Monthly Archives: May 2016
The Water, Part One. – RRSAHM
The Water, Part One.
Years and years ago, when I was about sixteen, my cousin nearly drowned in our aunt’s backyard pool. I was in the pool with her, just a few feet away.
My cousin was only very young, maybe five or six years old. It was hot and, along with various family members of different degrees if separation, we were enjoying the cool, slightly salty water. I was the oldest amongst ‘the kids’ and kept to myself, floating and daydreaming at the deeper end of the pool while the younger ones splashed in the shallows. The shallow end of the pool was deceptive– rather than sloping down in a gentle gradient, there was a large step about four foot across that served as a knee high wading pool, before it dropped very sharply into water that was more than five foot deep.
I don’t remember how it happened. I’m not sure if I even saw the moment she stepped or slipped out of her depth. All I know is that suddenly, just four feet away across the sparkling blue water, the only thing clearly visible was my cousin’s hat, floating on the surface, calmly and peacefully… not at all betraying the fact that my cousin was now thirty centimeters under the water beneath it, struggling furiously to break herself back up, clawing in the direction of oxygen.
I froze. Dumbstruck. So horrified and shocked by what was in front of me that I could not move to save her.
I don’t know who screamed her name– “Bianca!!!”– but I’m almost sure it wasn’t me. Her mum ‘left’ the closed in patio area, maybe three meters away… I don’t know the right word to use there. It’s not ‘ran’ or ‘sprinted’, even ‘flew’ isn’t quite accurate enough. There isn’t an adjective for it, and there needs to be– the parental act of moving faster than you thought possible, of instinct producing springing steps that cover meters at a time. When you’re not even aware that you’ve reacted until you’ve done so.
Bianca’s mum dove, a long straight line in denim and white that I can still see shooting through sunlight and past the poolside greenery. She grabbed her daughter, pulled her from the pool and hit her square across the back; her hair and clothes dripping, her eyes wide with a steely panic.
My cousin’s tiny body curled into itself and flung open again. She gagged and vomited liters of water out onto the clay tiles, where it dried almost instantly in the bake of the sun.
She was fine– scared and shaking, but none the worse for what happened. There was an occasional nervous, relieved laughter amongst the adults; the kind of laughter that is almost eerie because it’s so very close to the hysterical screaming that would have echoed around that patio should Bianca’s mum had not been so damn quick.
For years afterwards I felt the kind of shame that makes you blush pink when you think of the event, even when you’re all alone and you’re the only one who knows about it. I was only metres away and could have helped her, literally within the space of a second. I know now it’s not an entirely uncommon thing to happen, but even discovering that fact wasn’t enough to silence the voice in my mind.
Because what would happen one day when I had children of my own..? Would I even been quick enough to do what Bianca’s mum had done, to jump in fully clothed and grab my child? Or would I hesitate at the edge of cold water for just that second too long?
To be continued…
Previous post: And Then You Die.
Next post: The Water, Part Two.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Exhaustion.
Post It Notes For Famous People. – RRSAHM
Post It Notes For Famous People.
Lady Gaga.
Barrack Obama.
Miley Cyrus.
Kristen Stewart (a smile, to be stuck on her sour-puss head)
Jason Ackermanis*
Front
Back
* A footnote for the Not-Aussies: Jason Ackermanis is a moronic, homophobic footy player who opened his big mouth last week to let us know that Aussie Rules footy just isn’t “ready for gay players”. Ner.
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{ 14 comments… read them below or add one }
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June 2, 2010 at 2:18 pm -
that's just hilarious… LOL for the Lady Gaga and ackermanis…
- June 2, 2010 at 11:07 am
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Loved those. Thanks for cracking me up
- June 2, 2010 at 11:03 am
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Happy PINT! Too cute!
- June 2, 2010 at 10:35 am
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The lady gaga one cracked me up!
- June 2, 2010 at 7:53 am
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Brilliant! Also, Jason Akermanis is a douche bag. I dont follow AFL ( funnily enough, my rugby league loving dad has always called it GayFL ) but with a dick like that supposedly representing the league, why would i want to?
- June 2, 2010 at 4:30 am
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LOL I love this one. I'm following you now. lol
- June 2, 2010 at 3:14 am
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LOL. Too funny!
- June 2, 2010 at 2:42 am
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Love the last one! And on BA, it's because we're afraid of Michelle…
- June 1, 2010 at 10:57 pm
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Ooh how handy. I didn't have to google that last guy. Thank you.
I think another stickie is required for Kristen…maybe something about that faux mullet hair do that she is always sporting. Yipes! - June 1, 2010 at 10:24 pm
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I loved the Lady Gaga one! Thanks for stopping by Peaceful Divas!
- June 1, 2010 at 9:40 pm
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You are so AWESOME!!! Those were hilarious!!!!
Happy Tuesday!!! - June 1, 2010 at 9:29 pm
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hilarious…yes what is with kristen stewart?? i would be living large if i were her!!! your newest follower…
- June 1, 2010 at 12:15 pm
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Perfect description of Ackermanis! Gerald Whateley over at The Drum very kindly rewrote the article for Ackers. Its at this link if you are interested.
- June 1, 2010 at 10:00 pm
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I love, love, loved it! So true….especially Gaga and Homophobic Ackermanis!
Previous post: Parenting By The Book
Next post: I’m not sure if this is a compliment…
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Random Ramblings of a SAHM: RUOK?
My Seven Deadly Sins – RRSAHM
My Seven Deadly Sins
Velcome deviants,
Just for fun, let’s play a game. I’m going to call it The Seven Deadly Sins. Basically, I want you to tell me exactly how you get sinful. (*ahem* Get your mind out of the gutter people!! Nothing like you’re thinking!!). And when I’m done, I’m going to tag a few others to play too… look out, it just may be you…
Gluttony. What can’t you get enough of, even though it’s bad for you?
Sugar in all it’s form’s. Cigarettes. My computer. My Man, does he count? Maybe. Daytime TV and trashy magazines. This Tumblr.
Lust. What does it for you?
I’m an arms and back kind gal. I like guys who are tall, broad and tattooed.
Wrath. What makes you cranky?
Ignorance. Intolerance. Bad manners. Social injustice. Windy days. Whinging children. Being broke. Being stuck in traffic.
Envy. What makes you green?
People with iPhones. People with direction in their lives and uni degrees. The Man and all his free time. People without kids- they won’t realise how easy they’ve got it till it’s too late.
Sloth. How do you relax?
Surfing the Net. Reading the Daily Telegraph and trashy magazines. Yoga. Playing Monopoly, when I can convince the Man to play with me.
Pride. What are you inordinately proud of?
My two little cherubs. How well I handled the Bumps’ birth. That I used to have a really interesting job. And in general I’m an interesting kind of person, who can hold an easy conversation. (Right? RIGHT? Yes, thank you, of course I am).
Greed. What do you get greedy for?
Chocolate. Pasta. Toast with crunchy peanut butter. Pre-mix Coke from Maccas. Chocolate mud cake with vanilla ice cream. Pepperoni pizza. Cherries.
Okey dokey. Tag you’re it, no ollie ollie oxen free, to….
Lucy @ Diminishing Lucy
Sarah@ Just Me
Thea @ Do I Really Wanna Blog?
Because I know they all like games. But if anyone else wants to play, please feel free to jump on in. Happy meme-ing ladies!
Leave a Comment
{ 7 comments… read them below or add one }
- April 26, 2010 at 4:41 pm
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Gluttony – green apple martinis
Lust – muscley arms
Wrath – Belligerant Obnoxious people
envy – those who have books published. Good books
Sloth – Playing Sims
Pride – That my kids still want to spend time with me even though they're teens
Greed – Pizza. could eat a ton of it - April 26, 2010 at 7:05 am
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Haha, I'm with Lucy!
Was thinking….ooooo this is fun, I'm doing this…
then you tagged me.
You know me too well.
Thanks!!!
- April 25, 2010 at 9:44 pm
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i think that if we had met under different circumstances (the chop's december BB group), we'd have gotten on like a house on fire! we have a lot of things in common. and i love reading your blogs. take care. xx
- April 25, 2010 at 9:24 pm
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Haha, goo job you tagged me: I was gonna nick the idea anyway!
- April 25, 2010 at 4:23 pm
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Hehehehe…. This is a fantastic game. I liked it. And i am gonna check out what the other dudettes are gonna write. I am jealous of the people with iPhones too. So with you in this.
- April 25, 2010 at 2:57 pm
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Haha great list, I agree with so many! Especially the "being an arms kinda gal", ooh and hands, strong hands…I think I'm a "tradie" groupie!
- April 25, 2010 at 12:32 pm
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oh wow! you know that picture from america's next top model. totally watched that episode. xx
Previous post: Google hates my guts.
The Maltings, Part Two- The Light. – RRSAHM
The Maltings, Part Two- The Light.
Continued from yesterday…
There’s a fireplace in every room, some with their original cast iron molded plates. The most recent version of wallpaper still lines the walls, and the beautiful detail of skirting boards and cornices that were crafted rather than mass produced is evident. A wood stove and tiny kitchen are built into the kitchen, which is directly next to the old fashioned pantry with its ice box and fly screen door.
There is one bedroom in rich dark wood with wine colored walls, and it feels like love– this was the master bedroom, obviously, and the couple who occupied it for most of it’s time were happy.
Ancient light fixtures and electricity boxes survive; as does as a tiny, screened out door area at the rear of house, with benches built into the walls– it would have been so beautiful out here in spring and summer, surrounded by rampant greenery, with that continual smell of malt in the air.
And the floors… I know how strange this may strike you as, but the floors in this house took my breath away– solid, shining Australian timber, red maple and dark eucalypt, all still intact without a touch of termite’s teeth. The wood alone would be worth a small fortune– even after years of mistreatment, the floors still shine when you rub off the dust. And the front hallway contains a proof of life so solid it makes me gasp– a stripe of that exquisite wooden flooring in the centre of the hall that is a slightly different tone to the rest.
It’s where a hall runner has lain for countless years, tracked upon by thousands of footsteps. It’s solid proof that, once upon a time, lives ebbed and flowed right here.
As Bunny and I had excitedly roamed our way through the first building, we had found ourselves unintentionally trailed by two women– one I assume to be my age, but I later discover she’s forty; the other is older– I’d guess sixty or seventy, but in good health and great conversation. We smiled and said hello to them, and assured them of the safety to the upper floors; they had arrived maybe ten minutes behind us, but weren’t as thorough in their expeditions; so by the time I was marveling at the cottage floors (and Bunny was outside playing with his phone, sick of ’looking at old crap’), they were looking around the tiny house too.
”Excuse me”, I say, unable to help my curiosity, “do you happen to know when it closed here? When did everybody leave?” It’s a fair enough question– such big, beautiful buildings in prime real estate position, in the midst of an area that prides itself on it’s heritage… like all the abandoned places I’ve been, there is an eerie feeling of surreality and encapsulation here– it defies the laws we live by, the corporate commons sense that boils down to greed and money.
The older lady smiles, and she’s quite lovely. I couldn’t see her drinking tea from a mug, or discussing anything as vulgar as menstruation or flatulence in public, in the way women of my age have no issues with. She has certain grace about her– she reminds me of my gran.
