She wears a flower in her hair...

More on the best sorts of Christmas presents later but today I want to share some insights into my little Viking.  It's no secret that I struggle with my self-esteem and the concept of beauty.  It's been an interesting journey with some key moments since my tiny daughter was born.  It culminated fairly recently when I asked one of my best friends whether I really looked like the sort of person who was into clothes and stuff and he said yes, actually, you do.  It felt like I'd won a prize.  Really?  Huh.  I wasn't sure whether I'd succeeded in fooling the rest of the world or just myself.

Dressing well and looking good is not something that's ever come naturally for me.  As a part of my ongoing efforts to not be such a screaming tom boy, at the end of last year I challenged myself to a year of going to work in skirts and dresses instead of slacks and jeans (I did give myself a few casual Fridays in jeans but I compensated with pretty tops and shoes).  It was no easy thing, especially since I only really owned two dresses and a skirt at the start.  It involved a lot of op shop pillaging before I had a good wardrobe to work with that didn't leave people wondering if my washing machine was on the fritz.  Didn't I see you wearing that two days ago?  Yes, it's been washed, shut up.

The thing that surprised me most about that experiment was the response of my little Viking.  He loves his Mummy to be pretty.  He loves watching me clip my stockings to my garter belt in the mornings, loves choosing which dress I'll wear and strokes me possessively at day care when the other children come up to me, informing them quite darkly "she's MY pretty Mummy."  Having a mum who looks "pretty" seems to rank quite highly on the list of priorities.  I had no idea just how high though until Christmas.

Come Christmas at his grandparents' and he shoved a small parcel into my hand, bouncing around with glee. My mother-in-law was quick to point out very solemnly that he had insisted on this gift for me, chosen it himself and was super excited to be giving it to me.  He hopped from one foot to the other and literally skipped a lap of the coffee table while I opened it to reveal...

Three flowers on clips for my hair.  One of the things I learned in Charm School was the value of adding a simple flower to your hair every day.  I do this just for fun when I'm in the mood but honestly, while I've nailed the clothes and makeup aspect of being pretty (I refuse to say "girly"), hair is something that still eludes me.  Most days it just goes up in a ponytail and that's the limit of the attention it gets.  The flower is my cheat's way of pretending I made an effort.

My small son was practically vibrating with glee when I finally opened this gift.  I immediately clipped the black rose into my hair and when I had a quiet moment I asked him about them.

"Do you like it when Mummy wears a flower in her hair, do you?"
He nodded solemnly.
"Yes Mummy, I like it when you wear pretty skirts and pretty dresses and your pretty stockings...and Mummy I like it when you wear pretty flowers in your hair but you don't do it very often."
"Do I need to do it more often, do I?"
"Yes Mummy.  You should wear pretty flowers in your hair all the time because you're so pretty."

No arguing with the three-year-old Viking logic.  So I have faithfully clipped a flower into my hair every morning since.  But I wasn't aware of just how closely the small boy was watching and monitoring the hair flowers until I debuted the frangipani for a barbecue some five days after I first opened his present.

"Mummy I'm really glad you're wearing your yellow flower, but what about the red one?"
"I haven't worn that one yet, have I Buddy?"
"No," he frowned, his brow knitting and his bottom lip going out.
"Well I might have to wear that one tomorrow.  What do you think?"
"I think that's a very good idea."

And when it finally made it into my hair he climbed into my lap, snuggled in and kissed me.
"Mummy, you're wearing the red one!"
"Yes darling, I am."
"Thank you Mummy!  I'm so PROUD of you."
It's such a small thing but clearly to a small boy it's majorly important.  Maybe this year my challenge will not be clothes - it will be to do my hair every day and make sure I'm wearing a flower.

Wrath

There was a time when this blog was full of largely irrelevant, mundane posts relating to my day-to-day life.  This past year has been hell.  A lot of who I am has been burned away in trials by fire.  I'm still here.  I'm still breathing.  I'm just not who I used to be.  And I don't know who I will become.  This blog has fallen a little quiet during that time because I don't like to share bleakness.  I wish to be a positive force for change in this world.  Now that the tide is turning, now that I am deciding who I am I'm feeling the urge to write again but I don't think this blog, like me, will ever be what it once was.  I don't yet know whether that will be something people like or not but whether what I share has people's approval or not can't be the focus of my thoughts when I write.

The good thing about burning away so much of yourself and not knowing what's left is that at a certain point you come to see that the choice is yours.  The last few months I've worn some pretty disgusting behaviour.  I've taken it on the chin from a number of sources and I've taken it for a number of different reasons.  Partially because I felt like I deserved it.  Partially because I couldn't believe it was happening and I didn't know what to do about it, and finally because I tend to believe people try to do the best with what they've got and I couldn't bring myself to believe that the people perpetrating the behaviour were anything other than ignorant to its impact and effects.  Yesterday as I went through some of the more recent events my friend Luke called me an incredibly forgiving person in a way that implied that my tolerance and forgiveness exceeds the norm.  That brought me up short.  He wasn't the first person to say it.  I get a lot of people telling me I tolerate far worse than I should and I had to think about it.

A big part of it is that while I might be angry and upset, I don't think it's my job to judge other people.  I generally think the lives people lead are their own punishment or reward for being the sort of person that they are.  While I don't mind discussing my own life, I don't often like to talk about other people's private lives on my blog so instead of using recent examples from my own experience, I want to use two fairly public incidents that people are probably familiar with to demonstrate what I mean.

In March 1993 a photographer by the name of Kevin Carter took an iconic photo of a starving toddler trying to reach a feeding centre in the Sudan.  In the background a vulture stood watch, clearly waiting for the child's death.  This picture, to me, is horrific.  And to the world that saw it, it wasn't just the photo but the actions of the photographer - who apparently took the photo and left the child to whatever fate she met - that was horrific.  It's easy when you say it like that to immediately judge the man.  How could you?  I'll bet a million people or more saw that photo, heard the back story and thought that.  How could you do that?  But how many people were actually there?  How many had seen the countless helpless souls suffering during that famine?  How many lifted a finger to help?  How many stopped to wonder how a human being gets to a point where they could be in place to take a photo like that and not feel moved to help the child?  Can you imagine what horrors you'd have to see before you reached a point where you could take that photo and then just walk away?

Maybe you think nothing would ever scrub the humanity out of you - that you personally would never reach such a point in your existence where you would see something like that and not be moved to do all that you could to help.  How lucky we are that we're not in the Sudan trying to document a famine and wake the world up to the sheer magnitude of horror that that entails.  I'll bet almost everyone that knows the story of Kevin Carter's iconic photo was horrified...but how many were relieved that they weren't the ones there to take it?  Do you feel better when you know that ultimately Kevin Carter took his own life, leaving behind a suicide note that read in part, "I am haunted by the vivid memories of killings and corpses and anger and pain ... of starving or wounded children, of trigger-happy madmen, often police, of killer executioners..."  Was the taking of his own life enough to appease you?

Closer to home and more recently we have the case of Jacintha Saldanha, the nurse who took her own life after she was subjected to a prank phone call by 2DayFM DJs Michael Christian and Mel Greig.  Personally I'm not a fan of prank phone call humour because it always comes at the expense of someone, somewhere.  For that reason I choose to not listen to radio stations that do this sort of thing.  This time there was a tragic outcome that no one predicted for what should have been a harmless little prank.  Now the public are baying for the blood of the perpetrators.  It makes me wonder. Would it be better if these DJs killed themselves in turn?  Would that appease people?  It wouldn't bring Jacintha back.  It wouldn't make her family any less aggrieved.  It literally wouldn't fix anything.  And yet the harassment and abuse is hurled, pushing these people ever closer to the edge themselves.  The difference is that this time you can see it happening and still no one is doing anything about it.

Now we come to my point.  People always ask me why I don't get angry at things like this.  Come call for their blood, boycott their sponsors, write an angry letter - don't you care?  I do care.  I care more than you can imagine.  But the damage has already been done.  Nothing anyone said about Kevin Carter the photographer would ever cut as deeply into his soul as the experiences that made him into the man who took that photograph.  Nothing anyone ever says will remove the guilt and shame from those DJs who will always wonder how much they contributed to the desperation of a suicidal nurse who went over the edge.  They'll live with that for the rest of their lives - it will eat at them, claw at them, whisper to them in the quiet moments and nothing I could ever say or do would have remotely as much impact as what will happen organically.

