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Da da da da!! A round of applause please, for my first ever guest poster- take it away, Lucy!
I have mentioned my lovely husband a bit on my blog over at Diminishing Lucy.
And now Lori has me doing an expose of how he and I met.
So I have been a trippin’ and a stumblin’ down memory lane.
The lovely husband and I met way back when Optus first started out in Australia.
Remember being able to Dial 1456?
That was me and him. And a few others too, but not many.
Back in those days (1995?) the induction training for all new Optus employees was six weeks long. (Six weeks? Fark. Times have changed.)
So, Andrew and I had six weeks of getting to know each other/showing off to each other/nicking off for smokes together.
I liked him.
He had nice long eyelashes. And he was verbose and confident. A cynical optimist. Really. He told me that about himself on the first day we met, and I thought he was mad. Cute, but mad. I thought that to be a cynical optimist was a total contradiction. An oxymoron. But it’s true and possible. He is, to this day, a cynical optimist.
We then worked and partied together for a year or so. We were friends. We talked, and flirted. We got messy together on Friday nights at the pub.
I was fond. In a very low key kind of a way. He had a nice arse. Him and his goatee and his general levels of hedonism: they were fun.
We were close, in a drinking buddy kind of way. He would kiss the top of my head as he got up go to the bar to get me a drink. In a way that made our other work mates raise eyebrows. But I kind of just sat with the idea of him, in anticipation.
And then, one day…………………he then went and got married to some other chick! (A blonde slim thing.)
I could tell you I was broken hearted. But I wasn’t. A little sad that my Friday night pash was out of action, perhaps. It actually didn’t bother me. I think I kind of quietly knew that we would end up together eventually one day. But that was a deep down in my gut very quiet type of whisper.
Him getting married to someone else was just an odd detour. I think he was on a one way street with her, unable to chuck a u-ey.
Anyway……his marriage was short and sweet. As was my attention span, to be honest. I think he tried to take me on a few dates. But I never realised he was trying to woo me. I thought we were “just friends”.
I then took a trip back to England to extinguish some old flames. And whilst I was away, I would get sweet voicemail messages from Andrew. Those messages from him, well,…..they made me feel safe.
He picked me up from the airport when I returned from that trip.
He drove from Palm Beach to Mascot at some ungodly hour of the day, to meet me off my plane and to carry my bags.
And I still didn’t really get that he was wooing me.
A week or two later, I offered to take him for dinner, to thank him for all of his gracious taxi services.
We went to Barzura in Coogee.
And he had to walk me through it very slowly.
Andrew: So, what are we going to do about us?
Me: What d’you mean, us?
Andrew: Well, we can carry on as we are……….you know, friends,
Me: Yeah……..
Andrew: Or friends that shag on a Friday night………..
Andrew: Or you could go get a proper boyfriend on me?
Me: Yeah……….
Andrew: Or we could make it official? You and me?
Me: Oh. Errrrm, so which would be your preference then?
Andrew: The latter. Obviously.
Pause
Me: Oh. Okay then.
(I have to point out something here. The above script makes me sound very cool/charmless/disinterested. Not the case. I was blown away that such a lovely bloke was able to articulate so easily to me the options, and best of all, what he wanted.)
So, that was the night we got together.
We walked, hand in hand, to the top of the headland overlooking Coogee beach, and kissed and talked. For hours.
It was bliss.
And 14 years later, it still is.
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Sometimes I feel like I’m living the fractured splinter, the shard that cracked off a larger, better life when things went insane that hot afternoon.
It’s as if there’s another Lori walking around, parallel to me. I can see her, sometimes, a transparent ghost of woman…. she’s happy. Smiling. She looks tired, she thinks she has it rough sometimes… she’s ignorant.
But she has two children with her, and, about now, her belly might be starting to swell with a third. She might still live in the Purple House… maybe she’s moved somewhere else by now, somewhere in the same friendly, manicured suburb but a house with more bedrooms, a bigger yard…
She still has a dog, just the one cat. She’s probably got her daughter the bird her daddy promised her, and her son his fish. They’re different too- her son happier, not so angry, more secure in himself, not so craving of male company; her daughter less serious and observant, both less attuned to the emotions of others.
This other Lori, she doesn’t know herself as well as I do. She has anxiety attacks too, but it’s because she’s afraid of how she will cope when, inevitably, she loses someone she loves. Blissful ignorance- she trusts people, she believes that the world is good and everything will be OK. She’s preparing her oldest child for school next year, going to playgroup, swimming lessons….. being normal. She follows me around unintentionally on days that should be happy, days I’m trying to focus and connect with my children; innocently, simply living her life, laughing and frenzied and so blissfully unaware of this side of life.
Her husband, he’s with her. They argue and nothing’s perfect… but he’s there.
“An eternal optimist who trusts no one…? How does that work?”
My default setting is trust… I inherently believe that people are good.
I am proved wrong, over and over and over.
It’s difficult to learn not to trust… It’s never something I wanted to do. But it’s so necessary…. every time I trust someone, show them how I ache and bleed, they hurt me.
The rose, Tony’s rose… it died.
Where it was filled, covered with tiny green leaves and new shoots… a week or two later it was nothing but an ugly stick, default of life or greenery. I try to revive it, and I fail.
I’m not even surprised.
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{ 12 comments… read them below or add one }
November 22, 2012 at 1:15 am She is stunned to learn from James' secretary that he is married. Upset, she disappears. Bi-fold doors Melbourne
May 19, 2012 at 4:24 pm Wise Woman once told me I was too involved in ther's lives. I gave too much of my heart and trust and thus invariably ended up battered, bruised and betrayed.
For a while I actually agreed with her. Tighten up, lessen impact of those with no honour.
But then I realised I was not truly living, but sheltering in fear. And so I put myself out there once more.
And let the sunlight in to mingle and leave shadows. But at least it was there for some of my life.
Trust in yourself my friend. The betrayals are of themselves, not you. xx
May 17, 2012 at 10:32 pm Oh Lori, I hear you…
Bet it feels like that other Lori is even mocking you some days. B!tch.
In my experience the other you fades into the background more & more (slowly) as more time passes…
I'm hopeful that eventually the glimpses of her will be far less frequent and less heartbreaking.
Big hugs, to both the Lori's…
Susan xx
May 17, 2012 at 3:20 am The first part of your post reminds me of a movie I recently saw called "Another Earth". I think you would enjoy it.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1549572/
May 16, 2012 at 10:15 pm I am so sorry that you get hurt! But I still believe that we are all good, and that we do not do it intentionally to hurt somebody else – only out of self-preservation etc.
May 16, 2012 at 9:33 pm The trust stuff you wrote, it's like you took it from my head. I want to trust, I want people I can trust and who will love me warts and all. They will see me make mistakes or be imperfect and you know what? They won't care. They will love so much about me that that stuff doesn't matter and they will stay loyal and honest to me.
My head is in the clouds right?
People who can mean exactly what they say to me, and not go and backstab me? Yah. I'm dreeeeeeeaaammmin'.
Lori, it may sometimes feel like everyone is backstabbing you or letting you down, but not everyone is. There will be new people around the corner who are exactly what you need in the moment, even if they're not long term friends.
Plus, you've got my number and pretty sure you owe me a few visits. Even if it's to whinge. I'm good at the whinging 
May 16, 2012 at 8:45 pm I'm sorry about the rose, Lori 
May 16, 2012 at 5:56 pm Your writing, Lori, it just blows me away, each and every time.
I don't even know what to say, so I'll just say this: I'm listening.
xo
May 16, 2012 at 4:30 pm I'm so sorry to hear about the rose. Hopefully it's just hibernating for winter. xx
May 16, 2012 at 9:12 am The rose might come back, mine have lost there leaves for winter nothing but ugly sticks a reminder of the beauty that was there a few short weeks ago, but they are reborn in spring to remind us there is always hope.
Xx
May 16, 2012 at 9:11 am Dear Lori, another heart wrenching post….keep strong girl. Sometimes the moments when you’re most cracked is when the light streams in…
Yesterday you were strong and proud but you can’t stay long in that place when your heart is still broken and the daily grind and demands of single parenting and providing the next meal and keeping the car running, and, and, and…
I hear your torment as you cope with overwhelming feelings of grief and loss (specifically loss of trust) When you are person of deep integrity this is one of the challenges life presents us with, the daily ongoing struggle of balancing vulnerability and openness with the potential to be exploited. All I can gently suggest, because it seems inappropriate to rave on at length here, that as an older woman who had her own particular struggles – and the one about balancing trust and protecting yourself is very familiar to me! – in life you will make mistakes and be hurt and sometimes you will make right decisions and become stronger. Resilience is the key and it comes from developing the things that make you stronger. Two things I know you do exceedingly well are writing (which gives you the meditative skills of focussing and breathing) and networking. I get the impression you are also a great Mum and a budding social activist. When times are tough try to spend as much time as you can doing the things that sustain you.
May 16, 2012 at 8:49 am No body expects the Spanish Inquisition. But know that splinterd Lori has thoughts an prayers consistantly coming her way from the States (Colorado to be exact).
~Jill
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Things I know now, that I never wanted to know.
Grief is fucked. It’s a horrible, hideous, tormenting thing that tricks you and pulls you and grazes every part of you.
This is real. No charms, no omens, nothing can protect you here. This is life. This is real.
