 404’d it. Gnarly, dude.
Surfin’ ain’t easy, and right now, you’re lost at sea. But don’t worry; simply pick an option from the list below, and you’ll be back out riding the waves of the Internet in no time.
- Hit the “back” button on your browser. It’s perfect for situations like this!
- Head on over to the home page.
- Punt.
Guest Post- 'Hold Them Close Whilst Letting Go' – RRSAHM
Guest Post- ‘Hold Them Close Whilst Letting Go’
It’s been a while. But I do believe it’s come time for an occasional guest poster here on RRSAHM.
Welcome to the first. Jellybeans- meet Danielle.
***
I can remember the very first time my son, D Man, hurt himself on my watch. It was one of those split second, yet slow motion, affairs that consisted of him rolling off the bed at about 6 months old.
His fall was broken by an open cupboard door and he kind of rolled onto the floor without injury, but he got a fright and bawled, and I felt like the worst Mama ever.
He got over it in minutes, I was fine in a few hours and a glass of wine and the world kept turning. Now, barely a day goes by without some form of head injury, and for the most part they are nothing serious…..but when it is a bit more serious, and that silent scream prefaces the tears, in that instant, I know that I would take all of my child’s pain if I could and make them feel better.
I can remember my very first heart-break. I was about 11, and I’d been a rat-bag, scallywag and had been kissing Matthew Forsyth under water at the local pool, as you do.
When Matthew told everybody and I was branded a scarlet woman, I was devastated.
I remember heaving with the big sobs, whilst sitting on my mum’s partner’s lap, explaining my childish indiscretion.
His sage words of advise were along the lines of – Boys suck.
They took my heartbreak so seriously, and Mum soothed away my tears and snot, much the same as she did many times over the later years when someone had broken my heart.
One time in particular, I did not feel I would ever be OK again, and when I read Lori’s recent post about feeling normal again I was reminded deeply of this time.
It was a fairly dramatic sort of an episode whereby my de-facto boyfriend lived a double-life right under my nose. He had another girlfriend, another life and an ugly, secret drug habit, and when over a period of a month I unravelled his tangled web, he felt cornered and attempted suicide in a very dramatic, and messy fashion.
All came to a head one fateful night and come the light of dawn, sitting in St Vincent’s Hospital, I felt I would never be able to trust, love or feel normal again.
I ran home to the nest in another state, and when released from hospital he was taken away by his family and I never saw him again.
I actually couldn’t get my head around it, how my intuition could fail me so drastically and I couldn’t see what was happening, and I remember the look on my mum’s face as she watched me breaking into a million little pieces on her red chaise.
Her face said if she could, she would take it all from my shoulders, she would wear my pain like a cloak every day of her life, if it took it away from me right that instant.
That’s how I now feel about my children.
I don’t want them to ever be bullied or told they’re fat, or stupid or ugly, like kids inevitably do in the school yard.
I don’t want anyone to ever break their precious hearts, and cause that searing, breathtaking pain.
I don’t want them to break bones, or need stitches or make stupid mistakes that may land them in perilous, hot water.
With the advent of the Jill Meagher case, it’s made me realise that it’s such a big, crazy world out there and, in fact, I’d like to just ball my babies up and put them back, safe, in my womb, but I dare say that now that there’s two of them, and they don’t travel without favorite toys and gumboots, it would be a tad squishy, and frankly, I don’t think my back, or uterus for that matter, could take the strain.
I’d love to just protect them from all of life’s pain and awful bits, but in reality, of course, I can’t do that. I mean, my philosophy is that children are never actually even really ours, they’re just on loan, so by my own ethos, I crave the impossible.
I have to let them go.
Little by little, every day, I have to let them assert their independence and let them go….the letting go begins almost the second they are out of your body.
I just have to do my very best to teach them and then trust that I have given them the tools they need to navigate the oceans ahead, and that they Captain their ships wisely, whilst I stand back on the shore, ready at any time to sooth their fears and wipe their salty tears.
Another thing I must bear in mind is that all of those not-so-nice pieces, helped make the jigsaw puzzle that is me. It’s all part of the tapestry and the tough bits gave me strength of character.
Of course, I wish my children to have great strength of character, for all the best people have it in spades.
***
I am a wife, a mother, a photographic enthusiast, a kitch
en cowboy and a person who finds it easy to laugh at herself – in no particular order.
I love being a mother. Something happened the day my son was born and my capacity for love grew through the roof. I never realised your heart could exist outside your body, but it does. Now, I have two sproglets and I’m looking forward to seeing how big my heart can grow before it simply bursts.
So, without further ado, I welcome to you to the contents of my head…..and my pantry, if you’re in need of foodie inspiration.
I hope you enjoy the ride.
You can find Danielle here on her blog, FaceBook, Pinterest and the ‘Tube.
Previous post: Sucking.
Next post: A Whole Can Of Worms
Guest Post- 'Hold Them Close Whilst Letting Go' – RRSAHM
Guest Post- ‘Hold Them Close Whilst Letting Go’
It’s been a while. But I do believe it’s come time for an occasional guest poster here on RRSAHM.
Welcome to the first. Jellybeans- meet Danielle.
***
I can remember the very first time my son, D Man, hurt himself on my watch. It was one of those split second, yet slow motion, affairs that consisted of him rolling off the bed at about 6 months old.
His fall was broken by an open cupboard door and he kind of rolled onto the floor without injury, but he got a fright and bawled, and I felt like the worst Mama ever.
He got over it in minutes, I was fine in a few hours and a glass of wine and the world kept turning. Now, barely a day goes by without some form of head injury, and for the most part they are nothing serious…..but when it is a bit more serious, and that silent scream prefaces the tears, in that instant, I know that I would take all of my child’s pain if I could and make them feel better.
I can remember my very first heart-break. I was about 11, and I’d been a rat-bag, scallywag and had been kissing Matthew Forsyth under water at the local pool, as you do.
When Matthew told everybody and I was branded a scarlet woman, I was devastated.
I remember heaving with the big sobs, whilst sitting on my mum’s partner’s lap, explaining my childish indiscretion.
His sage words of advise were along the lines of – Boys suck.
They took my heartbreak so seriously, and Mum soothed away my tears and snot, much the same as she did many times over the later years when someone had broken my heart.
One time in particular, I did not feel I would ever be OK again, and when I read Lori’s recent post about feeling normal again I was reminded deeply of this time.
It was a fairly dramatic sort of an episode whereby my de-facto boyfriend lived a double-life right under my nose. He had another girlfriend, another life and an ugly, secret drug habit, and when over a period of a month I unravelled his tangled web, he felt cornered and attempted suicide in a very dramatic, and messy fashion.
All came to a head one fateful night and come the light of dawn, sitting in St Vincent’s Hospital, I felt I would never be able to trust, love or feel normal again.
I ran home to the nest in another state, and when released from hospital he was taken away by his family and I never saw him again.
I actually couldn’t get my head around it, how my intuition could fail me so drastically and I couldn’t see what was happening, and I remember the look on my mum’s face as she watched me breaking into a million little pieces on her red chaise.
Her face said if she could, she would take it all from my shoulders, she would wear my pain like a cloak every day of her life, if it took it away from me right that instant.
That’s how I now feel about my children.
I don’t want them to ever be bullied or told they’re fat, or stupid or ugly, like kids inevitably do in the school yard.
I don’t want anyone to ever break their precious hearts, and cause that searing, breathtaking pain.