”The mid–Eighties I believe it was, dear”, and Google says she is correct, “but it’s been much longer than that since I was here. My daughter bought me down for the day,” she indicates the tall, pretty woman beside her. “I grew up here.”
”Here?” I say “In Mittagong?”
”Well, yes dear– I was born here, went to primary school here. But I mean to say, I grew up here– my family lived in in this house.”
I stare at her for a moment, wondering if either she’s senile and her daughter is about to take her by the arm and lead her gently away; or if I’m seeing a ghost or having some kind of PTSD hallucination.
Then tall woman pulls out her iPhone to start taking pictures. That pretty much spells reality to me.
But the serendipity of it is startling– what are the chances of that happening, of finding this women here on the random day, at the random nothing–ever–happens time of about two o’clock?
One in million, maybe? Higher?
I have so many questions I don’t even know how to verbalize the one. This woman doesn’t mind– she’s a story teller, obviously, like me, and she’s happy to talk through my slightly stunned silences.
The cottage was custom built for the caretaker of the Maltings, she said; he lived on the property year round. That caretaker was her father; and he and her mother, not long married, moved into the newly constructed building in 1908.
This woman grew up here– she played in the creek that runs under the little bridge we crossed betwee
n buildings. She remembers when this silent, overgrown yard was bustling with people; when this area was a major transit hub and twice as populated as it is now.
Her mother gave birth to nineteen children and raised them all in this tiny three bedroom house, luxurious as it might have been by standard of a hundred years ago. Nineteen. The cottage is lined with tapering pine trees– I imagine they once separated the cottage garden from the work yard and gave the family their own space. The woman I’m talking to tells me she has photo of her family, a portrait taken with them all posed in the front of this house.
The towering pine trees were just saplings.
I expect her to pull the picture from her sensible, sturdy hand bag– that would work just perfectly with the eerie sense of perfect timing that’s laced through this conversation. She doesn’t, of course. But she tells me that in this photo, the mother of the family is pregnant with her final baby. Her eldest baby is man now, and he’s in this photo too– it’s the last photo ever taken of him, because he went off to World War One just days later, and passed away in France two weeks before the war was over and a cease fire declared.
He left the country before that final baby was born. This mother never had all her children in the same room, at the same time… it strikes me as the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.
That family did what families do– they grew up, gradually moved away, had families of their own. They spread out away from the Maltings. The last caretaker here was this woman’s uncle, who left here just a few years before the whole place shut down in 1981.
I say goodbye and thank her… I’m dazed, my heads still trying to stitch all these facts and stories together, and outside the house feels cold.
This place, it’s missing the dust and must of the house down the road, or even Shed Five… It’s been too long, too many people have trampled over the history that was here to find any real detail left in it.
But the woman, this serendipitous ghost… she makes the house feel warm, she fills this silent place with people.
I can’t help but wonder if it hurts her, or if it’s gratifying, to return here… she seemed as though she grew up very happy. There’s something about growing up here that’s left a pleasant, indelible mark on her soul.
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{ 17 comments… read them below or add one }
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June 18, 2012 at 9:22 pm -
hey i was there this last weekend, so cool to wander around, and im hoping to find some old pics of the place before it closed to add to my pics i took, so if anyone knows of any please contact me, terrigal2260@live.com.au
- June 15, 2012 at 8:42 pm
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Holy WOW. That is too amazing to have been a coincidence. Wow.
- June 15, 2012 at 12:34 pm
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Hi Lori. I read every day and comment sometimes.
I loved this post. I live in the states and my grandmother had 18 kids – my mom was number five. She is still living and we go to her house a couple times a year. Your story really made me look at something I had just taken for granted my whole life. A very large family being raised in a not so large house, all on one salary. As an adult I see things in their life I never did as a child. Thanks for the great post and for helping me see my family in a new light.
Ps – I assumed she confused the world wars. It makes the most sense. Besides many people refer to the conflict that happened in their generation simply as THE war. Makes it even easier to confuse too though for someone trying to follow the story a wise one is telling.
I love these posts Lori! - June 15, 2012 at 10:13 am
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Why the hell hasn't someone bought the old cottage and done the place up?
It has sooo much potential..such a waste.And the Maltings…man imagine what you could do with that with a bit of time and cash.
We have big ugly oncrete blocks going up left right and centre but this beautiful old building gets left to rot?!Love your urbexing tales Lori.So wish I could check out the places you mention.
There is nothing like that around where I live now.
When I was a kid though there were a few old 'haunted houses' that were always so fun/scary to explore.Amazing how peoples energetic imprints never go away,hey.
- June 14, 2012 at 10:57 pm
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Perfectly put! So true.
- June 14, 2012 at 10:45 pm
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….. And further more ( screen froze before I was finished) I loved these two posts and the pics are awesome Lori. I know these buildings and have often wondered about them.
I shared your posts with my sister as she and my mum live just around that same area.Let's just appreciate and enjoy Lori's efforts. She never said she was keeping some kind of historical archive here; just sharing her enjoyment of a hobby , with I'm loving.
More please!AMP XXX
- June 14, 2012 at 10:39 pm
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I grew up in historic houses. My parents were passionate about restoring them, and I have never lived in anything younger than 75 years. In my childhood my parents tried very hard to piece together the stories of those who lived in the house, but when there isn't concrete evidence, and more than just the relating of the stories by Historic District heads, and elderly women who once lived there, it can be quite a daunting, and messy, task. I believe the story matters far more than the accuracy. Much of history as a whole is little more than story, but it's an essential story. Were it not for stories like your's, we drive by that house, or for most of us never know of it's existence, and the memories would forever lie dormant within those walls. So, maybe you didn't get it all right. But that doesn't matter. You told the story you were told. You honored the memories of the home. One day I can only hope someone will do the same for my daughter's childhood home. Whether they get it all right, or not.
- June 14, 2012 at 10:12 pm
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Hi Lori, hi kinda rude anon commenter…
Just doing some quick sums myself… Is it possible she was talking about WW2 rather than WW1? Let's assume that little old lady's mum was very young when she got married in 1908. Instead of assuming she had a baby a year for approx 20 years, it's entirely possible her kids were born over more like 30 years…. Taking us up to 1939 and WW2. It's also a fact that the infant mortality rate was much higher back then so she could well have lost other babies and pregnancies along the way. This was very common back then. Even if the old lady is in her 80s she could still have a nice walk around the old house.My mother was born in 1929 and can still get around just fine and loves a chat.
- June 14, 2012 at 8:28 pm
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Ahh so much potential!
- June 14, 2012 at 3:44 pm
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I love your stories about your discoveries in Tiny Train Town.I also always get facts like dates,daughter/grand daughter etc mixed up as I am usually so caught up in listening to the actual story that the little details go in one ear and out the other.
Thanks again for sharing.
Please dont be upset by people who are not proud enough of the words they write to put their name to those words. - June 14, 2012 at 3:42 pm
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Rude cow. Back to your sad, dark, negative, critical life ANON. We don't want your kind here.
Thanks for lovely post Lori. I'd do anything to spend just five minutes with my parents in my lovely childhood home. Just to tell them thank you for providing me with love, warmth and caring. So glad that when you walk through this old place, you can visualise the life long forgotten.
And speaking of forgotten. Who cares about dates? Someone got it wrong … But really, is it that important? - June 14, 2012 at 3:19 pm
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That was so rude, Anon! Back in your box.
- June 14, 2012 at 3:10 pm
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Woah- excuse me while I pick my jaw up off the floor!
Anon, if that is your real name- I can assure you that this 'fiction' is a true story- if it weren't, I certainly wouldn't have messed up dates like that, nor included a second person/ my mate Bunny.If you're implying the lady I met is telling stories- well, what on earth would the point be…?
Amateur mathematicians… considering, as I said, I didn't take notes and have left a considerable period of time before posting this- is it possible that with all those maternal family relations, I got confused, and the woman I spoke with was the *granddaughter* of the couple who lived in the house originally, and the younger women with her their great granddaughter…?
- June 14, 2012 at 2:15 pm
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Wait. The mother was pregnant with her last child in 1918 (when her oldest was sent off to the tail end of WWI). The last child was a male, so obviously this "old dear" was born before that, no? That would make her 94+ years old.
A nice piece of fiction…
- June 14, 2012 at 11:10 am
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Ha, can you tell I work with numbers and can you believe I sat there working out the dates, maybe I have OCD
. Great post though, I too love exploring old places, they are very evocative.
Lisa x - June 14, 2012 at 10:43 am
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Lisa, it's probably me who has mixed up the dates- I met this woman two months and had nothing with me to take notes!
Let's say, at a stretch, the woman was eighty? Nineteen kids take a long time. And I'll go for the romanticized version of 'newlyweds', because it just fits better with the old dear's story- say, married in 1900 and the first baby born immediately? A sixteen year old going to WW1 isn't much of a surprise. - June 14, 2012 at 10:05 am
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That's a funny time divide, if the woman was 70 she would have been born in 1942. If the parents moved in 1908 as newly-weds that would mean the lady was born 34 years after they moved in. If the eldest son went to WW1 in 1914-1918 he would only have been 10 when he died, if say he was born in 1908 when they were married?
God sorry, it's like one of those maths questions, "if the train left at 6 O'clock and passed through 5 stations what time would the pear drop from the tree".
Lisa x
Maybe the lady was a little mixed up with her dates
Previous post: The Maltings, Part One- The Dark
Next post: “It’s OK For You, You Like Kids…”
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Fuck You Too.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Fuck You Too.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Fuck You Too.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: So… now what?
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: RUOK- Part Two.
Reasons Not To Confuse 'Canyoning' with 'Caving'. And Other Adventures. – RRSAHM
Reasons Not To Confuse ‘Canyoning’ with ‘Caving’. And Other Adventures.
“If you pizza instead of French fry, you’re gonna have a bad time.”
Obscure South Park reference.
“Stop playing with my delirium…
The longer I wait, the harder I’m going to fall…”
My Delirium, Lady Hawke
‘Abseiling and Canyoning in the Blue Mountains’, says the RedBalloon website. Without thinking about that phrase in too much detail, I decide it all sounds really cool and click the box. I’ve been abseiling before, caving too, and I loved it. That may have been years ago, before that awful vertigo and fear of heights kicked in… But, honestly, after swinging from a trapeze and having flown in a plane more times now than I can count, I thought I’d kicked my big irrational fear.
After all, what do I have to be afraid of…?
If that sounds cocky and overconfident… it is. If you think I’m a bit of a noob for confusing ’canyoning’ with ’caving’…. you are correct.
I had no idea what I was I for.
I met up with Scott The Canyon Guy, the tour leader, and Barry, the other amateur adventurer, at 9am in Katoomba last Sunday morning. The canyoning school kitted us out completely with harnesses, safety gear and helmets, wet weather gear, wet and dry backpacks, canyoning shoes and a super sexy, high fashion canyoning wetsuit (even at that point, after being fitted for a wetsuit, I still didn’t quite get it… The way my mind just leaps entire tracts of logic alarms me sometimes.)