Anger begets anger.  Violence begets violence.  We, all of us, get to choose who we are and how we handle  the situations and circumstances that face us each day.  And we all must live with the fallout of our actions.  Speaking in moments of anger, even when you think your rage is justified, is a dangerous, dangerous thing to be doing.  Because even if you get the chance to apologise, you can't call those words back and you won't ever be able to remove the memory of them from your target.  Sometimes words have fatal consequences.  On both relationships and people themselves.

My Christmas Wish List

For all that I love Christmas and the good times I get to have with my family, it still drives me insane on a number of different levels.  I hate tinsel.  I hate malls.  I hate Mariah Carey.  I especially hate Mariah Carey singing Christmas carols which seems to be the only Christmas album anyone with a speaker to blare at the public owns (not at all linked to the presence of said Christmas album in the $2 bin at JB hifi, I'm sure).  I hate the thought of millions of cheap toys being bought for half an hour of joy at the expense of both the environment and the people who made them.

Here's another pet hate - people's refusal to believe that what I truly want for Christmas either costs less than $20 or just cannot be bought.  They ask you what you want, you tell them nothing and they act like you're deliberately lying because you're a sadist bent on making their life miserable by forcing them to spend hours agonising and trekking through malls Mariahed in bad music while they find that perfect gift that's going to delight you.  And here's the thing.  Nothing they find will delight you and here's why;

1.)  Ideally what you want to buy is either something I need or something I want.  I'm not wealthy but I can afford to buy what I need when I need it.  Truly.  There's almost nothing I really need that I don't already have or won't just buy for myself the instant I need it.  With a few notable exceptions that we'll get to shortly.  Everything else is stuff I want and stuff I want is seriously limited.  I'm not really a stuff person.

2.)  I have spent this past year having a stuff tantrum on an almost monthly basis.  I've sent a household worth of stuff to charity and the tip.  I'm still trying to turf stuff so if you buy me something and it's not something I specifically asked for, chances are it will fall into the "stuff" category and all you're really doing is undermining all my good work. Here's what's going to happen to your gift.  For six months I'll have it out and about and try to use it - primarily out of guilt but also in case you come over and look for evidence that it's in use.  For the next six months it will sit at the back of a cupboard where I will avoid its accusing stare every time I need to get the basic item at the front that I use all the time and have owned for about fifteen years.  After that I will have a stuff tantrum and it will migrate to a crate in my garage where it will sit in stuff purgatory until I can then re-gift it or I have another tantrum and take it, along with a bunch of other stuff, off to a charity or a tip.  If you ever ask me where it is I will lie and either say it broke or that it disappeared after my 73-year-old father came to stay but we didn't say anything because he's getting old and old people are a bit like that*.

3.)  People never believe me when I tell them what I actually want.  You want to delight me?  Buy me what I actually asked for.  Yes, even though it's cheap and nasty.  Yes, even though it's impersonal.  It's what I actually want it just happens to cost less than $20.  Sometimes that happens.  It's a Christmas miracle!  My perfect gift literally only costs $3.

So - the things I actually want this Christmas, both tangible and intangible, for those that are genuinely interested**.

1.)  New oven mitts.  I worked out the other day that mine are 12 years old.  They're threadbare where it counts, I burn my hands almost every time I use them and I always forget to buy a new pair when I'm out at the mall. $3 from Kmart or something but I will use those suckers and be grateful I don't have to run my fingers under cold water for ten minutes afterwards for a long, long time to come.

2.)  A new plug for my sink.  Just like the oven mitts.  I forget this every time I go shopping.  I have to balance a pewter tankard filled with water on the plug while I do the dishes so the water doesn't drain away. Yes I do my own dishes.  No I don't have a dishwasher.  No I don't want a dishwasher.  Okay.  Buy me a dishwasher.  Secondhand or reconditioned or something.  If you must.  Seriously, just a new plug would be awesome.

3.)  Vouchers.  The Salvos (do they even do that?) and Bunnings.  I am always renovating and gardening.  I'm still losing weight and I frequently run out of stuff that fits.  Don't even get me started on the fact that the only clothes the shops are selling at the moment come in neon; just buy me a Salvos gift voucher so the next time I find myself looking like a denim sharpei I can do something about it without looking like Stabilo Boss Hi-lighter Barbie.

4.)  A fishing rod bag.  No I don't enjoy torturing fish for fun***, that's not what it's for.  I need a bag to carry my bongsul (fighting staff) in and apparently rod bags that are about two metres long are ideal.  My staff is 1.8m long.  Get me something a little bit longer than that.  If you must, whack a pretty keyring on the zip so I can tell which one is mine.  They're about $10 from a fishing store.  If you're feeling especially generous some sort of hockey stick or baseball bat bag arrangement for my sword would be full of win too.  Although I haven't measured it yet...

5.)  Tell me something that will keep me going.  This year has been awful.  My self esteem is crap and my ability to navigate the bad times is low at the moment.  I keep scraps of paper with good things people have said about me around so in those bad times I can remember that I am worth something to someone somewhere.  It doesn't have to be epic.  It doesn't have to be a letter or even a paragraph.  It can be just one sentence.  Write it out nicely on a piece of paper or in a card or something and I guarantee it will mean more than anything you could ever buy me.

6.)  Take me to lunch.  There are days where my anxiety is high and I need to get out of the office before I suffocate.  I love going and sitting in the sun for a cheap and cheerful lunch with a good friend so pony up a voucher that's good for one lunch and make an awful day somewhere in the future a whole hell of a lot happier.

7.)  Make me something.  Every year I churn out handmade Christmas decorations and gifts from my kitchen and that's what people keep asking me for.  Do you paint, sew, draw, write, cook?  Make me something with your own hands and I guarantee it won't be labelled "stuff" and purgatory will never see it.

Some of the gifts coming out of my kitchen this year...

The point is that most of the people I know have just about everything they need and can access most of the things they want on their own and I'm no different.  But, as my sister-in-law pointed out a year or two ago, we're all pretty busy people and what we really lack is quality time with each other.  It sounds trite but really and truly, everything I want for Christmas doesn't even have a price tag.  So please...enough with the stuff.

*  Hey Dad!  How you doing?  This is a lie BTW  *cough cough*  For the sake of humour.  *cough cough* I would never actually say this about you to anyone.  *cough cough COUGH*
** Do not under any circumstances buy me any of this stuff.  Because I know that I will get twenty of each of these things now.  This is just my annual Christmas rant designed to make a point about why you shouldn't try to buy me the latest teapot/four-in-one power tool/New York Times bestseller.
*** Participating in the noble/historic/meditative/timeless...blah, blah, blah I don't really like fishing so sue me, okay?

Shopping, Vikings and Polka Dot Skirts

My son has the most extraordinary case of Mama-attachment I've seen since my own baby brother.  This is the newborn who growled at everyone who wasn't me the day he was born.  The baby who pushed back my return-to-work date by six months because he couldn't cope with being off my lap for five minutes.  The 18-month-old that I had to make a sling for so I could wear him on my hip* because he'd scream if I made him walk.  The three-year-old who acts like he's being ripped from his mother's arms to go to his death every morning at daycare - who clings to me at night, struggling to keep his eyes open to make sure I don't leave.

I spend a great majority of my time bargaining with my small Viking son over how I will be allowed to spend my time.  Mummy will pick you up after work but she has to go now.  Mummy will bring you something nice from the shops.  Mummy will be here in the morning when you wake up but you need to sleep by yourself.  Mummy has to go to taekwondo but she will be back in time to put you to bed.  Mummy will have her shower first and then you can get in with me.  A thousand reassurances to get him to just let go for five minutes so I can wash my hair, go to the bathroom, get the dishes done.

As he's gotten older it's gotten a bit better because he likes being in my space but doesn't necessarily have to be constantly attached to me.  Plus, he likes to help.  So I'll do the dishes and he'll arrange them on the tea towel to dry.  But there are still times where the Mummy attachment means it's better if I do it on my own.  Times like the weekly shopping - where I tend to distract him with the trampoline or the television and scuttle out undetected.  I hurl around the shops as fast as I can and hope he hasn't thrown a tantrum by the time I get home.  I'd take him with me but the need for constant skin-to-skin contact can slow me down and turn the trip into quite the chore.  This morning though I had no options because Charles was taking Charlotte to a birthday party.  I seized my small son as he zoomed around in a pink polka dot skirt he'd salvaged from his sister's leavings.

