Monthly Archives: May 2016
My Anonymous Form Spring Admirer – RRSAHM
My Anonymous Form Spring Admirer
Beep beep,
Those among you who’ve been paying attention (straighten up, there at the back, there will be a pop quiz on this later) will quite possibly recall that a wee while back I started a FormSpring account. It’s a place where people can ask me random, anonymous questions. That I will answer. Most of the time. I have started deleting the ones about my eyesight (eh?) because that just got annoying.
It seems, however, FormSpring has another purpose entirely. It’s given my anonymous admirer an outlet. Which is awesome. I didn’t even know I had an anonymous admirer until I invented FormSpring.
Here are a selection of questions, all left by my admirer. I’m assuming. This post contains a lot of sweeping assumptions and mass generalisations, OK? I’m assuming all these questions came from the one Admirer. Because anyone “Anonymous” gets read in the same bland voice in my head, and therefore my subconscious believes it is all said by the same person. So, if you are my Admirer and not the writer of the questions- or, if you wrote these questions and are not my Admirer- or, if I have two Admirers and are getting you pair confused (how quaint!) please let me know. These kind of things happen when everyone is anonymous.
Righto. Glad we’ve got that sorted. Where was I? Ahh, yes, anonymous questions from the Admirer!!
Cute, yes? And only a little bit odd. Made my day, I tell you! Oh yes. I may be sitting around in my daggy trackie pants taking salt baths but someone thinks I’m a dirty big spunk. Yay!!!
Unfortunately, I think my anonymous admirer may have actually had a somewhat grandiose, jellybean-tinted image of how I am, in real life. I’m not sure how this is occurred. I actually thought I was fairly transparent..? Maybe not. Because the next anonymous question I got- so long it was split into five questions– asked this….
The scenario. You are at David Jones in City a few years ago, in the days when they had lift attendants. You’re ‘On Seven’ checking out the overpriced chic LBDs, that when you tried on you steamed up the change room mirror. You decide to head downstairs …..to the basement and head over to the Food Hall to have some oysters, followed by some King Island Dairy Black Label Blue Triple Cream and washed down with a Tatachilla Cabernet Sauvignon. In your new LBD and high heals, you walk over to the elevators….’On Seven’ and press the down button. While waiting, you look in the mirrors on the lift doors and remind yourself how hot you look today. ‘Ding’. Elevator 2 arrives and doors slide open as you daintily walk over. As you approach the open door you notice… the most exotically gorgeous man you have ever set your eyes upon. He looks slowly checks you out from head to toe. You check him out from head to pelvis. You notice there is no one else waiting for the elevator, and he is the only person inside the…..elevator. Your heart starts to beat fast and your lips gently part. He then says in a Scandinavian accent, “Going down?”. What do you do? Take the elevator, or turn around and use the escalators?
Hmm. Lost of time and effort there. It’s only fair, really, to ensure that I answer as honestly as possible.
Well, one must appreciate the time that goes into a question such as this one. But there are a few minor details that just don’t add up. Such as it’s highly unlikely you’d catch me in a dress and heels. Am I on my way to a wedding? Funeral…? No….? A new pair of jeans and some Chuck Taylors then, please. And I can’t stand wine. Or seafood. The cheese i could go on, you serve it with crackers, right…? And why do I only look down to his pelvis…? Does this man have no legs….?
Anyhoo, to actually answer the question you’re asking- really, I think the only thing one could do in this situation would be… well, to be honest, I’d just about kill myself laughing. And then take the stairs.
And there you have it, folks. Quite surprisingly, I haven’t heard from my anonymous admirer again. Pity. I think perhaps he figured out I’m just not his type of chick. Totally his loss, people. Plenty more fishies in the FormSpring sea…
Previous post: So, you wanna know what’s painful…?
Next post: Flog Yo Blog Black Friday
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Things I just do not get….
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Things I just do not get….
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Internet Dating 105- What Not To Do.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Internet Dating 105- What Not To Do.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Fuck You Too.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Falling Into Place
Speak.
Speak.
This is a slightly less cranky Lori. Hi.
I’ve had a couple of requests to blog the speech I made at Tony’s funeral. So here it is. It is probably not verbatim, because i didn’t write anything down. I just spoke, and spoke the truth.
In all this fucked up mess, this is something I am proud of. I spoke, and spoke well. I did it without a script, and without anyone holding my hand.
For such a tiny chick, I kick arse.
I don’t know what to say up here. I don’t know what i’m doing here. But i spoke at our wedding, and I must speak now.
I was going to tell you all what a great bloke Tony was, what a great father he was, but you all already know that, or you’ll hear it today. What i can tell you is that Tony was such a great husband. He loved me, and our kids, so much. He took care of us. And he was big, and strong, and protected us.
And we loved being married. We loved being husband and wife. A lot of people say it’s just a piece of paper, but it’s not. We were so happy to be together like that. I am so proud that he choose me to be his wife.
Tony took care of everyone. all the time. He was so busy taking care of everyone else, he didn’t speak out when something ws wrong.
And this is what you can do for me, for Tony, when you leave here today. All you men, you big men. When you walk away from here, you speak. If something is wrong, if something hurts, then you talk about. Tony was so busy taking care of everyone else, he didn’t care take of himself. So after this, you speak.
All you men, you think you’re big and tough and strong. You’re not.
And thank you all so much for coming. It makes me smile, to see how many people loved my Tony as much as I did.
Leave a Comment
{ 111 comments… read them below or add one }
-
December 30, 2012 at 3:11 pm -
After reading your latest Christmas post, I went back to read some more. Finding out how Tony died, and the things that led up to it, has hit home.
I haven't really touched on this in my blog, as I'm not sure who knows I have it, and who reads it. Reading through some of your posts, I could have been reading about my life for the last 4 months. The unexplained anger, the hatred. A total stranger in my home. The last fight, after all the vile things he said to me, I wouldn't let him back in. That is, until he went to talk to someone.
