Mushi mushi,

Does it come as much of a surprise to anyone that I was a somewhat difficult child?

I’ve blogged before, back in the early days, about how I was weaned onto apple juice at six months old, after months of continual screaming. It didn’t help. Eventually, my mum’s doctor told her to put me in my cot, shut the door and walk way. It wasn’t ‘controlled crying’ as such- she had already tried that and it hadn’t made a lick of difference. It was more because the doctor was concerned she was going to have a nervous breakdown from the stress of a continually screaming baby.

It’s an odd thing, a screaming baby. Irritating, if it’s not your own baby, indeed. But if it is your own baby, it is just heart wrenching. It’s designed to be that way, biologically. Your child screams at the exact volume and pitch to cause you maximum anxiety.

Nice.

All for good reason, of course. It’s so SAHM’s don’t list their children on EBay with a Buy It Now price of 55 cents AUD including postage.

Whatever. Anyway, within the first year of my life, I almost gave my poor mother, bless her heart, a nervous breakdown with my crying.

And I wish I could say that was the only time I almost gave my mother a nervous breakdown.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t.

Lori, toddler-style was apparently just as bad, if not worse than, Lori, baby-style.

As a toddler, I was, much to my mother’s dismay, a prize winning tantrum chucker.

My parents were both shocked and awed at the veracity and aggression such a tiny, deceptively cute child could produce. My tantrums were the stuff of legends. Kicking, screaming, biting, hair pulling, clothes screwing frenzies that went on for up to an hour.

And we all know the only real way to deal with toddler tantrums when the child in question is not distressed (which I rarely was), but simply trying to throw their weight around (and very, very cranky).

Ignore them. Or pretend to, for as best and as long as you can, anyway.

Easier said than done.

My mum says a particularly low point for her was actually locking me out on the upstairs balcony one day when I was about three years old, in the throes of being an uncontrollable banshee. I stood there, screaming and attempting to kick in the door for the next 15 minutes.

And that was just fine with Mum. Because at least if I was trying to kick down the door, she knew I wasn’t throwing myself off over the railing of the balcony. Which was her main concern.

These tantrums continued well past the ‘terrible twos’. I vividly remember still having tantrums like that at about six years old. In fact, I can remember chucking a massive tantrum when I was sixteen.

But that’s probably the topic for a whole ‘nother blog post.

The funny thing here is, I remember, with perfect clarity, how it felt to be in grip of a tantrum like that.

And it was never pleasant.

I remember burning up from the inside out with rage and frustration. I remember feeling so out of control, unable to stop hateful words screaming from my moth, unable to stop my hands from squeezing and screwing whatever was closest, just to let the anger out. I remember feeling like I desperately wanted to stop. I remember knowing I should stop. That this was just upsetting everyone.

But I also remember, very clearly, being completely unable to stop, no matter how hard I tried.

And I remember the terrible shame that followed.

Shame is a heavy, suffocating thing for anyone, but especially a little person, and especially when no one else recognises that that is what you’re feeling, and you don’t have the vocabulary to express it.

It’s an emotion I hope to avoid, for my children, if I can.

It’s probably not going to be easy.

You see, it seems that God, with her slightly warped and twisted sense of humor, has dished out my mother’s revenge.

I am now, myself, the proud mother of a prize winning tantrum chucker.

The Chop’s tantrums are ferocious, screaming, kicking ordeals. If mummy is quick enough and smart enough, she can attempt to diffuse to situation before it begins with reasoning or distraction. But if Mummy is too late, or distracted by the humdrum of everyday life, and a tantrum starts… well. Within a period of two minutes, the child is inconsolable.

And here’s the bit that breaks my heart, every time. My darling little boy, once the anger is over and the beast is soothed. Coughing and choking on his tears, telling me “Mummy, sick”. Climbing onto my lap for a cuddle, asking for a dummy and his Humpty, wanting to be rocked. Feeling so tired now, overwhelmed and exhausted. His emotions spent, his anger over.

And what is left is the shame.

Which is why I could never deny him my affection, my love, during the tantrum come-down. It’s why I will fetch for him his objects of comfort, why I will scoop him up into my lap and cuddle the fear and pain and shame away. Tell him I love him, and smother him with kisses, just as soon as he will let himself be held. And remind him that it’s OK to be angry, but acting out like that makes everyone unhappy.

