Monthly Archives: May 2016

by Lori Dwyer on March 31, 2014 · 6 comments

This post brought to you by Aerogard, Mortein and Nuffnang.

***

The weekend before I start work, we go gramping.

All good gramping trips start with packing the car. It’s one of those completely irrelevant life skills I like to pride myself on. It’s almost like a life sized game of Tetris. I expertly stack and slot Eskies, washing baskets full of food, Aerogard, tents, camp chairs and numerous bags of stuff to assist with every possible situation.

The kidlets, seasoned travellers by now, strap in, sit back, and we get cruising. Their excitement level peaks somewhere around Shepparton, when the bouncing and countdown of kilometres begin (”How far to go? How long until we see our Nonna?”).

Arriving makes for two very excited little campers and one grandmother beaming with joy. We don’t mess around when it comes to setting up camp. The tent is up, sleeping bags unrolled, and camp chairs popped open within an hour or so of parking the car.

It’s ridiculously easy. I’m not sure why gramping ever seemed liked an idea fraught with trepidation. An extra set of very willing hands to keep the kidlets entertained makes setting up the tent a very simple process. Mainly because the Chop and the Bump don’t want to ‘help’ quite so much.

It’s lovely, having my mum camping with us. She takes the kidlets for a walk to explore the campground, and the Most Amazing Man and I get to chill out for a while, just the two of us. We relax, listening to the occasional murmur of people and the birds tweeting around us.

Time slides away so quickly when you’re camping. The afternoon fades away rapidly. We sit and chat for a while. The kids begin to get absolutely feral, so, after spraying them quite liberally with the Aerogard Odourless Protection, we walk down to the river. It’s not really bushwalking. But there are trees and bugs for the boy–child and dozens of gumnuts and rocks for the girl–child. She is a bower bird, but not just for all things blue. She collects little bits and pieces, anything that takes her interest. Her Nonna and the Most Amazing Man and I ferret things away in our pockets for her, keeping her treasures safe until she forgets about them (which usually takes about twenty minutes, or until something else catches her attention).

Then there’s UNO– many games of UNO, as predicted. There’s also Monopoly on the iPad, which kind of feels like cheating. But I really don’t think we could have fit the Monopoly box in the car. We light the Mortein Citronella candle Outdoor and he ambience is beautiful. Everyone looks better by candle light. It smells divine and there isn’t a moth or mozzie for miles. In fact, the kidlets not only don’t get eaten alive by mozzies, they don’t receive one single bite.

Dinner is a fairly simple affair. Because, much to my mother’s continual dismay, the kidlets are fussy eaters. As am I. So we cook sausages and have sausage sandwiches and, for the actual grown-ups (not me, obviously), there is salad.

After that, we have a campfire. Because it’s not quite authentic, camping without a campfire. We also have marshmallows, for the same reason. The kidlets love the idea of marshmallows cooked on a campfire, but not so much the reality. They end up eating them ’raw’. I prefer mine with a charcoal crust.

What with the sugar they’ve just ingested and the absolute novelty of camping in general and gramping in particular, we don’t even bother putting the kidlets to bed until we’re ready to sleep, too.

***

Waking up to spreading sunlight and birds tweeting is entirely peaceful. Only slightly less so when it’s combined with the excited early morning chatter of small children.

I thought yesterday went quickly. Today disappears even faster. I feel as though I’ve only just woken up properly by the time we begin packing up.

Pulling down a campsite is a weird thing. It’s been a living space for almost 24 hours– a family space. Somewhere to eat and sleep and laugh. Twenty minutes later, and it’s bare ground again. Apart from the peg holes hidden beneath the grass, it looks like we haven’t been there at all.

I hug my mum goodbye and there’s that sadness that’s always there when I leave her. I know I’ll see her again soon enough, and I talk to her on the phone all the time… but it’s just not quite the same.

Gramping has been entirely more awesome than I thought it would be. And the whole process is much, much less stressful than driving to Sydney and back for the weekend. Camping with the grandparents– 10/10. Would gramp again.

***

For more on how to enjoy gramping with the people you love, visit the Gramping Association, and sign up for the chance to win* one of seven Gramping Adventures for the whole family. And don’t forget to enter the giveaway on RRSAHM– there is a stack of cool stuff to be won.

*terms and conditions apply, visit www.grampingassociation.com.au for details.

{ 6 comments }

Single Mums.

by Lori Dwyer on March 26, 2014 · 7 comments

Attempting to rent out the TinyTrainHouse has been a comedy of small town real estate. I’ve had to work hard not to take it personally. Who wouldn’t want to rent out my beautiful little shack, with it’s sprawling cottage garden and native bushland backdrop…?

Applicants have come and gone, either been rejected or found properties more suited to their needs. My mate Kristabelle has rented the place since I moved to Melbourne. My only complaint with Kristabelle is that she decided to go and fall in love and move out. Given my own way, I would have kept her as custodian of my safe place forever, knowing that the rent would be paid like clockwork and that she would take good care of the little house I still think of as mine.

After the TinyTrainhouse has sat empty for many financially stressful weeks, I get a call from the real estate agent.

“We have a possible tenant! They’re not perfect, though. But we thought we’d run it past you anyway…”

My stomach flips slightly, wondering how desperate the situation has gotten. What kind of person are they suggesting move in? A convicted felon? Someone who will gut the storage space under the floors and fill it with a hydroponic set-up that’s definitely not being used for growing tomatoes?

“She’s a single mum. Three kids.”

I wait for the agent to say more. Something along the lines of “….and she runs a small prostitution business from home.”

But there is no more. That’s it. This woman has a perfect rental record, and all her previous property managers say they would happily rent to her again. After giving up an obscene amount of information on her history and her income, it’s been determined that she can definitely afford the weekly asking price.

It’s just that she’s a single mum. With three kids. All the hesitation I hear in the agent’s voice oozes from that.

I’m too shocked to take a stand over a few hundred kilometres of phone line. I’m too flabbergasted to tell the real estate agent that until a few short months ago I was a single mum myself, and it doesn’t at all mean that she’ll trash the place, or be unable to pay the rent. Most single mums I know are particularly conscious of keeping a roof over their children’s head, making that their first and biggest priority. It’s kind of a vital necessity.

Not that saying any of that would have made much difference. It likely would have fallen on deaf ears, dismissed with an eye roll and a few estate agents and office staff discussing the crazy lady on the phone after we hung up. The best I could do was squeak “That’s fine- please, rent her the house!”

So the TinyTrainHouse has a tenant. It’s a single mum.

I am, not surprisingly, quite okay with that.

{ 7 comments }

The Grampout- Part One.

by Lori Dwyer on March 19, 2014 · 17 comments

This post bought to you by Aerogard, Mortein & Nuffnang.

***

Apparently, there’s a whole new trend called ‘Gramping’. Not to be confused with ‘glamping’, which is also a thing. ‘Glamping’ is glam camping– roughing it with all the luxuries included. ‘Gramping’- which is what we’re discussing here- is camping with your kids…. and your parents.

I’m not sure why that sounds so terrifying. It shouldn’t, really. It’s all about spending tie together, bonding, and sharing experiences. And with my mum so very far away now, any shared experiences are good ones.

Gramping is such a thing that they even have its own representative body– the Gramping Association, sponsored by Aerogard and Mortein. For some reason, they decided to ask me to try out the whole experience of gramping and report back my findings. Maybe because they’ve read that post about how camping makes me feel like a better parent even when I’m yelling at my kids. Maybe because they know the Most Amazing Man is all kinds of crazy for the outdoors. Maybe I’ve blogged about my kid’s horrible mosquito bite allergy and how we should virtually own shares in Aerogard. Who knows?

Anyway. My mum (bless her) has quite happily agreed to forgo her regular weekend trip to Melbourne and meet us in sunny Cobram instead. She’s excited about the prospect of gramping- it’s been quite a while since she’s slept in a tent. We’ve promised her she need only bring herself and her sleeping bag, and we’ll supply the rest.

Packing and preparing to go gramping for the weekend takes just as long as the actual camping trip itself. Especially when you’re providing for small children, and extra people. We make lists, mentally working through all the possible scenarios to ensure we’re prepared for everything. Amidst the slight stress of packing, the excitement level is huge and we’re all very much looking forward to getting away from the city for a few days.

And we shop. An extra, smaller tent. Completely adorable matching camp chairs for the kids. Many, many, many groceries. The list of essentials includes ten litres of water, UNO cards, torches and batteries, wet wipes, antiseptic cream, butane, swimmers, towels, instant coffee, mini boxes of cereal, Barbies and phone chargers. And, of course, much mozzie spray. Aerogard sent us some of their Odourless Protection spray- which, to be honest, is what we use anyway. It doesn’t smell at all and doesn’t feel yucky and greasy on the kidlets skin, and lasts for hours. Mortein provided another essential in the form of their outdoor candle with natural citronella, which looks stylish enough for glamping and gramping and burns for 25 hours.

I’m anticipating much excitement from the kidlets on seeing their Nonna, many games of UNO, some bushwalking, campfire cooked meals, high energy levels from the two small people, and maybe even some relaxation time squeezed in.

I’ll let you know how we get on.

***

Sign up to the Gramping Association to receive gramping tips, events, giveaways and offers. You could WIN* one of seven Gramping Adventures for the whole family.

