Monthly Archives: May 2016
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Give me CommentLuv. It’s What *Totally* Awesome People Do.
Search: label/bump
Search: label/bump
My son has been kidnapped and replaced with some kind of highly energised, relentlessly obnoxious alien being.
Which may sound overly dramatic, but on some days- like today- certainly feels true.
It came to my direct attention after a few weeks of school. My sweet little man had picked up some seriously annoying speech and habits. Mild mannered swearing. (Poo. What is it with the word ‘poo’?) Playground games. (“Chop!!” I yell after he slams his shoe down on his sisters bare foot. “What?” He is thoroughly confused. “That’s how you play Footsies!”). And just a general rough and tumble, testosterone-fueled harshness in his demeanor that’s never been there before.
“Maybe he’s just settling in”, I told myself. “Perhaps he is just tired.”
The school holidays- marked by ten long days of solid noise and almost continual confrontation- seemed to solidify this slightly obnoxious boy-ism as just another part of his evolving, kaleidoscope personality.
I know it’s probably natural, just a ‘boy thing’. Something that I wouldn’t even be aware of, I think, if his dad was still around. For the last two years, the Chop has had very few rough and tumble male influences in his life. That’s okay- it evidently hasn’t hurt him. It’s just that the emergence of this side of his personality has taken me by surprise, happening all at once rather than through the slow osmosis of continual exposure.
Curbing his behaviour, deciding and managing appropriate punishments… that’s become more difficult. How many times can I send him to this room, before it reaches a point where it simply begets more stress, more pent up energy resulting in more frustrated outbursts? (The answer to that would be, roughly, a few hundred before we move onto iPad and TV restrictions. Which work just as well.)
One day during the seemingly endless school holidays, my son was in complete bored five year old mode- tearing around the house, jumping on couches, harassing his sister with nonsensical rules to complicated make-believe games, and generally being, in the politest terminology I can think of, completely feral. There was no physical violence, no losing control, no real danger of hurting himself… nothing that required refraction beyond a verbal reprimand (“Stop… being… annoying!” was met with maniacal laughter and a HotWheels car zooming past my feet); and I was not, for reason of my own mental health and sanity, restricting TV privileges on a day like today.
So I, half-jokingly, instructed him to come outside and presented him with a rake, which I used to mark out a four foot long, two foot wide stretch of browned and fallen leaves in our backyard. “Rake these,” I told him. I expected him to thoroughly object, and I certainly wouldn’t have pushed it… the idea of forcing a five year old to rake leaves as punishment seems a little bit… Edwardian, maybe?
But he didn’t object. He took to his task, finished, and then resumed playing with the Bump. That frenzied edge of energy had been burnt off. Total win. It’s become the ultimate technique for those days when his energy is just too big for the house.
And thank the gods, school is back in session as of now. Next holidays, I’m planning to be significantly more prepared.
{ 7 comments }
My children are fussy, finicky eaters. The Chop especially. He takes after me. The Bump has inherited her father’s appetite (”Can’t talk, eating…”), but has still been sadly influenced by me. Both my kids will pick and pull at food. They often demand nothing but garlic bread for dinner. On the rare occasion I do get them to the something new, they gag to the– point I’m almost positive it’s involuntary.
The anti–food phenomenon is absolutely my fault; and the requisite parental guilt is gutting and hollow and flagellating. I’d always naively assumed that the process of teaching my kids to eat healthy would be one of those things that just ’happened’, as if by some kind of magical intervention. I think things like that a lot. My own mother made parenting look so easy.
Actually, to be completely honest, I’d always assumed that The Chop and The Bump would pick up their dad’s relatively healthy taste for all manner of different foods. Had he stuck around for long enough, they might have.
But it didn’t quite work out that way and, after the sky fell in, so did my attempts at cooking. My little darlings have developed the eating habits of their mother. Very, very bad ones. Or, as I like to say, we are ’simple eaters with limited tastes’. Because that makes it sound so much better.
Like most kids, mine would both eat nothing but junk food, given half the chance (and let’s face it, so would I). In order to maintain some control over what we munch on, I’ve taken to trying not to fill the kitchen cupboards with junk food. If all they will snack on is yoghurt, fruit, sultanas, cheese and biscuits…. then that is all I will buy.
In theory, that works wonderfully.
In reality, it’s never that easy. Some days it feels as though the array of foods my children consider ’acceptable for digestion’ is shrinking and waning– they eat less and less. Each week they strike another foodstuff off the list with declarations of “I don’t like that!” and “Neither do I!!”
I get the feeling God is laughing me and my foolish best–of-plans intentions. Home made baby food. Carefully prepared toddler snacks. And two kids who, some days, seem to get all the nourishment they need from a packet of popcorn, an orange and a tub of yoghurt.
Somewhere along the line– a year or so ago, I do believe– I gave up on the dream and illusion that was raw, unprocessed foods, and started buying anything that looked even reasonably healthy and appealing, in order to get the little darlings to eat something– anything– other than milk arrowroot biscuits
Most attempts have been utter failures.
The Bump and I spent an inordinate amount of time playing with these. They look just like they’re having a conversation, do they not?!
And I actually thought that the SPC Fruit Crush–Ups thingies I had been sent to review would end up the same as most everything else I’ve tried– that is, relegated to the occasional parcels of untouched food that I pass on to friends whose children are less fussy than mine.
Initial trials showed the Fruit Crush–Ups to be unsuccessful, led in opinion by the Chop (the Bump, in general, defers to his decisions. As little sisters do). I’m not sure how this conclusion was reached. The packets are pretty. It’s one handed, which is important for busy kidlets. and there are six– six– different flavours to choose from. No child can be that fussy.
Except mine.
Numerous attempts to beg, bribe and coerce the children into just trying the bleeping things, please, resulted in… Failure. I froze them. I chilled them. I decanted them into glasses with straws and bowls with spoons. (All of that refer to the SPC’s, obviously, not the kids). I even put the strawberry over ice cream, for pity’s sake.
Fruit Crush-Ups over ice cream. Like au naturel strawberry topping!
No, nay, nuh–uh, no way. Ugh.
“Please? Try it? Just once?” I beg the Chop, “it’s for my blog.”
That results in a wary, slightly worried look. He knows that ’mum’s blog’ is where lots of cool things– like PS3′s, road trips and Skylanders eventuate from. “You will still have your blog but, if I don’t try it, right Mummy?”
“Yes.” I sigh, “of course. But really, you should try them. They’re yummy. They’ve been named Product of the Year!” I am clutching at straws here and he knows it.
“No. Thanks.” At least he’s polite.
Eventually, I resort to total subterfuge and stealthily pack the Fruit Crush–Ups into lunch bags, for big school and daycare, hoping to sneak them into my kids subconscious via peer pressure and distraction. Unfortunately, the Chop is far too old for this kind of disillusionment, and the Crush–Up returned untouched.
But the Bump… she’s still just a baby, bless her, and it’s far too easy to play with her mind sometimes. At the daycare teachers insistence that the Fruit Crush-Ups were, in fact, ’way cool!’, the Bump not only tried it, but loved it. And has polished off half a box of them since then.
Total success.
***
If you’d like to broaden your kids foodstuff intake and add an extra half piece of fruit to their day in a stealthy squeezie pack that can be frozen as an ice pack for lunchboxes (killing both the snack and potential food poisoning birds with one frozen stone!); I’ve got a whole terms worth of SPC Fruit Crush–Ups to give away– that’s eight of each six flavours, RRP $1.29 each, all to the one lucky winner. To be that winner, tell me in 25 words or less–ish; what is the ultimate subterfuge you have pulled on your kids, to get them to eat what they don’t want to?