Then we pile into the coolest, ricketiest old van you’ve ever seen (on par with the wine tour bus of days Before), and cruise on up to Mt York for abseiling practice.
As we drive, the conversation naturally turns to fear and psychology. ‘It’s a good thing’, says Scott. He is some kind of crazy person who does this stuff for fun. ‘When I stop being afraid, that’s when I stop doing this.’
It’s his favorite part of the job, he says, working with people and getting them to face the things they are afraid of. He must have a sense for people, an empathy, I think, being able to read their emotions like a barometer. It’s only later on in the day I find out exactly how true that is.
I confess to him that I am afraid, I’m scared of heights. But as we set up- step into harnesses, tighten buckles, run through safety mantras- I discover I’m nowhere near as afraid as I thought I’d be. Maybe it’s the desensitization I’ve been doing for a while now. Maybe it’s the simple fact that, abseiling, you don’t look down– your eyes are almost always looking at up at where you’ve come from, not where you are dropping to or exactly how far away that is.
But I think a lot of it is just that this, climbing over rocks and traipsing through bushes… this is what I do. Give me a pagoda of sandstone rocks with gum trees sprouted firm between crevices, and I’m fine– my footing is solid, my balance almost perfect.
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| The largest ‘practice’ drop. Heh. |
We abseil down a three metre drop, then move up to a fifteen metre cliff face. I surprise myself with how ridiculously easy this is– abseiling, it seems, is quite like riding a bike, an intuitive skill once learned. Even the final ‘practice’ cliff (heh) a thirty metre drop of uneven, beveled sandstone, is pleasant and we conquer it in the space of forty minutes, dropping into the fern covered bed of the gully three times over. My burgeoning overconfidence grows and grows.
Scott the Canyon Guy unpacks a picnic basket and we feast on cold meat, cheese, dips and rice crackers. There’s even a packet of Tim Tams for Barry, who’s here on holidays from the UK (just for the record, not backpacking. And he was nonplussed. Something wrong with the man.)
We pile ourselves, our gear and the picnic basket back in the van and head back to the other side of Katoomba and the amazin- and quite aptly named- Valley of the Waters.
This is, absolutely, one of the most beautiful places on earth.
We follow the bush track down, down, down; and after ten minutes the path spikes off to left, a slightly less worn-down and cleared-out combination of wooden logs, carved sandstone and the occasional metal tract that make up the route to the beginning of the Empress Falls canyon. It’s an eternally popular route– people have been canyoning through here since the 1890′s when they used to ‘wear woolen clothes and go really fast,’ Scott tells us. There’s only two anchor points to abseil out of the canyon once you’re in, so the council quite sensibly makes canyoning groups book in and stagger their times, lest there is a bottleneck of freezing people waiting for their turn to slide down a rope suspended over the Falls itself.
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| Canyon sign in book, to prevent bottle necks at the exit. Photo pinched from here- cheers. |
I think you might be stating to catch on now…? I really, really, really don’t like the cold. I don’t like being cold. I don’t like being wet. Cold and wet… that
‘s torture for me. That has the ability to revert me to vulnerable six year old Lori, probably at the snow for the first time (and one of the only times) blue-skinned and miserable and crying.
Being cold brings out the big sook in me. But I’d never considered as a ‘fear’, listed it as one of those irrational things I was afraid of. Who’s afraid of being cold…?
It dawned on me that I had grossly underestimated myself, my threshold for discomfort, and exactly what ‘canyoning’ involved as we sat on sandy, pebbly stretch of sandstone ‘beach’ next to a small running, gurgling stretch of water. In fact, I think it was right about when Scott started saying how cold the water actually was (between six and eight degrees, Celsius) and what to do if we started to get really, really cold. Not just hands and feet and face– that’s unavoidable, he says– but your insides, your stomach or your chest.And the thing to do is tell him about it- “Once your body reaches a certain temperature, there’s not much I can do to bring it back up.”
Ahhh… awesome.
I can hear the group just ahead of us, just around the bend where we can’t quite see them. I can also hear running water and splashing and the occasional swearing. Terrified doubt, as cold as the water I’ve just popped the (very ventilated) toe of my canyoning shoe in, begins to creep into my stomach.
It’s OK, at first. It’s cold, so cold, and my ankles ache before we’ve even gone two metres along the river bed. The scenery is amazing- Jurassic, lush, green and overflowing with dense foliage. It smells of that vivid emerald heady rainforest scent, the tiniest hint of decaying sulfur beneath moist earth. The water, continually flowing from it’s mountain home through the bed of the canyon itself, is cold and crisp and almost perfectly clear.
Twenty metres in, and we reach the point of no return– the real beginning of the canyon. It’s an open topped cave, two giant walls of rock on either side, and we’re standing on a huge boulder. In front of us, inside the ’cave’– which I later learn is giant mill well, a massive smooth circle ground from the rock by millions of years of swirling water and debris– is a pool of water, ten foot across and, Scott the Canyon Guy tells us, ten foot deep. Far too deep to touch the bottom. This deep pool of murky water laps at a smooth sandstone shore on the opposite side of the pool– that’s where we’re headed.
 |
| For reasons obvious, I didn’t take my camera… this pic from RedBalloon |
But to get there, we actually need to get in to the water first. Apparently, the best way to do that is to jump off the boulder were standing on. Fling ourselves- preferably backwards so our backpacks don’t drown us– into near freezing water from an almost totally dry, wetsuit–clad position.
This is my worst nightmare.
Barry does it with so much ease and grace, not a moment’s hesitation save a heavily accented hut resigned “Sh*t”, that I want to kick him. I approach the edge of the rock, look into the water… and I can’t move. I want to– Barry is standing on the other side of the pool by now, totally wet and shivering. We have to go fast from this point, Scott had said, so no one gets cold. I know this– my head is repeating it to me, over and over, and causing hypothermia to a British tourist isn’t really on the mission statement for today… I still can’t move.
This isn’t like me and I know that, I’m angry and frustrated with myself just standing there. I’d only said to Scott the Canyon Guy two hours beforehand that I didn’t usually let myself get into that state, I normally just closed my eyes and jumped before that kind of panic of anxiety could take hold.
And I wasn’t lying at the time– that is what I ‘normally’ do. But my God, I think I’d forgotten or my mind had blocked it or something…. I despise being cold.
I really don’t think I thought this through properly.
So I stand there, shaking my head, eyes piped wide with fear. “I can’t do this.”
“Sure you can.” Says Scott.
“No…” My bottom lip trembles and tears rolls down cheeks before I realize I’m crying, “I really can’t”.
I don’t remember much of what Scott said after that, or what I said. I know I stood on a big rock, wrapped in an unflattering wetsuit, sobbing and shaking while Barry shivered and silently cursed me from ten foot away and the crazy guy who does this for fun tried every psychological mind play he knew to entice me to jump.
In the end… I jumped. I took a deep breath and silently asked my husband to hold my hand and jumped as far as I’d could, tucking my legs up and bombing, butt first, straight into the coldest water I’ve ever felt. The second my body breaks the surface my lungs constrict and if I could gasp, I would. Every muscle in my body clenches, cold water shoots up my nose and will remain there, an annoying not quite salty freshness blocking my sinuses for days. I instinctively open my eyes to look for ’up’ and it’s all murky, tealish green light and bubbles and when my head breaks the surface my chest muscles feel frozen, too cold to make my lungs draw in air. I scramble, an ineffective dog paddle of frozen limbs going almost nowhere, and I’m not even aware Scott the Canyon Guy has jumped in behind me until he grabs my backpack and helps drag me up onto the bank.
“F*ck you!!” I yell at, irrationally, then, “Sorry…”
He grins. I think he may be laughing at me.
And we’re off again.
To be entirely honest, I don’t remember the next twenty minutes or so of the journey through the canyon. I know we did at least one more jump like that first one, that we swam for metres, climbed up and over rocks. I remember shivering to Scott at one point that I was “too–ooo–oooo–ooo cooo–oooo–ooold alreee–eeaaa–dy!”
Then we came to a tiny ’beach’, a two metre square stretch of sand that is, thank the canyoning gods, our halfway point. Scott passes me a orange therma–fiber wrap and opens a packet of lollies, telling us to keep moving, move our hands and feet, to chew and swallow– moving and eating are the only things that can increase your core body temperature. We rest and warm ourselves in the sun like pussycats for a good ten minutes. The spot we’re standing, Scott tells us, is called Heeby’s Beach. He points behind us, and written in thick white paint high into one of the small caves in the wall of the canyon it says ’Mr and Mrs J Heeby 1931’. They were married here. Their graffiti remains, as does namesake of this tiny, secret stretch of sand.
That’s so damn cool it makes jumping into that bitching cold water almost worth it. Almost.
Scott hands me his own fleece jacket to go under my wetsuit and asks if I’m ok to keep going- no more big water jumps until right at the end, he promises. It’s all ‘only’ knee to thigh deep freezing water from here on in.
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From RedBalloon- no, that’s not me.
That… I think I can do. I don’t want to– ever fibre of my being just wants to stop, to go home, to change back into my warm clothes and have a hot shower and hot chocolate and a cry. But, dammit, I also really want to do the huge abseil over the waterfall at the end– that’s the good bit. And damned if I’m slinking away, humiliated and too sacred to see something to it’s glorious end.
Besides that… I’d have to confess, here on my blog. And you lot would be so dissapointment in me.
So we’re moving again. And I’m freezing and I hate it but I remind myself it’s almost over, twenty more minutes and, anyway, the worst of it is done.
And the worst of it was done. The next few hundred metres were still cold and uncomfortable… but so, so worth it. The scenery was un–freaking–believable. More of those giant mill wells lined the sides of the canyon. Ancient trees sat diagonally across massive moss covered rocks. There’s a slippery slide made from a thousand years of funneling water pushing hard over soft rock, and we slip down it on our bums, water pushing us as much as gravity.
We come to another massive mill well cum open cave, another cold pool of clear water at the bottom. There’s another stone slide to drop us into it. I spy Scott, who’s gone ahead, monkey climb the rock face rather that swim the pool.
“Can I do that?” I ask “Climb the rock instead of going into the water?”
“You will fall. Is slippery. I guarantee it. You’ll end up in the water anyway…”
“I won’t. Ill take the chance. Please” Anything to avoid another muscle-clenching dunk like that first one.
“OK then.” Scott shrugs and I clamber across, sure of my footing, fingers tucked into crags in the rock. And I make it across dry.
Only to have wade through waist deep water to reach the top of the waterfall anyway. Dammit.
I’m so cold when I get there, I barely even notice where I am. I wish I had of paid more attention- how often do you stand on top of a waterfall…? I wish I’d been more observant of my awesome self, abseiling down over that waterfall. I actually piked out halfway down– swinging over to a rock perch that led back to a bush track rather than dropping right down into the huge, clear pool of water the waterfall ran into. As gorgeous as that looked, I was just so glad to be back on dry, solid land and able to get out of that soggy wetsuit and into my own clothes again (kept toasty by the awesomeness of canyoning dry bags)… I really wasn’t too fussed at having missed out.
And then there’s all all this other stuff to deal with.