We've been seeing a counselor for three weeks now. No sessions together, yet, as the head doctor says Husband is not receptive to it at this time. He has so much stress and anger built up, and he's refused help for so long, that it's going to take awhile to get past it. Last session, the doc told me to hide all weapons in the home. Reading this, I now see why. But, I also see that it doesn't always take a weapon.
I want him to read what you've wrote. I want him to realize that it's ok to be getting the help he is getting, we are getting. I don't think he's open to it, yet, though.
I, however, will take a lot of what I've read to heart. I will try and be more understanding, so that your posts don't turn in to my posts in a month or a year.
I'm crying again, as I know that where you were at the time you wrote this, could easily be myself in the near future.
I will reinforce your plea – men, no matter how tough you are, it's ok to ask for help. - October 17, 2011 at 12:59 pm
- July 23, 2011 at 9:24 am
-
I found you through a series of other blogs, looking for information about depression. I lost my Dad 8 years ago and I've been dealing with depression for at least that long. I'm commenting because you told me to. To speak. I wish I could make it all better for you, for your kids, for me, for my Dad's wife. Anyway, thank you for sharing yourself. You inspire me.
- July 8, 2011 at 11:23 pm
-
Trawling through your posts, you make me cry, and although I don't physically know you, my heart hurts for you. You're SO BRAVE. xx
- April 8, 2011 at 10:14 am
-
Lori, I've put off reading this. There has been so much in my own life I've been hiding from, I just couldn't.
Now I have, and it gives me chills. I'm sending it to my own big strong man, because he's facing challenges, some of which I've faced and buckled under, and some that are far and beyond what challenged me.
Love you.
- January 30, 2011 at 6:57 am
-
You've made me think. Thank you. I'm sorry you had to have the occasion to make this speech. My condolences…
- January 25, 2011 at 2:47 pm
-
my heart aches for you and the little ones. I am very pissed that this is what life has dealt you. to say it beyond fucking sucks doesn't begin to cover it. I have read you for a while, and I am trying to keep reading even though it makes me very anxious, I figure I can suck that up. I am praying for your strength and peace each day. (hugs)
- January 25, 2011 at 4:59 am
-
Your words have deeply affected me. I wish you peace.
- January 25, 2011 at 2:05 am
-
Lori,
Jenny sent me your way. Not directly but she blogged about you. I am so sorry for your loss and I love your post here. My husband suffers from depression and I am walking on egg shells every day of my life. Thankfully I can see when things are getting bad and can get him the help he needs. The trick is keeping him on his meds but the meds work well and for that I am thankful.
Thank you for sharing your story. Thank you for sharing your thoughts. Thank you for showing me that I am not alone. Hopefully I will never have to be where you are, so long as my husband continues to speak.
- January 25, 2011 at 12:41 am
-
We lose the good ones. Evil lives on, while the very people who, by their presence in this old world, are a deterrent to evil, to entropy, to chaos, succumb to despair.
Sometimes even the biggest and strongest of men just can't lift the heavy loads or break the rusted bolts of angst. Thank you for speaking out, and best hopes that we can get them talking and get them help.
- January 24, 2011 at 8:20 pm
-
You do kick arse hun. These words are perfect. Thank you for bringing out into the daylight these secrets that our staunch Southern men hold so tight to themselves. We must all speak about depression, something that has plagued me for over twenty years. Our Antipodean men are so compelled to be strong, I just wish it was more publically acknowledged that depression and mental illness does not make you a weak person. Thank you for sharing your epitaph for your wonderful man. These words truly honour him and your marriage. Much love xxx
Onion Nights. – RRSAHM
Onion Nights.
Last night is one of those onion nights, and all I do is cry.
It’s just… I don’t even know. Sometimes I run… and eventually, the ghosts catch up. I’m afraid. I’m lonely. I’m broken. If someone had told me that almost eighteen months later I’d still be aching like this inside… I would have curled up and died beside him.
Last nights panic attack is so severe it knocks the very air from me… it’s dizzy with white spots, and I have to remind myself to breathe before I faint.
It’s the crushing fear of being alone for the rest of my life, never having anyone hold me as if I’m something precious, something made of porcelain, ever again. It’s the realization that if I can get through tonight, I will probably feel ‘better’ tomorrow… but even feeling ‘better’ is pretty crap.
Most of all, it’s reconnecting with my kids… loving them again. As I’ve said before, reconnection is akin to regrowing nerves that have been charred and burnt… with sensation comes pain.
Every connection you re-establish… it burns like fire, all the way through.
***
My children are in daycare and I am looking forward to picking them up… it’s been such a long time since I felt that way, it’s almost difficult to identify it.
As is that funny, happy pang of nostalgia you can feel for small children who remind of your own, when you’re missing yours.
I’m waiting in the motor registry when a mum walks in, roughly my age, with a tone in her voice that I recognize instantly, because it’s so often in mine– if she is asked one more question, if she hears the lilting whine of “Mu–um??” one more time, she may just explode.
Normally, that’s me, the slightly frazzled mum with two kids tagging her every move; and I do what I wish people would do for me– I talk to her kids for the five minutes we’re waiting, take the brunt of a four year old’s excessive chatter, endure the drill like sensation of his two year old sister repeating every word he says.
“Mine are the same age,” I smile sympathetically, and I watch the polite, taut smile their mum’s been wearing melt into a grin– we are comrades now, mutual warriors against the daily grind of kid wrangling.
I hear all about these children’s ages, their friends, their new t–shirts. Then the gorgeous, delicate two year old, dressed as my daughter often is, in varying shades of pink and fairy; speaks up to tell me, “We have a daddy!”
Her mum laughs gently, “I think everyone has one of those, baby.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say ‘We don’t! We don’t! We had one and he’s gone!’… but, of course, I don’t. I smile somewhere through a fog of cold, painful shock I know well (you are not part of this normal world anymore, Lori, don’t you forget that or you will be reminded) and say what I’m really thinking…
“Aren’t you lucky?”