"Mummy needs to go and do the shopping and I thought you might like to come with me.  Will you be a good boy if we go shopping?"
"Yes Mummy!  Yes I will be a good boy!  I'll be such a good helper boy!"
"Awesome sauce buddy - but you better go put some pants on."
"No.  I don't want pants, I want to wear my** pretty skirt."

Since I'm not one to impose gender ideals at any age, let alone at the very tender age of three, I told him he could absolutely wear the skirt, but he would need to put some undies on.  But Mummy - insert completely inappropriate boy-related reason for wanting to wear a skirt with no undies that almost made my head explode.  Buddy, you can wear the skirt but you're going to wear undies.

The first part of the shopping was reasonably good.  He wanted to sit in the trolley, he insisted on arranging the shopping in said trolley and for the most part it was okay and he really was my big helper boy.  It's true every two minutes we had to stop because, "Mummy?  Cuddles!"  but even that was kind of nice.  No, the real trouble began after we were done in Aldi and we needed to finish up our shop in Coles.  With the trolley otherwise full the little Viking had to walk.  And he decided the best way to walk so he could have full contact with Mummy was like this;

Ever tried to push a trolley around with 20 kilos of Viking toddler strapped to your leg?  It's exactly as easy as it sounds.  And look at the face on it.  Not only is it almost impossible to shop like this but you get the sense the whole time that you're in the process of creating deep emotional scars that will lead to thousands of dollars in therapy and a string of toxic co-dependent relationships once the kid hits adulthood.

Finally I put the bag of dog food into the toddler seat and lifted my small son into place on top of it.

Perched like that he could wrap his arms around my neck and remain plastered to me throughout the trip.  He giggled and squirmed in delight the whole time and every time we went past someone he would announce, "I'm cuddling my Mummy!" at the top of his voice before tightening his arms around my neck until I started to choke.  But he was happy and so was I.

Finally when we'd cleared the checkout I addressed him quite seriously and said we were going to go and buy him some shorts because it's getting hot these days and he needs something other than trackies to wear to school.

"But Mummy," he whined, "I don't want shorts.  I don't like shorts."
"Well what are you going to wear buddy?  It's going to be too hot for long pants soon."
His eyes flicked down and he smiled slyly at me.
"I'm going to wear my pretty skirt."
"What's with the skirt buddy?"
He looked thoughtful for a moment.
"I don't have to take it off if I go to the toilet, it's good for dancing, *insert inappropriate boy-related comment again*..." he trailed off for a moment and then looked back at me, grinning, "And I look really really pretty."

Yes.  Yes you do.

*  I am not really the attachment parenting type - I spend far too much of my time up ladders to have anything that operates independently strapped to me.  But James' Mummy addiction has been like water on sandstone when it comes to my parenting style.
** Any parent will tell you that the instant the term "my" is applied to anything you've pretty well lost whatever battle you were going to have and you should therefore re-evaluate just how much you care about whatever it is they're getting possessive about.

Missing Post

Last night after a particularly nasty day I wrote and posted about the fallout from my weight loss - in particular, the shape that I come in now and the impact that's been having on me.  Today that post is missing and some of you have noticed and asked about that.  Well, while the majority of you were quite supportive about what I wrote I also got a message that indicated that the individual thought the photo I put with that post was a photo of what I wear to work and her point was sorry love but frankly I wouldn't want you anywhere near my husband.  I want to make it clear here for those who don't know me personally that it wasn't a photo of what I wear to work, it was a photo taken in a shirt I bought for a burlesque event that's coming up soon and I chose it to illustrate the kind of shape I come in these days.

At a more secure time in my life this is something I would probably choose to make a point of standing my ground on but, as anyone who read that post would know, this is not a secure time in my life.  In hindsight I probably shouldn't have posted about something I am so vulnerable about at the moment because I do always get comments and emails, both good and bad, and I'm not in a place where I can take much more of the bad on this particular topic.  And that is the reason that I've chosen to delete the post in question.  I'd like to thank those of you who were supportive and apologise to those of you who have expressed disappointment that it's no longer available.  I have saved it to my personal account and perhaps one day when I don't feel quite so sensitive I will re-post it.  Thanks for your understanding.

Further sandpit-related tantrums

Most of you who know me have gathered that I'm kind of running out of patience on a number of fronts and it's manifesting in weird ways.  The too-much-stuff-tantrum following hot on the heels of the nothing-fits-me-tantrum were documented here and the response was impressive (as a side note, for every single comment you see on this blog I seem to get about 10-20 private messages or emails.  It amuses me no end that me, the queen of bluntness, over-sharing and couldn't be bothered sugar coating that for you has an incredibly introverted readership that make me look like this blog is largely about talking to myself.  I digress.)  I had a bunch of people talking about how they too let things go until they explode in a flurry of activity, conquering the chore long delayed.

Anyway, without any patience left I've been systematically tackling things that have been long overdue.  Today's little thorn that was plucked from my side?  The (would-be) sandpit.  My son is a sand devil at daycare.  He comes home with the stuff in his hair, in his shoes, in his underwear and, most distressingly of all, in his ears*.  When we built Charlotte's fort (which I've just realised I never documented!  Stay tuned!) it seemed logical to include a sandpit.  And I built a very sturdy one using thick sleepers bolted together with galvanised iron brackets...which then proceeded to languish empty and unused throughout the winter.

Given that the Viking is three the sandpit days in our house are probably numbered so high on my list of "spring cleaning" activities was finishing this job so it did actually get used as a sandpit at some point rather than languishing as a lawn ornament before graduating to veggie patch or compost bin.  Let me give you some advice now.  If you need something to break you out of child-related procrastination, there's nothing quite like the child themselves to motivate you.  Tell a three-year-old he's getting a sandpit this weekend and by golly you better pony up a freakin' sandpit this weekend woman.

I foolishly mentioned we might finish the sandpit over the weekend on Friday night.  I spent all Saturday cleaning like a demon and was then out until three in the morning with a friend on Saturday night (not even drinking mind you, but three in the morning is still three in the morning).  The last thing I felt like doing today was hauling sand.  But when the Viking jumped on me early in the morning the first thing he said was, "it's time to get up and make my sandpit Mama".  My choices were somewhat limited to produce the sandpit already or face Armageddon.

I had the frame, I had the weed mat, I just needed a huge amount of sand.  You can buy sandpit sand for $15 a sack at my beloved Bunnings.  Unfortunately I would have needed 20 sacks minimum.  You can, however, buy it in bulk from your friendly landscape supplier for much, much cheaper ($30 for a quarter of a cubic metre, $52.50 for half).  First thing's first though, I needed a trailer.  For which I called my brother and sister in-laws, Jenny and Chris.  Chris was on his way out with a load of green waste and asked me if I wanted him to swing past, collect me and we'd grab the sand at the same time.  Sure, I said, but that means you have to hang around until I've finished shifting it.  No problem, Chris replied, I'll help you do that.

I love, love, love Chris.  What a champ!  :)  So in fairly short order I found myself swinging back home with a trailer full of sand for my sandpit.  Photos and tips?  Absolutely!

1.)  Use weed mat.  It's tempting to think that half a foot or more of sand will kill the grass and its ambitions for world domination.  Ever seen a sand dune?  Put the weed mat down.  In fact, make it double thickness and make sure it goes under the walls of your pit if you can.

2.)  Be careful with how much sand you actually get.  I figured I'd need about a third of a cubic metre but showing up to the landscape supplier I realised it came in quarter or half measures.  Hmm.  I dithered a bit.  It's a big sandpit, not sure a quarter will cut it...then I thought sand's pretty heavy and I've had at least one popped-tyre experience previously hauling wet sand.  In the end I decided to play it safe and I went the quarter.  Best decision EVER.  As soon as it landed in the trailer I wondered whether it would even fit in what was beginning to seem like quite a small sandpit.

3.)  Make sure you have sandpit toys and a cover on hand.  The kids are going to want to land in it immediately and play up a storm.  When they're done you need to cover that stuff up before it becomes the local urinal for the kitty population.  Not to mention sticks, leaves and other assorted debris.  Keep your sand in tip-top condition with a handy cover.