This comp is open to Aussie residents only. It opens now and closes midnight 22nd March. The winning answer will be whatever tickles my pickle and makes me smile at the time of drawing. Winners must have a valid email address, and will be contacted soon after the competition closes. Winners have 48 hours to respond to the winning email or the comp may be redrawn. My desicion is final and no bitching, whinging or discussion will be entered into.
This post has been sponsored by the awesome people at SPC.
{ 5 comments }
I’d forgotten how completely, totally annoying three year old children can be. Especially when they’re your own children.
It’s been two years since my son was preschool-aged, all temper tantrums and dramatics and stamping feet and grumpy faces.
Of course, the Bump, my darling little fairy girl, didn’t let me keep that voluntary regressive amnesiac state for long. She is three years and five months old. (Good grief… three and a half. How and when did that happen, where has my tiny baby gone…?) and is absolutely making the most of her small-child-as-terrorist status.
Cute. Don’t let that fool you.
The bump is up, intermittently, at all hours of the night… simply because she can be. Her temper tantrums are still fabulously dramatic; and and she thinks nothing of having a full meltdown at any given time or place. Because of course, three year old’s are not governed by social expectations, nor such ridiculous concepts as time– they are, completely, the center of their own– and, in their own humble opinion, everyone else’s– universes.
To exasperate the general difficulty of just-being-that-age, the Bump is currently at that awesome stage where she no long really needs to take a nap during the day. But if she doesn’t sleep at lunchtime, she’s likely to pass out on the lounge somewhere between four and five pm, sleeps like a log for an hour or so; then refuse to go back to sleep until almost eleven o’clock at night.
Attempting to break the cycle in any way– namely, by withholding her late afternoon siesta– is met with resistance in the form of a screaming, possessed banshee child. Who is so over-tired that she still may not go to sleep again until many long, torturous hours after the sun goes down.
And anyway, as previously mentioned– just because she’s in bed does not mean she’ll stay there. Some nights I’m lucky if I get even two hours between shrill demands for milk or juice or more (godforsaken) dummies or because there are goddamn monsters in her room or because she wants a cuddle or something.
She is a chatterbox, my gorgeous little girl-child, all incandescent words tumbling over one another. And, like all children, she’s a question-asker. But questions from three year old’s, they differ and vary to those asked by older children, and often they make no sense at all. Quite possibly because preschoolers are rarely asking a question to receive an answer. They just like the sound of their own voice.
“Where are we going now, Mumma?”
“Home, darling.”
“Where are we going now, Mumma?”
“Home, darling.”
“Where are we going now, Mumma?”
“Home, Bump.”
“Where are we going now, Mumma?”
“HomeAndPleaseStopAskingMeSillyQuestions!!!”
Because, really, there is only so much my temper can take before it frays and breaks into a thousand pieces and irritation just overcomes me.
As I’m sure I’ve said at some point in the past– it’s extremely fortunate that children are so cute. Because, if they weren’t, their mothers may just eat them in the middle of the night, delirious with sleep deprivation and unable to control primal urges dictating that rest is essential for sanity and function and would somebody please shut this kid up??
***
On a slightly related note– the Bump is, actually, cute enough to eat in great big gulps, all pink dresses and sticky hands and fairy dancing. And I tell her so. “Bump, you are so cute– I am going to eat you all up!”
“No Mumma!” Says the Bump, full of three year old attitude, hand on hip and pout on face. “You can not eat me! I am not food. I am just people.”
The irrefutable, exasperating logic of small children. Really, who am I to argue with that?
{ 7 comments }
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Washed Away.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: You did it how many times???
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Fuck You Too.
When Hero Worship Goes Wrong- #nnb2012 – RRSAHM
When Hero Worship Goes Wrong- #nnb2012
I love blogging events. Blog conferences in particular get me all kinds of high. A room full of people who speak geek, who not only know but actually care what Alexa is, and are passionate about linking with credit– who wouldn’t have a kick arse awesome time?I know. I’m a geek. I embrace that completely. And I adore my fellow geeks. Meeting other bloggers is just like meeting people I already know, I just haven’t seen their shell yet. And there is nothing that gives me a bigger kick that people telling me that they read my blog, they like my writing. That they tell their husband or mum or best mate what’s going on in my life because they’re so invested in my story. I will never get sick of compliments like the one I got from the Redundant Mother, telling me I’m the reason she started blogging.
And I freaking love having my photo taken. Full stop.
Anyway… I have a tendency to embarrass myself in most situations where other people are present, and the recent Nuffnang Blogopolis 2012 was really not that much different.Really, I only have myself to blame. If it’s not playing Mission Impossible across the conference room, hiding behind chairs with Linda humming theme music for me (thanks Linda); it’s wearing the ugliest, coolest pair of electric blue frames (insert fake lenses) you’ve ever seen.
And if it’s not that; it’s Tweeting inappropriate things about certain members of the Nuffnang staff with the object of embarrassing them– Tweets hashtagged with #nnb2012 were scrolling on the big screen at the front of the room everyone could see them. Or being asked to move out of the doorway lest I be trampled in a fire by a very nice guy who apologized profusely and found me another seat. And realizing much later that that very nice guy was David Lee, who runs the whole Nuffnang shebang.
Reading back over that, even I think that would be enough for one day. It wasn’t.
Let’s start from the very beginning (always a very good place to start, as they say).
One of the speakers at the 2011 Blogopolis was the fashion blogger Lady Melbourne. Last year’s crowd were divided in their opinion of Lady Melbourne. It seemed twenty percent of attendees actually liked what she had to say. About forty percent had a serious hair crush on her that prevented them from even listening to anything she was saying at all. And the remaining forty percent thought she was a total bitch and wanted to poke her in the eye with a GHD straightener.
Quite surprisingly, I sat firmly in the first twenty percent. I thought Lady Melbourne rocked. She was a total bitch– and that was fucking awesome. She is, quite simply, a businesswoman. She sells herself hard and refuses to work for free. She doesn’t take anyone’s crap, and nor should she.
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| Mel from sugercoatit.com rocking the FemaleForLife.com.au wristbands. Girl power. |
While I cringe (not really) at using the label in the current atmosphere, us ’mummy bloggers’ could probably heed a lesson or two from Lady M. Parents in general, mothers especially, have a tendency to say ‘yes, yes, yes’ even when we really should say ‘no’. I’ve seen, in myself and others,a tendency to please everyone sneaking into the business arrangements we make through our blogs– a lot of us will almost unwittingly do something for nothing… because that’s just what we do.
So that’s what I learnt from Lady Melbourne, in the media kit session at #nnb2012, while I was still gazing at her adoringly Tweeting things like this. And this. Oh, and this one too.
Never realizing that I was actually just wedging my foot further and further into my mouth the entire time.
The final nuance in a whole day of Lori Doing Stupid Things came during the ‘Finding Your Own Voice’ panel that featured Lady Melbourne, the awesome Eden and Zoey and someone else who’s name I honestly cannot for the life of me remember. I’m not sure how the topic came up– I think I was distracted by attempting to bribe an AV guy for use of this power board to charge my iThings. But I did catch the bit where Lady Melbourne said something about treating obsessive fans– those who want a hug or a photo or, you know, Tweet adoring things to her– like small children. Positive reinforcement– if you ignore the bad behavior, it will go away.
Ahhhh. Excuse me while I sink into the floor. Hero worship gone horribly wrong and I feel like that awkward sixteen year old I used to be. Big screen, rolling Tweets, public embarassment and if no one noticed except me, well, here I am blogging about it anyway. Because that’s what I do.