I only hope that is enough. I can’t control his temper for him. I can’t take the urge to scream and rage away.

The best I can do is be his soft place to fall.

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,

Once upon a time, I was a magician.

Yes, really. No, not a magician’s assistant, a magician. I still wore the sparkles, but I had my own top hat.

Female magicians- real female magicians-are a rarity. When I was working, about 5 years ago, there was only a handful of them in Sydney.

I’m making the distinction here, between those magicians who can wear the label proudly, and those magicians that are faded carbon copies of more talented performers; with the parameter between ‘sleight of hand’ (or ‘close up’) magic, and ‘prop’ magic. Prop magic is, as the name suggests, tricks doing using expensive, well crafted props. Generally, these are big tricks- making rabbits and mice appear and disappear, bleaching the color from a magic book. All that is required to perform these tricks is the cash to buy them, some intensive practice and basic, rudimentary acting skills.

Sleight of hand magic is different.

Sleight of hand magic is done on a small scale- with playing cards, handkerchiefs and little red balls made of sponge. There are no props here, no folding hatches or angled mirrors. The magic is in the entertainer’s fingertips, and the psychological skillbase of seamless misdirection- making your audience look one way, when their eyes want to focus on something else; the magician’s hand is quicker than the eye of his crowd; a large movement, a flurry of patter, to cover the smallest adjustment.

Effective sleight of hand magic requires hours of practice and a brazen confidence. While the intricacies and dexterity required are the basis of the illusion, it the magician’s candor, their body language, and their ‘patter’- the flow of their words- that make the trick work.

Any polished magician, skilled in their craft, will tell you- practice your folds, fakes and hides until you don’t need to look; your patter till you don’t need to think; and the whole trick until you feel like you’re doing nothing at all.

There are mistakes to be made in magic, all magic, and these are the perils most commonly trod in the field of sleight of hand.

Performing the same trick twice. Your punters know what to expect.
Hesitation. Every now and then, there is a moment where you will see a look of smug recognition dawn on a punter’s face. You have been caught on. Do not look them in the eye. Do not hesitate.
‘Spilling the deck’. The cardinal sin of sleight of hand magic. Dropping your deck of cards, midway through a trick.

Card magic is a boy’s club, even more so sleight of hand, and my practical skills in this area are limited. But my theoretical knowledge? Thanks to an ex boyfriend cum mentor who practiced all levels of wanker magic, with flourishes, cards and arrogance- well, my theoretical knowledge of cards is excellent.

Some things about card magic you probably do not know-

Most magicians use decks of Bicycle cards for their illusions, a cause of constant suspicion in Australia, as they are an American brand not readily available here. I can assure you the use of a Bicycle deck is not because the cards are rigged- most are not- but because the surface or ‘slip’ of a Bicycle is much finer than that of, say, a Queens Slipper.

Most decks are not jimmied, rigged, or wired. Card magic is an artform, performed with a deck of cards and nothing more- perhaps a glop of magicians wax or a rubber band for the more complex illusions, but certainly no more than that.

No one uses marked cards. Marked cards are such a cliche- I’ve not yet met one magician who can make practical use of them. If you’ve ever seen a pack up of marked cards up close, you’ll know why. Wickedly difficult.

Like most good illsuions, the ‘magic’ with card magic is over and done with before the audience has even warmed up to the trick. This is where a magician’s patter begins it spellbinding work. You can dramatise all you like, while the magic card your loving volunteer has chosen is comfortably set and ready to go, to appear at the top of the deck, or bottom of the deck, or from your volunteer’s bag, with just a flick of your fingers or a touch of your white-tipped wand.

I knew a magician once, who we will call Adam, for lack of better pseudonym. Adam was young, and working as a party clown. There is a heirachy, within entertainment companies, and while character performers and fairies lull at the bottom, and clowns are mid range, magicians are at the top the scale, garnering the most respect and the highest earnings. It’s not uncommon for a magician to take on a clown as an informal apprentice, to teach them the finer points of sleight of hand magic and stage performance skills.Adam was slowly, doggedly, gaining magic skills and experience, working his first tentative gigs as paid magician for adults.

