Monthly Archives: May 2016
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Not Speaking About Just Everything…
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Not OK.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: It’s not my fault. It’s because I have boobies.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: HeavenSent
Nature of Grief, Part Two- Daddy and The Stars. – RRSAHM
Nature of Grief, Part Two- Daddy and The Stars.
My little boy breaks my heart every day.
I love him to absolute pieces- I’ve never known anyone as completely as I know him. I know just about everything there is to know about him. He is his father in miniature. He’s my best mate, the tiny thorn in my side, and has been since the day he was born. In sharp, clear hindsight, having my son was much like losing my husband- it left me traumatized and grieved, it changed the colours and the boundaries of the world, it destroyed the person I used to be to replace her with someone new. And that regrowth took a long time.
I watch my son’s aggression levels rise and some days I wish I could peel back a few layers and see, clearly, what was happening in his head… there is a little voice telling me that he is a raging ball of anger at the moment, angry at the world, angry at his dad, angry at me.
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| Photo courtesy of FaerieSarie, who’s just had a brand new baby boy of her own- congratulations Sarie! |
The questions he asks, the questions I have to answer… no four year old should have right to them. What four year old should need to test his knowledge of death? I don’t think I even knew what ‘dead’ was at that age.
I remember being very young, but I must have been older than my son- five or six, at least. I was playing with my brother, four years younger, and a plastic bowl full of tadpoles we’d just spend the morning catching.
One was huge- a toad-pole, most likely. I remember my brother moved the big bush rock that we’d placed in the middle of our red plastic wash tub full of pond water, and somehow squashed that one massive toad-pole- toady legs just poking out from behind it’s tail membrane- underneath the rock. I remember lacy pink guts peeling out from behind the toad-poles dark skin, a red spongy clump of tissue floating semi-detached next to it.
It was dead, obviously. I vaguely remember asking my grandmother what was wrong with it, what had happened, what had my brother done? It was dead, that was all, replied my gran; it was sad but just a tadpole (toad-pole), nothing to get upset over.
And that’s the first time I remember anything being dead, looking dead, playing dead… the first time the word ‘dead’ actually had a connection to any living things.
The Chop… he’s had a different childhood, it’s that simple. He knows ‘dead’, ‘died’ and ‘killed’. He knows about dogs and cars and fast roads; about hospitals and doctors who try very, very hard; he inquires as to the approximate distance between here and heaven, the moon and Heaven, Daddy and the stars.
He wants to know the intricate details- so, daddy died at the hospital and went to heaven, but how, exactly, did he get there?
I sit, jaw slack, as he produces that complex, thought-out chain of events, with a very serious frown on his serious little face. Wow, says my mind; think quick, mummy.
The best I’ve got is something lame involving a bright white light that Daddy went towards. Which is taken on face value, mulled over, then returned to me with insight that perhaps Daddy had broken the white light and needed to change the globe?
Which is, obviously, the sign of an unsatisfactory answer.
And it’s back to the theological chalk board. I try not to feel afraid of anything, most of the time… but when I think about the millions of very difficult, complex questions I have coming over the next ten, twenty, thirty years of my son’s life.
Thirty years, and my Chop will be 34- the same age his father was, by a day, when he took his own life.
I try not to think about that too much either.
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The Not-Infected New Piercing In My Head. – RRSAHM
The Not-Infected New Piercing In My Head.
Mushi mushi,
Vlog!! Watch? In case you’re wondering, this was recorded last Wednesday (a whole six days ago- that’s almost a week!) and my piercing is fine. No infected red messiness. Or… rust, for that matter. Thanks very much, Nanna FormSpring.
Added April ’12…Hi, Googlers. If you have an infected piercing- cartlidge or otherwise- clean it three times a day, carefully and gently, with a solution of warm, filtered water and rock salt (natural, not idiosed).
If it becomes pussy, really sore, or you feel otherwise unwell- get thee to a doctor for antibiotics. Now.
A special note on tongue piercings- if you think your tongue piercing is even slightly infected, go to a doctor NOW. Infections in your tongue can be extremely dangerous.
Cartilage piercings are not particularly painful and heal very quickly. BUT- you must take very good care of them- an infection can leave a huge scar. And please be pierced professionally- cartilage can be as tough as bone. And as I said, it scars.
And on that note… happy piercing!!
Oh, and you can checks out the story behind the hot piercer dude right here. It’s vintage RRSAHM. And Part Two- Lori’s Revenge is even more satisfying.
I know, this is a lot of chit-chat for a vlog post. But, hey, not all of you watch them. For those who don’t, here’s what I’d look like if Nanna FormSpring’s (who I’m suspecting may be a good friend of Mrs Winterpepper’s) rather cynical predictions were correct.
Oh, yeah. I’m a hottie.
Edit to add- I should have mentioned this in the video- but I’ve had my tongue, bellybutton, nose and ear lobes and high cartilage pierced…
From most to least painful…
Beauty spot
Bellybutton
Upper ear
Ear lobe
Nose
Tongue
As Glow said, the tongue swelling is intense, but ibuprofen knocks that and other than that, it’s almost painless. The piercing itself is painful, but no more than an ear piercing, and the tongue heals extraordinarily quickly.
Leave a Comment
{ 21 comments… read them below or add one }
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September 5, 2011 at 7:14 pm -
I have a Marilyn too and it didn't hurt at all. Even less then giving blood. I think you're Marilyn is set to far outside, to much into your "laughing crease" (I'm not English, hope you understand what I mean by that). Maybe that's why it hurts so much. I don't think the piercer did a good job because (s)he shouldn't be piercing trough a muscle.
- January 7, 2011 at 4:36 pm
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Ouch!!…..you are one brave lady,there would be no way I would have that done,lol.
Glad it`s all healed. - January 6, 2011 at 8:40 am
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OMG!! Ouch. While it looks totally hot, I'm not doing that. I too have a belly, high ear and ears done, but that's it. The belly button one hurt to high hell. Plust two kids. No more pain threshold for me.
Good on you for doing it though. But I'm still hurting for you. xx
- January 5, 2011 at 9:38 pm
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whywhywhywhywhywhywhy?
Earlobes I'm okay with, I have two sleepers in each ear myself, but leave the pretty face alone.
As for the rest of the body, no. - January 5, 2011 at 9:11 pm
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Im not game enough to get my face pierced.
But I have my Belly, & eight piercings in my ears (which I only use 2 now. Didn't have a reaction like you for my piercings or tattoo. but tattoo hurt way way way more than piercing. - January 5, 2011 at 8:30 pm
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Awesome!
@Naomi – tongues are meant to be the least painful place to get pierced. I got mine done when I was 16 and it hurt for a second then nothing. The swelling was crap and if you bite the bar it kills but that's really rare
- January 5, 2011 at 7:06 pm
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Great vlog! Ouch on the piercing. I'm not brave enough to stick a needle in my face
I can relate on the shock though. I had my belly button pierced about ten years ago and went into shock – pale, cold sweat, passed out! I ended up taking it out because it rubbed on my martial arts uniform and kept getting infected.You do look great and the piercing looks cool!
- January 5, 2011 at 2:45 pm
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I'm too much of a sooki la la to have piercings. I did get my ears pierced when I was 16.. God that hurt!!
Your piercing looks lovely. - January 5, 2011 at 2:21 pm
- January 5, 2011 at 2:13 pm
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brave woman!!!!!!
I got one done in my nose a couple of years back, but it got so infected I had to take it out.
Yours look amazing!!
- January 5, 2011 at 12:47 pm
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That sounded soooooooooooo painful.
Looks good though.
Xx - January 5, 2011 at 10:49 am
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I love it! I really love the beauty spot piercing, but i am told it wouldn't suit me.
But hey i wanted dermals until i was stupid enough to youtube it and watch the procedure. OUCH! - January 5, 2011 at 10:45 am
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ohhhh Lori, I don't know what to say! ekkk It actually looks very nice on you, but so not my thing!
Mich x
- January 5, 2011 at 10:38 am
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Love it. I can relate to the going into shock thing. When I had my belly button done I did that… and my first tatt, while it was being done. Yeah, so cool to be a sweaty, shivery, pale person in a tatt studio! I did refrain from actually vomiting though! Second tatt was much better.
As for piercings, my belly is now a post baby wobble zone, no piercing anymore.
I love the idea of having my tongue pierced, but have seen it being done and ah, I'm far too chicken now! - January 5, 2011 at 10:03 am
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Cool Vlog! It's my first Vlog that I've watched! Yay! I think your piercing is cute! You're brave!
- January 5, 2011 at 9:17 am
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Oh no, I hate disappointing people! Next time, Jennifer, there will be a whole lot of smack talk in the credits, I promise
- January 5, 2011 at 8:44 am
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looks pretty cool but seeing as I went to my doctor and got a local so he could pierce my belly button, yeah, nah, a beauty spot piercing is not for me
- January 5, 2011 at 8:14 am
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ouch ouch ouch…looks pretty cool though (but still ouch) XXX
- January 5, 2011 at 7:52 am
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I was so disappointed that there was no random commentary at the end of the video!
I wait for that… - January 5, 2011 at 7:33 am
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OUCHHHHH! The muscle comment made me cringe haha!
Looks fab though, worth the pain : ) - January 5, 2011 at 8:55 am
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^ Tina you sissy –
Lori they should've put it a tad closer in from your smile crease so it wouldn't interfere so much but once the swellings gone it should be schweet
My sister fainted on the sidewalk after having her nose done lol
But I can understand why, I've had my nose done and it stung quite a bit.
Belly button barely hurt at all, and I did all my earrings myself (except the first pair which I had done at the chemist and got my first allergic reaction to gold)
Beauty spots are cute. You should but some bling in there once you're able to change the bar
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Random Ramblings of a SAHM: F*ck.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: The Crappest Give Away Ever!!
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: It’s not my fault. It’s because I have boobies.
Why we shouldn't send the man grocery shopping. And other hilarious ancedotes. – RRSAHM
Why we shouldn’t send the man grocery shopping. And other hilarious ancedotes.
Happy FYBF Inter-Webbers,
Welcome to the Purple House. I’ll be honest with you. Today, I was going to do a seriously funny-like post about how I am really a teenage guy stuck in a hot 28 year old SAHM’s body. Featuring my mate Cliff. That’s him there, in the long white robes.
No, wait…
That’s him, second from the left. He just looks so much like the priest that baptised the Chop, I get the them confused.
I was going to do that post. But it seems that the new ad for Mother energy drink (you know the one? With the jet powered dodgem cars and the roller coaster of fire?) is the only piece of footage in the civilised world that has not been uploaded to YouTube, and the post is pretty pointless without it. As is this one, really.
Whatever.
So, instead, I’m doing this post here. Sorry. Please direct all hate mail to You Tube. And Coca Cola. For begin stupid enough to not make their ad campaign viral.
Why We Should Not Send The Man Grocery Shopping.