Whatever. I’m actually thinking my fellow bloggers are accustomed to me embarrassing myself by now. I like to imagine some would be disappointed should I actually manage to retain my composure.
I had a rocking time, as I generally do at blog con’s; and buzzed around my hotel room making lists of ideas for improving my blog-esteem until
3am. Thanks again to the online activewear store Female For Life for sponsoring me. More ‘Stuff I Learned From #nnb2012′, coming soon.
And, in case you’re wondering, I still have a massive blog crush on Lady Melbourne.
If I keep up with the hero worship, maybe she’ll spank me.
Previous post: My Daughter
Next post: The Most Awesome GiveAway Ever
The Maltings, Part Two- The Light. – RRSAHM
The Maltings, Part Two- The Light.
Continued from yesterday…
There’s a fireplace in every room, some with their original cast iron molded plates. The most recent version of wallpaper still lines the walls, and the beautiful detail of skirting boards and cornices that were crafted rather than mass produced is evident. A wood stove and tiny kitchen are built into the kitchen, which is directly next to the old fashioned pantry with its ice box and fly screen door.
There is one bedroom in rich dark wood with wine colored walls, and it feels like love– this was the master bedroom, obviously, and the couple who occupied it for most of it’s time were happy.
Ancient light fixtures and electricity boxes survive; as does as a tiny, screened out door area at the rear of house, with benches built into the walls– it would have been so beautiful out here in spring and summer, surrounded by rampant greenery, with that continual smell of malt in the air.
And the floors… I know how strange this may strike you as, but the floors in this house took my breath away– solid, shining Australian timber, red maple and dark eucalypt, all still intact without a touch of termite’s teeth. The wood alone would be worth a small fortune– even after years of mistreatment, the floors still shine when you rub off the dust. And the front hallway contains a proof of life so solid it makes me gasp– a stripe of that exquisite wooden flooring in the centre of the hall that is a slightly different tone to the rest.
It’s where a hall runner has lain for countless years, tracked upon by thousands of footsteps. It’s solid proof that, once upon a time, lives ebbed and flowed right here.
As Bunny and I had excitedly roamed our way through the first building, we had found ourselves unintentionally trailed by two women– one I assume to be my age, but I later discover she’s forty; the other is older– I’d guess sixty or seventy, but in good health and great conversation. We smiled and said hello to them, and assured them of the safety to the upper floors; they had arrived maybe ten minutes behind us, but weren’t as thorough in their expeditions; so by the time I was marveling at the cottage floors (and Bunny was outside playing with his phone, sick of ’looking at old crap’), they were looking around the tiny house too.
”Excuse me”, I say, unable to help my curiosity, “do you happen to know when it closed here? When did everybody leave?” It’s a fair enough question– such big, beautiful buildings in prime real estate position, in the midst of an area that prides itself on it’s heritage… like all the abandoned places I’ve been, there is an eerie feeling of surreality and encapsulation here– it defies the laws we live by, the corporate commons sense that boils down to greed and money.
The older lady smiles, and she’s quite lovely. I couldn’t see her drinking tea from a mug, or discussing anything as vulgar as menstruation or flatulence in public, in the way women of my age have no issues with. She has certain grace about her– she reminds me of my gran.
”The mid–Eighties I believe it was, dear”, and Google says she is correct, “but it’s been much longer than that since I was here. My daughter bought me down for the day,” she indicates the tall, pretty woman beside her. “I grew up here.”
”Here?” I say “In Mittagong?”
”Well, yes dear– I was born here, went to primary school here. But I mean to say, I grew up here– my family lived in in this house.”
I stare at her for a moment, wondering if either she’s senile and her daughter is about to take her by the arm and lead her gently away; or if I’m seeing a ghost or having some kind of PTSD hallucination.
Then tall woman pulls out her iPhone to start taking pictures. That pretty much spells reality to me.
But the serendipity of it is startling– what are the chances of that happening, of finding this women here on the random day, at the random nothing–ever–happens time of about two o’clock?
One in million, maybe? Higher?
I have so many questions I don’t even know how to verbalize the one. This woman doesn’t mind– she’s a story teller, obviously, like me, and she’s happy to talk through my slightly stunned silences.
The cottage was custom built for the caretaker of the Maltings, she said; he lived on the property year round. That caretaker was her father; and he and her mother, not long married, moved into the newly constructed building in 1908.
This woman grew up here– she played in the creek that runs under the little bridge we crossed betwee
n buildings. She remembers when this silent, overgrown yard was bustling with people; when this area was a major transit hub and twice as populated as it is now.
Her mother gave birth to nineteen children and raised them all in this tiny three bedroom house, luxurious as it might have been by standard of a hundred years ago. Nineteen. The cottage is lined with tapering pine trees– I imagine they once separated the cottage garden from the work yard and gave the family their own space. The woman I’m talking to tells me she has photo of her family, a portrait taken with them all posed in the front of this house.
The towering pine trees were just saplings.
I expect her to pull the picture from her sensible, sturdy hand bag– that would work just perfectly with the eerie sense of perfect timing that’s laced through this conversation. She doesn’t, of course. But she tells me that in this photo, the mother of the family is pregnant with her final baby. Her eldest baby is man now, and he’s in this photo too– it’s the last photo ever taken of him, because he went off to World War One just days later, and passed away in France two weeks before the war was over and a cease fire declared.
He left the country before that final baby was born. This mother never had all her children in the same room, at the same time… it strikes me as the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.
That family did what families do– they grew up, gradually moved away, had families of their own. They spread out away from the Maltings. The last caretaker here was this woman’s uncle, who left here just a few years before the whole place shut down in 1981.
I say goodbye and thank her… I’m dazed, my heads still trying to stitch all these facts and stories together, and outside the house feels cold.
This place, it’s missing the dust and must of the house down the road, or even Shed Five… It’s been too long, too many people have trampled over the history that was here to find any real detail left in it.
But the woman, this serendipitous ghost… she makes the house feel warm, she fills this silent place with people.
I can’t help but wonder if it hurts her, or if it’s gratifying, to return here… she seemed as though she grew up very happy. There’s something about growing up here that’s left a pleasant, indelible mark on her soul.
Leave a Comment
{ 17 comments… read them below or add one }
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June 18, 2012 at 9:22 pm -
hey i was there this last weekend, so cool to wander around, and im hoping to find some old pics of the place before it closed to add to my pics i took, so if anyone knows of any please contact me, terrigal2260@live.com.au
- June 15, 2012 at 8:42 pm
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Holy WOW. That is too amazing to have been a coincidence. Wow.
- June 15, 2012 at 12:34 pm
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Hi Lori. I read every day and comment sometimes.
I loved this post. I live in the states and my grandmother had 18 kids – my mom was number five. She is still living and we go to her house a couple times a year. Your story really made me look at something I had just taken for granted my whole life. A very large family being raised in a not so large house, all on one salary. As an adult I see things in their life I never did as a child. Thanks for the great post and for helping me see my family in a new light.
Ps – I assumed she confused the world wars. It makes the most sense. Besides many people refer to the conflict that happened in their generation simply as THE war. Makes it even easier to confuse too though for someone trying to follow the story a wise one is telling.
I love these posts Lori! - June 15, 2012 at 10:13 am
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Why the hell hasn't someone bought the old cottage and done the place up?
It has sooo much potential..such a waste.And the Maltings…man imagine what you could do with that with a bit of time and cash.