‘I’m sorry’ is so useless. I know, it’s all people know to say. It’s what i used to say. But I resist the urge to ask people, what are you sorry for? You get to go on with your life, think about how sad this is, try and imagine my situation. You’re not sorry. Not as sorry as i am. You just don’t know what else to say. And that’s OK.
It’s after the funeral, that it’s hardest. When everyone else goes back to their lives. They make plans for the year. They fill in diaries, make appointments, get on with things. And they expect me to, too. But for me, this is just the beginning. I feel adrift, cut off, lost from everything I knew. And I don’t care- not about you illness, your worries, any of your shit. Don’t you realise how lucky you are, ,to hae those petty things to go back to? Don’t you get that I’d give anything, anything to have worries you have right now?
Instead, I’m worried about cleaning out my husband’s clothes. I’m worried about whether I’ll be able to keep my house. I’m worried how my son will grow up, without a man’s man father figure in his life.
I’m worried, terrified, about being a single mum. Having to mange my finances, live on next to nothing. Fuck, this is all going to be so difficult.
How the fuck did thid happen to my life? How did it fucking change like this, in the space of three seconds? Three minutes. The time it took for it to change from ‘he wouldn’t’ to ‘he’s not fucking around’.
And then, the screaming.
How the fuck did this happen to me?
Thanks everyone. These comments help so much. Even the “I’m sorry” ones
Just to put your minds at ease, i’m under the care of a pyschitrist, pyschologist and emergency mental health team. Grief counsellors who are adequately trained for this situation are hard to come by- I even scare the professionals at this point
But I am OK. Fucking angry and sad right down to my toes, but OK.
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{ 75 comments… read them below or add one }
January 20, 2011 at 10:10 pm I don't know what to say except that I've thought about you a lot lately wishing that there was something that could be done to make things righto because this is so incredibly wrong.
January 20, 2011 at 6:35 am Be as fucking angry & sad as you want; you're definitely allowed to be.
January 20, 2011 at 3:42 am I'm glad you are speaking to professionals. You did a great job of getting to this point, but you've had a bit of an adrenaline crash and you need to grieve. Really, really grieve and eventually somehow build back up your strength. I'm no professional and I have no idea what it's like to be in your shoes, but I hope you have someone there who can hold you and hug you and let you scream and cry. Mom, Dad, friend, brother, sister, counselor… someone you trust. I hope someone who is close to you reads this comment and reaches out to touch you. There is no replacement for physical contact.
January 19, 2011 at 9:01 pm I wish i knew what to say. To do.
I've probably said "I'm sorry" i mean like you said, what else do you say? Would i wish myself in your position, no, but that doesn't mean i want you in it any more than i would want myself in it.
If there is anything i can say or do, just a friend to talk to even, someone to help you pack up his stuff, anything, please do not hesitate in hunting my arse down because i am more than happy to help out in any way. Even if you just want me to have your kids for a playdate so you can get some time to break down and kick and scream (but please, make sure you come back!)
January 19, 2011 at 5:18 pm As you said, I do not know what to say. I have no idea. However, I do want you to know I am here. Thinking of you, sending you love and wishing there was more I could do xo
January 19, 2011 at 4:18 pm You're not going mad, you're not a bad person and you definitely have done nothing to deserve this. Where you are right now is exactly where anyone else in your situation would be.
Angry is good. Fucked up is good. Scary is good. Writing it out is exactly perfect.
January 19, 2011 at 1:36 pm Lori, I know that no amount of sorrys help you right now, but I am, to the depths of my soul. Feel what you have to feel, and scream until you cant scream anymore, and know that people do care. People might go on with their lives, but your true friends and family will take you along with them.
January 19, 2011 at 10:10 am They may say "I'm sorry for your loss" but what they mean is, "I'm sorry you're hurting." If I could wave a magic wand, no one I know would hurt the way you are hurting, Lori. Yes, it sucks. And there's no doubt you heard more things in the last few days that make you want to a) slap the person saying it, or b) tell them they don't know what the hell they're talking about, or c) quit your GD preaching. But I know this because I've lived this…You are never given anything more than you can handle. And sometimes, the strength we have comes out of the worst moments of our lives. You're stronger than you know. (Feel free to tell me to quit my preaching!!)
January 19, 2011 at 8:30 am You don't have to be OK, that's why there are "teams" of people. You don't have to be nice or capable or in control or coping. You just have to be what you are and where you are from moment to moment. Your world is terrifying, it is fucked, it is unfair and screwed and paralysing and too, too much. But know that no matter how ugly or scary you get, you are loved. Unconditionally. We are not going away, despite the aparent silence.
January 19, 2011 at 6:54 am There are no words, just thoughts and hugs x
January 19, 2011 at 6:33 am You're right. I don't know what else to say. I can't even begin to imagine the pain you're living through right now. But I am sorry. Sorry that I can't help. That I can't take some of the pain away. And sorry that I don't have the right words.
But, I think of you and pray for you and your babies.
January 19, 2011 at 3:23 am I HATED the words "I'm sorry" too, when my mom died – I just felt like screaming "It's not your fault, what are YOU sorry for!" whenever someone said that to me. It really felt like a slap in the face every time someone said it. Even though intellectually I understood that it was just the customary words, I thought it was stupid and I hated it.
*HUGS* I am thinking of you.
January 19, 2011 at 2:04 am no one can feel your pain, Lori, it is your life, your loss, your children, your husband, your grief. but some of us have lost loved ones or came close to it and it breaks our heart to witness how your blog, from 'random ramblings' (that stood out by their quality and spirit) has become a diary of pain. it's hard to find the right words, but most definitively have the right feelings for you xx
January 19, 2011 at 1:16 am Lori, you're right, those of us who aren't living what you are living have no idea what it is like to feel a grief that is so intense it feels like it is going to consume you. But what I do know is that we're your soft place to fall. We're here to listen when you need to tell us how fucked this whole ugly situation is. We're here to nod and agree with you when you tell us how un-fucking-fair it is that we get to carry on as we were before and you can't.
But we're also here to tell you that it will be alright and that one day you will feel like you can breathe again. xoxoxo
January 19, 2011 at 12:01 am ((((Lori))) you are right I have no real idea but I can see how much you are hurting and for that I am completely sorry. We all care, we keep coming back to see you as we care.
With love, Mich x
January 18, 2011 at 11:12 pm That's the shit of it. After the funeral, everyone else goes on. How dare they? I get that you feel like that, absolutely. And other's trivial worries, OMFG you don't want to hear them. But "I'm sorry" is better than nought, that's for sure. Because people are. sorry it happened, sorry your life is in turmoil and fear. It all sucks. And people are sorry to see you in so much pain. Like others have said, all you can do right now is minute by minute, hour by hour for now. Slowly but slowly that time period will stretch out to day by day and week by week, and you'll hate it all more and more as it does, as it shouldn't ever get easier, you won't miss him any less, but it does. It will. But for now, my heart and love go out to you.
January 18, 2011 at 11:03 pm Because I have no words. Just hugs. xx
January 19, 2011 at 9:56 am No-one ever knows what to say. I don't. Words from us won't help. But words like these from you will help. Keep writing and we'll keep writing back to let you know we all care.
January 18, 2011 at 10:53 pm I read this earlier and didn't know how to reply. I still don't. But I've got to say something so you know I'm here, reading and crying. Big amounts of love to you xx
January 18, 2011 at 10:41 pm Lori – I am sorry and I don't apologise for that. I am sorry that you are going through this. I am sorry that you even have to know that this kind of grief exists. I am sorry that you have to contemplate the life ahead that you never knew could exist. Why am I sorry – because you have touch me with your writing and because nobody should ever have to feel like you do now. I wish I had something wise and insightful to say to you but I don't. All I have to offer you is the knowledge that I am one more person out here, whom you don't know, who cares.
January 18, 2011 at 10:39 pm I'm clueless as what to say… so I'll go with I'm sorry….
January 18, 2011 at 9:53 pm Scream and vent away, we are all here as virtual shoulders for you to lean on. Thinking of you and your family.
January 18, 2011 at 9:48 pm People say the strangest things when faced with the traumas of others. The pain of others turns us into emotional fuck-wits sometimes. People want to fix, to be the one who makes you better. The powerlessness that trauma incites is so widespread. Your situation is not fixable. But the right professional help can help you to make it bearable.
Thinking of you and willing you on from the other side of the world. xx
January 18, 2011 at 9:36 pm hang in there – on your hairy ride.
still thinking of you.
January 18, 2011 at 9:27 pm You know what? You sound normal. You sound like a normal person having a normal reaction to some totally fucked up shit. No one knows how to deal with this, the professionals do their thing, but they don't know either. As Tash said, no one can change the fact that its fucked.
You are through another day. That's something. We're here to make sure you keep getting through. xoxoxox
January 18, 2011 at 9:26 pm After the funeral is definitely the worst. And it doesn't ease up quickly. I don't envy you the next 8wks but take all the help you can get and just tread water for the next 2 months because you will wake up one day and it will be easier to breathe. There'll still be lots to deal with but you'll be able to breathe.
Thinking of you.
January 18, 2011 at 9:22 pm I agree with Vee. You need to take time, do things at your own pace.
From my own experience with grief I've learnt:
– It's just shit (only one of my many friends was brave enough to say this to me in the early days)
– just take one day at a time
– don't try to do everything at once – one thing at a time. nothing is so urgent anymore
– let yourself be angry if that's how you are
– never apologise
– get a list of good friends who you know you can call or text at a moment's notice to let it all off your chest. They are probably not the friends you expected to do this. They will step up from the sidelines, as I can already see is happening through your blog.
