If ever there was a time to be eloquent, it is now. But, as is usual, I find myself at a loss to extract the words that will adequately sum up the maelstrom that swirls relentlessly in my head.
Forgive me then, for dropping words and phrases on the page like splots of paint on a canvas. Collectively, it might make sense. It might not.
Jack, Phoebe and Maisie were awake and chirruping at 5.45am. Despite the Easter Bunny leaving carrot tops all over the lounge room floor, it was a squealingly-good morning for my three. They weren't sure if Mummy had temporarily lost her marbles, and they didn't care - for the first time in their short lives, they were given carte blanche to eat Easter eggs for breakfast. Game on, dudes. (Funnily enough, they asked for an apple each not long after...so madness did not take over completely.)
After our relatively traditional start to Easter Sunday, we then headed towards a more unconventionally religious day. I shall explain. We took our three little Easter bunnies on a road trip early this morning, because there were some friends of ours who needed us.
Although we had intended on making this trip for some time, last-minute bumps in the road changed the course of our plans. And although this day most certainly did not end up the way we had originally intended it to, I think in some ways we still achieved the most important thing. I think that maybe, just maybe, we turned the ashes of a dream into something lovely today.
And no, I didn't go to church. That's not unusual.
But it was a holy day, for me anyway. A day which began in black and white, and gradually turned technicolour at the edges, until the rainbowy bits dominated the picture.
No hymns were sung. No holy water was anointed.
No prayers were mumbled. No wafers were placed carefully on tongues.
No ashes were scattered.
But.
Sunshine was basked in.
Grass was played upon.
Breezes were inhaled, deeply and gratefully.
Dogs ran joyfully, chasing everything and nothing.
Sausages were cooked on a smoky open fire, in a garden overlooking a magnificent valley.
A teapot sat with its' woollen cosy, brewing cups of tea enjoyed next to the smoky flames.
Six pairs of little feet thundered around the garden and surrounding paddocks.
Stones were collected; chocolate eggs shared; teddies tucked in; kites were flown.
A game of hide and seek included everyone, even the grown-ups.
Kangaroos (or 'amaroos'), wombats and koalas were spied in their natural habitat, bringing disbelieving joy to my children's faces.
And hopefully, a very beautiful friend of mine saw the family that she and her husband made, playing with my little family, and felt the love winding around her.
Today I saw the celebration of life all around me, in a church with a roof made of sky and sun, and a floor made of rocks and grass.
If ever there was a way to remember a life, and to commemorate a day, this was it.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Friday, April 6, 2012
Happy birthday Kezzie and Debs
I learned a few things in the last 24 hours. (Yeah, yeah, I hear ya - old dog, new tricks, haha.)
For example, I learned that when completely desperate for a top to wear on the first night out in oh, I dunno, a year (?), you will find absolutely nothing. Nuh-thing. This is me yesterday afternoon: oh geez, all my clothes are packed, and even if they were spread out in front of me, I would still have nothing to wear tonight. Huh. What to do?
Leaves kids with Daddy, drives hurriedly up to local shops. Searches Target (yes, top-shelf for me, all the way!) fruitlessly, finding only skivvies, warm woolly knits, and work blouses that make my boozies look like my name should be Helga. Bugger. Searches Best and Less (did I mention I was classy?), finds scary, stretchy, shiny work blouses, skivvies and warm woolly synthetic knits. Christ. Searches obscure little clothing shop tucked into corner of the shopping centre. Finds lurid party dresses in all manner of frills, frightening Mary-Coustas-costumed-as-Effie type blouses, and red mesh see-through type stuff. Exit stage left. Searches Rivers outlet (only option left other than Coles). Nah. Runs back home in rivers of sweat, searches suitcase packed with clothes. Tries on top that was too small last time I wore it. Fits enough. Awesome.
I also learned that 15 minutes is the same as a few hours when getting ready for a big night out, for this little black duck, anyway. In ye olde goode days, I may have been known to set aside a generous portion of the day to prepare for the night, doing such deeds as drinking a few litres of water, having a sleep, shaving my legs, blowdrying my hair, and so on, and so forth. My preparation for last night consisted thus: pull off dirty, snot-encrusted housework clothes, pull on clean(ish) clothes (that fit marginally better since my workout running around the shops), smear makeup on face with more hope than skill, drag brush through hair to get rid of the largest chunks. Run out door. See? Minimal effort, fairly similar end result. Or maybe I need glasses.
I learned that the combination of warm weather and the night before Good Friday is an intoxicating thing. The buzz in the city last night was just a bit fabulous. Kirst and I got dropped off in St.Kilda to meet up with Pauleen and Jess, and even standing in a dodgy pub with the footy on the telly was exciting. Even though I had already realised that my heels were a tad dressy, I didn't care. I said I was wearing them because I'm short, which is partly true (well, I am short. Not partly. Totally short. I digress.), but I was really wearing them because they make me feel good. Apparently I swagger in them. I prefer to call it 'sauntering'.
I learned that there is a reason why people with half a large intestine should not drink beer and eat fatty food. Neither of which I have done in a very, very long time, and most especially not since my last surgery. But for some unknown reason, standing in the Prince of Wales last night, having a pot of Carlton Draught seemed like an excellent idea. And since the first one went down so nicely, I followed it with a second. So far, so good.
What I learned next was, that the problem with beer is not the actual swallowing, but the digestive processes that come after.
I learned fairly quickly last night that I can no longer keep up with my beautiful friends in the beer-drinking department, and so after a little break, I switched to lemon ruskis. Which, I may say, I have not had since the barmaid who served me was a babe in arms. And my, my, were they refreshing. (But I showed my age when I tried to order one and didn't know what to call it! I was trying to look after my friends and wanted to get the first round...thank goodness Paulsa was there to help me out with naming the bloody drink. Sheesh.) Somewhere along the way, I must have learned to stop before things got messy, because after two ruskis I had had enough, and was more than happy to drink water. Which I suppose shows absolutely nothing except I am a boring lightweight. Whatever.
I learned that my body will now tell me, very quickly, when it has had enough. And that my intestines are a weathervane for the rest of me. So girls, when I sat at the table rather than shaking my booty with Kezzie, it was not because I was being a party pooper. Rather, I was trying not to be a pooper, full stop. (TMI?? Sorry. I guess when they took half my bowel they took my discretion?? Or was that on the birthing table...???)
I learned that celebrating a 37th birthday is pretty much identical to celebrating a 17th birthday. At least, with my friends, it is anyway!! We were all still rapt to see each other, there was lots of squealing and hand-flapping and hugging, we still tried to out-do each other telling embarrassing 'do you remember the time when...' stories to Paulsa's new bloke (who, by the way, is completely lovely), we still just had a great time hanging out together. The only difference was, we were the group of old chicks in the pub being eyed suspiciously by the 18 year olds. Meh. We might be old(ish) biologically, but we're as immature as any other them when we choose to be! (wait a minute....)
I learned that I am absolutely able to get up and drive home relatively early after a big night out and very few hours sleep. Buoyed by a cup of tea and some of Kirsty's magic sourdough toast, I felt fab enough to come home to my babies. It was only in the early afternoon that I began to sag a bit...ok, enough to go back to bed and sleep for a couple of hours...
I learned that my babies missed me, but they do not hold grudges. They were so excited to see me this morning, I felt a bit like a rock star when I opened the front door. And then Harry Potter replaced me...but the Mouse kept exclaiming "Mama!" every few minutes, which was lovely. I made them vegetables and fish for their tea, and stewed apples for sumpin else. We ate our Good Friday dinner early, all together. It was nice to be home.
I learned that with a storm raging outside, and tired kidlets asleep (or "fweep", as it is in Mousish) in their beds, I am glad to be home tonight, rather than tripping the light fantastic in the city. Jarmies, a cup of tea, and the promise of easter eggs over the weekend, are all wonderful things in themselves. What makes them even better is the warm and fuzzy feeling you get, thinking of the brillliant night you had with your mates last night. The only thing that tops that, is the thought that in four weeks, we can all go out again for my own birthday! And luckily, I have already learned that I will be doing something that allows me to wear comfortable shoes (in which I can still 'saunter'), and that I will NOT be drinking beer.
