So this happened to me today

This morning, I got up nice and early to do some fulfilling chores - you know, unstuck the dishwasher, two loads of washing, feed the animals etc, took Harry to school, dropped off the dry cleaning and I was at the gym by 8.30, knowing I would be done by 9.30 and be able to get some 'work' done.  In a desperate attempt to lose the remaining two kilos of the three I added to my frame in a recent trip to France I have been exercising a lot, have not had an alcoholic drink for more than a week and before that only on weekends,  and have  reduced food intake.  It shits me that it only takes three weeks to put on three kilos but at this rate will take 6 months to take off.  Once I lose those two kilos, I still have to lose the two I wanted to lose BEFORE we went to France.


My gym gear is a little bit tighter than usual, as is to be expected.  So after the gym (thighs burning, heart racing, face red) I popped into the local jewellery store to look at some lapis lazuli to enquire about them making a bracelet to replace the one I lost recently. I hadn't been into the store for some time. As I walked in, the proprietor, with whom I am on first name terms, greeted me warmly and said, in a very loud voice ' I can see you're back from your trip to France' while patting her stomach. 

FML

Gratitude

There has been a great deal of research into the positive effects of gratitude - not just for those who practice it and express it, but for those on the receiving end of a simple 'thank you'.  I always make sure I say thank you, whether at home or at work.

Motherhood has been described from time to time as a thankless task, and this weekend just gone, I had one of 'those moments', (actually it wasn't a moment; it lasted almost 48 hours) when I was so overwhelmed by the lack of consideration, respect and just downright lack of acknowledgement, let alone gratitude,  from my husband and children, that I fell into a very bad place, depressed, angry and resentful.

That  changed a bit today - not because of anything my husband or children did; I don't expect that to change in an instant.  No, my Dear Old Dad, 90,  who lives nearby and whom I have been cooking and providing other support since  my mum died over two years ago, wrote me a short, but heartfelt letter, expressing his love and gratitude for 'all you have done for me over the last two and a half years'.  He says thank you to me every day - he clearly felt the need to write it down today and it meant so much to me today of all days.  He was unaware of what I had been feeling at home.

Of course, it made me cry, but happy and grateful tears rather than the useless tears of rage and resentment  that have been falling for the last 2 days.

Say thank you to someone in your life.  It will make a huge difference to them.

We all need to be proud to call ourselves feminists

There has been so much written on the subject of sexism, misogyny and feminism of late. Three cheers to Tracey Spicer for her excellent piece on The Hoopla recently.

It concerns me however that in a lot of the comments, tweets and discussions, a number of women start their comment with 'I'm not a feminist, but' or 'I'm not am avid feminist, but' while agreeing with the writer or commentator about the deplorable state of affairs for women.

I became a feminist at the age of eight, when I was expelled from Brownies for refusing to earn my badges for sewing, craft, and various other 'feminine' pursuits. Actually it was probably writing 'Brown Owl is a bum' in chalk on the footpath after getting into trouble for that attitude that got me expelled but I took a stand. You see the Brownie hut was next door to the Scout Hut and they got to build fires and canoes. I didn't understand why I couldn't do that. I can still build the BEST fire but don't ask me to sew on a button.

From a young age I was aware of discrimination - at high school being made to do Mothercare lessons (FFS) which again I eventually refused to do. I went to university and studied law. In one of my first lectures the make lecturer told us how much a degree would be worth over the course of our careers, but added it wasn't as important for the female students because we could always just marry a lawyer. My complaint to the Dean went nowhere.

The thing is this - no woman should be embarrassed about being a feminist, or worry about being labelled a feminist. Being a feminist is terrific, and is not am exclusive club.

EVERY woman who believes that equal work deserves equal pay is a feminist.

EVERY woman who believes workplaces should not be places of fear just because of your gender is a feminist.

EVERY woman who believes promotion should be on merit and nothing else is a feminist.

EVERY woman who believes that girls in Afghanistan and Pakistan deserve the right to go to school is a feminist.

EVERY woman who believes that women have the right to choose whether or not to have a baby is a feminist

EVERY woman who believes no one should suffer through a violent relationship out of fear and want to help that woman is a feminist.

You don't need to be feisty about it, grow armpit hair, hold placards or write articles. You can call it as you see it without the need to apologise for your views. You can do it quietly or loudly. You just need to do it.

You don't need to be an ALP supporter to applaud the Prime Minister for her recent speech. It's a speech I have made (not in those exact words of course) and wanted to make many times.

There are lots of disagreements amongst feminists about what it takes to be one and they are always interesting discussions. These are my simple rules. I think we're all feminists and I'm proud to be one.




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Back to reality with a thud

So after a fabulous holiday spent in France with friends, I came back to earth (home) with a great big fucking thud.

* got on the scales and discovered an additional 3 kilos
* chained myself to the laundry for about three days
* call to RACQ to replace battery on third car teenaged daughter drives which had died some five days before
* Call to computer repair man to collect home PC which had shat itself a week before and refused to even turn on
* a mountain of mail to open sort file and pay
* start organising for 12 year old's school trip to Canberra
* mum my credit has expired on my phone
* mum my credit has expired on my go card
* mum how do you do x, y z etc
* mum where's my a, b, c etc
* mum can you help me do my assignment that was due 2 weeks ago etc

I realised one day when I was up to my elbows in Mr Muscle cleaning the oven, that only a week before I had been sitting down to a fabulous long lunch with about a vat of French wine about to be consumed


Sigh...

AMFYOYO


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How to celebrate 50 years of living

I love parties. I love organising parties for other people. But in the case of my own 50th, I didn't want to organise a party for myself. I spoke to a friend, also turning 50, and she felt the same.

I have long been a Francophile- I mentioned that I wanted nothing more than to celebrate my 50th in France. Count me in, she said.

So after many months of searching I found this:














It is called Chateau de Siorac and you can see the whole delightful chateau at www.chateaudesiorac.com. It is close to Perigueux, the capital of the Dodogne area of France, famous for its river, castles, and more importantly, food. It is the truffle and foie gras capital of the world. And you can buy real champagne off the shelf at the supermarket!! For a song.

The chateau is owned by a couple who had been living (and working too hard) in NYC. They are not American and I'm not sure why that's important but it is. They bought and renovated the chateau, originally built in the 16th century, and live in a cottage on the grounds, giving up their very impressive careers for a life in the French countryside. I can see the attraction. It is beautiful and has been faithfully restored and has an interesting history. It has 6 bedrooms and bathrooms, a baronial dining room, several living areas and HUGE kitchen, also with room to seat 12. And it has not one but two towers. Believe it or not, leaving aside the airfares to get there, it was cheaper than two weeks at Noosa.

So The Lawyer and I had two heavenly weeks there- the first week with four other couples, and the second with my siblings, their spouses and some mutual friends.

We saw lots of ancient towns, bridges, rivers and castles.


