And I’m glad when they call my number, not thirty seconds later.
***
It’s cloudy tonight.
“Wanna say goodnight to my daddy.” say my Bump, all two year old defiance– she does not care if there are no stars out tonight. That is not a good enough reason, when you’re two.
We find her a star, just one, twinkling between a break in the clouds. “Goodnight Daddy! I love you!”
She cuddles into me, warm soft arms around my neck, and the tears that have been flowing all night get that bit warmer, saltier, flow faster.
“I miss my daddy, mummy” she lisps sweetly. She has lived without him, now, for longer than she had him, and I doubt she remembers him at all.
I bury my face in her shoulder and sob.
She unknowingly completes my heartache by telling me she’s sorry. And I repeat, I whisper, over and over, that it’s not her fault, that it’s no one fault, that it’s just one of those things… I’m saying it more to myself than to her.
***
My heart is breaking, slowly, all over again.
Leave a Comment
{ 16 comments… read them below or add one }
-
May 9, 2012 at 9:44 am -
I can feel so much sadness in your post, and wish I could do something to take that away:(
- May 9, 2012 at 8:40 am
-
*another hug*
- May 9, 2012 at 1:29 am
-
*hugs*
- May 8, 2012 at 10:27 pm
-
I wish there was something I could say to ease your pain but I know that there are no words that can do that. I hope that on the onion days you can find a moment or two of comfort.
- May 8, 2012 at 10:19 pm
-
heart hurting here for you and yours… and wishing I had a magic wand to take away your hurt. xxxx
- May 8, 2012 at 9:35 pm
-
we go without too.
lori- you have made me cry- again.
much love
Jane - May 8, 2012 at 9:20 pm
-
Sending lots of love your way, Lori. One breath at a time – the wave of pain and horror will recede eventually – even if it's just enough to let you breathe a little easier. Hold on.
- May 8, 2012 at 9:02 pm
-
Oh hun <3
I'm sorry I haven't been around much lately. I'm just so off in this world of mine.
Hold on to those kids, that feeling you get from them. it hurts but they will try and fix you, slowly, but they will get it done. You fight from your side too because while most of us have no idea of the pain you're living through, we still care about you and we're cheering you on with silent cheers that you can feel happiness again xx - May 8, 2012 at 8:32 pm
- May 8, 2012 at 6:46 pm
-
Lori, it breaks my heart all over again for you, you do not deserve such heartache x
- May 8, 2012 at 5:27 pm
-
"There is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in" Anthem by Leonard Cohen.
- May 8, 2012 at 2:53 pm
-
May the Light of Understanding find its way to your cracked and broken heart. Amanda, your heart too. I cannot know what you two inimitable women are suffering. Instead I hold you up to the Healing Power of our universe.
- May 8, 2012 at 2:03 pm
-
Beautiful Lori – thank you so much for writing this….. for no other reason than a selfish one – I feel the same and this makes me feel less of a freak.
I got hammered for saying that I have no idea on how to "find my inner peace" and hating this widowed life on the WV blog last week….. from another (anonymous, of course) widow. Like I am supposed to find small moments of calm and live off that??? live off that piffling amount of feeling OK when I had truckloads of love before???
It is what it is – horrible, aching pain – and nobody can say anything to make it go away. But knowing that I am not alone in feeling so damaged makes it ever so slightly better.
XXXX
Amanda - May 8, 2012 at 11:48 am
-
Tears (that's what's happening). Sending love. x
- May 8, 2012 at 9:05 am
-
Lori, I am new to your blog. The past has been scarred with a heartrending tragedy and I feel for your palpable grief as you inch through each day with the burden of it. You are an inspiration to us all. I am struggling not to sound trite here, but – time does heal. You will find joy again in the future and be the stronger and wiser to experience the fullness of love.
- May 8, 2012 at 8:42 am
-
I'm having a crappy day today (for much less Actually Important Stuff [tm] than you), so have nothing profound to say, but this post broke my heart a bit too and I wanted to send virtual hugs to you and your daughter. I wish her Daddy were there to hug both of you.
Previous post: Vlogged- The Black Dog Ride
June 2011 – RRSAHM
June 2011
Both my children are sick.
Fevers, runny noises, a deep rattly cough that is terrifying in the middle of the night. (We are so far away here, if something goes wrong… so far away from a hospital, a large medical centre… so far away from my mum.)
I am exhausted, up to them repeatedly at night to cuddle and kiss the pain away, to administer Vicks on their chests for their coughs, Nurofen for spiking fevers that leave them brick hot, cheeks flushed.
And I feel a pallid, almost complete exhaustion. This is single parenting, and this is rough.
After two days of sickness, two days of the Bump crying, clear liquid running from her eyes and nose and mouth all at once; two days of the Chop, grumpy and screaming unintelligibly at me when his fever rises, cheeky and filled with a kind of energy that only a three year old boy can possess when the meds kick in… after two days of that, I snap, and lose my temper.
The Chop screams at me, for pressing Play on the DVD we are watching, and throws a dummy that hits me square in the face. I am filled with a white hot rage, and, before I know what I am doing, I slap him, open hand, on the thigh.
His face crumples, and of course, the screaming intensifies. I see a red mark, the shape of my fingers… it’s the shape of shame, and it’s forming on his leg.
I kiss it better, I apoligise profusely, and I wrap him up on the lounge in a blanket to watch TV. I go outside and look at the stars, I light a cigarette.
And then I cry. because this is so fucking unfair, and so difficult, and I am so damn tired. The mother guilt is eating at me, the life guilt takes my breath away.
My son, he forgives quickly, as small children do, and the three of us, we cuddle on the lounge. The smell of Vicks, warmed by the skin of tiny bodies, is comforting.
Tonight, it will be another long night. I remind myself that this is what millions of women do, all by their themselves…. but it’s still difficult. I just wish I had someone to take the pressure off, someone to get up at night.. someone to cry with, to play tag team with… I wish i still had Tony’s endless patience for our children, that kicked in when mine was lacking.