Kids are a tough crowd, no doubt about it. But it’s easy, with children, to use slapstick comedy and their own gullibility to cover your mistakes.

Performing for adults, you just don’t have that luxury.

Adam was given a gig one weekend, as a magician for a corporate party- where the executives in suits expect to be impressed, and the performer is expected to act like a professional- after all, you are earning as much an hour as they do, if not more.

There are times when you are performing, and things just flow. It doesn’t happen all the time- some gigs are awkward and laborious from the very beginning- but when it happens, it’s.. well… magic. Your patter is effortless, your timing is perfect. Adam was working within those parameters at this party. On days like this, one small trick, for one individual punter, can slowly draw a crowd of twenty, loitering on the fringes, sizing you up, attracted by your voice and the anticipation in the air.

It’s a heady, narcissistic feeling. I’m not ashamed to say I miss it.

Adam stood, performing hit after hit for a table of businessmen, with another two tables looking on, the tricks rolling into each other, the punters leaning in to watch the flicker of the magician’s hands, leaning back in a wave of white shirts and ties to laugh bewilderingly and shake their hands, murmuring their approval, at the tricks conclusion.

Adam loaded a fresh card trick- a relatively easy one, but so effective. The punter chooses his card. The card returns to the deck, and the magician shuffles. The card appears to have been mixed, spliced with rest of the deck. In reality, the magician knows exactly where it is, and he makes it appear, time and time again, at the top of the deck, against all rationality. Patter, to flesh the trick out. It was while Adam was pattering, charming his audience, confident; tha
t his grip on the deck of Bicycle cards slipped.

And Adam spilt the deck.

His heart dropped with it. For just a second he close his eyes.

Silence.

It may be difficult to understand, if you’ve never performed for a crowd, lived and breathed on their applause, needed the rush of satisfaction that comes with completing what you have set out to do- flawlessly amaze people, deceive their eyes; leaving them blinking in disbelief, with the sense that something just happened, something they did not quite catch, but without enough visual information to place exactly what it was.

All that work, all those hours of illusions built, it’s like a relationship- you have these people’s trust. They have accepted you, as the magician, just because you are. All it takes to shatter that trust is one mistake, one forfeit. One event that unveils you; returns you from respected, to fraud.

An event such as dropping a deck of cards. Ruining your trick. Or, worse, exposing the mechanisms behind it.

Is it any wonder, then, that as the silence broke, and the businessman’s applause fell on his ears like blessed rain… well, the sense of relief Adam felt was indescribable, and he struggled to keep it from showing on his poker face.

52 cards, fanned on ground. 51 face down. The only one face up- the card that the punter had selected from the deck in the first place. The magic card.

The trick was complete. And it was perfect.

Accidental magic. When you f*ck it all up, and it still… just… works.

OK, ladies and jellybeans… the results of RRSAHM’s Big ThankYou GiveAway are in!!

Here is the list of lucky winners. Where necessary, I’ve added email handles or blog names so you can tell yourselves apart from one another, eh? I will be contacting you all by email in the 48 hours. If you think your name is in the list and I haven’t emailed you within a couple of days, please feel free to email me– it’s possible I missed you.

Thank you all so much for playing. Almost 350 entries…. that is awesome (And yes, it did take me forever to organise. I enjoyed every second of it- apart from the bits that involved spreadsheets. I freaking hate spreadsheets.)

Secret Garden Rose Quartz and Tourmaline Necklace– Lisa (lis.steve@)

Disney DVD Packs x 3– Miss A (Amanda); Emma Cook; Donna @ NappyDaze
                                  
RubberMaid Pack– Dose of Dannie

Doodle Bear– K (spehcialk)

Kid Tough Digital Video Camera-Annie (aletch01)

A Blog MakeOver– Rhi@FlourChild

Personalised Cushion– Keysie (keysie79)

Personalised Candle Set– Chelsea Robinson

Nic-Nac Carry-All– Eden (EdenLand)

Nic-Nac Balloon Balls x 4– Sassafraz (nicole.assa);  Wendy Brown; Shar (sharleyinoz); BlackRose (Erica_Warner); Kelloggsville.