I now know what it’s like to be ‘that’ woman, standing literally petrified, too terrified to move. I know the tunnel vision that comes with it. The guilt that eats at you knowing you’re making other people uncomfortable, the embarrassment of being so afraid that it becomes debilitating.
I’m still working against being annoyed with myself.
“I’m cranky with myself,” I tell Scott, fighting the mounting exhaustion that’s attempting to lull me into sleep during the bus ride back to Katoomba’s quiet, quaint Main Street. “That’s not like me. I’m not used to be so unprepared, being caught out like that. I’m ashamed of myself for being so scared.”
“Why?” Replies Scott, and he seems genuinely surprised. “You did it. You were afraid… But you still did it. Honestly, I’ve beer seen anyone get cold that quick– I’ve never seen anyone start to shiver with their whole body that quickly. I really thought we would have to bail at the half way point, I didn’t think you’d make it.”
“And”, he finishes, “you did.”
And that, I guess, is the truth of it. I’m always saying ‘be afraid and do it anyway’. I’ve gotten so used to doing that maybe I’m not as afraid as I though I was, of the things I used to be.
It takes me days to recover, physically– I’ve never been so exhausted– and my poor wounded pride is hurting frightfully, bewildered at crying like a big girl instead of being the tough one for a change.
I have to hand it to RedBalloon– this one quite literally pushed me out of every comfort zone I thought I had, and broke that fug of boredom that’s been following me around in the most kick arse way.
That has to be a good thing.
***
Tips for those of you also crazy enough to think that canyoning might be a good idea….
Know what you’re in for. This is hard core. While it actually didn’t require the physical strength of the trapeze, it takes endurance, a certain amount of agility and– to put it frankly– a lot of balls.
Consider making it a weekend away. Depending on how far you live from the Blue Mountains, consider spending the night there, especially the night of your adventure, if not the night before as well. It’s a two hour drive from Sydney and I promise you will so exhausted that driving anywhere will become a monumetous task. At $150 of the entire day’s abseiling and canyoning– including all your gear and a yummy picnic lunch– you can afford to stay the night. Really.
Take spare socks. And lots of clothes that are warm but relatively light to carry. You will thank me. I (almost) could have kissed those warm, dry socks that where waiting for me in the van at the end of the day.
Just do it. Do not let a big girl like me turn you off. Or, seeing as Christmas is just around the corner, give the gift of canyoning to someone you really, really love. Or don’t love. Either way works. (What I’m trying to say is, RedBalloon gift certificates makes great Christmas presents…)
And, in honor of that, there’s a special offer for RRSAHM readers- Spend $79 or more on any RedBalloon experience, and receive $20 off.
To redeem: Visit www.redballoon.com.au and enter the promo code
REDBLOG14 at the checkout to receive your discount.
Terms and Conditions: Offer valid until 30/06/2014. Promotional Code can
only be used once
per person. All purchases are subject to Red Balloon T’s and C’s.
per person. All purchases are subject to Red Balloon T’s and C’s.
***
Thanks to the team at Digital Parents
Collective for inviting
me to be a part of the RedBalloon Experience Program. Stay tuned- more awesomeness, including Lori in a wetsuit, coming over the next six months-ish. As
always, all opinions are my own (because no one else would want them…?) however the experiences are
complimentary.
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{ 14 comments… read them below or add one }
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Sondage Bien Rémunéré recently posted…Sondage Bien Rémunéré - December 21, 2012 at 2:25 am
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I’m also afraid of heights, and I don’t appreciate cave adventures until my friend booked me some flights to pagadian tickets. Now, I can say that I’m not afraid of heights and cave adventures anymore!
- October 28, 2012 at 7:49 pm
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PS congratulations on completing the canyon!
- October 28, 2012 at 7:42 pm
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PS the Canyon guy was Steve NOT Scott
- October 28, 2012 at 6:38 pm
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Wow I never knew the difference either nor the intensity of canyoning.
It was breath-taking reading your experience Lori. - October 27, 2012 at 12:13 pm
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Looks amazing, I want to give it a go!
- October 26, 2012 at 9:50 pm
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Giid Lord, you are a legend for doing this! I got cold just reading it!
- October 26, 2012 at 8:13 pm
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Way to go Lori! The thing is you did it. Congratulations, and the memory will become more awesome as time goes by. Be proud of yourself.
- October 26, 2012 at 12:02 pm
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Oh my god, do you think I'm crazy for still wanting to do this? I don't even know why – I'm terrified of heights and I hate being cold about as much as you do (I DREAD it, there is nothing worse.)
All that being said, as soon as I started reading I was all: I want to do that!
Perhaps in the height of summer?
Good on you Lori, for trying something new and for seeing it through. Sometimes things like this are worth it – wading through the hard-cold shit to get to the good bits. Isn't that what life's all about?
Oh, look, I just got all profound… Ha!
- October 26, 2012 at 11:24 am
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Wow, even reading this has been intense! You are so brave and well done for making it through. I wish I could send a big fluffy towel and hot chocolate back in time to your shivering self x
Previous post: EveryBody’s Body Is (Still) Beautiful.
Next post: Holes.
Happy Birthday Fairy Girl – RRSAHM
Happy Birthday Fairy Girl
It was my Bumpy girl’s third birthday last week.
We had a fairy afternoon tea party in our fairy garden and princess was very much in her element, running around in her sparkly, glittery, synthetic finest, the garden afloat with sparkles and banners and balloons and even the occasional naturally-occurring spring flower.
It was small party, without a huge fanfare or expense. It was the first time it didn’t feel as though the guest attending were trying to recreate something that finished a long time, a shadow of what used to be. I thought of m husband only very briefly in a matter–of–fact, he–should–be–here–way; but the thought didn’t linger and I didn’t wish it to.
It’s not as sad as I thought it would be, the realization that I didn’t miss him this year as much as I did last year.
Or maybe it’s just a different kind of ‘missing’.
***
The actual day my daughter’s birthday falls on, a weekday, is much the same as her weekend party– low key and quiet, only those who know it’s happening even really aware it’s come about.
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| Pic courtesy of Faerie Saerie |
The three of us spend the day at a local play centre, and my children run themselves ragged over primary–colored, foam–encased obstacles that are empty except for the two of them while I type, type, type, fingers clicking across a flat iPad screen.
A small dinner, a mud cake with thick pink icing. Bath, book, bed for my children.
It’s only later that night, around midnight, that I feel the pang I’ve been waiting for most of the day. The continuum of events seems to warp, fold in on itself… a stitch in time. And I’m back to where I was three years ago, at this very moment, this very tick of the clock. Wrapped in the warmth of a big double bed, my husband on one side, my son snuggled against him with his chubby toddler feet pushing into my back. A tiny pink newborn in the curl and crook of my arm, my body still aching from a labour that was rough and fast.
It’s the happiest I’ve ever been.
I take it for a moment, breath it in and lay within it, soaking it up. Then I exhale, and let it go, and return to reality.
But it doesn’t break my heart, not this time. How many people have that, a memory they can hold like the tiniest, most delicate paper flower; a time when they were not only happy, but knew it?
There has to be a goodness in that. There is, I know there is… I felt it.
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{ 1 comment… read it below or add one }
- September 25, 2012 at 10:37 pm
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A beautiful memory to cherish … I love your way with words Lori, just wonderful.
Happy birthday to the gorgeous Bump
Previous post: We Do OK.
Next post: A Very, Very Long Time.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: RUOK?
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: F*ck.
And So This Is Christmas- Part Two – RRSAHM
And So This Is Christmas- Part Two
It’s not as bad as I thought it would be.
The Lori from Before, she loved Christmas. I’ve never been a huge decorator, but I am a participator of the highest order- tree, tinsel, angels, carols, candy canes, charity drives, holiday parties, Christmas cooking. A little of everything.
I wasn’t sure how Lori in the After would deal with this constant, shiny reminder of what she’d lost.
I think it’s that separation that made it OK.
The first of December rolls around and this is it. This is a test, truly this time, and it feels like it… am I mother, or mouse? Do I let my own fear, the anticipation of that haunting ache… do I let that get in the way of my children having a Christmas, where they are both old enough to understand the magic of it?
No freaking way. I am mum. Hear me ho ho ho.
I bite the proverbial bullet on the very first day of December. The fear of something, the waiting… it’s always worse than the act itself.
I buy a small fibre optic tree, replacing the one I binned when I moved from the Purple House. When I say small, I mean it- it’s shorter than me. Because I am determined this is how Christmas will be this year- small. Inconsequential. I will only do what I must, for the kids.
When we get it home, the power adapter for our tiny tree is smashed to bits. And on returning it to the store, they only have mammoth, taller-than-Lori trees left.
I feel like poking my tongue out at the universe in general, my late husband in particular. Point taken. Christmas will be bigger than I am, whether I like that fact, or not.
And I find, as I put our tree, turn on our lights, deck our halls… I do like it. Still. Christmas hasn’t been ruined… at this point, with my children so excited, my little house looking so festive, Christmas is still beautiful. Christmas is still a bit magic.
This…. this is magic. The look on my son’s face when he watches a video online where Santa knows his name and where he lives, that’s magic. My daughter wiggling her tiny, cloth nappied bum to Bing Crosby singing Silver Bills… that’s magic. My house, quiet and tucked in, dark save for a lamp and that twinkling Christmas tree… that’s a bit magic too. It makes me ache for Tony, and there is little magic there…. but just knowing there can still be such pretty things, such hope as Christmas, I can find enchantment in that.
I finish decorating our lounge room, and there is tinsel left over. Just one more, I think… one strand of tinsel, wrapped outside on our front stoop.
One becomes two, becomes three, becomes five. And I realise I’m enjoying myself… this doesn’t hurt, not like I thought it would.
So far, so good.
Merry Christmas and a very happy holidays and festive season, jellybeans.
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{ 21 comments… read them below or add one }
- December 13, 2011 at 7:01 am
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Merry Christmas lovely. You're doing amazingly!
- December 8, 2011 at 12:16 am
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This year, I'm faking it until it feels real.
It comes and goes for me…I go back and forth between hating and loving it.
At the end of the day…as long as there are smiles and some happiness then it's worth whatever effort is put forth.
xoxoxo
- December 7, 2011 at 3:27 am
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You are doing great.
- December 6, 2011 at 10:30 pm
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I have to admit, I am totally going to utilize "I am mum, hear me Ho Ho Ho" frequently in the next few weeks.
Priceless.
I'm so happy you are finding some joy. I hope it sticks with you.
Lots of love. - December 6, 2011 at 10:00 pm
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Lori – you're just gorgeous!
Merry Christmas to your and your precious cherubs.
Julie xox - December 6, 2011 at 8:19 pm
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That " Hear me ho ho ho! " bit made me cack my daks a bit…
And, on another note – a merry xmas to you and your cherubs too! - December 6, 2011 at 8:19 pm
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Go, Lori!
As you so well know yourself, follow your heart…
However your Xmas turns out (no one's Xmas is ever totally perfect!), I so know that you're the one to stare it down.
You go, girl.