While we’re talking about winning stuff, I’ve got a stack of prizes for you guys to WIN, including….

4 x $100 Turu vouchers to give away
4 x “Gramping essentials” pack which includes Mortein and Aerogard products
4 x $250 Anaconda vouchers

To enter, leave me a comment telling me how and where you go camping, and how a Mortein and Aerogard pack would help you out with that. Entries close 6/04/2014. T’s and C’s can be found here.

*terms and conditions apply. Visit grampingassociation.com.au for full details.

{ 17 comments }

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Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Soul Cancer.

My Daughter – RRSAHM

My Daughter

by Lori Dwyer on July 11, 2012 · 8 comments

I’ve missed more than twelve months of my daughter growing up, and I think the regret I feel for that– low and distant right now, with the heady feeling of thunderclouds in the distance– will intensify over time.

In fact, I think this is one thing I will grieve for harder than most others I have lost.

I think this one might really fuck me up; in five, maybe even ten years time. I used to enjoy every second spent with m children– I adored being at home with them. We were inseparable, and my world revolved around them.

We do OK, now, the three of us; we feel like a family, whole, without a piece missing. But instead of reveling in my children’s youth, their toddlerdom and preschoolhood; I am, instead, surviving it. And some days it feels like only just.

I think the last time I really saw my daughter she was sitting in a red IKEA high chair. She must have been eating a milk arrowroot biscuit after she woke from her nap, but I don’t remember that. I only know because my mum told me there was one there, and a freshly opened packet on the counter too; directly After, when she was allowed into my house, escorted by the police, to retrieve some clothes for my children.

My Bump was just a baby… she’d only just begun walking.

And then, the screaming. A pale yellow sundress that I never saw again (thank God). And the memory of holding my daughter’s tiny body against my own, pressed flat against my stomach and chest, one hand on the back of her head so I could run, fly without my feet touching the ground; while the other hand pushed open my back gate so furiously it hit the wall behind it… screaming. Feeling as if I was in one of those dreams where you are terrified, but your voice is just a squeak; even though I can feel the power in my hysterical screams, I can feel my diaphragm vibrating with the force of them against my daughters (Tony’s) legs, it’s not loud enough, it’s never going to be loud enough.

They tried to take her from me, some well meaning neighbor, so I could talk to to the police, give them the details they needed. She is clingy, screaming, wanting to come back to me, and I sob to them “Please give her back, please, please, I need her” and I cry into her soft baby hair and kiss her head and whisper that everything will be alright.

I hand her to my mother just minutes later.

And I don’t see my daughter again for over twelve months.

I’m vaguely aware that there were two small children sharing the house with me in Paradise. I remember my son’s room because it was the scene of so many painful exchanges about Daddy, right on bedtime.

I have no idea what my daughters room looked like.

I know she started talking just after Tony died, because I blogged about it; and I remember her first word was ’Daddy’, and then ’yeah’, but I couldn’t write that down at the time– it hurt too much. I remember, vaguely, my cousin commenting one day on what a mess her hair was, and when I got home I brushed it into a short, fountain like ponytail on top her head. And I cried, because I had, so many times in the past, giggled to my husband that I couldn’t wait for her hair to be long enough to play with.

Photo by family photographer Kirstin Cox.

I don’t remember much else. I know that for a long time she was the only joy in my day– I was in so much pain, and her brother was racked with grief, but the Bump remained largely unaware of her loss. Watching her made me happy– she was what I had always wanted, a gorgeous little girly–girl, and she was funny and sweet and sunny. But I watched her as if she was… even to say ‘a character in a movie’ gives it too much depth. I watched her the way you would lay back and listen to music coming faintly from the house next door. I watched her the way you would view dappled sunshine coming through a shade of leafy trees on a pleasant, bright day. She calmed me, gave me a feeling of peace and pleasure; but my connection to her was minimal.

My Bump will be three years old this September. I found her again just the other day, and she took me surprise. When did this child learn to speak, to say so many words…? And what order did that all happen in? She runs, too… I don’t recall much of the development of her walking; but I’m sure a lot of it was aided by a pink plastic stroller, because I blogged about that too.

I held her against my chest the other day, and I was amazed at long she’s grown. When did she get so big, my baby? Who allowed her to continue growing while I was in a fog, while I was unable to pay attention?

I’ve felt an innate connection with my daughter since her birth– how could I not, when it was so glorious? She fed easily, slept well. And she was my much longed for little girl. While I’m in love with my son, our relationship is different and difficult; where I love my daughter like breathing.

I feel the connection even more intensely now. Because she was there. She was m lifeline. In that whole ugly tableaux, she is the only pretty thing… a daisy in a pretty yellow dress, my baby girl who I clung to as the only solid thing in shifting in a nightmare.

I’m aware of that, and I become more aware as that feeling of connection grows. I wonder if it’s my mind desperately trying to accommodate a level of emotional depth for my kids in a manner different to what it was in the Before, just to enable me to parent them as intensely as I once did, and perhaps allay that thundercloud of regret before it breaks.

I’ve seen so many parent/child relationships that become symbiotic– they feel indebted, guilted, chained to one another; to the point where the becomes manifestly unhealthy. I don’t want to do that to my children. I don’t want to
do it to myself. I’ve held my daughter once as I was drowning, and she was so tiny and buoyant she floated. The older she gets, the heavier she becomes, and the more weight the burdens of her parents will carry. I refuse to become so co–dependent on my children that I transfer the responsibility for my happiness into their hands. The connection I feel with my daughter is based in an event she probably (hopefully) won’t ever remember; and, as such, it belongs only to me. I can’t expect her to share it, and, to be honest, should I still feel this way as she grows older (unlikely), it’s one thing I may never mention to her (and back off, smarty pants… I know. Oil into water. I’ll deal with that one at a much later point.)

I doubt I’ll ever tell her…. That not only did she prove to me I was braver than I thought, but that I feel as if those few minutes in screaming hell tied us together for eternity, with a bond based in that eternal femininity of mothers and daughters, but with some earthy magic that’s deeper than that, enabled by matching DNA. I’ll never tell her that it’s as if I passed parts of me onto her that day, that my soul recognized it’s shiny coating was about to shattered into millions of pieces… so it took some of those pieces, and, through the power of such an intense emotional space, transferred them, skin to skin, to the person who was closest to me… all the innocent parts of me, the sweet naivety, the belief in human nature and trust in people. My child like vulnerabilities… the bits that made me lovable, perhaps.

It’s better than all those sweet, harmless, indulgent characteristics being destroyed, I suppose… and I cant think of anyone I’d rather have them than my daughter.

She is such a sweetheart, my Bump; all hugs and kisses and “I love you, mummy”’s; and she’s attached to her people– her Chop, her Nonna, her Poppy, as she refers to them– ‘her’s, and with reverence. But she is shy and hesitant with strangers.

It only occurred to me the other day, reading this post, how much she really has changed, while I’ve not been paying heed. I’d forgotten she used to be so confident, so brave, so fearless. Now, she’s a timid child, afraid of dragons, monsters… everything. She flinches at loud voices. I jokingly told her the other day that my belly button was going to eat her and she shied away from me, real fear in her eyes.

Who knows if that’s a product of what happened, a product of how I’ve been, or if it just would have been the way she grew eventually, anyway? It’s impossible to predict, and I try not to dwell on it… there’s no point. (Worries, like rocking chairs… they give you something to do, but get you nowhere.)

But I do know she still has nightmares. That I heard her sob and cry out the other night, and I ran into her room to find her half awake, half kneeling on her bed, crying out “Up there!! Up there!!!” and pointing to the roof.

I settle her, asking what was in her bad dream while knowing she’s too young to articulate it; and when she’s asleep, I attempt to settle my shaking self… it could have been anything she was dreaming of. One of the birds she used to love… I’m not sure when she stopped being fascinated by birds, either, it’s only just now occurred to me that she no longer points them out and listens for their songs. She could have been dreaming about one of those dragons her brother has her so upset over.

I don’t know. I try not to think about it too much. The best I can do is make her feel as safe and as secure as possible… we’ll ford any other raging streams as we face them, as we get there, as they scare us. As the need arises.

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{ 8 comments… read them below or add one }

Anonymous September 14, 2012 at 12:08 pm: My beautiful husband committed suicide in 2002 when my daughter was 3 and I was 33 so I can very much relate to this post but am finally learning, ten years on, to not be so hard on myself.
I lived in that foggy land for a long, long time but my daughter was always at the centre of the decisions I made along the way and she is a well-adjusted, happy kid (at the moment anyway!).
For a few years she had night terrors periodically but they stopped a long time ago.
I do regret that she doesn't have any siblings but have stopped beating myself up about that too – it's just how things have worked out for us.
Wishing you peace.

Reply
Spagsy July 12, 2012 at 10:37 pm: Lori,
Roots and wings. That's our job. Three year olds have a funny way of taking leaps and bounds. I hope she is able to articulate her nightmares. Draw them, or get her stuffed toys to act out the bad dreams.

You aren't alone in the blink and you will miss it of children. We all have had a fog at some point in our children's lives. What's important is that we come out of the fog and enjoy as much as we can. In your case especially as there will be times where you will be in and out of the fog. I, like everyone else who loves and supports you, hope that time lessons the thickness and length of the fog you find yourself in at times.