Vileda Cleaning Kit x 5– Melissa @ SugerCoatIt; Shellye (sahtownsend); Ames (tutuames); Rebothy; Caro (crne); BrandiJo (bjgillie514).

Wondercap x 2– Yajaira; Kimmie (kimmieserendipity).

Flipsies x 3– Kimmie (oskaninni); Kim (Onenuttymama); Tat (clothnappiesarefun).


Pantene Shampoo and Conditioner Sets x 5– Mich (knowmich); Emma (e.bruty); Turtleshell (turtleshell); kateypie35 (kstapleford); NestleChip (laumeux).

$50 Gift Voucher from Bamboo Village– Richele Rapa

Booettes HairClips x 3– ChaoticallyMe; StinkieCheeseandOliveJuice, Kylie (kylie.purdie).

Wipes Clutch– Good Golly Miss Holly

Bloggy Book Pack– Lisa Garcia

Isagenix Cleansing System– Jaz (scorpion_chick06)

Isagenix Five Piece Sample Pack– Julie (gregandjules)

Wedding Etiquette For Ferals- A Novel.- MonsterMummy (renben)

Serenity Necklace– almondtreeframes


Tots Bots All-In-One Cloth Nappy- Krista (poweredbymomspit)


Snazzy Baby Combo Carrier.– I Need A Nap. (alsaskids)

Nic Nac NappyWrap– alliecat (Pea Green Boat).

Family Passes to Taronga Zoo x 2– Marilyn Rodrigues, Samantha West.

I feel so much like Oprah. We will have to do this again sometime soon, yes?

Mushi mushi,


A guest post from my lovely bloggy mate Katie. She writes over at No Missed Opportunities, and she’d love you to Follow her on Twitter. I mentioned her yesterday in my vlog, remember…? Katie’s nuts. I love her. Excuse me while I curtsy.

Guest posting at a blog you love is an exhilarating mix of excitement and total fear.

First, excitement.

“Lori wants ME to guest post?”

Well, of course she does. After all, I am a wonderfully witty, deeply original, sensitive writer capable of moving the population to tears and laughter with just my words.

*Ahem* anyway, you start out excited. Flattered. Proud. You may or may not walk around your house with your chest puffed out saying things to your spouse such as:

In Australia, I’m kind of a big shot

And…
How many times have YOU been asked to guest post for Lori? Huh? (nothing) Yeah. That’s what I thought.

And….
Lori has asked me to guest post at RRSAHM so I am going to need complete silence to get my creative juices flowing. Um…is it possible for you to breathe quieter?(bewildered look) Make it happen.

And an extremely ill advised:
You know, LORI recognizes how insanely awesome I am. Would it kill you to curtsy in my presence?

This is when your spouse will get tired of your penchant of saying Lori’s name in 4 syllables and will snap back, “Gee your highness, maybe you should do less jaw flapping and do some actual BLOGGING. After all, Lo-o-o-ri is waiting.”
(no curtsy)
Touché.

Deflated, you sit, notebook in hand and write your list of possible topics
Trip to the foot doctor
Pretending to speak German with disastrous results
Hilarious captcha words
It’s not a rash
What I ate for lunch
Words I can spell
Seriously, if it’s not a rash, why am I so itchy?

Clearly, those will never work.

Excitement turns to gut wrenching fear.
Lori wants me to guest post? Why would I agree to that? I am so not worthy!

You brainstorm blogging possibilities all day and all night.
In the shower. At work. You don’t realize you are brainstorming out loud on the way to school until your son asks you what asparagus DOES have to do with the color of your pee.
(Collecting yourself, you give him the most scientific answer you can muster “We’re almost there. Ask your teacher.”)

You scrutinize life for any and all blog fodder, determined to find a hidden jewel in your completely vanilla existence.
You read the newspapers, ready to comment-Jon Stewart like, of course-on politics or pop culture or world news.

Flu epidemic- hilarious
The economy- delightful
Oil spills- knee slapper

Um. No.