Paula. xo. - December 6, 2011 at 5:59 pm
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Thinking of you and your family this time of the year, and may your new year be blessed with great gifts.
- December 6, 2011 at 3:51 pm
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Good on you. I also have to struggle at Christmas time and mostly find myself 'faking' Christmas Cheer. But, like you, I do it for my children….there is no choice.
T from Something Gorgeous - December 6, 2011 at 3:19 pm
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The universe was definitely telling you something there – glad you get to lsoe yourself in the beauty of the spirit of Christmas (and PS my son will be wearing that exact same shirt on Xmas day!)
- December 6, 2011 at 2:38 pm
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I am glad Christmas isn't awful for you. Things will be different, but I don't want everything to have that stinging pain for you. I want you to be able to smile, truely and deeply from within yourself.
I think Tony saw that you needed this larger than life Christmas. He's trying to cheer you up. - December 6, 2011 at 2:09 pm
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"I am Mum, Hear me Ho Ho Ho!!!" Genius! – I love it that, even though it's scary you are finding the gentle joys of life are still there for you. xxoo
- December 6, 2011 at 2:09 pm
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"I am Mum, Hear me Ho Ho Ho!!!" Genius! – I love it that, even though it's scary you are finding the gentle joys of life are still there for you. xxoo
- December 6, 2011 at 1:59 pm
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It's wonderful to hear that you are doing well with this holiday season. My first Christmas after my husband passed was only a few weeks away and I pretty much did nothing but cry over everything.
I tried to make everything the way it had been for the kids for years but realized quickly it would never be the same…you just have to adapt, be strong and do what feels best.
It will be our 3rd Christmas without him this year and we are trying all new things. There's nothing wrong with it at all.
Your strength gives me strength, I hope you have a wonderful Christmas with your children!!! - December 6, 2011 at 1:55 pm
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I love that Christmas is bigger than you, I love that it hasn't been spoiled.
- December 6, 2011 at 11:59 am
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In my agnostic point of view, I believe there was a reason as to why things didn't work out with that little tree. It's like the universe's way of pushing you forward. Of telling you that what you and your family really need right now is not a small inconsequential Christmas but a big bright bold one. Throw yourself into it – aim to make it the most memorable Christmas you've ever had. It doesn't need to be expensive – draw up Christmas stencils and help the kids to create their own decorations, cover the walls in them, have a Christmas Day picnic at a park with nothing more than fairy bread if need be – it doesn't matter. It will be magic to the kids (and yourself!) nonetheless. Just make it big in your heart and maybe another big step towards healing will have been made because of it.
- December 6, 2011 at 11:57 am
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I'm very glad that you are enjoying Christmas so far and that the magic is still there.
- December 6, 2011 at 11:30 am
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Merry Christmas to you and your beautiful little children Lori xxx
- December 6, 2011 at 9:19 am
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Beautiful post! Christmas has stolen you. I'm glad. I hope there are so many more happy surprises waiting for you. You deserve a very happy Christmas. Peace on earth
- December 6, 2011 at 8:43 am
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"I am mum. Hear me ho ho ho"
Merry Christmas to you and your little ones Lori. I'm glad you have found a little magic in the season.
- December 6, 2011 at 1:14 pm
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I want to say that I'm proud of you, but that doesn't feel right because you're your own woman and I don't even really know you, but I am proud of you regardless and I hope you're proud of you.
Previous post: And So This Is Christmas- Part One.
Next post: 1 +1 = 2
Random ramblings from the Chop – RRSAHM
Random ramblings from the Chop
Aloha,
I was tagged by the lovely Thea in this meme. The idea is to do an interview with your kid and post it for all the world to giggle at.
I tried, I really did. But unfortunately this one didn’t work out quite as planned.
I’ll share our efforts with y’all.
Chop, what did you do at school today?
Wiggles! Hot ‘Tato!
Awesome. Did you have fun?
Chop? Chop? Where are you going?
Shops.
Ah. What are you buying at the shops?
Nana ‘n’ milk!!
*Interview truncated*.
And a round of applause for the Chop-a-lop, please!!
Anywoo, given how short that was, I thought I’d bring you this as well. More Crap Poetry From Lori.
My little man.
If not for you, so many things I’d miss.
Me being an adult and all,
And so out of touch with things.
For example, you see,
I’d never have known
That the cockroach on the floor
Was not scurrying, but dancing with you
To the ABC PlaySchool score.
And I’d never have known
That the stars goes to sleep
Whenever the sun comes out
And not just do they sleep, they snore,
And apparently it’s quite loud.
I’d never have know that shoes could be phones,
That sticks could be swords and flags
And I’d completely forgotten what fun it is
To pack a “runaway bag”
You show me the world through your eyes,
And I’ll teach you how best to explore.
Because that, after all, is what children do best.
And that is what mummies are for.
Altogether now- Awwww.
OK, some taggy love. The Chop has looked through the photos and he has picked….
So Now What? (He loved your picture).
Good Golly Miss Holly
What Can I Say?
And then he ran out the back to join the dog in chasing the cat.
I’m aware some of you might not have kids. That’s OK. Interview your cat. Borrow somebody else’s kids. Interview some stranger’s kids at the local mall. Or maybe hang around out the front of the local primary school and see what happens.
No.
Wait.
On second thought, scrap those last two.
Happy meme-ing!
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- May 6, 2011 at 1:30 pm
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- April 23, 2010 at 12:24 pm
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Your crap poetry is far better than my "can't write poetry to save my own arse even though I feel the desperate burning urge to write it".
I love Chop is going shopping. My kind of kid!
- April 22, 2010 at 7:15 pm
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Your only saying all that in the poem because it is true, I know. See I am a TROLL and you told the world. Still I think what you wrote is absolutely beautiful, Petal. Actually it is nearly as good as what you wrote to the Macca's girl down at Nowra when you were 5 and trying to get her to give you a free happy meal-remember!
- April 22, 2010 at 11:30 am
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Just gorgeous!!!
And your 'crap poetry' gave me a little tear. I am emotionally fragile today however! - April 22, 2010 at 10:54 am
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HIGH FIVE.. to Chop… good words little man….
- April 22, 2010 at 7:01 am
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Nawwwwww….Sweeeet post, mama Lori.=)
- April 22, 2010 at 6:15 am
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I love a man of few words! And nice poem – those little guys do teach us a thing or two. The lessons get less cute when they're in their teens though. haha
- April 22, 2010 at 12:19 am
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Bravo! Bravo….
Everyone's in a poetic mood….. and this is perfect….. I loved the cockroach part… LOL
ALright Lori… Now where do i get kids…. Time to put on the Muse hat again….
LOL
- April 21, 2010 at 10:03 pm
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Awwww, what a great interview Mr Chop
You're such a cutie!
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April 2012 – RRSAHM
April 2012
Finally- video’s up. Sorry about that one guys… YouTube ate it the first time round.
I did an extremely stupid thing the other day. Extremely stupid. Quite possibly, the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.
And of course, I filmed it for your viewing pleasure.
Now, before I go any further, allow me to disclaim… Backyard tattoos are an extremely stupid idea. The risk of scarring, blood poisoning and infection are massive and only an idiot would let someone do that to them.
And having said that, allow to present…. My new tattoo.
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| No, it’s not the Masterchef logo. It’s a spiral- symbol of renewal, energy and new life. Or something. |
Which was actually inked by a relative of mine who may have purchased his tattoo gun off eBay a few months ago.
He’s only practiced on himself so far, and has actually done a pretty damn good job on his own designs. Knowing that he is fairly sensible, that he would be clean and hygienic, and that I am… well… I’m not sure if the words here are ’gullible’, ’vulnerable’, ’stupid’ or ’charitable’. Whatever.
I volunteered to be his first human guinea pig. He was excited but reluctant. I promised a simple design. I also promised him that we’d put it somewhere easy to cover up, and that if he did fuck it up, I wouldn’t hold it against him.
And I meant it. Tattoos are life pictures. If I have a slightly dodgy design with a story behind it, inked on me by a family member, then so be it. I’m OK with that.
And isn’t that a good thing…? Heh. He has promised me he will touch it up. I’m not sure if I’m game. The only appealing factor about that is that I won’t have to go to a real tattoo studio and deal with the ’tsk, tsk, tsk, aren’t you a dickhead’ that I will inevitably cop from the tattooist.
So… enjoy the vlog. To give you a basic rundown…. I did not hack the pain very well. There’s probably a dozen reasons why– tiredness, lack of faith in the artist (*ahem*) the fact that my backyard tattooist seems to think a tattoo gun is a fucking texta and the ink will get darker if he carves harder into my skin.
But I’m actually going to blame the basic psychology of it– it’s much more difficult to be brave in your own home than in a studio surrounded by big tough tattooed blokes. Especially when your tattooist cannot stop laughing at you.
Whatever it was, I went into shock and only narrowly avoided vomiting or fainting. Then laughed hysterically.
As you do.
I know, I know… I’m a dick. Pleas feel free to reiterate this in the comments section, if you wish- I have my big girl pants on, promise.
But… hey… let’s look on the bright side. Not only no blood poisoning… but it could have come out much, much worse.
{ 12 comments }
I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry. I hate it when you’re not around, and the fact that you didn’t call. But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.
Despite loving him so much, some nights– like last night– I hate my husband.
I hate him for leaving me like this, leaving me to deal with this. Leaving me alone and cold and with two children to raise all by myself.
I hate him for leaving the way he did. I hate him for making it so violent, so traumatic, so fucking ugly. I hate him for leaving me with that picture in my mind.
I hate him for leaving me unable to be loved, to be held tight, by anyone else. I hate that the stigma follows me around, stains me with its oily blackness, wipes off onto everything I touch, everyone who comes near me.
I hate that its left me so broken, so traumatized, that I don’t even know when my reactions are ‘normal’ and when they’re not. I don’t remember what it was like to be a normal person.
I hate it, that every time I reach for happiness, something from the past seems to pull me away from it, claw at my clothes, wrap its cold bony fingers around my escape route.
I hate that no matter how much I try and break free, this follows me around, everywhere, a shadow of what life could have been, a stench that won’t let me go.
I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. And I hate that I love him so much, I love him like fire… and that means this still burns, and badly. Because if I really did hate him, it wouldn’t hurt at all.
{ 31 comments }
Following on from Biology (part one), by special request.
Teenagers are, by all psychological laws and principles, insane.
Studying at university, my tutor for mental health subjects was a woman named Dr Meg, and she was all shades of sparkling awesome. She had bipolar disorder. Having been in and out of the mental health system for the past twenty years, she spoke with passion and objective honesty in regards to mental health. She was one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met. When she was manic, she had delusions that she was the Virgin Mary, and told us she actually saw herself shrouded in blue when she looked at her own image in the mirror.
One particular day, another student asked a question about small children and their tendency to create imaginary friends. The answer from Dr Meg was succinct and perfect– “Oh yes. Young children, teenagers as well… they’re quite mad.”
The teenage years are as intense in brain growth and developing synapses and neural pathways as the early childhood stage. It’s a bloodbath of hormones, impulses, and core life lessons; and it’s one of those two times in your life where you are malleable and so easily influenced, because you’re finding a sense of self. As a child, you need to develop some independence, some sense of being a separate entity from those around you– that inherent clinginess babies develop at about nine months is simply their brain beginning to realize that they are, in fact, a separate person from their mother.