For example, I learned that when completely desperate for a top to wear on the first night out in oh, I dunno, a year (?), you will find absolutely nothing. Nuh-thing. This is me yesterday afternoon: oh geez, all my clothes are packed, and even if they were spread out in front of me, I would still have nothing to wear tonight. Huh. What to do?
Leaves kids with Daddy, drives hurriedly up to local shops. Searches Target (yes, top-shelf for me, all the way!) fruitlessly, finding only skivvies, warm woolly knits, and work blouses that make my boozies look like my name should be Helga. Bugger. Searches Best and Less (did I mention I was classy?), finds scary, stretchy, shiny work blouses, skivvies and warm woolly synthetic knits. Christ. Searches obscure little clothing shop tucked into corner of the shopping centre. Finds lurid party dresses in all manner of frills, frightening Mary-Coustas-costumed-as-Effie type blouses, and red mesh see-through type stuff. Exit stage left. Searches Rivers outlet (only option left other than Coles). Nah. Runs back home in rivers of sweat, searches suitcase packed with clothes. Tries on top that was too small last time I wore it. Fits enough. Awesome.
I also learned that 15 minutes is the same as a few hours when getting ready for a big night out, for this little black duck, anyway. In ye olde goode days, I may have been known to set aside a generous portion of the day to prepare for the night, doing such deeds as drinking a few litres of water, having a sleep, shaving my legs, blowdrying my hair, and so on, and so forth. My preparation for last night consisted thus: pull off dirty, snot-encrusted housework clothes, pull on clean(ish) clothes (that fit marginally better since my workout running around the shops), smear makeup on face with more hope than skill, drag brush through hair to get rid of the largest chunks. Run out door. See? Minimal effort, fairly similar end result. Or maybe I need glasses.
I learned that the combination of warm weather and the night before Good Friday is an intoxicating thing. The buzz in the city last night was just a bit fabulous. Kirst and I got dropped off in St.Kilda to meet up with Pauleen and Jess, and even standing in a dodgy pub with the footy on the telly was exciting. Even though I had already realised that my heels were a tad dressy, I didn't care. I said I was wearing them because I'm short, which is partly true (well, I am short. Not partly. Totally short. I digress.), but I was really wearing them because they make me feel good. Apparently I swagger in them. I prefer to call it 'sauntering'.
I learned that there is a reason why people with half a large intestine should not drink beer and eat fatty food. Neither of which I have done in a very, very long time, and most especially not since my last surgery. But for some unknown reason, standing in the Prince of Wales last night, having a pot of Carlton Draught seemed like an excellent idea. And since the first one went down so nicely, I followed it with a second. So far, so good.
What I learned next was, that the problem with beer is not the actual swallowing, but the digestive processes that come after.
I learned fairly quickly last night that I can no longer keep up with my beautiful friends in the beer-drinking department, and so after a little break, I switched to lemon ruskis. Which, I may say, I have not had since the barmaid who served me was a babe in arms. And my, my, were they refreshing. (But I showed my age when I tried to order one and didn't know what to call it! I was trying to look after my friends and wanted to get the first round...thank goodness Paulsa was there to help me out with naming the bloody drink. Sheesh.) Somewhere along the way, I must have learned to stop before things got messy, because after two ruskis I had had enough, and was more than happy to drink water. Which I suppose shows absolutely nothing except I am a boring lightweight. Whatever.
I learned that my body will now tell me, very quickly, when it has had enough. And that my intestines are a weathervane for the rest of me. So girls, when I sat at the table rather than shaking my booty with Kezzie, it was not because I was being a party pooper. Rather, I was trying not to be a pooper, full stop. (TMI?? Sorry. I guess when they took half my bowel they took my discretion?? Or was that on the birthing table...???)
I learned that celebrating a 37th birthday is pretty much identical to celebrating a 17th birthday. At least, with my friends, it is anyway!! We were all still rapt to see each other, there was lots of squealing and hand-flapping and hugging, we still tried to out-do each other telling embarrassing 'do you remember the time when...' stories to Paulsa's new bloke (who, by the way, is completely lovely), we still just had a great time hanging out together. The only difference was, we were the group of old chicks in the pub being eyed suspiciously by the 18 year olds. Meh. We might be old(ish) biologically, but we're as immature as any other them when we choose to be! (wait a minute....)
I learned that I am absolutely able to get up and drive home relatively early after a big night out and very few hours sleep. Buoyed by a cup of tea and some of Kirsty's magic sourdough toast, I felt fab enough to come home to my babies. It was only in the early afternoon that I began to sag a bit...ok, enough to go back to bed and sleep for a couple of hours...
I learned that my babies missed me, but they do not hold grudges. They were so excited to see me this morning, I felt a bit like a rock star when I opened the front door. And then Harry Potter replaced me...but the Mouse kept exclaiming "Mama!" every few minutes, which was lovely. I made them vegetables and fish for their tea, and stewed apples for sumpin else. We ate our Good Friday dinner early, all together. It was nice to be home.
I learned that with a storm raging outside, and tired kidlets asleep (or "fweep", as it is in Mousish) in their beds, I am glad to be home tonight, rather than tripping the light fantastic in the city. Jarmies, a cup of tea, and the promise of easter eggs over the weekend, are all wonderful things in themselves. What makes them even better is the warm and fuzzy feeling you get, thinking of the brillliant night you had with your mates last night. The only thing that tops that, is the thought that in four weeks, we can all go out again for my own birthday! And luckily, I have already learned that I will be doing something that allows me to wear comfortable shoes (in which I can still 'saunter'), and that I will NOT be drinking beer.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Mice don't bounce
The back of my baby's skull connected with sickening force onto bitumen this evening. I felt the thud reverberate through my feet, it was that hard. Do you know what I mean when I say bitumen? The lovely doctor at the hospital didn't. It's the hard gear Aussie kids call 'ashfelt'. The stuff roads are made out of. It is hard, rough, black, and unforgiving. It's also fantastic to bounce balls on, which is why most outdoors basketball courts are made of asphalt, or bitumen.
The Mouse's head didn't bounce.
The reason my baby was playing on the school asphalt at 7pm on a Thursday was because we were attending an end-of-term family BBQ evening. It had been really low-key, very enjoyable - a sausage sizzle, a crazy hat parade, and an Easter egg raffle. All of my crowd from last year were there, so I spent about an hour and a half chatting with my friends while alternately chasing Mais and wiping sauce off various children's chins.
In the last few weeks, the Mouse has abandoned all vestiges of babyhood, to the point where she vehemently told Jack a week or so ago, "I NOT a baby!" Which is fair enough - after all, she is the age Phoebe was when the Mouse was born. She chatters non-stop ("Mumma, Jack tool!" "Yes, Mais, Jack's at school." "Mumma, Beebee ninda!" "Yes, Mais, Beebee is at kinder." "Mumma, Daddy vork!" "Yes, Mais, Daddy's at work." "Mumma, tar!" "Yes, Mais, that's a car." etc. etc. etc.....) She has become particularly insistent that we understand every word she utters, even the really nonsensical baby chatter that flows from her lips when the enthusiasm is just too hard to control. She sings songs constantly, both real and made-up, labels everything, and insists on a verbal exchange. It's very adorable, and only mildly exhausting because I know it doesn't last.
I very nearly didn't go tonight, because Mais has been battling a nasty cold and cough all week, and has just managed to pass it on to me. But since I knew how disappointed Jack would be if we missed the parade, I manned up and got us all there in time for the sodiges. The Mouse was having a ball running with Beebee and her friend Milla, and it wasn't too hard to keep her in a safe area. In the last 30 seconds that we were there, as I said goodbye to a friend, I watched Maisie fall far too quickly onto the asphalt. She fell backwards, so she couldn't break her fall with her arms, and smacked her head mightily on the ground.