Disclaimer- Firstly and foremost-ly, I must say, the most ultimate reason not to send the Man to do the groceries is that I am, as the title of the blog suggests, a Stay At Home Mum. And therefore, I should get off my lazy bum and do it for myself. Please note that this point has, in fact, been duly noted.
Reason One- 108 Matchbox cars. I kid you not. It was 99, before yesterday afternoon. The Man needs rehab on Hot Wheels.
Reason Two- Eight tubs of dip for 30 guests at the Chop’s last birthday. He ignores the sanctity of The List. And seems to think he knows better than The List that I have spent hours lovingly crafting.
Reason Three- Wheat free, gluten free, yeast free cake mix. Somebody must have called the Fun Police.
And, Forrest-style, that’s all I’m-a gonna say about that.
Leave a Comment
{ 15 comments… read them below or add one }
- April 18, 2010 at 1:49 pm
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Yeah Mich, he is. If he wasn't, that would *really* worry me rofl!!
- April 18, 2010 at 1:29 pm
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i too dread the 'hubby shop'. but if you try the gluten free cake mix, its rather delish. and is the chop allowed to play with 108 matchbox cars?
- April 16, 2010 at 11:58 pm
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My man won't let me go food shopping any more because I spend too much – he is an accountant after all – but really, I just get the things we really need. Doesn't matter if I make a list, he still leaves off the stuff I really need. Sigh.
- April 16, 2010 at 10:49 pm
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That is great! My husband has done shopping for me before- especially late in my pregnancy when carrying things home from the supermarket was getting too much.
The problem with us was miscommunication because I would write the lists in English and he would often bring home things that he thought I had meant.
Like grated cheese. He thought I meant "great" cheese and bought home expensive cheese which he deemed "great"…
Oh and once I wrote down potatoes and then (3) in brackets like that and he bought home three bags of potatoes.
UHOH!
- April 16, 2010 at 10:06 pm
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LOL…… But match box cars are cool… Believe Me!
- April 16, 2010 at 7:27 pm
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Easy to see there are no househusbands among you lot! Are we a dying breed?
- April 16, 2010 at 5:35 pm
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Hi, over from Mummy Time!
Actually, I LOVE sending my husband to the store and this is because he does all the cooking over here. This means that he has to do the shopping since I have no idea what he needs.
I can, however, be trusted to pick up bread and fruit and veggies. And Diet Coke.
- April 16, 2010 at 3:12 pm
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I sent my husband shopping just before easter. I was going to make a prawn curry for some friends of his that were visiting, one of whom i was told is vegan, but eats seafood (yeah, alarm bells should have started now). He came home with prawns and eggplant, but no curry or coconut milk. I had to hunt down an open convenience store on Good Friday. Turns out the friend was actually diabetic and couldn't eat the coconut curry anyway.
- April 16, 2010 at 12:10 pm
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Ah yes I know the feeling… why oh why don;t they ever just stick to the list???
- April 16, 2010 at 12:07 pm
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Jim only shops at Costco. Why buy a stick of butter when you can buy a tub of margarine that takes up an entire shelf of your refrigerator?
- April 16, 2010 at 11:34 am
- April 16, 2010 at 10:49 am
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Maybe i'm odd – my man and i take our bubba and do the grocery shopping …. together. On a Saturday morning. We go to our local greengrocer, then the butcher and only buy our snack stuff and laundry/bathroom stuff at a supermarket.
We make an outing of it! - April 16, 2010 at 10:28 am
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My hubby is so sweet too – he'll offer to do the grocery shopping for me, but no way! Our dinners would consist of chips and ice cream sandwiches. Then again, maybe he's incompetent on purpose to avoid being asked?? Hmmm, smart hubby.
- April 16, 2010 at 9:13 am
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rofl. must admit. have never attempted to send him unless its only ONE item. hehe.
- April 16, 2010 at 8:54 am
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I can't send EITHER man to the grocery store. They come home having spent 2x the money they should have but not carrying anything I asked them to buy.
And everything they are carrying, will add to the largeness of my rear.
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Random Ramblings of a SAHM: The Things We Do For Our Kids…
I Speak Geek. But Not Fluently – RRSAHM
I Speak Geek. But Not Fluently
H’yuh,
As you may or may not have noticed by now, depending on how much attention you have been paying (and there will be a pop quiz on this later, so look lively), I speak geek. A little bit. I know pidgin HTML. I can navigate my way around a hard drive. When the Man does things like put his dinner plate on the edge of the keyboard, then has a tanty because the browser window keeps closing, I know how to fix that. (That really happened, by the way. Seriousness.)
And I sit, here in my geeky-like throned position, feeling extraordinarily smug, because I am kinda geeky and I know stuff. OK? OK.
And then something happens that makes me realise my smugness is totally undeserved and I am, in actual fact, an idiot. Like, say, I read this blog post, that I found somewhere random on Twitter. And realise that the MSE security software I’m running is…. hmmm… maybe not so totally awesome for someone who spends as much time online as I do. Just.. maybe.
Anyway. Then I decide it’s high time to upload the free Norton 360 Version 4.0 that a lovely PR women sent me and tell you lot all about it.
Ahh. Norton. You rock so hard. What is there to say? Upload was easy. Installation was easy. I’ve backed up my entire computer, and that was easy too. And now I feel all loved and comfortable and secure an protected. If Norton was a real person, he’d have big muscular arms that held you close and made the whole world disappear…
*Sigh*
Sorry. Where was I? That’s right, Norton. The real one, not the one in my head. Norton even comes with free online back up storage for your PC. Yes, really. And a little web toolbar with a big green tick to let you know what sites are safe.
Blogger? Safe. Horny-gasbags.com? Not safe. (It’s an in-joke, OK? OK. Whatever).
Norton 3690 Version 4.0 gets a massive five out of five jellybeans on the RRSAHM-ranking-stuff-scale.
Nom nom.
Moving on. As well as Norton Anti-virus stuff, they also have a free- yes, mums and dads, free– online service called OnlineFamily.Norton. It’s a web security service for those of you with (heaven help me) children old enough to surf the web. I know, that will be my children one day. Soon. In two years, the Chop starts school. So in exactly two years and three days he will know more about computers than I do.
OnlineFamily.Norton is a downlaodable thingie that will let you see what your kids are doing online, montior their time online, and monitor what stuff they do online. Think of it as a blogger stat tracker for your kids. And we all know how much fun stat trackers are, yes? Yes, we do.
Online Family is easy to download and use, and the best bit is it’s not so much ‘spying’ on your kids, as teaching them to be safe. Kids and parents are encouraged to sit down and go through the ‘house rules’ together, and discuss what’s on and what’s not. Me likes.
As we know, some people online are unstable. Some of these unstable people are stupid but harmless, like our friend Joe. But some of them are both harmful and not so stupid, which is scary.
What are you waiting for..? Go, download!
Ahh… that’s what you were waiting for. The giveaway. OK then…. here you go. Win a copy of the smart, handsome, strong the awesome Norton 360 Version 4.0 that will cover 3 PC’s for one year, all to your very own. It’s for Windows XP or above and.. huzzah!.. this one is open to overseas jellybeans as well.
What to do, how to win? Watch this You Tube video. It’s very, very funny. It’s about Norton. It’s a finalist from the 2006 Tropfest short film festival. It’s totally worth your time. And leave a comment, telling me how cool is it. Or, leave a comment telling me what Norton would look like if he were a real live person.. Or, alternatively, leave a comment saying “Lori, you’re an idiot, give me the damn Norton.”. And that will count as an entry, too.
*Ahem* Just leave a comment, OK? Anything with some relevance will do. But please include a valid email address. Thankyouverymuch. Entries close Monday 29th November at 8pm, and I’ll email the winner and announce it here soon after.
Happy YouTube-ing! Hands off Norton, he’s all mine! Cheers to Norton-he’s here to help.
Leave a Comment
{ 9 comments… read them below or add one }
- November 27, 2010 at 1:02 pm
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I don't care if Norton looks like the guy with the clipboard in the video, I so need anti-virus software! I just had to have my netbook reblasted (again). Oh, and blogger… not so safe!
And yeah, some truly unstable people out there on the net. Ahem.
- November 25, 2010 at 10:00 pm
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I think real life Norton would look like Sheldon from the Big Bang Theory, both being geeky nerds you see.
I've had Norton on my computer since I bought it and a free upgrade would be great, would save me having to buy it next time.
I haven't watched the youtube, those things take forever to load with dial-up. I'll take your word for the hilariousness of it. - November 25, 2010 at 9:20 pm
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I think Norton would look like Brad Pit as The Doctor in oceans 11
- November 25, 2010 at 8:45 pm
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Lori, you're an idiot, give me the damn Norton
Sorry, couldn't help myself! - November 25, 2010 at 5:23 pm
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I love the clip! Very creative. Wouldn't wish any virus near me or my laptop.
- November 25, 2010 at 12:46 pm
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ok, Lori, you're a funny idiot. but seriously is there a way to crack the random selection thingy so that i win? my kaspersky is about to run out…. and i have stupid boxes that pop up all the time.
- November 25, 2010 at 11:43 am
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I'm computer literate until something goes wrong…then I call the husband at work and he talks me through the solution. Yeah, my husband outsmarts the IT assistance we have onsite at work. The husband can also take these machines apart, put them back together and they work better than they did before he started playing with all those 'inner bits'.
And for the record – my almost 2 year old knows more about computers than I do. I've been out-witted by someone who tells anyone who'll listen that they've done a poo. Awesome. - November 25, 2010 at 7:51 am
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cool as
but not sure why im not seeing this and i guess its only me as this has happened before as well :-/ 
so i cant comment as i cant see the bloomin thing f5 dont work so next time maybe cheers - November 25, 2010 at 10:53 am
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PMSL @ "like our friend Joe" …..
I showed my man how to copy and paste just recently! I didn't know but for 9 YEARS he's been manually typing addresses into the address bar. True.
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Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Possible Indicators That You Have PMS And Everyone Should Clear Out and Go To Hell
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: So… now what?
i(Still)Jealous – RRSAHM
i(Still)Jealous
Happy Monday!! And a very happy birthday to the Queen (that will only make sense to the Aussies, I’m sure).
It’s time for MummyTime‘s iHappy Monday. Last week, I defaced her button. This week, I have a new phone. Which has somewhat soothed my bitterness.
But not completely. So I’m keeping the defaced button. For another week at least.
And while we’re on the topic (sort of) I had the pleasure last night of receiving my first non-spam anonymous comment. Apparently, my pretty coral pink new phone is totally Fail. But I am hot.
Some anonymous blog hopper thinks I’m hot. ‘Scuse me while I affix my Yummy Mummy badge. That absolutely made my week. Sad but true.
I got all snappy with my new phone this week. And then I got all crafty with Picnik. I haven’t ventured far enough into the scary Samsung browser to actually upload photos from my phone to my blog yet. I’m getting there, OK? OK. Phone review coming soon too. For a NotiPhone, this gadget does some pretty cool stuff.