I don’t want them to break bones, or need stitches or make stupid mistakes that may land them in perilous, hot water.
With the advent of the Jill Meagher case, it’s made me realise that it’s such a big, crazy world out there and, in fact, I’d like to just ball my babies up and put them back, safe, in my womb, but I dare say that now that there’s two of them, and they don’t travel without favorite toys and gumboots, it would be a tad squishy, and frankly, I don’t think my back, or uterus for that matter, could take the strain.
I’d love to just protect them from all of life’s pain and awful bits, but in reality, of course, I can’t do that. I mean, my philosophy is that children are never actually even really ours, they’re just on loan, so by my own ethos, I crave the impossible.
I have to let them go.
Little by little, every day, I have to let them assert their independence and let them go….the letting go begins almost the second they are out of your body.
I just have to do my very best to teach them and then trust that I have given them the tools they need to navigate the oceans ahead, and that they Captain their ships wisely, whilst I stand back on the shore, ready at any time to sooth their fears and wipe their salty tears.
Another thing I must bear in mind is that all of those not-so-nice pieces, helped make the jigsaw puzzle that is me. It’s all part of the tapestry and the tough bits gave me strength of character.
Of course, I wish my children to have great strength of character, for all the best people have it in spades.
***
I am a wife, a mother, a photographic enthusiast, a kitch
en cowboy and a person who finds it easy to laugh at herself – in no particular order.
I love being a mother. Something happened the day my son was born and my capacity for love grew through the roof. I never realised your heart could exist outside your body, but it does. Now, I have two sproglets and I’m looking forward to seeing how big my heart can grow before it simply bursts.
So, without further ado, I welcome to you to the contents of my head…..and my pantry, if you’re in need of foodie inspiration.
I hope you enjoy the ride.
You can find Danielle here on her blog, FaceBook, Pinterest and the ‘Tube.
Leave a Comment
{ 6 comments… read them below or add one }
-
October 12, 2012 at 12:59 am -
Wow, that's exactly how I feel about my kids. I am afraid that they'd get hurt, that they'd struggle or that they'd even have to think of adult problems when the time comes. I want to protect them forever, but I know that this is not possible and all I can do is to teach them how to survive life, then hope for the best with fingers crossed.
- October 11, 2012 at 6:17 pm
-
Your post is so helpful for us..I really enjoy this post so much..Thanks for sharing this blog for all of us..:-)
- October 11, 2012 at 12:04 am
-
This is such a beautiful post, and so true. But it's a very human thing, isn't it, to want to prevent those we love from coming to harm.
- October 9, 2012 at 8:04 pm
-
Thanks for having me! Pleased you liked it, guys. I totally agree on the kissing it better….. I hope it never stops but I've never seen a grown up do it!!!
- October 9, 2012 at 3:13 pm
-
Danielle, this is really beautiful. I love how you love your kids. And your description of feeling like you could never trust your intuition again because of all you didn't see — oh, I so get that. Get it in a very deep, primal way. That's a trust I've been learning to gain back the past couple of years. Thanks for sharing your story.
- October 9, 2012 at 2:15 pm
-
Nice one Danielle. I was just telling my sister in law that my favourite trick as a mother is the ability to kiss it all better… I can't describe the sweet warmth that comes over me when i say "is that better?" and my son stops crying and says "thanks mum"
Previous post: Sucking.
Next post: A Whole Can Of Worms
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Soul Cancer.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Soul Cancer.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Jeans and Stuff.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: You did it how many times???
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Steamy Windows
Blog This Challenge- Just Stop Getting Your Bitch On. – RRSAHM
Blog This Challenge- Just Stop Getting Your Bitch On.
Why hello there,
It’s funny that the Blog This Challenge for this week should be what it is- What would you tell your younger self, given the chance? As I mentioned, I spent the weekend at a Big Bogan Wedding, which happened to be held in the town I grew up in, where I spent my childhood. So I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting on my early years, and the people I grew up with (a lot of whom were at the wedding. It’s a small town).
The highlight of the wedding was, for me, catching up with a very old friend of mine, who, for the sake of anonymity on the seedy interweb, we will call the Silver Fox. This is him here. Please excuse the crapness of the photo, I was a bit pissed by the time the speeches came on.
The Silver Fox and I went to primary school together. We were mates. We teased each other mercilessly. We complained about boy germs and girl germs. But in actual fact, we really couldn’t get enough of each other.
When we were in Year Five, our entire year attended the Year Six formal of the year above us. Like I said, it’s a small town. They needed both years to attend just to fill up the community hall.
The Silver Fox asked me to dance. I, for some God unknown reason, got my bitch on, and turned him down. As happens with the sordid relationships of 11 year old, my ‘best friend’ stepped in to fill the void. My best mate and the Silver Fox became, for all intents and purposes, a fully fledged primary school couple. Very sweet.
A few short month later, the Silver Fox and his family relocated to the other side of the country. A couple of thousand k’s away. We kept in touch, sporadically. I’ve seen him a handful of times. Believe or not, every time I see him, the sparks still fly, the same childhood chemistry still applies. It’s just that every time I’ve seen him in the past, I get my bitch on. I can’t help it. It’s my fatal flaw- the nice guys, I’m a bitch to. The bad boys, I’m sweet as sugar.
And this time? Well, the sparks still flew, but I’m a married woman, and just not that kinda girl. And, maybe for that reason, the bitch stayed firmly locked in her box. We spent an hour talking and laughing, about old times and new ones. Then I went back to my motel room, with my husband. So, sadly, we’ll file this one under the “Could ‘ave been’s”. And take an important lesson from it.
To the younger, sillier, far more fragile and less confident Lori:- Stop being such a bitch. Be nice to those who are nice to you (but please note, teenage Lori, being nice to people and sleeping with them are not implicit). Stay away from the bad boys (except your husband- he may be a bad boy, but he’s a keeper). And if nothing else, appreciate people for what they are, without an agenda, and you may just have a better time than what you ever will being distracted by silly things like romance and insecurities.
Don’t let things fall into the “Could ‘ave been” basket. You may just regret it.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Z_liqtCu6A]You’ll always be mine, in the back of my mind…
I’ll look for you first, in my next life…
Pink, ‘The One That Got Away’
I’ll look for you first, in my next life…
Pink, ‘The One That Got Away’
Leave a Comment
{ 4 comments… read them below or add one }
- March 2, 2010 at 8:42 pm
-
Oh LORI, your blog is like therapy for me. xx
- March 2, 2010 at 8:41 pm
-
This comment has been removed by the author.
- March 2, 2010 at 3:35 pm
-
That sounds like some good advice right there – great entry!
On a side note – my nickname for my dad is the Silver Fox! I give him another year of being grey and then he'll go white, at which time he will progress to being called the Arctic Fox…. - March 2, 2010 at 2:17 pm
-
Great words of advice! And I totally know what you mean, I was the same when I was a teenager! The bad boys were so much more fun to chase, when what I really needed was the sweet good boy who I usually treated like shit!
Previous post: Blog This Challenge- It’s Votin’ Time.
Next post: Don’t You Know Who I Am?
Melted. – RRSAHM
Melted.
Last week, I missed my children.
I know that for some of you, that translated into “Blah, blah, blah…” Parents miss their children, that’s the way it’s meant to be. It’s quite likely a biological thing… if you didn’t miss them, you may just leave and never come back. You don’t miss them immediately, and most mums and dads I know thoroughly enjoy their time off… but not being with them pangs your heart, just a little, when you think of what they might be doing right now.
