After Daddy died

It’s over two and a half years since my father died. Of course I still can’t believe it. You never do. His death has bought me gifts I could never have imagined. I adored my father, but like most children, sometimes I didn’t appreciate him as much as I should have. I do now. After he died, I turned around and looked at him. Not all at once, but in stolen moments when I wasn’t busy chasing children or locked to the computer working. Accumulated moments that stitched us together as father and daughter, strong double stitching with fishing thread… tough stuff that won’t break or be compromised. This looking has been unfettered by opinion or my own ego. My grief has loosened the grip of unnecessary bullshit so I could see him again with clarity. The weightlessness of non judgement saw my heart filled with love and respect, for Daddy, and for myself. As I type I see the reflection of my hands in my monitor. The shape of my fingernails seem more and more like his. This doesn’t make me wince… that a part of my anatomy is like a man’s. I am proud. Because he was a great man. I am proud because I am like him. I am of him. I no longer need to escape my past and find an alternative reality in friendships. I no longer want to agree with politics and fashion just to feel like I belong. I no longer want to sit on the fence to feel acceptance. I don’t want to share the company of those I have grown weary of. I want to be who I am. I want to be like my father who was honest and authentic, unashamedly himself, quiet in thought yet loud in his opinion when it mattered. I want to laugh louder with the fullness of the sense of humour we grew up with. The retreat inward to welcome myself back to myself has been the gift of his death. And I promise not to call you Dad just because it sounds more grown up. You were always Daddy. Thank you x

Mind games magnificence

I have to give it to my four year old… she has the ability to turn me into a psychotic beast at bedtime, without even taking that little thumb out of her mouth. Within seconds my emotions move from crazy angry to tearfully touched. I have dealt with some pretty tricky customers in my time, mostly during my career as a multimedia producer… like the guy who was the content developer for my first full blown CD ROM project. After repeatedly driving a 140km round trip in the hope of seizing videos required to complete the project I gave up and referred it to my boss. Eventually the police were called in… literally. At one point we were walking down a street in Collingwood and he started banging his head against a brick wall… literally. Yet even he didn’t fiddle with my head as much as my darling daughter. “I promise I won’t kick you again”, she pleads as I threaten to prematurely end story time. Before I have turned the page I feel toes digging into my thigh. My lip curls and I feel irrational thoughts darting through my mind. I know I can’t hurt her, but God damn it I want to SCREAM! I WANT TO SCREAM REALLY LOUD! Because this is the 768th time today I have had to plead… or threaten, or bribe, or blackmail her into behaving well. Or even behaving moderately well. Look just a pass would be great. I commend her ability to drag me down into the quicksand of meaningless battles. I’m drowning. If only $ meant something to her. I would pay her a tidy sum to go to bed at the right time… AND STAY THERE! What do you say to your beautiful little human being you have created in your very own uterus when they pop out of bed for the twenty-seventh time that night? Well you don’t say anything at all actually. You are in fact holding your lips together so tightly that your eyes are popping out of your head. You can’t say anything because you know that if you open your mouth the profanities that escape will shock your neighbours into next year. You decide it is better to throw a cup of ice cold water over yourself to calm down and finally open your mouth to ask in a feigned soothing voice, “Why are you out of bed again Darling?”. And just as you’re warming up your smacking hand she hits you with the double handed backhand that throws you directly into the far left hand corner of the court… nowhere to go. “Mummy, I just wanted to come out and say goodnight again, and tell you how much I love you.” With that she throws her arms around your neck like you were the Wimbledon trophy itself. You declare her the winner as tears sting your eyes, every misdemeanour melts away and you carry your perfect princess back to her bedroom. Game, set, match to the four year old.