And we did a lot of this:





















Of course in order to leave, i had to prepare a four page spreadsheet of what was happening with the children, cook meals for them and Dear Old Dad, but it was worth it. We laughed. Oh how we laughed every single day. We ate beautiful food, drank beautiful wines, saw beautiful sights and carried on like silly persons.

It was the best birthday ever



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My 'baby'

I am sitting in hospital this morning with my 'baby' who is having some minor oral surgery today. He is having some teeth removed mainly because i am a dentaphobe and want him to be fast asleep while any hideous dental procedure is done. But it is a horrible feeling watching one of your children go under.

My 'baby' is almost thirteen. He will turn 13 just before my eldest turns 20 so I will have four months of having three teenagers in the house. *shudders. Apparently mothers who continue to refer to their youngest child as their 'baby' may do so until they are middle aged. I hope so!

I never really intended having a third child. The Lawyer always wanted a third but I am one of those people who hated being pregnant, as nice as the end result is. I suffered terribly with migraine headaches and heartburn during my pregnancies. And having had post natal depression after my second (anally retentive control freak having two babies is a recipe for disaster) I didn't want to go through that ever again. So all in all I was not keen.

But after some pressure from the person who doesn't have to gestate a baby, get heartburn, migraine headaches, heat rash, breast feed, give up his career etc etc etc, I gave him ONE shot at it. ONE. I went off the pill for one month only. Both previous children were obtained from small doses of ovulation inducing drugs so I was fairly confident that it wouldn't happen.

When, about 4 weeks later I started salivating excessively ( some pregnancy symptoms are weird and this was the giveaway for me before anything else) I went and got the home pregnancy test knowing and dreading what it would say.

And you know what? When that little line came up telling me I was pregnant, all of that fear, uncertainty and dread disappeared. I was so inexplicably excited. I was having another baby! We had friends who were horrified that we would go back but there you have it. We were having a third child.

Even though I had given away every item of baby paraphernalia, and clothing and had to start again, here I was at almost 40 about to have a baby. Turns out, it was the easiest of pregnancies. I had a 4 and 6 year old who were at the stage of dressing themselves, cleaning their own teeth, using their opposable thumbs effectively, and it was a busy time. So busy I didn't really have time to think about being pregnant and HAVING ANOTHER BABY.

He was to be born on 4 January 2000 by c-section. Remember the Y2K drama? All I was worried about was not having an anesthetist with drugs available because all of everything was going to shut down at midnight before the new year. Turns out I wasted a perfectly good worry, as did everyone.

I had 18 people for lunch Christmas day that year. 10 days before my new baby was to be born. As you do.

On boxing day it hit me. I was having another baby. My others were about to turn 5 and 7. What the hell was i doing? Did I have everything I needed? I couldn't remember how to change a nappy. I remembered the thermo nuclear explosion in the nipples in the first few weeks of breast feeding and went cold. How was I going to get my others to school and pre school with a new baby? What if he or she was awake all night? What if the other children hated the new baby?.

On the way to hospital I started shaking and crying. I don't know why. Once at hospital and prepped, The obstetrician was worried that I was worried about his skill (hey, narcissists, everything is not about you!). I couldn't explain it. The Lawyer was forlorn not understanding and I just couldn't explain it.

Next thing I remember I had a beautiful baby boy in my arms. I have no memory of the epidural the surgery or any conversation during the surgery. I don't understand that either. Fear and anxiety made me almost unconscious it seems.

And all of a sudden nothing else mattered. Other than the fact that I had very fat babies and he had incredibly skinny legs which I noticed for some reason. He was the easiest of babies. Slept through the night at 12 weeks (although his big sister did so at 6 weeks, which really set up high expectations). Fitted in to whatever was happening. His brother and sister adored him. Could watch him while i did other things - hell my daughter even was able to bottle feed him. And she could read to him. We moved house when he was 4 weeks old. As you do. I supervised building a new house which we moved into when he was 11 months old. As you do. And I went back to work when he was 8 months old- And all the while he smiled and laughed and kept everyone entertained. And I did not once get that feeling of being low let alone depressed.


As he got older difficulties I wasn't expecting arose- sometimes it was like two generations in the one house and there was a constant refrain 'hurry up Harry', 'keep up Harry' from his siblings. He has of late been the constant butt of teasing from his older siblings but I just keep telling him he will soon be taller than both of them and they'll be scared of him and that it will make him very tough and resilient.

I adore all of my children. They are all different and all have fine qualities and are growing up to be good people. Although being tidy is not a skill any of them have. Of all my children my 'baby' is the one, for some reason, who is most sensitive to my moods. He can tell if I am sad, worried or anxious. He asks if i need help with anything. On my first mothers day after my mother died his card wishing me a happy mothers day referred to my mum being with us in spirit. I hadn't said anything to anyone about my feelings about that mothers day. He thanked his teacher for coming on school camp, acknowledging that she had two children of her own that she had to leave behind to come to camp with them. His grade 4 teacher wrote on his report card that 'he has a kind heart, and is always first to offer help to those students who need it'. He volunteered to buddy up for a whole year with a severely autistic boy in the class and just shrugged off teasing from the other kids for being his friend. He told me everyone deserves to have at least one friend. He was the only one to invite that boy to a birthday party that year. And he gave me a new, if limited, understanding of how hard it must be for parents of children anywhere on the autism spectrum.

So he is turning 13 in the New Year and I am very glad I gave The Lawyer that one shot at the third child. He completed our little family and makes my heart swell.





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How not to take up Yoga

I am generally regarded by my nearest and dearest, and sometimes by people I meet for the first time,  as a stressed and anxious person.  I have learned to accept this – most of the time. I cope and cope and cope, take on more and more until I get that 'oh oh' feeling, realise I am over stressed and over anxious and have a small-medium meltdown. Occasionally these are witnessed, but usually I have them on my own because that's how stoic copers are meant to be.  I never have a nervous breakdown - I prefer to think of them as perfectly calm breakdowns.

Every New Year’s eve, my New Year’s resolution is to 'be serene'.  And every year, I fail miserably at being able to relax and take things easy.  Usually by January 3rd.  

The physical consequences of being a stress bunny is that my body reacts to this by tightening all the  muscles in my neck and shoulders, which builds up to the point where the referred pain from my neck turns into a migraine headache of massive proportion resulting in me taking handfuls of large pills, usually downed with alcohol in an attempt to get away from the pain.

I have tried many things over the years to learn how to relax.  I once went to a relaxation class and had such a bad panic attack when my body actually started to go into relaxation mode that I had to run away and never go back.

I have tried acupuncture, massage, meditation and a variety of other things, but the simple fact of the matter is this is who I am, and I generally just have to try and deal with it.

A very dear friend of mine came up with a brilliant suggestion recently of a way I could both relax and stretch all my muscles so that I would not be 'in so much pain'.  'Have you tried yoga?' she asked me.  I had in fact tried yoga once a long time ago and enjoyed it.  And lost three kilos without much effort.   She invited me to go with her to her Bikram yoga class.  I did not know what Bikram yoga was.  She said it was a yoga class done in a room heated to 37°; the theory being that the heat in the room allows you to stretch muscles more.  Seriously, another problem of mine is that if I decide to take something on, I generally take on the most difficult way of doing something to prove I can do it.  So Bikram yoga it was.