Any mum who has suffered PND will be able to understand the utter confusion of missing out on a time in their children's life. I was there but I wasn't present.

For beat yourself up over it. What's important is that you are present now. And enjoy it.

Reply
Drea July 12, 2012 at 12:53 am: I spent so much time trying to ensure my little girl didn't grow up with a fear of the dark (like me), of the monsters in the wardrobe (like me), but still she has them. She has night terrors, and fears of monsters, and the wardrobe now, after 6 years she's afraid of the wardrobe door being open and I have no idea who gave that to her. She was sleeping without a nightlight for a while, but now she's back to having the light on again.

I think kids develop these things irrespective of the things we do. I have tried hard to avoid scary shows, stories etc, but her fears are there. There's probably nothing you can do to avoid her having fears, even if that day had never happened.

Reply
Andrea G. July 11, 2012 at 11:27 pm: You know, Lori, I think all moms feel like that: that we miss out on details as the kids grow. One day you look at them, and ask "when did you get so tall?". Please don't guilt yourself over needing to have time to yourself After. It makes perfect sense. Keep pushing forward and know that we love you!

Reply
Mrs Woog July 11, 2012 at 10:53 pm: I am so happy that I have met the bump and the chop. They are a credit to you. Bloody marvellous beings xx

Reply
The Flying Drunken Monkey July 11, 2012 at 6:52 pm: Oh honey you're getting the biggest hug next time I see you. The Bump is only a little older than Lily but they seem so similar. We really must get them together soon.
It's good to hear you've started seeing her again. I don't think it was a bad thing that you weren't. It was what you needed.
Lily has nightmares like that too. Not often but they happen. Things must seem HUGE to those little people and everything must be so scary.
xxxxxx

Reply
Vicky July 11, 2012 at 3:51 pm: I remember so much of my daughter's first few years, and I remember so much of everything with Mr 5 life to date.

My eldest son – its from about three that I have tangible memories. I look at photos of him before that time and see me in them with him. see photos of him that I have taken, and there is nothing but blackness, a fog like a heavy blanket.

He is nearly 14 now. And is the most beautiful soul. I call him my snaggy boy, because he has a heart as huge as a house. and compassion that blows me away constantly.

I may not remember – but I don't think he does either.

Reply
Sarah K Reece July 11, 2012 at 2:35 pm: Hi Lori,
I hope I'm not intruding, it's painfully sad to read about the way your relationships have been disrupted. I have struggles with this myself from my own trauma history – I found it helpful to read up about attachment, there was one particular book called Treating Attachment Disorders by Karl Brisch that I saw some of my own challenges in and gleaned some useful ideas from. Trauma stuff can create intense bonds, and also numb or shut our bonds down, sometimes weirdly at the same time. You don't just have to wait it out though, you can try different things to find that warmth and comfortable connection again, maybe not all the time but at least some of the time. That's been my experience anyway. The frustrating thing is that damaged attachment is often perceived as traumatic too for both parties, anything you can do that improves things will probably help to reduce the ongoing costs of what you've all come through. It's a hard road.

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Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Run, Run, As Fast As You Can….

Families Are Hard Places To Live

Co-Sleeping

by Lori Dwyer on October 4, 2013 · 0 comments

I’ve always had this weird kind of conundrum when it comes to co-sleeping with my kids.

It’s so much easier to just let them crawl into my bed if need be. I was a single person in a two person bed, so there was plenty of room. It meant I got infinitely more sleep. And there’s something lovely about curling up next to the warmth of a little person, their sweet sleepy breath in your ear.

The Chop gave up sleeping in my bed years ago. The Bump has been crawling her sleepy sweet self into my bed for the last few years, and has shown no immediate signs of wanting to stop.

Now there are two people in the two people bed, and one of us isn’t as calloused as he will eventually be by the chronic sleep deprivation that comes with little kids, I’ve taken to dispatching myself to the Bump’s bed in the wee hours of the morning.

The girl child calls for me and (somewhat miraculously, given my constant, continuous level of tiredness) I respond. I slip in next to her warm, cuddly form in her small single bed. Once upon a month or so ago, she would have a steady reason to do so, every night. She would be cold, or scared, or have had a bad dream. She’s given up the charade completely now and simply says “Mummy! I want you in my bed!!”

The broken sleep messes with me. I’m not good when I’m tired. It makes all manner of PTSD and anxiety much, much worse. It lowers my immune system and causes dermatitis to rage over my hands and feet.

But at the same time, it’s almost kind of worth it. I know it won’t be like this forever. Ten years from now I may just be aching for the sweet softness of a child cuddled up next to me.

And besides that, I get it. It’s only human nature.

Who wants to sleep all by themselves, really, when the option of sleeping with someone beside you is there?

{ 0 comments }

Let’s Hear It For The Boy.

by Lori Dwyer on September 20, 2013 · 10 comments

I can be such a selfish bitch sometimes. (And don’t we already know it…?)

Three weeks we’ve been in The New House in Melbourne. The focus has been entirely on the kidlets. Obviously, that’s not the selfish part- that’s the way it should be done. I get them settled, sorted, organised, into a new routine that’s better for all of us.

But once my children are settled, I slip into ‘me, me, me’ mode. Again, not surprising- humans are inherently self-involved creatures, with only our primal biology ensuring we sacrifice ourselves so completely to our children’s needs. Beyond that, self preservation is instinctual and difficult to see past.

This is what I tell myself, at least. Biological narcissism seems preferable over selfish tunnel-vision. The truth of the matter is that I’ve largely ignored the emotional state of The Most Amazing Man, while wallowing in my own pit of worry.

This has been- still is, actually- just as difficult for him as it has been for any of us. His hip, unencumbered single life in Melbourne has suddenly been hampered by this instant family he’s found himself with. Time to himself has become almost non-existent. Lazy weekend sleep-ins and Sunday brunches have been replaced by Saturday morning cartoons and overly-energetic children. A disposable income has been replaced by Centrelink forms. It’s a shock to the shadows of life. He expected it to be different, of course. But he’s really had no way to prepare himself for the reality of it.

And being the gentle, unassuming person he is, he’s doing such a remarkable job of being everything to all of us that I sometimes, selfishly, forget how much we have turned his life upside down.

He is just here, a constant, calming presence. He washes clothes and dishes. He cooks meals and picks up the slack of the house. He plays with my children, answers a hundred questions a day from them. And does it all in good humour, with patience and understanding. He never raises his voice. He takes it all in his stride.

Sometimes I even forget to say thank you. I forget to tell him that I am okay, that I feel supported here. That I appreciate everything he does.

So, a round of applause, if you will. Credit where credit is due.

The Most Amazing In The Universe just continues to be… well… amazing.

{ 10 comments }

Softly.

by Lori Dwyer on September 19, 2013 · 2 comments

Softly, softly, softly. That’s how we do it here, every day, for now.

I watch my children adapt and warm to living with a new person in our lives. I watch with amazement as they take things in their stride, as they assess what goes on here and assimilate it into their tiny frames of what life is like.

As those of you who’ve done this before me know, introducing a new parental figure to the family mix is done with care and trepidation, and a definitive sense of not pushing things too far.

Softly, softly.

Small invitations to intimacy are made. The Most Amazing Man offers the Chop a hug before bed, and he responds with his arms wide open. I see the hesitation more with my son than with my daughter. My Chop is hesitant to trust too much, to get too close. He remembers what it’s like to be left behind.

“I will leave you!” The Most Amazing Man says to me, taunting and joking, and I poke my tongue out in response.

Neither of us realised my son had heard that exchange, until his head pops up with shock and he asks “What? What did you say?”

“Joking, baby. We were joking, I promise. The Most Amazing Man is not going anywhere.”

Everything is done in tiny pieces, tiny increments of trust and discipline. Tiny offerings- a hug, a bedtime story, a family day out. All those ‘normal’ things you do with a dad, that my children have been missing for years.

Softly, softly. One tiny baby step at a time.

{ 2 comments }

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What I Got, I’ve Paid For.

by Lori Dwyer on June 9, 2011 · 32 comments

in Uncategorized

For months now, little voices have argued amongst themselves about what I’m doing here.

Telling a story. But is it my story to tell?

We draw the line, all of us, as to what we publish on our blogs, and what we don’t. I’ve chosen to be, I think, a lot more personal than most people do. I’ve grieved here, mourned here, dealt with my trauma here. and done it all publicly.

I’ve always been OK with that. There is no shame in feeling.

But essentially, the tale I’m telling is one that will define my husband, the way we all are defined by the end of our lives, in some way, eventually. Which is why I am so insistent, why i say it so often- he was a good man, a good father, a good husband. And we loved him to the moon and back, and all the way around it.

I made the choice, in the Before, to not blog about a lot of what was going on in my life. Or, perhaps, not so much my life, but the huge chunk of my adult life that intertwined with my husband’s.

As we do. As we all do.

But then, Tony died. And he made the choice, rational or not, to have me bear witness to his death.

He is no longer around to tell his story.

And so, it’s become mine to tell.

I’d never advocate bloggers logging on and writing about the mental illness of their family members, unless the permission was expressively given. And I guess it was given to me- as his wife, his next of kin, I have the choice to tell his story. And I ensure I balance it with the flipside of that horrible truth- what an awesome person he was.