That's Chris and Jenny's daughter (Cousin) Chloe playing with Miss Pink and the little Viking.  Quite the good time had by all accounts.  One more long overdue task off the list for the cost of $30 and whatever I decide to get Chris to say thank you for being such a hero.  Next up?  Laundry shelving...


*  "Me and Livvy were seeing how much sand we could fit in our ears."

Stuff Tantrum

Yesterday a good friend of mine announced on Facebook that she was turfing a bunch of shoes from her collection.  This friend has bags of style, a decent wage and is secretly called Imelda behind her back (okay, not actually behind her back, we're well past that point). She also just happens to be about my shoe size.  Since I am perpetually broke thanks to mortgage and kids (childcare for the two actually costing more these days than my mortgage does, if you can believe it) I tend to live from one pair of $12 Kmart flats to the next (with the occasional pair of wicked heels from the Rivers outlet store at DFO).  So I couldn't type fast enough to plead my case for a chance to plunder Imelda's fashionable leavings.

Absolutely, she writes back, I've also quite organically moved onto clothes, interested in those too?  *swoon* Imelda has always been a couple of sizes smaller than me SHE MIGHT BE THROWING OUT THINGS THAT FIT ME NOW.  THINGS THAT WILL LOOK GOOD.  You might have detected a small amount of panic just there amidst the excitement.  That would be the "holy crap I've lost over thirty kilos and have nothing to wear this Summer" panic.  Did I mention no money to buy new stuff?  Here was salvation!

What ensued next was a little like drugging a cat and pointing it at the catnip.  My pupils immediately dilated to kewpie doll status, I was rendered practically speechless, there was lots of rubbing against stuff (yes, just the clothes) and when I was done I had a bit of a headache and needed a sleep.  I came home a happy girl with no less than three massive bags of very, very pretty things that would have taken me two years of saving to achieve, even if I'd bought it all on sale.

Unfortunately the acquiring of new, pretty things coupled with the events of this week meant the story doesn't end here.  When it comes down to it, I'm not a huge fan of stuff.  And yet I seem to have so much of it.  Probably because I couldn't be bothered addressing it until it threatens to overwhelm me.  This week I got overwhelmed.  With the warmer weather I tried things on that I hadn't worn for a while while attempting to get ready for work.  I got increasingly frustrated as four tops, three skirts and a dress got turfed for being sack-like before I resorted to trying on a dress I bought two months ago when it was a size too small.  I was somewhat mollified when it fit beautifully but I needed to face reality - we are no longer at a point where I might gain a kilo or two and suddenly need this stuff, it is time to do a thorough vetting.

So today I spent FOUR HOURS going through everything I own and tossing anything that doesn't fit or that I don't like.  I am now on the verge of a massive, massive tantrum followed by a lengthy sulk because almost everything I own that I love is too big for me.  And not just put a dart in it and it will look spankers big but, holy hell dude if we get a gust of wind that sail you're wearing will blow you onto the next continent big.  Steel boned corsets.  Lingerie.  Sexy nightgowns.  Very expensive evening gowns and cocktail dresses.  Business suits.  Everything.  At one point I flirted with trying to estimate how much the stuff I was turfing had cost me but right around the point where it became the GDP of a small nation I realised I was well and truly on the path to a migraine.

I am now thoroughly flat, quite miserable and in possession of five crates of clothing destined for friends who plan to rummage followed by a very grateful Salvos store somewhere.  Every time I start to cry I go stroke all the pretty things Imelda gave me.  Come Monday I'm going to be so pretty in clothes that fit.

Postcard from the edge

The thing about being depressed is that mostly I'm fine until I'm not and then I'm in the bottom of the well and everything is dark except up there, where everyone else is.  On the days when I'm fine my depression is almost something I could love because out here, living on the edge of oblivion, the world is so beautiful and my emotions are the whole rainbow and then the colours that don't exist like octarine too.  I write better like this, I understand my kids better like this, I feel everything more acutely like this... I am a different person like this.  Unfortunately, a somewhat fragile person and that's the part I hate.

Today is one of those days.  I am stressed out and exhausted after driving to Queensland and back with two small children in a week.  I am emotionally strung out thanks to the events of that week.  I feel so thin I'm sure I'm transparent.  It's the perfect environment for a trip to the bottom of the well.  And here we are.  I have a tendency to write when I'm out of the well.  To share when I have clarity and distance.  But I'm never brave enough to write from my misery.  Or at least, not brave enough to share.

But recent events and experiences indicate that what is required in my life is bravery.  So here goes - a postcard from the bottom of the well to those of you at the cocktail party of normalcy at the top.

I hate everything about myself and the way I feel at the moment.  I hate feeling vulnerable, I hate second guessing everything I say and do, I hate being paranoid about my relationships with people, I hate being stuck inside my skin and wanting to just crawl out of it and AWAY.  I hate wishing I could just curl up and die somewhere unnoticed.

There is a filter of negative that suffuses everything I look at, even my logic.  I know I'm the sort of person who will hold anyone while they cry and soothe them.  I know I've done that for the most random of people.  I know the extraordinary lengths I've gone to to cheer up those nearest and dearest to me in their darkest hours.  I know that I've laid myself bare and told people everything I feel for them, even when it hurt to do it, so they would understand that what they are is something special in a world of ordinary.

You'd think, given all of that, that I'd cut myself some slack and lean on some of those people I've been there for when I feel like this.  But then there's the pervading paranoia ready to undermine everything.

In the back of my head, where the logic is, I know that I'm a positive force in the lives of many people.  And I know that I'm loved for all that I am.  But here in the bottom of the well I am absolutely certain that if I go to the people I need the most and I'm honest with what it is I need they'll laugh and tell me to harden up or pull up the big girl panties and then I'll die inside, smile while I cry and agree with them.

Which is why when I feel like this, I choose instead to disconnect from everyone and everything, to not write, to not tell you how much I need you and how ugly it is inside my head.  Chances are three days from now, given enough sleep and exercise, I'll have dug myself out of it and I'll be back to posting stupid crap on Facebook.  And no one need ever know how much I hated myself and how much I wished I was dead or how much I needed them right here on the edge where the world is beautiful and bright but inside me is as black as midnight in the grave.

We don't negotiate with terrorists

I am far from being the world's most patient mother.  I find children challenging to deal with because I'm not big on a bunch of things that seem to go hand-in-hand with small people.  Consequently, while I love my own small people, there are a bunch of behaviours I spend a lot of my time attempting to erase from existence.  Tantrums are top of that list.

Charlotte was dead easy.  Aged two she tried it on in Coles.  I bent down, told her she would never get a single thing out of me by behaving that way, picked her up and marched her straight out the door.  It was the only tantrum she ever threw.  A week later she watched as a small girl performed in the very same Coles and I pointed out the little rioter.

"Do you see how ridiculous  that looks?" I asked and my solemn little daughter nodded.
"Right.  Would you give that little girl anything for behaving that way?"
A small shake of her head.  She watched the kid in action for a bit then wandered over, bent down and patted her gently until the little anarchist paused to look up.
"You know you won't get anything if you behave like that," Charlotte informed her.

The little Viking has been another matter entirely.  About five months ago the tantrums started.  It was almost like he had to make up for his sister's failure to perform by doing his share, her share, plus accumulated interest.  We had tantrums every fifteen minutes.  We had tantrums lasting fifteen minutes. We had tantrums at home.  We had tantrums at the mall.  Tantrums, tantrums, tantrums.  And over the most ridiculous of things.  His television show ended.  We put his sock on the left foot instead of the right foot first.  He didn't want to wait for dinner to cool down.  The dog looked at him.

At first we tried to get him to talk about how he was feeling rather than just bursting into tears and wailing.  Then we tried bargaining.  Stop the tears and we'll go for a walk.  Then there were the threats.  Cut that out or there's no dessert at all.  Finally we decided there was something to the superpower way of thinking - we don't negotiate with terrorists.  And so the timeouts began.  First sign of tears and it's off to your room for timeout.  Come out when you're ready to talk and deal with us on a rational basis.

This didn't seem to halt the flight of the tantrum.  He would wail away, kicking the wall, crying for up to twenty minutes before emerging tear-stained and blotchy, bottom lip out and head down.  "Sorry for having a tantrum Mama, can I finish my dinner now please?"