And the awful reality is to know (as you already know) that this will be the hardest thing that you will have ever dealt with in your life. But, it is the immediate future that is the hardest. As fucked a cliche it is that you don't want to hear right now, in time this too shall pass (or at the very least, ease somewhat). Just writing that sounds bloody stupid, but it is true.
Now you are in survival mode. Take up offers of help, and keep using this forum as you need to.
And as Denyse has suggested, I hope you can find a trusted someone to help guide you through all the practical stuff that needs to be done. One step at a time.
January 18, 2011 at 9:14 pm hey mate – just keep writing it down. Post if you need to or just keep it to yourself. Whatever it takes – do it, get it out in the open. Say it write it do it.
you won't believe it and for sure I am the least qualified person to be listening to on this, but time will work its magic.
Please talk with those professionals and let out the pain.
January 18, 2011 at 9:10 pm Breathe. In, out. In, out. That's all you can do in the face of such immense pain.
And ask for help if you need it. People are so scared to come close in a situation like this but most people would bend over backwards to help if only they knew how. x
January 18, 2011 at 9:01 pm Just commenting to say I was here. I come to read to see how you're doing. I know I'm never going to be able to say anything to make it all better. It is fucked. I'm trying really hard not to say sorry. I've been sitting here with this comment box open for ages, typing and deleting and retyping. But I got nothing that hasn't been said.
January 18, 2011 at 8:27 pm Hugs.
…and I am sorry. I *know* the life you are living because I am living it too.
and I am so sorry for the both of us.
….and I am not finished clearing Greg's clothes and useless crap from our house and he died 10.5 months ago.
Baby steps.
January 18, 2011 at 8:12 pm I have felt what you're feeling and I, too, wrote it out. I didn't have the guts to make it public, not all of it, not the worst of it. I've been where you are.
I didn't have enough support and I nearly didn't make it. Make sure you do. Because one parent is better than none.
January 18, 2011 at 8:10 pm Thinking of you Lori and wishing you strength and help from those around you.
January 18, 2011 at 7:58 pm There isn't anything that I can offer you but a destination for your voice. You've been in my thoughts
January 18, 2011 at 7:47 pm Do what you need to do Lori, and tell others what needs to be done.
You need to be looked after now.
Rest, breathe, do whatever you need to do.
We'll all still be here, sending you light and love, praying for you, doing whatever it is we do for people we care about. x
January 18, 2011 at 7:33 pm I am here holding you in my heart. Praying that God will give you the strength to go on one day at a time.xxxxxx
January 18, 2011 at 6:59 pm I know nothing can help ease your pain. Nothing. Hopefully, one day soon, it won't hurt quite as much. Still thinking of you – daily.
January 18, 2011 at 6:52 pm It is fucked. I am sorry that it's fucked, because no one should have to bear grief like that, least of all you. Grief is an emotion that offers zero reward.
I am sorry there is no other option but to take each hour, each day, each week, as it comes, waiting, holding on, just waiting, for the pain to subside just a little.
xx
January 18, 2011 at 6:50 pm Throwing you a bucket full of love.
Sometimes the professionals need to be scared, take them out of their comfort zone and give them a challenge or two. I am glad you have a strong network around you xxoo
January 18, 2011 at 6:47 pm January 18, 2011 at 6:23 pm I'm glad you've got some help at hand, eg counsellors etc. We're all here for you, and please know that during our days, you and your lovely family are more in our thoughts than you could possibly know
January 18, 2011 at 5:59 pm Hugs Lori 
And well done for scaring the professionals, as one who has a lot of counselling in her life, I do enjoy when I make them drop their pen – give 'em hell I reckon.
But seriously, huge hugs.
January 18, 2011 at 5:17 pm I hear you Lori. I felt the same way when my husband passed away. Everyone gets on with their lives and there you are still stuck and struggling. It's something you just have to deal with and talk when you need to because people are scared to mention it, they are scared to upset you. So you need to bring it up whenever you need to.
It's been 8 months since my husband died, his clothes are still in his wardrobe, his desk is untouched. Do it whenever you are ready to do it.
You will get through it.
January 18, 2011 at 4:39 pm Anything I say will be inadequate but I hope that it brings some comfort to know that people are listening.
You have every right to be angry with everything and everyone. And we are here to hear it
January 18, 2011 at 4:30 pm I don't know what to say but please keep writing and know that we are all reading x
January 18, 2011 at 4:17 pm Keep writing and keep scaring the professionals. That means your getting it out. Which won't make it better any time soon but it's better than holding it in. Love to you xxx
January 18, 2011 at 4:13 pm Oh Lori, I've been so worried about you – like everyone else. I'm glad you're talking to someone. Whatever anyone says is just going to be inadequate, but at the very least, it's sincere. It's not fair that you're in this pain and all we can do is say we're here and we care…but it's what we do because it's what we can do. I wish I could say something really beautiful like Rhonda did, a few comments above mine. Can I just say, "What she said"?
Much love.
January 18, 2011 at 3:47 pm I am sorry, sorry that I can't do anything to ease your pain. Sorry that I can't make it all right in your world again.
I love you Lori xoxoxo
January 18, 2011 at 3:44 pm Reading the raw emotion, anger and heartache in your posts made me realise so much about my own behaviour around people who have suffered such a trauma. A good friend lost her partner and her father in one cruel blow a few years back, and things unfolded as you say – we all rallied around for the time before the funeral (took leave, whatever was necessary to be there with her) but after the funeral we all drifted back to our own lives. We didn't mean to, and I certainly didn't realise it had happened. But it did, and that's not right.
It's not fair. At all. It is the suckiest, crappy, awful, fucked up thing that could have happened – and it's made worse because those who love you don't understand what they're doing can be making it harder.
I have never met you, and it was this terrible tragedy that led me to your blog from BB (I had never come across it before) and now I find myself drawn to it, and to you. Part of it is the human instinct to be curious, but so much of it is pure heartbreak for the devastation you are experiencing. Not an hour goes past that I don't think about you and your family, and send all the good energy I can muster your way. It's not much – but it's what I can do.
January 18, 2011 at 3:25 pm Lori, every commenter above me has said the words I don't know how to.
I'm glad you're seeing a grief counsellor, getting help. At first it may not seem to be helping, but gradually it will. They know that when you talk, scream, rage and cry, that you're not doing it at them; they know this is the grief making itself known. They know that this is part of the way to moving on, ( I won't say healing, that takes so much longer).
Take hugs, comfort and help from wherever you can. Love you.
January 18, 2011 at 3:21 pm I love you sweetheart. I can't say I know what you're going through. Some of it — the shock and worry about how you're going to cope on your own, the disbelief — not all of it. But know that I am here holding you in my heart and I hate that you are hurting so much. I'll be here through all of it.
January 18, 2011 at 2:47 pm I love you to the moon chickadee. I'm not sure what else to say & I'm angry with myself that I can't formulate the right words in my brain.
But know that I am thinking of you and that I will be there whenever you call, whenever you need me. Ok? OK.
January 18, 2011 at 2:09 pm I know these words really are useless in the grand scheme of things, and nothing we say or do can make this fucked up situation any better but I just hope you know that even though we've never met I have thought of you constantly, daunted by your nightmare and hoping you can teach us all one day to be as strong as you. You have a story to tell and the beautiful talent to do it justice. This blogging community adores you and will carry you through tears and tragedy as well as triumph, because I believe one day you will stand tall once more x
January 18, 2011 at 1:58 pm I am sorry that this happened to you but I'm also angry for you. Angry that this happened to you and your family. So you can feel anyway you want to right now, angry, sad, full of grief and unrelenting rage and even though I can't possibly know what you are going through and the full extent of how you are feeling, just know that I am sad and angry right here with you.
January 18, 2011 at 1:57 pm Lori, I wish I knew what to say. But there really isn't anything that anyone can say, is there? Nothing can change this horrible tragedy. You're right to be angry, everyone does get to go back to their own life. But we are still thinking of you and sending mountains of love your way.
January 18, 2011 at 1:56 pm No "sorry" doesn't help at all. What you are having to live through now and in the future is pain I wish no-one else ever had to experience. And that you are having to experience it makes me feel for you and truly sorry (i.e. sorrowful).
Yes in the after funeral period – life as you knew it is gone and you have to find a new way amid the pain. Most of the supporters have faded away-back to the lives they had before. This is and will continue to be painful, hideous and difficult.
Your online community so want to be a source of support for you. Unfortunately, what you are living is something only you can do for yourself ( I so wish I could do it for you). However, if you need anything – if only to scream or vent – feel free to direct it this way.
"How the fuck" is right!
January 18, 2011 at 1:54 pm Hi hon. It's really, very ok to be angry, hurt, frustrated, annoyed, ticked off at everyone right now. It really is. Write about it, but also talk about it. I agree with others here – a counsellor could maybe help, just for the fact that you can tell a complete stranger exactly how you feel without judgement.
Ask for help. Don't be afraid to.
Turn to your kids. Look at them and cherish them and believe they will be ok. They may not have their Dad, but they have you. Their loving mother. They will love you no matter what, Lori, and could be the best distraction and comfort you need right now.
xxxxx
January 18, 2011 at 1:50 pm Oh hun. I say I'm sorry because I am. I am sorry this happened and that he didn't survive it and that I can't do anything that will help or make any semblance of a difference. I am especially sorry that your kids have to experience something that I as an adult cannot fathom living through. But if it helps. I'll stop.