We have big ugly oncrete blocks going up left right and centre but this beautiful old building gets left to rot?!Love your urbexing tales Lori.So wish I could check out the places you mention.
There is nothing like that around where I live now.
When I was a kid though there were a few old 'haunted houses' that were always so fun/scary to explore.Amazing how peoples energetic imprints never go away,hey.
- June 14, 2012 at 10:57 pm
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Perfectly put! So true.
- June 14, 2012 at 10:45 pm
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….. And further more ( screen froze before I was finished) I loved these two posts and the pics are awesome Lori. I know these buildings and have often wondered about them.
I shared your posts with my sister as she and my mum live just around that same area.Let's just appreciate and enjoy Lori's efforts. She never said she was keeping some kind of historical archive here; just sharing her enjoyment of a hobby , with I'm loving.
More please!AMP XXX
- June 14, 2012 at 10:39 pm
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I grew up in historic houses. My parents were passionate about restoring them, and I have never lived in anything younger than 75 years. In my childhood my parents tried very hard to piece together the stories of those who lived in the house, but when there isn't concrete evidence, and more than just the relating of the stories by Historic District heads, and elderly women who once lived there, it can be quite a daunting, and messy, task. I believe the story matters far more than the accuracy. Much of history as a whole is little more than story, but it's an essential story. Were it not for stories like your's, we drive by that house, or for most of us never know of it's existence, and the memories would forever lie dormant within those walls. So, maybe you didn't get it all right. But that doesn't matter. You told the story you were told. You honored the memories of the home. One day I can only hope someone will do the same for my daughter's childhood home. Whether they get it all right, or not.
- June 14, 2012 at 10:12 pm
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Hi Lori, hi kinda rude anon commenter…
Just doing some quick sums myself… Is it possible she was talking about WW2 rather than WW1? Let's assume that little old lady's mum was very young when she got married in 1908. Instead of assuming she had a baby a year for approx 20 years, it's entirely possible her kids were born over more like 30 years…. Taking us up to 1939 and WW2. It's also a fact that the infant mortality rate was much higher back then so she could well have lost other babies and pregnancies along the way. This was very common back then. Even if the old lady is in her 80s she could still have a nice walk around the old house.My mother was born in 1929 and can still get around just fine and loves a chat.
- June 14, 2012 at 8:28 pm
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Ahh so much potential!
- June 14, 2012 at 3:44 pm
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I love your stories about your discoveries in Tiny Train Town.I also always get facts like dates,daughter/grand daughter etc mixed up as I am usually so caught up in listening to the actual story that the little details go in one ear and out the other.
Thanks again for sharing.
Please dont be upset by people who are not proud enough of the words they write to put their name to those words. - June 14, 2012 at 3:42 pm
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Rude cow. Back to your sad, dark, negative, critical life ANON. We don't want your kind here.
Thanks for lovely post Lori. I'd do anything to spend just five minutes with my parents in my lovely childhood home. Just to tell them thank you for providing me with love, warmth and caring. So glad that when you walk through this old place, you can visualise the life long forgotten.
And speaking of forgotten. Who cares about dates? Someone got it wrong … But really, is it that important? - June 14, 2012 at 3:19 pm
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That was so rude, Anon! Back in your box.
- June 14, 2012 at 3:10 pm
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Woah- excuse me while I pick my jaw up off the floor!
Anon, if that is your real name- I can assure you that this 'fiction' is a true story- if it weren't, I certainly wouldn't have messed up dates like that, nor included a second person/ my mate Bunny.If you're implying the lady I met is telling stories- well, what on earth would the point be…?
Amateur mathematicians… considering, as I said, I didn't take notes and have left a considerable period of time before posting this- is it possible that with all those maternal family relations, I got confused, and the woman I spoke with was the *granddaughter* of the couple who lived in the house originally, and the younger women with her their great granddaughter…?
- June 14, 2012 at 2:15 pm
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Wait. The mother was pregnant with her last child in 1918 (when her oldest was sent off to the tail end of WWI). The last child was a male, so obviously this "old dear" was born before that, no? That would make her 94+ years old.
A nice piece of fiction…
- June 14, 2012 at 11:10 am
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Ha, can you tell I work with numbers and can you believe I sat there working out the dates, maybe I have OCD
. Great post though, I too love exploring old places, they are very evocative.
Lisa x - June 14, 2012 at 10:43 am
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Lisa, it's probably me who has mixed up the dates- I met this woman two months and had nothing with me to take notes!
Let's say, at a stretch, the woman was eighty? Nineteen kids take a long time. And I'll go for the romanticized version of 'newlyweds', because it just fits better with the old dear's story- say, married in 1900 and the first baby born immediately? A sixteen year old going to WW1 isn't much of a surprise. - June 14, 2012 at 10:05 am
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That's a funny time divide, if the woman was 70 she would have been born in 1942. If the parents moved in 1908 as newly-weds that would mean the lady was born 34 years after they moved in. If the eldest son went to WW1 in 1914-1918 he would only have been 10 when he died, if say he was born in 1908 when they were married?
God sorry, it's like one of those maths questions, "if the train left at 6 O'clock and passed through 5 stations what time would the pear drop from the tree".
Lisa x
Maybe the lady was a little mixed up with her dates
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Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Lucky.
Love Thyself. – RRSAHM
Love Thyself.
When I was growing up, there was no greater schoolyard sin than that of ‘loving yourself’.
It was used as a taunt. “Errr! You love yourself sooo much!!”.
I think it messed with my head a bit– weren’t you supposed to love yourself, wasn’t that the point? the alternative was to hate yourself. To my ten-year-old self it was a confusing concept.
If I didn’t like myself at all, maybe the bullies would like me. And, really, what right did I have to like myself, if everyone else viewed me as a piece of sh*t?
***
Self esteem is a warped and relative concept. I struggle with it, still, even now, at thirty two years old. How do you love yourself, completely, when even liking yourself is a challenge?
Leave a Comment
{ 6 comments… read them below or add one }
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October 26, 2013 at 7:49 am -
There was this whole tickets on yourself thing. I didn’t get teased for loving myself too much. I think the bullies knew how much i hated myself.
But I think I get what you’re saying.
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October 26, 2013 at 12:56 am -
I don’t think you have to love yourself, or even like every part of yourself. Acceptance of who you are is worth more. I don’t like that I cry so much at stuff. But now I accept it’s part of who I am.
I think the kids in the playground are still all around us. I mainly think now that they can go do one.
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October 25, 2013 at 10:09 am -
What is with Aussie kids and the tendency to pre-amble insults with that obligatory ‘Errrrrr’?
The standby taunt for me in high school, where I was immensely unpopular, just devolved down to a simple: “Errrrr, Molly!”
What does that even mean?
I’ve had a hard time liking myself the whole way through, but I think I’m getting there. I now swing between the polarities of thinking I’m the worst person on Earth, to wondering if maybe I’m the most awesome person in the Universe. It’s tricky to live with but I’ll take it.
Whoa, Molly! recently posted…Big Things and Little Things
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October 24, 2013 at 8:20 pm -
It really is all relative…and I think it’s ok to have days where you don’t like yourself! How else do we learn?
Vanessa recently posted…Catch Your Dreams -
October 24, 2013 at 5:10 pm -
Childhood can really screw with your perception of yourself for a long time huh? There are still things i am extremely aware of and critical about with myself because they were things I was teased about as a child, even though most aren’t even relevant to who I am anymore. It’s insane.
