Timing. That magical moment. The right moment. When everything you've been holding your breath for falls into place and it's magical and it works. Bad timing and it's the other way. It feels like you're losing everything and the heavy weight in the pit of your stomach...well that would be regret. God damn it. Missed my moment.
I tend to not live with regrets. I'm a fan of living life to the full but even when you try to do all that you can to avoid those moments of timing that lead to regret, still there are moments of indecision and opportunities missed that you will kick yourself for forever.
I thought about timing a lot today as I watched myself play out almost the same scenario that occurred 20 years ago and tried to make different decisions for a different outcome. It dawned on me tonight that at the end of the day it's going to turn out the same way despite my best efforts. And I'm starting to think...maybe it isn't just timing. Maybe there are no happy endings for girls like me.
Monday, 11 November 2013
Tuesday, 22 October 2013
Pigs in mud cake
This was my attempt at making a pigs in mud cake I've seen floating around the interwebs. This is the original;
And this is my finished product;
So a quick and dirty how to. I made two very moist chocolate cakes (vegan - a recipe to follow shortly) in a 21cm spring-form cake tin and left them overnight to cool in the fridge. I also made the pigs ahead of time. When I say "I", I actually mean "we" because Kat is just better at modelling than me. It's not that I can't make cute little piggy bottoms with sweet little tails attached - it's more that it would take three hours and seven individual tantrums whereas Kat can do it in like ten minutes. Bitch.
A hot tip I got from a website somewhere is to tint the icing not just with pink but with a tiny amount of ivory/flesh/apricot colour as this makes a much nicer pink pig skin colour instead of a lurid pink. It works. You need four trotters, three piggy bottoms and two piggy torsos - one with arms and one without. For the trotters -just roll four balls slightly bigger than a pea and press a bamboo skewer across the middle to make the "cleat". Pea-sized balls pricked with a skewer work for the snout. The bottoms are just balls, again with a bamboo skewer pressed to make the "cleavage" of the bottom. The tails are tiny sausages of icing curled around the bamboo skewer. Belly buttons and eyes are, again, just holes made with the bamboo skewer. The arms on the pig reclining against the edge of the tub are one tube, about ten centimetres long, cut in half and with a snip in each end to form the "cleat". Then they were left overnight to air dry. I highly recommend either making spare parts or keeping some icing wrapped in cling wrap in the fridge in case you need more. Placing the parts in the mud can be challenging and pink piggy parts smeared with mud just don't cut it.
The day after making the cakes and the pigs I took the cakes, cut them in half and layered them with vegan buttercream. I checked the height of the Kit Kats and found that I only needed three of the four halves to make the cake high enough (you need about an inch between the top of the cake and the top of the Kit Kats). After stacking them with buttercream between the layers I coated the sides of the cake with more buttercream to make the Kit Kats stick.
A word on Kit Kats. They're not cheap and for this size tin you need eleven. I got them half price so it wasn't too $$$. I have seen other stuff used but I liked the hot tub look the Kit Kats give. So yeah. 21cm cake tin? Eleven Kit Kats.
Insider tip? Break them in half while they're in their packets - it makes them split easily without shattering. Then start putting them around the edge of the cake so there are no gaps. Finish it off with a pretty bow (I went with pink organza) which not only serves as decoration but keeps the Kit Kats in place while you pour in the "mud".
Okay it's mud time! I went with a 2:1 chocolate to cream ratio. 200g chocolate and 100ml of cream makes a very firm ganache when it sets and it won't run or leak on you. Heat the cream and chocolate together in the microwave, taking it out at frequent intervals to stir so it doesn't burn. Pour into your hot tub and then smooth the top.
And the final part is to place your piggies. I personally recommend using tweezers to place your trotters or you can make like Kat and go through a few replacements while muttering "shut up, shut up, shut up" and making a concerted effort to ignore the tweezers your bud is wordlessly holding out for you. Your call.
The pigs were a massive hit. The man I made them for used to work in an office called "The Swamp" so it was the perfect theme. For a few hours they lived a condensed version of the celebrity lifestyle with all the trappings of fickle fame. Famous, gossiped about, photographed...and then their adoring public turned on them and consumed them in a vicious flurry. Unfortunately I had to leave the party early...this is what greeted me when I returned;
I'd say it tasted as good as it looked!
And this is my finished product;
So a quick and dirty how to. I made two very moist chocolate cakes (vegan - a recipe to follow shortly) in a 21cm spring-form cake tin and left them overnight to cool in the fridge. I also made the pigs ahead of time. When I say "I", I actually mean "we" because Kat is just better at modelling than me. It's not that I can't make cute little piggy bottoms with sweet little tails attached - it's more that it would take three hours and seven individual tantrums whereas Kat can do it in like ten minutes. Bitch.