I bought my special yoga mat, dressed in specially purchased yoga pants and crop top  and took my water bottle with me.  In hindsight, I should have taken three water bottles with me. 

I went in with my friend, who explained to the person at the counter that I was new and was just wanting to try out the class casually that first time. I was smiled at beatifically, in that 'I'm a relaxed yoga aficionado' kind of way.    I noticed an odd smell and mentioned this to her.  She said that is one of the downsides of yoga being done in, effectively, a sauna, was that people sweated a lot, and that the room was carpeted, so it did smell of body odour and sweat.  'But you get used to it' she said.  Great.  So into the room we went.  It was so hot.  I thought I was going to faint even before the class started. Just from the stench alone.  However, I am not a quitter. I am NOT a quitter.

The other thing I did not realise apart from the smell is that the class went for 90 minutes, not an hour.  I took my watch off – I did not want to look at it.  I did manage to do the class quite 'easily' for the first 45 minutes.  Then my head started to spin.  My heart started to race and I thought I was going to throw up. I looked around at all the seemingly calm, sweating lithe and loose class members who all seemed to be coping just fine, even though half naked and dripping with sweat.  Apparently, it is frowned upon to leave the room during the class as it disturbs other people who are in some sort of sauna zen zone.  The instructor was not happy when I put my hand up to ask if I could leave the room, and indicated that it was best to try and breathe through the discomfort.

‘Really, would you rather I vomited in here or in the bathroom?'  Subtlety is not one of my strengths, especially when told I can't do something.

I opened the door to leave the room and the relief of the cool air outside was overwhelming.  But I had a brief rest outside the room and went back in and finished the class.  Just.  I managed the half moon pose, the awkward pose, camel, rabbit, cobra and locust.  The tree, the triangle and the balancing stick pose.  Amongst others.

When I came home and got on the scales, I had lost 600 grams, which I thought was just terrific.  Forgetting about my neck pain, I thought it was worth doing Bikram yoga just for the weight loss benefit.  However of course that 600 grams went back on as I drank my own body weight in water during the course of the rest of the day.  Unfortunately, one of the side effects of Bikram yoga is that because I became so dehydrated after 90 minutes of exercising in a sauna, I developed a migraine headache in the early afternoon and was a complete write-off for the rest of the day. Even with the gallons of water after the class.

I rang my friend and said I did not think Bikram yoga was for me.  She asked me to give it a go one more time, because it was so good and she loved it so much that she was sure I would learn love it, and it would be SO good for me.

So back I went the next week, with two bottles of water. 

I managed to last the distance without having to leave the room this time.  That was mainly because the male instructor that week was a very attractive young man wearing tight red swimming trunks, which as the class progressed and as he got sweatier and sweatier meant that the contents of his red swimming trunks were very obvious for all to see – shape, colour, size and texture.

Where was I?  Sorry – I just got sidetracked.

But once again, after I got home, and got on the scales and got excited about the immediate weight loss benefits, my head started pounding, and I was in bed for the rest of the day with a migraine headache.

So Bikram yoga is not for me. I just have to work on that 'being serene' thing myself.  Just as soon as I get through that long list of things to do for other people.

AMFYOYO

My dad heads into his 10th decade

My DOD (dear old dad) turned 90 last week. 90!!!!!




He was born in 1922 (obviously), the eldest of three sons born to his parents in central Queensland. His father was an Anglican priest, who served for 60 years in the one Diocese.


DOD was born between two world wars. He has lived through a depression, and a world war. He was in training in Brisbane when much to his commanding officer's chagrin, he was excused to go back to work at the commonwealth bank where he had been working, largely because of his expert maths brain.

He has seen the decline of modern civilisation as we know it, with the introduction of computers and automated customer service answering machines. Note to insurance companies and government agencies - it is really hard for old people to negotiate listening to instructions and either having to press 1 or 2, or say in a few words what they are calling about. It sucks for middle aged people, so near impossible for a 90 year old.

He himself became a priest, much to my grandparents delight, and just recently celebrated his own 60 years' service to the Anglican church.

He has experienced all the joys and sorrows of life - he and mum were married for 56 years when she died suddenly and unexpectedly two years ago. She was 10 years younger than dad. Their first child was stillborn, something my mother never recovered from, nor I suspect him. They had three healthy children, and nine grandchildren. He was and still is estranged from one of his brothers who withdrew from the family after his marriage, another sorrow.





That's me the really cute, little one, on daddy's lap.

Being a priest he has shared the joys and sorrows of his parishioners and friends as well, officiating at many marriages, baptisms and funerals, and providing support and faith when needed.

But first and foremost he was our Dad.

'Anyone can be a father but it takes someone special to be a Dad'


He taught us to read, play cards, play scrabble, other board games, the importance of family and to treat others well. And the art of delayed gratification - we were not allowed to open our Christmas presents until after we had been to church on Christmas Day.



He lived a life of service to others, yet we children were a priority. We didn't realise it at the time, but we were so lucky to have a dad who worked from home. As a parish priest, his office was at home. He didn't spend all his time in his office of course, but many times I came home from school and had afternoon tea in the office. Mum never worked until we started high school and even then was always home in the afternoons. Dad set very high standards - grammar and punctuation were and still are very important. Many a time he wrote letters to our teachers correcting THEIR spelling or grammar (oh the embarrassment). Our education was an absolute priority and we never took it for granted.

Very high standards were also set for our behaviour. Sometimes it was tough having to live up to his expectations as well as those of the parishioners. I am the youngest. Dad often introduced me to people as his youngest and naughtiest, with just a little hint of pride in his voice - I always seemed to be in trouble for something and if I wasn't enjoying chocolate cake and milk after school in the office I was being sent in there for a stern lecture for some transgression.

Most importantly we children always knew that mum and dad were a united front. It was never any use trying to get one to agree to something the other had refused. They backed each other up, and if they had any battles or difficulties in their marriage we never knew of it. Money was scarce, and yet we never really wanted for anything - unlike my own children and their friends in this generation who are horrified not to have the latest iPhone. I recall my mother telling a friend in my last term of school that she was going to treat herself to a new dress after many years of nothing new to wear.

Although he 'retired' more than 20 years ago he still attends church every Sunday and special saints days, and never in the congregation. He is always in the sanctuary participating in the service in some way. He will officiate at the wedding of one of his grandsons in December this year.

I am sure I have been a disappointment to him by not attending church regularly, but he would never tell me that. I know he prays for me. I attend church every now and then, more out of a sense of obligation than faith, but it makes him happy. He has never shown anything but love to all of us so it is a small thing to do. And seeing his absolute faith in God especially since Mum died, has been of enormous comfort to me and my siblings.