I think that’s the way it works, anyway. I vaguely remember it working that way. But that was in the Before.
Now, in the After, things are… different. read this with the knowledge that I know- I know how I would have felt, reading this as Before-Lori. Understanding and empathetic, but with the slightest hint of distaste and disbelief. It’s an ugly truth. But the love I feel for my children now is buried beneath my ability to cope. I love them, most definitely, that is a fact. I would die for them, throw myself in front of a moving car for them, give them whatever they needed to be nourished to live.
But that deep intensity, that pang of adoration that I think most parents still get, it’s no longer the driving factor in my parenting. It’s still there, that passion for them, it’s just sealed, protected, iced over and stored in the bottom chambers of my soul. I love my kids fiercely… but it’s driven more by that biological urge than the overwhelming love for their tiny selves that emerged with them, screaming it’s way into the world as they were born.
I am a good mum, still, I know I am, most of the time, and it’s the “most of the time” that’s important. My shrink tells me, when it comes to parenting, optimum is near impossible. No one is the perfect parent, it just isn’t a logistically workable concept.
When it comes to parenting, ‘good enough’ really is good enough. Psychologists have even put a number on it- 70 percent. If you are a good parent for at least seventy percent of the time, then your kids are going to be fine. It seems ridiculous to put an arbitrary number on something so immeasurable… but it helps.
My shrink tells me it’s OK, ‘normal’, expected to feel the way I do. I still love my children, I still find occasional enjoyment in their company, their activity, their presence… but I feel no joy. That concept, that emotional touchstone, it’s been eroded by grief and trauma and just the too-muchness of it all.
I love my kids, I live for them, I parent them as best I can. I’m not naive enough to think that they don’t know, somewhere in the part of their mind that is far too adult for them to access yet, the fact that that joy is no longer the unquenchable continual commodity it once was. But I know they feel it when it does exist, infrequently but often enough to reassure me that that warmth I once had is, slowly, thawing. Slowly.
And this weekend, I missed them. I couldn’t wait to be with them, just sloth with them and play with, relish every tiny laugh, every hug, every hair and tiny fingernail, to immerse myself in their company for the day.
And,of course, they acted like absolute little ferals; screaming, fighting, and just generally being revolting. In reverence to the rarity of missing them, I ignored most of it and coped with anything really irritating with good grace and patience for as long as I absolutely could… only to yell at them just on bathtime.
Two minutes after I’ve done my “Right, you two!! I’ve had eee-nuff!!!” act, the Chop and the Bump have forgotten it’s happened, and returned to smacking each other with soft toys. They are bathed, dressed, read to, kissed goodnight; and that awful mum-guilt follows me from room to room as I tuck them in, warm and safe.
That guilt, over losing my temper and yelling at them, watching their eyes, big and blue like mine, suddenly drop a shutter of hurt in themselves.. it haunts me as I tidy the house, settle it into darkness. I steal into their rooms, pausing as they stir, to kiss them on their soft, velvety foreheads and whisper “I love you, so, so much”.
The ritual of it alleviates, just by a tiny bit, that lingering sense of how I really should have done better.
And that’s freaking awesome.
Do you know the gravity of that, do you know what that means…? I missed my kids. I yelled at them. I crept into their rooms to say sorry and kiss them goodnight. I felt that pang, that passion, some kind of deep emotion for them.
Just the way I used to do. That ice, it’s melting.
Leave a Comment
{ 15 comments… read them below or add one }
- April 15, 2012 at 12:59 pm
-
Simply, I love this post.
- April 13, 2012 at 1:52 pm
-
Ummm, well…. yeah. I was going to say it as well & hey, you don't know me at all, but, the Wicked Witch did say it all, 'cept that Glowless got in before me . So I'm just gonna say this instead – underneath it all, you're just a big old softie. It's awesome that you're melting just as winter is coming!! I see the irony in it, I hope you do to honey.
xx - April 4, 2012 at 3:07 pm
-
Aw, you made me tear up. Happy tears, I am so honoured you share your story with us.
- April 3, 2012 at 9:54 pm
-
I know this. Trust me, your kids really will be fine.
- April 3, 2012 at 8:58 pm
-
So happy to read this Lori. Progress may be slow – but it's there! Awesome
I can relate to how you feel – I've had a very hard time bonding with my children – Sure, I'd take a bullet for them, without a doubt – but I don't *feel* the way I think other mothers feel.
I'm so happy to hear some of your joy is returning. - April 3, 2012 at 8:30 pm
-
Only because it's you can I quote the Wicked Witch of the West and say "I'm meeeelting, I'm meeeelting" and KNOW you'll laugh and not think I'm a weirdo or making fun xxx
- April 3, 2012 at 8:21 pm
-
that's good to know about the 70%. I think I might be making it to 71%.
- April 3, 2012 at 6:52 pm
-
No distaste, no disbelief. I can relate, though the circumstances are different. When I was at my sickest, during my Bipolar diagnosis, I remember trying to explain. "I know I love them. I adore Joel and Alexander and Sam. But it's more intellectual. I *know* it. But I don't always feel it, down in my gut. It's an intellectual knowledge at the moment". I got it back. And when I'm really down again, it hides away for a while.
I remember this one time, I even blogged about it. I had been so numb for so long, towards everyone. And there was a storm and Sammy was frightened. And I held him and comforted him. And for a moment there – I felt it. That deep, desperate love, like a burn through my body. It was painful even. And then it faded. But I"d felt it. I knew I'd felt it and it was a good pain.
- April 3, 2012 at 6:37 pm
-
Even now, at 66 years old, your words help me to know I was an OK mum. Thank you so much for your words xxxx
- April 3, 2012 at 5:25 pm
-
I've sensed a change in you. I tried to post a comment on your last post but couldn't find the words. But I do sense something is changing.
- April 3, 2012 at 1:13 pm
-
Such a beautiful thing to read Lori – the very many layers you have are so understandable.
Also, on a different note, very happy to read the 70% figure as it will make me a little less guilty for not being the perfect parent xx
- April 3, 2012 at 11:54 am
-
You are just teaching so many of us what really happens, Lori! I don't think most of us would guess this is what it's like, but I've learned so much from your journey, and I would imagine your words must bring reassurance to others in the same boat.
It's always a case of hearing that frustrating thing: 'it takes time…' but I can see here today that you're starting to see the fruits that time can bear, and that is so powerful.
- April 3, 2012 at 10:02 am
-
I'm glad you're melting, my love. It can be hard to go back to the old normal when pain has become the new normal. It's like your creating a whole new kind of normal, with each day that you're healing. Profound, huh? Sorry, I don't have better words right now. x
- April 3, 2012 at 9:13 am
-
Madmother said it so perfectly "A little normal has crept back into your heart my friend, so exciting. xx"
Hugs
Kimmie
xxx - April 3, 2012 at 9:01 am
-
I absolutely get what you are saying, and am doing a very unattractive happy dance in my undies, and the man next door chainsawing is wide-eyed in disbelief.
A little normal has crept back into your heart my friend, so exciting. xx
Previous post: The Garden of The Evening Star
Next post: Little Kids Wearing Make Up….
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Lucky.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Brunching With a Tweet of Bloggers.
I've run out funny titles- it's FlogYoBlog Friday!! – RRSAHM
I’ve run out funny titles- it’s FlogYoBlog Friday!!