Love to you.
January 18, 2011 at 1:38 pm I saw the heartache of my best friend when I took an overdose. Survival of that episode, and subsequent events made me a better person.
I pray that you will grow stronger. And just let it all out.
You have a psychologist, please use them, please. It's free on Medicare, and the free visits start at the beginning of each year.
Don't feel alone, you have friends.
January 18, 2011 at 1:35 pm A book by Joan Didion called 'The Year Of Magical Thinking' outlines the unexpected death of her husband. Perhaps reading about somebody elses pain can at least give you a brief respite from the unrelenting horror of your own right now?
And this is Freud on grief: 'The reality of death can only be accepted bit by bit, at great expense of time and cathartic energy, and in the meantime, the existence of the lost object is psychically prolonged.'
Be kind to yourself where you can Lori. This is all so fucked up. Big love.xxx
January 18, 2011 at 1:34 pm let it out.. say fuck all you want. its ok to be angry.
January 18, 2011 at 1:27 pm My heart breaks for you…
~Love, Samantha~
January 18, 2011 at 1:23 pm Dear Lori. Dear, dear Lori. I hope you have a grief counsellor. I hope you have an army of people knocking on your door insisting that you get out of their way so they can take over the day to day running of your house and all the bits that need attention. I hope you have someone's shoulder to cry on and someone's ear to scream into. Right now I just hope that you are grieving and not really thinking that you are 'supposed to get on with your life'. Just be sad and mad and bad right now, dear Lori. x
January 18, 2011 at 1:22 pm I wish I knew why this happened to you. I've seen my mom go through the loss of her husband. My brother and I grew up without a father (more him because he was younger). There's really no other way to put it than it sucks. It fucking sucks!
Personally, blogging is great therapy, but talking to actual person can really help. For you as well as the kids. I really wish I had some better advice for you, but please know you and your family are in my heart.
January 18, 2011 at 1:20 pm Oh Lori, would that we could turn back time. Make it better, fix it before reality slaps you in the face like this.
And you're right. At the end of the day, as much as my heart hurts for you, it's not my reality. My life isn't in shambles. It doesn't mean I don't ache, knowing that yours is and wish I could make it better. But like they say, if wishes were horses, beggers would ride.
I've been thinking about you often and sending good energy your way. Pretty useless in physical terms, but there you go.
Strength. Love. If you want to email me and scream in general, you know I'd be there for you. xxxxx
January 18, 2011 at 1:19 pm Hour by hour. It's all you need cope with right now. Know that you are thought and prayed for every day, by strangers you don't exsist, because I've told them your story.
Lori, I wish I could say something to ease your pain, but I can't so I won't pretend. But you are thought of.
January 18, 2011 at 1:10 pm I dont know… I wish I did. I wish there was something that would make things better… I really do.
January 18, 2011 at 1:04 pm Yep. And feel free to tell me to fuck off too.
I understand, whether you believe it or not. You're so right: I realised after the funeral of my daughter that one of the main reasons I didn't want it was the inevitable after… because that was just endless to me. Days and days and months and years and OMFG how will I do this for the REST of my life? I can't possibly. Very, very dark days they were – I feel for you tremendously. I know the resentment of other people's mundane and the inane sorries (and I've given you some! so I'm sorry about that! again…) but I think that's why I am sorry – because I know it hurts like a motherfucking bitch. Literally, physically hurts. Everywhere.
Hour by hour. Honestly, right now, that's all there needs to be. xxxx
January 18, 2011 at 5:57 pm Really glad to hear you have some professionals on your side who can help you get through this.
Much love
xx
January 18, 2011 at 5:36 pm Just leaving you some love xxx
January 18, 2011 at 5:00 pm A wise woman said to me at my son's funeral: You can get all the grief counselling in the world. Nothing changes the fact that the whole thing is just fucked.
The days and weeks after the funeral drift and it can feel like you're drowning. People move on and you're left to deal with the agony.
Get the grief counselling. Scream into the pillow. Stare endlessly at blank walls. Do whatever you can to manage. It's the patronising bloody social workers that pissed me off the most. If someone isn't working for you, find help from someone else.
Hold on.
January 18, 2011 at 4:10 pm I won't say sorry, I want to thank you for still writing. Just so we know that you are there, feeling whatever it is that you are feeling from minute to minute or hour to hour. And giving us the opportunity to send you love and strength. x
January 18, 2011 at 1:50 pm The thing about raw grief is, it's as real as life gets.
All the other stuff? worrying about what school your kid gets into and if you can lose enough weight to fit into that dress you love? it's like gauzy curtains, covering over the terrifying truth.
It isn't fair that you have to live this life. It isn't fair that other people get to worry about what to have for dinner, while you don't know how to make it through to dinner-time.
There isn't anything anyone can say or do to make it better, no matter how much we want to — and that isn't fair either.
The only thing I know – from experience – is that it gets better with time… and how fucking useless is that right now?
Sorry is such an inadequate word.
Those of us who've been on this road, we hurt for you. We remember the dark that threatened to suffocate us, the dreadful weight in our hearts and arms, the ache of tears shed and un-shed.
We don't feel your pain. We don't feel your anguish or your anger. But we remember ours, and with all our hearts, we wish this wasn't happening to you.
January 18, 2011 at 1:11 pm I know, believe me, different type, but I know.
All you can do is get through each day. Do not plan ahead, allow the anger to burst through.
It is more fucked than anyone ever realises and I just hope thos around close to you can step up and help you in the physical. It will never be enough to bring life back as it was but it will help. A little.
As for the emotional, and in some small way financial, we are here.
And as hard as it may be, all you need do is ask. Because the other sucky thing about grief is that we do not want to push in and make it worse, as everyone needs different things at a time like this. And so we wait to be guided in some way by you. Unfair, I know. But life and people.
January 18, 2011 at 1:09 pm Who is available for you to talk, really talk/cry/shout/scream to?
Yes, writing is an outlet…my opinion is you need a grief counsellor STAT.
Channelling your energies will assist somewhat by "letting it out" but nothing AT ALL will soothe..yet, for you & the kids you do have to do/care/be.
More than anything my advice is to seek help where the professionals lend their skills to steer a course for you that doesn't feel like bashing your head against a brick wall.
Is there a person, trusted & caring, who can assist you with the practical items you've outlined. You need guidance …good, sound non-judgmental guidance from someone who is s help not a hindrance.
I don't know you ..and you can reject all I write. But what I do know is how to help a person who wants/seeks help. I am a practical, knowledgable and caring retired teacher/principal who lives in Sydney. I am a mother of 2 adults, grandmother of 7c if you want to have any assistance from me, DM on twitter. denwise1
Aloha,
Meeting people you’ve only previously me online can be a bit risky, at times.
You know, sometimes you meet people off the Net and they are crazy obsessive kinda ugly creepy stalkers who just freak you right out (hi, Jay)?
Or they are completely different to how they came across, through the keyboard….?
Well, my lovely Brenda from MummyTime is neither of those things. She is just as lovely, funny, warm, friendly, clever, huggy and… well… squee!!! as she appears online. And we click with an audible clack.
The only thing I didn’t expect…? Well. B’s a shortie. Five foot two inches, just like me. In fact, we could be freaking twins. As I said to her, she must just write much taller than that. Or something.
Here’s a piccie. I know, I know, it’s not great. Really can’t compete with YouTube footage. And Brenda’s doing her Shake-It-Like-A-Polaroid-Picture thing. But it’s the best of a bad bunch, OK? OK.
Oh, and did I mention I went to the movies…? No…? Yuhuh. Tinkerbell And The Great Fairy Rescue, review- and quite possible an un-crap giveaway-coming soon!
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{ 14 comments… read them below or add one }
August 3, 2010 at 6:31 pm Oooooh, I want to meet the both of you! I've talked on Skype with Brenda, she's lovely. However, I may be a teensy bit taller than you both at 5"9.
August 2, 2010 at 6:17 pm I've met up with some 'virtual' friends & although it is scary on the journey there, they are such lovely people! Well they would be wouldn't they if you are chatting!
August 2, 2010 at 1:11 pm How awesome that you were fortunate enough to meet in person! You too look beautiful!
August 2, 2010 at 11:39 am You guys look so cute! Awesome! That is so exciting that you got to meet!
August 2, 2010 at 11:33 am Lucky! Glad it was a good meet-up ladies
August 2, 2010 at 10:37 am A-frickin-dorable!
Jealousy ensues.
August 2, 2010 at 7:22 am Yay for shorties ( 5'3 on a good day here )!
Also yay for internet meet ups. I've only had a few but they've mostly been good – especially the one thats seen me end up with a wonderful fiance and gorgeous son!
August 2, 2010 at 2:45 am Looks like fun! I have tagged both you and Brenda in a meme at my site, if you are into that sort of thing! I am still linking to people for crying out loud so it'll be a few minutes!
http://www.pampersandpinot.com
August 2, 2010 at 12:04 am How fun! I can't wait until I have a chance to meet you both in person!
August 2, 2010 at 12:01 am SO jealous that you guys had the chance to meet :)Next time, gadget, next time!
August 1, 2010 at 10:19 pm I just watched your Magic Trick on MummyTime – very cool!