Since mum died, he has been amazing. It was a terrible time, and yet, also the best of times. My brother and sister and our children all gathered around. He was never alone for a moment that first 10 days, and there was a lot of laughter as well as tears that week. It was natural for us to do this and yet I see or hear of so many elderly people who are alone or lonely but with family nearby. He and his cat Oscar adjusted to a new life alone, then moved house after a few months to live closer to me ( now living in his own home at the end of my street rather than a 50 minute drive away).




He manages pretty much everything on his own other than his evening meal. In 56 years of marriage he didn't really cook a meal other than sausages and eggs, so I now conduct my own 'meals on heels' delivery service or he eats with us. My boys put the bins down, and we run errands when needs be. When he goes to stay with my sister a couple of times a year, we feed the gorgeous Oscar twice a day, and DOD worries about him being lonely. If it is raining on a Tuesday which is his washing day I do his laundry (routine is important). I have introduced him to Foxtel, and Foxtel IQ. sometimes I have to remind him how to do the new tricks this old dog has learnt but that's OK. Most importantly, I see him almost every day, and if I don't see him, we talk every day. Most days, we engage in a card game called cribbage.




He delights in winning and delights even more in winning by a large margin. His laugh, even at my expense, makes me happy. I lose on average two games out of three. I'm keeping score (competitiveness one other thing we learnt).

I feel so privileged to be able to spend all this time with him. Even though he is eternally optimistic, happy, and quick to overcome obstacles, I would do everything for him if he was cantankerous, grouchy and ungrateful. Because he's my Dad.

And I hope he gets to celebrate many more birthdays.







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So did I do the right thing or the wrong thing?

I am a believer in performing random acts of kindness - for people I know or complete strangers, it matters not. I get a wonderful feeling when I have helped someone who needs it without being asked.

So late Wednesday afternoon as the rain started to fall, I poured a glass of wine, reclined on the couch, assuming that Harry's soccer training would be cancelled. Call me a bad mother but not having to get in the car to drive one of my 3 children anywhere has become the highlight of my life. However it was not to be. My phone went 'bing' and there was a text from the team manager. Although it was raining, the boys would be having fitness training, on the concrete, underneath the clubhouse. Fuck fuck fuck ( I should add that when Harry came home later he was soaking wet, and muddy and shivering so I'm not sure how much of the fitness training was under cover)

Anyhoo - back to my random act of kindness.

After I resentfully dropped Harry off knowing I had to get up off my arse in an hour to pick him up, I noticed a young man, in school uniform, walking with hunched shoulders against the now bucketing rain. I wound down my window and asked him if he needed a lift home. His eyes lit up and accepted and was very profuse in his thanks. He got in the car, and I offered him my phone, and asked if he wanted to call anyone to let them know he was getting a lift home but he declined. It would have been a 20 minute walk home given the distance and we chatted - he was in year 12, hoping to get into engineering etc etc. He asked about my son and soccer. We got to his house and he once again thanked me for the lift home.

I had a warm and fuzzy feeling. Until The Lawyer got home. I told him about my random act of kindness. He was furious with me. He said he would be livid If either of our sons accepted a lift home with a complete stranger (no matter how cute). He could not believe I had put myself in danger offering a lift to a young man I didn't know.

He went on and on and on. I see his point but I was completely deflated. I want to find that young man and shake him and say 'what were you thinking?'. I want to shake my husband and say 'what an awful world we live in where I can't feel like I can offer a lift to a kid, albeit a grown up kid, a lift home in the rain'. What have we become?

So did I do the right thing? Was he overreacting? What would you have done?

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How did I become a slave in my own palace?

I have three delightful children. When I say delightful I mean this description comes to me from other people with whom they have come into contact because usually at home they are not what I would describe as delightful. Unless there is only one of them home at a time. Which doesn't happen very often.


Anyhoo, it is school and university holidays at present. Which seems to involve a lot of lying about on couches, watching tv, playing the x box, Wii, or on a laptop 'talking' to friends.  It does not, however appear to involve anyone asking the very simple yet effective question 'would you like me to help you with anything, mum?' as I run around like a blue arsed fly catering meals, ensuring that the jeans they wore for two hours are washed clean again, driving them hither and yon, and generally being a doormat.


To be fair, Harry my youngest, has now taken to asking this question because yesterday I lost my mind, screamed and stamped my feet so much I had a small bladder leakage problem, and stormed off, sending myself to my room.


The reason for this outburst was something which has happened before many times but I had reached the limit of my endurance. HOW DID I BECOME A SLAVE IN MY OWN PALACE????!!!


I was out taking Billy to have his first drivers licence test (in qld they like everyone to do it twice it seems) and had to leave a load of washing to finish. Elle was on her way home from the boyfriend's house where she had spent the previous two days so I called her and told her that there was washing in the machine and asked her to hang one of the flannelette sheets over the patio table in the full sun seeing as the clothes line didn't get much sun.


When I got home she had hung said flannelette sheet out - and the washing machine was still full of wet sheets and dooms covers. Wtf? Her excuse was that she thought I wanted the rest to go into the dryer. So why not put them in? I lost it. Both boys were by this stage on couches tvs on, she was in her bedroom which looks like a candidate for hoarders. 'I could be married to you if you're going to be so thoughtless' I screamed at her. Oh dear that's a bit of a giveaway.


I flounced off to cool down of a few minutes. They all looked slightly terrified I was going to have an aneurism.


I reeled off a list of jobs. Washing to be hung out. Dry washing to be brought in and folded. Bins to be brought up from the road. Recycling to be taken out. Three animals to be fed. Mail to be collected. And I shouted 'I refuse to be a slave in my own palace'. Then just for good measure I added, with a tiny bit more shrill in my voice 'and I am having the tattoo on my forehead that says 'doormat' removed.' then I poured myself a large glass of wine trying not to feel guilty about failing dry July on both the 1st and 2nd days of the month.


Seriously how did this happen? How did I allow my children to become these people. And my husband, who when I say 'could you put the kettle on' does just that and then wanders off. I seem to be responsible for everything big and small that needs doing. Well not anymore. I am going to get a poster made with my new slogan and put it up in each room of the house and start exercising my 'no' muscles