From the ages of about thirteen to eighteen (depending on who you ask– the definition of ‘teenage years’ is varied and continues to start at a younger and younger age. It’s sadly logical, if you look at it– by the time a child of this modern time is ten years old, they will have absorbed more information that someone who live to eighty in the 1900’s), the brain becomes a very hectic place, biologically and psychologically. Most of your social identity is formed during these years. It’s as teens that we find out who we really are– how you like to dress, what makes you laugh, what music you enjoy. Is there any music you prefer to the songs of your teendom? Of course not… It’s part of your soul now.
While finding out who you are is fabulous, it’s also painful and difficult and fraught with the potential for heartache and insecurity. I’ve said before– being a teenage girl is torture. The push to fit in, to be a part of something, to belong… it’s overwhelming. It’s natural. Think primal again for a bit– cave man style, a sixteen year old was actually half way through their life span, fertile, and ready to start a family.
Ready to move on, move in, and assimilate with a tribe of their own.
A quick study of any random group of kids at your local shopping centre will confirm this… they dress, act, and talk alike; and that is important at that age. Remember arguing with your mum over why you desperately needed to go somewhere with your friends, or how badly you needed that particular bag or haircut or pair of shoes to be accepted? I know, looking back now, you wonder what the hell was going on in your head. It wasn’t your fault, and, if you are the parent of teens now (may God have mercy on us all…) it’s not your fault. (Another lecture, sociology this time, speaking of this very thing, and referring to own sixteen year old daughter, who had found her identity as a goth, back before emo’s existed– “She has very long, blond hair,” he smiled, resigned and sad but somehow proud of his girl, finding who she is in a big wide world, “I think she may have to dye it black soon, which will be very sad for her.” He seemed to understand that she had no choice in the matter, that the primal push to belong to a tribe was deeper even than the vanity of a sixteen year old girl.)
It’s simple biology, pushing into social interactions in a way no one really gets. Part of becoming an adult is, I guess, learning to curb and control it.
On top of all that, there’s the simple fact that, again sometime between the ages of thirteen and eighteen– right up to twenty one for the males of the species– your neurological structure is changing and reforming. Hormones are pumping through your body, your glands, your neural pathways in spiking levels that you haven’t experienced since birth. There’s a tribal instinct that calls you to feed, to dance, to mate, to strengthen those social bonds– hence that midnight escape route through the bedroom window. (My mum was so onto me… a few weeks after I snuck out for the first time, she layed a carpet of pebbles, gravel and broken tiles up the side of our house, all innocence and murmuring things about bad drainage. It took me years to click… clever woman. I underestimated my mum, as my kids will, no doubt, underestimate me.)
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| Image via Pinterest |
I’m fairly sure that’s where the ’mad’ comes into things– that hormonal rewiring of the brain can leave massive gaps in social processes and thought patterns. They’re filled, eventually, of course– for most people, there are some that just never grow up– but it’s in those spaces that small children grow imaginary friends. It’s that lapse of logic that causes so man young men to die on our roads.
I’m not sure about countries other than Australia, but I’m imagining most western societies share the same horrifying road toll statistics when it comes to young male drivers and high speed crashes. If you really push it, you can almost make the decorated, highly plumed cars of young men as another one of those leftovers from tribal life… think peacocks, and you might be onto something.
Even without stretching things that far, it’s psychologically accepted that one of the main chunks missing from the brain of young adults is the ability to link actions to consequences. While most reasonably intelligent kids know that driving at 140 kms on a windy road in the dark is a very bad idea, on principle, the actual consequences of their actions don’t mesh with what they’re doing. They’re aware of what could happen… but it will not happen to them. That’s not so much willful ignorance or arrogance speaking, it is the simple fact that the wiring between those two parts of the brain– consequence to action– is either MIA, off at the pub or still growing and developing, cell by cell.
I’m not giving excuses here– I’m continually distressed by the road toll amongst young people, especially in semi–rural areas such as the one I’m living in now. And I’m certainly not saying “That’s the way it is, boys will be boys, la dee da, no hum”. It’s our job, as the relative elders of this modern society, to find ways to teach kids about rights and responsibilities, to show th
em the potential consequences of their actions in a way that will enable those pathways in the brain to develop at a younger age, in a stronger fashion. Or raise the legal driving age to twenty one.
Let’s not even start on the bitchiness of teenage girls and bullying… the psychology behind that is another post, for another day.
We’re all crazy, maybe. It just teens and really little kids, they’re slightly more so.
{ 10 comments }
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: You did it how many times???
Corporate Whoring, Part Two- Boobies. – RRSAHM
Corporate Whoring, Part Two- Boobies.
There come’s a point in a blog’s existence where you make a choice. You choose, one way or another, whether this hobby of yours is going to continue being a hobby, or start being a hobby that makes a little bit of money.
For me, it’s not a hard choice. I’m lucky that lots of people read my blog. I’m lucky I get to make a little bit of money off writing and blogging, which I what I love to do. I’m lucky that this little bit of money contributes to me being able to stay at home with my kids for at least a little bit longer.
And the guilt doesn’t eat at me very often. I feel the same way about my corporate whorism now as I did in the Before.
Anyway. Once you’ve made that choice, there are a thousand smaller choices within that spectrum, that have to be made too. How much, how often, and how. Everyone has a line- where do you draw yours? And how much money would it take to make you cross it?
There comes a point in your blogging career- well, it has in mine, anyway, where you stand before a table full of plastic, fantastic, brightly coloured children’s toys, and feel a little like you’re being tempted by the devil. As your mind weighs up how much you really don’t want to do another review post right now…. compared to how much your son would absolutely adore that Thomas the Tank Engine set.
I don’t think I need to tell you that my kid wins, every time. And that particular sponsored post is coming about in the near future.
Anyway. The point of this post is, I caused a bit of an unintentional stir on Twitter the other day when I Tweeted this…
It’s not the first time something like has happened, on Twitter, regarding breastfeeding. I should know better… it’s far too complicated a subject to broach in 140 characters or less. Hence, this blog post- the story behind the Tweet. A little bit of self justification. Because, as I’ve said before, this is one topic where I have unlimited empathy.
And the whole experience proved to me, in some blessed way, that I still believe in the things I did in the Before. That somewhere deep down under this crushing, constant exhaustion there is still enough energy to have passion for something other than the constant litany of good mental and preventing other people from living through the hell I’m in right now.
In the Before, I was passionate about breastfeeding. I spent a lot of my time doing it. My daughter weaned only two months before her father died, but it doesn’t feel like that… it feels like a million years ago, eons ago, a whole space of a life since I’ve breastfed.
In the Before, I believed that women were, as a society, being ripped off when it came to breastfeeding- it is so difficult, for so, so many of us, and that all points back to a massive failure in our society… a society where artificially feeding a baby has become much more trusted than a women’s ability to nurture their own child.
I’m not going to waffle on about too much, because, quite frankly, there is enough about this online to fill a million books, and the argument is stale and boring (to me, anyway… as I said, it’s difficult to find the energy for passion).
But I will say this, because it was bought to my attention on Twitter that a lot of people actually don’t already know this. The World Health Organisation recommends against the marketing and advertising of formula and artificial feeding products- including, I think, dummies.
The law in Australia states that it is illegal to advertise infant formula. Now before anyone starts jumping and down saying “But the ad’s are on TV!”- the ads on TV, and in print, are for toddler formula. Not infant formula.
Just as the ad spots I was offered recently, at a very lucrative rate, where for pregnancy related services- such as a due date calendar- were sponsored by a toddler formula. Not an infant formula. It’s a very convenient loophole.
Let me reiterate here- formula can be a Godsend. And I’ve got nothing against it. But the WHO guidelines are in place for some very good reasons, the least of which being correcting an unfair playing field where breastfeeding organisations don’t have the advertising budget to compete, and stopping the alleged practices of certain formula companies in third world countries.
And…. well. I guess, all that boiled down, was enough to tip my scales. The coupla hundred bucks would have been lovely, especially just before Christmas. I sat and stared at the email for a few minutes, with all those principles from the Purple past ticking away in my mind. I wondered for a moment if I still gave a damn, with so many other things that eat at me, that demand my attention every waking minute of every freaking day.
And I found I did still care, enough, just, to be passionate about this one. Possible- probably- because that passion needed to form itself into nothing more strenuous than a simple ‘no’.
Whatever. It feels good to know that, somewhere beneath the constant litany of writing and the occasional corporate whoring, there is still a hippy, semi-lactivist, somewhat feminist lingering there. Maybe in a part of my guts that hasn’t been used for a bit… but she’s still breathing. And that’s a comfort.
Comments are off for this one, jellybeans… as I explained, I don’t have the energy for untold passion, and there are a hundred other places online to debate this one. I just wanted to put my opinion, my explanation and justification out there… now that it is, I’m OK with that. As usual, if there’s anything you want or need to tell me, please email me.
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Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Running Away Again.
Look Mum! I Won A Blog Award!! – RRSAHM
Look Mum! I Won A Blog Award!!
Howdy doody blogoroonies,
If you’ll excuse me *ahem*, I must firstly apologise. Behind on the blogging, behind on the blog reading, way behind on the commenting. I’m still here, on the fringes. You can’t scare me off that easily.
So, as I said, my very first blog award. Yay for me! And yay for the lovely Mrs P. over at A Study in Contradictions.
I have been bestowed with the Honest Crap Award. Whoops, no, sorry, that’s the Honest Scrap Award. It means I get to write a list of ten random, interesting things you didn’t know about me (which, let’s face it, are all going to be pretty boring seeing as you all already know I was a clown), then share the blog award love with seven others. So, here goes.
1. I collect programs from musicals and stage shows. I’ve got other 30 of them, and my collection is growing- I have roped my friends into getting them for me whenever they go anywhere with programs (kudos to my mum for the program from Moss Vale Public School’s Xmas show).
2. I’m three quarters university educated. Yep, that’s right- a couple of thousand dollars in HECS, three and half years of my life, no degree to show for it. Good work, Lori.
3.I love having fresh flowers in my house. It doesn’t matter if the house is dusty or untidy so long as there are flowers on the table.
4. I speak reasonably passable Auslan. That’s Australian Sign Language- I can talk with my hands too!
5. I suck at maths. Like, seriously.
6. I was suspended from school for bringing a toy handgun in for a play we did in drama. And that was before Columbine.
7. I can juggle, but I get hit in the face playing netball. I think it’s called selective unco–ness.
8. I don’t eat vegetables. Ever. Because apparently potato doesn’t count as a vegie, especially if it’s fried.
9. I am a very bad driver. And my cars seem to fall apart as soon as I touch them.
10. I’m pretty tiny. Really. Up until I was about 16, I could buy clothes from the little kids department at Target. I probably still could, but glitter paint isn’t my thing anymore.