As i said on Brenda's blog it must be great to actually meet someone you kind of feel like you already know. I picture many of the people in the blogosphere as still images (like their avatars) so it is nice to know people can actually move around and talk and stuff!
Looking forward to hearing about Tinkerbell soon!
August 2, 2010 at 8:05 am How fun, to meet a fellow blogger!
August 1, 2010 at 9:28 pm As I've said! Great Big Things come in Small Tiny Packages. Ahem. And WTF am I doing? Hehehe.
August 1, 2010 at 10:25 pm I love the fact …. that you can follow a blog for sometime then met the writer behind it…. and that photo is soooo cute…. you both look so happy ….
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A muchly merry Christmas Eve to you, my jellybeans!!
No FlogYoBlog Friday today. Sorry. But I figured we’ll all be far too full sick of wrapping presents ticked of with our over-excited children busy to do much blog flogging anyway.
So, again for the slow ones- no FlogYoBlog Friday this week. OK? OK.
The good news is, FlogYoBlog will return next Friday for a special New Years’ Eve Blog Flogging Edition. Yes, I’m running a linky list on New Years Eve. But my rationale is- if you’re anything like me, you are a total loser and stay home on New Years Eve because of the damn pushy crowds and that loud doof doof music you would really rather spend New Year’s at home with your kids. So, after you promise to wake the kids for midnight (yeah, right!) and they flake on the lounge, you can all come online and we can all get blind p*ssed drunk and leave annoying anonymous comments on each others blogs. Sounds like my idea of fun.
In other news, RRSAHM is having a mini break between now and New Years Eve. I’ll still be around- we all know I have serious withdrawals if I go a full day without Twitter, and start sleep-Tweeting with my imaginary iPhone- and I’ll probably even publish a time or two (because not publishing on this blog for more than 48 hours also causes me serious psychological withdrawal effects that manifest themselves through me screaming at the Man). But I’ll be taking it easy and recovering from Christmas. I highly recommend you do the same.
So.. that’s it. A very Merry Christmas to you. If you happen to see a fat, hairy man sneaking around your house tonight, call the cops.
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{ 14 comments… read them below or add one }
December 24, 2010 at 10:17 pm Happy Christmas to you, The Man and the kidlets.xx
December 24, 2010 at 3:50 pm December 24, 2010 at 12:54 pm Merry Xmas Lori – it's been a hoot reading your rambling stuff these last couple of months…might even join you next friday (although I *do* have a party to go to…even have a dress (gasp)).
Have a nice mini break – my computer *might* get swtiched off tomorrow (no promises though) but I'll still be here doing my daily thing (only 280 days to go after all)
Can't wait to catch more of your random ramblings in 2011
xxxCate
December 24, 2010 at 12:36 pm Merry Christmas to you and your family, Lori!
It's been fab getting to know you in 2010!
xx
December 24, 2010 at 12:20 pm I will make sure to call the cops if there is a fat guy in red sneaking around my house tonight. I live in Canada and we're still on Christmas eve eve so there should be no fat man wandering around here. Well, maybe my husband. Haha!
December 24, 2010 at 11:41 am December 24, 2010 at 10:44 am Merry Christmas!!! I hope your kids have a blast (although, if anything like my darling child the boxes will be the real winner of the day, and the husband enjoys the toys…sigh)
December 24, 2010 at 9:18 am merry Christmas Lori Have a wonderful New years with the family. The kids are so adorable.
pop over and say "HI" as im doing my flogyablog today lol…
December 24, 2010 at 9:16 am Your kids look so excited for Christmas! Merry Christmas to you! Looking forward to your new year's post!
December 24, 2010 at 7:41 am Great photos Lori. And Merry Christmas!!! Hope it's a festive frolic.
Thanks so much for being our FYBF host. I think FYBF deserves a little Christmas Eve rest. I'd imagine you'd get a bit tired after all that floggin …
December 24, 2010 at 7:31 am I have to say..your oldest looks EXACTLY like you! Merry Christmas Lori!
December 24, 2010 at 7:18 am I was just thinking the same thing Eva your kids are incredibly cute Lori .
Merry Christmas to you too Lori and thanks for the lol at your calling the cops comment! he he
December 24, 2010 at 10:21 am I came to flog my last call for Christmas cloth nappy photos, so I'll do it anyway. If you have one, please send it to me today (stop by my cloth blog to find out what it is all about, or please just send me a photo. Pleeeease). Merry Christmas and thanks for being so much fun during the year.)
December 24, 2010 at 7:14 am The kids are adorable!
Previous post: The Twelve Days of the Purple House Christmas. Or Something.
Next post: It’s Just That Time Of Year.
My iPad is my Pensieve.
That’s not a typo, nor is it Lori making words up. If you’re a Harry Potter, you’ll recognize the word as one of JK Rowling’s, and it’s another of those words I’ve been seeking for some time now.
On days and nights (like today) when my head it too full of thoughts and words and ideas, and I feel restless and agitated and misunderstood, I turn to my iPad with its flat, on screen keyboard, and type.
 |
| Unashamedly stolen from here. |
I type out the pain and frustration, the loneliness and trauma. I empty my mind onto a blank white screen, allow the thoughts to untangle themselves and rush out, bleed the poison from old wounds. I don’t get to jump in afterwards (thank goodness…), but I take so much comfort in knowing that other people become immersed in my world, see things through my eyes. Walk through old buildings with me. Sit in hospital waiting rooms with me. Be a pair of eyes on the wall as I date again. Watch me struggle with two independent, grieving children.
I take my thoughts and splash and weave them onto the screen. It’s the ultimate in therapy. Without somewhere to place the weight of all this thinking, I just may burst from the pressure of it.
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{ 11 comments… read them below or add one }
June 6, 2012 at 12:05 am Thinking of you , I love the imagery.
June 5, 2012 at 9:51 pm My diary is my pensieve. I'm glad you have the outlet, Lori – we all need one in this difficult world.
Also? LOVE the Harry Potter reference. If you're a geek, you're the coolest one ever!
Sending love,
Crystal
June 5, 2012 at 9:41 pm Here. Listening. Loving the anaology.
June 6, 2012 at 7:31 am Hi Lori
I've been reading along for a while now and you regularly just blow me away with your writing. My heart goes out to you. Love the Harry Potter reference too
Cas x
June 5, 2012 at 6:40 pm I'm so ashamed… I thought you had announced the winner of the vibrator- I too read it as penis-sieve.
I'm glad you have an outlet to get the stuff out. We are all here for support. We pray and keep you in our thoughts
Xx rah rah
June 5, 2012 at 3:21 pm June 5, 2012 at 3:20 pm Following from afar, wondering if anything ever will be tolerable again for you and the kids. Wishing I could soothe your stresses and snuggle your babies. Know that I am out here thinking of you.
June 5, 2012 at 2:11 pm I keep reading it as penis-sieve. I like the sound of that!
I'm reading, always. Just….being pensive.
June 5, 2012 at 1:17 pm I am listening Lori, trying to carry some of your pain. xx
June 5, 2012 at 12:44 pm Great invention, the pensieve
June 5, 2012 at 12:13 pm I'm still here with you. Just letting you know. I remember those thoughts in your pensive.
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Muuuuum,
I just realised that you can, at various points in this clip, see my very skanky chipped fingernails. Not chipped fingernail polish, actual chipped fingernails. More on that later in the week. (I know. All the hard hitting, fascinating issues here at RRSAHM.)
Whatever. Vloggus interruptus. Enjoy.
Or something.
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{ 24 comments… read them below or add one }
December 6, 2010 at 2:07 pm rofl… glad i came back to find this cause all my video attempts look like this too!!!
December 1, 2010 at 4:04 pm Fits of laughter from me. Good luck on your next attempt!
November 29, 2010 at 5:10 pm You've just depicted everyday life to a tee! Typical that the minute you start to do something for you, its girl interrupted. Every. Single. Time. Guess thats written into the motherhood contract somewhere??
Good to see you still have your sense of humour while trying to work
November 29, 2010 at 11:58 am I need to grow the cajones to vlog.
But I'll never top this. This is amazing. (And I never noticed your nails. Even though I was kind of looking because you mentioned them. I was too distracted by your interruptions!)
November 29, 2010 at 10:36 am Hilarious!!!
That is the perfect mummy vlog!! hehehehe
Still giggling
Still…….
November 29, 2010 at 8:42 am That was an absolute crack-up! LOVED you giving the ultimatum about the dog. Ahhhhhh you are so even-tempered, I gotta get me some of that
November 29, 2010 at 3:31 pm That is bloody hilarious. I watched it twice. You are a natural. xoxo
November 28, 2010 at 11:02 pm The Man wants you all to know that our kitchen is so clean because I do not cook. He's only joking three days a week. Hehe 
November 28, 2010 at 10:56 pm Ok, I'm only new to your blog but that was absolutely HILARIOUS! Absolute GOLD! Thank you SO much for sharing!
November 28, 2010 at 10:38 pm This is fantastic! xx
November 28, 2010 at 1:44 pm At least you're still laughing about it!! Haven't tried vlogging before…something for my list of challenges? perhaps not…xxx
November 28, 2010 at 11:18 am hahaha. Ahhh the joys of parenthood. I especially love you telling the Chop off, because kids are great about as soon as you're busy doing what they know they shouldn't! LOL
November 28, 2010 at 9:22 am Glen and Kristen said exactly what I was thinking. Your kitchen is spotless.