The group of adults I stood with all felt the impact of her little head hitting the bitumen. Only I saw her fall. Only Jack saw the kid who pushed her, and who slunk away as the adults ran to scoop her up.
There was no blood, no eyes-rolling-into-the-back-of-the-head, no convulsions. What there was, was silence. This was the thing that scared me most - the fact that she did not cry, or scream, or chatter. She was just silent, with her face buried in my neck. Once we put the ice pack on her poor swollen skull, she began to cry with pain. I was so relieved.
We took her straight to our local hospital, which was in the throes of what the triage nurse called "a feral night". She warned me that we would have to wait four hours, as was standard for concussion observation. I didn't care. As long as my Mouse was safe, I'd stay all night.
In the end, we were so lucky, in so many ways. Jack was taken safely to his mate's house, to spend the night having (we can only assume) a Star Wars festival (and for that I must say thank you and sorry! to my beautiful Renee and Darren - you are life savers! (or should that be light sabres??)) We were permitted to wait in the paediatric waiting room, away from the psychiatric patient waiting to be admitted in the ED waiting room. Maisie happily played with Phoebe, only pausing to tense up when a nurse or doctor entered the room. We only waited an hour to be seen - something the nurse apologised for profusely, which I couldn't understand. An hour in an overcrowded Emergency Department, in a hospital taking the overflow ambulances from the other surrounding hospitals? Are you serious?
Once admitted, Maisie was seen by the kindest, most patient nurses and doctors you could hope for. She was given a teddy to cuddle (and take home - thank goodness! He was promptly named 'Daddy', which is quite fitting since he is dark purple and very furry, and is in her arms as we speak...) and was allowed to clutch Beebee when the really scary heart monitor went on her finger.
The haematoma on the back of her head swelled greatly while we were in there, and began to weep. I was so relieved we were there. The doctor who let us come home under strict observation instructions warned us that since it was such a hard knock, they would have kept her in if she were any younger. But he allowed us back to our cold, dark home under the promise that we would dial 000 if she were less-than-perfect in the next 24 hours.
Which is why I am here, talking to you (which I have wanted to do for a week, but had a whingy snotty toddler and a job (also, at times, whingy and snotty) to deal with). Over the last week, I was going to tell you about the cockroach in my handbag, and Archie's visit to the vet with his three 'helpers' in tow, who filled the vet's waiting room with farts, and about our (absent) concretors, and about other stuff I can't remember now. Instead, I am filling in time while my girl sleeps her headache away.
Apparently we only need to wake her once tonight, to check that she is still responding to stimuli. I highly doubt that once will feel like enough. I worked hard at making that skull, and the skin that covers it. It took me a long time to craft that perfect little face, and the personality that lights up her smile. I spent months creating that gorgeous little body. I have spent years pouring love into the entire package. I'm not about to let her light leave my life, just because I needed to go to sleep. If I need to stay up all night, just to keep her safe, then that is what I will do.
I know all kids fall over. I know most kids are fairly unbreakable. I know we were awesomely, supremely lucky tonight (and not just because we could escape the howls of the second psychiatric patient in the ED ward...) It's just that, in less than a second, my little girl got hurt in a way that could have been so much worse. I'm simultaneously stunned that she's relatively ok, relieved that we were home before midnight, and weepy. Just because I am.
And at the next family BBQ at school, the Mouse is wearing a stackhat. No arguments. Because her head might heal, but I don't know if my heart could stand up to another incident like this!
The Mouse's head didn't bounce.
The reason my baby was playing on the school asphalt at 7pm on a Thursday was because we were attending an end-of-term family BBQ evening. It had been really low-key, very enjoyable - a sausage sizzle, a crazy hat parade, and an Easter egg raffle. All of my crowd from last year were there, so I spent about an hour and a half chatting with my friends while alternately chasing Mais and wiping sauce off various children's chins.
In the last few weeks, the Mouse has abandoned all vestiges of babyhood, to the point where she vehemently told Jack a week or so ago, "I NOT a baby!" Which is fair enough - after all, she is the age Phoebe was when the Mouse was born. She chatters non-stop ("Mumma, Jack tool!" "Yes, Mais, Jack's at school." "Mumma, Beebee ninda!" "Yes, Mais, Beebee is at kinder." "Mumma, Daddy vork!" "Yes, Mais, Daddy's at work." "Mumma, tar!" "Yes, Mais, that's a car." etc. etc. etc.....) She has become particularly insistent that we understand every word she utters, even the really nonsensical baby chatter that flows from her lips when the enthusiasm is just too hard to control. She sings songs constantly, both real and made-up, labels everything, and insists on a verbal exchange. It's very adorable, and only mildly exhausting because I know it doesn't last.
I very nearly didn't go tonight, because Mais has been battling a nasty cold and cough all week, and has just managed to pass it on to me. But since I knew how disappointed Jack would be if we missed the parade, I manned up and got us all there in time for the sodiges. The Mouse was having a ball running with Beebee and her friend Milla, and it wasn't too hard to keep her in a safe area. In the last 30 seconds that we were there, as I said goodbye to a friend, I watched Maisie fall far too quickly onto the asphalt. She fell backwards, so she couldn't break her fall with her arms, and smacked her head mightily on the ground.
The group of adults I stood with all felt the impact of her little head hitting the bitumen. Only I saw her fall. Only Jack saw the kid who pushed her, and who slunk away as the adults ran to scoop her up.
There was no blood, no eyes-rolling-into-the-back-of-the-head, no convulsions. What there was, was silence. This was the thing that scared me most - the fact that she did not cry, or scream, or chatter. She was just silent, with her face buried in my neck. Once we put the ice pack on her poor swollen skull, she began to cry with pain. I was so relieved.
We took her straight to our local hospital, which was in the throes of what the triage nurse called "a feral night". She warned me that we would have to wait four hours, as was standard for concussion observation. I didn't care. As long as my Mouse was safe, I'd stay all night.
In the end, we were so lucky, in so many ways. Jack was taken safely to his mate's house, to spend the night having (we can only assume) a Star Wars festival (and for that I must say thank you and sorry! to my beautiful Renee and Darren - you are life savers! (or should that be light sabres??)) We were permitted to wait in the paediatric waiting room, away from the psychiatric patient waiting to be admitted in the ED waiting room. Maisie happily played with Phoebe, only pausing to tense up when a nurse or doctor entered the room. We only waited an hour to be seen - something the nurse apologised for profusely, which I couldn't understand. An hour in an overcrowded Emergency Department, in a hospital taking the overflow ambulances from the other surrounding hospitals? Are you serious?
Once admitted, Maisie was seen by the kindest, most patient nurses and doctors you could hope for. She was given a teddy to cuddle (and take home - thank goodness! He was promptly named 'Daddy', which is quite fitting since he is dark purple and very furry, and is in her arms as we speak...) and was allowed to clutch Beebee when the really scary heart monitor went on her finger.
The haematoma on the back of her head swelled greatly while we were in there, and began to weep. I was so relieved we were there. The doctor who let us come home under strict observation instructions warned us that since it was such a hard knock, they would have kept her in if she were any younger. But he allowed us back to our cold, dark home under the promise that we would dial 000 if she were less-than-perfect in the next 24 hours.
Which is why I am here, talking to you (which I have wanted to do for a week, but had a whingy snotty toddler and a job (also, at times, whingy and snotty) to deal with). Over the last week, I was going to tell you about the cockroach in my handbag, and Archie's visit to the vet with his three 'helpers' in tow, who filled the vet's waiting room with farts, and about our (absent) concretors, and about other stuff I can't remember now. Instead, I am filling in time while my girl sleeps her headache away.
Apparently we only need to wake her once tonight, to check that she is still responding to stimuli. I highly doubt that once will feel like enough. I worked hard at making that skull, and the skin that covers it. It took me a long time to craft that perfect little face, and the personality that lights up her smile. I spent months creating that gorgeous little body. I have spent years pouring love into the entire package. I'm not about to let her light leave my life, just because I needed to go to sleep. If I need to stay up all night, just to keep her safe, then that is what I will do.