Enough of my waffling. Here are my Happys for this week- the usual suspects, indeed.
My happy, sunshine-y Bump-y thing. I know, I included her last week, but hey, she’s way cool. Besides, this is the first photo I took on the new phone.
Bonsai. Both the Man and I groove on them. It’s the hobby you have when you don’t have a hobby.
My bestest mate of 10 years, who we will call Jangles.
Who loves me. Like really, really loves me.
Really. (OK, this is just me being stupid with the camera features on the new phone. New camera features also make me happy)
The Man. Pulling a rather goofy looking head. Back from his three day hiatus. And, ya know, absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that good stuff.
Feel free to jump on this meme-wagon, people, even if, like me, you don’t have an iPhone. We must unite against the iPeople. What makes you all sunshine-y, lollipop-y happy-like?
Leave a Comment
{ 9 comments… read them below or add one }
- June 15, 2010 at 6:40 am
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If an anonymous person thought I was hot I'd be happy too! and I think iphone freaks are snobs. Unless I get one, then I have the right to change my opinion. Bonsais? Cool.
- June 15, 2010 at 4:40 am
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Look I just feel so damn sorry for anyone who does not have an iPhone that I am leaving a sympathy comment!
- June 14, 2010 at 11:29 pm
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Nice piccies! Bump is very cute.
Maybe I should start taking more on my phone- need to get an SD card though since almost full of Noah pics.
I would be stoked if someone stopped my blog and said I was hot too. Go you!
- June 14, 2010 at 7:34 pm
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Don't drop that betch in water like my son did. He thought it could use a drink from my dogs water dish and whoopppsieee…it's kaputzeeee.
FACK.
This post was hilarious! You are so silly but in a good way. Thanks for the laugh!! - June 14, 2010 at 3:33 pm
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Looks like you're enjoying your new phone
- June 14, 2010 at 1:40 pm
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Awesome Happys! Cool Bonsai! Picnik makes me happy too – thank you, for introducing me to it!
- June 14, 2010 at 12:41 pm
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Well, now it is my turn to be iJealous! What an amazing bonsai!
Found you through the wonderful Brenda's iHappy BTW! - June 14, 2010 at 12:37 pm
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I think there are plenty of us out there that think you are HOT!!!! Definitely a yummy mummy!
- June 14, 2010 at 11:46 am
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I'm Not A Social Worker. (From the UnFunny Files). – RRSAHM
I’m Not A Social Worker. (From the UnFunny Files).
Inspired by the enigmatic Kristin at Wanderlust, who’s brilliant prose inspires me to write the serious stuff, and who inspires a passion in me for the craft of writing that I’d long forgotten I possessed.
Once upon a time, I was destined to be a social worker.
Truth be known, had I completed my university degree, I would have ended up as one of the Useless Social Workers Of The Martyr Variety. I found the idea of the profession comforting. The general cliched philosophies of helping people reach their full potential, of building better communities and making the world a happier place; all of that chimed simply and sweetly to the sensors of my soul.
I just didn’t expect it to be so damn sad.
I had visions, as I filled out my uni applications, of myself in suit pants and a turtle neck top, becoming wisps of hair escaping from my professional yet messy bun, clipboard in hand. Patient, long suffering, friendly. Tired, yet committed. Tussling with bureaucrats, evaporating red tape, conjuring minor miracles for the low income housing department estate where I not only worked, but was loved and revered. Respected, although the emotion would be masked by apathy, by the discordant youth. Accepted, after a hard won and gritty battle of wills, by the Elders- the long term unemployed, the drinking, thinking consciousness of the estate.
Hey, I may have even pictured a few musical interludes in there, Dangerous Minds style.
Cut me some slack. I was eighteen.
Two years of study later, and I was not quite yet jaded. The civil libertarian within was prodded and stirred into a state of social anxiety by the inflammatory debates that took place during lectures and tutorials. My own social consciousness was being shaped by the viewpoints of young, carefree consumers, many of whom would never have need nor want of the services of a social worker.
I was twenty years old when I attended my first ‘work placement’- on-the-job training for potential social, community and youth workers. The cynic in me believes two things- that this is an excellent way to embellish the work force of a profession crippled by chronic underfunding; and that this was, indeed, a baptism of fire. It is no coincidence that the drop out rate amongst social work students peaks sharply directly after the first scheduled work placement.
I was in for a bit of a shock.
It wasn’t that I was particularly sheltered, because I was not. I grew up in a small town, and then moved to another town that was not quite as small as the first. At sixteen years old, I relocated to a grungey, gritty city in Sydney’s outer west. As necessity dictated, I learnt quickly. I took a job, part time hours, at a small supermarket in a notorious area. On my third shift, a guy fell over in the first aisle. There was nothing wrong with him, so to speak. It was just that he was so ‘on the nod’ from the recent sting of a needle in his arm that he could not physically stand himself upright for the next twenty minutes.
I should have had some idea of what I was getting myself into. But, naivety being a primary personality trait of mine, I did not.
For the sake of confidentiality and anonymity, I’ll continue to gloss over details. Suffice to say, I think, that I was working with an organisation who attempted to provide some sense of community for teens who otherwise had none. To provide ‘wayward trouble makers’ with mentors and role models, to teach them new skills, and to referee games and activities to do in the late afternoon. The time of day when the local adults neither knew nor cared where the kids were, and options like graffiti tagging the local shops or setting fire to council play equipment started to seem like a fine idea.
The employees of this organization did good work, really. Sometimes, just sometimes, you could see kids absorbing things, taking things in. Occasionally you would see the positive effects- a downturn in local juvenile arrest rates, an uptake in the number of kids actually attending school and staying past roll call.
More often, though, you didn’t.
More often you saw a twelve year old girl who’d been asking you how make paper flowers the week before, now asking for help scheduling an abortion. Or you’d stop to break up a fight involving a kid who you knew was on his last warning, and his clock would start ticking in your mind.Or you’d witness the full scale humiliation of a social worker by a group of thirteen year old boys who’s trust he was futilely attempting to gain.
These things, in my youth and insecurity, only served to make me angry and indignant.
It took a different kind of incident to floor me altogether.
A particular client of the organisation I worked for- we’ll call him Micheal, that is far enough removed from his real name to not be comparable. Micheal was fourteen years old, with the lanky body of a teenager but the eyes and obscene language of a man twice his age. Having just been released from juvenile detention, he was assigned an individual worker to do home visits, to reconnect him with his family and his community. Lori, the unpaid labor with the ever widening eyes and gradually diminishing values, was thrown in for the ride.
The house was a squalor. That much I was prepared for. Six children of various ages, states of cleanliness and undress tore through the lounge room, at various times laughing and screeching, contributing to the general din that was the backdrop of Micheal’s daily life. Micheal’s mother was large, warm and friendly women, who undeniably loved her children and did her best by them, with the limited financial funds and emotional reserves she had available to her.
Micheal’s’ father was a whole different kettle of fish.
There is something powerful about charismatic people, is there not? And this man was charismatic. He appeared as king of his castle, pillar of the family. He spoke loudly, with an upward infliction and a tenor pitch. It seemed impossible, viewing him from this regal perch on a rickety kitchen chair, that this family could be as discordant and shattered as it was, with this man at the helm.
It took me two or three visits before the veneer of Micheal’s father began to crack. Quite literally, to shake and slur, for the air of him to be tainted with odor of stale beer. The piles of Victoria Bitters cans I had seen, but not absorbed as important, now became a prop for this man’s confidence, the fuel behind his words of reason, optimism and regret. The blueprint of his plans for his family.
All these facts and opinions I have presented, they play as a sideshow in my head, a murky unraveled time line of events and emotions. They all lead to this point here.
We are in the small kitchen- the worker, Micheal, his mother, father and I. Micheal’s father is is monologuing, the energy and attention in the room skewed toward him and his big, booming voice. Micheal ignores him, he says. Micheal berates him. He is just a father trying to do his best by his children, his wife.
I sit, my eyes wandering, numbed and bored by his stream of words, the punctuations of importance he places on nothing at all.
It is then that my gaze locks with Micheal, standing across the room, leaning on the doorway. His face set, his mouth motionless, his eyes glazed with what I initially mistook for vapid indifference. It is only now that I face the emotion for what it is-a deep, unyielding sadness.
And he sees me, Micheal, fourteen years old and not quite yet a man. Looks right into me and sees me, as very few people ever have. He points, one finger outstretched like some kind of unripened god, to a discarded beer can laying on the bench of the kitchen (how have I not seen, when they are everywhere here, in this house…?). And without breaking my gaze, the trust he is lacing within the space between us, hi
s pointed finger shifts to his father, and he gives an almost imperceptible nod.
My heart breaks.
To this day, I am not sure why.
Maybe because I know what he is saying, without speaking a word.
That his father drinks, and has done for a long, long time, as long as he can remember. And that the words his father is crowing, the personality traits he is blithely accusing his son of, are a direct result of his father’s intimate relationship with Victoria Bitters. There are no excuses here, this man-child is not trying to dismiss the things he has done, things I really know so little about, things that have led to my being here, a young woman from an existence that is only 20 minutes away from Micheal’s, but may as well be a lifetime.
He is just letting me know. That perhaps, what his father is saying is not quite true. And he wants to make sure that I see things as they are.
Maybe that is what shattered me. The vulnerability of it. A boy, not quite yet a man, who cared what I thought, who was still young enough to believe that one woman’s individual opinion mattered, that what one person within the whole twisted game thought of him actually had any consequence at all. Young enough that he had not yet been dessicated, sucked dry by the system, despite where he had been.
I left Micheal’s house that day a different person. Older. Sadder. Stronger, maybe. Maybe not.
I left there no longing wanting to be a social worker. My dream, my vision, in tatters. It had taken one person’s lack of a dream, of a perceptible future, to show me the futility of my own.
If this were a movie, or a novel that you find in the bargain bin outside the newsagents, there would be a happy ending here. A point where I ran into Micheal, years down the track, and found him to be accomplished, successful, to have reached a place of peacefulness with himself and his world. If we were following that first dream of mine, he would even remember me, thank me, name his first born child after me.
But this isn’t a movie, this isn’t a novel. This is the submissive melancholy of everyday life.
I did see Micheal again, once more. At the supermarket where I was still working, part time, fending off shoplifters and kids opening lollies in the fifth aisle. Micheal was with his mother, her stomach swollen with another life. She purchased him a packet of cigarettes. The trolley was half full of two minute noodles and white cardboard packages of party pies, plastic bags of fry chips. Micheal and his mother, they argued as she paid for the groceries, her eyes ticking with the strain of mentally calculating this week’s grocercies against this week’s bills.
And that is all.
I’m not a social worker, and I have no desire to become one.
The implicit pain and fraught suffering of others, unquantifiable and unimaginable to me, proved too much of a blinding reality for my somewhat tender soul; too harsh for the naive and inflated faith I have in humanity.
I was far more suited to being a clown.