Miss Pink recently posted…What does Magique, Million and SuperLiner all have in common? -
October 24, 2013 at 9:05 am -
I was bullied as a kid too and you are right, it stays with you. Therapy has helped. I find it pops up when I am depressed because negativity towards everything (including myself) comes out, along with guilt. It is a yuck symptom.
Michelle Holland recently posted…Mental Health Update
So Why Do We All Wear It Anyway? – RRSAHM
So Why Do We All Wear It Anyway?
A fresh faced good morning to y’all,
Wasn’t Friday’s Bloggers Without MakeUp Day just a resounding success? Yes? Yes. What a brilliant idea, and so many willing participants. I’m quite proud to say I was a part of it. It felt like… a movement. No, wait. That sounds a bit wrong. But you know what I mean. It felt like we were doing something worthwhile, something good for the women of the world.
I think we were.
It’s funny, as I was trawling around, checking out all our gorgeous piccies, one distinct thought kept occurring to me…
If we all look so bloody good without make up, why do we all wear so much of it?
And it seems the Tweeps agreed.
A conundrum, no? There were over 100 women on Jodie’s linky list. All of them liberated, fresh faced, scrubbed bare. Every single one of them gorgeous, just as they are.
And it felt liberating. I went the whole day sans make up. Two people said to me “Wow, you look really tired!” (thanks a lot, girls). But other than that, no one even noticed.
Except for me.
Liberating, yes. There is something Amazon-woman-ish about facing the world, bare and nude as God intended. I felt like Germaine Greer. Kind of. Without the attitude and the drinking menstrual blood and stuff. Whatever.
But I also felt tired. And… well… kinda ugly.
I was OK, until I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Without mascara, without eyeliner. Without eyebrow pencil. So, in reality, without eyebrows.
Eyes still blue. But not as blue as they normally seem.
And, yeah, the girls were right. I did look tired.
So I’m not at all ashamed to say- the make up was well and truly back on Saturday morning. But while I coated my lashes with sparkly navy blue mascara, I had an epiphany of sorts.
I was doing this for me.
I wasn’t putting this make up on for anyone else. I didn’t need to. I have 35 comments I can look at, at any time, proving just how damn gorgeous I am without any gloop on.
So, today, as of now, I wear my makeup for me.To make me feel better. Less tired. Still somehow attractive, despite my tracky-daks and ugg boots. To make me feel like a lady.
Has anyone heard of the Lipstick Effect? Nutrimetics uses it shamelessly to suck in new consultants when the economic stratosphere is looking shaky. But it is a theory based in fact. Women will, no matter how tough times are, always find a spare $20 to buy a new lipstick.
Because it make us feel pretty. And, truth be known, every one appreciates a little bit of beauty. Even if it just the effect of painting middle aged lips into a pink passion flower.
And the point of this post?
Make up. Wearing it. Or not wearing it. In today’s society, both those things seem to be a big deal. There is really no escaping it. For grown adults, coloring in with pretty hues is still a big deal. We just do it on skin, rather than paper.
It’s amazing stuff. It has the power to uplift women (and, if we’re honest, the occasional man). To bring out a smile. To open up eyes. To erase five years of worry. To add five hours of sleep.
Going without it was liberating. But make up is still pretty freaking cool.
Leave a Comment
{ 10 comments… read them below or add one }
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May 22, 2010 at 11:00 am -
I agree with you – I wear it so I don't go "Gaaaah!!" when I pass a mirror. It makes me feel better. And I have to admit that I didn't post a no make up pic because I couldn't manage to take one of myself that didn't look like I had 3 chins. So maybe that makes me shallow…I'm not sure.
- May 17, 2010 at 11:02 pm
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I am never in makeup at home…. That is just the best part because there can never be never a moment when i would not feel comfortable about my skin….
But sometimes what we believe in is just beyond others' perception. So when we have to prove a point, we gotta do it….
- May 17, 2010 at 9:22 pm
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i quite like make-up free days -if only to feel even better when tghe make up goes back on
isn't it funny how people seem so willing to tell others they look tired. i mean, there's rarely any malice involved but still, it's not exactly encouraging.
i think you and everyone who got involved should be very pleased with yourselves. well done
- May 17, 2010 at 8:20 pm
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Interesting post and you are right it should only be for you – no one else. Me on the other hand just don't like wearing makeup and never have really, so au natural is how you always (well 99.9%) get me. Which is why I didn't do the link thing – I did however change my profile pic to the now me instead of the kid me. Way to go women of the world.
- May 17, 2010 at 5:56 pm
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It did occur to me that perhaps only those who managed to take decent photos of themselves ended up putting them up online…is that very bah humbug of me?
- May 17, 2010 at 4:01 pm
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Yes, great point and so true!
I wear eyeliner every day because I feel better about myself if I happen to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. - May 17, 2010 at 2:54 pm
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Love this post, Lori. Great points! Yes – women should wear make up for themselves – not for anyone else. We've all shown the last few days that we have nothing to prove.
xx
- May 17, 2010 at 9:52 am
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We're women that's why. We're complicated cahrazy creatures. Love yah with or without gloop. So there.XO
- May 17, 2010 at 8:15 am
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You know what? I like wearing just enough make-up to make it look like I'm not wearing make-up. Which for me, is a light coat of foundation to even out my skin tone and a bit of lipstick. No eye make-up. Then I feel great. I'm sure it all wears off by noon, but what the hell. Like you, I do it for me.
- May 17, 2010 at 7:49 am
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Lori, you know what? Your posts, your blogging, your approach, your style? It just gets better and better. Gloop or no gloop.
xx
PS I wore lots of lovely slap on Saturday night for an evening out….and felt fan-fucking-tastic. But not one compliment. Meh!
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Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Steamy Windows
Melbourne, Part One- That's A Cow. – RRSAHM
Melbourne, Part One- That’s A Cow.
I’m in Melbourne.
I have this theory, in the irrational part of my mind, that imagines people leaving trails of glowing green phorserance as they travel countries, cities, the globe.
It feels good to make new trails, fresh ones, rather than retrace where I’ve been so many times.
My mate Bunny and I did the 12 hour drive last night. Well, if I’m honest, Bunny did most of the driving. I slept a lot of the way. I did, however, take the first leg- from Paradise to Canberra. This involved a short cut that I found on Google maps.
Probably not one of my better ideas. A two hour drive on a dirt, corrugated road was not so awesome. We saw one house, one car, five letterboxes, one wallaby, two rabbits, five wombats (three dead, two alive). And a cow.
If you ever come across a black cow, on a very dark night, standing smack in the middle of the road, at half past two in the morning… well. Bunny and I were both squinting at a white blob, fifty metres ahead, when that blob suddenly materalised into a cow’s face. A very cranky cow’s face, who didn’t appreciate a car suddenly stopping six foot on front of him. A cranky cow who then sized us up and refused to move until I beeped repeatedly. Probably waking up every one of the six households within a two hundred kilometre range.
Anyway.
Tonight and tomorrow were supposed to be spent crashing at one of Bunny’s mates places. Bunny neglected to mention that this was in a house with not even one but two happy families- mummy, daddy, little kid.
Nuhuh.
They were absolutley lovely people, and beautiful kids, and I felt like a rude, ungrateful bitch when I said I could not stay there, I had to go to hotel…
I’m far too tired to explain. I’m sure you all understand.
I’m headed off to the CBD tomorrow to shop, eat, drink coffee, and shop some more. And just soak in the vibe. So far, Melbourne seems so organised and responsible and arty- even the freeways are interesting, with artwork and colour everywhere.
For a city with such a gray background, it already feels colourful.
Melbourne. The rainy city…. four seasons in one day. I Tweeted, announcing my arrival, and got these Tweets back, within four minutes of each other….