AMFYOYO

Step away from the buffet

I hate buffet meals. No I don't mean I dislike them a bit I really really hate them. The children and DOD (Dear Old Dad) however love a buffet so in a moment of good hearted weakness I joined the ultimate buffet club - our local football club, the Broncos Leagues club. I also joined up DOD - $7.50 For pensioners. Don't judge me. In order to escape from my neighbour's 80th birthday hell - I mean party, and I use that term loosely - I invented a family occasion today and suggested to DOD that we go to lunch at the Broncos. He was thrilled. I made the booking at midday in order to still get that afternoon rest in. For DOD of course. *coughs. It was packed. Full of people lining up to eat very average overpriced and reheated meals. DOD packed it in - soup, roast main and two desserts. I managed two glasses of wine ( so much for dry July), a plate of hideous Chinese like food, and a chocolate ice cream cone. Plus a few chocolate freckles. And chocolate bullets loathing myslf the whoie time The only good thing about this sort of lunch for DOD is that he can make himself a boiled egg for dinner and I can relax in the late afternoons But the place was packed. Not a table to be had. And as i lined up to get my overpriced overheated and average food there were many times I wanted to shout 'step away from the buffet' to those who clearly should not eat at this sort of 'all the crap you can eat' establishments. I could understand it if the food was priced for what it was but it wasn't. I watched one woman hold a large dinner plate with a selection of each of 10 different desserts. The confusion on her face when she came to the custard and ice cream was classic. Where would they both go? On the side, all over the top, or was a separate plate required? She finally settled on the separate plate. Delicious! As we were leaving we passed a table with an elderly lady in a wheel chair sporting a helium balloon with 90 in large numerals on it just to make sure everyone there knew she was 90. 'happy birthday' I said as I walked past. She gave me a look which said to me she would rather be dead than celebrating where she was Ugh AMFYOYO

Men and their hobbies

So far this weekend The Lawyer has spent a total of four hours attending to his little racing car which included washing it BEFORE he takes it o the track for a race day on Thursday. Only my spouse would wash a car before taking it to Lakeside raceway? Then today he spent another three hours collecting the boat from the dry dock it has been sitting in since September last year, in the vain hope that having it at a boat marina at some large rental fee might make him use it more. He's used it twice since Christmas. Now the large white elephant, I mean boat, is back on its trailer at the end of our driveway. I'm grateful there is no room for the racing car here - we could officially call ourselves trailer park trash. All I want him to do this weekend is change one bleeding light bulb but I'm guessing that will be forgotten. The thing is, I don't mind him having a hobby. Or even two. Actually he is one of those Lycra wearing Sunday morning bike riders as well, so that makes three. He works very hard. And his mother keeps reminding me that it's good for a man to have a hobby. Or in my case, three hobbies. I should have known of course given that when we were manacled together 26 years ago, he raced off shore power boats. My question is why do men's hobbies have to involve so much coin? I mean we have the boat, the car and an expensive road bike. Add to that the three cars the family has, three trailers that's an awful lot of registration fees. Then there's the fuel, the warehousing fees, tyres, servicing. It's a huge sum of money leaving aside the time involved in taking part in these hobbies. My needs are simple, mainly because I don't have time to have a hobby. I go to the gym a few times a week and have been known to collect a vast shoe collection. That's about it. The thing about cars and boats though is that once acquired (sweeping generalisation alert) men are on the lookout for the NEXT bigger or better car and or boat. I regularly catch The Lawyer on the Internet looking at what I call 'boat porn'. Meanwhile, I'm off to change a lightbulb. One day it will be my turn AMFYOYO

Saturday mornings and the selfish mother

I vaguely remember the days before children when one could lie in bed til whenever. Vaguely. I can't remember the last time I had a sleep in. Given that my eldest is now 19 it is probably 19 years... Anyhow in Brisbane it has been raining for a couple of days. I am a bad mother. This always gives me hope that Saturday morning sport will be cancelled. The forecast for today was patchy rain. NOT GOOD ENOUGH. My under 12 soccer playing son had to be at upper woop woop at 9.15 for a 10am kick off. Seriously, at 12 they need 45 minutes of warm up? At 7.30 this morning it was raining, just a little. I waited in vain for the text from the team manager to tell me that soccer was cancelled. My phone text alert went off at 8am telling me that while some fields were closed, there had not been much rain overnight at upper woop woop so the game was still on. Bugger Does that make me a bad and selfish mother? On another note my son is goalkeeper. I don't know about him but being the goalie's mother is VERY stressful. The team the played against today ( please note they were not 'versing' that team) was actually a team of one with a few other boys whose main task seemed to be to make sure No 10 had possession of the ball at all times. No 10 was taller than me, very thin and agile, could sprint the length of the field like nothing I've ever seen, and scored 2 goals. The final score was 2-nil. Sucks to be goalie and the goalie's mother.

The academy award for vomiting goes to...

I have three children. Two of the three children, the eldest and youngest, are expert vomiters. My oldest, Elle, has been able, from a very young age able to sense that she is feeling sick that it might result in her vomiting, and gets herself to either the bathroom or the kitchen sink and vomit neatly into a receptacle from which the vomit is easily removed. I applaud her for vomiting into the garbage disposal.

If she has been ill for some time, she will lie, Camille like, with a bucket beside her bed, and quietly and effortlessly be sick into the bucket without a single bit of spew spilling out of it. My youngest, Harry, is not quite that good, but almost as good, but fortunately has never been sick very often.

My middle child, Billy, however is completely different. If there is a way of vomiting to cause the most carnage in the house, he will find a way to do it. He has been known to stand at the door of his bedroom and say to me 'mum, I feel sick'. And as I am yelling at him to 'quick, go to the bathroom', he will stand and vomit on the carpet in the hallway, take three steps, vomit again, take another three steps and vomit again. This happened once, the afternoon of the morning in which I had spent several hundred dollars having the carpets shampooed. That night, I set him up in bed with six towels laid out over the side of the bed and on the floor beside the bed with the largest, widest receptacle I could find on the towels on the floor, and said to him 'if you feel sick during the night, just roll over and vomit into the bucket'. I heard him calling out in the night and went up to his room to find that sure enough he had rolled over to be sick, but had rolled in the opposite direction and had vomited down the wall on the other side of his bed. And onto the trundle bed underneath. He got his own bed, the trundle, the wall, the carpet, and various books and toys that had been MIA down the side of his bed. I stood there expecting some sort of TV show cameraman to appear from out of nowhere to film this scene for a comedy TV show. And wishing a fairy would appear to help me clean up the mess.

But the night that took the cake was the night this family will never forget. It went down in vomiting history. We call it the Night of the Long Spew. We had been to the local Italian restaurant for dinner to celebrate the end of yet another school term. Billy always asked for the spaghetti carbonara, and he always thought he would be able to finish the entire serve, which is enormous, and had never been successful. This particular night, he ate more than usual, and it was not until the end of the meal that I realised that he had four cans of Fanta as well. This was never going to end well. As we were all walking to the car, i noticed that he did not look well. I asked him if he was all right. He said he felt a bit sick. I turned to The Lawyer, and said 'I think Billy is going to be sick'. The Lawyer said that it was a short drive home and he would be all right. He's not normally like that. He normally assumes the worst. This has now been confirmed as the appropriate position to take

Meanwhile, my mother's intuition overtook my usual optimism and I had a baaad feeling about this. A Very Bad Feeling. We all got in the car with Billy leaning against the window, looking greener and greener. We had not gone 100 metres from the restaurant when he sat bolt upright and said 'I am going to be sick. I'm going to be sick'. The Lawyer shouted 'wind down the window'. As Billy pressed the automatic button to get the window down, he vomited into the glass, all the while holding his finger on the button, so that as the window slid down into the internals of the car door, the vomit went with it or overflowed into the car. The other two children started gagging because of the putrid smell. I started shouting at The Lawyer to drive faster to get home as fast as he could, but resisting the overpowering urge to do something violent for not listening to me. Again Billy said he was going to be sick again. The Lawyer shouted at him to lean his head out the window. He did this and vomited again. This time, it smeared down the outside of the car along the back window and onto the car travelling beside us.