Leave a Comment
{ 14 comments… read them below or add one }
- June 11, 2010 at 8:19 pm
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It is a very sad day when we are young, and realise we can't save the entire world and every single person in it. That's the day we become adults.
- June 11, 2010 at 2:02 pm
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A beautiful post, Lori.
- June 1, 2010 at 3:53 pm
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What an amazing post, Lori. So beautifully written, I could picture everything and was right at your side through it all.
I guess everything happens for a reason, and seeing these things must have been a part of making you the person you are today.
- May 25, 2010 at 9:01 am
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Aww, I can't post a comment on your Disqus post if I don't enter an email address. I don't want to give out my email address. Can't sign in with a Google ID, either, and I don't have any of the other ID's.
- May 24, 2010 at 2:03 pm
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Oh Lori, you know I am not really into heavy stuff. But that one was just so beautifully written. Thanks for sharing it.xoxo
- May 24, 2010 at 10:47 am
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This was a sad story well told. I couldn't work in that line of work either. I like the happy endings like in Blind Side. I know most don't turn out that way but the few that do are the ones that give hope to those who work in social services, I would think. The few success stories would be the only thing keeping them going.
- May 24, 2010 at 10:42 am
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I liked this one from the unfunny files. A raw and honest insight. I could never be a social worker either, dealing with underfunding and beaurocracy alone would be enough to do my head in. Stories like Michaels are so sad, as it seems like there isn't much you can do to break the cycle.
Great post.
- May 24, 2010 at 7:54 am
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And you said you weren't a writer….
- May 24, 2010 at 5:30 am
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Lori, several responses to this. First, I'm thrilled that I can be your muse! I love your serious writing.
Second, I think all of us with notions of helping others begin with somewhat grandiose expectations, thinking we can turn someone's life around. However, that is a huge and often impossible task. What we can do, though, is be a moment of light in a dark existence, that they will remember and call upon for strength. I bet Michael cared what you thought because he respected you and was honored that someone, anyone, cared enough to take an interest in his well being. How rare that must have been in his life.
And unripened god, that's brilliant. I love that.
Finally, I wrote a post a while back about why I moved from the front lines of nonprofit work to the back offices. Different reasons, but some similarities:
http://www.wanderlustlust.com/2009/12/have-little-compassion-or-not.html - May 24, 2010 at 5:23 am
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This is beautiful and heartbreaking alike. My sister also found it almost unbearably sad to work as a Social Worker. She still works in the field, but not in this sort of arena. She told me it became so clear to her early on why so many SWs become bitter, cynical, jaded, broken.
I teach in a public high school. I see some of this, just not at the home end of it. In ten years of teaching, I've almost burned out three times.
It's the children like this who both nearly break me and make me want to hold on.
But I don't have to go into their homes.
- May 24, 2010 at 5:20 am
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you write so movingly about your internal journey. this read half as long as it was. deep. solid.
- May 24, 2010 at 1:38 am
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Your unfunny had me captivated. For a whole host of reasons. I am crying inside for Michael, and for the thousands of others.
xx
- May 24, 2010 at 9:40 am
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So sad. That story is so common where I come from out in the South West too.
A girlfriend of mine, fresh out of uni, got her first job running meetings at Odyessey House. She confessed to me later that no amount of study could have prepared her for that. She was counselling people she went to school with, people younger than her (at 22), people from all walks of life for ice addiction.
Having to do a job like that would just break me, I don't know how people do it.
- May 23, 2010 at 11:25 pm
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Your unfunny stuff is amazing Lori. That was a beautiful and sad read.
Previous post: Crap-tastic movie review- I Love You Too
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I'm Not A Social Worker. (From the UnFunny Files). – RRSAHM
I’m Not A Social Worker. (From the UnFunny Files).
Inspired by the enigmatic Kristin at Wanderlust, who’s brilliant prose inspires me to write the serious stuff, and who inspires a passion in me for the craft of writing that I’d long forgotten I possessed.
Once upon a time, I was destined to be a social worker.
Truth be known, had I completed my university degree, I would have ended up as one of the Useless Social Workers Of The Martyr Variety. I found the idea of the profession comforting. The general cliched philosophies of helping people reach their full potential, of building better communities and making the world a happier place; all of that chimed simply and sweetly to the sensors of my soul.
I just didn’t expect it to be so damn sad.
I had visions, as I filled out my uni applications, of myself in suit pants and a turtle neck top, becoming wisps of hair escaping from my professional yet messy bun, clipboard in hand. Patient, long suffering, friendly. Tired, yet committed. Tussling with bureaucrats, evaporating red tape, conjuring minor miracles for the low income housing department estate where I not only worked, but was loved and revered. Respected, although the emotion would be masked by apathy, by the discordant youth. Accepted, after a hard won and gritty battle of wills, by the Elders- the long term unemployed, the drinking, thinking consciousness of the estate.
Hey, I may have even pictured a few musical interludes in there, Dangerous Minds style.
Cut me some slack. I was eighteen.
Two years of study later, and I was not quite yet jaded. The civil libertarian within was prodded and stirred into a state of social anxiety by the inflammatory debates that took place during lectures and tutorials. My own social consciousness was being shaped by the viewpoints of young, carefree consumers, many of whom would never have need nor want of the services of a social worker.
I was twenty years old when I attended my first ‘work placement’- on-the-job training for potential social, community and youth workers. The cynic in me believes two things- that this is an excellent way to embellish the work force of a profession crippled by chronic underfunding; and that this was, indeed, a baptism of fire. It is no coincidence that the drop out rate amongst social work students peaks sharply directly after the first scheduled work placement.
I was in for a bit of a shock.
It wasn’t that I was particularly sheltered, because I was not. I grew up in a small town, and then moved to another town that was not quite as small as the first. At sixteen years old, I relocated to a grungey, gritty city in Sydney’s outer west. As necessity dictated, I learnt quickly. I took a job, part time hours, at a small supermarket in a notorious area. On my third shift, a guy fell over in the first aisle. There was nothing wrong with him, so to speak. It was just that he was so ‘on the nod’ from the recent sting of a needle in his arm that he could not physically stand himself upright for the next twenty minutes.
I should have had some idea of what I was getting myself into. But, naivety being a primary personality trait of mine, I did not.
For the sake of confidentiality and anonymity, I’ll continue to gloss over details. Suffice to say, I think, that I was working with an organisation who attempted to provide some sense of community for teens who otherwise had none. To provide ‘wayward trouble makers’ with mentors and role models, to teach them new skills, and to referee games and activities to do in the late afternoon. The time of day when the local adults neither knew nor cared where the kids were, and options like graffiti tagging the local shops or setting fire to council play equipment started to seem like a fine idea.
The employees of this organization did good work, really. Sometimes, just sometimes, you could see kids absorbing things, taking things in. Occasionally you would see the positive effects- a downturn in local juvenile arrest rates, an uptake in the number of kids actually attending school and staying past roll call.
More often, though, you didn’t.
More often you saw a twelve year old girl who’d been asking you how make paper flowers the week before, now asking for help scheduling an abortion. Or you’d stop to break up a fight involving a kid who you knew was on his last warning, and his clock would start ticking in your mind.Or you’d witness the full scale humiliation of a social worker by a group of thirteen year old boys who’s trust he was futilely attempting to gain.
These things, in my youth and insecurity, only served to make me angry and indignant.
It took a different kind of incident to floor me altogether.
A particular client of the organisation I worked for- we’ll call him Micheal, that is far enough removed from his real name to not be comparable. Micheal was fourteen years old, with the lanky body of a teenager but the eyes and obscene language of a man twice his age. Having just been released from juvenile detention, he was assigned an individual worker to do home visits, to reconnect him with his family and his community. Lori, the unpaid labor with the ever widening eyes and gradually diminishing values, was thrown in for the ride.
The house was a squalor. That much I was prepared for. Six children of various ages, states of cleanliness and undress tore through the lounge room, at various times laughing and screeching, contributing to the general din that was the backdrop of Micheal’s daily life. Micheal’s mother was large, warm and friendly women, who undeniably loved her children and did her best by them, with the limited financial funds and emotional reserves she had available to her.
Micheal’s’ father was a whole different kettle of fish.
There is something powerful about charismatic people, is there not? And this man was charismatic. He appeared as king of his castle, pillar of the family. He spoke loudly, with an upward infliction and a tenor pitch. It seemed impossible, viewing him from this regal perch on a rickety kitchen chair, that this family could be as discordant and shattered as it was, with this man at the helm.
It took me two or three visits before the veneer of Micheal’s father began to crack. Quite literally, to shake and slur, for the air of him to be tainted with odor of stale beer. The piles of Victoria Bitters cans I had seen, but not absorbed as important, now became a prop for this man’s confidence, the fuel behind his words of reason, optimism and regret. The blueprint of his plans for his family.
All these facts and opinions I have presented, they play as a sideshow in my head, a murky unraveled time line of events and emotions. They all lead to this point here.
We are in the small kitchen- the worker, Micheal, his mother, father and I. Micheal’s father is is monologuing, the energy and attention in the room skewed toward him and his big, booming voice. Micheal ignores him, he says. Micheal berates him. He is just a father trying to do his best by his children, his wife.
I sit, my eyes wandering, numbed and bored by his stream of words, the punctuations of importance he places on nothing at all.
It is then that my gaze locks with Micheal, standing across the room, leaning on the doorway. His face set, his mouth motionless, his eyes glazed with what I initially mistook for vapid indifference. It is only now that I face the emotion for what it is-a deep, unyielding sadness.
And he sees me, Micheal, fourteen years old and not quite yet a man. Looks right into me and sees me, as very few people ever have. He points, one finger outstretched like some kind of unripened god, to a discarded beer can laying on the bench of the kitchen (how have I not seen, when they are everywhere here, in this house…?). And without breaking my gaze, the trust he is lacing within the space between us, hi
s pointed finger shifts to his father, and he gives an almost imperceptible nod.
My heart breaks.
To this day, I am not sure why.
Maybe because I know what he is saying, without speaking a word.
That his father drinks, and has done for a long, long time, as long as he can remember. And that the words his father is crowing, the personality traits he is blithely accusing his son of, are a direct result of his father’s intimate relationship with Victoria Bitters. There are no excuses here, this man-child is not trying to dismiss the things he has done, things I really know so little about, things that have led to my being here, a young woman from an existence that is only 20 minutes away from Micheal’s, but may as well be a lifetime.
He is just letting me know. That perhaps, what his father is saying is not quite true. And he wants to make sure that I see things as they are.
Maybe that is what shattered me. The vulnerability of it. A boy, not quite yet a man, who cared what I thought, who was still young enough to believe that one woman’s individual opinion mattered, that what one person within the whole twisted game thought of him actually had any consequence at all. Young enough that he had not yet been dessicated, sucked dry by the system, despite where he had been.
I left Micheal’s house that day a different person. Older. Sadder. Stronger, maybe. Maybe not.