You're setting the bar pretty high for the rest of us vloggers don't you think??
Must.Go.Clean.
Also, nice hubby tushie.
November 28, 2010 at 9:16 am Gold. Hilarious.
November 28, 2010 at 8:54 am Haha! I LOVE it! xx
November 28, 2010 at 7:37 am Love it!
November 28, 2010 at 7:03 am Not that all of your other vlogs haven't been great, but that was the most entertaining yet!
November 28, 2010 at 6:28 am LOL! Exactly what Glen said! So typical of life with young kids and um, yeah, my kitchen is never that clean! xo
November 28, 2010 at 4:55 am Brilliant! Really enjoyed it. I wouldn't even attempt a vlog in my house…altho if someone shook their booty in it for me I might reconsider… XXX
November 28, 2010 at 1:18 am fantastic – family life in a nutshell except….
how clean is your kitchen? what are you – OCD? My kitchen stays that clean for exactly 4 seconds after it is done, and not one moment more …
November 28, 2010 at 11:47 am BAHAHAHAHAHAHA Possibly the best vlog of all time!
November 28, 2010 at 12:46 am well done babe! You hung in there i would have oh so lost it:-)
So scared to do my vlog well videa with Chloe's camera lol.. as i dont have a webcam as yet haha!!
November 28, 2010 at 12:32 am Bintang singlets + bum shaking = HAWT
November 28, 2010 at 12:30 am Too funny…budding actors there!
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As I’m sure I’m mentioned once or twice or a thousand times before; I love going to blog events. Conference, meet–up, PR schmooze fest… I don’t discriminate. My fellow bloggers are my people– my over–sharing, nerdy kinfolk.
Amongst all the stuff I find myself attending, the bestest of them all is the quad–yearly Bloggers Brunch. Which has now been extended to include the Social Mums Say events. (Long story, short– you don’t have to be a blogger to go to this one. Register here).
I get to catch up with people I worship and adore daily through the screen. On this occasion– fresh and sparkly and still very firmly in my Melbourne bubble– I got to eat, drink and play with MagnetoBoldToo, Toushka Lee Who’s Even Shorter Than Me, Thing Who Is With Stuff, and my lovely Jo from Chicken Bees.
One thing we get to do at these events is eat. Lots. Because eating is awesome.
As you may have picked from the jellybean decor, my irrational fear of vegetables or indiscriminate hate of seafood… I’m really not a health–food kind of chick. (To the amusement of most everyone I know… The Most Awesome Man In The Universe is, of course, a vegetarian).
So when I discovered that Philadelphia was one of the brands we’d be meeting with at the Bloggers Brunch last year, I was initially so much less than enthused that I stashed a couple of lollipops in my handbag, just in case. Because, in all honesty, all I could think was… cream cheese. Which is about number 12 on my (long) list of things I really, really don’t like eating.
So I was more than happily surprised to discover… cake. A whole table of cake.
A whole table of cake covered in chocolate.
And all of a sudden, Philly became one of my favourite brands ever.
While I’m slightly better with baking (making sweet stuff I can stuff my gob with) than actual cooking (making boring or evil foods such as vegetables), I still suck at making cheesecake. Which was, as far as I knew the only sweet stuff you could make with Philadelphia. In fact, the last cheesecake I attempted was a unset, kind of sweet, sloppy mush studded with hard little cubes of re–set gelatine.
The Philly ladies assure me that cheesecake is not actually that difficult. And even if it was, I wouldn’t necessarily have to make one. There is, apparently, a whole range of product destined to shift Philadelphia’s status from ’boring and healthy, to be eaten with rabbit food’ to ’oh my goodness look at that cake!’
And, in celebration of that, we have all stuffed our faces with delicious Philly desserts, in the most unladylike fashion, for the last three or four functions in a row. They are that good.
I think there’s a recipe I’m supposed to be sharing with you here. But, really, in the spirit of RRSAHM, I should probably just let you in on my recently discovered, super decadent, ridiculously easy and simple dessert idea.
Step one: Take one tub of chocolate Philly icing.
Step Two: Locate spoon.
Step three: Eat straight from the tub until you are so full you can barely hardly move.
Because, sad but true– that happens to be the way I cook.
You’re welcome.
This awesome Social Mums Say wrap up sponsored by Philadelphia. For more Philly inspired recipes visit www.philly.com.au
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{ 8 comments… read them below or add one }
February 19, 2013 at 3:53 pm Lori, just when I think I’m the laziest cook in the world (okay, being nice to myself, the busiest) and yes, we are having hot dogs for dinner… you write a post that makes me realise it’s okay to not be fabulous in the kitchen, when we can be fabulous in so many other ways.
I’ve gone off sugar (physically at first and now mentally!), so I don’t think I could attempt the eating of chocolate Philly by the tub… but my old self would’ve loved this.
February 18, 2013 at 11:34 pm Ok, important question….. How does it compare to Betty Crocker frosting-in-a-tub? Coz that stuff calls to me like a siren from my fridge!
February 18, 2013 at 3:54 pm 
February 18, 2013 at 10:20 pm *Fist Bumps*
Lori Dwyer recently posted…This Is (Still) Not A Foodie Blog.
February 18, 2013 at 11:42 am Replace philly frosting with a tube of purchased raw cookie dough and you’ve got me (and I *do* claim to write a foodie blog). Oh the shame!
Amanda @ Cooker and a Looker recently posted…this is not a love song (or a fish recipe)
February 18, 2013 at 10:20 pm And more *fist bumps*. How awesome is cookie dough?! :p
Lori Dwyer recently posted…This Is (Still) Not A Foodie Blog.
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My children appear to have some kind of obsession with death lately.
It’s not so much an obsession with their father dying, or having died, as with the whole concept in general.
I’m not sure if it’s entirely normal, or ‘normal’ for children who’ve had to deal with death so close up at such a young age. I’m not sure if it’s healthy for them to discuss it so much. I don’t encourage it, but nor do I discourage it or shut them down when the topic comes up. I find myself watching keenly in order to see if I actually do hear the words ‘dying’ and ‘death’ as often as I think I do, or if I’m just overtly sensitive and tuned to the sound of it.
The characters in my daughters dollhouse- a mixture of porcelain nic-nacs, Barbie dolls and Maccas toys- are constantly dying, their whole families perishing in terrible hot air balloon accidents. The make-believe games that the Chop and her play often end in death, and my son makes dramatic declarations about what would happen, exactly, should he step into the gas heater (“Goodbye, family…” he roleplays, a mimic of seriousness attempting to squirm itself into a smirk on his face).
Part of the reason for this phenomena has to lay in the testostor-isation of my boy-child, the newly found roughness that’s come with Big School and Skylanders, Ben 10 and being five. And if I compare one child with the other, the Bump at this age to the way the Chop was two years ago, then her questions and discussions around death seem comparative with his. She still asks questions, about Heaven and death and Daddy. My son rarely questions anything anymore, and acts as some form of instigator of truth and their reality as he sees it. Generally it’s kind and gentle corrections, filling in the potential gaps in her knowledge with what he already knows. Only occasionally does it take a more fervent, aggressive tone (smacking his sister in the head because she dared to argue the topic of whether or not people can come back from the dead- the Chop obviously on the side of the negative- was a particular low point in sibling instruction).
As I do with most everything I’m not quite sure about, I’m leaving this one to run it’s course. I’d rather they talk about this stuff than didn’t. I’d much rather them mention it when they feel they need, than not be able to mention it at all.
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There’s been a thread of holier-than-thou judgement of my parenting in a few comments left of late.
It’s made me afraid of using my own space in the way that I find most therapeutic– spilling all my secrets into the digital Neverland. I don’t like being afraid. These are comments that pick and pluck at the spot where I am weakest– my own parenting skills, and the way I navigate life with two little people. The possible damage I may be inflicting on my children.
I think it’s the soft spot of all parents. We’re all hyper-aware of the responsibility of raising little people. We know we will be judged. From the moment we reveal we’re carrying a baby, until long after we’ve passed away. Forty years from now, should our child break all social codes and do something terrible; one of the first places people will look for answers will be with us. Where did we fail? In what facet of parental responsibility where we so inept that it can explain what went wrong with our children?
And we are judged on the tiniest, most inconsequential endeavours. It seems so socially acceptable to comment on the parenting of other people and the probable fate of their children; and to do so with such casual study of their situation. There’s a self-justifying benevolence in the social sport of picking apart another mum because she works, or doesn’t; or smacks, or doesn’t; on whether her children are well-behaved and polite, or not. The behaviour of children is seen as an obvious manifestation of their parents child rearing skills, or lack of them. And we seem to encourage ‘keyhole judgements’– taking a tiny slice of a story and attributing it as the rule, when it just may be the exception.
I think, perhaps, that’s one of the elements that digs at me so much, in regard to comments left here lately. The arrogance of assumption of people feeling that because they’ve read my blog, they then have the right or the obligation to comment on my parenting; on the lives of myself, my mum, and my children.
You only know what I tell you here. Judging me on what I choose to share with you is the online equivalent of judging a parent at a local playground after watching them interact with their child for two minutes. It doesn’t give you enough information to make calls like you do, to look down on someone else because they’re not doing it the way you consider to be ‘right’.
I share a lot of my life on these web pages. I write without thinking much about how I’ll be perceived. I tell stories about my children and myself. That leaves me inherently open to judgement… that’s okay. It’s part of the give and take of blogging. People have every right to voice their opinion, particularly when there’s a comment section inviting that very thing.