G’day,
It’s Friday! FlogYoBlog Friday in fact. As the title of the posts suggests, I’m all out witty funny punny things to say involving flogging, cat’o’nine tails, whips and chains. If you have any suggestions, please let me know in the comments, yeah?
I am-gasp!- working this weekend at the Baby and Toddler Show. Both the Saturday and Sunday, by the looks. If you’re going to be there, drop me an email and I’ll let you know the secret location (not…really?) that I’ll be at. I would luuuurve to meet you guys. Creepy stalker types need not apply. Believe me, you will only be disappointed.
And thank you all berry, berry much for your unbridled support yesterday. You guys are the topsest. I love it when you all come out of the woodwork and give me warm fuzzy comment love and (most of you) refrain from telling me how terrible I am.
So…. do I feel a little bit of pressure now, having put it out there, in case I f*ck up and keep and fagging and disappoint you all and you decide you hate me and no one reads my blog anymore because I am still a dirty smoker?
Why, yes. Yes I do.
Whatever. Shush now, Lori and her insecurities, and give us the linky.
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
{ 17 comments… read them below or add one }
- February 3, 2011 at 3:17 am
-
You go, girl. Been reading from a distance and holding your heart close, thinking of you and your children often. Take care.
- October 2, 2010 at 3:47 am
-
I like a good fag here and there.
- October 1, 2010 at 2:16 pm
-
I quit smoking 7 years ago…it sucked. I equate it to breaking up with a serious boyfriend All you do is obsess over him for days, weeks, months…and then one day you wake up and realize you haven't thought about him (or the cigarettes) for days.
That is the best feeling. You will obsess. I did. You will mess up, I did. But, stay strong – it is possible to break the addiction!!
- October 1, 2010 at 1:38 pm
-
Good on you! Put it out there. Show the world. We don't mind if you stumble, at least you're honest and that gets my vote any day!
- October 1, 2010 at 12:55 pm
-
Putting it out there in cyberspace can only be a good thing. Good luck! You can do it. If my Mum can give up after 40+ years of smoking…so can you!
Right behind ya, hon. xxx
- October 1, 2010 at 11:35 am
-
really wishing you lots of luck on the quitting thing….I gave up in July 07….and it took forever for me to stop thinking about them but last week I was around a smoker and I could not stand the smell! Nice change from the urge to rip the fag from the smokers mouth and disappear into a hazy cloud of smoke….As trite as it sounds, only time will help to beat the cravings! keep at it!
- October 1, 2010 at 10:30 am
-
I missed your post yesterday but read it today… I gave up the cigs after 15 years of a pack a day of Marly Lights or Peter Styvo reds (hard core, that's me). My love, it was tough. Being pregnant made me not smoke at all but I thought about it every. single. day. Then, after Max was born I thought "I don't want to be a smoking mum" and that one statement was so strong in my mind that was sort of that! I still have one every now and then after a few drinks but I don't get out that much so it's not really a problem.
You've got to find your long-term reason that means more than the short-term cravings. For me it was not smoking around my children (and my children are always around!). It took a good six months to not want a cigarette anymore. That's a long time to 'stay strong' but you get there if you solidify that one important reason in your mind and make it your mantra.
Whatever happens, Lori, just never give up giving up. That's the main thing. x
- October 1, 2010 at 9:20 am
-
Well done with quitting smoking. Keep with it, it will be so worth it in the end. Mich x
- October 1, 2010 at 8:44 am
-
Go and see my BFF Uberkate at the Uberkate stall. Tell her you are Mrs Woogs mate and she said that you are entitled to a very large discount! 3 hours till takeoff! xo
- October 1, 2010 at 8:43 am
-
You funny girl. Good luck this weekend and with the quitting smoking. No easy feat.
- October 1, 2010 at 8:40 am
-
Good luck with the quitting thing.
- October 1, 2010 at 8:29 am
-
Have fun at the show
Hope it's decidedly stalker free! - October 1, 2010 at 7:50 am
-
I work better under pressure, perhaps same goes for putting it out there? Which ever way, good luck xx And thanks for always hosting this each Friday x
- October 1, 2010 at 7:39 am
-
Don't worry, it's working now. V. excited to be part of FlogYoBlog Friday. xo
- October 1, 2010 at 7:29 am
-
I am trying to enter, but the linky tool keeps telling me my link is not valid (www.maidinaustralia.com) What am I doing wrong? Love your blog, BTW, and good on you for giving up smoking!
- October 1, 2010 at 7:09 am
-
I'll be back later when there is someone new to follow. Congrats on your giving up smoking Lori. It is a good thing for you, but damn hard. You have all our support. Just tweet when you feel you need the support. xx
- October 1, 2010 at 11:16 am
-
PFFFT anyone who's tried to give up knows how bloody hard it is, so don't ever think we would judge you if you slipped. You just quit again the next day, is all!
We're your cheer squad, not your Examination Panel
Previous post: My name is Lori, and I’m a Dirty Smoker.
Next post: A Post To Make You Go “Aww!”
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: The House That Love Built.
Page not found
You 404’d it. Gnarly, dude.
Surfin’ ain’t easy, and right now, you’re lost at sea. But don’t worry; simply pick an option from the list below, and you’ll be back out riding the waves of the Internet in no time.
- Hit the “back” button on your browser. It’s perfect for situations like this!
- Head on over to the home page.
- Punt.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Rememories.
mothering
mothering
I tell my kids we’re moving to Melbourne. They react accordingly, as you would expect children to do. Between the two of them, they pinwheel through every emotion you could possibly associate with this kind of change.
The general consensus is not what I expected. The Chop is thoroughly excited, almost anxious in his anticipation. He’s entranced at the idea of living so close to the city. He is obsessed with the concept that trams drive right there on the street with the cars!!!
He works out his worries, one at a time. Will the cat come with us? Will we take everything in our house? Will he go to swimming lessons in Melbourne? (Yes; kind of; and probably, yes). To the Chop this is the ultimate adventure and he can’t wait to start a new school and meet new people.
The Bump, however, is timid and fretful. She will miss her daycare, she tells me. She will miss her friends. She doesn’t want to leave our ‘little house‘.
I’d predicted all of this, of course… It’s just that I thought it would be the other way around. That the Chop would be reluctant to leave, and the bubbly Bump ready for a new adventure in a whole new place.
Turns out, I don’t know my children as well as I thought.
I wonder how often that happens. I’m guessing it will happen more and more as my kids grow up. Their mother, walking around, sure that she understands what’s going on in their complex little minds, when she actually has no idea what they’re thinking.
{ 7 comments }
Once upon a time, my daughter had a hematoma birthmark on her forehead.
The birthmark first appeared when the Bump was about three weeks old. It grew bigger and darker until she was about five months old. Being just above her eyebrow, and a deep raspberry colour, it became the source of much discussion among family, friends, and strangers. Every few days I found myself defending her, reiterating over and over that it wasn’t permanent. That it would disappear by the time the Bump went to school. That even if it didn’t, no one would notice or care. That I wasn’t going to have it removed.
It got to the point where I started telling people that the Bump’s birthmark was an in-utero scar from where I’d burnt myself with a hair straightener, right on my forehead, in the last few months of my pregnancy. That was a strange enough response to make most well-meaning but condescending people stop talking.