And the Honest Scrap Award goes to **insert drumroll**
1. Just Me
2. Unperfect Life
3. Really?
4. Tiny Little Reveries
5. BM-I Don’t Care (She’s a newbie at this blog thang, but i love her).
Erm.. I’ll leave it at that. Only because the other two blogs I would have nominated- Kellyansapansa and She Is Jade- have already been there, done this one.
Leave a Comment
{ 5 comments… read them below or add one }
- February 19, 2010 at 9:51 am
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Auslan, COOOLL!!! Now you have something else to teach me, I've wanted to learn for like ever (how teenage girl did that sound?!)
- February 18, 2010 at 3:02 pm
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Knowing Auslan… what a special skill to have!
- February 17, 2010 at 8:31 am
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Thanks a bunch. :o) I appreciate it. And why wouldn't you want to wear pretty sparkly clothes?
- February 17, 2010 at 6:01 am
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Aww, thanks for the mention and congratulations on your award!
- February 17, 2010 at 4:00 am
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Thanks Aussie Lori! This is my very first blog award and I don't mind that it's crap…I mean scrap!
I'm a little behind on my blogging because it's tax season over here in America – that's when we get to see how seriously little money we made all year and wonder how in the world we kept our heads above water while watching the government spend our tax money solving mysteries like why men don't like to use condoms. Seriously. That's an actual study.
Anyhoo, I'll post your lovely award later this afternoon when I can give it some time and thought.
Thank you! And hope hubby is re-cooping!
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Sleep – RRSAHM
Sleep
“I go to sleep… I imagine that you’re here, with me.”
“You will hold me closer than I can ever remember being held… I’m not afraid to sleep now, if we can stay like this until…
It’s the last day on Earth, here in my dreams.
It’s the end of the world, and you’ve come back to me…”
Last Day On Earth, Kate Miller-Heidke
Sleep is the ultimate tool of the chronic procrastinator.
I am a sleeper… I can waste whole days lolling in bed. A recent, horrible spate of anxiety attacks, spending every night struggling just to breathe normally, the world stretching out in front of me as dismal and lonely… they culminate in me falling asleep on Bunny’s lounge and staying there for the next fifteen hours.
I wake, occasionally, and think of emails and blog posts and organization and school lunches and bills to pay… and I fall asleep again, easily. On the odd occasion I suffer insomnia, driven by a different type of anxiety- a restless mania that makes me eager to do all the things that must be done, to strike tasks off my eternal inbox list of ‘things to do’… and I stay up all night, burn my candle at both ends until the wax drips on my fingers.
More often, though, sleep is a calling, warm darkness where I can forget… and it’s easier to be in that darkness than out of it. There is no fight against in me against it.
So when I can, I loll in sleep, in blackness, in the half life of slumber. I wake, sometimes, during the day I sleep on Bunny’s lounge, and guilt tempers at me to get up, to do the things I need to do today.
The dark, black warmth wins, every time.
The bonus is, when I wake… I feel better than I have in days.. rested, my muscles not so taught. Obviously I needed it… but it still feels like overindulgence, and I have to be gentle with myself- the harshest part of my mind will tell me that sleeping this late is a terrible sin, if I let it, and punish me for the rest of the day accordingly.
But all bets are off here. If sleeping all day is what it takes… well. If I think about it too much, stop to look back where I’ve been… I’m surprised I make it out of bed at all, on the days when there isn’t enough oxygen to allay the anxiety that builds in my lungs.
I don’t sleep well, I’ve been told.
In truth, I knew that already. I wake some mornings (mourning) feeling as if I have fought a battle in my sleep the night before, and only just won it… some nights I’m sure I lose, over and over again.
I sweat profusely, grind my teeth, call out names in dreams I don’t remember. I’ve been told I thread my fingers through my hair and pull at it, the same way I did that afternoon in the Quiet Room…
The demons are still there, even in that warm blackness. I guess the only difference is that I don’t remember them.
Maybe that counts as some kind of exorcism.
***
On a same-same but totally different note- I was, in the Before, passionate about breast feeding; and now, in the After, having had contact with so many mums grieving tiny babies, I pay attention to the SIDS and Kids guidelines with a fervor I never have before, despite the chances of having another baby being slim to none…
Anyway. I’m a dedicated co-sleeper, and firmly I believe a combination of successful breastfeeding and sleeping your baby safely in your bed can reduce the chances of post natal depression– simply because you get more sleep. I know that’s not exactly cool with SIDS and Kids, who state “Sleep baby in their own safe sleeping place“… but that’s how we roll. Check out the downlow here on how to sleep your baby safely in your bed here, by the way.
One thing that is very cool is that the SIDS and Kids guidelines now include “Breastfeed baby if you can.” The language is damn impressive- there is no element of “Breastfeed or your baby will die!” which always ticks me off. And I always wondered why smokers were vilified in the SIDS literature but there was no mention of the massive increased risk of formula feeding in regards to cot death. (Before anyone starts jumping up and down and sending me hate mail, please read every post I’ve written on breastfeeding and the necessity of formula feeding so you know where I stand on the topic… go on. I’ll wait. Cuppa?)
Edited to clarify and amend…
My apologies- that was extremely badly worded, and, no excuse, but I wrote it at midnight last night. Formula feeding has been inconclusively linked with SIDS deaths, and breastfeeding is recommended. SIDS has this to say…
“There is no consistent evidence that formula
feeding increases the risk of SIDS or that
breastfeeding reduces the risk of SIDS. However,
SIDS and Kids recommends breastfeeding as there
is strong evidence to show that breastfed babies
have fewer infections and that breastfeeding lowers
infant mortality.”
I’ll take my pie and eat it- that was a sensationalized way to word things.
“Wow seriously will the breastfeeding nazis stop at nothing?! Scare mongering at its worst!! Shame Lori I usually agree with most things you post but this is ludicrous!!” – Anonymous, I am so sorry you feel this way. As I’ve said above- I’ve addressed this before. Formula feeding is entirely necessary, and that makes me sad- but no one should ever feel guilty about it.
That’s probably a topic for another day. The point here is- huzzah for boobies. And sleep.
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{ 22 comments… read them below or add one }
- June 8, 2012 at 9:39 am
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Oh boy. For what its worth, I was unable to breastfeed my boys for a million different reasons, mostly down to me not coping or producing enough… because I was not coping… The only child who got more than three or four weeks of breastmilk was Jordan… and she couldn't latch on and I had to pump and pump all day long until eventually the exhaustion and stress dried me up. Some people cope with it, some people don't. I resent the fact that people think it is an uneducated choice. I did my research, and I tried my hardest… but at some point you have to make decisions because it just needs to be done for sanity's sake. My two boys who were bottle fed are strapping healthy lads. My daughter who received four times as much milk from me is dead. I agree Lori, in a perfect world, we wouldn't need this discussion. I do believe breast is best, but I don't think of formula as being poison either. When its referred to like its the skankiest thing on the planet… that bothers me. And no, it doesn't endear me to the cause it just isolates me. And I don't need that… I don't need to be isolated, bullied, coerced or 'educated' and so often that is what it feels like when people get up on their pro breast feeding platform. It worked for you Lori and I am so happy for you, but it didn't for me and I refuse to beat myself up over it for the rest of my life. It is what it is.
I just needed to say this. Thankyou for your apology…
- May 30, 2012 at 1:25 pm
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Blergh, seriously, all you haters…GO ELSEWHERE! If all you want to read is your own opinion, write your own damn blog!!
Love your work Lori
Charli x - May 30, 2012 at 10:15 am
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so pump the breast milk and bottle feed. They *knew* the surgery was going to be done soon, and they didn't want to mess with the natural latch.
Education, not shame.
There is *plenty* wrong with formula.
Thank you Lori, your point that we're talking about *formula* not people. That is why we need better education, so people are properly taught. I'm sorry if anyone thought I was implying that a formula fed baby is less loved. I know that is not the case.
Education, not shame. - May 29, 2012 at 11:38 am
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As mothers we all make what we rationalise are the best choices for our children. This debate becomes so irrational and emotive when theres an implication that non breast feeding mothers don't have the same level of love and commitment toward their infants. Whatever is suggested by the science, statistics, merits or any argument for or against Mothers will make the choice that best suits them. Whether you do or don't and whatever is the rationalisation all these mothers make loving choices they sincerely believe are the best for their child.
Every mother has the right to make her own choice and as the responses to this forum show, will consequently "defend to the death" the "rightness" of her decision!
- May 29, 2012 at 8:04 am
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Google "the new Zealand cot death study"
- May 29, 2012 at 7:54 am
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Yes! Exactly!
- May 29, 2012 at 7:51 am
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Just read a medically refereed article on the topic….and yes …reduced risks with breast milk…..
- May 29, 2012 at 7:48 am
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Faark. Seriously , get over it people. She was talking about sleep. Focus on the sleep part. Take the best out of a post/person , not the bit that rambled slightly into the wee hours of the morning. Currently breast feeding, and my god it's hardwork and not fun at all and if it wasn't for the iimmunity bulilding properties, the benefits to the digestive system of a premature baby, and the fact that all the special care nurserys promote it as the best way to help your baby….I'd be formula feeding. Breast feeding is sometimes the best, and sometimes not when you cant/struggle/ have a baby whose mouth is too small to latch//are on meds/get mastitis all the time/lose supply/are traumatised by it or whatever. But mostly breast milk will help a baby more than formula because it's tailor made and there are reduced SIDS risks associated because of all those immune building properties/developmental "tailor made" properties . If you know anything about both formula and breast milk you will know that and given that this was a personal post on a personal blog lori is entitled to say whatever she likes about it. . If you are traumatised because you can't breast feed and are angry at lori because she brought up a tricky topic..get over it ( the anger part, and..eventually the trauma part) because some of us are traumatised by breast feeding. People do what they can, and I am sure lori of all people knows that pretty darn well!! And as for SIDS, same same- you do your best. If you can breast feed you do it (even if it is a battle), if you can't you don't. There is no vilification, just a reality.. You follow the guidelines as best you can but if there is a good reason to vary from them….reflux, PTSD, PND … Then you vary from them as safely as you can.
And yes that was a rambling comment but I have had fuck all sleep breastfeeding a prem baby with reflux so piss off and leave lori alone. So there!
- May 28, 2012 at 10:42 pm
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Anon, no one is trying to make anyone feel guilty. No one is trying to shove breastfeeding down anyone throats. No one's judging anyone.
We're talking about formula, not people… please don't take it personally.Assuming that the same Anon is making all the comments, there is absolutely no evidence, including the anecdotal comment posted by Kat, that states "most SIDS babies have been breastfed!!" In fact, anecdotal evidence points to the opposite. I attempt to be clear and concise in the information I post, and I stand by what I say- research suggests that formula feeding slightly increases the risk of cot death.
I definitely concede it was terribly worded on my part, and I apoligise for that. But as I've stated before, in a Perfect World, we wouldn't even be having this discussion.
/2010/11/breastfed.html - May 28, 2012 at 9:51 pm
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Ahhhh THAT song, that song. Funeral song. Dreams where I try to get him to keep up with me as we try to out-run death again…..
…and yes, we co-slept safely and breastfed exclusively for 6 months and then on to 2+ years with each child self-weaning. Yes, it can be hard for some people, but for people like me, breastfeeding and co-sleeping literally saved my sanity.