I know all kids fall over. I know most kids are fairly unbreakable. I know we were awesomely, supremely lucky tonight (and not just because we could escape the howls of the second psychiatric patient in the ED ward...) It's just that, in less than a second, my little girl got hurt in a way that could have been so much worse. I'm simultaneously stunned that she's relatively ok, relieved that we were home before midnight, and weepy. Just because I am.
And at the next family BBQ at school, the Mouse is wearing a stackhat. No arguments. Because her head might heal, but I don't know if my heart could stand up to another incident like this!
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Aunties rock
You know how being a mum is pretty cool? (You know. Most of the time, anyway. When you don't have someone else's vomit in your knickers. Obviously.)
I've decided that being an aunty rocks the cazbah.
Yesterday was Uncle Whale's birthday. (Or Wuncle, as the Mouse calls him - looooong story. Never mind.) Uncle Whale is a bit of a celebrity in our house. Not only is he a bit funny, but he is baby Asha's Daddy. Which automatically makes him spesh.
I probably should explain something here, given that I haven't spoken to you for a while. (Yes, I'm rude. Can we move on?) I've been busy working way too many jobs. And employing lawyers. Which I shall explain later, when I feel like being cross. Ok?
Anyway, what you need to understand is that baby Asha is worshipped by her cousins, and when Aunty Miffy is spied by the Mouse, Maisie doesn't bother with greeting Miffy anymore. It's simply, "Dasha?" The kids still love Aunty Miffy and Uncle Whale, as they always have, only now it's mainly because they made Asha, and usually have her somewhere nearby. And let's face it, Asha is gorgeous. Quite seriously, the child is edible. You can't blame my kids for recognising quality.
Anyway, our birthday present to Whale was a night out for dinner with Miffy, which meant that the kids and I looked after Dasha. Given that our Daddy would also be out, I made sure I was more organised than usual (read: the kids were actually fed and pyjama-ed by 6pm. I know!) so that I would be able to look after my little brood of four.
So my kids had their fill of kissing, cuddling, and basically manhandling poor old Ash and went off to bed. Asha had a bit of a cry and went off to sleep in my arms, leaving me to ponder.
Of course, I had the obligatory two-minute fantasy that it was my own baby in my arms, thus fulfilling my fantasy of having four babies (medically impossible (unless I had a uterine transplant...and a body transplant...hmmm), and also maritally impossible!!) But then I relaxed into the cuddle, and started thinking about how gorgeous it was to snuggle my niece all to myself.
Here is a baby girl whom I can love unconditionally, just like my own children. Here is a snuggly little munchkin who can give me my baby fix while I am not newborn-sleep-deprived, or leaking breastmilk, or dealing with colic. Here is sweet little Asha, whose crying does not bother me because I have not been listening to it for hours (or days...), whose warm roundness I can hold without worrying about how long she will sleep, whose tiny fingers and long eyelashes I can sit and study because I know how quickly she will grow into a big girl.
Being an aunty is wonderful. I am so excited about being a part of this little girl's life as she grows and learns. It's a really nice feeling, being the fresh pair of arms, rather than the tired and over-it Mummy (not that my sister is the over-it Mummy, but all new mums are exhausted. That's just reality). I love the fact that between my sister and I, our family has a gang of four who will (hopefully) grow up as a unit. My kids have always gone to their adored Aunty Miffy - I can only hope that Ashie will feel the same way about me.
And after a few hours of having my arms full of sweetly sleeping Asha, her Mummy and Daddy came to pick her up, full-to-bursting of yummy Thai food and the good cheer that comes to new parents after a rare night out. I was pretty chuffed that I delivered a happy baby back to her parents after my first night of aunty-duty (no mishaps here, thank you very much!)
And when this aunty had been in bed for an hour or so, my mobile chirruped with a message from another aunty. A brand-spanking-new aunty.
Does anyone remember me talking about Phoebalina's beloved Aunty Cake? Gertrude's big sister? Well, it would seem that the very clever Aunty Cake became a mummy for the first time yesterday, and a super-excited Aunty Gertrude was letting me know! So I would like to say welcome to the world, little Leo. Your mummy brought you into the world at 5.15am on the 21st of March, 2012 in St. Louis, Illinois. We have seen photos of your beautiful little face already, and I know your Aunty Gertrude is bursting to hold you. But for now, she can just get her backside down here from dirty old Queensland and cuddle Dasha instead. Because after all, we're aunties together now, aren't we?? Hooray for aunties!!
I've decided that being an aunty rocks the cazbah.
Yesterday was Uncle Whale's birthday. (Or Wuncle, as the Mouse calls him - looooong story. Never mind.) Uncle Whale is a bit of a celebrity in our house. Not only is he a bit funny, but he is baby Asha's Daddy. Which automatically makes him spesh.
I probably should explain something here, given that I haven't spoken to you for a while. (Yes, I'm rude. Can we move on?) I've been busy working way too many jobs. And employing lawyers. Which I shall explain later, when I feel like being cross. Ok?
Anyway, what you need to understand is that baby Asha is worshipped by her cousins, and when Aunty Miffy is spied by the Mouse, Maisie doesn't bother with greeting Miffy anymore. It's simply, "Dasha?" The kids still love Aunty Miffy and Uncle Whale, as they always have, only now it's mainly because they made Asha, and usually have her somewhere nearby. And let's face it, Asha is gorgeous. Quite seriously, the child is edible. You can't blame my kids for recognising quality.
Anyway, our birthday present to Whale was a night out for dinner with Miffy, which meant that the kids and I looked after Dasha. Given that our Daddy would also be out, I made sure I was more organised than usual (read: the kids were actually fed and pyjama-ed by 6pm. I know!) so that I would be able to look after my little brood of four.
So my kids had their fill of kissing, cuddling, and basically manhandling poor old Ash and went off to bed. Asha had a bit of a cry and went off to sleep in my arms, leaving me to ponder.
Of course, I had the obligatory two-minute fantasy that it was my own baby in my arms, thus fulfilling my fantasy of having four babies (medically impossible (unless I had a uterine transplant...and a body transplant...hmmm), and also maritally impossible!!) But then I relaxed into the cuddle, and started thinking about how gorgeous it was to snuggle my niece all to myself.
Here is a baby girl whom I can love unconditionally, just like my own children. Here is a snuggly little munchkin who can give me my baby fix while I am not newborn-sleep-deprived, or leaking breastmilk, or dealing with colic. Here is sweet little Asha, whose crying does not bother me because I have not been listening to it for hours (or days...), whose warm roundness I can hold without worrying about how long she will sleep, whose tiny fingers and long eyelashes I can sit and study because I know how quickly she will grow into a big girl.
Being an aunty is wonderful. I am so excited about being a part of this little girl's life as she grows and learns. It's a really nice feeling, being the fresh pair of arms, rather than the tired and over-it Mummy (not that my sister is the over-it Mummy, but all new mums are exhausted. That's just reality). I love the fact that between my sister and I, our family has a gang of four who will (hopefully) grow up as a unit. My kids have always gone to their adored Aunty Miffy - I can only hope that Ashie will feel the same way about me.
And after a few hours of having my arms full of sweetly sleeping Asha, her Mummy and Daddy came to pick her up, full-to-bursting of yummy Thai food and the good cheer that comes to new parents after a rare night out. I was pretty chuffed that I delivered a happy baby back to her parents after my first night of aunty-duty (no mishaps here, thank you very much!)
And when this aunty had been in bed for an hour or so, my mobile chirruped with a message from another aunty. A brand-spanking-new aunty.