My children are young enough that I can, selfishly, make this decision without it directly effecting them right now. I’m guessing by the time they are old enough to hold a comprehension of it, a lot of this will have blown over. I will probably still blog, but my grief and anger will be diluted with some kind of normality. And rather than my grief being a living, breathing entity on this blog, it will become an archive for it. An archive my children can pursue one day, if they choose, when they are old enough to make that choice.

I make money from here, a little, occasionally, and sometimes, that sits strangely with me too, at a tangent against a feeling of selling out.Bbut it doesn’t feel like selling out- most people who read here, they are invested in this story. And it’s doing good for the world, speaking out. Every time I get an email that tells me that, it reinforces that what I am doing here, I’m doing OK.

I never intended for any of this to happen. To grieve so publicly. To become some strange kind of advocate for suicide prevention. To have people recognise me, and instantly know my story.

But truly, I would be lost without this place. Any shadow of negativity it brings is sparkled away by the sunshine of constant love and support, the therapy of writing. Without this blog to replenish my depleted, malnourished self esteem… I don’t where I’d be.

So, most days, these days, while I still struggle with it slightly, I feel OK.

What I’ve got here, I’d give it all back for one minute, one second, with my lips pressed against my husband’s, him whispering against them.

What I’ve got here…. I’ve paid for.

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Leave a Comment

{ 32 comments… read them below or add one }

Anonymous August 18, 2011 at 2:37 am: Hello. And thank you at once for such an amazing web site. I'll be visiting it on a regular basis.

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CS June 12, 2011 at 6:30 am: Too right you have paid for it, the club no-one wants to join (I'm in it too).

I applaud your writing and especially that you're leaving a record for your children to read when they start asking questions and are ready. They will benefit sooooo much from having access to the TRUTH and their mother's TRUE feelings about their father's suicide.

Take care xxoo hugs from afar

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Brenda June 10, 2011 at 8:12 pm: Lots of hugs, my friend. Lots of hugs. Keep speaking your truth.xxxxx

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frog ponds rock… June 10, 2011 at 7:46 pm: After mum died, there was silence and there was anger. I turned to my blog for solace, and my blog friends held me and helped me to grieve. It will be two years in 14 days time. I would have been lost without my blog.

The other day a neighbour came into my studio and commented that it wasn't fair that "people like me" had such a good working space. I have no idea what he was trying to say but he soon left when I told him I would give my studio back in an instant to have my Mum back.

Love to you Lori xx

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Kelley June 10, 2011 at 6:16 pm: you know my story. You know why I chose NOT to tell. Why I can't.

You know that one line here resonated so hard with me I fucking vibrated.

x

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Cate June 10, 2011 at 5:44 pm: I"m another who was following your blog before the world changed.

It's your story – don't ever apologise for that.

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Donna June 10, 2011 at 1:57 pm: I loved your blog in the "before" and I am still a fan now, so much due to your honesty and ability to make me stop, think, rationalise.

My memory of your Tony is from one of the first vlogs of yours that I watched – he looked cheeky and happy. And if I learned anything from Insight the other night its that these moments of madness occur all the time, that men think they are immortal. From having read your story I know he cant of meant this for you, I could see there was so much love for you all.

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Sophie June 10, 2011 at 1:41 pm: Your love for Tony rolls off of my screen in waves. xx

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Yeran June 10, 2011 at 1:39 pm: Lori, your blogging is probably one of the things that is helping you through this. Getting it out into words is cathartic. Clearly you NEED it and that means your children, your loved ones need you to do it too, because they need you to be the amazing woman that you are.
And as you know you are helping so many people out there. So I can see so much good coming from your blogging, for both you and a lot of people out there.
Just as you have said : "SPEAK" and that is what your blog is about.

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Kel June 10, 2011 at 10:48 am: I don't comment very often as I never feel like I have anything worthwhile to say – but I want to tell you today that your blog was and is amazing, and honest, and belongs to you, Tony, Chop and The Bump. Nothing you've said has made me think anything of Tony other than he was a man who was loved very deeply by everyone who knew him, and he was a lucky man to have such a wonderful wife and children. You have paid for it all in a way that I cannot imagine, and I am blown away by your strength. You are wonderful and your blog is a testament to that, and to the love you and Tony shared.

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Tracey June 10, 2011 at 10:28 am: I agree with Miss Pink.There's nothing to shy away from as this is your life. Blogs evolve, they travel with the writer on the passage of life. Who are we to judege what road your blog takes? We just enjoy your reading, offer our support even if we have never met. And those who judge, well let's just feel sorry for them, that they haven't yet found their compassion.

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Toni June 10, 2011 at 9:17 am: Absolutely, what Melissa said.

Lori, you've never been less than respectful and loving when you've talked abut Tony; even in your grief and anger you've honoured him.

And your kids are absorbing that from you every day.

You've done him proud, chick.

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Kylie June 10, 2011 at 7:22 am: What they all said. I'm another who has been here for the before and the after, another who loves your writing and another who thinks you have paid too a high a price already. Keep going Lori, you're doing great.

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Ms Styling You June 10, 2011 at 12:10 am: It's your story to tell … and yes, if good is to come out of the sadness, grief and anger that you live with every day, let it come. You are helping others as you help yourself. xx

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theKatieKitten June 9, 2011 at 11:35 pm: What you got you paid for, for sure. And as I say to you, if only the price had not been so high.
No one doubts you would never have asked to be placed where you find yourself.

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Good Golly Miss Holly! June 9, 2011 at 11:04 pm: And I am nodding my head in agreeance with everything Melissa said x

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Good Golly Miss Holly! June 9, 2011 at 11:03 pm: I have as much of a massive girlcrush on you now that I had before!

Your blog is a balance of sadness and positivity – It's bizarre how that can be but it's a perfect example of the beauty and ugliness in life.

You are amazing Lori, and your honesty is much admired x

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Fox in the City June 9, 2011 at 11:01 pm: Ah Lori, you have paid too high a price but this is your place to tell your story . . . a story that is linked forever with your partner, your best mate, your Tony. Your story was linked with his way before the After . . . it was linked the moment you fell in love.

I agree with Melissa . . . my image of Tony is so much more than his final moments . . . I am here because I have loved your writing from the Before and I have wanted to support you since the After.
Jenn

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Carol June 9, 2011 at 10:16 pm: @Melissa – so true. Tony is this georgeous, funny, big, cuddly Aussie bloke whom (I'm guessing) we all adore & wish that somehow we all could've saved him with & for you (& maybe for us as well. Dammit.. he's hot;)) And it is now your story to tell, as you see fit coz he has given you a new beginning. If you haven't read this book by Dr Seuss, please do. http://www.teamhope.com/seuss.htm.
Head up, eyes straight ahead, you do bcoz you can (X)

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Glen June 9, 2011 at 10:08 pm: indeed you have. Keep going.

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Crystal Cheverie June 9, 2011 at 10:03 pm: I know what you mean. I'm the type of person, not unlike you, I think, who can never, ever ask for anything from people and who is always careful to respect the privacy of my friends/family on my blog. Just know that a) you're doing a great job of portraying Tony as a real, whole person – not just the Tony that said all those cruel things to you and then hung himself. B) Those who give, those who read, are doing so because they want to. We care and we're glad to be able to help you, even if it's just through tons of virtual hugs or the occasional donation. We all want you to be OK again, or if not totally OK, as close to it as is possible.

You are so right – you've paid, dearly, for what you get.

HUG!!!

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Kimmie June 9, 2011 at 9:12 pm: Ditto what Melissa said~!

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A Daft Scots Lass June 9, 2011 at 9:06 pm: I also followed and commented before and I admire the fact that you were brave enough to "blog it all" so to speak. Its amazing how we start doing something for one reason and it changes into something else.

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Michael June 9, 2011 at 8:52 pm: Damn straight. You have paid, and paid, and paid- a debt I can't begin to imagine the size of, a debt in a currency I have never seen.

I feel about you kind of the way I feel about my favorite musician, Billy Joel- you could give it all up tomorrow, never write another syllable, and I would just say thank you for enriching my life. You don't owe me a damn thing.

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Melissa June 9, 2011 at 8:52 pm: You deserve every drop of love, support, self-esteem, and money you get from your writing. I know – it's a very personal choice – exactly how much to share, but what you're doing here – it's helping so many people, and it's helping you – and you need all the help you can get – for yourself and for your kids.

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Melissa June 9, 2011 at 8:51 pm: I want to tell you something, and I want you to hear it. Because I'm telling MY truth.

When I think of Tony, I don't think of 'that guy who hung himself in front of his wife". I think of a typical "Aussie bloke" who enjoyed a laugh and a simple life in the 'burbs with the wife and the kids and the dog.

A hard worker, funny, larrikan type guy. Big, strong, manly, especially against your tiny form. A bear of a man, with a soft heart.

THAT, I swear, is my image of Tony. I then remember the end. That something terrible happened in his mind and broke him. And that the broken Tony did something terrible, and irreversible.

But please remember, that (while I can't speak for others) while you're telling his story, you're telling much more of it than you realise. You're providing him a much better legacy, a knowledge of him we would Never have had had you not blogged the way you have AFTER.

You've done a good thing. Good for you, to be honest and open and free. Good for people affected by suicide, on either side of the fence.