When will people understand that mentioning the benefits of breastfeeding as a superior infant food is not an attack on formula feeders, but rather a mere stating of fact? - May 28, 2012 at 9:44 pm
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I also had a son who was tongue tied & he fed fine from the bottle like all his siblings! Good luck "finger feeding breat milk" as the operation wasn't performed until he was 10 months old!! Formula is fine there is no need to shove breastfeeding down people's throats as its their baby & their choice NOT the nurses, family or anyone else!
Why judge someone for not breastfeeding! Or for breastfeeding? Being a mum is hard enough we do what we need to & what works for our family, we are very lucky to have lots of good baby formulas available if we can't or choose not to breastfeed. If they weren't selling so many tins there wouldn't be so many types widely available!
Would you let your baby starve if they were failing to thrive because you didn't make enough milk? I dont think so..,, - May 28, 2012 at 8:38 pm
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I admit to that there are multiple reasons to formula feed. But regardless of SIDS, nothing, NOTHING in formula can replicate the health benefits of breast milk (and can often cause hard in the digestion). My cousin just had a baby. he was tongue tied. So rather than resorting to formula, they *finger fed* him breast milk. (this until he has his wee operation to snip the bit that was tying him up) Obviously adoptive parents don;t have much of an option, ya know, except for the fact that one can induce lactation…INCLUDING biological men. So breast cancer survivors who have had mastectomy then…I'm sure there are other who do not have access to milk banks, or money for a wet nurse (I wonder what the cost comparison would be?) part of the problem is the SHAME society puts on BFing and part of it is lack of education. It's rarely easy to start! I think this is one thing we should be, not just encouraging, but really pushing for (if any humanly way possible. bottle fed breast milk for you working moms.) I don't want to shame anyone who has formula fed either, and fear tactics aren't the way to go (thanks for addressing that Lori) but better education, and less profitmongering from formula companies please
- May 28, 2012 at 8:33 pm
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I really grieve that I was unable to breast feed my four children. What I grieve much, much more is the death of my son 2 1/2 hours after his birth. There is a whole lot more to motherhood than breast feeding (or formula feeding for that matter). Hold your children close and stop ranting about issues that, when push comes to shove, don't really matter.
- May 28, 2012 at 8:00 pm
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Sleep.
Ahh a sore topic with me. There are nights I really would gladly take a shotgun to my head just so I can sleep. Fark.
The waking up and not feeling rested? Sometimes feeling worse? I have those nights more often than I'd care to admit also.My kids didn't care for much sleep either, although they were good nappers in the sense that Bluey napped right up until the day before he started school, and Greenie still has a 2 hour nap a day. If only *I* could nap!
- May 28, 2012 at 7:27 pm
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What a totally ridiculous thing to say,that will strike fear into the heart of a struggling new mum,long time follower lost.
- May 28, 2012 at 2:59 pm
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Thank You Lori for being such an advocate for breastfeeding
I also don't understand why people post anonymously, especially if they are passionate about something.P.S. I am of German heritage, and breastfeed, I find the phrase "breastfeeding Nazi" quite offensive. AND I'll put my name to that!!
- May 28, 2012 at 2:48 pm
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From the SIDS guidelines "NO consistent evidence that formula feeding contributes to SIDS" & also NONE that breastfeeding prevents it!!
Thank you Lori for amending that. I would hate to think anyone would be made to feed their baby a certain way because of false information like that!
As the poster above has stated most SIDS babies have been breastfed!! - May 28, 2012 at 2:45 pm
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You're such an amazing writer, Lori. The first half of this post was just incredible worded and I could feel your anxiety and loss.
You're stronger than you know. - May 28, 2012 at 2:40 pm
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dachlostar, I am a member of a few baby/pregnancy forums and all the babies that sadly died of SIDS on there died in their parents beds and they were BF.
So until there is clear cut evidence as to why these poor babies die, leave the formula hating out of it please.
- May 28, 2012 at 2:32 pm
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Anonymous, Lori is absolutely correct that formula increases the risk of SIDS. It mightn't be a truth you want to hear but that doesn't make it any less true.
Because I'm lazy I'm just going to link you to a blog with more info….
http://www.analyticalarmadillo.co.uk/2010/08/breastfeeding-sids-guilt-at-what-cost.html - May 28, 2012 at 11:34 am
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Massive increased risk of formula feeding and cot death?? What utter garbage!! Way to scare women into beeastfeeding even if they can't or choose not to!
Formula feeding does not cause SIDS or contribute to it!
Wow seriously will the breastfeeding nazis stop at nothing?! Scare mongering at its worst!! Shame Lori I usually agree with most things you post but this is ludicrous!! - May 28, 2012 at 10:51 am
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…and the only time I can touch you is in my sleep… (Missy Higgins – Ten Days).
Brad
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{ 17 comments… read them below or add one }
I'm glad Bianca's mother got to her in time.
I can't swim either. Thankfully, my husband can.
My cousin, Scotty, was two years old at the time, and he was a little dare devil. He often scared the heck out of all of us. One time, we were at a public pool and Scotty makes his way around to the ten foot end of the pool. He just jumps in, which sent his mother into hysterics! And he surfaced and made his way out like he knew how to swim, like it was nothing! OMG, his mom flipped out!!! She made him go to the baby pool with her, and he was all like, "I hate the stupid baby pool!" We weren't sure whether or not to be scared or impressed! I can't say I blamed her though.
You are the bravest women I know.
You just described a nightmare that I have had many times over. Water scares the shit out of me!
The first time we took our daughter to Australia she was 4 and couldnt swim. I felt quite a mother failure when I saw all the teeny tots swimming around. Hubby taught her that holiday in a pool at Ayres rock. That is an aside to me saying: it is the parents responsibility to watch and save and mums are awesome for that. Teenage girls do not have the same response mechanisms, many adults dont too! We don't count under 18s into our leader to child ratio for many reasons and that is one of them. These sort of guilty feelings last a lifetime but each time they rise remember to say 'hey guilt, you are wrong, it was ok' x
Some years ago, my father was working on the roof at home. He had suffered a series of injuries over the past working on roofs and in the ceiling. When I heard the thud, I wondered about Dad, but Mum indicated that he'd come down from the roof a short time before, so I didn't go check. Not too long later, I went out the back of the house and there was Dad lying on the ground, head partially under the house. I thought he was dead. I screamed for Mum, who told me later my cry had 'that' sound. Then my Dad rolled out from under the house and asked me what was wrong. I went white, started to shake uncontrollably and cried. You see, Dad had gone from working on the roof, to checking one of the stumps under the house.
All this, to tell you that even someone used to seeing people in various states of dismemberment or injury, a healthcare worked, can freeze when it's someone they know in harm's way. There is no shame. I suspect had he not moved, I'd have been down on the ground doing CPR. Time slows down in such instances.
When I was 9, my brother (7) was playing in a river we were camping near. I was on the bank with my mum. My brother got into some trouble and I immediately reacted and jumped in to save him. I should have just alerted my mum who was sitting right next to me…My dad was further down the bank with my other brother.
I ended up stuck in whatever bizarre cross current thing he was stuck in and was being pulled under with him. My Dad had to save both of us from drowning.
Maybe you couldn't have helped and would have gotten in the way anyway. Bianca's mum was onto it. Mum's are awesome.
Looking forward to reading part two.
Lori…I've followed your blog through the terrific ups and the tremendous downs and I'd be so honored if you'd accept an award from me because when I was asked to 'carry it on' your blog immediately popped into my mind.
http://www.whenasouthernwomanrambles.com/p/awards-special-mentions.html
Cordially,
Avery
The innocent mind of a 16 year old girl is far different to the protective instincts of a mum.
When I was a young fella, I played cricket and was a wicket keeper, I got hit in the head by a ball and knocked clean out. My mum was never a well woman, she spent most of her life in and out of hospitals, but this day she sprinted down a large bank and hurdled the gulley at the bottom. For weeks it was "Did you see Mrs R jump that gully!" Mums have super powers when it comes to their kids.
I (we) lost my niece at the age of 5 and a half to a drowning accident in a huge communal pool…Her father swam over her oblivious to the fact that she was floating between him and the depths of that pool. Horrific. Her mother was on the side, her bad eyesight meant she had seen another little girl with an orange swimming costume on seconds earlier and thought it was her daughter, safe and sound. This happened in 1992 and I still cannot forget her. Tragic accident and no one's fault…really. We were not present when it happened. But when we got back from camping up country (in Burundi) we were very much involved. It being a third world country there were no funeral homes …and I was asked by my sister-in-law to help her. It was the hardest thing anyone has ever asked me before or since: wash and prepare her body for burial at the local mosque. My heart still bleeds to this day…it was so hard and so unbearable. Losing a child is excrutiatingly painful. As her aunt, I still feel grief to this day years later.
Wow.
Did you know that I cannot swim?
I can't. Not even to save my life.
Teaching Bluey to swim was so so important to me. He could swim completely unaided, to save his life by 3 years old. We stopped his lessons at 4 because well, it was all stroke and perfecting it. He can do freestyle, he doesn't need backstroke.
Greenie has never had a lesson though. He is learning to swim, still needs assistance at almost 3.
It is so so hard to teach a child to swim when you can't yourself. I know I should fix that but it just feels so stupid and embarrassing at this point. I can't swim, and I accept that.
What you did was just how things were. No one blames you or thinks badly of you for it. You were a child yourself, and it wasn't your job to make sure all the kids were safe.
OMG, that has me feeling sooo sick to my stomach. I can imagine that memory holding you…
I am sure your mama instinct would kick in with your own children…
Thank God Bianca was okay. Let yourself off the hook on this one. But gives me pause, as I have let my daughter, since moving to Aus., swim in pools with other kids, supervising from the sidelines, with her water wings on…at the ready. But she is only three and I would never be so relaxed in the States. I am not sure which would look less attractive, me in a swimsuit or me fully clothed soaking after going in for a save?! Either way, that is clearly not the concern here. Her safety is our priority and should not have been in the hands of other children. That is a lot of pressure. Thanks for this wake up call and food for thought. Now on to arrange those swimming lessons.
When I was maybe 7 I was in the pool with my brother, our toddler brother wandering around the edges. Suddenly my baby brother just rolled forward into the water. My mother was stretched out on a deck chair, sunglasses on, reading the paper. She went from what looked like complete relaxation to being in the water retrieving my brother instantly. It is an image that stays with me, and I hope that as a parent one day I will be as awesome as my mother.
Whew. I know the feeling of not taking action when I "should" have, and also the feeling of reacting without even realizing it. Intense.
You think so fast it feels like time stands still, and you react like a reflex. It's instinctive.
This gave me chills.
When I first read this I thought it said 'drown' instead of 'nearly drowned'. I was so mad knowing that if your cousin survived then she surely didn't drown, then I re-read it & was happy again.
I was a lifeguard for many years & now a mom. The amount of fear & panic you feel the instance something bad happens in water & someone is drowning or needing help is un-describable, but you jump into action quickly trained or not. The panic is sort of a jump start to make you react..
I never had that when I was a kid though either