Hanging on in there. Because what else is there to do?
{ 31 comments }
Some days I wish I could see, all of this, this whole total life change we’ve had, through the eyes of my son. So I would know best how to ease his pain, what i can say that will be of the most comfort.
Other days, I’m so glad I’m spared that pain. Just imagining the pain of my little one is enough to break m. To be immersed it…. the pain would drown, unable to breath through the crushing viciousness of it on my chest.
I watch my son grieve as I do, back and forth, toward and away from the memory of his dad. Unable to watch TV shows or movies we used to enjoy with him, because to become trapped in a memory like that hurts, not while you’re in it- but once you remember that a memory is all it is.
Then, I watch him sleep on the floor, curled up around a pillow the way he used to with his dad. And I see him, mourning as I do. Pulling the memory close for comfort, as much as it cuts ans chaffs at your soul.
My son, he is more like his father every day. Nature, nurture, and the memories that fill in the gap.
In Tony’s eulogy, they mentioned our little boy, and the way he stands just like his father- one arm stretched out to lean against something for support, one foot crossed over the other. He still does that, stands like that… a habit. But he no longer tells me he’s being a man, just like Daddy.
And just recently, my son has developed a strong gag reflex to smell. Just like father had.
Nature, nurture, habit.
In a way, I feel grateful that he is old enough to have absorbed that core of masculinity his father had. I think that’s become intrinsic, his measure of masculinity. The Bump, she will miss her father (I wonder, how old she will be, when she starts asking questions, and realises a father is a generally accepted part of a family?), but, and it’s my own feminine and masculine stigma showing here- it seems less of a blow for a little girl to lose her father, than it is for a little boy.
I remind myself, that while I have a framework to fit his in, my son does not. Suddenly, his best friend, his idol… the centre of his world… was gone. With no explanation, except what I give him, which always seems futile, and never enough.
It seems important to remember the last time my children saw their father. But my memory tricks me, and the details aren’t solid.
I can’t remember if the Bump was awake when Tony came home that day, or if our arguing woke her up. I can’t remember, exactly, if Tony picked her up and gave her a cuddle.
My memory, a vague, shadowy one, it tells me he did. And I like to think of that as the last time she saw her father…. I hope, if she remembers anything at all, it’s that, and not the Other.
My little boy… I just don’t know. Tony put him to bed the night Before This, I remember that. It was Tony’s birthday, and I tried not to get cranky as he stirred up our incorrigible three year old right on sleep time.
I know it was a habit of Tony’s to say good morning to our son, our Chop, as he left for work in the mornings. Chop was usually awake, playing in his bedroom, safely behind a baby gate that served a double protection for our long flight of stairs. Tony would go in, say good morning, and bring the Chop a glass of milk to start the day, giving the Bump and I an extra half hour in bed.
Chop was, thankfully, sleeping when This Happened.I don’t know if Tony did his usual thing, on the 6th of January, if he crept in and had an early conversation with his son, a final goodbye with his best mate. I’ll never know.
But I like to think he did.
{ 16 comments }
I have dreamed, off and on- more, recently, now I sleep un-medicated. I dream of standing in the shower in my friend Auntie Mickey’s house, where I spent those horrific days between ICU and funeral, my breasts running with milk, overflowing with the elixir of human life, white liquid escaping in uneven spurts and melting into watery rivulets that slide sown my skin and past my bellybutton. The tight feeling of engorgement in my chest, the heat of breastfeeding a newborn in my nipples.
I think it may be my body, weeping. For my small, young family that did not quite feel complete.
****
I am so jealous, it catches me in the middle and pulls at me. To witness a young family- mother, father, children complete- it aches me deep down, somewhere primal.
52 months I spent with Tony. 18 of them married. 17 of them pregnant. And 28 of them breastfeeding. Our relationship was all about creating life, and we reveled in that. My daughter weaned herself just two months before Tony died.
The traditions, the language, the nuances that make up the nucleus of a family… I watch the rhythm of them, the comfort of it, the shared history and mutual understanding; I hear the beat of it in other people’s lives and it makes me want to sob at the unfairness of it, the ridiculous anti-equilibrium it has created for my children and I.
The brightness, the perfection, the smugness of my perfect nuclear family…. it was beautiful but now it’s gone, and it will never be recreated. Things will be good again, if I have any say in it all… but the gossamer strings that held in place that perfect life are gone.
I will replace it. With the vision of a kick arse single mum, who does what she has to do for her kids. A family, with a bit missing, like a limb that will heal with a scar. But heal it will. There will be- is- something beautiful about our new family dynamic, a grittiness and a closeness, an appreciation and empathy and a deep, big love.
A nuclear family, it’s not the be-all-and-end-all, not the only thing to aspire to.
But I loved it so much…. I was so happy with what I had.
This is not what I expected. But things haven’t been, not for months now… I’m beginning to stop expecting at all.
{ 20 comments }
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: F*ck.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Not OK.
The iChild – RRSAHM
The iChild
I wrote a couple of weeks about how my kids are growing up to be part of the iGeneration and freaking cool it was and blah blah blah.
All I have to say is- at 2am, a four year old playing the iPad is just not cool.
2 am- yes, you read it correctly the first time. The Chop woke one morning a week or so ago at that ungodly time and helped himself to the iPad.
He was still playing Angry Birds at 4am. And 6am. I hate to admit it, but I was too comatose to react much beside a snort and a half coherent thought of “sort out in morning…………….”
Come morning- 6 am- I was actually awake and horrified. The kid had been playing the iPad for four hours.
This had officially become a Problem.