This, we were quick to point out to both ourselves and the kids, was not about punishment.  It was about learning to deal with your emotions so you can communicate calmly.  Clearly there were times where our little Viking's emotions were simply too big for his body and he needed to express them, long and loud, before he could talk to us.  That was okay but we wanted to make sure he knew that it was for his benefit alone and not a tool to manipulate us.  So even as they didn't appear to be subsiding, we continued with the timeout rule.

Eventually the technique began to pay off.  The tantrums have thinned to a dribble and he's much better at articulating why he's unhappy and working with us to resolve the issue or negotiate a compromise.  There's only one ongoing, tiny little issue and that's when you ask him what his full name is.

"James Jason Bateson TIMEOUT!"

Agents for Change

As much as I don't want a counselor who holds my hand and sympathises, neither do I want a best friend who constantly tells me how fabulous I am.  I want the best friend who questions me, challenges me and prompts me to be a better person.  Kat is my best friend and she is all those things...and a study in being careful what you wish for.

Kat is ridiculously girly.  She has always been about the clothes, the makeup, the hair and the girly activities.  I'm less about those things and more about building, renovating, martial arts, gardening and power tools.  I don't suppose when you are someone that loves getting dressed up and hitting the town that it's a happy state of affairs to be the proud owner of a best friend who lives in jeans and is happiest up a ladder with a drill.  Still, Kat gets marks for persistence.  Years of buying me clothes, makeup, all in vain but still she persevered.  And then there was Charm School.

I don't suppose anyone would be flattered if their best friend announced that for their birthday they had bought them a spot in Charm School.  Horrified at the suggestion that I needed a class in etiquette, I was even more annoyed when she explained that it was less about deportment and more about hair and makeup.  I was speechless with the audacity of it.  But Kat being Kat, I knew I was going to give it a go, if only to sit there in resentful silence freezing her out with attitude purely to teach her a lesson in what not to buy me in future.

We had a list of everything we'd need for class.  Mirror, bobby pins, curlers, makeup, hair spray... I had to go and buy everything on the list brand new because I didn't own so much as a bobby pin.  Deep in the middle of Canberra's winter I showed up in a mood best described as "chippily resentful" for Charm School.  I was mortified when two women who looked fresh off a film set from the 40s stepped into the room.  I sank even lower in my chair.  This, I was sure, was not going to be a happy event and my colourful imagination was conjuring all manner of Trinny and Susannah-style intervention where the dearth of makeup on my face would be critiqued in front of everyone.

And then Miss Chrissy started to talk.  Beauty and glamour, she said, were not about age, size or colouring.  Beauty and glamour were about looking the very best you could and carrying yourself with confidence.  It's not just the look, it's attitude.  The look is achievable quite easily and quite cheaply, she told us, the attitude is all up to you.  The odds of a Trinny and Susannah-style dressing down seemed quite slim.  She had my attention.

For three hours we learned how our fore-mothers achieved their look on a budget.  The cheats, the tricks, how to be glamorous with little more than red lipstick, mascara, hair spray and bobby pins.  At the end of class I looked in the mirror and I was speechless.  I was beautiful.  Not just beautiful but glamorous.  Kat was practically choking on self-satisfaction when we left and insisted that we go somewhere for a late lunch so we could be fabulous in public.  She was practically skipping with glee.

It's hard to describe how I felt that afternoon.  I was uncomfortable in my skin and I was completely at war with myself.  I looked beautiful from the neck up...but the neck down was clad in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt.  I felt like a slob.  For the first time since I was about six I wished I had a beautiful dress.  I wished I could be and feel beautiful every day.  I knew in my heart that the time had come for painful change and I honestly wasn't managing it especially well.

I smiled the whole time we were out while people came up to me and complimented me on how wonderful I looked.  I watched Kat take her compliments gracefully and I kept right on smiling while inside I felt the cracks spreading through me.  I made it home to show Charles how I looked and then I climbed into the shower and cried hot tears of frustration for everything I wasn't and for the sudden possibility of what I could be if I was only willing to apply myself and try.

It's been four years since my first Charm School.  I've been four more times and learned new things each time.  The second time I took a co-worker who was just like me.  No confidence, jeans and t-shirts, so like me the previous year.  I watched her face in the mirror after I finished her hair and makeup.  I watched her do a double take, look again and saw the excitement blossom on her face.  It was the first time in her life she'd felt beautiful and she told me later that her mother had cried when she saw her and made her take photos in the backyard.  I've seen it so many times now but it never gets old or tired or boring.  It's always wonderful to see.

These days I feel like I've mostly nailed the glamour.  I own more skirts and dresses than anything else.  Pantyhose have been swapped for garter belts with lace top stockings.  I can don liquid eyeliner and not look like someone's punched me.  I wear makeup to work almost every day and at the beginning of this year I made a commitment to not wear trousers, slacks or jeans to work except on Fridays.  It's August and I've stuck to that commitment.

I get people telling me I look great all the time and when I do full hair and makeup, don a dress and head out random people come up to me to compliment me, ask me where I learned to look like that and even to take photos*.  It's kind of disconcerting but I've learned how to accept compliments gracefully and be confident that what people see is different to all the flaws and failings I see.

Today was my fifth Charm School and instead of being a part of the class I went to take before, during and after photos for Miss Chrissy, who is not just my idol, but my friend now too.  Kat and I helped out where we could and I ached inside to see the face of one gorgeous woman twisted the way mine surely twisted in that first class with fear and doubt and self-loathing.  I wished she could see how beautiful she was - I wished she could see herself through my eyes.  I settled for telling her that I knew exactly how she felt because I'd been there too.

How very different the post Charm School late lunch was this time.  The ache of inadequacy replaced by confidence as I laughed and lunched with the ladies, as happy in heels and a dress as I am in jeans armed with a drill.  Compliments were gracefully given and received, a good time had by all.  I don't know whether I ever thanked Kat properly for her birthday gift all those years ago but here it is - you were right, my darling, you are always right when it comes to me and I am so very lucky to have you.  Thank you for the best birthday gift ever**.  X X X

*  The first time this happened I nearly had a panic attack.  After I managed to control the panic I then had to work at suppressing my nasty subconscious which was convinced they were asking so they could turn the photo into a horrible meme about drag queens or something.  It took everything I had not to threaten to hunt them down and punish them in the event that they did anything awful with the photo.  So on the outside I'm largely there but the self-esteem and the inside has a loooong way to go some days.

**  And sorry for all that crap attitude.

The War on Misery

We are, all of us, byproducts of our experiences and upbringing.  Growing up I had a mother who knew how to make everything fun, whether it was by keeping us home when it snowed for snowmen and hot chocolates or by running covert missions as a spy family at the weekly supermarket shop (points were given for getting things in the trolley without her noticing...marks were deducted if those items were not on the official list).  My Dad was less about the play and more about the deep thinking and life philosophy - although in between instilling a love of Fleetwood Mac at high volume and explaining our place in the world he still managed to teach me how to play space invaders with my car on the long trip between our farm and town.  I acknowledge that I am not at all normal but I believe I was doomed to my existence by virtue of who my parents were and what they taught me.

Today was a study in one particular lesson that has always been with me.  Queuing up at the State Bank when I was about eleven, I watched as the man in front of us was awful to the bank teller.  Nothing that would provoke anyone to intervene, but just condescending and nasty enough to make her feel small and bring tears to her eyes.  My Dad skipped a few tellers, letting others go ahead, so he was her next customer.  He smiled winningly, called her by name and shook his head, sympathising over the incident with the guy before us.  Then he asked her how she managed to look so good in the bank uniform and whispered conspiratorially that he always likes being served by her because she's so damn good at her job.  By the time we left the tears had left her eyes and she was laughing.  As we walked out he stopped me in the street and asked me if I could imagine what it must be like to stand on my feet all day in a uniform and high heels, doing pretty mundane work for very little pay.  I shook my head.

"Now imagine," he said, "How much worse that job would be when the people you have to serve with a smile are arseholes.  Always remember this Rebow; no matter how bad your day is, someone else's is always worse.  Don't ever add to their misery by being an arsehole, no matter how badly you feel yourself."