Hehe. Awesome.
More adventures tomorrow. Although, really, I’m not sure anything can top that cow*….
*Oddly, I’ve blogged cows in random places before. Top work, Lori. Scintillating.
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{ 17 comments… read them below or add one }
- August 3, 2011 at 10:23 pm
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Just found your blog recently, and glad you were stong enough to go to a Hotel and not just shut up and put up! xx
- August 2, 2011 at 7:39 pm
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funny girl. you crack me up~!
- July 28, 2011 at 1:31 pm
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I hope that you have a fabulous time! That cow sounds scary!
- July 27, 2011 at 7:19 pm
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Corragated road LOL – perfect description of some roads near me! One of the mums at the kids school hit one of those big black cows a few years back doing 80. She was bloody lucky she wasn't hurt, stuffed the car though.
Happy Shopping! - July 27, 2011 at 4:00 pm
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Heeeey.. you're almost on my doorstep. Just walk along the beach from Flinders, turn left past the beach camp ground and knock on my door!! Best latte in town.. if I may say so
Have a wonderful break x - July 27, 2011 at 2:46 pm
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melbourne definately does get 4 seasons in one day! enjoy your trip!
- July 27, 2011 at 11:53 am
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I'm sure the family would've understood:)
I'm going to Melbourne on Friday for blogger's brunch, it'll be my first time ever to Melb
- July 27, 2011 at 9:50 am
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Flying in tomorrow, love Melbourne and can not wait to get back there. See you Saturday. Oh by the way, I am trying to bring Sunshine and warm weather – let see how I go. xxx
- July 27, 2011 at 9:15 am
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Welcome to Melbourne!
- July 27, 2011 at 8:58 am
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haha welcome to Wednesday morning in Melbourne, hope you enjoyed the coldest night and morning we've had for 3 years! Special huh?! Still at least the blue skies and sunshine are out. Have a great trip and make sure you check out 'little cupcakes' on Degraves St, AMAZING!!! and take a trip up to Brunswick St and Gertude St in Fitzroy if you get a chance. I think you'd love them both, loads of cafes, bars and quirky wee shops. enJOY! Carax
- July 27, 2011 at 8:40 am
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By the way, my husband and I were on a train trip to see my mother, and the train was delayed for two hours because of a cow on the tracks. Our train was supposed to arrive to her city at six that evening, but we didn't get there until almost ten. It was not a good trip up.
- July 27, 2011 at 8:30 am
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Glad you made it. Have a wonderful time!
- July 27, 2011 at 8:21 am
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I love Melbourne. Glad I live here! The weather… meh. It actually was raining and sunning at the same time, like whiterabbit said. But that brings rainbows and we saw a beauty literally right outside our front door
Enjoy the new trails, mate xoxox See you on the weekend.
- July 27, 2011 at 8:08 am
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It's sort of sad but fun when the roadkill count is the interesting part of the journey! I'm not surprised you didn't want to stay with 2 families, no matter how lovely they are, you need a different kind of break.
I don't like Melbourne at all and I am really looking forward to hearing all about your break so I find out why I should like it really. I know you'll find the best bits.
- July 27, 2011 at 6:28 am
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I'm excited to read about your trip!
- July 26, 2011 at 11:31 pm
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To be fair, it was actually rainy and sunny today at the same time… Make sure to hit up DeGraves Street (near Flinders) for coffee, sushi and hipster-watching.
- July 26, 2011 at 11:30 pm
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You're getting a head start on us. Good for you to not stay there. Weird. How did that happen in the first place. Have fun hun. See you Sat – or Hello Blogger Friday night. Xx
Previous post: July 25th.
Next post: Melbourne, Part Two…. Shopping.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Reckless?
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Running Away Again.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: The Crappest GiveAway Ever (really, this time)
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: The Crappest GiveAway Ever (really, this time)
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: So… now what?
April 2013 – RRSAHM
April 2013
This post comfortably bought to you by the brand new Berlei Dig Free Tights
The unexpected consequence of feeling relatively happy and contented of late is that I’ve put on about 10 kilos in a matter of weeks.
It’s not that putting on weight is a bad thing. It was probably much needed- I was beginning to look like a lollipop. I’m making some attempt to eat properly. I feel healthy. In fact, I feel pretty awesome. It was only the fact that suddenly none of my jeans fit me properly anymore that alerted me to the fact I’d put on weight at all.
That. And one of my best mates asking, unprompted, “When did you get so fat?” (Thanks a lot, Bunny. I’m sure he meant it in the nicest possible way).
And my mum off-handedly mentioning “My, Lori, you’ve put on some weight!”. She must have seen the shock on my face, because she followed that up with “It’s not a bad thing. It’s just that all your clothes are too small now, and that makes it quite noticeable…” (And thanks for that, Mum. Again, I’m sure it was meant in the nicest possible way). My mum was telling the truth- most of my pants, skirts and tights are now a size or two too small. I can only just fit into most of them. And most days that leaves me quite uncomfortable, with big red pressure marks imprinted on to the skin of my stomach.
Looking all preeeeeeetty and dressed up.
So being contacted to review the new Berlei Dig-Free Tights was timely. And certainly sweetened by the fact that Berlei seems to understand that my chances of feeling ‘sexy’ are grossly impeded by life in general- they offered me an all-expenses paid super-glam night out so I could give the tights a better test run than what they would have gotten doing the school pick up in them, or something.
Deciding to take full advantage of this, I booked a room for myself and The Most Amazing Man In The Universe at the Shangri-La hotel in Sydney. I love lush hotels, especially this one, sweeping views of the Harbour and the Opera House. We sat on the padded seats in the huge hotel room’s windows and watch balloons, released from tiny people somewhere below us, float up into the late afternoon atmosphere, high above the city skyline.
We go to a Japanese restaurant for dinner and I actually find something I eat and it’s amazing. We wander through the city streets and end up back at the hotel where we watch movies and order room service. The balloons are replaced by fireworks off in the distance, maybe from the huge cruise ship that’s just departed the harbour. Just watching them feels like taking part in some saccharine cliche but it’s lovely, all the same. The whole night was lovely, a pocket of air in the tumbling rapid that is life at the moment.
The view from the hotel room- ignore the rain. We did.
And the Berlei’s? They were pretty lovely, too. I was actually imagining restrictive tummy sucking undergarments- I’m not sure why- and that was totally unappealing, especially considering I was quite looking forward to dressing up all pretty, and feeling comfortable in something other than tracksuit pants. Turns out, I was pleasantly surprised. These are normal stockings, not tummy-tuckers; beautifully made with no front seam and a ‘smoothing’ waistband – it sits flush with your hips and waist so you can still wear tights without them being so tight that they create lumps and bumps under your clothes. They’re also tough- they survived not only the night out, but also the next day, without a single ladder, tear or hole.
Having said all that, opaque tights are not generally appropriate for the school pick up, running around after small children or hanging out washing. So I’m back to wearing one of my various pairs of a-little-too-tight, a-bit-too-small jeans.
Quite clearly, if I’m planning to keep up this contented vibe I’ve got going on… I need to invest in some new clothes for winter.
In keeping with the new policy on sponsored posts… to be quite honest, the offer of a night out valued at $500 was just far too good to pass up. Thanks Berlei.
***
Because I had such a good time, it’s only fair that you should have some fun too.
Berlei is giving you the chance to win…
*A restaurant dinner for two in your nearest capital city
*One night’s hotel accommodation
*Limo transfers between the restaurant and hotel
To be in the draw to win this one, leave a comment on this blog post answering the question…
‘Share how you make yourself feel like a ‘desirable woman’?”