By this time, I was also gagging. We got home, all five car doors opened. I raced Billy into the bathroom and put him under the shower fully clothed to remove the smell and remains of his dinner from his clothes and hair. The other two children ran to their rooms and slammed the doors shut. I stayed in the bathroom with Billy for some time to make sure he was all right. When I came out of the bathroom 15 minutes later, I went outside and The Lawyer was still standing outside, staring at the car still with all five doors open. Bits of Billy’s dinner were still dripping from the inside of the car. He looked at me and said 'well, I guess that’s settled then. We have to sell the car'. AMFYOYO

Meals on rotation

I thought that when I semi retired from the paid workforce I would have time for all sorts of endeavours. Driving to the beach for the day was one of them (failed). Serving home made cake and cold milos for afternoon tea while chatting to the children about their days was another (again, failed but because every afternoon from 3-6pm was spent driving, white knuckles clinging to the steering wheel as i ferried children from one thing to another.

But the one thing I really really really wanted to do most of all was cook interesting meals from scratch after reading all of the Donna Hay magazines I had, a large number of which were still in plastic wrappers.

I remember the night I realised I was in a cooking rut. It was a Tuesday. I called each of the darlings to the table for dinner and placed a chicken pasta bake casserole thingy in front of them. They all looked at it. Then at me. Elle said 'where's the spaghetti bolognaise?' 'what do you mean', I asked. 'It's Tuesday', she replied, 'we have spaghetti bolognaise on Tuesdays'.

Now I am an organised person. My kids love my spag bog as we call it. And when I cook it, I cook 4 kilos of mince into spag bog, and a pre-prepared sauce bottle has never made it near my scanpan pot. So I always have a full meal of cooked spag bog in the freezer and Tuesdays just happened to the most fucked up afternoon requiring an easily reheatable meal with minimal extras, eg cooking pasta. I'm not sure what happened that day - maybe I had run out - but they were devastated to not have their usual meal. It got me thinking about the meals I cooked, and the rut i was in. And I am pleased to report am still in.

Spag bog - as previously advised. The Lawyer however claims that he can't face spag bog after eating it every week ever since our first child was about two. So that would be 17 years. I understand his feelings but I will not cook two meals any more.
Sausage casserole - a recipe handed down from my MIL, which I think I do better than her. Thick tomato gravy. Delicious with lashings of mashed potato. But Elle says it makes her feel sick so I have to make sure there is always leftover spag bog for her. And Billy loves sausage casserole for breakfast
Beef and kumara curry from taste.com.au (and in the slow cooker). Easy as. But Billy doesn't like curry so I have to make sure there is always leftover spag bog and sausage casserole for him
Shepherd's pie done the old fashioned way. My DOD (dear old dad) especially loves this one, and the sausage casserole. Billy and Harry like to have leftover Shepherd's pie for breakfast the next day.
Lasagne made with one of the frozen spag bog meals
Beef cannelloni made with fresh (but store bought) lasagne sheets
Chicken leek and mushroom cannelloni (as with beef) - both favourites with everyone except DOD who is 'not a pasta man'
Fried rice to use up all the leftover rice I cook because I always make at least twice as much as I need
Peanut chicken - the only recipe I cook from the Women's Weekly microwave cookbook yet I keep the entire book, just in case
A chicken pasta bake I make up as I go along and depends on what I have in the refrigerator
A Donna Hay chicken lemon basil pasta dish.
My new favourite is Marion's Kitchen Pad Thai. Absolutely delicious and easy peasy.

So that is basically it- our household meals (other than dinner parties which don't happen that frequently any more). And every time I cook one of them I cook at least enough for two meals. For those fucked up afternoons when all I can manage is to hit the reheat button on the microwave. Sorry Donna Hay - one day i will take all those dog eared pages and do something with them.

Now that I think about it, how did I come to be a slave in my own palace? That's a whole other topic for another day.

AMFYOYO






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Ignoring harassment and discrimination makes it worse Ms Redmond

South Australian opposition Leader Isobel Redmond made some startling comments at a women's leadership function yesterday about sexual harassment and discrimination. That she made the comments at all is worrying. What is worse is that she was speaking at an event one presumes is intended to inspire other women who are already in, or seeking to be in, leadership positions.

In a nutshell, she advocates that women should just ignore sexual harassment and discrimination and it will hopefully go away. She also suggested that taking legal action was a bad idea as it would make people hate you. Ms Redmond, after 20 years of working in HR management, and having been subject to both myself, I can tell you absolutely and categorically that ignoring it will not make it go away. In fact, it makes it worse. Much worse.

The perpetrators of harassment in particular are usually bullies. Bullies hate people standing up to them and in fact rely on them being fearful so they can repeat the behaviour without fear of retribution or punishment. They wear down their victim. If the victim doesn't 'play along' (and I use the word 'play' because it is a game to them) they end up bullying their victim until they either leave the organisation or develop an anxiety disorder, eating disorder, depression or all of the above. If their victim leaves (having tried to ignore it and not taking legal avenues), then they are free to wreak their particular brand of torture on the next person. And get away with it again. And again. And again.

I have seen first hand the effect of this on women. It is traumatising. It is not right and I am astounded and appalled that any woman in a leadership role could think this is acceptable. I'm glad I don't work for her. If I was I would be leaving. Today. As to not taking legal action - I would rather be proud of myself for standing up to both the perpetrator and the organisation supporting him by trying to stop it than worrying about people 'hating' me.

Sex discrimination is similar but does not usually result in the same psychological trauma as ongoing sexual harassment or bullying. But it can if it is ongoing. And it is usually very subtle but often not. Everyone has either conscious or unconscious bias that they bring to the workplace. Women and men. When it comes to discrimination it is up to women in leadership roles to challenge these biases in relation to women and their roles at work. EVERY SINGLE DAY. Ms Redmond - EVERY SINGLE DAY. How wonderful it would have been to read you made a speech about that instead of what you said. Never accept that it is ok to hear a man say for example that once a woman has children or works part time she is not 'committed' or that part time workers are not profitable. Call bullshit on that and loudly. Speak up. I do it EVERY SINGLE DAY. Mentor women in those situations and help them and the people they work for challenge those assumptions and prevent discrimination.

It's hard work and you feel like you are pushing a heavy wheelbarrow uphill sometimes but it is so worth it. Otherwise what is the point in wanting to be a leader and a female leader at that?



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My life as a driving instructor

Today I lined up outside the Post Office waiting for it to open at 9am. I was excited. Today was the day I lodged my 17 year old son's driving log book with dozens of pages meticulously filled in, detailing his 100 hours of driving practice needed before he sits his exam next month.