Does anyone remember me talking about Phoebalina's beloved Aunty Cake? Gertrude's big sister? Well, it would seem that the very clever Aunty Cake became a mummy for the first time yesterday, and a super-excited Aunty Gertrude was letting me know! So I would like to say welcome to the world, little Leo. Your mummy brought you into the world at 5.15am on the 21st of March, 2012 in St. Louis, Illinois. We have seen photos of your beautiful little face already, and I know your Aunty Gertrude is bursting to hold you. But for now, she can just get her backside down here from dirty old Queensland and cuddle Dasha instead. Because after all, we're aunties together now, aren't we?? Hooray for aunties!!
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
How To Make A Fish-Scented Disaster
1. Take one snotty, coughing, over-tired, fragile toddler and place her on the precarious edge of dinner time.
2. Ensure that she is completely underwhelmed by any plaything by the time you get three saucepans simultaneously on the stove.
3. If you can manage it, ensure that you are the only adult present. (Some may find this easier than others - it is not mandatory, but being the sole grown up in attendance does tend to make this process even messier. Which, obviously, is what you want.)
4. If there are other children present, it is preferable if they too are irritable and over-tired. If they are behaving nicely, allow the toddler to upset them while your back is turned. Any little mishap will do.
5. Choose a dinner that you think will tempt your poor, sick toddler. For example, if you were the Mouse's mother, you might like to make a cheesy pasta bake (for comfort), with some steamed vegetables on the side (to make you feel better about vitamins and stuff). If you are really dumb, stir some fish through the cheese sauce before you add the pasta.
6. Place a bowl of lovely, steaming dinner in front of your little grumpy person. Ignore the fact that she is already waving the spoon and fork around like Genghis Khan. Smile encouragingly at her like the halfwit you are. If you are stupidly optimistic, sit at the table with a serving of dinner in front of you. You might enjoy looking at it. Briefly.
7. Observe your poorly wee poppet marinate themselves in the mornay sauce. Since this is the first meal they have touched all day, the least you can do is sit on your hands while they tuck in heartily with their fork, spoon, hands and hair.
8. Try not to sigh too heavily at the sight your your toddler at the end of their meal. After all, cheesy, fishy pasta rubbed and squeezed all over the body, clothes, furniture and cat is simply an expression of thanks for the meal, right?
9. Ignore the pristine vegetables placed carefully to one side of the table. Your child will not perish without those nutrients for one night. And the dribbles of fishy cheese on them may perhaps entice the dog...
10. As you strip the now-grinning cherub in their seat, try to avoid the food-smeared hands that flail near your clean pants. Encourage your child to instead 'clean' their hands on a tea towel, face washer, or a sibling. Anything but having to find yet another clean pair of jeans to wear tomorrow.
11. Steer the fish mornay-encrusted creature down the hall towards to bathroom, ignoring the globs of pasta and cheese that dot the floor as she walks. (Note: the mewling, delighted cats closely following the trail of the toddler may disgust some people. Take my lead - let their presence be a positive rather than a negative. By the shower's end, your floor will be sparkling clean...and the cats will not beg for their dinner quite so early)
12. Stand the toddler under a stream of warm water in the shower (a bath in this instance would NEVER do! I repeat: Do NOT bath a toddler covered in cheesy fish. The subsequent task of cleaning the bath doubles the angst) and scrub with some sort of fairy-scented gear. Observe how your toddler becomes magically charming again as the fishy gick sloughs off under the spray.
13. Dress your sweet-smelling toddler in warm, nubbly pyjamas, handed down through three children and slightly too small (so that her full belly pokes against the buttons). Calmly ignore the horrific mess at the kitchen table. It isn't going anywhere.
14. Quickly and quietly address the hygiene and pyjama-options of your other children (if present). Brush three sets of teeth, comb three heads, read bedtime stories to all and sundry.
15. Begin the odious task of cleaning the table, floor, kitchen and cat after this tempting meal. Take your time while your children sit, quietly mesmerised by the nighttime antics of Jimmy Giggle. Note in particular, the calm, happy demeanour of your youngest child. Observe how she seems so much happier now, as she squats in front of the telly.
16. Abandon the cleaning of the kitchen to change the most horrific dirty nappy ever known to motherhood. Avert your nostrils from the combined aromas of fish and well...you know. Do not sigh, not matter how tempted you may be. The extra intake of air might kill you.
17. Do not congratulate yourself on surviving this meal. Do not even give yourself the smallest pat on the back for having cared for your child in her illness. Despite the fact that you managed to get a sick toddler to eat, nay, enjoy some proper food, there is one small but important fact remaining. Today's fish mornay is tomorrow's dirty nappy. Sigh.
2. Ensure that she is completely underwhelmed by any plaything by the time you get three saucepans simultaneously on the stove.
3. If you can manage it, ensure that you are the only adult present. (Some may find this easier than others - it is not mandatory, but being the sole grown up in attendance does tend to make this process even messier. Which, obviously, is what you want.)
4. If there are other children present, it is preferable if they too are irritable and over-tired. If they are behaving nicely, allow the toddler to upset them while your back is turned. Any little mishap will do.
5. Choose a dinner that you think will tempt your poor, sick toddler. For example, if you were the Mouse's mother, you might like to make a cheesy pasta bake (for comfort), with some steamed vegetables on the side (to make you feel better about vitamins and stuff). If you are really dumb, stir some fish through the cheese sauce before you add the pasta.
6. Place a bowl of lovely, steaming dinner in front of your little grumpy person. Ignore the fact that she is already waving the spoon and fork around like Genghis Khan. Smile encouragingly at her like the halfwit you are. If you are stupidly optimistic, sit at the table with a serving of dinner in front of you. You might enjoy looking at it. Briefly.
7. Observe your poorly wee poppet marinate themselves in the mornay sauce. Since this is the first meal they have touched all day, the least you can do is sit on your hands while they tuck in heartily with their fork, spoon, hands and hair.
8. Try not to sigh too heavily at the sight your your toddler at the end of their meal. After all, cheesy, fishy pasta rubbed and squeezed all over the body, clothes, furniture and cat is simply an expression of thanks for the meal, right?
9. Ignore the pristine vegetables placed carefully to one side of the table. Your child will not perish without those nutrients for one night. And the dribbles of fishy cheese on them may perhaps entice the dog...
10. As you strip the now-grinning cherub in their seat, try to avoid the food-smeared hands that flail near your clean pants. Encourage your child to instead 'clean' their hands on a tea towel, face washer, or a sibling. Anything but having to find yet another clean pair of jeans to wear tomorrow.
11. Steer the fish mornay-encrusted creature down the hall towards to bathroom, ignoring the globs of pasta and cheese that dot the floor as she walks. (Note: the mewling, delighted cats closely following the trail of the toddler may disgust some people. Take my lead - let their presence be a positive rather than a negative. By the shower's end, your floor will be sparkling clean...and the cats will not beg for their dinner quite so early)
12. Stand the toddler under a stream of warm water in the shower (a bath in this instance would NEVER do! I repeat: Do NOT bath a toddler covered in cheesy fish. The subsequent task of cleaning the bath doubles the angst) and scrub with some sort of fairy-scented gear. Observe how your toddler becomes magically charming again as the fishy gick sloughs off under the spray.
13. Dress your sweet-smelling toddler in warm, nubbly pyjamas, handed down through three children and slightly too small (so that her full belly pokes against the buttons). Calmly ignore the horrific mess at the kitchen table. It isn't going anywhere.
14. Quickly and quietly address the hygiene and pyjama-options of your other children (if present). Brush three sets of teeth, comb three heads, read bedtime stories to all and sundry.
15. Begin the odious task of cleaning the table, floor, kitchen and cat after this tempting meal. Take your time while your children sit, quietly mesmerised by the nighttime antics of Jimmy Giggle. Note in particular, the calm, happy demeanour of your youngest child. Observe how she seems so much happier now, as she squats in front of the telly.
16. Abandon the cleaning of the kitchen to change the most horrific dirty nappy ever known to motherhood. Avert your nostrils from the combined aromas of fish and well...you know. Do not sigh, not matter how tempted you may be. The extra intake of air might kill you.