Round Two…

When I was approaching my late thirties, a great realisation came over me. If I was going to have a baby, I really needed to start thinking about it sooner and not later. Other than a couple of isolated occasions, including once after great sex with a boyfriend, and for no particular reason for a minute or two when I was 31, I have never felt particularly maternal… at least compared to other women I knew. I can’t remember baby dolls ever being a major part of my childhood world, and if questioned in any of the first three decades of my life regarding aspirations, I really doubt babies or family would have rated a mention. I did like paper dolls and my Olympic Barbie, and at a rather late age acquired a Baby That-A-Way, but mostly due to Mattel’s unrelenting pre-Christmas TV marketing campaign and my interest in the mechanics of its crawling. Certainly more so than an opportunity to test out my mothering abilities. I left that to my sister who instead asked Santa for Baby Alive so she could feed it fake porridge and change its nappy when it worked its way through to the hole in its bum. This was really just an opportunity for the toy manufacturer to make money off the extra packets of fake porridge that I’m sure was just cornflour that you mixed with water. Anyway, I figured those missing in action maternal urges and instincts would just kick in sometime in my twenties or thirties. But alas, it never happened. I would certainly go all ga-ga over a new puppy or miscellaneous newborn animals, but not the human variety. As friends and family began to procreate, I did develop an interest and even a love for some of their offspring, but still didn’t particularly crave to have my very own.

But as I grew older, and that maternal clock started a tick tocking, I began a private poll amongst my friends and family that consisted of only one question… “Why did you have children?”. There were mixed answers, but I have to say most put their fingers to their lips, eyes skyward and came up with… “I’ll have to get back to you on that. I need to think about it.” The first few times I heard this, I decided it was mature of them to realise such an important question deserved considered thought. But when nobody got back to me, and the rest of the answers I considered pretty lame… “to carry on the family name”; “because I thought I had good genes to pass on”; “because that was the next stage – engaged, marriage, kids”; “because we loved each other and wanted to celebrate that love”. Shit, I can think of better ways to celebrate! So left with a huge, gaping hole in my justification for getting pregnant, I continued on with my life. I could actually think of some very practical reasons to have children, but most of them felt quite selfish. Like to fit in with my friends lives again because they were all having kids… to belong again. To have a lovely reason to go home  more often to visit my family who lived interstate. To have someone love me unconditionally other than my Mum and Dad who would not be here forever. But when I really considered it, there was one main reason I decided to try to have children. I didn’t want to miss out. I have never wanted to miss out on anything. I was always the “It’s not fair!” kid. I would scream it down the hallway, in the supermarket, at the caravan park. If there was something to be had, I wanted to have it. And when I spent time with my friends who had children, I realised there was something truly wonderful about how they had grown from couples into families. They exuded a joy that I didn’t, and as always, I wanted a piece of that rich, light, joyful cake. They had somehow arrived at a happiness that I felt couldn’t be found anywhere else except by having babies. I wanted to relive my own happy childhood through my own children. So I jumped on the parenting bandwagon… and that’s where this story really begins.

Lovely Green Friday

Friday has been my favourite day for as long as I can remember. Friday holds so much promise. For someone like me who struggles to ‘live in the now’, no matter how many yoga classes I go to, or hours I spend in the self help section of my local book shop, it seems I’m often caught either looking ahead or behind for my joy. But I’m trying. Living with a three year old, and Phil, has taught me a lot about living for today. Phil does it joyfully and with grace. And Nell just does it. So back to Friday. Most people might say their favourite day of the week is Saturday or Sunday. But Friday fits in well with my philosophy…  I’m living in a permanent state of great expectation. Strangely I found out years after discovering my penchant for Fridays  that I was born on a Friday, and Nell was born on a Friday too. To me Friday has a green aura. Unfortunatley this has nothing to do with either recycling my cardboard or tree planting. I know it’s because on Friday at primary school we wore our green sports uniform. Friday was swimming day back then, and it always gave me an odd butterfly sensation in my stomach. I loved it that we went on the bus to Musgrave Park, but I wasn’t a great swimmer. I was always particularly skinny, and although not inherantly shy, I chose to change in the toilet instead of the open plan change room. I was embarrassed about how skinny I was. My ribs protruded and my legs were like skewers with marshmallows in the middle for knees. Just this week a girlfriend and I had a conversation about the sad reality of young girls (like five years young), having body image problems these days. I repeat, five. Apparently she knows some tots who are already worried they are too fat, and wait for it, watching what they eat! Her daughter is actually finer, very much like I was, but one of her friends was worried about their shape. I mentioned from my experience that you also need to be careful about making too much of an issue about girls being skinny. Then before you could say Twiggy, I was bawling into my morning coffee! I know I’m pre-menstrual but this was just ridiculous. I hadn’t sobbed like that since, well actually probably last night if I was watching TV. Nevertheless, it was slightly embarrassing, and I’m not one to hold back the waterworks. A flood of memories, including the actual togs that I wore at the height of these feelings at primary school… probably grades six and seven, rushed into my consciousness. I was so thin that Mum had to take my swimming costume in. And even though her pre-nuptial trade had been invisible mending… have you ever tried to take in togs? So I just sobbed for a while. Lucky for girlfriends. I finally collected myself and we agreed that the skinny kids need a break too, and due consideration before shooting a few skinny jokes their way. And then of course as soon as my memory soaked tears had dried, I decided I was going to write a heartfelt, funny, award winning book about the trials and tribulations of being a skinny girl. Like the time my sister told me my mum would send me back to Biafra in the Cornflakes packet if I didn’t eat my breakfast… but that’s another story. Enjoy green Friday!