This morning was not good for me.  I woke up feeling pretty low and after having a bit of a cry I decided to pull the big girl panties up and get on with the chores for the day.  And that includes the weekly food shop.  I do not like malls.  I do not like shopping.  But I am conscious of the life lessons from my Dad, which included noticing how no one at the mall ever makes eye contact and no one ever smiles*.  Consequently, I do not shop like a normal person.  I like to throw my headphones on (low enough that I can hear people talking to me over the music), dance through the aisles, smile at the dead-eyed children strapped into their strollers and trolleys, and make stupid faces at people who look like they need a laugh.

I also like to skim my trolley.  You know, skip along and then when you get a clear run straighten your arms and fly over the ground without touching it with your feet.  I've been in trouble for this on more than one occasion by one Coles staff member (who we will call Mike**) who haunts the produce section and seems to think I'm a lawsuit waiting to happen***.  Mike was ready with his frown today when I came zooming through but I smiled winningly at him and told him I'd just crashed into someone in Aldi and he'd given me his number and asked me on a date.  I grinned broadly, asked Mike if he wanted to be my next crash victim and assured him a broken ankle would be worth it.  He couldn't help himself, he laughed and I scooted away before he could deliver his dire predictions of spilt moo juice and financial ruin.

Next was the deli where a dozen people waited while two people went their hardest and fastest.  The mood was generally...tetchy.  Why can't Coles put more people on****, it's always busy on a Sunday, this is ridiculous...  A byproduct of the music while I shop is that I don't mind waiting so much, time to practice my grinds.  And when it was my turn I saw that I was going to be served by Chris, who is almost always there on Sunday.  He called my number and I threw my hands up in the air and cheered.  "Yeah!  My turn!  And I got CHRIS!!!"

I got a few hidden smiles and interesting looks but Chris was grinning and that was good enough.  As he got my stuff together I apologised for being an idiot and said I liked being served by him because he always smiles and he's always nice to me.  Plus, he gives my children samples when they're with me (although I have never had the heart to tell him that unless it's cheese they just smile politely and wait for a moment when they can covertly stuff it into my pockets or down my top).  I assured him I did not imagine that the feeling was mutual because he probably thinks I'm nuts and is slightly scared of me, and that's okay.

"Nah," he grinned, "Do you know how boring it gets here?  It's really nice to have someone who's actually nice to chat to for a change."

WINNING.  And my final triumph came at the checkout with a particularly young looking guy called Brad.  Brad was looking a bit dead so when it came to my turn I pulled my phone out and keyed up the stopwatch function.
"Sixteen items and one bag, Brad.  Your colleague Michelle did that in three minutes and twenty four seconds last week.  Think you can beat her?"
He stopped and frowned slightly.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Trolley Tetris," I sighed, rolling my eyes, "Are you up for it or not?  All that stuff in one bag, payment processed in under three minutes and twenty-four seconds."
He looked a bit bewildered for a second while the two kids aged about eight and ten waiting in line behind me started to giggle.  Brad looked over my items, looked at the bag in his hand and then his vision cleared and he frowned in concentration.
"Challenge accepted!" he breathed, yanking the handle of the bag through the holder and getting to it like a well-oiled machine.
The kids behind me started to bounce on the spot and I started cheering him on, counting the time as he went.

"Oh no!" he cried, seizing the final item, a bottle of wine, "I'm not eighteen!  We have to go to the front counter!"
"That's okay just clear the payment docket!"
"TIME!" he yelled, slamming his hand down on the button to print my receipt.
"Three minutes twelve seconds, new record!!!"
We whooped like idiots; Brad, the kids and I, before loading my stuff in the trolley to head down to the front service desk.
"Congratulations Brad, you're not even eighteen and you're now the Coles Trolley Tetris champion.  How do you feel?"
"Pretty awesome, is there a medal?"
"Sadly not," I sighed, "But we're in discussions for sponsorship with management so who knows? There's hope for the future."
"Yes there is," he smiled, handing my docket over, "We might even look into getting a Best Customer Ever Award.  Thanks for that, you made my day."

I cannot help but feel that at some point I will either be committed or asked to stop shopping at Coles.  I don't see anyone else dancing, cheering, skimming trolleys or otherwise engaged in anything but insular behaviour.  Time to think about your place in the world and your impact on those around you people.  Get your headphones, grab a trolley and get some skin in the game.  And, if I am committed, do me a solid favour and show this blog post to the hospital so they let me out again.  I'm not crazy, just waging a war on misery.  Chiefly my own.

*  Particularly in December but I think we all get a hall pass for this one.  Too much tinsel, too many Mariah Carey carols, toy-hungry tantruming toddlers and don't even get me started on the advertising banners.
**  Names have been changed so people don't get into trouble.
*** Variously - I may crash and break myself, I may crash and break someone else, I may crash and break expensive broccoli or milk, etc.
**** People never stop to ask themselves whether they would be willing to pay an extra $2 a kilo for their deli goods if it meant there was one more person behind the counter so they were served in two minutes instead of three.  What is up with that?

Guide to Surviving Depression

It's been a rough, rough, rough trot and I'm by no means through it yet...but I'm doing so much better of late that it must be time to tempt fate.  Dah-dah-dah!  Presenting my guide to surviving depression.  I am by no means a guru but I've been through it, I've supported people through it, here's my take.

1.)  The big one.  Accept that it's happened to you.  I know.  You never get sad.  You're very social.  You are the one people go to for help.  So why is it that for the last two weeks you've been hiding under the covers, sobbing because your sheets have faded more than your pillowcases and they no longer match?  Why are you ignoring the phone and only answering the door when the cops come around because people at work are concerned that you don't show up anymore and sorry Sir/Ma'am just checking that you're...um...okay?  You've got the big D my friend and hiding won't save you.  You're also not going to just pull yourself together in the next 24 hours with the assistance of a triple shot of espresso.  Time to accept it.

2.)  Decide to survive.  Those who haven't had depression are thinking "duh".  Those that have are thinking "huh, easier said than done."  Here's the reality - suicide is as low as it gets on the depression curve and it's a very real threat.  Make a conscious decision early on that you are going to survive and go on to be a person who goes outside the house, maybe even to a place where you're gainfully employed and where you will spend a whole day not caring whether your bedding matches, what other people think about you or whether you're going to die alone.

There have been many, many moments in the last six months where I have thought to myself that I do not want to be like this for the rest of my life and that I would rather die here and now than feel like this forever.  The only reason I didn't?  Because I decided right at the start when it all started sliding downhill that that wasn't ever going to be an option for me.  And neither was staying in bed.  So first decide to live and then decide to get better. And then do something about it.

3.)  Do something about it.  I know.  You're consumed by waves of apathy.  It's overwhelming.  But you've got to start somewhere.  Get help.  For some, this will take the form of lovely little pills that will make ramming your car at high speed into solid concrete seem like a somewhat less attractive option.  It worked for me over ten years ago.  It didn't work this time.  A week into taking very low doses of the same drug I realised I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep and *ahem* couldn't do other fun stuff I really, really enjoy.  The pills had to go.  Instead I elected for the physical challenge - exercising my body into the ground so I could sleep at night and getting a counselor to deal with the mental stuff cluttering up my day.  Whatever you do, don't ignore it, it's not going away.

Ooo, while I think of it, some other things to remember on this interesting little journey.  Insider tips, if you will;

1.)  Your subconscious is a nasty little psychopath, knows all your secrets and is not on your side.  I read this theory when I was studying psychology about how a person's mind will store traumatic information about things they fear and/or have experienced, keeping it out of their immediate awareness until they are mentally equipped to deal with it.  Then, when they're strong enough and at a place in their life where they can deal with it, their mind will unlock the information in the form of memories and dreams, allowing the person to come to terms with their issues.  It's a lovely little theory and total BS.

If you have depression your giggling psychopathic subconscious is going to line up all yours fears, everything you're afraid of - even the stuff you thought was long-buried or stuff that you didn't even know existed and then it's going to use them like paint on a canvas to carefully illustrate your own personal Lovecraftian horror in live, technicolour-action.  This is no impressionist effort - we're going full on renaissance realism where the detail and symbolism will take your breath away.  Congratulations, you now have anxiety issues too.  Cheer up, there will come a day when you remember that you really don't care what anyone thinks of you and the chances of being bent naked over the podium of your former high school's hall in front of everyone you've ever known and smacked by *insert name of individual*  for being a very naughty girl while every single dirty little secret and deed you ever participated in* gets recited by *insert name of individual* are slim to none.  So stop sobbing your guts out into the mismatched pillows - it was only a freakin' dream and trust me, the subconscious has more.  This time spider/snake/bogey-man related.