I remember being so frustrated by it all. So alarmed at the world I was bringing children into, where a three month old baby’s physical appearance was already treated like a commodity. I wondered if the reactions and suggestions would have been different, had she been a boy.
It’s all kind of irrelevant now, anyway. At almost four years old, the Bump’s birthmark has faded to the point where I forget, often, that it used to be there at all. It’s still slightly raised. You can spot it if you’re really looking for it and you brush her wispy, messy hair of her face first. But the vivid colouring has faded almost completely, just like the specialist said it would. (But what would he know, really? Ha.)
I still don’t understand why it was such a big deal in the first place. My fairy girl is beautiful. With or without her birthmark. Just the way she is.
{ 11 comments }
Given my son’s (and, admittedly, my own) slight obsession with everything Wiggle, you would think that we would have sussed out the ‘new’ Wiggles line-up by now. We haven’t. It’s not so much a matter of preferring vintage Wiggles to contemporary Wiggles. It’s more been a matter of access. I know that there are a new batch of replacement Wiggles. I know one of them is a girl. I know it’s possibly sexist of me to even mention that (checking my privilege, and all that jazz).
I just haven’t seen them perform. And it’s kind of difficult to imagine.
Anyway. Curiosity got the better of me when I was offered a Wiggle interview over the phone, to promote their performance at the launch of the new-look Westfield Eastgardens.
I speculate slightly on Twitter over which Wiggle I will get to talk to. I doubted it would be Anthony. To be quite honest, if I were him, I’d pass the phone interview jobs to the plebs, too. Simon, the new Red Wiggle, was probably too famous for the likes of me, too. And he would have left me slightly starstruck with his booming, overly-projectable voice. So that left the relatively unknown factors of Emma, the new yellow Wiggle, or Lachlan, the new purple Wiggle.
When the call came in, it was the purple Wiggle on the phone. Lachlan became the purple Wiggle in 2012, taking over from Jeff. He was a lovely bloke and really enthusiastic and passionate about what the Wiggles do. And he answered my annoying questions in order for me to put this together.
The RRSAHM Guide To The New Wiggles.
While I keep calling him a ‘new Wiggle’ (sorry Lachy) Lachlan’s actually been in the Wiggle-verse for a while. In 2009, he was a struggling musical theatre actor working at a Bakers Delight in Melbourne. He got word of auditions being held in Sydney to play the part of Captain Feathersword for the Dorothy Show. He jumped on a plane, and a week later he was in Auckland, on stage with Wiggle Productions.
Fairy Clarissa drives the Big Red Car. Once upon a time, Emma the yellow Wiggle was Fairy Clarissa on the Dorothy the Dinosaur Show. Being the yellow Wiggle, and the Wiggles checking their own privilege, Emma drives the Big Red Car. Which she is suited for, because she used to be a champion rally car driver when she was younger (Really. How cool is that?).
American Wiggles fans dress up far more than we do. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing… or a bad one.
Lachy accidentally mistook a boy for a girl at one of the Wiggles shows, because the boy was wearing the new yellow Wiggle’s trademark yellow bow on his head. Lachy promises it wont happen again, and thinks it’s awesome that kids see no difference between the ‘boys’ costume, and the ‘girls’ costume.
The Wiggles have a song about everything. Everything. But their favorite song to perform is Rock Your Bear. Because watching little tiny kids trying to do the actions is just so adorable (agreed).
The purple Wiggle still falls asleep all.. the … time. As it turns out, it’s the purple skivvy that’s the problem, not some awful undiagnosed medical condition.
4000 out of 8000 kids can’t tell the difference. Around half the audience still yell “Wake up, Jeff!” instead of “Wake up, Lachy!”. And Lachy, being the lovely guy he is, doesn’t mind at all. But he’s hoping the new Wiggles TV show, coming to Australia in September, will fix that. Because, having seen them in action, we’ll finally be able to pick all four Wiggles out of a colored skivvy line-up again.
***
And that’s that. The new Wiggles, wrapped up. Kind of. Just to let you know, I haven’t been paid for this post. I just thought it would be kind of cool to talk to a Wiggle, and provide you all with a Wiggle-love cheat sheet. And I’ve got a handful of DVD’s to be won, too. (Read on).
If you want to see the new Wiggles live, they are performing on Monday 22 July as part of five days of events (running July 18-22) to celebrate the launch of the new-look of Westfield Eastgardens. Lachy tells me that the atmosphere at these live shopping centre performances is brilliant. I’m going to assume he’s telling the truth.
If you can’t make it to Westfield and you’d still like to get acquainted with the new Wiggles, I’ve got five copies of the Wiggles Furry Tales on DVD to be won. Just fill in the form and tell me- Could you pick the new Wiggles out of a line-up? Are your kids fans, or not? (I know, I know… it’s Sam versus Greg all over again).
The closing date is midnight AEST Wednesday 24th July, and the winners will be drawn and contacted by email soon after. You’ve gotta have a valid email address to go with your entry, mmmkay? This one’s open to Australian residents only (sorry again, OS readers). The answers that tickle my pickle at the time of the comp being drawn win. No bitching, whinging, nor circle-jerking shall be entered into.
{ 8 comments }
Lucky. – RRSAHM
Lucky.
I am so jealous, of everyone.
I dropped a friend of mine home a few days ago, and watched as she entered her house. Where her husband and children were waiting. The house lit and alive and warm.
The house I come home to is cold and dark as I bundle my children inside. It warms soon, with light and laughter. But it is up to me to do that.
I miss the feeling of coming home to safety and security, the home fires burning. Ever since January, all I’ve wanted to do is go home, where it’s safe, and escape all this pain for awhile.
***
I miss being married. It was never a huge thing for me- “It’s just a piece of paper.” It wasn’t until I got married myself that I realised it was so much more.
That was one of first things that hit me, about losing Tony- I was no longer someone’s wife. I was no longer one of those special women, so loved and adored that someone wanted them all to themselves.
I loved referring to Tony as ‘my husband’, and he loved calling me his wife. (“You know what I always remember him saying, about you? Laughing and saying ‘Fuck, I love my wife’”, says one of Tony’s friends). We loved the idea of being married, that actuality of it… we adored each other.
***
“I will spend the rest of my life, waiting to die, so I can see him again. I’ll never find anyone I love that much again.”
“I know,” says my best friend. “I know…. you were the best of mates, when you weren’t fighting.”
And we were. Even I do ever find someone else…. I think I may have lost my soul mate for good.
***
I phone to organise insurance for my new house. Finance? asks the women on the phone. No, I say, I will own it outright. Isn’t that fabulous, says the woman. She works for LifeLine, she tells me, and mortgage stress is so common, to be my age with a house to my own is just marvelous.
Lucky, maybe. But it certainly doesn’t feel that way.
Stuff the house. Fuck all of it.
I’ll trade it. For one more minute, one more second, laying in my husband’s arms.
Leave a Comment
{ 25 comments… read them below or add one }
- September 14, 2011 at 2:44 am
-
… again i so appreciate your honesty. Gets me more in line to do that myself. My hope is it helps you more than it helps all of us to "hear" your words (and not necessarily what you say but that you say what is true and meaningful)…
I have that connection with my husband and I don't feel particularly fearful of losing him. In fact I feel less fearful overall knowing I would survive. I dont' ever want to experience that but I could survive.
Meanwhile I appreciate him more… I look at my 5 kids and adore them too but i realize what makes it all possible is the man who stands next to me every day as we forge on.