July, Oh July!

So what happened to June? Masterchef. I should have known myself better. Although I didn’t watch the start, I cried all the way to the end. A true pop culture, reality TV sucker… when it’s good I love it, and when it’s bad I slam the hell out of it.  So here I am, post MC and I have taken to cooking at least three gourmet meals each week. And with VERY mixed results. Tonight I’m trying to develop my very first jus. Of course it isn’t exactly going to plan, and I’ve lost my recipe because I just forgot to open a new tab. I can smell my very thin ruby port jus and it doesn’t either smell or look jus-ey. It has certainly reduced but it looks more like beetroot juice that a nice thick sauce. But my tidy as you go policy is working. If I was on MC right now I would be more Chris than Julie. Organised and ready to go. Oh bugger… just realised whilst I’m standing here feeling smug with my dishes submerged in suds and an on schedule but runny jus, I forgot to put the snap peas on! I’m seeing a Poh-llercoaster tradedy unfolding in front of my oven.

It is now hours later. Well the jus certainly wasn’t the thick, syrupy consistency they suggested… and my taste buds were longing for. Still, it was a tasty meal, particularly for a Wensdy night. After all this time my appetite is still not used to eating so early with Nell. My metabolism doesn’t cope so by 8.30 I coated up, leashed the dog and headed down to Giuseppe’s for a takeaway tirimasu. But by the time I got back the Chasers were just starting and my tastebuds were calling for salty instead of sweet. Thank goodness for that cash register purchase of sea salt chips today. Allowed me to draw out my night’s eating, needing a break between courses.

So no May challenge success and don’t even mention June or July. Maybe August could be the August Attempt. At least an attempt somehow rewards the effort… at least I tried?

May challenge

I’ve decided to try and crawl my way back into the May challenge. I am working on my (of all things), footy story. It is certainly about more than Aussie Rules, but it does have a heart in the game so I had better start following the Geelong Cats games more closely. This ones going to need a lot of research, on a lot of subjects. Today is a work day and I’ve got a lot to catch up on, so writing will have to wait. Brochures have arrived for Pixel Tree, so had better get the invitations and birth announcements up before I distribute them. The fire is lit and burning. All I can hear is the wonderful crackling and sparking as it takes hold of a piece of redgum, and sweet birds singing in the rain soaked yard. I must remember to go out later and finish weeding the broadbean patch in the vege garden.

Cold, Autumn mist

It’s so cold! And a thick, haunting mist hangs over Geelong. Coffee down the street means I missed the Book Show with Ramona, and instead of work I am going to write today. Let’s see if I can catch up on that May challenge after all. Here goes…