2.)  Cut yourself some slack.  I never actually got post-natal depression but watching some of the mothers that did I couldn't help but wonder whether it was related to the sudden change of gears without the benefit of a clutch.  One day you're running a magazine, jet-setting all over the world to meet new and interesting people in a range of fabulous outfits - hair and makeup done to perfection.  The next you forgot to get out of your pyjamas because you're so damn tired, even though they're covered in what you hope is mashed pumpkin...but you forget.  Because you're so damn tired. The definition of success in the first four months of both my children's lives was this - we're all still alive at the end of the day and I had time to shower and change my clothes.  Anything after that qualified me for sainthood in my opinion.

Depression sucks all your energy away.  Unrealistic goals and expectations won't do anything but make it worse.  So dial the benchmark for success down to something that's achievable and don't be afraid to negotiate with yourself.  On my worst days I could not find the energy to make my daughter's school lunch - but I made deals with myself that her lunch order would be healthy and that I would find the energy to make her a healthy dinner.

3.)  You really aren't a bad person.  No, really.  I've spent a long time working to become the person I am.  I've faced the things I don't like about myself and made an effort to change them.  Generally this means I'm pretty confident and happy with who I am.  It also means I tend not to give a flying flibbertygibbet whether other people like me or not.  Depression giggled a lot at that and then screwed up my confidence and tossed it to the psychopathic subconscious for a blistering round of emotional hackey sack.  In the end I was so paranoid about what other people thought of me, particularly those I really love, that I seriously considered severing ties with everyone, moving to a foreign country on my own and living as a hermit.  What the hell is up with that???  Here's the deal - unless you actually have the remains of people you offed buried somewhere, chances are that you're not that bad.  Yes, really.

4.)  Set yourself up to succeed.  Aside from cutting yourself some slack and getting help, surround yourself with people who are of benefit.  If my counselor had been the sort to hold my hand, say "there, there" and sympathise with my plight, I would have strangled him with his own leather thong necklace quicker than you can say "here's the tissues, dear".  It's not the sort of thing I need to hear** because that sort of approach simply doesn't help me.  Mostly throughout this journey I needed to not be around people.  The people I did choose to be around were around because they knew what to say and when to say it.  It's hard to pick those people until you're in the mess of it.  Ironically the people I loved being close to the most were almost as broken as me because then we could make truly sick jokes about our misery and just giggle.  Sane, happy people tend to just look at you in horror when you do that.

5.)  The hardest thing of all - be selfish.  I've been at the end of the list for so long I forgot what it was like to be a priority in my own life.  But you can't save anyone from drowning if you don't know how to swim yourself.  I realised pretty early on that I had to recharge my batteries before I could resume the roles and obligations I'd happily been filling for so long.  It hurt to say no to things I would have said yes to once.  It hurt to tell people I just couldn't be there or I wasn't able to do that.  It hurt to decide that going to taekwondo two nights a week was more important than putting my kids to bed myself.  It's bad enough burdening those around you with your misery - it's worse to impose on them to do your work while you go and sort yourself out.  Even if you've happily shouldered their burdens for them when they were down and out.  Rather than think of it as selfishness, think of it as investing in your recovery so you can be there for the people you love a little further down the track.

As I said at the start, I am by no means better.  But the anxiety and misery last for shorter times and the periods in between are longer and longer.  I find myself in the quiet moments being content or happy for no reason instead of despairing.  I've become better at looking after myself and doing the things I need to do to stay healthy and happy.  Every day my guilt over that gets less although it's definitely still there.  I still don't know who I'll be at the end or what I'll be doing with my life.  I feel like I'm on the cusp of major changes but I don't know what they are yet.  And I'm okay with that too.  Should you ever find your feet on this path, be kind to yourself people.  You are loved and needed here on earth, even if you feel broken now.  And if you hang on for long enough I promise there will come a time when you feel whole again.

* Whether you were really into it or just trying it on for size because you really, really, really liked this guy and he didn't seem like a weirdo until right now when he asked you to do this.

**  And it's okay if you're the sort that does.  Although if you are, who are you and what on earth are you reading my blog for???

Happy Birthday To Me

My birthday has, for the last few years, sucked for one reason or another.  So this year I approached it with more than a little trepidation.  I wanted to give it the best possible chance of success but given the myriad of ways it's been miserable in recent years I was aware that it's almost impossible to formulate a successful plan given that the universe is a creatively cruel and unusual place...and my birthday seems to be the cosmic focus of the cruelness and unusuality*.

So this year when Charles suggested going down to my Dad's farm for the weekend, I only had a brief moment before I realised that here was the perfect opportunity to throw off tradition and thwart the expectation.  Go down to my Dad's farm.  Assume nothing will be done on my birthday but lying on a couch and occasionally rising to haul my children out of the pond.  How on earth can that possibly go wrong?

As a birthday present (because he was forbidden from buying me anything) my Dad treated us to dinner at the local Chinese the night before my birthday - this worked well for me.  30 June isn't the date that's cursed, after all.  And it was bliss.  Great food, great atmosphere, had a blast.  Home again and off to bed.  And then things took an ugly turn.  My sleep was broken by the sound of my small, distraught son depositing everything in his stomach onto his pillow.  A quick check of the clock as I threw him into a warm bath confirmed my worst fears.  Four minutes past midnight...happy birthday to meeeeee!

And so I spent the night cuddling a sick boy, waking up every hour and trying to get him to imbibe juice laced with Panadol.  By morning I was tired, sore and not really in the mood to party.  But I was optimistic.  Panadol had downgraded James from a hot, writhing ball of cyclonic fury to merely grumpy toddler status.  We could still save this.  We headed into town for some lunch and a spot of birthday shopping.  And this is where it all turned around.

I've been looking for a winter coat for months now but apparently thin felt is this season's only option material-wise and jacket patterns are designed for people shaped like bricks.  Since I refuse to fork out mega bucks to look like a felt-covered brick I've been gadding about in jackets three sizes too big.  Target Country was about to change all that because they had a gorgeous cream parka with fur-lined hood marked down by 25%.  And then when we actually got to the counter it was marked down further and I wound up paying a paltry amount for a jacket full of win.  Things were looking up.

My little girl, almost seven and obsessed with secrets, surprises and spoiling people, has clear ideas about how birthdays should be.  Mama's was not living up to it.  So I dropped super-broad hints about wanting my own mug for Opa's house and she darted off to the local variety score to pick something appropriate for the princely sum of $2.

Next we had to address James' particular fetish and that means cake.  Unwilling to spend much on something I don't really care for we headed to Woolies and here's where inspiration took hold.  I settled on a $5 sponge cake with cream filling.  The kids looked thoroughly disappointed in my miserable choice of cake until I announced the plan - I would coat it in chocolate ganache and they could decorate it any way they liked.  The happy was palpable and they quickly armed themselves with sprinkles and icing animals.


Back at the farm, my babies got to work.  

James, sick as a dog, was in his element.  No small boy can be expected to contain his saliva around chocolate ganache and cream...so watching him work was like watching Typhoid Mary bake scones for morning tea and I was convinced we were all going to catch whatever it was he was packing, but there was no way I was going to kill the only good thing that had happened to him since we landed.

They worked for ages, applying the dedication reserved for master cake artists commissioned by the queen. The concentration levels were through the ceiling.  Never before has the application of purple sprinkles been the subject of such intense and careful attention.

Finally prepared to call time, the icing on this cake was not the icing itself but being allowed to place the candles themselves anywhere they liked.

Best birthday cake EVER.

* A small part of me wonders if this interesting anomaly is related to the fact that my birthday is 1 July - the start of the new financial year.  Perhaps the concentrated animosity of 22 million Australians suspicious of legislative financial change that is enacted come 1 July has created some sort of ripple that is messing up my many happy returns?  Also?  I am aware that unusuality is not a word.  But it bloody well should be.

A Lesson in Etiquette

For those who know me personally you'll know that I have many passions in my life and one of those passions is burlesque.  Like so many things in my life it was Kat who introduced me and I went to my first class knowing barely anything about it.  I remember how horrified I was at the moves, the seduction - oh my how I blushed the first time I tied someone to a chair and shimmied my breasts in front of them.  But I quickly grew to love it and the reason I loved it was not just because of the way it makes me feel but because of the way I was introduced to it.  The awesome Ms Deb Delicious was my teacher - a woman so talented just watching her takes my breath away.  Better, she is beautiful of soul as well as of figure and she told us all that we could dance and be beautiful.  I believed her and it turns out she was right.