But this isn’t so much about me, or my ‘emotional state’. This is about the bullsh*t judgements people feel they have a right to make, when you never know enough about a another’s person life to make that call. Whether you’re their best friend or they’re someone you see for thirty seconds in the local supermarket, or because you’ve read what they’ve chosen to share with you.
It’s about how we make parenting, mothering in particular, into some righteous, beautified social test. It’s about the way a mother and her actions are considered wholly objectified public property. It’s about the way women are expected to ‘embrace mothering’ and your children are supposed to be your ‘whole world’. The way mothers are crucified and shamed if they don’t hold up to other people’s ideals of what a ‘good mother’ should be.
It’s about the way we’re not allowed to say what sometimes might be the truth. That you can love your kids desperately, think they are the most awesome little people… and still not like being a mum very much at all.
My kids aren’t a burden. As I’ve said– they are awesome little people, and I’m honoured to be able to spend the bulk of my time with them. But changing dirty nappies, making school lunches, being yelled at, moderating temper tantrums, listening to whinging, and all the other stuff that comes with small children? That’s a burden. I’m not fond of it. Not at all. I don’t have to be.
Don’t get me wrong, there are some bits of parenting that I thoroughly enjoy. Deep conversations and answering questions. Showing my kids new things, taking them places. Watching their face light up with new concepts my new knowledge. I love playing video games or curling up on the lounge watching movies with my son. I love playing with my daughter’s doll-house (sometimes I even let her help) and painting her fingernails. I like doing the fun stuff. But I find the hard stuff really difficult. And there’s nothing wrong with saying that.
I became a mother, not a martyr. Giving birth didn’t provide me with some selfless gene that made me suddenly enjoy being every aspect of raising kids. I’m inherently selfish. Most people are; we just find ways to temper that against the realities of life and the needs of the people we love.
My children are the most important people in my life. They always have been and probably always will be. But I allow myself to have a life, and a personality, outside of being their mum. I’m devoted to them, but I never want them to be responsible for my happiness. I want to teach them that all of us are responsible for finding our own. I’m happy to sacrifice things. But I keep things, too. And I want to teach my children– my daughter especially– that that’s an okay thing to do. Women are expected to give and give and give until there’s nothing left of themselves but a shell that functions, providing for people’s needs. It doesn’t have to be that way.
I’m the first to admit that I find spending time alone a necessity. I’m okay with that. I’m also quite happy to admit that I do spend whole weekends with my boyfriend. I’ve confessed to temporarily running away from my kids and wanting to leave for good. I’ve stated– and I stand by it– that some days I just cannot handle my five and three year old (which I’m fairly sure shocks absolutely no one) and everything falls down in a screaming heap.
Why do any of those things have an influence of the effectiveness of my parenting, anyway? Do you have to spend every second with your kids, to parent well? Or is it that you can’t have other focuses in your life? Do you have to enjoy every aspect of motherhood in order to ‘embrace’ it? Are you allowed to like parenting without being particularly enamoured with the really-little-kid phase of it? Can you love your kids without liking being a parent at all?
I’m predicting that even writing that last paragraph is enough to have me labelled as unfit mother– one who’s probably causing deep, awful emotional agony– in some people’s mental filing system.
Again, I’m (surprisingly) okay with that. If you’re that attached to the concept of martyred parent that it personally offends when someone else doesn’t live up to it… I kind of feel sorry for you.
To the commenter who wrote this one; and anyone who feels the same…
I originally had a few hundred words written here, defending myself and my parenting. Then I decided, f*ck it. I have no obligation to justify myself to anyone.
So all I really want to say is this.
Get f*cked.
And bite me.
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My children grow older in great jumping stretches, strides of development and intellect that take me by shocked and awe-struck surprise. They learn things while I’m not looking, not watching, not quite paying attention; some days they seem to eat the world whole and regurgitate it, piecemeal and filtered down to it’s most keenly observed and amusingly purified status.
They make decisions. They form their own likes and dislikes, opinions and quirks. Desires and preferences and aches and soft spots. They become little people, a formation of their own selves. Without ever needing my- nor anyone else’s- permission.
My son leaves for school each day buoyant, blessed, the sunshine of scabbed knees and school awards all over his happy smile and lightly freckled nose. He adores Big School and he’s well behaved and popular, smart and polite.
I’m so proud of him I could pop, burst apart at the seams with a sunshine of my own. I worry so much for him it aches at my heart. He rarely mentions his father, hardy ever; and when he does its with the sunny side-up– spotting a star and saying goodnight, sharing a wistful memory of ‘when we lived in the Purple House‘ with me (some days, it seems he keeps more memories from there than I do, and I don’t know if that’s happy or sad, awful or heartening).
My daughter is now older than my son was when his father died. Sometimes I look at other children, younger children, unsteady on their feet and still with a baby-fluff of hair on their heads and I think to myself, in a tone that carries a desperate guttural sort of sobbing sadness- she was so little. She was so young- just a baby, really. And again, I don’t know if that’s good or bad, a happy occurrence or a sad one.
I still keep tabs and measurements on my kids- maybe I always will. I track growths and accomplishments- toilet training, learning to count, my son writing his name, whole nights of (blessed) unbroken sleep, wobbly teeth and birthday parties. I pay extra attention to them, record and file them in the recesses of my mind. Accomplishments made. Things done. Less out of a fear of forgetting all of them, with no one to remind me; more because these are things I have witnessed, alone. My children’s accomplishments are mine as well.
My children have been mine now for much longer than they were ever Tony’s. The majority of their growing, their formative years- that’s been done by me. And I look at them sometimes, myheart beating with a pride I never thought possible, because I’ve never felt it before; my head rings with ‘mine, mine, mine’. Because I have done this. I’ve created two beautiful, smart, funny, caring and empathetic people. As a solo unit. And the three of us, we are a team.
Conversing with The Most Amazing Man In The Universe just a few days ago, we happened to touch on the subject of (in my own ill-thought-out wording, with no criticism from either of us, as negative as the phrase may sound) mothers ‘like me’. Mothers- single mums and partnered mums- who seem to struggle just that little bit. Mothers who allow washing to pile up, who feed their kids hot chips for dinner. Whose houses are always slightly chaotic, with pets and toys and half-done projects interrupting the flow of organisation. Mums that are hopeless at cooking and planning weekend outings, and let their kids watch too much TV.
The mothers that seem unable to contain the chaos of small children. The ones who wouldn’t know a housework roster if it bit them on the butt while they were vacuuming around and not under the lounge (again).
The chaotic, disorganised parent whose children turn out all kinds of awesome anyway- polite and pleasurable, earnest and enlightening company. Flowers of unmitigated perfection, grown of a garden unkempt and tended with the very best of intentions.
I’m that mum who’s always running just that little bit late, the one who forgets permission notes and homework (but hasn’t missed a library day yet). This morning, I’m attending a (godforsaken) school assembly, to watch my little man receive a special award. I’m feeling all the satisfaction that comes from years of bitching hard work and rampant parental insecurity finally manifest itself into one of those allusive “I’m doing OK at this parenting thing” moments.
It’s like some kind of holy parenting pinnacle. A rest stop on a long road that’s not marked with signs and where I have no GPS. An un-navigated journey I began naively that sometimes seems endless and I’m always worried about running out of fuel before I can stop and replenish again, getting lost and finding no one to ask for directions.
This pit-stop feels like a victory. One that belongs to me and my kids. It’s ours, and ours alone.
I did this, raised these gorgeous little people.
And I did it all by myself.
***
Updated: The award itself turned out to be specifically for the Chop’s “caring and responsible personality”.
For today, I will answer to ‘super-mum’ and ‘best mum ever’. In my own mind, at the very least.
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Once upon a parenting forum, in the time of the Before (a long, long time ago), I knew a woman named Lulu.
Actually, Lulu wasn’t her real name, just her screen name. But that’s what everyone on this forum knew her as– Lulu. And everyone on this forum knew her– she was a site moderator and unapologetic alpha-female. Lots of bloggers knew her as well. Her blog, Unperfect Life, is still here. She buried her sister just days before she died herself.
Lulu passed away, suddenly and unexpectedly, just a few days after Tony died. I remember one late afternoon out the front of my purple–becoming–orange house, Fairie Sarie telling me that Lulu had died and being unable to articulate anything except “Our Lulu? From the forum Lulu?”
What resulted was just the queerest feeling– one of those sliding door anomalies, where things are shifting just beneath your surface in a whole other life. In that other life, this news gutted me. It was monumental.
In this life, I was stunned but not even surprised. The whole world had turned upside down. Of course there were going to other be casualties, other losses just as great as my own.
Lulu’s avatar- know this isn’t how she actually looked… but it’s how I see her in my mind, still.
I’m not even sure why I’m writing this post. Only that I think of Lulu– a woman I never even met In Real Life– often. I hope her kids are doing okay without their most awesome, amazing mother. Bizarrely, I credit Lulu with teaching me so many things about child-raising, so many things about life in general. About standing up for yourself and believing in your own opinion. About having compassion and empathy and a sense of humour. About treating our children they way they deserve to be treated– like the little people they are.
Lulu was, online, an absolute force of nature, and I can only imagine she would have been the same In Real Life. She was funny and honest and wise in that cool-auntie way that some women have about them.