I’m not proud to admit that this last year I haven’t limited my kid’s screen time as much as I did in the Before. But, hey, survival is survival, and ABC Kids got me through me winter. And while I know that’s not ideal, there are worse things you can do to your kids then let them watch too much TV. In fact, some psychologists will argue that you shouldn’t limit kid’s screen time at all. I think the jury’s still out on that one.
 |
| A Chop iPotrait. Taken with CamWow, obviously. Like ShamWow, only not. |
What I do know is that when I spend hours playing a game, pointlessly surfing the Net, even absorbed in a book to the point where I’m almost inhaling it- I feel like crap. It’s not even the tired eyes, the stiff muscles or the fact that you can’t close your eyes without seeing Tetris blocks (or pissed off birds, whichever takes your fancy). It’s the general grumpiness, the detachment, the fatigue.
And I can see it in my son’s face- it has the same effect on him.
So I did what a lot of tired parents would do, given the situation. I lied.
The Chop is under the impression that the iPad is ‘in the shop, getting fixed.’ It’s been a week. The withdrawal symptoms- accompanied by tantrums and whinging on auto-repeat- lasted three days. The ‘When’s the iPad getting fixed Mum?’ questions are gradually slowing to a trickle.
Do I feel bad? You betcha. I don’t generally do lies, even little white ones. But the peace and quiet and lack of iGuilt is worth it. The chop still gets his Angry Birds fix on my phone, and the screen time is back to an (*ahem*) acceptable level. Depending on who you ask.
As a matter of fact, the iPad may or not come back from the shop at all. As usual, I’ll keep you posted.
Leave a Comment
{ 18 comments… read them below or add one }
- October 26, 2012 at 3:53 pm
-
This was a good suggestion that you put up here…dude…..hope that it benefits all the ones who land up here.
Electrical Wholesalers - October 26, 2012 at 3:51 pm
-
This was a good suggestion that you put up here…dude…..hope that it benefits all the ones who land up here.
Electrical Wholesalers - February 15, 2012 at 7:22 pm
-
Sometimes with children, you have to stick with what works. I do agree that four hours of playing time is not a good idea. The best way to handle it is to give him a limited time to use it each day, then help him engage in something else that he can promotes education as well as fun. Perhaps he's at the age where an outdoor project would be idea.
Let us know how it goes when the iPad gets back from the shop.
- February 12, 2012 at 7:02 pm
-
I started using the tv as a babysitter when my second boy was born. he was so demanding, and such hard work, and i was so on the brink of (in)sanity most of the time that it was my only respite. but then it stuck and now they are obsessed. I've never limited their screen time and it's a constant source of guilt for me.
M2M
- February 12, 2012 at 3:32 am
-
OMG,Lori! I thought I was the only mom with "kid loves angry birds" problem!!! My three and half year old is an addict! Trying to wean him off. But problem is that his daddy also love angry birds!
Good thing what you did! I wish I could do the same!
Love… - February 11, 2012 at 11:51 pm
-
I know that bleary eyed feeling all too well, unfortunately!
- February 11, 2012 at 1:57 am
-
you can put a password protect on your ipad, and change it often. gotta keep one step ahead of those sneaky boogers…
- February 10, 2012 at 10:24 pm
-
Gotta admit, I lie to my kids all the time. I have them convinced that the sign outside the local donut shop indicates whether donuts are available that day (thank god they can't read)
"Sorry guys, the sign says no donuts today" I say as we drive by. - February 10, 2012 at 8:50 pm
-
Funny! my daughter (7) loves all her "screens"', iPad, IPod (she has her own), DVD's, teev. They are children of the screen gen. I limit her to an hour, (two on weekends). OK, maybe a bit longer… she reads like a champion so all is good…
Lisa x - February 10, 2012 at 7:31 pm
-
All electronic devices get put into a 'safe' place at bedtime in our house to avoid the temptation. I say all…I mean daughters. I often sneak onto mine under the covers!!
- February 10, 2012 at 6:03 pm
-
The great thing about small mobile devices is that they are easier to confiscate and / or hide. I've decided never to get play station or Xbox or wii for my kids for this precise reason. They are so used to the idea, they've actually stopped asking.
- February 10, 2012 at 3:10 pm
-
I can't decide if it's better that he's up at 2am helping himself to the ipad rather than the fridge… dilemma for the modern age. x
- February 10, 2012 at 2:02 pm
-
Cool picture. I get that same bleary-eyed look when I play Sims 3 too long.
- February 10, 2012 at 10:39 am
-
1. Me, too, Steph(anie)…commenter #1.
2. I am not opposed to lies, trickery, wizardry, or voodoo when dealing with my kids. I'm also not opposed to a little technological experience for kids. I want an ipad (whines). - February 10, 2012 at 10:09 am
-
this is what i love about you: you tell us the truth and you reflect on it honestly.
sometimes it's funny and sometimes it's howlingly sad.
it is never -repeat NEVER- sugary cookiecutter mommyblog tedium, and thank you for it.
- February 10, 2012 at 9:19 am
-
my husband and i were just talking about this! we're pregnant with our first child and have already been asked if we've purchased him an ipad.
- February 10, 2012 at 9:07 am
-
Oh, just wait until he's old enough to discover porn and sneak the laptop (or iPad or whatever) into his room at 2am… not that that has happened in *my* house. Ahem.
- February 10, 2012 at 10:40 am
-
My 10 year old ran out our net allowance, playing sneakily late at night on his brothers' old iThing. We disconnected it from the net, and now make sure to take it away from him at night.
You're so right about the cranky disconnect from over-playing. I get that way too!
Previous post: Britney.
Next post: Emancipation.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Jeans and Stuff.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: I suck at being sick.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Milk
The Black Dog. – RRSAHM
The Black Dog.
Nothing humorous here today folks. Sorry. This one’s part of the UnFunny Files, and it’s been sitting in my drafts folder for a while, as the extremely personal posts sometimes do. I did consider guest posting it out, but my own blog feels like the right place for it. Normal programing resumes tomorrow, OK? OK. The artwork featured is by Katrina Miller.
Hello,
I have a black dog.