I left there no longing wanting to be a social worker. My dream, my vision, in tatters. It had taken one person’s lack of a dream, of a perceptible future, to show me the futility of my own.
If this were a movie, or a novel that you find in the bargain bin outside the newsagents, there would be a happy ending here. A point where I ran into Micheal, years down the track, and found him to be accomplished, successful, to have reached a place of peacefulness with himself and his world. If we were following that first dream of mine, he would even remember me, thank me, name his first born child after me.
But this isn’t a movie, this isn’t a novel. This is the submissive melancholy of everyday life.
I did see Micheal again, once more. At the supermarket where I was still working, part time, fending off shoplifters and kids opening lollies in the fifth aisle. Micheal was with his mother, her stomach swollen with another life. She purchased him a packet of cigarettes. The trolley was half full of two minute noodles and white cardboard packages of party pies, plastic bags of fry chips. Micheal and his mother, they argued as she paid for the groceries, her eyes ticking with the strain of mentally calculating this week’s grocercies against this week’s bills.
And that is all.
I’m not a social worker, and I have no desire to become one.
The implicit pain and fraught suffering of others, unquantifiable and unimaginable to me, proved too much of a blinding reality for my somewhat tender soul; too harsh for the naive and inflated faith I have in humanity.
I was far more suited to being a clown.
Leave a Comment
{ 14 comments… read them below or add one }
- June 11, 2010 at 8:19 pm
-
It is a very sad day when we are young, and realise we can't save the entire world and every single person in it. That's the day we become adults.
- June 11, 2010 at 2:02 pm
-
A beautiful post, Lori.
- June 1, 2010 at 3:53 pm
-
What an amazing post, Lori. So beautifully written, I could picture everything and was right at your side through it all.
I guess everything happens for a reason, and seeing these things must have been a part of making you the person you are today.
- May 25, 2010 at 9:01 am
-
Aww, I can't post a comment on your Disqus post if I don't enter an email address. I don't want to give out my email address. Can't sign in with a Google ID, either, and I don't have any of the other ID's.
- May 24, 2010 at 2:03 pm
-
Oh Lori, you know I am not really into heavy stuff. But that one was just so beautifully written. Thanks for sharing it.xoxo
- May 24, 2010 at 10:47 am
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This was a sad story well told. I couldn't work in that line of work either. I like the happy endings like in Blind Side. I know most don't turn out that way but the few that do are the ones that give hope to those who work in social services, I would think. The few success stories would be the only thing keeping them going.
- May 24, 2010 at 10:42 am
-
I liked this one from the unfunny files. A raw and honest insight. I could never be a social worker either, dealing with underfunding and beaurocracy alone would be enough to do my head in. Stories like Michaels are so sad, as it seems like there isn't much you can do to break the cycle.
Great post.
- May 24, 2010 at 7:54 am
-
And you said you weren't a writer….
- May 24, 2010 at 5:30 am
-
Lori, several responses to this. First, I'm thrilled that I can be your muse! I love your serious writing.
Second, I think all of us with notions of helping others begin with somewhat grandiose expectations, thinking we can turn someone's life around. However, that is a huge and often impossible task. What we can do, though, is be a moment of light in a dark existence, that they will remember and call upon for strength. I bet Michael cared what you thought because he respected you and was honored that someone, anyone, cared enough to take an interest in his well being. How rare that must have been in his life.
And unripened god, that's brilliant. I love that.
Finally, I wrote a post a while back about why I moved from the front lines of nonprofit work to the back offices. Different reasons, but some similarities:
http://www.wanderlustlust.com/2009/12/have-little-compassion-or-not.html - May 24, 2010 at 5:23 am
-
This is beautiful and heartbreaking alike. My sister also found it almost unbearably sad to work as a Social Worker. She still works in the field, but not in this sort of arena. She told me it became so clear to her early on why so many SWs become bitter, cynical, jaded, broken.
I teach in a public high school. I see some of this, just not at the home end of it. In ten years of teaching, I've almost burned out three times.
It's the children like this who both nearly break me and make me want to hold on.
But I don't have to go into their homes.
- May 24, 2010 at 5:20 am
-
you write so movingly about your internal journey. this read half as long as it was. deep. solid.
- May 24, 2010 at 1:38 am
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Your unfunny had me captivated. For a whole host of reasons. I am crying inside for Michael, and for the thousands of others.
xx
- May 24, 2010 at 9:40 am
-
So sad. That story is so common where I come from out in the South West too.
A girlfriend of mine, fresh out of uni, got her first job running meetings at Odyessey House. She confessed to me later that no amount of study could have prepared her for that. She was counselling people she went to school with, people younger than her (at 22), people from all walks of life for ice addiction.
Having to do a job like that would just break me, I don't know how people do it.
- May 23, 2010 at 11:25 pm
-
Your unfunny stuff is amazing Lori. That was a beautiful and sad read.
Previous post: Crap-tastic movie review- I Love You Too
Next post: This is a test post. With an amusing image.
Search: label/urban decay
Search: label/urban decay
You might remember that just before Christmas, my mate Auntie Mickey and I went urban exploring on the Putty Road. One of the more amazing things we discovered was The Bus, and the many rumours that swirled around the life of the lady who lived there, all alone in the strangest place.
One of my awesome readers did some research on the Bus resident and owner. A huge thank you to Mark, who wrote this post.
***
Desiree was born in England in 1925. She lost the lower part of a leg in a motorbike accident when young. Sort of unusual for a lady in England back then. Emigrated to Australia in 1953. I think she was a nurse?
She was on the electoral roll in 1963, but there is nothing after that. We don’t know what she did till the late 70′s or early 80′s when she turned up at Darkey Creek. She must have been in her sixties then. She guarded her place well. The Department of Motor Registry (DMR) workers used to know her back then, and she had some friends around the area who called in. That Austin 1800 car was hers- it was a real money pit. I would say it was burnt in one of the bushfires at some time.
I have traveled the Putty Rd for 30 years or so and there was always a light on in the night, and smoke coming from her chimney. She was proud of her garden and kept the little area well. If you looked carefully, just about every square meter is laid with black drip feed pipe. She had a pump, generator, washing machine, etc; so she was set up OK.
She had her veggie-patch and some dogs. I have been through the Putty Road when that area was alight with fire on both sides of the road. She must have fought the bushfires single handed. The DMR or the council tried to evict her for many years and she handed them their arse on a platter every time; one smart lady. I met her briefly once and she was a cranky old lady. Not to talkative at all.
When I stopped there the bus had been empty for some time. Why they tossed all her stuff out I don’t know. I think a man moved in there for a while but didn’t stay long. All the rubbish at the bus was from him as Desiree kept the place tidy. As I said, she had a lot to put up with. Truck drivers stopping to proposition her for sex. Hoons in cars firing guns over the bus at night. I know someone who called at the bus after she moved and found her diary. Her family back in the UK had been trying to trace her for a fair while. So he sent her diary over to them. I have been in touch with her niece.
When I called in the creek was dry with a stagnant pool, so it must have been tough for her sometimes. I found a damp folder amongst the stuff strewn around with x-rays from 2004 to 2008; she had some problems alright. I know in the end she stood out on the road for 3 hours with her thumb out in the hot sun trying to get a lift into town. How hard would that be for a frail 80 year-old?
Anyway, I would say she just got too ill and went into a nursing home. She was only in there for a short while till she passed away. I am going to go back to the bus soon, and if you just sit on her little cement seat for a while you can imagine how peaceful and nice it must have been. I think this sums her up nicely.
There is a lot to her obscure story and I am trying to find out about her life… one interesting lady.
{ 3 comments }
It may just be one of the saddest things I think I’ve ever seen.
I returned to The Maltings a few weeks ago now, purely for the purpose of showing it off to The Most Amazing Man In The Universe. I wasn’t expecting much to have changed at all. My mum had told me, months ago, that there had been a fire, a massive blaze. Maybe something left by squatters, something hot and combustible to pour thick black smoke into the chilly Highlands night air. And Google tells me there has been other fires since, one just ten days ago- most of the recent ones deliberately lit.
Before and after shots of the cottage at the Maltings.
The fire, the possible damage.. it was in the back of my mind somewhere. But I was thinking- what could possibly have burnt, when most of what was left was solid concrete or brick? How much could a fire have possibly taken hold, when it was all so spread out and so solid…?
I hadn’t thought about the house, the tiny cottage where I felt like I met a ghost and her very real, iPhone-carrying descendant. I hadn’t considered that possibility at all.
Which just made the discovery of the cottage, charred and blackened, even… sadder. Heavier, perhaps. A simple pensievity at the way the world eats pretty things. Sorrow enough to suck the breath from my lungs in a sharp, shocked sigh.
Seeing the iron roof curved upwards and twisted, the inside walls blackened to thick carbon… it hurt like witnessing the death of a wild thing.
Because it’s gone… all gone. Not the structure– houses built over a hundred years ago were built tough, their frames made to withstand freezing winters and blistering summer suns, a fortress to keep a family safe. The outer walls, parts of the roof…they remain.
It’s all those beautiful things within that are gone. Solid wooden floors are covered with inches of soot and charcoal and, as The Most Amazing Man In The Universe points out, probably asbestos, too- by the time I return to take photos there is red and yellow hazard tape stretched across what’s left of the cyclone fence, which I willfully ignore.
Carved cornices and solid baseboards are burnt and scorched, missing completely in most places. Wallpaper has been torn or vaporized. The tiny, warm master bedroom is just a shell of itself. The benches built into the back sun-room are covered in soot too black and thick and hazardous to bother poking through.
What is left of solid wood floors and beautiful wallpaper.
And– perhaps worst of all– what was left still mostly-intact kitchen is now an acrid-smelling black hole who’s roof yaws inward and peers down dangerously, who’s floors are covered in shattered glass and that same thick coating of charred wood. The frame of the tiny kitchen nook remains, twisted and overturned. I find the tabletop outside the kitchen window, unburnt but broken and useless. And the small green stove is broken and bent, damaged by fire and smoke and high pressure jets of water.
On seeing that, I think I might just cry, and I’m so thankful The Most Amazing Man In The Universe doesn’t laugh at me, doesn’t seem to think it’s strange that I find this distressing. I can’t even explain it… it’s one of those things that are just sad. The knowledge that this house was here, it was intact and real and breathtaking in the simple richness of it.
And what’s become of the kitchen and stove.
And now, all that is gone. And part of the story the building tells is gone, too. It feeds my fascination in the most basic manner- I always want to know how structures degrade like that, the humanity that they once held all but forgotten.
Gradually, almost every time I go exploring, I witness a different different phase in the process of life gradually rotting away. From active, to deserted. From bustling to stopped still in time.
From a wallpapered house, still with a mark on its floors where a carpet runner sat for years and years… to a burnt, ugly, corroded shell, the best of it eaten by fire.
There’s a certain bizarre pride in having seen it, written it down, before that happened.
But there’s a certain heavy sadness in it, too.