Just as you are about to give up, it hits you.
You sit and type and the words just flow out of you.
What you write is quite possibly the Best. Post. Ever.
Unfortunately, it also happens to be identical to one you had read a half hour earlier when you were reading through your blogroll.
Ugh. Plagiarism.

Obviously beaten, you draft this email:

Dear Lori,
While I appreciate the opportunity to guest post on your blog, I have nothing funny to write or to say. My life is meaningless, and my livelihood is gone. Thus, I regret to inform you that I must respectfully decline your offer. That being said, seeing as how my sense of humor no longer exists, I do qualify for a job with the IRS so not all is lost…
Katie (The wet blanket)

THAT, friends, is why I will not be guest posting today.
Er…oh wait…

*Gasp!*

*Insert anti-climax here..*

Sorry. If you want to meet Lilly Pilly- that’s me, incognito, by the way, so you totally do want to meet her- you’ll have to click on over to the SuperDaddy’s place. I’m-a guest posting there today (duh, Lori. I think everyone got that by now.)

See you soon, yes?

I’m fine. I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.

I choose to go back to see Charlie, using the Medicare sessions I have hoarded because I had a feeling I would need them… it had to come to a point like this eventually.

Where life starts to feel normal again. Where I’m no longer in a spinning vortex of disbelief every day… where I’m living back in a semi reality.

That should be a good thing, right…? So why doesn’t it feel like one?

The post traumatic stress disorder kicks my arse over and over again. I’ve discovered a way to deal with it, to stop the rolling waves of panic and fear and disassociation that comes with it.

I just stop being around people…. and there is no one to hurt me, or let me down, or inadvertently do something or say something that sets me off. And that means I’m fine, just fine.

I am losing my fucking mind.

Isn’t this what I said I wouldn’t do; shut down, shut off, take myself away from the world? “You need people, love, people don’t need you”, my Nan would say, and she was always right– no one will come knocking down your door to keep you company. You have to find them.

There actually is an app for everything, yes. Even emo-sising.

But I can’t be bothered, I’m too afraid, I’m too pissed off, and people shit me. I talk to my mum, daily; and I spend more time with my kids than I was a few months ago. But I don’t socialize, even though I’m lonely. I miss the best friend I had not long ago. I miss having someone who understands me.

I miss being surrounded by people who love me.

But it feels so necessary, when I can’t have normal relationships with anyone… I am so intense. It’s either this ice queen, backed off away from the world and living in her TinyTrainTown bubble; or some kind of crazy woman who is emotionally unpredictable and too shattered to have a connection with someone that doesn’t drain them completely.

I am apathy disguised as contentment. I run two steps behind life, always trying to keep up- I’m always late, frazzled, slightly flustered, and I no longer posses enough sparkly energy to impress on that alone. I am insular and introverted, only barely keeping check of boundless panic attacks. The anxiety I feel as my children grow older while I seem to watch on from the outsides of a bubble made of solid perspex is a mounting tidal wave that rolls upward from my abdomen, still small enough to swallow back down for now. Days rush past before I take stock that they have begun, and reminding myself to get going and keep going is exhausting.               

My tattered, grinding sleep is filled with strange dreams that are so light and slick I remember them only when my subconscious mind is peaked by an image the next day. As I grind my teeth and sweat through slumber; I see my chickens laying dozens of eggs that slip through my fingers as I try to catch them and prevent them breaking on the coop floor. Dark dirty water runs downs the inside walls of my Tiny Train House in small rivers that concern no one but me. I dream of running through the house down the road, emptied of all it’s furniture, marveling at how light and clean it feels in there- then looking down and seeing the floorboards are gone, too, and I’m floating in thin, dust-smoted air.

And on remember these dreams, threads of them pulled into the front of mine when I’m collecting the eggs, or driving my kids to daycare; I’m not surprised by them all. Not even for a second, not a heartbeat.               

I’ve lost my bearings on what’s normal. From the outside, I’m fine, just fine… but this feels all kind of wrong and dangerous. I’m not sure if that’s just because normality is such a warped concept to me now, or if it’s that PTSD identifying danger in a situation where there is none; or if I’m on the verge of developing some kind of promiscuous split personality…

But none of those options are particularly healthy. I need someone to attach a barometer to my brain.