I’m not alone in that, I know. There are many of us, with our own black dogs. Sometimes they come to heel; sometimes they stray far behind us, following our scent. And sometimes, when God is in his Heaven and all is right with the world, my black dog, he stays, tied up, in his kennel.
Just recently, the black dog got out. And, I’m sad to say, he was savage, destructive and caused damage to both people and property. This is no playful puppy, slobbering on slippers and teething on toys. This is a cur, a mongrel, who nips and sometimes mauls the people that I love.
It’s a fraught and pensive thing, the way depression can suck the color from the world, the air from your lungs, the sparkle from your laugh. The crushing weight of a panic attack, of being alone, is a wholly debilitating thing. Impossible to conjure. Almost impossible to imagine, until you are on the very brink of it, teeth chattering, breath teetering from rapid to smooth, as the world closes in and all you can think is how sad it all is, how much pain the entire world is in; how on earth does anyone stand it?
I remember, once, a long time ago, studying at university. A young woman, no older than 20, who had evidently never suffered any form of clinical depression. Presenting to us that, as social workers, we should be instructing people to “Open their curtains, appreciate the beautiful weather!” and to “Remember that tomorrow is a brand new day!”
I recall shifting in my seat. Uncomfortable. Slapped. Patronised. Condescended to. Could she not see, this young woman with her curly hair and her pretty shoes, that she had just hit on the very source of the problem?
When the black dog is loose, tomorrow is a brand new day. Another fucking brand new day. Another fucking day.
The dog, he settles next to you on your pillow. As soon as you wake, he’s all you can smell.
This time, in the crux of the matter- I refuse. I refuse to let the dog take me down. I am 28 years old. I have raged and fought both with and against this black dog for 15 years. I’ve not once been admitted to hospital.
And this will not be the time it happens. Not when I have babies to care for. Not when they need their mummy, here at home.
So I refuse. If I go down, it will be clutching my medication in one hand and the phone number of my psychiatrist in the other. It will be punching and screaming, kicking that dog in his big black head.
I refuse.
And, in the end, I win. The dog, he whimpers, tail between his legs.
This time, I win. But the black dog, he’s a stubborn mutt.
He will lick his wounds. So will I.
And I will tell myself, for the next time he is turned loose.I will be ready.
I say that every time.
I’m never sure if it’s true.
Leave a Comment
{ 44 comments… read them below or add one }
-
June 15, 2013 at 6:41 pm -
Lori, I cant tell you how glad I am to have found you. I am in awe of your honesty, and your ability to put your thoughts out there, even when they’re not pretty ones. Or funny ones. Me, I just say nothing – I stop writing until I can see the funny side (of anything) then I pretend it’s all good stuff- everything is fine. Compared to your life it actually is & I refuse to complain to you. I have been holding my breath for a long while but I still have my husband. I made him read your post ‘ better off without you” today because of what he said to me an hour before. That shut him up all right. So thank you for that also.
You are wonderful & you are helping so many people, so many families :0)-
June 16, 2013 at 4:23 pm -
Thank you Suzy xxxx
Lori Dwyer recently posted…Vagina Shaming.
-
- March 18, 2011 at 1:49 pm
-
I know if anyone can rise above, it's you. Inspiring and beautiful.
-Marianna - October 29, 2010 at 1:51 am
-
I know the black dog. He/she visits me regularly, often when I least expect it. I keep the dog at bay, by taking my meds, talking to professionals, getting exercise, forcing to get out and do stuff rather than just shut the curtains, turn off the phone, and get back into bed with the dog. It's just so damn hard sometimes. But I'm starting to tame the doggie now, and keep him if not away, at a safe distance. (BTW, I never actually liked the idea of the 'black dog', only because I love all dogs, and I don't love my depression/anxiety.)
- September 28, 2010 at 2:40 pm
-
Such an inspirational, powerful post. You've described it so clearly, especially the bit about tomorrow. When my black dog is out I sure don't want a tomorrow. I keep hoping he's in his kennel to stay, but he doesn't always stay there. I'll learn to keep there though. Thank-you Lori.
- September 12, 2010 at 12:49 pm
-
Awww, sweetie, I have a black dog too. And I've learnt that acceptance is strength. xx
- September 12, 2010 at 9:07 am
-
I keep a pet dragon to kill any black dogs around my place. It's called Moclobemide.
- September 9, 2010 at 9:02 pm
-
Great, powerful post, Lori. I think you should take this out of the 'STUFF I DON'T THINK YOU WANT TO READ ANYWAY' files and put it under 'STUFF EVERYONE REALLY SHOULD READ'.
- September 2, 2010 at 9:17 pm
-
I never blog about my depression but I always appreciate it when others do because it makes me feel less alone in it. That's a terribly selfish admission but I'm just not brave enough to do it. Last week my doc said that i could stay on my meds for as long as I wanted. I could have hugged her. I am terrified of slipping back into it.
I think the fear of the Black Dog is the worst of it. Almost worse than the dog itself.
I have an actual black dog- a spaniel as well- bizarrely he helps keep the other one away!
Just found your blog in the last wee while- love it.
- August 27, 2010 at 10:43 am
-
very good post. we have a black dog in the house and its really hard for me to deal with it at times. a post 'from the inside' makes it so much easier to understand. thank you.
- August 23, 2010 at 8:37 pm
-
I'm so impressed by the power of the blog and the blogger to express the often unspoken truths, to lighten the load a little for many others and to create awareness in others who are fortunate not to have their own black dogs. Thanks Lori.
- August 22, 2010 at 1:19 pm
-
ooo I have that file of drafts that need to be posted … just not on my blog. I don't think I can be as brave as you.
I kicked my black dog out a while ago. But he comes to visit every now and then. Like a smelly aunty I can't really get rid of and have to let in and make her a cup of tea.
great post. - August 21, 2010 at 10:31 am
-
Lately I teeter back and forth myself.
You'll pull thru. Just as I will. We have babies and Menfolk who need us.