More photos on Flickr…
{ 8 comments }
”You never know what you’ll find on the Putty Road.”
I know, I keep saying that… but really, that’s what lies at the truth of the matter. Mention that you’re driving up there, tell a story of some odd sight you’ve seen amongst the winding roads, tiny creeks and sandstone caves; and I can almost guarantee you that someone will chime into the conversation with that very sentiment– “You never know what you’ll find on the Putty Road.” Which will be accompanied, probably, with a small bemused smile and a slight shake of their head. This long, lonesome drive was the route we built our Brilliant Road Trip around.
There is just over one hundred kilometers of the main stretch of road, no mobile phone reception, no service stations. Houses are very few and far between– the numbers on letter boxes seem to jump from 340 to 8769 with alarming lengths of isolation between them. The Grey Gum Cafe (last food for 66 km’s, or so the sign says) boasts not only air conditioning that barely tempers the 35 degree heat, (and I say a small prayer of thanks for the air efficient iciness) but also wifi. Which apparently hasn’t been working for a week or so now. And I find myself thinking “How do you live up here…?”
At the same time, I get it. The air is crisp and clean, the sky seems to stretch for miles. Craggy bush rock cliffs are dotted with precariously perched gum trees clinging to sandy soil with an astonishing persistence. The rocky cliffs are pocked with caves, large and small. One huge cliff we cruise past sports dozens of them, room for a bustling community of hidden rock people, and I, so briefly I barely realize it, wish my son years older so stopping the car and facing uncharted bushland on a trek to find a network of natural caves was yet another bizarre activity his mum could strong arm him into. Low topography and lush greenery provide visual markers for the veins and rivulets that make up the Wollemi’s knotted river system; and we pass over rickety bridges with signage that announce the names of tiny creeks, only to be unable to see any water– just a deep, green crevice that winds and swirls back across paddocks or bends out of sight behind lichen–coated canyons. (The infamous Wollemi pine was, they say, discovered quite by chance by someone who happened to be… canyoning. The bravery)
The thing about the Putty Road is, it takes you completely by surprise every few kilometers. While you’re still marveling over the last oddity– an overgrown, abandoned junkyard,perhaps, or the vibrant Batman symbol painted on corrugated iron and attached to tree on a bend in the road, not a driveway or property to be seen nearby– you’ll suddenly spot something else by the roadside, a licker of oddity at one hundred clicks. The remains of a an ancient house, only the chimneys and foundations surviving; a face painted onto a tree; a set of massive brick and stained glass gates adorned with pristine white crucifixes and flanked by acres of manicured lawn.
Auntie Mickey pulls the Elantra over as we spot, a few hundred metres ahead, what seems to be a whole abandoned village, there are so many buildings set at varying depths back from the road, but too clustered together to have been even the smallest of towns. One of my BookFace likers suggested that perhaps it was abandoned camp, and the first two or three buildings– those closest to the road– do look like dormitories, rectangular and squat with rows of doors on one side. One structure seems to have been, maybe, a store at some point in the past, a tiny one like the Grey Gum, with ice creams and milkshakes and friendly staff who know all the truck drivers and tradies that take this road on a regular basis.
But the further in I venture, through knee high bracken fern spring from sandy, gritty soil (snakes… it’s so hot today, and my God I hate snakes with a seething, slinking disgust), the more out of sync the ruins become. A tiny house, a low lying shed. A car with its paint still intact, but huge clumps of moss growing from the windows rotted rubber seals. A rusted out bus– not the one we’ve set out looking for– is flanked by occasional piles of metal oddments rusted a deep ocher red, stark contrasts to the oceanic fields of short, scratchy green ferns. Beyond the bus, over a rise, is what appears to be a bunker, next to rusted out water tank on creaky, rotting wooden stilts. There’s another tiny cottage, and this one seems older again, a small verandah off it’s one room, climbing ivy threaded through the unboarded window. Leading past the tiny house (someone’s first home, quite possibly, the home someone’s first baby was bought into the world in) is a corridor through the scrub and pitted piles of metal debris. It leads to a graveyard, an elephant ceremony full of rust–ridden, disintegrating cars. Every make and model, vans and sedans and old steel cruisers in varying faded shades of original paint, only the tiniest sparkling tinkles of chrome left among them.
Returning to the car and looking back into this deserted camp–place, everything appears green– the moss and lichens and moulds coating the walls of each building are almost the same murky color of pond water brimming with tadpoles as the bushland that’s slowly eating them. It’s as if the entire place is trying to camouflage itself, to disappear back into the foothills of the Yengo National Park that it’s set in.
There’s a payphone close to the road, next to the car with my sleeping child inside. Taped to the payphone’s perspex outer wall it is a hand written missing persons poster, with a photo of a man about the same age as me. Last seem a few weeks ago, somewhere on the Putty Road.
“He’s not missing,” says Auntie Mickey, and I know her well enough to know she’s only half joking, “he’s somewhere in there.” She nods towards to the maze of overgrown life I’ve just returned from, and I shiver involuntarily. She may just have a point.
Back to the car.
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| The Wo-Man. |
It’s maybe another twenty minutes of driving before we turn a corner and, entirely unannounced, a massive, ,gleaming silver sculpture comes into view. “Oh wooooowwwwwww…..” breathes the Chop from his backseat view, just woken up and totally entranced by this completely bizarre spectacle, exactly the way I hoped he would be. This is the relatively new pinnacle of the Putty Road drive– the burnt out Halway RoadHouse, now home to the Wo–Man. And the rather eccentric bloke named Dave who built the steel him. Her. It. Whatever.
The HalfWay RoadHouse was, only ten years ago, the only petrol station on the Putty Road and– oddly enough for a structure that houses litres upon litres of fuel beneath it– the skeletons of not only the roadhouse but even the bowsers remain. The front facade of the building and the covered petrol filling area remain, as do most of the interior walls. But the roof is entirely missing, and the edges of everything that does remain are charred and blackened, one large room missing almost it’s entire wooden floor.
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| The RoadHouse, from the inside, with the Wo-Man in the background. |
Not that Dave seems to mind. He bought this place two years ago, he tells us, and is gradually, slowly fixing it up as he goes. For now, he mans a small shelter tucked into the side of the roadhouse. He’s got an Esky full of cold drinks for a dollar a pop. And he sells sausage sandwiches and bacon and egg rolls that he cooks, as you watch, on the barbecue he has welded himself from scrap metals. The barbecue has a horse head for a chimney.
There’s more metal creatures and sculptures dotting the picnic grounds next to Dave’s barbecue and the ghost of the roadhouse– a massive spider, twin Futurama Benders, a family of emus with a plaque that reads ’emulation’. Beyond the picnic ground is a huge field that Dave tells us is filled with roos on dusk. He also points out his house, a tiny one room shanty shed. And his boat– a massive, sixty foot sail boat dry docked at the top of a mountain, behind a burnt down building.
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| ‘Emulation.‘ |
We chat and take photos and Chop examines an exquisitely crafted metal hand and a troop of squat, welded Ned Kelly’s, their bellies and helmets made from cut down LPG tanks. As we’re leaving– really, once you’ve taken in the brilliance of a fifty wo–man gleaming silver in the afternoon sunshine, there’s not much to do here but relax and shoot the breeze–Dave hugs us goodbye and reminds us to pass the word on, to tell people about his metal artwork and his business atop the Putty Road. “And, if you know any ladies who’d fancy coming to live out here… let them know, too”. And with that sentence I get a funny pang. It’s the first time the dusky, ethereal, weirdly romantic cataract is removed from my mind’s eye since our car pulled to a stop here. The whole place suddenly seems just a bit lonely, like clouds coming over to chill a warm summer’s day. It tugs at me, desolate and sad.
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| The Chop in Dave’s backyard, with the giant sail boat behind him. |
Before we hit the road again, I make inquiries of Dave regarding this bus, the one I know is down here somewhere. The one were looking for, an urbexing holy grail road tripping. Dave, with the knowledge of a local who enjoys a chat, gives us directions that are accurate almost to the metre. A woman lived there, he tells me, Up until just a few years ago. She had a life set up in that stationery bus, a virtual paradise by a tiny creek. She was ninety four years old when she passed away, and they found her body in the creek that runs just metres from the vehicle in which she lived. The bus has sat there, unclaimed, on what is, I suppose, essentially unowned land, ever since. I’d spotted it, just a flicker of it, as a pillion passenger on the Black Dog Ride… I think. But the bus I remember seeing was pale yellow, not blue like this, and it was parked much closer to the road. Maybe it was a different bus, broken down by a different creek and towed out of the gully by now, six months on from the last time I came through here. Or maybe human memory is just a funny monkey thing, substituting images from it’s stock footage to fill gaps in the internal sequence.
We would have missed this bus entirely, passed by without even knowing it was it was there, especially travelling North as we were. After doing a quick u–turn the mammoth, unmoving was easier to spot… but still barely more than a flash of blue and white in the greenery as you passed by.
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| The bus. |
This bus been vandalized, this funny, almost cheerful vehicle secluded in place where no one lives now on this land that no one really owns. The contents and furnishings of the bus, left behind when their owner died, have been spread across the grassy plateau behind where the bus sits. The ground seems it drop away in levels– the first the road. Parked on the second step down is the bus itself and what was once the small, and seemingly w
ell tended, courtyard that framed it’s two doorways. Another drop in levels, a steeper and higher slide down across damp soil rooted with low–growing foliage and the occasional biting stinging nettle– all three of us cop sharp, sudden burning lashes on our ankles (”Why do they sting?!” Asks my little man through his tears, “Because, honey, it’s to protect themselves. So animals won’t eat them.” “But we weren’t going to eat them!!” “The nettles didn’t know that, baby…”)– and you find yourself at a creek, a trickle of clear water to the left that gathers into a tiny, crystal millpool on the right. I can’t help but wonder where they found her, the lady who was here, and exactly what she would think of her possessions, scattered and scorched and laying about on the ground, with the lush cold climate growth slowly gathering them as its own. I wonder, too, what happened to the dog she must have kept as a pet, the animal who’s dish and bowl still sit on the edge of the vandal’s leftovers. I do hope someone took him home with them.
It’s almost always fascinating, seeing what’s left of something’s life that stopped, one way or another, not long ago. The bus is gutted. It’s traditional fittings– seats, steering wheel and so forth– were, I suspect, pulled out by it’s rightful owner before she installed her own creature comforts, the ones that now lay abused and disrecpted over what once was her space, her tiny garden. We spot a mattress, a microwave, a chest of drawers, glass bottles, a radio. The remains of a small portable pool, mostly stil intact but the walls sagging sadly inward– it still has a hose running into it, and it’s only later, after we’ve driven away, that it occurs to me that we didn’t look to where exactly the other end of the hose was connected– surely, there was no running water to this makeshift caravan in the middle of nowhere…?