17. Do not congratulate yourself on surviving this meal. Do not even give yourself the smallest pat on the back for having cared for your child in her illness. Despite the fact that you managed to get a sick toddler to eat, nay, enjoy some proper food, there is one small but important fact remaining. Today's fish mornay is tomorrow's dirty nappy. Sigh.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
My husband, the sexpot
I used to be a normal blogger. (Ha. Normal. I can just hear you now, Gertrude.) What I mean is, I used to blog every day, or every few days. I actually found it difficult to function without blogging, as though by getting my thoughts out I cleared some space in my cerebral hard drive. Or something.
But after Adam's funeral, I found it very difficult to put my thoughts out there. Not because I didn't know what to say. Rather, pretty much everything I thought about was tinged with Blackboard from Mr. Squiggle. Do you remember him?? The most pessimistic piece of chalk-related equipment to ever grace the airwaves.
If I had blogged in the weeks following Adam's death, it would have gone something like this:
"Went to the shops today. Saw a pizza place. It reminded me of Adam *insert sad face and Blackboard-type noises*"
or
"Drove the kids to school. Heard a Paul Kelly song on the radio. It reminded me of Adam *insert crying face and incomprehensible noises*"
So in the end, I didn't blog. Instead, I became a Head Blogger. And by that, I don't mean a Head Blogger in the style of a Head Girl, such as in Mallory Towers, going around being the captain of the lacrosse team and bullying the girls in the Lower Fourth. (Although that would be way fun for a while) No, what I mean is that I began writing all my blog posts in my head, pretty much constantly. I didn't bother putting any of them out there because most of them were so morose they depressed even me.
And then I actually became too busy to blog!! I know!!! I think it was because I had gone so long without writing a post (and also because I had been working pretty much non-stop over the last few weeks, and it's fairly impossible to juggle a lap-top on your lap whilst driving) that I simply got out of the habit. Oh, and I might have been watching MKR a bit. But only when those really catty men were cooking. Or eating. Or talking.
So anyway. I'm probably still too busy to blog, given that I am up to my ears in packing boxes (Optimistic? Yes. But I figure that packing boxes in a hopeful manner is more productive than killing the builder) and I am now working two part-time jobs. I'm also prone to black moods of mourning. Usually provoked by the sight of 4WDs, tall men, home made pizza, Paul Kelly, the word cancer, and Archie. Nevertheless.
It's time to tell you a very funny story. It happened a few weeks ago, on the weekend of Christian's birthday. It's too funny to keep it to myself, and besides, I need new people to giggle at it because the fact that I am still guffawing about it in private is slightly irritating my husband.
If you know Christian IRL, you'd know that he's a pretty quiet bloke. Sense of humour drier than the Sahara. Teaches Literature. Knows as much about cars as the gents on Top Gear (which is sometimes very handy, and other times extremely annoying). Is addicted to road bikes. Loves nothing more than hanging out with me and the kids. Definitely not the type to go out boozing and carrying on, if you know what I mean.
Christian really wasn't in the mood to celebrate his birthday this year. He's not a big birthday person anyway, but considering it was only two weeks after Adam's passing, he really wanted to forget about it this year. So his parents and his brothers very kindly sent us away for the night, taking care of the kids and our accommodation. We spent a lovely weekend in the city, trundling around looking at the shops, eating dinner down at Southbank and just, well, relaxing.
The hotel we stayed in was gorgeous, and right in the heart of the city. The king-size bed alone would have been enough for me (for SLEEPING, people. Sheesh.) and I did indeed spend quite a while on the Saturday afternoon lying under the covers, reading. Mmmmm.
As we went down in the lift early on Saturday evening to get some dinner, a woman joined us in the lift. I was most amused to watch her spend the entire 30 second lift journey staring at my hubby, a little smile playing on her lips. As far as she was concerned, he was obviously a sight for sore eyes, and I was...quite frankly, I was invisible. Which I found simply incredible. Now don't get me wrong - my husband is a bit of a spunkrat. But it's not often complete strangers stare so blatantly at him with the same expression as the singles surrounding the dancefloor at Retro.
As we exited the lift, and Christian's admirer moved away, I dissolved in hiccupy giggles. Christian clearly didn't believe me after I had relayed the story, as he had been completely unaware of the lady's attention. And we probably would have forgotten the whole episode, had we not had breakfast in the hotel's restaurant the next morning. Which was where the most disgustingly hilarious thing was done to my husband while I was away at the toaster.
(NOW you're intrigued!!)
A group of *ahem* ladies aged in their forties (generously speaking) placed themselves at the table adjacent to ours shortly after I departed to obtain my breakfast. While Christian sat quietly sipping his cappucino, one of them picked up a spoon, looked him dead in the eye, and put the spoon in her mouth. Without breaking eye contact, she slowly slid the spoon out of her mouth so that it curved over her tongue, and then smacked her lips. Did I mention that the lady in question had not a skerrick of food in front of her? And the spoon being abused was unused??
This was breakfast, peoples. Breakfast in a rather hoity-toity hotel, and my sweet, unassuming spouse. Not a seedy bar for over 40's at the wrong end of the evening. His face, when I returned to the table, was priceless. It was a mixture of amusement and sheer bewilderment. I've never laughed so hard in a breakfast hall in my life.
I took great glee in grabbing his bum as we passed the scarlet woman's table. Considering the emotional rollercoaster we'd been on for so long, I was going to enjoy this high for as long as I could! And since I know Adam would have gained months of leverage for jokes at Christian's expense out of this, I thought the least I could do was tell you all about it. So there you go.
But after Adam's funeral, I found it very difficult to put my thoughts out there. Not because I didn't know what to say. Rather, pretty much everything I thought about was tinged with Blackboard from Mr. Squiggle. Do you remember him?? The most pessimistic piece of chalk-related equipment to ever grace the airwaves.
If I had blogged in the weeks following Adam's death, it would have gone something like this:
"Went to the shops today. Saw a pizza place. It reminded me of Adam *insert sad face and Blackboard-type noises*"
or
"Drove the kids to school. Heard a Paul Kelly song on the radio. It reminded me of Adam *insert crying face and incomprehensible noises*"
So in the end, I didn't blog. Instead, I became a Head Blogger. And by that, I don't mean a Head Blogger in the style of a Head Girl, such as in Mallory Towers, going around being the captain of the lacrosse team and bullying the girls in the Lower Fourth. (Although that would be way fun for a while) No, what I mean is that I began writing all my blog posts in my head, pretty much constantly. I didn't bother putting any of them out there because most of them were so morose they depressed even me.
And then I actually became too busy to blog!! I know!!! I think it was because I had gone so long without writing a post (and also because I had been working pretty much non-stop over the last few weeks, and it's fairly impossible to juggle a lap-top on your lap whilst driving) that I simply got out of the habit. Oh, and I might have been watching MKR a bit. But only when those really catty men were cooking. Or eating. Or talking.
So anyway. I'm probably still too busy to blog, given that I am up to my ears in packing boxes (Optimistic? Yes. But I figure that packing boxes in a hopeful manner is more productive than killing the builder) and I am now working two part-time jobs. I'm also prone to black moods of mourning. Usually provoked by the sight of 4WDs, tall men, home made pizza, Paul Kelly, the word cancer, and Archie. Nevertheless.
It's time to tell you a very funny story. It happened a few weeks ago, on the weekend of Christian's birthday. It's too funny to keep it to myself, and besides, I need new people to giggle at it because the fact that I am still guffawing about it in private is slightly irritating my husband.
If you know Christian IRL, you'd know that he's a pretty quiet bloke. Sense of humour drier than the Sahara. Teaches Literature. Knows as much about cars as the gents on Top Gear (which is sometimes very handy, and other times extremely annoying). Is addicted to road bikes. Loves nothing more than hanging out with me and the kids. Definitely not the type to go out boozing and carrying on, if you know what I mean.