- August 20, 2010 at 11:13 pm
-
Could someone please. PLEASE run that facken black dog over?!!
Gah, I feel for you Momma, I really do. I know how awful sinking into that pit can be…I wish that I didn't. I will sound like a broken record and tell you to take it one moment at at time. ONE. MOMENT.
You can do this. You've done it before. You are a strong STRONG brave woman. You can do this…we'll be here for you all the way Momma.
Big healing hugs,
Kimberly - August 20, 2010 at 6:11 pm
-
The black dog is a regular visitor in my family. I know when the bitch is back and I worry for those she menaces.
You describe it so, so well. Keep kicking at her. - August 20, 2010 at 4:51 pm
-
Gosh… so beautifully written! I'm just about to write about my depression too, but not half as well I fear!
- August 20, 2010 at 2:31 pm
-
I have a parent with clinical depression. It is hard. I wish he had as much courage as you do to fight his black dog, to find reasons to look hard for the light….
- August 20, 2010 at 9:32 am
-
Oh Lori. I don't have depression and I don't think I ever understood before your post quite what it is like. When you wrote "the sparkle from your laugh" it really hit home. That you could still laugh, but there is no joy in it. Sadness. It's upset me so much to think that I may have been unintentionally callous to friends in the past who have depression. To not understand. I so wish I could take back some of the thoughtless things I've said about 'sunny side' and 'ignoring bad thoughts'… so ridiculously brutal. Unintentional, but there.
Thank you, Lori, for your beautifully written, gut wrenching insight into this illness. Of course you will win, my friend. That black dog doesn't stand a chance.
- August 20, 2010 at 8:26 am
-
Keep kicking. xo
- August 20, 2010 at 6:55 am
-
That is so beautifully written, Lori. Wishing you all the best – you're so strong, you can do this. xx
- August 20, 2010 at 6:43 am
-
Sometimes, I don't know how any of us do it.
Very well expressed, Lori. I'm so sorry you know the beast so intimately though.
- August 20, 2010 at 4:26 pm
-
I hope that by writing this it helps you Lori. It is so beautifully written it brings tears to my eyes, but you sound so strong, I won't be sad. I will be happy that your black dog is at heel again. xox
- August 20, 2010 at 7:55 am
-
The black dog, always pawing at the door. Enough so to remind you he's still there..
- August 19, 2010 at 9:47 pm
-
I think a lot of us have said black dog. Mine is happily in his kennel chewing Schmackos at the moment, but should the Schmackos run out, he'll be back annoying me too!! U rock lovely. Writing like this helps so many people. xx
- August 19, 2010 at 3:48 pm
-
Thankyou for sharing Lori. Hope you are feeling better soon. *Hugs*. xx
- August 19, 2010 at 3:37 pm
-
Hope he didn't stick around too long. I have one, except I call it my dark house.
- August 19, 2010 at 1:23 pm
-
That was really powerful. Thank you for sharing it with us.
- August 19, 2010 at 1:19 pm
-
You inspired me today Lori, keep up the good fight!! My post today is all about the sun not always shining…dedicated to you!!
- August 19, 2010 at 12:54 pm
-
Reading this post has brought a tear (okay, a flood of tears) to my eyes. I've only just 'come out' with my struggle with PND and you have expressed it so beautifully. Thank you and good luck!
- August 19, 2010 at 12:54 pm
-
The way you write is so fantastic.
You make me feel not alone.
If we all had a strong attitude the world would be a better place.
x - August 19, 2010 at 11:48 am
-
I've been trying to deal with this sort of stuff since I was 15. I liken it to treading water instead of a black dog.
- August 19, 2010 at 7:13 am
-
Oh love, we all battle our own black beasts, don't we? You are so strong. I admire your courage. Keep writing it out.
- August 19, 2010 at 7:01 am
-
Wishing you well Lori. Your attitude rocks and provides strength and hope to others suffering their own black dog encounters. I have no doubt your black dog will be back in its kennel sooner than you think. x
- August 19, 2010 at 6:49 am
-
My dog is in his kennel too. I'd love to be able to say that he's dead and buried in the backyard somewhere, but in the back of my mind i'm not sure that he is, or ever will be.
I also find it poetic that so many bloggers suffer the same affliction – it proves to me that writing must really help….and if you need any help, all you have to do is let us know. - August 19, 2010 at 2:31 pm
-
It is a bit like swings and roundabouts, and yes I have one to. xo
- August 19, 2010 at 1:18 am
-
Thank you…
- August 19, 2010 at 1:11 am
-
Christ, Lori. I don't have the right words to say. Just know that you have a friend over here. Loads of hugs, honey.xxxx
- August 18, 2010 at 11:57 pm
-
You are so humorous and yet so haunted. I'd never have known. Thanks for sharing with such beautiful prose
- August 18, 2010 at 11:28 pm
-
I had suffered from undiagnosed depression for many years. It took a suicide attempt for it to be diagnosed and a spiritual revelation for me to be able to cope with it (my belief in God helps me).
That you are able to cope with it is great.
- August 18, 2010 at 11:00 pm
-
Hugs. Well written lovely.
- August 18, 2010 at 10:31 pm
-
You write so well Lori – especially on such a topic. You continue to be my saviour.
It is not nice that you also face the black dog but gives me hope that I can overcome my black dog also – and that I have some pretty spesh people sitting in my sidelines
- August 18, 2010 at 10:25 pm
-
He can smell our fear. But he is rancid too – high alert can at least make us prepated for the attack.
xx
- August 18, 2010 at 10:55 pm
-
I am fortunate that my black dog is just a puppy and minds pretty well. But my heart goes out to those with big black dogs!
- August 18, 2010 at 10:11 pm
-
I don't think we can ever be ready for the bastard to return but I think you have a fabulous attitude and I wish nothing for you but love and light x
Previous post: It’s time to leave the island… Lori
Next post: FlogYoBlog Friday- The Karma Edition.