But good for Tony, no matter what the knockers have said. He's not a two dimensional character that we picture in that final terrible moment.

He's *Tony*. Loving, fun, funny, loveable Tony. Lori's Tony. He feels 'familiar' to me, more now than before. And for me, he is NOT defined by what he did when he was sick.

I don't know if any of that will make sense. But I feel like I should tell you how I feel.

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K June 9, 2011 at 8:16 pm: I think it is your story to tell – and you tell it so vividly and deeply.

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Amy xxoo June 9, 2011 at 7:58 pm: I admire, and appreciate, the honest truth you portray hear Lori – and you're right, I AM invested in the story. His story.
Your story.

Whoever's story it really is – it doesnt matter, because your the only one around to tell it. So dont let anyone make you feel bad for what your doing. Your surviving, and thats what matters…

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Julie June 9, 2011 at 7:40 pm: damn straight you've paid for it, and then some! and don't you dare for one second even consider apologising for what you write. your writing is not only helping you, but god only knows how many others who read your blog. you're an amazing person lori, and don't you ever forget that, not ever! xxx

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Zoey @ Good Goog June 9, 2011 at 7:27 pm: I don't know. Knowing your blog I think you were always destined for greatness. The spotlight is just different from the one you would have chosen for yourself.

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Sarah June 9, 2011 at 7:19 pm: I love you blog or not, telling Tony's story or not, in the before & in the after. I don't care what you write about but I love that it's healing for you & that you are gaining a little bit of an income off of it.

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Miss Pink June 9, 2011 at 7:13 pm: I followed you before all of this, and i commented a couple of times how smitten i was with your blog, with your writing. Yes it has changed and there is a massive focus on this monumental thing that has happened in your life. So what? It is still amazing writing. And maybe even more so when you are publicly voicing something that everyone deals with on some level, in some way. Don't shy away.

Reply

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Trashing A Dress. Brilliantly. – RRSAHM

Trashing A Dress. Brilliantly.

by Lori Dwyer on December 18, 2012 · 5 comments

It’s a disgustingly First World, spoiled and over privileged thing to do- deliberately ruin a dress worth hundreds or even thousands of dollars that you’ve worn just once. In writing this post, I acknowledge that completely. And that thought crossed my mind more than once, flecked with materialistic guilt.

But, damn… trashing my wedding dress as part of our #Brilliant Road Trip was so much fun.

We’ve been planning to do this for quite a while. In some kind of small miracle, we both managed to remember to pack our dresses into the Hyundai’s trunk, along with an atrocious amount of luggage. Using up the last few hours of daylight on the last day of our road trip, we took a long drive along some flat, peaceful country roads near Scone. And found ourselves, quite randomly, at a place called the WashPools- check it out on our trip map, marked with the camera icon. We donned our frocks roadside, and got silly. As I mentioned on IG, the Chop took a few of these pics. And did an amazing job. (I do wonder exactly how he will recall this event when he’s older- part of me thinks that I will have some explaining to do, really…).

Deciding our dresses weren’t quite trashed enough, we stopped at Brooklyn, just off the F3, on our drive home. The clouds were gathering, the air was hot and muggy… and those long winter dresses far too hot. So we took them to with Auntie Mickey’s craft scissors, restyled them, and went rock climbing.

And then, of course, we dressed up a paper gum tree to a level of finery I’m almost positive it enjoyed. As you do.

Like I said- a million different kinds of fun. But as well as that, the ritual trashing of the dress was releasing, cleansing, relaxing and felt like some kind of… closure. Having my bridesmaid Auntie Mickey beside me, the same way she’s always been, completed some kind of weird, karmic evolution.

I got married, once, a long time ago. But if there’s such a thing as becoming ‘unmarried’, it feels as though I’ve done it.

More photos on Flickr.

Check out more about the #Brilliant Road Trip here.

Leave a Comment

{ 5 comments… read them below or add one }

Carly Findlay December 22, 2012 at 5:37 pm: Have you seen Chocolate Suze's dress trashing with cake and chocolate? Google it

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Anonymous December 20, 2012 at 8:35 am: I love this idea and have been thinking of doing a wedding dress trash photo shoot. I am still happily married but i am not the sort of person that gets attached to possessions but the memories that my family make on a daily basis!

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woahmolly.com December 19, 2012 at 7:38 am: My family lives out Scone way, they took me out to the Washpools last time I was up there. It's really beautiful there, plus it's also where I came across a Red Bellied Black Snake and infamously ran away, leaving my pregnant sister in law to fend for herself, because I'm terrible.

Your dress trashing looks like fun – and The chop has got a keen eye on him, the pictures look great!

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Amanda Hardy December 19, 2012 at 6:31 am: *hugs* I'm so glad you did this. You look BEAUTIFUL! And happy, and

You look free.

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Pamela Gold December 19, 2012 at 5:08 am: I thought "Trashing the Dress" was a divorce thing…

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Random Ramblings of a SAHM: The Things We Do For Our Kids…

That Stupid Cat. – RRSAHM

That Stupid Cat.

by Lori Dwyer on August 7, 2012 · 17 comments

That stupid cat with its ridiculous name has been gone for two weeks now. I’m irrationally pissed at it… what the f*ck, cat? Seriously. I thought you were my allay in this ‘keeping the kids content’ game I play every day, the one I feel like I’m always losing.

The kidlets have not yet completely realized their pet has vanished. They’ve mentioned Mr Tree in passing conversation, alluding to his habits or, one terrifyingly close occasion, how old he will be on his next birthday.

But they’ve not asked where he is, or wondered why they have not seen him. He was an outdoor cat, an explorer– true to his name, he spent a lot of time climbing the thirty foot banksia tree in his backyard. He would pop indoors for a few minutes a day to eat or just check out the action, then retire on the lounge, exhausted from his hobby of terrorizing the native bird life for hours, when the night chill set on. More fearless feline than lazy lap cat.

You spotted the cat… right?

So, really, it’s logical my children wouldn’t ask, not for a while… I wonder if they know already. They just haven’t verbalized it yet, to me at least; but what they say to each other is anyone’s guess. I worry that they, like me, have just come to expect things like this to happen… that the things they love will die.

When I realised Mr Tree was missing (that worrying, spreading dawn of ‘I haven’t seen our cat for a few days…’) I made the stubborn desicion that, until I saw a fluffy orange carcass on the side of the road, I would not tell my kids that yet another one of their pets was dead.

I’ve amended that policy, in light of no carcass being found– I’ll tell them if, and when, they ask.

Is that a course of action I’d recommend…? Most certainly not. As we know, I’m a believer in telling my children the truth, or as much of it as they are capable of processing at the time. This feels weak, like a cop out… it feels like a lie.

But fuck it. The five year old in my mind is stamping her foot and simply refusing to budge on this one. And why should she? Why on earth would I want to do that, again, when three explanations is three too many for children who are still really only babies… and my babies at that?

I’m not sure how long the spirit of Mr Tree can remain in limbo like this… but, for my own peace and sanity, I’m more than willing to find out.

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{ 17 comments… read them below or add one }

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Anonymous August 9, 2012 at 12:32 pm: There's no telling.

We once had a cat named Nermal who disappeared. About 6 months after that we moved about 10 miles away. Sure enough, the cat showed up to our new house about a year afterwards. He was a rather unique looking orange tabby, there was no doubt it was him. He lived with us for another year, and then off he went on another whirlwind adventure, we never saw him after that. I like the idea of having postcards delivered to you (or your kiddos) that tell the tales of adventures he is having. I'm sure some of your trusty readers would be happy to send them! I would! – from Texas – he could be here getting a new accent, eating a whole host of fried foods, visiting the Alamo, and watching out for copperheads and rattlesnakes

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Anonymous August 8, 2012 at 11:21 pm: over the years i have had 2 different adult cats turn up on my doorstep one day, and decided to make my house their home…. one had a litter of kittens stayed for a year, then went home (which i later found out was 2 streets over).. the other stayed put for the rest of his days…

i've often though of the homes those cats left behind…tigers family must have thought he was gone, while he was mooching snacks and tummy rubs off my dad for the next 10 years.

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Anonymous August 8, 2012 at 2:28 pm: In your situation I would probably buy another one the same colour and hope my kids didn't notice the difference then if the first cat turns up say wow Mr Tree has a friend that looks just like him! Anything rather than go through that again….

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Marianne August 8, 2012 at 7:10 am: We had a big, fat mostly-siamese cat named Linda (she was so fat, we didn’t realize she was pregnant before she was about to give birth right before we moved houses). After the move, we noticed that sometimes Linda would move into other yards for petting and adoration (she was really a beautiful cat). After the kittens were born & weaned & placed in good homes, we took her to the vet, got her fixed and up-to-date on her shots (not something I wanted to do while she was pregnant). One day when we were outside checking the mail…I heard a neighbor calling “Molly! Molly!” and saw her shoot across the way and get fed. The next time I saw the neighbor, I told her that I wanted to mention that I had had Linda vaccinated. I told her that I knew sometimes she bummed meals at her house (the cat was SHAMELESS and quite rotund) and I just wanted to make sure that she didn’t get shots twice in one year. The neighbor then told me that “Molly” had been their cat for months and months (excuse me??? Did she think the shaved belly and row of stitches happened when “Molly” spayed herself?) I was a little put-off at the ‘tude, but figured that since Linda came home every night I didn’t mind sharing my cat’s affections with the neighbors. A day or two later, she went missing for good…about a month after that, my neighbor left her husband and kids and ran off with her boyfriend. I have no PROOF…but am just betting that Linda was made an “indoor” cat right after my conversation with the neighbor & left with the adulterous hussy.
We had another cat, Maggie (she was before Linda at our old house) who was just frankly disgusted at the new puppy we adopted and divorced us & went down the hill to live at the puppy-less house of some very nice people. They had the courtesy to walk up the hill to tell us that Maggie had immigrated to a less canine household and did we want her extradited?
In any case, there are two examples of cat-loss that didn’t end too badly.