Looking back at the bus from a distance, my imagination fills in the blanks, sorts the visual clues, to spot where a veggie patch once resided– a metal trellis for climbing beans and snow peas still exists, suspended between the trunks of two close together gum trees. And the bus itself was a permanent fixture here– it wasn’t intended to be moved, it seems for quite a while. There’s a concrete step at the front door, it’s formation also, oddly, still intact. The back door also features a concrete step, but not so conventionally made– this step is not molded carefully like its fraternal twin. This step simply three bags of concrete mix stacked atop each other. They’ve been here so long, exposed to so many freezing Hunter winters and so much run–off from torrential rain pour being pulled down toward the creek, that they’ve solidified completely, still in their original bagged shape.
There’s even a car here, in this unofficial allotment, parked a little while up from the bus, on a concrete slab to prevent it becoming bogged in the same heavy wash–off rains that sent the concrete solid. Nothing it a rusted out body atop a chassis remains. It’s obviously been parked here much longer than the bus. I stare at it, entranced, realising there is a set of rusted number plates still attached.
I try to imagine a woman, ninety four years of age living here, tucked away next to a creek on the border of a national park. No phone, to connection to the outside world. A pool and a creek and a dog and a veggie patch. A little slice of earthly heaven that must have cost her just cents a day to keep functional. There’s nothing eerie or creep about the vibe here– she was, by the feel of it, a very happy woman, who lived out the last years of her life in chosen, contented isolation.
We hop back in the Elantra, even the Chop (blessedly) silent for a little as we continue our cruise along the Putty Road. This isn’t the last time I’m going to be doing this drive, I’m sure of that… I know that before we even turn off onto the New England Highway. There are so many more places to explore here. I’m to even sure why, but this road is a very strange place. It’s got so many secrets to be found.
And here’s our super cool, completed road trip map…
View Lori @ RRSAHM #BrilliantRoadTrip in a larger map
***
For those who happened to be following the adventures of Bob the #BrilliantRoadTripBear on Instagram and wondered how he’s coping, being back home… he’s not, really.
Bob was last seen at a payphone close to the start of the F3. It appears he really, really liked Scone, or the Putty Road or… something.
Any information on his whereabouts much appreciated. There’s no telling where he’ll show up next.
{ 5 comments }
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: RUOK- Part Two.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: So Damn Cool I Need My Own Soundtrack.
Auntie Mickey
Auntie Mickey
Howdy ‘do,
I’d like to introduce you all to someone. Meet Auntie Mickey.
I’ll give you three guesses why we call her that.
Did you get it? She’s got a bit of a thing for Mickey Mouse, which has most definitely been passed onto the Chop.
She’s the Chop’s God-mum, and she’ll be the Bump’s God-mum too, when we get around to getting her baptised. All in good time.
In my Adult Life, Auntie Mickey’s name is Kimmy Ann, and she is my best mate. We met nine years ago when we were both learning Auslan at TAFE.
She was my bridesmaid. And she looked so beautiful. (This is where I won’t mention how she drunk two bottles of champagne before we even left for the ceremony).
She’s laughed with me, cried with me, signed with me. She was there with me when the Chop was born. And one day, I’m sure, we will go into business together and make at least one of our dreams a reality- either the customised pizza shop at Airlie Beach, or the mobile customised pie cart where you choose your own pie filling. Maybe even the Auslan puppet show for primary schools.
Or maybe not.
I’m very lucky to have a friend like you Kimmy. And all I’ve got to say to you is this.
Leave a Comment
{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
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April 12, 2010 at 1:00 am -
Awwwwww….. so cute!!!!
I can't believe she likes Mickey Mouse so much…. and i loved all the pictures here Lori….
And you lucky lady!!!
Rock!
- April 10, 2010 at 5:10 pm
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That's so lovely!
Previous post: Why I’m Afraid of The Big Blue Twitter Bird
Next post: The Photo Meme of Mystery
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Food on the Un-Foodie Blog.
The View On Religion, From The After- Part Two – RRSAHM
The View On Religion, From The After- Part Two
This is Part Two. In case you missed it, Part One is here.
I get the feeling this one might be a disappointment and an anti-climax for some people. I apoligise. But this is truth, and truth is fluid. I’ll keep you updated.
***
To be honest, I’m really not sure about God anymore. And I’m unsure about being unsure.
If that makes no sense, go back and read this post. I firmly believed in a Something, but not in any organised religion.
I’m not even sure if I believe in a Something anymore.
While Tony was in the ICU, I prayed. I had hundreds, thousands of people praying for me and for Tony, through my blog and Twitter. I visited the hospital chapel every day, gave myself to God and Jesus, sobbed and begged and thought I felt some divine strength within me.
As I said, I’m far too angry to give any higher power credit for that strength. That was me. I was alone. If God exists, I shouldn’t have had to look so hard for him. If I was prepared to give up, give in to him…. why couldn’t he do the same for me?
It’s difficult, when you have little faith to begin with, to maintain it, when such desperate prayers go unanswered.
I remember, the day after Tony died, there was a hashtag trending on Twitter- #Godmakesnomistakes- in hindsight, it was probably something Gaga. But I can’t describe how angry I felt, how cheated I felt, glancing at thousands of Tweets, proclaiming that sentiment. God had just made a fucking huge mistake. And I was the one paying for it.
These days, God and I… we’re not on very good terms. If he exists at all-which is, in my mind, very, very much in doubt- he is laughing at me. Fucking with me.
I asked for strength, if that was all he could give me. And I got it. But that still feels like a cheat, when he could have given me so much more.
I always believed God was inherently kind.
Now, I’m not nearly so sure.
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{ 33 comments… read them below or add one }
- September 6, 2011 at 9:24 pm
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Lori,
One of the things that moved me so, so much was when you asked for a priest to come and perform the last rites for your beloved. I believe with all my heart that God connected with Tony, at that place and time. I believe that you were divinely led to do that.
I believe that your pain and your journey towards healing is going to bring healing to many people not just in Australia, but all over the world. I believe that you will be an agent of change to speak out against suicide and the pain that is caused to those left behind. I believe that your story is going to bring hope, strength and courage to many. Yes, like someone wrote earlier, "beauty for ashes".
I live in a far away place in the Northeastern part of India, in a place called Nagaland. Your life has touched my heart more than you ever know. I have in the past, struggled with depression and suicidal thoughts; struggled with my faith and my own relationship with God – being unable to accept His unconditional love for me. Reading your blog has spoken to me so much, especially about how it can devastate the loved ones you leave behind. Thank you for your courage.
I found your blog yesterday, through the article on smh.com.au. And ever since then, I have been holding you and your kids in my heart and my prayers, especially you little boy. I too, have a 3 year old son, and so, to think of what your little one is going through, just breaks my heart. And last night as I tucked my little one into bed last night with a prayer, I also whispered a prayer to God for your little boy, that God would hold him and comfort him. I will continue to do so.
You are an inspiration. It saddened me to read that some people have turned against you for writing about Tony the way you did. To me, you have treated his memory with the most love and dignity, while speaking the truth about his death. I wish many more would speak out. Only then, can we start living.
Keep holding on. My thought and prayers will be with you.
Love and blessings.
- September 6, 2011 at 8:59 am
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From what I have seen, felt and heard as a man in my 57 years on earth, all our trials of strength could be eased by listening to the voices of women. You are far more sensitive, loving and supportive, and far less judgemental than we are. My heart aches for you and your children. If there is any spirit of any divine presence whatsoever in the world, it burns in the souls of all the women of the world.
- September 4, 2011 at 4:25 pm
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P.S.: I wasn't disappointed. I completely understand. I've been there too.
- September 4, 2011 at 4:23 pm
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Lori, I'm praying for you.
I wish I had some words of comfort to share with you, but I'm at a loss. What I can tell you is that the reason bad things happen to good people is because we live in a world where evil is the standard.
Happy Child Guide said " He has a plan. He loves you and He will continue helping you through this and all things…" Happy Child Guide is correct.
- September 1, 2011 at 2:19 pm
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Just after Tony died, I wrote a post for you.
Here's what I believe.
I do believe in God. That doesn't mean I understand WHY some things happen, or don't happen. At the time, after everyone prayed for a miracle for Tony, I chose to believe (and still believe) that even tho the miracle to keep Tony alive didn't occur, perhaps the miracle was that he opened his eyes that last time, and you were able to speak to him? I hope it doesn't upset you for me to write that, but that's how I see it.
God gave us free will. Which obviously means, we can make decisions for ourselves. Just like Tony did that terrible day in January. Perhaps God can't reverse certain situations, but he can give us something to let us know he's still there? ie, Tony waking up
In the post I wrote for you, I wrote about the poem Footsteps. These lines from the poem, I think expresses what I'm trying to say:
"LORD, you said that once I decided to follow you, you'd walk with me all the way.
But I have noticed that during the most troublesome times in my life, there is only one set of footprints.
I don't understand why when I needed you most you would leave me."The LORD replied:
"My son, my precious child, I love you and I would never leave you.
During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints,
it was then that I carried you."xxxxx
- September 1, 2011 at 8:46 am
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I try to think of God as "universal", not a deity or a being. I was taught Catholic scriptures, I received my First Holy Communion etc, but I drifted away from the church due to its hellfire & damnation attitude and its stance on homosexuality. If we were all made "in God's own image", then that includes homosexuals too.
I'm still trying to find my own definition of God and what role s/he plays.
- September 1, 2011 at 8:10 am
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not having prayers answered is the hardest thing of all to align to faith. I have prayed for one thing over and over and over and it never happens and my faith often wobbles. I do think that questioning faith is good and right and if you come out with any at the end of the wobbles and the questions then it is sat on more solid ground. The good thing about faith is that if you choose to go back to it, it's ok, you can and it doesn't matter if the doubt lasted for a longtime, it'll still be there waiting if you want it. If you don't, that's ok too xx I take a lot of comfort from the parts of the bible that comfort me but I think there is a lot of nonsense wrapped up in religon and a lot of people keen to force it down your throat. Feel your own way, your own journey, your own understanding. xxx
- September 1, 2011 at 6:24 am
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Why is your husband's choice to die God's fault? God's people are given free will. We can do whatever we want to harm ourselves or others. God wants us to CHOOSE Him and that is not possible if He makes the choice for us.
God was with you in that chapel and God was your strength. However, He doesn't need to take credit but I know it was him.
I think if you went to bible studies or even read the bible yourself you would see His wisdom and you would think differently.
Your two part blog about religion/God remind me of a child that doesn't know any better. That makes me sad that you don't know God enough to know He cries for you every second of your life because of the pain you feel.
God bless you and I hope you one day see what I see.
- August 31, 2011 at 8:57 pm
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Oh Lori, I feel just the same way. I wish I could say something different – butI just can't reconcile a kind, loving God with my own life experiences and the experiences of those I know and love.
In my darkest times – when I prayed desperately, I just felt nothing – and the sad answer to my prayers was "No" It's nice to know I'm not alone – I sort of felt like a failure because I couldn't keep my faith in the face of my losses. - August 31, 2011 at 5:17 pm
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We can depend on ourselves and our own abilities to get us thru life. When we screw it up, we can take corrective action to make it right.