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: So… now what?
Big School – RRSAHM
Big School
My Chop starts ‘big school’ next year. He’s so excited and so ready some days I could drop him off at the front office of the local public school and tell them he is their problem already, thankyouverymuch.
Something tells me that, in fairy tale fantasy, I will very much miss the company of my best mate, my almost constant sidekick of the last five years. Something else, something far more cynical, reminds me that I will most probably breath a sigh of relief that tending to his unspendable energy and rampant curiosity is now his teacher’s mission for six hours a day, five days a week. Which might let me off the hook just a little bit.
The Chop is a typical almost–five–year–old boy. He has questions for everything, and answers for most others. Games aren’t fun unless someone’s winning or dying. Sisters– younger sisters– are for tormenting, and they have a scream button that is fun to push when you’re bored. And, as an almost–five–year–old boy, you get bored on a very regular basis. In fact, the excitement of knowing that leaving the house is imminent is enough to make you instantly revert to the fore-mentioned tormenting of your younger sister.
The child is ready for school.
The point where romanticism and cynicism meet– the small, clear pool known as realism– tells me that the regret and sadness I’m inevitably going to feel at some point in my son’s first year at school will revolve more around the end of the ’being at home with two little kids’ stage than missing my son at home every day. In the same way, it’s a relief– it’s the beginning of that ’one at home, one at school’ place in my life. A place where I won’t miss my husband quite so much, perhaps, because I never really visualized this life clearly with him in it.
Either way, I’m looking sunny side up at this one. One at school. The tea–party–princess at home with me.
How exactly the Bump will cope without the constant company of her big brother, who’s she so close to simply because her mother has spent so long being emotionally unavailable… well. That’s another matter altogether.
Leave a Comment
{ 6 comments… read them below or add one }
- October 18, 2012 at 10:11 pm
-
I'm in a situation where one child goes to school and the other stays with me at home. Personally, I'd rather have them both at home so they can play together.
- October 17, 2012 at 2:58 pm
-
Mine started this year and let me tell you, term 4 last year was HELL. He was so ready to be there and when the term ends he can't wait for school holidays to end so he can get back there.
Our school handle the start day really well. They stagger the start times on the first day so only 1 child arrives at a time and is assimilated into an activity before the next arrives. Not one tear was shed, well maybe some parents as they walked away but man it was so peaceful.
My 3 year old has 2 more years at home with me and he already asks me every morning if it is a preschool day! By that last year before school I suspect I will need him in 5 days a week preschool/daycare for both our sanity!!
I love that my older son loves school but man the pickup is a killer. It interrupts my day and usually I have to wake the 3 year old to do it. Grrr.
- October 17, 2012 at 2:34 pm
-
It's an emotional ride when they go to school. You don't know if you should be happy or sad about it. I was a little sad when my first went to school. No tears from me or her. But then once I dropped the second one off at her first day at school I could have danced in front of the whole school.
- October 16, 2012 at 4:01 pm
-
My baby girl is in school this year, and she was way past ready to go. Her two big brothers are happy to go to school each day, and I, who once thought I would be the mopey, crying mom missing her children, is ecstatic at the happiness on their faces for their daily adventures, and blissful at the quiet in the home each day. The dog, however, misses the children terribly and waits at the window all afternoon for them to come home.
As for your time with your Bump, this will be a great time for you both. A new relationship, as it were, without others around. You will both love what grows from lots of time alone together. (At least, that's what happened here with The Girl and I, after the boys were all in school.)
Joy
- October 16, 2012 at 2:16 pm
-
Greenie still struggles some days with Bluey going to school. He cried and begged and pleaded for Bluey to not go to school yesterday. Bluey told him very calmly "I have to go. I will be back this afternoon and we can play then." Then he gave him a hug and a kiss on the top of his head. It's cute, and it is an adjustment, but it's also so so wonderful to have your youngest and just you chillin' like a villin and seeing them grow so much without the older one there to do everything for them. It's also beautiful to see your older child grow and learn things without you having taught them. Ok that last part is a little annoying sometimes, especially when they're learning those things from their classmates and they're….not so nice things. Lol.
Chop will love school, and Bump will love the extra attention from you. - October 16, 2012 at 2:04 pm
-
My eldest starts school next year as well. He had his first school transition visit yesterday and if he had his way he would still be wearing the brand spanking new uniform I bought for him. He is so excited and I am excited for him, and proud, and sad for the end of an era. I'll still have two home with me, including his eternally-tormented 3yo brother. I guess now it is the 3yo's turn to call the shots and torment his almost-1yo brother… Enjoy Chop's new adventures and enjoy your precious time with Princess D xx
Previous post: The FarAway Place- #BloggersToBorneo
Next post: Sick Of Myself
{ 12 comments… read them below or add one }
LOL Oh lord. I don't think I have laughed so hard in days! Thanks for that.
Hee hee. Have you not thought that it might be someone you know in "real" life?
your blog was the only way he could find with your husband out the picture…..scary
Never had a stalker….I want one.
TOO FUNNY!
Totally his or *her* loss. Wha? Maybe she's a she, dude.; )
Do not freak out – that anonymous comment was from Shit Stirrer me. I have a stalker who emails me everyday. But she seems ok.
Lusty – LBD Little Black Dress. I have BBD's
cannot believe you shared my questions on your blog. I am a person with feelings!
What.A.Weirdo.
I'm suprised the scenario didnt include the detail that the Scandavian dude is actually your Admirer type person. Unless your admirer is a female – which would make the whole Scandavian dude bit even wierder.
Also – jeans and Chuck Taylors? I think you might be MY type of chick Lori…
What are LBDs?
That is too funny. And in a weird way it reminds me of when N and I were "new".
I guess you have asked people to "stalk you" up in the top left corner there, perhaps they were obliging ?
Haha that's great. I had a secret admirer once, they sent me a valentines card to my work and left notes on my car when I was at the supermarket. Sweet, but totally creepy.