Christian really wasn't in the mood to celebrate his birthday this year. He's not a big birthday person anyway, but considering it was only two weeks after Adam's passing, he really wanted to forget about it this year. So his parents and his brothers very kindly sent us away for the night, taking care of the kids and our accommodation. We spent a lovely weekend in the city, trundling around looking at the shops, eating dinner down at Southbank and just, well, relaxing.
The hotel we stayed in was gorgeous, and right in the heart of the city. The king-size bed alone would have been enough for me (for SLEEPING, people. Sheesh.) and I did indeed spend quite a while on the Saturday afternoon lying under the covers, reading. Mmmmm.
As we went down in the lift early on Saturday evening to get some dinner, a woman joined us in the lift. I was most amused to watch her spend the entire 30 second lift journey staring at my hubby, a little smile playing on her lips. As far as she was concerned, he was obviously a sight for sore eyes, and I was...quite frankly, I was invisible. Which I found simply incredible. Now don't get me wrong - my husband is a bit of a spunkrat. But it's not often complete strangers stare so blatantly at him with the same expression as the singles surrounding the dancefloor at Retro.
As we exited the lift, and Christian's admirer moved away, I dissolved in hiccupy giggles. Christian clearly didn't believe me after I had relayed the story, as he had been completely unaware of the lady's attention. And we probably would have forgotten the whole episode, had we not had breakfast in the hotel's restaurant the next morning. Which was where the most disgustingly hilarious thing was done to my husband while I was away at the toaster.
(NOW you're intrigued!!)
A group of *ahem* ladies aged in their forties (generously speaking) placed themselves at the table adjacent to ours shortly after I departed to obtain my breakfast. While Christian sat quietly sipping his cappucino, one of them picked up a spoon, looked him dead in the eye, and put the spoon in her mouth. Without breaking eye contact, she slowly slid the spoon out of her mouth so that it curved over her tongue, and then smacked her lips. Did I mention that the lady in question had not a skerrick of food in front of her? And the spoon being abused was unused??
This was breakfast, peoples. Breakfast in a rather hoity-toity hotel, and my sweet, unassuming spouse. Not a seedy bar for over 40's at the wrong end of the evening. His face, when I returned to the table, was priceless. It was a mixture of amusement and sheer bewilderment. I've never laughed so hard in a breakfast hall in my life.
I took great glee in grabbing his bum as we passed the scarlet woman's table. Considering the emotional rollercoaster we'd been on for so long, I was going to enjoy this high for as long as I could! And since I know Adam would have gained months of leverage for jokes at Christian's expense out of this, I thought the least I could do was tell you all about it. So there you go.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Promises, Promises
Grief is a strange thing.
It can make the chattiest person fall silent, emptying their brain of coherent words.
It can prevent even the most exhausted person from sleeping.
It can evoke hysterical laughter, even amidst terrible sobbing.
It can create ridiculous, irrational, ill-directed anger (more on that later).
It can cast a pall across every waking moment, making you wonder if anything will ever feel right again.
Yesterday, grief made me a bit...wonky? No. Probably 'off-kilter' is a better way to describe it.
Apart from crying on an old friend's shoulder at the front door of the swimming pool (and the thousands of people who pass through the doors between 3:30 and 5pm on a school night), and crying on the shoulder of the childcare teacher at Maisie's creche (whom I had never met before), I had held it together pretty well this week. And no, I'm not counting the silent weeping behind my sunglasses whilst driving, or the uncontrollable wailing on Christian's shirt-front, or even the general black malaise that has taken over me since Monday. If you know me IRL, you'd agree that I have been exceptionally restrained.
And I had a fair bit of lovely help this week, keeping it together - visits from Kirst and baby Eliza, and Caroline and baby Robot, were invaluable to me. Sange and Hay kept me busy for an afternoon, and my kids to boot. Miffy arrived, baby Asha (now dubbed 'Dashie' by the Mouse) under one arm and dinner for us all under the other. You girls - all of you - gave me love and hugs and coffee and company when I needed it. Thank you.
So I figured that I would be strong at Adam's funeral - strong for my darling Anna and her family, strong for my poor, bereaved husband. After all, anyone who had drunk as much coffee as I had in four days could stand up for hours!!
Anyway. For all my good intentions, grief got me in the arse, big time.
Firstly, we had to spread the kids three ways, which meant leaving the house at 7am. Phoebalina went to Aunty Miffy's house, and was beyond excited to be Miffy's baby-helper all day. She skipped out to the car with her lunchbox and colouring-in gear, and barely looked back. Similarly, Jack was so delighted to spend the day at his best mate's house, I got the whisper of a kiss thrown at my cheek before he and Will disappeared on some adventure. Mummy? What mummy??
The Mouse, on the other hand, is obviously psychic. How else could the child have known about the churning grief and guilt in my head, and pressed exactly the right buttons to accentuate it?? Since I literally had no one to take Mais for me, I was forced to put her in for an extra day of childcare. Now, considering her very first day of daycare EVER was on Wednesday, you can imagine how guilty I felt. Especially since I had to leave her there at 7:30am.
As soon as she saw Jack exit the car, Maisie began crying. It escalated to full screams as I drove away from Will's house, and just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, she spied the childcare centre looming. "Nooooooo, mummy!!!! No!!!!!!! Mummy, nooooooo!!!!!!" she wailed, as though begging me not to leave her with knife-wielding strangers in a dark carpark at midnight. Which is why I cried on the childcare lady. Totally understandable. (NB: when my mum picked her up in the afternoon, she was as happy as the proverbial pig in mud...to the point Narnie was ordered to sit down to read a story and sing songs. And in the end, Mum had to convince her to leave!! Little bugger.)
Obviously, this put me in a rather fragile state. And I still had three hours until the actual funeral.
About the service, all I will say is this: it was beautiful, simple and heartfelt. Anna gave Adam's eulogy, and a braver woman has never drawn breath. She was so strong, I couldn't take my red, sobbing, ugly face off her. Every poem, every song chosen for Adam was perfect, and the chapel was packed with people who loved Adam and Anna.
It was only when the bagpipes started that the ugly crier turned hideous. I'm sorry, but bagpipes make me blub at happy occasions. Play them at a funeral and I'm a heaving, snotting write-off. Seriously - I've told Christian this, but just so there's no surprises - at my own funeral, I want to exit the church / chapel / pagan cave to 'Born To Be Alive' by Patrick Hernandez. You heard me. If anyone allows my coffin to be bagpiped from the building, I'll get up out of the casket and deck you. Even if I'm lucky enough to die when I'm 99, that's the song I want. Ok? Ok.
I think I mentioned before about grief creating anger? Uhuh. How's this for nasty? My wretchedness was so overwhelming, I was beginning to look at really old (I mean, REALLY old, like proper nonagenarians) in the street and thinking, "Why are you still allowed to be here if Adam is not? How come you got to live so long? Huh? Huh???" Yep. Really helpful stuff. And totally rational too.
So even though I wanted to crawl into a hole lined with Kleenex to soak up the running rivers from my nostrils, we went to the wake to support Anna. And after I regained some sight in my eyes, and the capacity to speak, I tried to help. Passed a bit of food around. Washed a few dishes. Picked up the empties. You know. Nothing that would bring Adam back, but all I could think of doing at the time.
And now it's the next day. The fraught, emotional tension of yesterday has been replaced by tired quietness. A grey veil hangs over my brain patterns. There has been extra kisses and cuddles and a general air of leniency with the kids, coupled with a lowered tolerance level for rude behaviour. Luckily for the big kids, ballet lessons began again for the term today (and I reckon Miss Annette is far better company than Mummy right now), and this afternoon they have gone to Narnie and Pa's for the night. The Mouse was permitted Tiny Teddies for morning tea today, and was given a new doll. It made me feel better, anyway.
If only I could fix Christian's grief with sweet treaties with his morning coffee and a new toy.
