How did I become a slave in my own palace?

How did I become a slave in my own palace?

How is it, that at this age and stage of my life, I have become the slave in my own palace?  At the beck and call of everyone, seemingly doing everything, planning everything, thinking about everything, and certainly washing everything.  I know and we all know that women are capable of multi-tasking, but I am at the point of losing my marbles if I have to add one more domestic task to my already overloaded list of things to do.  Which never seems to get shorter. Because more things to do keep getting added to the list of things to do.  Because no one else will do them.

Once, and only once, I wrote a list of lists I had to make just to keep track of everything. At that point I knew I had gone too far.

The thing is, I gave up full time work three years ago. The one thing that brought me great personal pleasure and pride, albeit a very stressful job,  but rightly or wrongly ,to a large degree it defined who I am.  And people at work said 'thank you'  at least once a day.  They were grateful for the help I gave them.  Partners were grateful I could help them have difficult conversations with people.  Or tell people they didn't have a job any more.  Of course i didn't realise how important gratitude is until about a month after I gave up work when I realised that no one in my family said thank you to me ever (except for my youngest child who is practically perfect in every way) 

Anyhoo... I gave up work largely because I wanted to support my eldest to get through her last year of school, and I wasn't well suffering from severe neck pain and migraine, so decided to take a leave of absence, be a 'good mother',  (oh that is the definition of optimism right there), get well, and then see what transpired from there.  As it turned out my mum passed away very suddenly half way through my leave of absence and I started helping my dad so the plan to return changed dramatically at that point.

When I told my then 16 year old daughter I was going to be a full time mother for her last year of school and asked her if she thought that was a good idea she said 'I'm not sure it's going to make that much difference to be honest'. Nice.   Middle child  (boy) was excited about the prospect of cooked breakfasts.  Youngest child (boy) burst into tears and wanted to know that our nanny/housekeeper/sanity saver would still be coming to our house and collecting him from school. 

Excellent start.  I should have known then and there it was possibly a mistake in terms of my personal growth.

So I became Mrs Holly Homemaker. Having worked at an enormous pace for many years and enjoying the intellectual stimulation I hurried with everything. GOT THINGS DONE. The days were busy. Lists of things to be done crossed off. I became an even more frequent flyer at kikki-k with lists, schedules and organising products. 

The first moment of clarity came at the end of the first week. I realised that we had NEVER paid our nanny enough money. My God the woman deserved danger money dealing with my lot.

The second thing I realised is that I decided I hated driving. Some days I was in and out of the car from 3-7pm. Ferrying one child here picking up from there, dropping off here.   Again - the nanny never got paid enough.

But the very worst part is that I quickly became a slave in my own palace:

Apparently I am the only person who can turn the washing machine on.  And there is so much of it.  I know I used to put a load of washing on before I went to work but I would come home and it was not only sorted, folded and ironed, but put away.  Now I wash, sort, fold, wash sort fold, rinse and repeat.  Groundhog day in the laundry only more mind numbing. Sometimes I'm sure I've washed clean clothes unpacked from suitcases because the little treasures can't be bothered to put their own clothes away.

Here are some of the more annoying things

• the inability of The Lawyer to write in the family diary things he has on after work, notwithstanding being asked seventy squiilion times.  So if I actually organise an escape from the mundane with friends, relying on him to collect Harry from tennis, and having written it in the diary a month before and mentioned it five times in the previous week, I will find out on that morning that he is in fact having drinks with friends thereby rendering me completely mentally deranged as I try to rearrange things or call in yet another favour from friends.  All the while gnashing my teeth.
• teenagers blind to the fact that the dishwasher has in fact been on and is full of clean dishes.  So of course you will leave your dirty midnight feast dishes in the sink instead of unstacking and restacking the dishwasher.  So that when I get up at 5.30 to resume my role as scullery maid the first thing I do is unstack the dishwasher.
• Having to constantly run the garbage disposal after teenagers have eaten.  I mean is it that hard?
• Having to clean up after the teenagers have eaten.
• Having to find things people have lost/misplaced/ or just can't be fagged finding.  Usually expensive things. 'Mum, I can't find my xxx'.  'I saw it on the floor of your room yesterday - look under the bed/doona/pile of dirty clothes o the floor/ dead rat the cat dragged in'. 
• Having to argue the toss about why it is NOT on that I, the mother/slave/maid be left at home without a car while they are off having fun
• Calling the teenagers to dinner to hear them complain that dinner is not ready because it is not on the plates yet (seriously).
• Constantly thinking about food - what to cook, what to buy, how much to cook, not knowing how many people are actually going to be home for dinner (see diary rant above)

There is never a time there is nothing to do except at night and even then its questionable.  That list is still there - written down but also in my head, constantly taunting me as something lurking in the back of my brain makes a sudden leap forward 

Really, all I want is a simple 'thank you' every now and then.  Or perhaps for someone to say 'is there anything I can do to help, mum'. Or best of all  someone to make me a cup of tea.  Sometimes at night I will say to The Lawyer 'would you please put the kettle on?' So he does.  And lets it boil.  And he walks away.  Really.

Even the servants at Downton abbey are treated better than me

But that is going to change.  No point complaining about it - I'm going back to paid work.  And not just any work - I've started my own consulting business.  So I still make lists but now its going to be lists of jobs for other people in the house to do during the day.  Unstack the dishwasher.  Hang out the washing.  Fold the washing.  And cook a goddam meal.

AMFYOYO - I'm back to the land of the living.  I'll just cross write blog post of my list of things to do

Preparing for emptiness

My dad, who is 90 years old, raised the subject of his funeral yesterday. I suppose at 90 it shouldn't come as a shock to me that he had been thinking about it, but it was apropos of nothing at all, he just brought it up, while we were having our daily game of cribbage after I had brought him his evening meal.

Being a priest, he is not at all afraid of death, so discussing the concept was not difficult for him so as a result I had to work hard to keep my tears at bay at the thought of him not being in my life any more.  I am having trouble typing this through the tears now.

Anyway he said he hadn't left any instructions for his funeral.  I protested immediately saying I had a copy at  home and he had given a copy to my brother and sister as well.  'Oh goodness', he said, 'that was from 25 years ago, everything has changed since then!'.

So we talked about it for a while - he loved my mother's requiem funeral mass, so we know the basics. I suggested that he should just write down what he specifically wanted and more importantly what he didn't want to have at his funeral, who should deliver the eulogy (definitely not me, cryer at funerals that I am) and so on.  No Bishops to participate, apparently.

But I find myself feeling incredibly sad.  I will miss my dad so much when he is gone.  We have become so close since losing my mother nearly three years ago.  He lives down the road from me now, is still quite independent, but I see him most days, talk to him every day other than when he is visiting my sister and brother and we have some very deep and meaningful talks about life, the universe, politics and everything going on in the world, as well as everything going on inside.  We always make each other laugh-  sometimes I wonder what the neighbours must think when they see a red Mazda pull up, followed moments later by howls of laughter coming from inside the house.  This usually means he is thrashing me at cards.

And he listens to me.  And he appreciates every little and not so little thing I do for him.  Sadly as a wife and mother I don't get that at home.  In fact some days, like today, I feel lonely and invisible in my own home.

I know I will miss his presence in my life more than I realise now and I am so lucky to have had my dad with me now for almost 51 years  So many people don't have the privilege of a wonderful father and one that has lived as long as mine.

So my life will be empty without him in it.  And I find myself having to mentally prepare for that day. But you can never truly prepare for the death of a loved one, can you?

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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