- September 8, 2011 at 10:35 am
-
This post brought tears to my eyes, as many of your other posts have too. If only people knew when they say how "lucky" you are -I imagine I wouldn't survive if I lost my husband. I put myself in your shoes and I think, fuck, life sucks. You are an inspiration, an amazing woman, who is only human and who doesn't have to pretend to be strong. You're incredible to keep fighting – for you and your children. Kath xx
- September 8, 2011 at 7:26 am
-
Life has a cruel way of making us realise that material things really dont matter. Once upon a time I'd had assumed being mortgage free would be amazing. Now I'll think of your words and focus on the things that truly count in my world.
Thinking of you always x
- September 8, 2011 at 7:21 am
-
Hi Lori. I think of you always and send you and your kids love…always. I saw The Age article online and your darlings' real names – gorgeous, made me feel a little closer to you somehow. Anyway, I just wanted to say I kinda, sorta, a little bit can relate (but obviously not to the enormity of it) to your feelings when the insurance woman said you were 'lucky to own your house'. Last Christmas I was suffering terribly with PND. I was only just holding it somewhat together – as it turns out I would seek meds & psych therapy 2 weeks later. Anyway, a woman in a baby change room was chatting to me – "Oh your first Christmas as a family, you must be over-the-moon!" she exclaimed. "Oh I remember OUR first Christmas, it was so exciting and special, OH you LUCKY thing – enjoy". Lovely things to say. Well-meant. FUCK, FUCK FUCK it hurt. Hugs. Bean's Mummy (Chris) xx
- September 7, 2011 at 10:01 pm
-
Hi Lori,
Have been a lurker for some time. Today is the first time I have felt I wanted to comment. It IS all about perspective and often we forget that. Sometimes we may say something quite innocently and either our heart drops and we know that in that instant what our words mean, and that they were in no way meant to be traumatic for the other person, or due to circumstances we have no idea of our words have (for the most part) innocently caused pain to another. My wish is that I had a chance to have a husband and be a mother. But it didn't happen. I don't think I'm particularly ugly, I don't have a personality disorder, and I'm not particularly career minded. I grieve something I never actually had and at the age of 49 that's not going to happen. I keep telling myself that that's stupid. I come home to an empty house every night, and I don't think I'll ever get used to that the way people say I should. But my comment is not about tit for tat, your husband died in circumstances I could not even begin to understand. Neither could I nor anyone understand your grief, it is about perspective. Totally. I hope this isn't taken the wrong way, it's not meant to be about one person's grief being worse than anothers. But it's totally about perspective. I suppose in a long winded way I just wanted to say I sorta get it – perspective I mean. Erika
- September 7, 2011 at 9:06 pm
-
Praying for you and yours as you prepare for the big move. Hope things go smoothly.
- September 7, 2011 at 4:48 pm
-
Hey there.
I remember that. Only it wasn't my husband that died, but my ex – and the envy of someone else having something that once you had and lost (however it was lost) is very raw, even 10 years on.
My biggest thing is knowing that there is no-one out there that shares my memories of the great love story that we had any more. I have my daughter, but on days like today (which is our "anniversary"), even though I have moved on and am now married with another child, I still have pangs.
- September 7, 2011 at 12:24 pm
-
Hugs – just hugs. x
- September 7, 2011 at 10:31 am
-
Just sending ((hugs)) and hoping they help get you through yet another day.
- September 7, 2011 at 8:15 am
-
We are lucky, you're so right. Joel and I feel the same way about marriage. I know so many say it's just a piece of paper. But it is so much more to us. Always was. I've never taken it for granted, but you've made me cherish it just that little bit more. A reaffirmation.
And you're right. The house is all well and good, but without your husband, it'll just be a house for now. I pray some day it feels like more.
- September 7, 2011 at 8:01 am
-
Across the wide wide ocean, I think each day of you and the kids and send my strength to you and appreciate your raw honesty.
- September 7, 2011 at 7:08 am
-
Its throwaway comments like that last one, from people who dont know any different, that can niggle the most.
Chin up lori, and soldier on – we're all behind you… - September 6, 2011 at 11:22 pm
-
I know THAT to be the truth!
- September 6, 2011 at 10:23 pm
-
Hi. I just wanted to say thank you. I used to follow your bog religiously. I used to write my own blog fairly religiously.
I fell out of it for over a year due to my own anxiety, depression, fibromyalgia, on, and on, and on….
Lately everything has been bad. The depression. The Anxiety. The Pain. THE. PAIN! I don't know how to live like this.
Lately, I have found myself wanting to hurt myself. I have a lot of pills. It would be easy with a great big glass of water. No one would have to know.
But then I think about them. My family. What would they do without me? Who would protect my kids from this big, scary world? Who would make sure the dogs got let out 5 billion times a day? Who would make sure the husband had dinner to eat. God knows he can't cook for himself.
So then, I don't. I don't hurt myself. I ask my husband or my oldest child to put my pills up. My husband always asks why. I'm honest. The oldest child asks too…I have to lie.
I couldn't read everything that has happened to you since January. It makes me feel like I'm going to have an anxiety attack.
But that's good. And I thank you.
I thank you for making me think.
I will continue thanking you when I have to stop and think in the future.
I will come back to your blog and read the rest.
I feel your pain. But only from the opposite side. Almost.
I thank you for being so open and raw and honest.
I know my friends and family and all my loved ones would thank you too.
- September 6, 2011 at 9:29 pm
- September 6, 2011 at 9:27 pm
-
Lori I think I know how you feel.
In June I wrote this post…http://theserendipitycafe.blogspot.com/2011/06/sometimes-late-at-night.html
Houses, money, stuff, at the end of the day for me they would mean nothing of I could not curl up next to Heartpoet at the end of each day.
Hugs
Kimmie
xxx - September 6, 2011 at 9:18 pm
-
Luck is one of those horrible things that can be ironic as well as true. Yeah, it is lucky. And it's also the most unfucking lucky thing in the world.
Your new home…well, yes you have to be the one to light the fire for now….but the good news is you HAVE the ability to do it.
xoxo Holly
- September 6, 2011 at 9:15 pm
-
It's easy to say it's better to have loved blah blah but the truth is that it bites big time. I wish that you had the chance to create more moments
- September 6, 2011 at 9:09 pm
-
Shit, I wish I knew something useful to say Lori. All I can do is send you my love and support xx
- September 6, 2011 at 8:56 pm
-
So shit that you can't wake up like that again. Hugs x
- September 6, 2011 at 8:53 pm
-
I don't know what to say, but still here reading away and wanted to send u a big hug, u are doing an amazing job and if u ever need anyone to talk to, i'd be honoured to help.
xx - September 6, 2011 at 8:51 pm
- September 6, 2011 at 8:48 pm
-
Tonight I will hug my husband a little tighter, just because of the last line of this post. As always, you speak of such unbearable truth and feeling. Thankyou for sharing with us, and please know that there are so many people out there, who don't know you at all, but still think of you every day.
- September 7, 2011 at 12:29 am
-
You know, my knee-jerk reaction was to agree with Terri up there – you were lucky that at least you had that for a while, even if you had to lose it in such a horrible, horrible way. I know I've never known that kind of a connection with anyone and I'd give my right arm to. It does make me wonder, though – if you have to lose it like you did, is it worth it? Is it worth it to know what it's like to love and be loved THAT MUCH if it's only going to be ripped away from you? Again, my knee-jerk reaction is "yes." But, I just don't know. I'm at the point where I'm starting to realize it's fruitless to try to find the answers. Just when you think you have one, you're shown another side, another angle that renders you wrong.