This competition is open for three weeks from the date of this post. One overall winner chosen from all blogs participating. Check out the full T’s and C’s here….
Berlei Comp Terms and Conditions.
{ 46 comments }
I find myself occasionally feeling as though I have to defend my decision to live contentedly here in TinyTrainTown– in the sticks. Semi–rural. Bush. ‘All the way out here’.
Each and every courier, tradesman or journo who’s ever come to the TinyTrainHouse comments on how far away it is from anywhere. How very small the town is. How they’ve never even heard of TinyTrainTown before. The tradies who get lost on the way here are always the most disparaging, their good humor eaten up by un-curbed roads that seem to stretch forever and all kind of look the same.
“How did you come to live out here…?” People are generally mystified as to why anyone would want to live where I do. I stare back at them, equally bemused, amazed that they’re unable to see what I see.
I guess it’s true, it might seem slightly isolated. TinyTrainTown is at least an hour and half drive from Sydney. We’re fifteen minutes from the nearest service station or major supermarket, probably forty minutes from any larger stores or services.
The road into town is eight kilometers of scrub and barely used train tracks. The population tops about 700 people (and that seems an over-estimate, really). As I’ve heard said, TinyTrainTown is so small it ‘doesn’t even have a pub!’
The town is not particularly quaint or pretty. It’s so nondescript that you could literally drive through it and not realise you’d been here. The mobile reception is nonexistent, and even the land-line home phone and ADSL internet crackles and drops out terribly if it happens to be raining. Or windy. Or, you know, Wednesday. Whenever.
But that’s the worst of it. The tarnished view of the penny, the dark side of the moon. There’s always more to things than that. And if nothing else, I tend to be an optimist.
It’s quiet here, peaceful. There is no din of constant traffic, no continual thrum of people. I like that. When I was little, growing up in Paradise, it was so quiet at night you could hear the rumbling boom of thunderstorms far out at sea. I remember, as a child, staying at a relative’s house in the middle of the city suburbs and being unable to sleep for the never ending noise coming from the streets outside. The cars. The horns. Music. People. It’s never quiet, not really. You get used to it, I know that. But I’ve grown accustomed to the silence again. The only thing that desecrates it is the occasional passing car.
While the town itself is nothing much to look at, the scrubby eucalyptus bushland of the national parks that surround it are soul-soothingly pleasant. A thousand different shades of green. There are parrots and cockatoos, possums and sugar gliders. Sandstone caves and tiny creeks. Snakes and spiders, too, of course; but I don’t think any kid is really that much worse off for having a basic knowledge of them (‘basic’ rather than ‘intimate’ being the key wording here).
People know people, in TinyTrainTown. While I’m never really been a rah-rah-community-spirit kind of person and I tend to keep to myself, I know my neighbors by first name and the local shopkeepers by sight.
We actually do have shops here, though they’re as easy as anything else in the town to miss. Three of them, in fact- a fish and chip shop; a small supermarket; and post office/newsagent/grocery/DVD hire. All the shops are overpriced and sell short-dated stock at the tills, but you can still get all the basics you need.
We walk to the shops, most days, when we’re not in a hurry and the weather’s favorable. Some days we walk home from daycare and school. The round trip never takes longer than half an hour by foot, no more than four minutes by car. If it takes longer than two minutes to drive there… it’s probably not in TinyTrainTown.
It’s safe here. It feel secure. It feels like a wholesome place to bring up small children. And most of the time, it’s just a nice place to be.
None of this seems to sway anyone’s opinion. “Yeah but, love… it’s just so far away!”
I find the only answer anyone gets is in the language everyone seems to understand.
“Uhhhh… The house prices are cheap. Three bedroom house, big backyard…”
And that makes logical sense to most incredulous tradesman who’ve made the hour trek to TinyTrainTown. It’s easier to see the appeal in that; in choosing between a tiny flat or a huge mortgage an hour closer to the city, or having a house of my own and dealing with the occasional inconvenience of living ‘all the way out here’.
I made the right choice– I rarely ever doubt that. It’s just other people, I find, that take some convincing.
{ 8 comments }
There’s been a thread of holier-than-thou judgement of my parenting in a few comments left of late.
It’s made me afraid of using my own space in the way that I find most therapeutic– spilling all my secrets into the digital Neverland. I don’t like being afraid. These are comments that pick and pluck at the spot where I am weakest– my own parenting skills, and the way I navigate life with two little people. The possible damage I may be inflicting on my children.
I think it’s the soft spot of all parents. We’re all hyper-aware of the responsibility of raising little people. We know we will be judged. From the moment we reveal we’re carrying a baby, until long after we’ve passed away. Forty years from now, should our child break all social codes and do something terrible; one of the first places people will look for answers will be with us. Where did we fail? In what facet of parental responsibility where we so inept that it can explain what went wrong with our children?
And we are judged on the tiniest, most inconsequential endeavours. It seems so socially acceptable to comment on the parenting of other people and the probable fate of their children; and to do so with such casual study of their situation. There’s a self-justifying benevolence in the social sport of picking apart another mum because she works, or doesn’t; or smacks, or doesn’t; on whether her children are well-behaved and polite, or not. The behaviour of children is seen as an obvious manifestation of their parents child rearing skills, or lack of them. And we seem to encourage ‘keyhole judgements’– taking a tiny slice of a story and attributing it as the rule, when it just may be the exception.
I think, perhaps, that’s one of the elements that digs at me so much, in regard to comments left here lately. The arrogance of assumption of people feeling that because they’ve read my blog, they then have the right or the obligation to comment on my parenting; on the lives of myself, my mum, and my children.
You only know what I tell you here. Judging me on what I choose to share with you is the online equivalent of judging a parent at a local playground after watching them interact with their child for two minutes. It doesn’t give you enough information to make calls like you do, to look down on someone else because they’re not doing it the way you consider to be ‘right’.
I share a lot of my life on these web pages. I write without thinking much about how I’ll be perceived. I tell stories about my children and myself. That leaves me inherently open to judgement… that’s okay. It’s part of the give and take of blogging. People have every right to voice their opinion, particularly when there’s a comment section inviting that very thing.
But this isn’t so much about me, or my ‘emotional state’. This is about the bullsh*t judgements people feel they have a right to make, when you never know enough about a another’s person life to make that call. Whether you’re their best friend or they’re someone you see for thirty seconds in the local supermarket, or because you’ve read what they’ve chosen to share with you.
It’s about how we make parenting, mothering in particular, into some righteous, beautified social test. It’s about the way a mother and her actions are considered wholly objectified public property. It’s about the way women are expected to ‘embrace mothering’ and your children are supposed to be your ‘whole world’. The way mothers are crucified and shamed if they don’t hold up to other people’s ideals of what a ‘good mother’ should be.
It’s about the way we’re not allowed to say what sometimes might be the truth. That you can love your kids desperately, think they are the most awesome little people… and still not like being a mum very much at all.
My kids aren’t a burden. As I’ve said– they are awesome little people, and I’m honoured to be able to spend the bulk of my time with them. But changing dirty nappies, making school lunches, being yelled at, moderating temper tantrums, listening to whinging, and all the other stuff that comes with small children? That’s a burden. I’m not fond of it. Not at all. I don’t have to be.
Don’t get me wrong, there are some bits of parenting that I thoroughly enjoy. Deep conversations and answering questions. Showing my kids new things, taking them places. Watching their face light up with new concepts my new knowledge. I love playing video games or curling up on the lounge watching movies with my son. I love playing with my daughter’s doll-house (sometimes I even let her help) and painting her fingernails. I like doing the fun stuff. But I find the hard stuff really difficult. And there’s nothing wrong with saying that.