When I look back on it, try to verbalise it or write it down, the most important lesson I learned from Lulu sounds silly and simple. It’s more an attitude than a ritual. And I still put it into practice sometimes now, five years after I ‘met’ her for the first time.
Some days, its both useful and practical to vacuum the house in a tiara.
Why?
Because you are a motherfucking princess.
And why the hell not.
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Dammit. I’m sure I used to be cool.
Maybe not– it’s quite possible I was just a legend in my own gratified lunchbox. But I felt cool, and that’s what’s important. (Once, years ago, I read a letter published in a fluffy real life magazine. The woman who wrote it was eighty years old and had recently had a double mastectomy. And, she said, in her mind’s eye, she still looked just like Rita Hayworth.)
It took me a while to find ‘cool’. Which really only meant I appreciated it more when I got there. It took so long, I think, because I was something an ugly duckling- a gawky awkward tween who couldn’t find herself in the pages of glossy Dolly magazines, not having the skin, height, hair, tan or budget required to sink comfortably into that niche. I grew up on the beach amongst a salt-washed surf culture, but I fried in the sun and was apprehensive of the water, fearing the waves. I was over-confident when humility was required, shy when I needed to loud. My mum was a teacher at the same tiny public school I attended, and I was smart back when it was still cool to be stupid.
Moving away from Paradise the first time, at twelve years old, almost ruined me.
It was also the making of me.
I found something else, placed into a new school with new people, in a place close enough to the city to be influenced by it. I found people who got it, people who embraced the night in the way the people I’d left worshipped the sun…
I found darklings. I found Triple J and Helen Razer (Where do cool people go when the cool wears off? Twitter, obviously. It’s OK… I’m there, too.)
It started with music. It started with two girls I knew singing a funny, cute harmony they’d heard on the radio the night before; and me going home that afternoon and rolling through static and stations until I found the station they were talking about, heard the song they’d butchered.
It started with the Murmurs and Veruca Salt and Tripping Daisy and Frenzal Rhomb and SpiderBait and Tool and The Pixies and Everclear. In a world before the Internet, we watched Rage in the middle of the night and picked up copies of the Drum Media to assess what was in, and what was not. We followed anti–trends and thought we were some kind of revolutionaries.
We thought we were different… we were all exactly the same. Kids, looking for some point of identity, a tribe to assimilate with. It just that this side of things– post–punk, neo–grunge, pre–emo; it seemed to celebrate people’s imperfections, their deviations from the norm, rather than how perfect you could be, all the time. Pop psychology tells us the nineties grunge movement was a direct backlash to the power hungry, shoulder–pad wearing perfection of the nineteen eighties.
I didn’t care about that then, and I don’t care now. For me it was a seething, moving reality; it was passion pumped into the pain (weltsmerchz) I’d been feeling.
I found Pearl Jam and their Vitalogy on the tail end of them being one of the most awesome bands ever, and got to experience the quintessential let down of seeing them perform live- discovering the local cover band’s front man sounded more like Eddie Vedder than Eddie Vedder did was the height of disillusion. I was into Fiona Horne before she wrote sugar candy witch kraft books for tweens. I listened to Dave Grohl go from that geeky guy with big ears on the drums to Marigold to A320, and I know every word to the bridge in MonkeyWrench.
I discovered In Bloom and Molly’s Lips and Where Did You Sleep Last Night and Francis Farmer and even Smells Like Teen Spirit a good two years after Kurt Cobain killed himself… I still drenched myself in the screaming feedback and sad acoustics of Nirvana.
I fell in love with his widow at about the same time, back when Courtney Love was all smeared lipstick and op-shop frocks and Doll Parts. I loved her then… and I love her now. It’s just that I never dreamed, fifteen years ago as I read about her being vilified and blamed for her husband’s death, that once upon a Purple future I’d find myself empathizing with her for more reasons than I’d ever thought I’d want to.
Looking back in the same way the really cool people may look back at Woodstock or watching the Beatles perform or witnessing the coronation of Queen Victoria or the Berlin Wall come down… something; I’m fairly sure I can identify the exact moment where I reached my absolute pinnacle of cool, the hippest and trendiest I’ve ever been.
I’ll whisper this next part so I don’t scare all those in attendance, especially myself… it was 1998. The end of a very long, surprising sober day at a musical festival that used to be far less mainstream and therefore more awesome than it is now called HomeBake. HomeBake was, as opposed to the Big Day Out, Aussie bands only. Two outdoor stages, one dance tent, dozens of little hippy stalls, manned (and woman-ed) by dozens of hippies rebelling in the ignorant bliss of a civil libertarian bliss in a time before random sniffer dog patrols at public events. The queues for the unGodly smelling port-a-loos were as long as those at the bar- or so I’m told, I was a few years underage (and looked it), and drinking’s never been my thing. Bands played from ten in the morning until eleven at night, ranging from hardcore moshpit death punk to hardcore happy rave music to hardcore double bass mixed with light strength anarchy in the form of The Living End. There was even a pre–Icescapades Grinspoon, back when they were cool, too.
And thousands of little freaks. People dressed in black with piercings and tattoos and dreadlocks and bindis, wearing lace up Doc boots and men’s ties with singlet tops and Sketchers and clothes branded with Agent 99 and purchased at Mosh. People who smiled and flashed peace signs and gave random hugs and knew that it wasn’t what you looked like that mattered, anyway… it was about music. And it was about being young and cool just because we were and knowing it but pretending we didn’t.
Thousands of darklings… thousand of people just like me.
As the sun set, with my skirt burnt and buzzing on too many guarana coffees and too much loud music, Tim Freedman playing piano with long fingers that jumped across the keys like massive spiders, hands seeming to span whole octaves at once, straddled across the shoulders of a fiend of mine named Trent who was just as cool as sixteen year old guitar playing metal fan with an angelic floss of blond curly hair can be… I feel some kind of complete, maybe for the first time ever.
And I know that’s cliched and perhaps slightly pensive, melodramatic and pathetic.
But it was real, and it was mine. It was probably the last concert I went to completely sober– maybe the last time for the ten years that followed that it didn’t even occur to me that socializing had to involve drinking or smoking or anything to enhance the pleasure of simply existing. I was in the company of one of the few teenaged males that I’d managed to maintain a fairly simple, uncomplicated platonic friendship with. It was one of the last times in my young adulthood I remember feeling wholesomely gorgeous without really being concerned about my appearance– I left the house that day wearing a coat of mascara and some sparkly glitter stuff on my cheekbones and I’m almost positive it never occurred to me to take either of them with me for the inevitable quick bathroom mirror touch-ups that have peppered my partying existence ever since.
I was sixteen. I had no huge stresses, no big dramas in my life. I was becoming someone awesome, someone real.
I was already someone awesome. I just didn’t know it yet.
I remember being convinced, at one point when I was about that age or a bit younger- a funky fifteen year old who thought she knew everything- that I would always be cool. That times would change, but I would roll with them, stay just ahead of the trends. Or maybe I assumed, in that way we do when we’re teenagers and at the very center of our own universe, that what I thought was cool would always be cool, inherently so– how could it not be?
I was wrong on both counts, of course. I am no longer cool. And what was once cool is now as uncool as that pair of your Dad”s Levi’s that still sneak around in the back of his wardrobe, because hey, one day, they will certainly be in fashion again, and he will be hip enough to fit right back into them and the scene that went with them.
I really don’t want to go out like that.
But it’s seeming inevitable. I find myself thinking thoughts like “These young people today…” and wondering what the hell these kids are talking about with their Beibers and their 1D’s and scream-o and YOLO and whatever else.
Dammit.
I’m sure– I’m positive– once upon a time, I was cool.
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Get smart with the Thesis WordPress Theme from DIYthemes.
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I made my man read this post. If only to prove I'm not the only clueless woman to roam this planet.
I loved this!
Cute stories, you guys have got. I for one, still runs from love. Amen God
Well firstly as you know Lucy I am pretty new to this whole blogging world so I am still fascinated by this concept of 'guest blogging'. Love it!
Onto your post – how romantic. Poor guy really did have to spell it out for you didn't he? My hubby is an Andrew too- what a coinikdink!
Hmmm.. you've inspired me to tell our 'how we met' story. I'll post it over at Diminishing Lucy… this comment is long already
@Sarah….I know. Not a thing he shouts from the rooftops. He had a princess complex…. and then he got better.
@Heather…..our Lori is a funny one……
And Lori, yep, all paid. Very well paid. Optus was like the decadent eighties in its extravagances. (Although they then got blood sweat and tears out of us both for a great many years, across three states, so I guess that initial 6 weeks was money well spent.)
I'm just spun out that you got SIX WEEKS training. Paid, I'm assuming. Holy moley.
Cute Lucy! Loved hearing this story!
I really like this blog, and I'm a new follower.
OMG Luce, how long have I known you & I never knew that Andrew had been married before. WOW!!
Awwwwww, I'm loving these stories!! Goosebumps.
And, uh, what an incredibly sexy button on your sidebar. It's so….centered.
What a sweet story Lucy!
@Badger, we all need a practice marriage (or, um, two) before we get it right.
Awwww. Sweetness, Lucy!
And why do men (including me) always marry the wrong woman first?
Excuse me. What are Fuck me boots? (I came from Kristin's blog).
Wow!!! That is a fantastic story, You need to get that published on paper guys … like WOW! So well written. Wow. I love it!!
PS My husband actually got his start in telecommunications selling for Optus too .. in 1995 … the world just gets smaller
L