All of which is to say no human being should have to go through this, and I'm still so sorry that it happened to you. (((HUG)))
- September 6, 2011 at 8:56 pm
-
You WERE lucky, Lori — too many people go all their lives without knowing that connection.
With all my heart I wish he could come back to you.
xx
Previous post: Daydreams.
Next post: All This Stuff
Internet Archive Wayback Machine
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: F*ck.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Muse Wars- Challenge Eight
January 6th, 2012. Ashes. – RRSAHM
January 6th, 2012. Ashes.
I didn’t realize how terrified I was of today until I wake up and it crashes in on me… This is it. Come 2:34pm– give or take a minute or two, but not much– and I’ve lived a whole year as this strange, strong, almost–Lori person.
The day before today was Tony’s birthday; and I pack my kids and my car and one of my best mates and we head to Paradise. We walk on the beach in the cool afternoon light and I whisper ‘Happy birthday, babe, I love you‘ into the salty spray.
I am an ugly, acidic, frothing mess come Friday morning. I pull myself reluctantly from slumber, only to fall asleep again on the lounge an hour later. There is something not quite right with me… Who can sleep for ten hours, then sleep again an hour later? Someone who is running from the world, who prefers the black warmth of a dreamless sleep to reality. Someone like me.
We spread Tony’s ashes in a beautiful place almost a year ago, and that is where I will be today. No greatly significant reason… This place is not special to me as it was to him, I don’t feel him any closer to him here than I do when I’m curled up alone at night. I just don’t want to do today, and I don’t want to visit the spot where my husbands ashes were carried out to sea. So I may as well get it all over with at once.
***
I consider attempting to explain this to my son… But how do you explain the concept of ashes to a four year old? How do you tell a child that this is their father’s resting place when you’re not one hundred percent sure of their grasp of psychical realities, of someone being dead and not moving back?
It hurts, to be the bad guy all the time. Other people talk to him about his daddy, but I’m always the one who has to reiterate that he is not coming back. I’m the one who has the job of extinguishing simple, normal childhood flights of fancy when the Chop comes to me with hope all over his face– “Mum, Mickey and Donald have a rocket on the TV and it went all the way up to space!! Could they go to heaven, and then cone back again?”
How do you think it feels, to have to answer that question?
In the end, I decide that the whole ashes thing is just too much, for both my little man and I. There’s plenty of time for that… Years of question ahead of me, years of confusing, heart breaking answers to give.
***
It’s difficult to hate a place that is so breathtaking.
The bay where Tony’s ashes are spread is tiny. It’s a ten kilometer drive in there, on a corrugated dirt road, through a weapons range that’s still in use.
It’s worth it.
You follow the signs to whatever particular beach you’re heading to, tiny dirt tracks that sneak off into what appears to be miles of scrubland. Have faith, follow the road, and it tapers off into a cluster of campsites, not as full right now as they would normally be come January– the weather has simply not been warm enough.
Park your car, grab your children, your camera, all your bits and pieces, and wear your shoes for the walk down to the bay– it’s a stroll but rough, gravel and sticks and banksia bits lie along the path, litter the wooden steps that have been planked there for your assistance.
You’ll hear it, the waves, and smell the salt before you see it.
And suddenly the scrub opens up onto the next closest thing to Paradise… This looks like Heaven, as my husband would have imagined it.
It’s a huge round of crystal clear, green water. The sand is so soft and fine and it curves almost the entire way around this naturally conceived wonder, right up until it meets rocky outcrops, two of them positioned at ten o’clock and two o’clock on the far side of the bay. Between the rocky outcrops is the ocean.. It rushes in and out, filling the bay with clear salty water, but the gap in between the rocks is only a few meters wide… It breaks the waves, and any swell that does make it through are tiny shore rollers without even a peak of angry foam.
The entire bay and beach is no more than 500 meters wide. It is low tide today– last time, the day we spread his ashes, we did it at high tide, spreading handfuls of them that looked like green sand into the water from a rock that pokes it’s head out of the middle of that green, crystal expanse. I was crying and laughing as I cursed Tony’s name, because he knew how much I hated the cold water, and the ocean was freezing.
But today the water is shallow. It’s still cold– far too cold for me to venture in– but my children never notice and splash for hours in the sparkling water. My son can walk, unaided, almost directly across the middle of the bay, and the water is no higher than his waist.
It is quiet here, peaceful and secluded and beautiful. This was Tony’s favorite place to be as a kid, his family has been coming here for generations. As the crow flies it’s only twenty kilometers from where I grew up, in my own Paradise. We used to get milkshakes from the same old–fashioned cafe in the nearest Big City Town, and that has an odd comfort to it. It took us another 25 years to find each other, but we were there all along. The sights and sounds and smells of our childhood where the same… We lived the same reality. Just separately.
***
I am grateful I don’t have to drive home… I am exhausted, my head hurts and my body is aching. I lay back in the sunshine and close my eyes and half doze, drifting in and out of sleep… One eye opening balefully every now and then, to check the ticking advancement of the clock.
At about 2pm– when I could have, would have, changed things, given half the chance again– I let out a tiny, involuntarily wail and squeeze my hands shut into fists. The only way I can explain the next half an hour is hot… An ugly, fetid, green heat that smells of rotting things. I live through that half an hour all over again, for the trillionth time. I try to remember details, words, timelines… Things I know I have forgotten from that afternoon, because they just don’t bear remembering. (“Was then when he put the rope around his neck, Mrs D?” The police woman is lovely but her partner is a plastic copper, young and green and he has tears in his eyes and I want to slap him.)
Some things, they’re best left forgotten.
The flashbacks, that awful heat, is begins to recede as I watch the clock tick past… 2:34 pm (his shirt beneath my hand); 2:37 pm (my neighbor shaking his head, saying “Call an ambulance”); 2:42 pm (my son, confused and half asleep, deposited into my lap). By 3pm that ghost who wanders the lane way behind the Purple House, she’s on her way to the hospital, to the Quiet Room. My heart slows. My headache is gone. I am exhausted, depleted, shell shocked all over again.
But I have done 365 whole days inside my ow
n personally tailored hell.
And I have survived.
Leave a Comment
{ 46 comments… read them below or add one }
- February 23, 2012 at 4:33 am
- January 30, 2012 at 9:18 pm
-
Flashbacks suck and surviving is hard work.
- January 11, 2012 at 2:26 pm
-
Goosebumps…. You have the most amazing ability to write as if we can feel your pain, your heartache as if its on the tip of our own tongue.
Have been thinking of you but been so absent from the online world sorry. I just wanted to extend a belated wish of continued strength to you,amazing Lori. 365 days thatno doubt kicked your ass but you kicked right back, best you could. You really are a true survivor xx
- January 10, 2012 at 11:46 pm
-
Kepp on keeping on Lori. You're courage is amazing xxxxx
- January 10, 2012 at 8:04 pm
-
I've had this page open since yesterday. I had to refresh it so I could post.
But I still don't know what to say.
So I'll send you kisses & huggles instead xoxoxo
- January 11, 2012 at 2:48 am
-
Tony's resting place is truly, one of the most beautiful places on our planet…
It is a childhood stomping ground for my daughter, me, my mother & my grandparents.