I am not a woman who has ever really had a lot of girlfriends.  My experience with others of the fairer sex was not positive going through high school and I tend to just get along better with guys in general.  Burlesque was the first time in my life where I landed in a room full of women who I genuinely liked.  No bitchiness, no nastiness, just loads of giggling, compliments and intimacy.  It was bliss.  We start each class by describing a sexy and an unsexy moment we've experienced during the week and boy the things that we talk about!  New boyfriends, new girlfriends, sickness, favourite clothes, bitchiness...the list of sexy and unsexy things is endless and revealing.

Burlesque has not been anything like what I expected from that very first day and it has come to mean a lot to me and to change me in unexpected ways.  You hear what they say about society poisoning our minds about our bodies but until the first moment where you genuinely fall in love with your body and what it can do you don't realise that you've secretly bought into the idea that you ought to look like a barbie doll and resigned yourself to a lifetime of ordinariness.  Burlesque made me wake up to myself.  It made me feel good about myself.  It gave me confidence.  I came to realise that it doesn't matter what shape you are, what colour your hair is or how big your breasts are; someone, somewhere thinks you are the hottest thing since the sun first burst into the sky.  And that hotness is only magnified if you believe in yourself and carry yourself with confidence.  Burlesque is the reason I have moments where I believe I am beautiful and desirable.  It has given me self-confidence beyond any understanding of the word I ever had before I started to dance.

My burlesque school is small and intimate.  None of us look like Playboy models.  None of us are professional dancers.  What we are is a group of smart, animated women who gather to practice our bumps and grinds, make our costumes, giggle and gossip.  For me burlesque is a sacred space.  I go there and share my tragedies and triumphs through my sexy and unsexy moments.  I've cried with these women in some pretty dark moments and they've held me.  I've danced with them and admired everything about their beautiful faces, minds and bodies.  I've loved every damn minute of every class I've ever been to and it's not because I get to take my clothes off and gyrate - it's because these fantastic women love me just as I am and wouldn't have me any other way.

A few weeks ago the girls gave an incredible performance and I was there with Kat to cheer them on.  They were so funny, sexy and brilliant.  I screamed myself hoarse.  It was an incredible, amazing show that left them all high.  I know how much it took for some of them to get up there and do it - reveal themselves, put it out there, dance their hearts out in daring costumes for people they don't even know.  They deserved to be lauded and applauded purely for trying.  The fact that they were so damn good at it was icing on the cake.

Unfortunately not everyone feels the way I do.  Today I found out that some people on Facebook decided to write horrible things about our little group and its performers.

To me, it's water off a duck's back.  Ironically these classes and the beautiful Miss Deb are the reason I care not a jot for these people or anything they have to say.  Nothing can touch the love I have for these women or the confidence I have in myself thanks to them.  But watching poor Miss Deb struggling to hold back her tears while she talked about it today made me powerfully angry.  Generally I think that people who have to say those sorts of things about others do so because of a flaw in their own character.  Insecurity, jealousy, whatever it may be and I don't think any attention should be given to them or the poison they leak into the world.

But you hurt someone I care a great deal for and so I've decided to write this post so I can say this...

There are not enough people in this world willing to give their all and bare themselves to others in the hope of achieving connections and building relationships.  It takes guts to put yourself on a stage in a skimpy costume, dance your heart out and trust that the audience will treat you with respect.  It is bloody hard and a damn sight braver than sitting on a computer criticising the work of others from a safe emotional distance.

I like to think that this behaviour was a thoughtless moment in time - a product of distance between the person who wrote those things and the people they were writing about.  Let's close that distance and put it in a nutshell folks - you broke the heart of a beautiful woman who has brought nothing but joy and confidence to countless women who really needed it - some of us in our most desperate hour of self-loathing and need.  You need to have a good, long think about that and reconsider your actions and their impact on others.  And, just in case you still don't get it, I've dumbed it down to a level you might actually understand;

For the rest of you?  If you do ever go to see a show, cheer your guts out...not just for the awesome moves and the beautiful bodies but for the bravery of those who are willing to put it all out there for your viewing and entertainment pleasure.  Be a positive force in this world people.

Who I really am

It feels like a long, long time since I wrote anything here and that's because it has.  I've been ignoring the emails, the IMs and the phone calls although I am very grateful to know there are (or were) regulars who love reading my blog.  It's not that I've had nothing to say it's just that first of all I'm too busy to say it and second, life has been dark for some time now and I'm the sort of person who believes that people go to a blog to escape their own misery, not to vicariously experience yours.  Plus, I never was into self-pity.

I know I've largely dropped off the map the last few months.  No social engagements, few obligations...all my energy has been channeled into keeping me and my small family going.  You can't be cooking pumpkin soup for sick relatives when your kids are wearing the same school uniform for the fifth day in a row.  When you're running from school drop off to work, to the shops, back to the schools and then home to tackle four hours of domestics on your own you quickly realise your energy has to come from somewhere other than food and sleep alone.  So I've been using any time I can beg, borrow or steal to do things that make me happy and I also took the liberty of getting a counselor (more on him later).

Anyway, I remember in one of our sessions I told my counselor (whose name is Jonathon) that my biggest fear is that I don't know who I am any more.  Jonathon is extremely cool and likes to ask direct questions that cut through bullshit faster than a chainsaw through butter.  He immediately wanted to know why not knowing who I am concerns me.  Because, I said, everything I used to do that defined me is gone.  I don't know the person who's come to take the place of what got burned out and left behind.  I don't know what she likes, I don't know who her friends are, I don't know what she's going to be doing next week.  Frankly it's kind of scary.  I feel like a shell that might become something one day, but I don't have a clue what it will be.

A good place to start is doing things that make you happy, says Jonathon and I tell him I have that one covered.  Selfish is the new black apparently.  He laughs and says if you're doing 90% of everything in your household anything you do for yourself isn't selfish it's mandatory.  Okay, I say, anyway, here's my list, replicated here for your viewing pleasure.  It includes, but isn't limited to the following;

Burlesque
Swing dancing
Lots and lots and lots of martial arts
Socialising with totally inappropriate people
Other things too scandalous to mention but can be briefly summarised as "ongoing attempts to wake people out of their suburban stupor and remind them that not only are they alive but there are more important things to do with your day than bitch about who stole your newspaper."

Jonathon blinked at me once I'd finished the list, sighed and asked me whether I realised that he always has to have at least three cigarettes and a bit of a lie down after our sessions.  No, I didn't realise that, I reply, why on earth is that?  He laughs and says it's not every day you meet someone who freely admits they're riding the edge of death and has rather decidedly said fuck you and fuck your anti-depressants I'm going to focus on becoming the coolest chick on the planet as my therapy and fix myself on my fucking own. (Jonathon says fuck a lot, another reason I really like him.)


I must have looked a bit bemused because he laughed, shook his head and said I might not feel like I know who I am but it's not that I'm a new person or a shell that might become a new person.  Rather I've simply ceased pretending to be someone else and decided to be who I really am and no one else.

If that's true, I said, why do I still feel so miserable?  And why do I feel like I don't recognise myself in the mirror?

Because, he replied, you just don't realise what you've done yet.  But you will eventually and then you'll see that you've used what you call your trial by fire to burn away everything that's unnecessary, everything that's holding you back, all the bullshit obligation, niceties and formalities and now you're down to the core - which I think you'll find is tempered steel in the shape of someone you quite like being with a life that's bloody fun to live.

At the time I was spectacularly dubious, despite my respect for the chain smoking, filthy-mouthed, uber-cool Jonathon.  But tonight as I sorted the washing I was thinking to myself how much time I waste getting ready to go anywhere and I realised how totally inefficient it is to order my wardrobe by tops, bottoms, pyjamas, etc.  Five minutes into sorting all my clothes and my various accessories into "burlesque", "martial arts and boxing", "work" and "casual wear" I started to laugh.  I'm still tired and running on almost nothing but Jonathon's right, I'm finally myself and it's someone I really like.  Mother, wife, friend, daughter, arse-kicking stripper extraordinaire.  And I'm back blogging.  So stop harassing me.