(BTW, thank you for the email, Lori)

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Anonymous August 8, 2012 at 2:53 am: I was wondering about Mr Tree last night. Just wondering I guess why you haven't mentioned him since the last time. Then fully knowing why, because he has not come home I said to myself. But not wanting it to be true. With all that the kids have lost, the cat TOO?? Jeeeesh! I feel like the dog that ate the chooks may be the culprit. Just a thought. So maybe you can find a Mr Tree twin? And the kids wont know the difference? Not reality I know, but a hopeful thought. Mr Tree's twin must be out there! I dont know how you can bare telling them about another dead pet. Oh dear my. I'm SO sorry Lori, my heart breaks for you. Maybe a fish next time for the kidlets, a goldfish. They look alike, DONT THEY? xoxo- Lisa

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Nellie August 8, 2012 at 12:57 am: My cat disappeared from my grandparents house when I was little. My grandpa used to tell me all these stories about getting a letter from him. I was only four but it made me angry. I didn't think he was dead- just that he ran away and I was furious at being played to. But I knew my grandpa thought he was being nice so I acted grateful and interested in his stories.

I was a quirky child.

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Melissa August 7, 2012 at 8:42 pm: Perhaps Mr. Tree could send the kids postcards from his exploits around the world? I'd be happy to post one from the US. I know it's not technically the "truth" but a little fun and fantasy? Just a thought.

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Leah August 7, 2012 at 7:09 pm: I guess the thing is, the cat could come back and that could create more heartbreak and confusion for their other losses … so being vague and not saying he's dead is probably wise. I hope the norty bugger comes back!

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Lisa August 7, 2012 at 5:44 pm: I hope that you find your cat again! That would be really hard to explain and handle!!

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Suzie August 7, 2012 at 2:45 pm: Lots of experience with this.

We had one cat who would disappear periodically and then reappear skinny and hungry. We would have loved to ask him where he went. Sometimes he'd disappear for days at a time.

Another cat didn't like the kittens being around the house so should went and found a new house with new slaves, we weren't good enough for her. We didn't call her Investigator for nothing (Vesta for short).

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Anonymous August 7, 2012 at 1:43 pm: Our cat, one time, when the boys were wee, went on a very very very long walk. And possibly, (not very probably, but it was technically possible) he found someone else to live with, that needed him more than we did.

-Joy

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Miss Pink August 7, 2012 at 1:33 pm: Agreeing with everyone else. Mr Tree is alive until proven otherwise. He's just gone on a holiday….and maybe can't find his way back?

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Sarah August 7, 2012 at 11:47 am: My mum's cat vanished from next door to my house & appeared in Bowral a year later!! Mr Tree is alive until proven otherwise

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Lisa H August 7, 2012 at 11:33 am: Our previous cat has been missing for six years. He's not dead, just MIA.

Our current cat isn't a replacement. He's not.

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Spagsy August 7, 2012 at 10:01 am: Maybe mr tree has gone to spend time with some other family. There's a chop and bump who might need him right now.

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Jody Jones August 7, 2012 at 8:52 am: Mr Tree should totally be renamed Schrodinger's Cat.

I think your totally right in this case L – you don't know what's happened, he could just be on some kind of Excellent Adventure, why put your kids through unnecessary pain? You've all had more than enough.

So, if you're looking for validation, you've totally got it from me

Reply

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There's a Post It Note stuck on my what? – RRSAHM

There’s a Post It Note stuck on my what?

by Lori Dwyer on May 18, 2010 · 11 comments

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{ 11 comments… read them below or add one }

lori May 22, 2010 at 10:54 am: Those are such cute posties!

Reply
Mama Sammi May 19, 2010 at 4:32 am: ya mean dinners don't fix themselves?!?! My night is screwed!! Oh and I laughed out loud at your title too!!!

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Kristy May 19, 2010 at 4:29 am: Argh. Dinner. And it's needed EVERY NIGHT.

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cfoxes33 May 19, 2010 at 4:21 am: LOL. You are funny!

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jayayceeblog May 19, 2010 at 1:46 am: There's a Post It Note stuck on my what? That is the all-time best post title! Actually did make me laugh out loud!!!

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Evonne May 19, 2010 at 12:40 am: Adorable post-its! I wish dinner would cook itself every day!

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Jenn @ South of Sheridan May 19, 2010 at 12:24 am: Your posties are really cute!

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kimberly May 18, 2010 at 9:55 pm: I wish my dinner could make itself too!!!! Happy Tuesday!!!

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Sarah May 18, 2010 at 4:41 pm: Awww your postit backgrounds went funny. Must figure out how to fix that for next week.

They look cool though

Hey maybe they should be purple?!

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I am Harriet May 18, 2010 at 11:05 pm: Bummer about the time zones thing.

Have a great Tuesday!
http://harrietandfriends.com/2010/05/a-supah-kind-of-a-twitter-party-sounds-good-to-me/

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ezymay May 18, 2010 at 10:01 pm: You crack me up my darling!!!

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Random Ramblings of a SAHM: For Any Mother Who May Pass This Way (Nothing funny about this post, folks)

Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Another New House In Paradise….

Random Ramblings of a SAHM: So… now what?

Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Falling Into Place

The Garden. – RRSAHM

The Garden.

by Lori Dwyer on December 2, 2013 · 3 comments

After leaving the lush decadence of the TinyTrainHouse’s backyard, it’s very lovely to have a garden again.

In the midst of all this blackness, it’s the Most Amazing Man who begins to build a veggie patch in the urban backyard of The New House. The very back edge of the block we live on was once a laneway. A ten foot stretch of land that runs along our back fence is raised by a foot or two, and was overrun with thick kikuyu grass and an ugly, greedy cactus when we first moved in.

The Most Amazing Man puts old rugs over the bright green grass to kill it, starving it of a sunlight for a few weeks. Then he attacks it with a pickaxe, turning up lumps of yellowed weeds until the soil is revealed, rich and dark and moist-smelling; filled with fat, happy worms.

We plant veggies. Tomatoes bought as saplings from Bunnings. Tiny chilli and basil seedlings. We rescue a small parsley plant from the corner of the raised section, making us think it’s not this patch of ground’s first incarnation as a vegetable bed.

We plant seeds to sprout- calendula, sugar snap peas, star and moon watermelons. The tiny chubby hands of the kidlets pushing dirt across freshly planted seeds carries whispers of everything that’s good in the world.

Gardening makes me miss my gran so badly. But there’s therapy in it too. Something about dirt under your fingernails, pulling stubborn grass from the ground as it re-grows and makes a mess of the garden bed… it’s therapeutic. It’s soul food.

It’s satisfaction. We weed and water and tend to it daily, the Most Amazing Man and I. We watch the slowly unfurling leaves,the flowers that bud and bloom. We watch in wonderment at what we’re creating here.

Tagged as: children, Families Are Hard Places To Live, granny stuff, Moving to Melbourne

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{ 3 comments… read them below or add one }

Vanessa December 3, 2013 at 12:33 pm: I keep meaning to get my garden planted but it’s one of many things on a to do list haha. one day…
Vanessa recently posted…Blog Planning: Christmas Holidays

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Whoa, Molly! December 3, 2013 at 10:23 am: Gardening is so calming. I love to get in there and make order out of the chaos, getting everything looking lovely and neat and just right. I hope all your seeds sprout and you get to make awesome meals from the stuff you grow.

Being always on the move, I haven’t got a garden exactly, but I do have a big collection of potted succulents (the only plants I can utterly neglect and still have them thrive) that I drag around arranging them all is so satisfying. Perhaps one day I’ll have a big garden…
Whoa, Molly! recently posted…Goodbye Little Yellow House

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Mouse December 2, 2013 at 9:23 pm: I watch the ebb and flow of your moods, reading intermittently as I do, and feel such a boost when you’re up. I can sense how the warmth we’re having at last gets you going again, gives you a lift. Your vitamin D is replenished, and so is your mood.
Good on you, Lori…….wonderful to watch your tenacity and resilience pay dividends like this.

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Succubi

by Lori Dwyer on March 12, 2012 · 41 comments

“Better to burn out, than fade away.”

Lyrics from Reason To Be Beautiful, by Hole. Also reportedly written in the suicide note Kurt Cobain left his wife, the bands lead singer.

Emotional vampire, or succubi… seductive, beautiful, appealing; with the ability to draw others in before feeding on them, emotionally. Draining them of everything they have.