I became a mother, not a martyr. Giving birth didn’t provide me with some selfless gene that made me suddenly enjoy being every aspect of raising kids. I’m inherently selfish. Most people are; we just find ways to temper that against the realities of life and the needs of the people we love.
My children are the most important people in my life. They always have been and probably always will be. But I allow myself to have a life, and a personality, outside of being their mum. I’m devoted to them, but I never want them to be responsible for my happiness. I want to teach them that all of us are responsible for finding our own. I’m happy to sacrifice things. But I keep things, too. And I want to teach my children– my daughter especially– that that’s an okay thing to do. Women are expected to give and give and give until there’s nothing left of themselves but a shell that functions, providing for people’s needs. It doesn’t have to be that way.
I’m the first to admit that I find spending time alone a necessity. I’m okay with that. I’m also quite happy to admit that I do spend whole weekends with my boyfriend. I’ve confessed to temporarily running away from my kids and wanting to leave for good. I’ve stated– and I stand by it– that some days I just cannot handle my five and three year old (which I’m fairly sure shocks absolutely no one) and everything falls down in a screaming heap.
Why do any of those things have an influence of the effectiveness of my parenting, anyway? Do you have to spend every second with your kids, to parent well? Or is it that you can’t have other focuses in your life? Do you have to enjoy every aspect of motherhood in order to ‘embrace’ it? Are you allowed to like parenting without being particularly enamoured with the really-little-kid phase of it? Can you love your kids without liking being a parent at all?
I’m predicting that even writing that last paragraph is enough to have me labelled as unfit mother– one who’s probably causing deep, awful emotional agony– in some people’s mental filing system.
Again, I’m (surprisingly) okay with that. If you’re that attached to the concept of martyred parent that it personally offends when someone else doesn’t live up to it… I kind of feel sorry for you.
To the commenter who wrote this one; and anyone who feels the same…
I originally had a few hundred words written here, defending myself and my parenting. Then I decided, f*ck it. I have no obligation to justify myself to anyone.
So all I really want to say is this.
Get f*cked.
And bite me.
{ 33 comments }
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Fuck You Too.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Not Speaking About Just Everything…
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: So… now what?
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Nanna Naps
Moved. – RRSAHM
Moved.
The last few days have passed in a blur of chaotic confusion and emotion. All of us– my kids, myself, The Most Amazing Man In The Universe– are slightly discombobulated and worn out.
Moving houses, moving states… it’s exhausting.
My mate The Bear moves us again, bless his huge, bursting heart. Bunny and The Bear and I pack the truck late on Friday afternoon. I sedate the cat, strap the bird cage into the car, and say goodbye to the TinyTrainHouse.
I don’t look back. The Bear gave me that advice when I left the Purple House, and I’ve kept it close and used it often. Very few good things come from looking back at where you’re leaving, especially if it hurts to leave.
Auntie Mickey does the eight hour drive to Melbourne with me. We arrive at five am on Saturday morning to surprise The Most Amazing Man, who thinks we’re coming Saturday afternoon. Still half asleep, he wraps me up in his arms, and it’s like time stops for a minute and it’s just me and him. The world rights itself for a second and everything is always going to be fine.
My mum has flown down with my children, and she spends her two hours in the New House madly helping me unpack. I sob when she leaves, my heart breaking a little.
I will miss her so much.
Auntie Mickey stays until Monday, and when she leaves my heart breaks again. I walk around the house for the next few hours with my breath hitching and peaking in frenzied panic attacks. I can’t stop crying and my mind repeats a stupid story to me; one that says I’m going to be alone and lonely, alone and lonely.
I takes a bit to sink in that I’m not lonely, and I’m certainly not alone. It’s taken until writing this down to realise that what I’m feeling is just an echo of what I’ve felt before. It’s not real. I’ve moved again, and my brain confuses that strange inertia of a new location with the horror of trauma and grieving.
I have to keep reminding myself I’m allowed to be happy. That The Most Amazing Man In The Universe is not leaving us any time soon. That he’s not going anywhere.
I have to keep reminding myself, over and over. It’s all going to be okay.
Leave a Comment
{ 12 comments… read them below or add one }
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August 30, 2013 at 10:25 am -
Welcome! All the best settling in Lori, x
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August 29, 2013 at 4:45 pm -
Moving is so stressful and there are so many other factors at play here for you, new state, new man, no family support. Of course you feel it. Be kind to yourself.
Dorothy recently posted…The Coughing Sickness and a Talk -
August 29, 2013 at 4:17 pm -
I think it’s the post-event blues: there’s so much emotions, so much planning, so much thinking involved with moving, especially such a large one, that when it’s over, when you are in and the doors are closed and the people have left, it’s perfectly natural to cry.
That’s what I keep telling myself when I cry, anyway!
Domestic Goddesque recently posted…Moving on -
August 29, 2013 at 12:57 pm -
Its soooo going to be ok Lori ! Huge congratulations and wishing you and your kids and THAT amazing man all the happiness in the world! xx
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August 29, 2013 at 11:23 am -
Yay!
Now that you’re a Victorian, go and eat some yummy hot jam donuts!
(can’t get them here in Perth, I had a friend that was flying over for a visit, she bought me a dozen with her) - August 29, 2013 at 8:52 am
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I’m so glad the hardest, most draining part is over. Relax and enjoy things from now. You do deserve all the happiness in the world.
x
Whoa, Molly! recently posted…The Cultural Wasteland and Why I Came Back To It -
August 28, 2013 at 11:59 pm -
Oh sweetheart. Doesn’t moving suck? I hate it. But you are there now, and, as you say, you are not alone. Hope you and the kids settle in well. x
Bronnie recently posted…And the beat goes on -
August 28, 2013 at 9:06 pm -
So much love to you! I moved to Melbourne 11 years ago and I remember those initial feelings – how much I missed my family and the comfort that history brings with it. I have grown to love Melbourne and it is my home now – I do hope you find happiness here. Would love to buy you a coffee sometime. xx
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August 28, 2013 at 9:03 pm -
Lori. It’s scary to move, especially moving for love. At least it was for me. But good things happen to good people. And you are a good egg.
Welcome to Melbourne.
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August 28, 2013 at 8:50 pm -
Wow. That feeling. It’s ok. You’ll be okay. Welcome to Melbourne! We’re putting on a show of good weather for you. Enjoy.
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August 28, 2013 at 7:49 pm -
Oh girl – be really happy. You have waited so long.
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{ 6 comments… read them below or add one }
I wish I got to meet you at #NNB2012, I think I would have liked you a lot. I re: Lady M, I was in the last group
Rachel
Lol those glasses are terribly cute! And I do love a good game of mission impossible. Sounds like you were a rather entertaining distraction
I think being humble is a personality trait that doesn't get appreciated enough.
I don't care if you're the homeless dude on the street or the most gorgeous and smartest person in the world, without people to worship at your pedastil you're a no-one.
I think LM shared a lot of solid information during #nnb2012 but sharing that tidbit of information was pointless. Yes you should stop to chat with people who idolise you!
Mission Impossible … that WAS fun
Hope you enjoyed your goodies! xx
Not if I get her to spank me first.
reow.
Ah love you're adorable! I had my own response to that panel. As I suspect you know.
Glad you still love LM. She's a smart cookie (who opened her own mouth and inserted a fasnionable foot in that panel). Ahem.
xxxx