I suppose this is where the real work of living with grief begins. It's not that I'm new to grief - I'm not a hothouse flower who has been sheltered from the real world for 35 years - but I am new to this grief. This is the first time a girlfriend of mine has lost a husband. What can I do to alleviate her pain? Nothing. So I bring her offers of company and wine and food and child care, and hope that one day, some of it might help a bit. And I promise myself to talk about him, with her, whenever she wants or needs to. And to make sure the funny stories about Adam always outweigh the serious. Which, knowing Adam, won't be difficult. I promise to remember these stories, and to tell his children (the appropriate ones, of course) when they are older. I promise to keep their Daddy in my heart.
And as this is the second time my husband has lost a best mate to cancer, the grief is both old and new for him. Adam's passing has revived Christian's memories of Jason's death, aged 15. In a way, Christian has been mourning Jason all over again, while dealing with losing Adam. I am completely at a loss how to help him, other than to smother him with hugs and kisses at random intervals. (He hasn't objected...yet.) I suppose time is the answer? The thing is, I can't magically transport Anna and Christian to a time when thinking about Adam doesn't hurt as much. I can't hug their grief away. I can't cook enough in the kitchen to numb their feelings.
Sorry. Here I am, rambling again. Apparently that's another side-effect of grief. Inane rambling. And brain malfunction. Because, as I'm sure you can tell (not!!), I was going to try and make some of this humorous, if only to obey Adam's order to "enjoy your life to the full". Sorry, mate. I will. Promise.
It can make the chattiest person fall silent, emptying their brain of coherent words.
It can prevent even the most exhausted person from sleeping.
It can evoke hysterical laughter, even amidst terrible sobbing.
It can create ridiculous, irrational, ill-directed anger (more on that later).
It can cast a pall across every waking moment, making you wonder if anything will ever feel right again.
Yesterday, grief made me a bit...wonky? No. Probably 'off-kilter' is a better way to describe it.
Apart from crying on an old friend's shoulder at the front door of the swimming pool (and the thousands of people who pass through the doors between 3:30 and 5pm on a school night), and crying on the shoulder of the childcare teacher at Maisie's creche (whom I had never met before), I had held it together pretty well this week. And no, I'm not counting the silent weeping behind my sunglasses whilst driving, or the uncontrollable wailing on Christian's shirt-front, or even the general black malaise that has taken over me since Monday. If you know me IRL, you'd agree that I have been exceptionally restrained.
And I had a fair bit of lovely help this week, keeping it together - visits from Kirst and baby Eliza, and Caroline and baby Robot, were invaluable to me. Sange and Hay kept me busy for an afternoon, and my kids to boot. Miffy arrived, baby Asha (now dubbed 'Dashie' by the Mouse) under one arm and dinner for us all under the other. You girls - all of you - gave me love and hugs and coffee and company when I needed it. Thank you.
So I figured that I would be strong at Adam's funeral - strong for my darling Anna and her family, strong for my poor, bereaved husband. After all, anyone who had drunk as much coffee as I had in four days could stand up for hours!!
Anyway. For all my good intentions, grief got me in the arse, big time.
Firstly, we had to spread the kids three ways, which meant leaving the house at 7am. Phoebalina went to Aunty Miffy's house, and was beyond excited to be Miffy's baby-helper all day. She skipped out to the car with her lunchbox and colouring-in gear, and barely looked back. Similarly, Jack was so delighted to spend the day at his best mate's house, I got the whisper of a kiss thrown at my cheek before he and Will disappeared on some adventure. Mummy? What mummy??
The Mouse, on the other hand, is obviously psychic. How else could the child have known about the churning grief and guilt in my head, and pressed exactly the right buttons to accentuate it?? Since I literally had no one to take Mais for me, I was forced to put her in for an extra day of childcare. Now, considering her very first day of daycare EVER was on Wednesday, you can imagine how guilty I felt. Especially since I had to leave her there at 7:30am.
As soon as she saw Jack exit the car, Maisie began crying. It escalated to full screams as I drove away from Will's house, and just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, she spied the childcare centre looming. "Nooooooo, mummy!!!! No!!!!!!! Mummy, nooooooo!!!!!!" she wailed, as though begging me not to leave her with knife-wielding strangers in a dark carpark at midnight. Which is why I cried on the childcare lady. Totally understandable. (NB: when my mum picked her up in the afternoon, she was as happy as the proverbial pig in mud...to the point Narnie was ordered to sit down to read a story and sing songs. And in the end, Mum had to convince her to leave!! Little bugger.)
Obviously, this put me in a rather fragile state. And I still had three hours until the actual funeral.
About the service, all I will say is this: it was beautiful, simple and heartfelt. Anna gave Adam's eulogy, and a braver woman has never drawn breath. She was so strong, I couldn't take my red, sobbing, ugly face off her. Every poem, every song chosen for Adam was perfect, and the chapel was packed with people who loved Adam and Anna.
It was only when the bagpipes started that the ugly crier turned hideous. I'm sorry, but bagpipes make me blub at happy occasions. Play them at a funeral and I'm a heaving, snotting write-off. Seriously - I've told Christian this, but just so there's no surprises - at my own funeral, I want to exit the church / chapel / pagan cave to 'Born To Be Alive' by Patrick Hernandez. You heard me. If anyone allows my coffin to be bagpiped from the building, I'll get up out of the casket and deck you. Even if I'm lucky enough to die when I'm 99, that's the song I want. Ok? Ok.
I think I mentioned before about grief creating anger? Uhuh. How's this for nasty? My wretchedness was so overwhelming, I was beginning to look at really old (I mean, REALLY old, like proper nonagenarians) in the street and thinking, "Why are you still allowed to be here if Adam is not? How come you got to live so long? Huh? Huh???" Yep. Really helpful stuff. And totally rational too.
So even though I wanted to crawl into a hole lined with Kleenex to soak up the running rivers from my nostrils, we went to the wake to support Anna. And after I regained some sight in my eyes, and the capacity to speak, I tried to help. Passed a bit of food around. Washed a few dishes. Picked up the empties. You know. Nothing that would bring Adam back, but all I could think of doing at the time.
And now it's the next day. The fraught, emotional tension of yesterday has been replaced by tired quietness. A grey veil hangs over my brain patterns. There has been extra kisses and cuddles and a general air of leniency with the kids, coupled with a lowered tolerance level for rude behaviour. Luckily for the big kids, ballet lessons began again for the term today (and I reckon Miss Annette is far better company than Mummy right now), and this afternoon they have gone to Narnie and Pa's for the night. The Mouse was permitted Tiny Teddies for morning tea today, and was given a new doll. It made me feel better, anyway.
If only I could fix Christian's grief with sweet treaties with his morning coffee and a new toy.
I suppose this is where the real work of living with grief begins. It's not that I'm new to grief - I'm not a hothouse flower who has been sheltered from the real world for 35 years - but I am new to this grief. This is the first time a girlfriend of mine has lost a husband. What can I do to alleviate her pain? Nothing. So I bring her offers of company and wine and food and child care, and hope that one day, some of it might help a bit. And I promise myself to talk about him, with her, whenever she wants or needs to. And to make sure the funny stories about Adam always outweigh the serious. Which, knowing Adam, won't be difficult. I promise to remember these stories, and to tell his children (the appropriate ones, of course) when they are older. I promise to keep their Daddy in my heart.
And as this is the second time my husband has lost a best mate to cancer, the grief is both old and new for him. Adam's passing has revived Christian's memories of Jason's death, aged 15. In a way, Christian has been mourning Jason all over again, while dealing with losing Adam. I am completely at a loss how to help him, other than to smother him with hugs and kisses at random intervals. (He hasn't objected...yet.) I suppose time is the answer? The thing is, I can't magically transport Anna and Christian to a time when thinking about Adam doesn't hurt as much. I can't hug their grief away. I can't cook enough in the kitchen to numb their feelings.
Sorry. Here I am, rambling again. Apparently that's another side-effect of grief. Inane rambling. And brain malfunction. Because, as I'm sure you can tell (not!!), I was going to try and make some of this humorous, if only to obey Adam's order to "enjoy your life to the full". Sorry, mate. I will. Promise.
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