When it comes right down to it, there is nothing special about me. I’m just as bad as anyone else. Sometimes I think I’m worse. I’m just as nasty and manipulative and spiteful as people get.
Just a week or so ago, I proved to myself just how bad I can be… and I think I may have proved to someone else that the person who exists here, within the sugary confines of my blog, she’s much nicer on screen than she is in real life.

Reach out to me, I’ll pull you close. Feed off you, suck every bit of life force you have. And the when you refuse me, refuse that raging thirst I have, that black hole of need… If you say no, for your own preservation, I will bite you. Claw you.

I’ll amaze you with just how nasty I can be.

I can show you the worst in emotional manipulation, in self pity and emotional blackmail, in nasty, spiteful passive aggression. I am that mangy bitch who bites any hand that offers her comfort, her mind filled with a swarm of bees in pain, batting off the insides of her mind.

I’ll bet you never imagined I could be like that.

I’ve always been like that… it’s just that I hide it well.

”I know you want to be the one who makes me break…. I was broken when you met me, finding pieces every day . I know you want to be the reason I can’t sleep at night.. wish it was that simple, I’ve been this way for my whole life.”

Art Alexis, Instant Karma

After the rush of spite passes, after I have lashed out and done what damage I can… I hate myself with a dull passionless fire. I’m exhausted, being me… I hate living in my head. I’m so very ashamed of myself, the same kind of shame I used to feel as a child in the wind down of a temper tantrum– all kicking and screaming and rage and tears– that I simply couldn’t control.

I feel like a child. Spoilt and selfish and nasty… and I know it’s truth. I say people push me… but how can they help it when I lash out like this?

I’m not sure if it’s self flagellation or penance or punishment, or if its just that I’m so bored with feeling dead inside, so sick of screaming and crying and wanting someone to hold me and make it better… scream at me, please. Hate me. Cry. Do something, anything, rather than treat me as disposable. Show me some kind of passion– anything. Hating me is better than cutting me off… at least if you hate me, then somewhere cares.

If you hate yourself enough, there’s a small, tight space in your soul that burns with spite. It’s dark and needy and on the verge of a psychosis– inside you’re screaming that you will hurt yourself if someone doesn’t sit up now and make nice.

I’d like to say its all about self punishment, but it’s not. It’s about need, my need, that black sucking hole of it that I think can only be filled by the only thing in my life that’s ever made me happy– a man, a relationship, someone to tell me they love me, even when they don’t; someone to say its OK, even when it isn’t.

Self destruct, says that dark soul space. Maybe if you hurt yourself enough someone will say “please stop that, I love you.”

And if they don’t… then you’ve done what you have, and you can hate yourself even more. There is nothing that dark space likes more than room and heat to fester.

Self destruct.

Hurt myself as much as possible without leaving marks or scars or physical damage, without hurting others, without ending up in a hospital ward.

The options are limited. Sharpening a short kitchen knife and slicing my skin seems appealing… the blood. Not even the redness of it, just the way the light shines off it as it pools in the slit I’ve created.

But it leaves marks and infections, and people who cut themselves cannot be trusted with their own children. And, deep down, that dark spot in my soul is a coward, and the physical pain of wounding myself is too intense for the ferocity it would like to unleash on me.

So we don’t do that.

I no longer venture into kicking things, head butting things, punching things. It’s an ineffective form of self harm that people see as hysterical and attention seeking. And head butting a wall is, short of driving a ride on mower down the freeway, the quickest way to get yourself locked up.

I don’t mind drugs, and the thought of smoking until my lips are numb and I vomit, disappearing into a melancholy haze… that’s appealing. To temper that appeal, I have two small children with one vulnerable, human parent (”You’re not going to die, are you, Mummy?”), and the memory of exactly what a psychosis looks like, close up. And those things are enough.

Alcohol is not my thing… I don’t know why. My stomach is clenched in a knot, and alcohol makes me sick at the happiest of times. Again, it just won’t go down with the ferocity that is necessary, with the haste and abandon required.

And– huh– the ridiculous fucking truth of being a mother, losing her mind. I have children to take care of in the morning. I have a limited amount of time with which to scream my fury into the universe… and it doesn’t cater for a raging hangover.

I want to find a nightclub where it’s dark and the floor is sticky and the beat of the music is bass enough to effect the bump of my heart. I want to suck up people’s energy, have my ears ringing into silence with the screamed pitch of humanity trying to be heard over the lub–dub rhythm of a god. I want to watch people laugh, kiss, dance, get drunk and sing. I want to suck all that in, envy it, reminisce for it…

I want to watch, and know, and punish myself until it hurts.

I want to remember what it feels like to be alive.

I text a friend, and acquaintance, a boy I knew in high school who is now a man that simple sociological principles tell me is dangerous. Not ‘dangerous’ as in, ‘you may get hurt (again)’; but dangerous as in, you may find yourself in jail. Or at the very least randomly searched, with the motivation being that you associate with known criminals.

He sleeps with too many women, and talks about it in a manner that is disgusting and revolting and you don’t want to admit is alluring. He is regularly tested for HIV and STD’s, he tells us one night at the pub. “With my lifestyle, you have to.”

He is the exact opposite of my who my husband was… he is disrespectful and unkind and uncaring. But, dammit, he is Tony’s height and Tony’s weight, with the same brown eyes and short dark hour and tattoos…

If he didn’t speak, and the scent of his skin didn’t ruin it…

And after, I could weep for myself, if I liked. I could hate myself more and more, fall deeper and deeper into that dark, sticky hole in my soul.

I don’t, of course. In the end, eventually, after smoking so many cigarettes I have ulcers on the fleshy insides of my mouth, I write until my eyes are falling shut. And then I go to bed.

I have children to wake to, early.

Don’t congratulate me
… it doesn’t feel right. I know, it’s the socially acceptable ways things are done, to pull your socks up and avoid a nervous breakdown.

But every time I do, I am that little bit more frozen inside, that little bit more dead. Every time I do, I forget a little bit more what it was like to feel passion, or anger, or love, or anything.

I don’t think I ever quite realized how sad being a shell of person can be.

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{ 41 comments… read them below or add one }

Ali ibn Abi Talib kp April 15, 2013 at 1:56 pm: |

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RickW April 10, 2012 at 9:54 pm: Your man is a good looking dude, but I didn't know that I smell funny Perhaps I'll get a tat and find out what cologne he's wearing..

You know this, but you can't pay the bills with love. I'll be here.

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Anonymous March 23, 2012 at 12:01 pm: Today Is MY day to feel this way!!! I have even posted this to my facebook is the hope that my friends will understand!!! Were NOT crazy but some days its TOO F*#&ing; hard to be strong… Lori your doing Amazing Hun and never give up! <3

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Nurse and Hospital Stories March 14, 2012 at 5:42 pm: "I don't think I ever quite realized how sad being a shell of person can be."

Yeah, it's quite sad and depressing. And there are times that we are even considered by others as very draining people. I, particularly is an introvert person and a melancholic, commonly thinking on so many thoughts. Yet, I pass that stage and being a nurse, I learn to cope up and be flexible with different people. Learned to love my patients as well as my colleagues. Somehow, my own personality tendency comes back yet I learned to adapt and to change. Thank God. And you can do it, eh.

Cheers,
Peny@scrub uniforms

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Jane March 13, 2012 at 5:04 pm: Lori this is so incredibly raw. I am in awe of your ability to articulate this and a little scared. You mention you're feeling numb and that's what worries me. When we're numb we tend to be reckless and unafraid of what would ordinarily stop us in in our tracks. Be careful this doesn't become so seductive you can't or won't see a better day or ask for help. Much love xx Jane

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Donna March 13, 2012 at 10:53 am: I'm a bit behind, having only read this now and see you've posted a new blog about being safe, so I hope that means you reached out to a professional who could help with this?

I know nothing of what it must feels like but if that is what is lingering at your core, you need to have the right help at hand. You are worth it, your children are worth it. Much love xx

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rex March 13, 2012 at 8:14 am: People really care about you, you know. I have been reading here for a while and kept thinking my words were not enough. So I have never commented. But know I am hoping they are,

I want to some how give you the power to change this, you the belief that things can get better. So in my words I am giving you power and support to help. X

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Anonymous March 12, 2012 at 11:07 pm: Just chiming in with the chorus. You've spoken up and out to encourage others to SPEAK. Now you lady – SPEAK. Not to your online diary. To a damn doctor. And don't sugar coat it. Get as real with a doctor as you do in your online confessional – and then some. Demand treatment. GET WELL Lori.

I kid you not – despite everything – you wouldn't feel this way if you weren't in the grips of a deepening and treatable mental illness right now.

I know you wont be 'feeling' that to be true, but it bloody well IS true.

I was on the verge of suicide DAYS ago, a period that lasted months – one little tweak of some medicine I've been trying for a few weeks, and suddenly I am back in the land of the living.

Overnight that change came, after months of feeling, well, in part like you describe in your post…

Its time to become your own advocate, and get yourself well.

This is Angela from solomum.com My blog is probably gone, as during my descent in to hell I think I vanquished it. I almost died from some thought processes that you describe, and yes, all the while, I got up every day and never abandoned my kids. But I was an empty shell, the walking dead, and it certainly wasn't good for them. My 15 year old is doing absolute carwheels because she has her mum back now. She is over the moon! 'My mums back!' she wrote of facebook. Of course, I never physically left.

Go get yourself well Lori.