days don’t matter anymore… no more counting

My day count is very misleading, so no more days. Although it isn’t the end of May yet I am resigned to the fact that I have failed the Every Day in May Challenge. I feel like I could still possibly have it in me to try again, to catch up, but no. It sounds like I’m giving up but it is more about being realistic. Let’s just pull up my calculator and see what it says… hmmm, 9000 words. Not impossible but I would have to stay up all night and with this dreadful chest cold it just wouldn’t be worth the medical impact. As a confirmed hypocondriach it would see me complaining into  Winter 2010, and that just isn’t worth putting my family through! I have actually been doing SOME writing. I will just tab over to Word and see what’s there. Approximately 2000. But mostly notes and not on the same project. I sat contemplative by the heater in my office today, yet again trying to work out which of my writing projects might have enough promise to give it a go… to give it wings and let it fly. I’m actually wondering if one of my more recent ideas might work. It is really a film script in my mind but maybe I could write it as a novel first and then adapt it. I just don’t have enough experience to write a script from scratch and I think it would help to build the story as a narrative first. I managed to jot down quite a few ideas re plot and characters while I was waiting in the doctors surgery. More about that appointment later. Anyway, will see if I can manage to stick to this one. So sad that Bud Tingwell died. I wonder if he kept the letter I gave him years ago about Deadspot. I would still love to finish Bud & Sam. Maybe if I do I can dedicate it to him. I had a feeling he might die before I had finished it. Sweet man. Goodbye Bud. I hope wherever you are you find my Dad and have a beer with him. Tell him I said hello and that I miss him like hell.

day fourteen… another state might help

Still no words… and I’m exhausted after a 7am start and a 9am flight to Qld from Vic. I know that isn’t really very early, but it is for me, and yet again I was up after midnight last night. And yet again it was with laptop on lap but watching mindless TV including juicy medical madness repeats, instead of writing. I’m sure I could confidently diagnose every rare condition known to man, and of course when I was pregnant, I was convinced my unborn child would either be a conehead or a primordial dwarf. The Pops fell asleep exhausted with the reddest cheeks and crying that she wanted to go home. The only thing that calmed her down was a sad tale I told her about the time I was homesick when I was a little girl. I wasn’t completely honest about the true cruelty of the tortuous predicament. I didn’t want to frighten her! I suppose looking back it wasn’t THAT bad, but at the time… My mother had gone to hospital and my second year teacher who loved me (the cliched ‘teacher’s pet’ was extremely relevant), offered to have me for a couple of nights to ease the load on Dad. At the time we had sparrows in our ceiling and I was itchy from their lice falling onto our mattresses in the sleepout. Mum must have told Mrs Maher and she must have passed this bomb of info onto her particularly nasty daughter. She teased me the entire time I was there and wouldn’t let me swim in their neighbour’s pool. I was SO devastated, embarrassed and homesick that I made Mrs Maher take me home after the first night.”Oh the pain, the pain!” said Dr Smith. Children can be so cruel. Pops seemed to listen intently to my very abridged version of the story, and I reassured her she had no reason to be homesick. She stopped crying and went to sleep. Hope she doesn’t have nightmares about being taunted by Miss Maher… or sparrow lice!

Going to try and find a second wind to start crawling my way back to the May challenge.

day thirteen… pre-flight days are always busy

Tomorrow morning we leave for a little holiday at ‘home’… my home state of Qld. We’ve got a few Taureans in our family, including the Pops, so we will have a big May Birthday celebration over the weekend. Usually I would be packing now or at 6am tomorrow, but I’ve shocked myself by getting all my jobs and packing done early. Unheard of in this household. Pops even helped me but I became a little frightened when she decided Pink Dolly should come with us. Usually that is followed by a cast of hundreds of other dollies, stuffed animals and miscellaneous craft projects and other items. Luckily she decided to watch Nemo for the 327th time instead.

I was a sucker for Jetstar’s 5c fares on offer at 10pm tonight and tried madly to get a Melb to Newcastle flight for us in Feb next year. Who knows where will be then, and why we would want to go to Newcastle, but I wouldn’t have passed up a family trip to Altona for 30c!  But after failing at Melbourne to Hobart, I was beside myself when after half an hour of checking dates and loading and reloading, I finally found dates for the said 5c.  I got all the way to the payment screen, filled it all in and then… waited, waited, waited and ERROR… START AGAIN! Are you crrrrrazy? I haven’t sworn that much since I lost five hours of work on a book cover in Illustrator last year. I was very cranky and still think I might call Jetstar tomorrow… along with the million other  cheap online fare suckers who wasted an hour trying to fly to a destination that was never on their travel wish list.

Still no words. Sigh.