This is the second of my children to have gone through this and the second time I have endured it. I have estimated that allowing for driving school lessons and The Lawyer supervising I have been in the passenger seat with a teenaged learner driver for about 140 loooong hours. That's 140 hours without my own brake pedal. Or steering wheel. Or alcohol.

I got my license after a few drives with my sister's boyfriend and a lucky break on the test.

When my eldest first started learning to drive I wanted to find the person who invented this 100 hours thing and beat them to a pulp. 100 hours (give or take a few) of being trapped inside a moving vehicle with little control, with a hormonal mostly hysterical teenager at the wheel. I mean, who could possibly think that was a good idea? Clearly not a parent I thought.

I am convinced of its virtue now that I am through with two confident sensible drivers but more importantly FOUR years before I have to do it again. Please don't change the rules guys and make it 150 hours before then.

So I have some tips for those about to embark on this 'journey' with their teenagers.

* the local cemetery is a good place to start. If it is a big one there will be a network of roads, T intersections, hills, even possibly a roundabout. And all the people there are already dead.

* practice not looking nervous even if you are shitting yourself with fear. Plaster a smile on your face

* do not gasp for breath every time another moving vehicle appears in your peripheral vision

* nail your left leg to the door if necessary to stop yourself shrinking away from the gutter when they drive very close to it.

* try not to push your right foot through the floor if you don't think they are braking fast enough

* do not try to 'win' the prize of being a better instructor than your spouse. If you win you lose because you will be the preferred supervisor

* don't hesitate to instruct them to pull over and take over the driving if they (and I mean she) doesn't listen and starts yelling at you

* every 10 minutes counts

So good luck. Especially if you have twins!!




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Who looks after me?

I see a shrink on a regular basis which I actually enjoy. I 'endure' (I hate that word 'suffer') both depression and anxiety - with varying degrees of intensity, yet most people in my life, including my spouse, The Lawyer, and close friends, remain oblivious to this fact. I think I have been anxious my whole life being a catastrophiser and worrier for as long as I can remember. I was diagnosed officially with serious anxiety five years ago after a particularly horrid workplace experience involving both sexual harassment and bullying over a long period of time. Long before I left that employer (being stubborn and all) I was told by an occupational health specialist that there was nothing wrong with me. I was just working for a psychopath. Anyhoo - that's a long story for another day.

I was just starting to both come to terms with this aspect of my health, having worked happily elsewhere for a couple of years and deciding to take a year off work, when my mother died suddenly and unexpectedly. And I am now assisting my dad who is on his own and ninety years old this year. So I worry ALL THE TIME. About him. What to cook him. My kids. Their future. My daughter's obnoxious boyfriend messing with her head. Money. Where my career is going. The dog. My ancient cat. Other people's children. Other people's health. Other people's children. My health. My weight. I worry about the fact that I worry ALL THE TIME.

I thought giving up work was going to be the answer to all my problems. You know, I was 'getting off the treadmill'. I had visions of myself reading my book by the pool (never done that), going to the beach for the day (did that once, feeling guilty all day), movies with girlfriends (again once, on my birthday), having a tidy home and generally being serene. That was my goal. Being serene. It has never happened. 'aah the serenity' i want to be able to say.

It's never going to happen. I'm just not that kind of person I guess.

Getting off the treadmill just meant that I got straight onto a cross trainer. Or a hamster wheel. I know I was efficient and organised when I was working but I look back and wonder how I did all this and work. But I wasn't looking after my dad then. I didn't have a daughter with relationship issues then. I didn't have a mother in law who became a widow and turned to me to help her with everything technology related. Apparently I have 'help desk' stamped on my forehead. I didn't have time to do lots of things that have now made it onto my 'to do' list. But if you look at that list, everything on it is things I have to do for other people. Nothing for myself.

So my psychiatrist drew me a picture recently. It was not well drawn but you will get the gist. It was me, in a circle. Outside the circle were all the people in my life who had a call on my time and who i 'look after'. Three kids even though two are teenagers. One with a boyfriend who does not treat her well, one in his last year of school, and one with anxiety issues of his own. Spouse (another whole story). Dear old dad. Mother in law. Work colleagues I still mentor. Friends. Other relatives.

'Who looks after you' he asked me and I realised the answer was no one. No one except me and I SUCK at that because everyone else comes a long way ahead of me in the pecking order of people to look after. He asked me what I would do if I became seriously ill and I seriously thought I would have to leave home. I realised i had no faith that I would be looked after. I hope I never have to find out. But it's an important lesson.

So I get myself to the gym three times a week. I try not to get involved in things that are not my responsibility, eg 'mum where's my xxx', or other irritating things people in my house ask. I try and get the kids to do more for themselves I am not so available to my mother in law and have even delegated jobs for her to one of her three sons or two other daughters in law, in front of her hoping she gets the point. My dad is happy to wait for me to do things when convenient to me (actually he has always been that way the darling).

And every now and then I take a deep breath and remind myself of the wonderful theme of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel movie -everything will be alright in the end and if it is not alright then it is not the end.


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New mothers - trust your instincts

My eldest child recently turned nineteen. I don't know where those years went as I remember her babyhood so well. I read with great interest and an abnormal fascination, articles and blog posts about parenting. I may sound old but there was very little information about what to do with babies when I first became a mother - a few books and the 'clinic sisters', this strange breed of nurse funded by the government, who weighed your baby and gave gratuitous advice from time to time.

Of course the generation before mine had even less information. I feel sorry for new mothers today with what i think is information overload about what is 'best' for baby, with very little consideration for what is 'best' for their mothers. A happy mother AND baby is what is best.

I have been described as 'feisty'. Whether it is intended or not I always take this as a compliment. I like being decisive, particularly when it comes to decisions that affect me and my children, and sticking up for myself And instinct is a wonderful thing. Mums need to learn to trust this.

I chose to have c- sections for my first two children and was pretty much told I had no choice for the third. Fine with me. I have a pathological fear of pain and loss of control. Shoot me. They were all fine, I was fine and I clearly remember recognising their cries each time they were being wheeled down the corridor from the nursery. YES - the nursery. I had my babies taken away at night time so I could get some rest. On being told imperiously by some nurse that 'we encourage our new mothers to bond with their babies by rooming in' I made it very clear that I expected that over the next few days, weeks, months and years I fully expected to bond with my child. I was tsked tsked but remained firm. Sleep was needed. God knows I would get precious little of it once at home. And of course I bonded with each of them.

I was very lucky in that breast feeding was easy. No cracked nipples or mastitis for me. Babies latched on easily. Yet the longest I breast fed any of my children was 12 weeks.

Unlike this woman





My first baby, now 19, was 'perfect' in terms of her behaviour. She started sleeping through the night, 12 hours a night, at 6 weeks old. Of course I thought she was dead the first night I woke up with my boobs exploding. People, friends, were incredulous and frankly jealous, and looking back I was awfully smug. But this has a downside. Being so little she had to fit 6 feeds into 12 hours not 24. It was exhausting as all I seemed able to do during the day was feed her, change her, settle her, collapse exhausted while she slept for 30 minutes before it all started again.