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Melissa March 12, 2012 at 10:21 pm: Hey Lori,
This post makes me worried, too. I agree with everyone else that it's way past time for some additional support for you. Please just hold on. Take all the support you can get your hands on.
Lots of love.

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Deb March 12, 2012 at 9:28 pm: get help.

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Being Me March 12, 2012 at 9:10 pm: I'm not sure exactly why but I do feel uneasy about this post, Lori… And you've written some hard-hitting ones! This is a step too deep into something that, for the first time, I think might be bigger than the wide-cast net of friendship and support we can collectively offer you. I wish you the very safest passage through this dark moment xxxx And Love, as always. Lots of love.

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Natalie R March 12, 2012 at 9:03 pm: Lori

I'd a psych who wanders past your blog very now and then….I wandered past today and I'm so saddened by what I read.

Please, as others have said, do what you've asked others to do and reach out and find someone you can lean on. For the sake of your children if not for yourself.

Gentle hugs

Nat

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Natalie R March 12, 2012 at 9:03 pm: Lori

I'd a psych who wanders past your blog very now and then….I wandered past today and I'm so saddened by what I read.

Please, as others have said, do what you've asked others to do and reach out and find someone you can lean on. For the sake of your children if not for yourself.

Gentle hugs

Nat

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Natalie R March 12, 2012 at 9:02 pm: Lori

I'd a psych who wanders past your blog very now and then….I wandered past today and I'm so saddened by what I read.

Please, as others have said, do what you've asked others to do and reach out and find someone you can lean on. For the sake of your children if not for yourself.

Gentle hugs

Nat

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Maxabella March 12, 2012 at 7:48 pm: Please, Lori, get the help you need. Practice what you preach about mental illness. Be brave and fall. The net will catch you if you let it. x

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Anonymous March 12, 2012 at 6:42 pm: I can't put it any better than Wanderlust…

But I'm just adding my voice to the clamour of encouragement to get yourself to someone who can help you. You know better than most that getting out of this dark place takes way more than knowing you are loved. I applaud your honesty, now please go be honest with someone who is equipped to bring you through this.

All the very best

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Gina March 12, 2012 at 4:01 pm: The first step is to face your feelings, and I think you did that in this blog, the next step is to get some help and face them some more. It sucks but it helps.

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Kel March 12, 2012 at 3:10 pm: All I can think is for you to get to your GP and get there now. You are too important and too smart to ignore the warning signs. Wanderlust said it much better than I have, so please take her advice xx

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Gianna March 12, 2012 at 3:10 pm: I wish I was not all the way in NZ Lori, I really would love to meet you and we could just be, just talk, hang, let the kids play, where you are right now is a hard place to see the light and I wish for everything I could be there to shine that light in so you could catch a glimpse and know you are not alone in there. I have no words to say about what could or should make you better, too many people have opinions on things they know nothing about. I just want you to know that you are brave, and you grew two beautiful souls inside you, and you bore them into this world. You are special, and you always will be to someone who calls you Mummy hope to meet you one day.

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Anonymous March 12, 2012 at 2:34 pm: oh you poor girl… i have been in that place before… i have spent years in that place..

all i can say is, that you can get through it.. you can!! you can!! it is possible even if it seems unthinkably impossible now.
In this frame of mind you cant see the forest for the trees, but other people can help you see a way through.

i promise you there is a light on the other side of this, you just gotta hang in there for the ride.

sending you love and hugs and goodwill

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Wanderlust March 12, 2012 at 2:14 pm: Lori, remember all those posts you wrote about depression and mental illness, how men who were suffering needed to reach out and get help instead of always saying "I'm okay" when they weren't? I don't think you're okay right now Lori and as hard as it is, I think you need to reach out and ask someone to help you, a professional or a friend that can get you some help. Love you, Lori. I want you to be okay. x

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Sarah March 12, 2012 at 1:57 pm: I find it hard to keep reading about you…I feel like a passive observer watching a car slowly crash. I second the thoughts by others you need to seek some help, some safe way to vent other than to the blogging community because it provides a safe distance where you can talk, people can talk back but Im not so sure that things change?? Reach out Lori in a different way, to a health care professional, to a safe place for you and for your kids.

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Anonymous March 12, 2012 at 1:33 pm: Please, you need to get some help. Are you on anti-depressants? Do you have a good doctor and psychologist? Even though (when you are depressed) it's hard to get the energy to even go to see a professional and tell the stories all over again, you must, for yourself and your kids. A man is not what you need right now, your friends can provide your company, you are too vulnerable to get emotionally involved and it's just self-flagellation to get involved with inappropriate or uncaring men. Lisa x

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Queensland Girl March 12, 2012 at 1:11 pm: Lori, I am going thru some shit of my own, can't compare it to you, won't even try. If you want to vent, say anything at all, I will not judge, just email me. Please know that there are people who care, depression is a lonely, shitty place to be and it can feel that no one understands or cares…if talking to a stranger helps feel free. Jo xxx

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Annettewith6 March 12, 2012 at 12:52 pm: We are all worried for you. There is nothing we can do to change the past and take away the hurt but we can be here with you in the virtual world, caring and sharing your pain in the small way of reading and replying.
It does sound like you need a face to face someone to intervene and listen and help. There are some needs of course that only one type of relationship can offer and at the moment that is not available to you. Life can go on without that though, one just has to find joy and contentment in other things and other types of relationship… It CAN be done. One does not need that significant other to be a whole, happy person…
Just know you have a whole family out there in the cyber world. A family who care and who want happiness for you. (((Lori)))

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Something Gorgeous March 12, 2012 at 12:40 pm: Nothing in life can be that bad. Be an observer, stand back, outside yourself and watch what is happening…

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Anonymous March 12, 2012 at 12:18 pm: Lori – you are talking about self harming in so many ways, this is serious. You need to know that if you are scaring regular blog friends, you must be scaring you children. i get that your blog is your "space" but your space is reflecting some serious illness. You are NOT OK – get to your GP, if you can't get someone you live near to read this post and these comments. You are not safe at the moment and need help, your kids need you to get help that are not safe when you are this emotionally inaccessible. Yep i am being harsh and you are going to get very pissed off when you read this….but you lady are at RISK, you need help. If I knew where you lived i would drag you kicking and screaming if i had to. You deserve to the right supports and you know you need help….If anyone out there knows Lori, lives near her PLEASE make the right calls to get this vulnerable family HELP!!!!!

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becca March 12, 2012 at 11:18 am: …swarm of bees. Are you a King fan? (thanks for the raw…it reminds me of the taste of a bitten lip or a poorly torn hang nail…is that weird?)

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Sophie March 12, 2012 at 11:14 am: Sending love to you Lori. It will get better, I promise you, it will. You just need to get through the darkness. There is no shame in asking for help to do so. Please ask. xx

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Anonymous March 12, 2012 at 11:14 am: Hey Gorgeous Lori, I never comment either but I feel the same way as you and I haven't had to go through nearly as much shit – go talk to someone today – I know it's exhausting and you just want to pull the sheets over and forget about everything for a while but the sun will come up again tomorrow and it's a process but you WILL get through it. Thinking of you, it's so freakin' hard, I wish we could all just take a bit of it away for you… xx

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invivamus March 12, 2012 at 11:13 am: Niel Young – Hey Hey My My

It's no fun at all. That's the nicest way I can say it without filling this comment with a million faaarrrkkks!
I've got an email address & phone number. Swearing at a stranger over the phone might be fun email me. It might even help me a bit.

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becca March 12, 2012 at 11:13 am: This comment has been removed by the author.

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Kimmie March 12, 2012 at 11:11 am: I second what Madam Bipolar said.

Hugs
xxx

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Madam Bipolar March 12, 2012 at 10:56 am: Fuck Lori. You are really scaring me. You need to go and see your GP. ASAP. You are not okay.

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Kristen March 12, 2012 at 10:42 am: Lori,
I know you don't know me.. but I read regularly and comment sometimes. I care. This post scares me too. I'm here. I just care.

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edenland March 12, 2012 at 10:19 am: Are you ok?

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mcnfi March 12, 2012 at 10:13 am: I wish joy for you on the other side of this ravine. And I wish you courage in getting across, and that somehow as you cross you can find yourself whole again.

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Ms Styling You March 12, 2012 at 10:09 am: Hey hun, I'm really scared by your post today … is there someone – a professional – who you can talk to? I know you're probably seeing a counsellor but I just thought I'd check in. xx

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Julia March 12, 2012 at 9:53 am: Aaw Lori…I don't know what to say. Love ya. xx

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Eccles March 12, 2012 at 6:41 pm: FUCK!!! Lori – what the bloody hell is going on n your head!! I'm with Madam Bipolar & Kimmie – GET TO THE DOCTOR!!!! Not for medication, but for someone to talk to. Take your kids to a friend & go to the doctor!!! (I'm here!!)

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Toni March 12, 2012 at 1:01 pm: Lori, you are needy. Hardly surprising, really. But it doesn't make you a Bad Person.
And while lashing out isn't cool, it doesn't make you a Bad Person either.
You see the problem, you recognise it, and you want to do something about it. That makes you a Good Person who's trying not to do dopey things.
Don't be so hard on yourself. Learn to love you, girl. You ARE worth it.
And what annette said? yes. Find someone who can help you love you.

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