Be your own advocate; study hard and make good decisions for you and the kids.
- August 31, 2011 at 4:14 pm
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I think that faith is whatever gets you through. It's not necessarily about there being a God, it's not necessarily about there not being a god. It's just about whatever gets you through.
So much of religion and faith and how it is perceived comes down to individuals and how they behave, and unfortunately, what they preach. Everything is open to interpretation, and unfortunately some people interpret rigidity, inflexibility, judgement and certain "morals" as faith. They're welcome to that, but I can't imagine it being much comfort to many in your situation.
Lori, I hope that you find your faith, whether it be in God, or just in life itself, and I hope it helps you through.
- August 31, 2011 at 10:01 am
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This is hard… I don't want to be one of those "God has a plan people" because it doesn't feel right to me… I don't know that plan is the way to go about things. maybe some people get the "plan" or it gives them hope so i can accept that.
The one thing I did hear though that helped me at one time when I was in a living hell was "God cried along with you…" I pictured God having given us all a free will… letting his children be (as a parent I can grasp that concept… kills me emotionally sometimes to watch my kids "learn"… i'm the mother of older children so I get it)… that helped. I can't tell you how that helped. Tony was his kid. He had to let that go as a parent. Life wasn't created to be miserable… we all get wrapped up in misery and some don't survive it. I do believe in God… I feel compassion and love coming from all around when I'm open to God/Higher Power but I often wonder WTF was that all about? It's fluid as you said. Unfortunatly some Pious assholes who preach "god or God" are very misleading.
I was not disappointed in what you said because your honestly points out that you are living the truth and striving to find a deeper meaning to life as it is now even when it hurts badly and that's wonderful!
- August 31, 2011 at 1:07 am
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Lori,
I think uncertainty is a natural and healthy reaction to what you have been through.
Personally, I do believe in a higher power…I don't think that this power takes an active role in our lives and has control, I think we do.
The experience that you had with those ladies in the chapel that was real.
One day again I hope you experience the kindness of the universe…but I can understand how you feel that God is mocking you and making fun of you.
I wish you strength Lori.
Love,
Trisha - August 30, 2011 at 11:35 pm
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The whole "God has a plan" thing is the reason I'm not a Christian. People tell me that all the time, about my own abuse, about my children's abuse, their adoption. That God planned for them to be with me. So wait. He let them be abused, put into foster care etc, as part of a big plan? Why didn't he just give me them in the first place? Why put us through all that? If that was his plan, I think it sucked. That all being said, I wish I did believe sometimes. I am sure it would bring me some peace.
- August 30, 2011 at 8:49 pm
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Our views on religion are similar… IF God exists, I am very very angry with him/her – with good reason IMO.
Shortly after my baby daughter's massive head trauma a relative gave me a book called "When God is Silent"…
I look forward to burning it one day. The book I need would be entitled: When God is an asshole.
- August 30, 2011 at 8:16 pm
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You don't need god to be strong x
- August 30, 2011 at 7:42 pm
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I dont just believe in God, but I believe in the power of human choice, and that not only does God give that, but He respects it. I think that there are sometimes God can't do anything, because we have chosen not to let Him.
I'd disagree with you in your strength. I think that was God. I think He was there with you in your pain, and your trial, I totally believes He stands with you now, and I know that He is watching over you and your little ones every moment of every day. Sometimes we struggle to see God, but He is evidenced in everything around us, and particularly in the beautiful innocence of our babies.
This was not part of God's plan. Death is never part of God's plan. I would slap the Christians who tell you that, cause they have never read their Bible. This was something that happened because it happened. But the difference is that God can make beauty from Ashes.
Spring is coming Lori.Big hugs xxx
- August 30, 2011 at 4:51 pm
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I've always been the same, I believe in something – just not sure what it is, and definitely not organised religion. And although I think if I was in your shoes I'd feel pretty much the same way too – I always thought that the concept of prayer was not that it changes God or God's plan but it changes you.
I don't know. I lost my faith once. And it was like a death. You never really get it back. Because there's nothing concrete about it. It's like falling in love, it just is. It's just there with no rhyme or reason. And maybe when you lose it, it's gone forever.
- August 30, 2011 at 2:45 pm
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All I can say is ditto. You have far more eloquently than I ever could explained my feelings towards a greater power. I'm at 13 years since my daughter died and it hasn't changed. I screamed, begged, pleaded gave it all to God, but found any idea of an organised religion to be sadly lacking. I could never believe that a tiny baby suffering so much could ever be part of a "God's" plan. I also hate "everything happens for a reason", it doesn't, shit just happens. There is NEVER a reason good enough to put a little baby through that.
Hugs Lori
- August 30, 2011 at 2:29 pm
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I just don't talk about God with the kids. I don't want them thinking they can defer decisions to an 'idea', or ascribe blame (which my son has already done twice, based on some half-cocked explanations from my mum) for their actions. Everything they need is IN them, and I can help them discover their survival and thriving tools. God is a hook some people like to hang their coat on.
You are bigger than prescriptive ideas of being 'looked after' by a grand plan, and all-seeing male definer and architect of your life. We all are. Some of us just realise it and grasp the freedom of that realisation.
xxx - August 30, 2011 at 2:18 pm
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Yes, I've been here too. I don't think God is in any kind of control… and that kind of makes him pointless… And if he is in control, he's a prick.
I told doorknocking Jehovahs once that if I were going to find God, I'd have done so in that first full year of grief. Didn't happen.
Whether he exists or not, in many ways he feels irellevant. I WISH I had the kind of faith to find meaning in all of this, but it's just not there.
Much love to you Lori. Grief is about being honest about everything, even if that makes other people uncomfortable.
x
- August 30, 2011 at 2:17 pm
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God is fictional. People believe in him because they're scared not to – but desperately wanting a thing to be true does not make it so. It is possible to know this and still find joy in the world though… wishing you all the best.
- August 30, 2011 at 12:34 pm
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Love you xx
- August 30, 2011 at 12:08 pm
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I can understand why you feel that way, Lori. You're certainly entitled to go through those feelings.
My beliefs are irrelevant here. All that matters is you. I hope one day that you feel differently. But not becuase I want to 'convert' you (not that I ever discuss my religious beliefs online anyway), but because I wish comfort from you, from ANY source.
My love to you, as always.
- August 30, 2011 at 9:56 pm
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I love, love, LOVE your honesty as always, Lori. I can definitely understand why you've taken the position you have, as I've done it myself. All the best, as ever.
- August 30, 2011 at 10:55 am
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I don't believe in all the plan crap. I do believe in God, but I don't think God is actively involved in the world. At all. We just run according to what got set in motion and our own free will. Which is either more comforting or not any comfort at all depending on the day. God must be off making a new world some where, I guess.
- August 30, 2011 at 10:00 am
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Lori, with different experiences in my life (depression, child abuse, neglect, abandonment) – although these things still happened to me and I wondered how God could let me go through these things – once I listened with peace – I could see how He never left me. There are humanistic, worldly choices that we make as people that God allows us to take, to do. There are real consequences for actions, He is always there as hard as it is for us to believe and feel. The thing I have learnt is that the world's natural realm is alongside the spiritual realm – fine lines, thin threads – something I find hard to fathom. Probably not much help – just my thoughts xx Rach
- August 30, 2011 at 9:28 am
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You've verbalised the gap between religion and god (or whoever). The cathoholics (intentional mispelling) are so good at being hyprocritical and judgemental. They are not God (or whoever). I believe when I am happy or raw. Hymns always make me cry. BUT without that thing they call faith, how could you believe at the moment? Thanks for the honesty (again).
- August 30, 2011 at 3:05 pm
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- August 30, 2011 at 11:15 am
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Lori, this is something I still battle with.
I do believe in God, but I don't think all the platitudes people trot out are right.
'God has a Plan' or 'He won't give you anything you can't bear' — crap. I think they're just things people say to make themselves feel better.I think a lot of stuff just happens and there's no rhyme or reason to it.
Looking for reasons is one of the things we do when something tragic happens, and it's beyond frustrating when we can't find any purpose to it all. Anger is a normal reaction to that, and it's something that you'll work through.
Blaming God, or a Higher Power, is another perfectly normal thing to do, and it's also a healing thing to work through. Faith is a journey, and sometimes it's one where you need to take a break at the side of the road.
- August 30, 2011 at 9:56 am
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God doesn't exist. I figured that one out a while ago after having to walk through my own fire. Coming to that decision brought me a whole lot of peace.
- August 30, 2011 at 9:32 am
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Lori I know what you mean. I always thought there was "something" there. Never having been a church goer didn't mean I didn't have some belief of a sort. That was until I lost my firstborn son to a heart defect. If there was a God how on earth could He take my baby at just 10 days old, that isn't right or fair. Since then I haven't believed in anything. People told me "These things happen for a reason"…..well 17 years later, I'm still looking for that reason. I know it sure as hell didn't make me a stronger person, just a more scared person I think.
- August 30, 2011 at 9:21 am
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Even though it feels like feels like a hideously bad one to you right now, He has a plan. He loves you and He will continue helping you through this and all things, always. *hugs*
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You are giving him the best answers you can dont ever doubt it. They are such inquisitive little things xx
This a tough one! Having not been in your situation I really dont know what I would tell my 4 yo daughter. I understand your sadness and frustration with not knowing how to answer him with anything other than vague things. In my opinion I think it is best to be vague until you just cant anymore b/c it is such an ugly thing to tell him about his daddy. Even though its the hard truth. Maybe come up with a an answer like daddy got sick and the doctors couldn't help him? And use something like that until he is old enough to know the real stuff. Poor little guy, I feel SO badly for you and your kiddos. There is no good answer. xoxo- Lisa
I don't think there can be unsatisfactory answers. Talking is great. An engaged dialogue. Conversation. You are giving him all he needs…
Kids smell bullshit. If you don't know the answer, it's okay to tell him, "I don't know." Or even, "What do you think?"
It's okay to not know everything.
My son is four, too. He has crazy bursts of anger. I think it is the age. Remember that some of what you see isn't trauma. Some of it is just the age they are now.
My son asked me yesterday, "Why did God make skunks?" ( a quick google tells me you don't have skunks down under, so, um, substitute platypus or something)
The point is, tricky questions come with the territory. Although the questions sting you, he is just trying to understand his world. He probably doesn't feel the answer as deeply as you do. These are the realities of his life and they're different than your realities because you understand scope, context, and consequence much better than he does.
Oh poor little guy. Poor mama. Don't be so hard on yourself – these are questions that people wrestle with their entire lives. It's no wonder you can't give him a perfect answer – there's isn't one. The fact that he's able to bring his questions to you shows a profound maturity, trust and love. Good job, mama.
…and his whole destiny, is yours, to create.
The potential, in his little mind, in his being, in his experiences, will be all up to you, to mould.
What an awesome privilege!