Inevitably after a few weeks I found that by the end of the day there was not much milk left so I went and bought some bottles and formula to 'top up' at the end if the day. The clinic sister was horrified when i took baby in to be weighed and told her what was happening First, I hadn't consulted her. Bad mummy! Secondly, it was more important to breast feed my baby than sleep - she wanted me to either wake my healthy sleeping baby up to feed her in the middle of the night, or wake myself up to express milk to keep my supply coming in.

I was not about to start doing either of those things. Instinct. Trusted it and went with it. And she ended up fully bottle fed at 12 weeks. She is now at university.

There are many more examples but at the end of the day happy baby and happy mother are what's important. If your baby is hungry, it is ok to give them solids before 6 months. My last was having rice cereal at 12 weeks.

They all turned out ok and my sanity remained as intact as is possible with newborns

Trust your instincts mums - it will be worth it






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Before I go to bed...

Every night at about 9pm, I'm lying on the couch either watching sky news, or a real housewives or SVU episode I have recorded earlier.

Every night, I think I need to go to bed earlier because I wake up tired every morning.

Every night I lie on the couch willing myself to get up and go to bed and read one of the many books on my bedside table.

Often, I have my ancient cat curled up with me, but she is usually, sensibly, asleep already.





So by the time 10pm comes around, I am REALLY tired. So I get up to go to bed.

To do this I walk past the kitchen and put a few more dishes in the dishwasher. Then I fill the detergent holder with detergent and turn it on. Then I notice something else that needs to go in and open up the dishwasher squash it in and turn it back on.

Then I remember the dumb but gorgeous dog who I take outside to urinate (I trained him to do this on command - the neighbours love hearing me call out 'wee wee quickly' in that weird high pitched voice reserved by humans when speaking to their pets. The dumb but gorgeous dog has to find the perfect spot to go to the toilet so sometimes this takes quite a few minutes.

Then I think I'll put a load of washing on, programming the washing machine to come on at 5am so that it can be hung out first thing in the morning. This involves gathering up the detritus left by the children in their part of the house, rummaging through school bags for dirty socks. While rummaging I will invariably find a school note requiring me to fill out a permission slip, and write a cheque.

I will then turn off all the lights left on by the children, and lock the doors after programming the washing machine.

Then I go into the study to write that cheque and quickly check emails. Ten minutes later after trawling through 50 shopping alerts I will find the three relevant emails and deal with them, and turn the computer off.

I put my heat pack in the microwave for 2.5 minutes to put behind my aching neck while I go to sleep.

Finally I make it to the bathroom, clean my teeth and remember to take my anti anxiety medication. What I don't do, is wash my face and put on my expensive anti wrinkle serum and moisturiser. This could be the most important thing I should do.

Just as I climb into bed and turn the light off (no time now to read my book), I will hear The Lawyer coming into the bedroom, having just arisen from the couch, saying he is tired and might go to bed.

AMFYOYO


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Today, at the doctor...

So I finally went to the doctor today to find out that the disgusting pustule on my shoulder that appeared out of nowhere on the weekend was, in fact, impetigo, or in simple words, a school sore. I am 50 years old. And I have a school sore. I must have looked horrified because the lovely doctor said that it wasn't the Ebola virus, and could I please make an appointment to have a pap smear, for which I was due.

I left her office wondering about the word association involved in that sentence, and leaned over the desk, holding out anti bacterial gel, with my credit card, to pay the bill. The receptionist is a lovely young woman, about 20, who had just finished her afternoon tea. To her right was a plate with a tiger head in the middle of it. And around the edge of the plate the word 'Viagra' in cursive script, several times.

'Nice plate' I said. 'oh thanks', she said, 'you should see my bedroom, it's everywhere'.

I was a bit stunned by this. She must be dating much older men. And a lot of them. Either that or she must have been taking the free samples home for recreational purposes. The visual images in my head were going to make my brain explode. Perhaps I could get some too. Perhaps I could be introduced to some of her friends.

Without wanting to intrude (too much), I asked if she really needed it. She looked confused. 'The Viagra' I whispered. She opened her mouth, horrified. I pointed to the words on the plate. She turned purple with embarrassment. 'The tiger' she whispered back- 'I have lots of tiger themed things in my bedroom'.

And then we cracked up laughing. And had to explain to all the other office staff, and patients in the waiting room and everyone cracked up Every now and then you need a good belly laugh. Laughter really is the best medicine. But I still have my school sore.

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Timeless memories

When my mother died, very suddenly and unexpectedly it was a terrible shock. She was in her 70s but was not ill. Grief was overwhelming at times, and sometimes, 18 months later, it still is.

I wrote about the aftermath in a previous blog - http://adiosmfyoyo.blogspot.com.au/2011/08/on-becoming-motherless-daughter-and.html (for experienced bloggers who may be reading this I have no idea how to insert the shortened link thing). If this link doesn't work it is a blog from 2011. On my 'to do' list - learn how to do this properly!

My sister and I cleaned out mum's things. Most of her clothes went to charity or were thrown out. Dad sat with us and we went through mum's jewellery. Most of it was worthless other than in sentimental terms. We had a good system for her rings. Dad held one in each hand behind his back and my sister and I picked a hand! One of the things I found was this silly little brooch that I remember buying for mum at a mothers' day stall when I was about 8 years old. Hideous really but of course mum had kept it.




It is a bird feather in a brooch. A feather. In a brooch. Nice. Lucky it's the thought that counts. I can't bring myself to get rid of it though. Mainly because SHE had kept it all those years, and sometimes actually wore it. My mother ALWAYS wore a brooch so her unbroken brooches have been given to her granddaughters and my sister and I kept some. Each of us, granddaughters included, wore one of her brooches at her funeral.

However there were a lot of watches most of which didn't work any more, and that were very old fashioned. Some were her mother's watches. I also had one at home I had had for about 30 years which had been my paternal grandmother's watch. I took them all to a jeweller to see if they could be fixed. One, my paternal grandmother's watch was easily fixed - apparently it just needed to be would up! Duh. Some could be fixed but at great expense. Others beyond repair. I felt sad because I knew I couldn't throw them out. I think the jeweller could see that look in my face and suggested I think outside the box a bit and turn them into something else. After much discussion and excitement this is what happened.

So my paternal grandmother's gold watch was turned into an enhancer to put on a gold chain:





Two others she turned into bracelets. One was a gorgeous watch (probably close to 100 years old now) with a mother of pearl face. This one she made into a pearl bracelet and I gave it to my sister:






The other was a gold watch with black numbers and hands she turned into an onyx bracelet and kept the original clasp:





They turned out so beautifully and I am so pleased to be able to wear a little piece of mum's and grandma's memory every now and then. And not very expensive to do at all. People often ask about them too, and are fascinated by the history of these pieces of jewellery, so talking about them keeps mum's memory alive as well.

These are timeless memories.





Now I just have to work out something to do with mountains of crocheted doileys




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