It is even more special to me now, because of YOU Lori, you & your Tony…
Tony, my friend, I have known since I was so very young…
Now, due to your tribute, your unstinting love & loyalty, I feel I know Tony more now, than I did then…
Thank you Lori. You are beautiful. xxxx
I know for a fact that Tony loved you so very much… he told me so. It was just after the birth of 'The Bump'…
- January 10, 2012 at 7:02 am
-
x
- January 10, 2012 at 1:05 am
-
You are a survivor and you will keep going. Love to you all xx
- January 10, 2012 at 12:48 am
-
One foot in front of the other, breathe in. Breathe out.
You did survive. You survived and managed to keep 2 other little people going as well.
And right now, for now? Surviving will do. A time will come when it feels like something a little more. One foot in front of the other. Breathe in. Breathe out.
- January 9, 2012 at 11:48 pm
-
*hugs*
- January 9, 2012 at 11:24 pm
-
You're doing it Lori. Every single step. x
- January 9, 2012 at 11:21 pm
-
You made it. You are amazing. You never have to do any "firsts" again. So much love to you and your littles. xoxox
- January 9, 2012 at 10:52 pm
-
These are the hard days. There will be more, but not as hard as this day. and you survived it. XA
- January 9, 2012 at 8:40 pm
-
well done getting through the last year, you rock. Can't imagine just how hard its been, although its a year since I have been reading here too – followed a link on another blog I read when they asked for bloggers to come and support you. And I'm so fucking proud of you for it all, although I know, one step at a time, surviving and self-preserving
- January 9, 2012 at 8:28 pm
-
Wow Lori
That was amazing, and you are amazingly strong.
You did it. 365 days, and you'll continue to do it. One day at a time.
Thinking of you - January 9, 2012 at 8:20 pm
-
And for now, surviving is enough. Keep on keeping on Lori, we're all here with you xx
- January 9, 2012 at 8:04 pm
-
You have touched so many people with your honesty and resilience. I'm sure you dont always feel brave but you are an incredible soul.
Thank You for sharing.
Hugs.
Ann Anon
- January 9, 2012 at 7:15 pm
-
You aren't just a survivour Lori. You're a warrior. x
- January 9, 2012 at 6:52 pm
-
Beautiful, sad, courageous. I've never met you but you are one of my heroes. A large world of people are better off because of your words. Thinking of you today and abiding with you.
- January 9, 2012 at 5:41 pm
-
I think you have done much more than merely survived. It might not feel like it though, I realize.
xxx - January 9, 2012 at 5:36 pm
-
With you, Lori.
xx - January 9, 2012 at 5:34 pm
-
Much love and much strength to you my friend.xxx
- January 9, 2012 at 4:16 pm
-
You made it through the day. I'm proud of you. Keep strong, you can keep making it.
- January 9, 2012 at 3:50 pm
-
You have lived through the first 365 days. I am so proud of you.
- January 9, 2012 at 3:16 pm
-
Been thinking about you so much. It sounds like a lovely resting place. Love and peace to you.
- January 9, 2012 at 12:46 pm
-
They say that the first year is the hardest. After you get through all the firsts you know you can survive. I don't think that means the pain is gone just slightly more tolerabe as time goes on.
Thinking of you.
- January 9, 2012 at 12:22 pm
-
You are doing it, Lori. x
- January 9, 2012 at 11:33 am
-
I think your instincts about the ashes concept is right on the money. I think if you keep listening to your instinct, that's the best you can do.
What a gut wrenching time of year for you though! I wish I had a fast forward button I could hit for you.
- January 9, 2012 at 11:30 am
-
I have no words. Nothing I say will ease your pain. But I want you to know that I am reading with a clench on my heart and so much love for you and the kids.
- January 9, 2012 at 11:23 am
-
You are the most amazing and inspiring person Lori! Sending so much love to you and your two beautiful children. Continue the fight hun xxx
- January 9, 2012 at 11:14 am
-
I don't really know what to say…
You survived this year. You are such a strong, wonderful person.
Thanks for sharing.
Fine
- January 9, 2012 at 10:17 am
-
No matter how you feel you are a strong and always honest woman and I love reading your blog for that reason. Hugs to you and your children. May 2012 be easier for you.
- January 9, 2012 at 9:54 am
-
My goodness sweetie…as ever your strength, grace and honesty leaps from the page. Thinking of you, today and always.
- January 9, 2012 at 9:20 am
-
You are incredible.
- January 9, 2012 at 9:00 am
-
You did it lovely. Thinking of you xx
- January 9, 2012 at 8:56 am
-
Your strength in the face of tragedy is laudable and inimitable. Thanks for sharing your journey with us.
- January 9, 2012 at 8:49 am
-
You are amazing. that is all
- January 9, 2012 at 8:47 am
-
You are indeed a surviver Lori x
- January 9, 2012 at 8:40 am
-
You did it. Much love. xx
- January 9, 2012 at 8:38 am
-
You. Have. Survived. xx
- January 9, 2012 at 5:38 pm
-
you know I have been holding you in my heart and thoughts these past days.
whether or not this is the right time to say this I have to say it – your writing becomes more and more beautiful- the way you write reminds me somehow of Tim Winton's.
xxx
- January 9, 2012 at 5:32 pm
-
Hugs Lori xx You have made it through a whole year. I hope this year and the ones the follow you can find some peace. Have been thinking of you x
- January 9, 2012 at 2:16 pm
-
You did it. You ARE doing it. You will get there x
- January 9, 2012 at 12:08 pm
-
I wish at the very least that his death hadn't been so violent, Lori.
You have all these terrible images in your heart and mind, and what do you do with them? I would imagine there'd be a million complicated reasons why you don't want to share them with Other People, but I hope you have a place to put them because no-one should have to hold onto those.
Like everyone who's watched you on this journey, I hope for you that this next 12 months is easier. That there is peace and joy and laughter, and love. That above all.
xx - January 9, 2012 at 10:47 am
-
Beautiful Lori. I hope the next 12 months aren't as raw for you. Much love xx
- January 9, 2012 at 9:42 am
-
My body is covered in goosebumps. I adore you and your strength and your comittment to your kids and your future. It is bright my little clown xx
Previous post: Do These Jellybeans Make My Blog Look Big?
Next post: There’s No Such Thing As Trauma.
{ 6 comments… read them below or add one }
Wow, that's exactly how I feel about my kids. I am afraid that they'd get hurt, that they'd struggle or that they'd even have to think of adult problems when the time comes. I want to protect them forever, but I know that this is not possible and all I can do is to teach them how to survive life, then hope for the best with fingers crossed.
Your post is so helpful for us..I really enjoy this post so much..Thanks for sharing this blog for all of us..:-)
This is such a beautiful post, and so true. But it's a very human thing, isn't it, to want to prevent those we love from coming to harm.
Thanks for having me! Pleased you liked it, guys. I totally agree on the kissing it better….. I hope it never stops but I've never seen a grown up do it!!!
Danielle, this is really beautiful. I love how you love your kids. And your description of feeling like you could never trust your intuition again because of all you didn't see — oh, I so get that. Get it in a very deep, primal way. That's a trust I've been learning to gain back the past couple of years. Thanks for sharing your story.
Nice one Danielle. I was just telling my sister in law that my favourite trick as a mother is the ability to kiss it all better… I can't describe the sweet warmth that comes over me when i say "is that better?" and my son stops crying and says "thanks mum"