A hot tip I got from a website somewhere is to tint the icing not just with pink but with a tiny amount of ivory/flesh/apricot colour as this makes a much nicer pink pig skin colour instead of a lurid pink. It works. You need four trotters, three piggy bottoms and two piggy torsos - one with arms and one without. For the trotters -just roll four balls slightly bigger than a pea and press a bamboo skewer across the middle to make the "cleat". Pea-sized balls pricked with a skewer work for the snout. The bottoms are just balls, again with a bamboo skewer pressed to make the "cleavage" of the bottom. The tails are tiny sausages of icing curled around the bamboo skewer. Belly buttons and eyes are, again, just holes made with the bamboo skewer. The arms on the pig reclining against the edge of the tub are one tube, about ten centimetres long, cut in half and with a snip in each end to form the "cleat". Then they were left overnight to air dry. I highly recommend either making spare parts or keeping some icing wrapped in cling wrap in the fridge in case you need more. Placing the parts in the mud can be challenging and pink piggy parts smeared with mud just don't cut it.
The day after making the cakes and the pigs I took the cakes, cut them in half and layered them with vegan buttercream. I checked the height of the Kit Kats and found that I only needed three of the four halves to make the cake high enough (you need about an inch between the top of the cake and the top of the Kit Kats). After stacking them with buttercream between the layers I coated the sides of the cake with more buttercream to make the Kit Kats stick.
A word on Kit Kats. They're not cheap and for this size tin you need eleven. I got them half price so it wasn't too $$$. I have seen other stuff used but I liked the hot tub look the Kit Kats give. So yeah. 21cm cake tin? Eleven Kit Kats.
Insider tip? Break them in half while they're in their packets - it makes them split easily without shattering. Then start putting them around the edge of the cake so there are no gaps. Finish it off with a pretty bow (I went with pink organza) which not only serves as decoration but keeps the Kit Kats in place while you pour in the "mud".
Okay it's mud time! I went with a 2:1 chocolate to cream ratio. 200g chocolate and 100ml of cream makes a very firm ganache when it sets and it won't run or leak on you. Heat the cream and chocolate together in the microwave, taking it out at frequent intervals to stir so it doesn't burn. Pour into your hot tub and then smooth the top.
And the final part is to place your piggies. I personally recommend using tweezers to place your trotters or you can make like Kat and go through a few replacements while muttering "shut up, shut up, shut up" and making a concerted effort to ignore the tweezers your bud is wordlessly holding out for you. Your call.
The pigs were a massive hit. The man I made them for used to work in an office called "The Swamp" so it was the perfect theme. For a few hours they lived a condensed version of the celebrity lifestyle with all the trappings of fickle fame. Famous, gossiped about, photographed...and then their adoring public turned on them and consumed them in a vicious flurry. Unfortunately I had to leave the party early...this is what greeted me when I returned;
I'd say it tasted as good as it looked!
Kachow!
Any marriage breakdown is full of the "could have, should have, would haves" and I'm no exception. There's a bunch of burning resentments that can drag you down if you let them. Case in point - the ex taking the lawn mower to go mow the new girlfriend's lawn. ARE YOU FREAKIN' KIDDING ME? Know how many times he mowed our family's lawn in the last five years? ONCE. You want to mow a lawn sunshine? Come mow mine because you OWE me a BUNCH of lawn mowing and that be the tip of the BIGGEST iceberg since the Titanic.
You can see how quickly that sort of thinking snowballs, right? I recently had something of an epiphany about this one. I've got a limited amount of energy to spend in the wake of this separation. I can pour it into anger and resentment over all of the things he failed to do or I can pour it into just getting on with doing those things myself and forging the life that makes me happy in his absence. Obviously I choose option B.
So first up was my little boy's bike. My aunt gave it to him for his third birthday in the (vain) hope that it would prompt the ex into putting it together for him as a father-son bonding session. Here's his bike right up until recently;
Sad, right? So I assembled my not inconsiderable collection of tools and got busy.
Here's my issue with this sort of caper. I've got the tools. I know how to wield them. But oh my God instructions? I have never been the "Insert Tab A into Slot B" type. It doesn't help that they insist on a one-size fits all instruction booklet to cover the nine different kinds of bike they make and you wind up with instructions like, "if your bike has a cam shaft differential prong you will need to rotate the locking pin 90 degrees before insertion. WARNING - If your bike has a fiscal foreign deficit prong and you rotate the locking pin 90 degrees instead of 60 before insertion your child's bike will explode the instant he sits on it taking his genitals with it and it will be ALL YOUR FAULT*." And then there's the vague sketches that are meant to help you identify which model you have as opposed to just writing the model number on the fucking box in the first place and clearly marking the booklet with which instructions apply to which model. I digress.
I gave up on page two straight after the identification of all the parts and decided to wing it. 20 minutes later we had a shiny metallic red bike and one very happy little Viking who insisted it was his "Lightning McQueen" bike, shouting "KACHOW!" while posing for photos with it. Best. Mother. Ever.
* ACME Fuck You Co does not accept liability for any injuries that result as a direct result of your failure to pay the $200 assembly fee on your $60 bike you miserable cheapskate. Best of luck.
You can see how quickly that sort of thinking snowballs, right? I recently had something of an epiphany about this one. I've got a limited amount of energy to spend in the wake of this separation. I can pour it into anger and resentment over all of the things he failed to do or I can pour it into just getting on with doing those things myself and forging the life that makes me happy in his absence. Obviously I choose option B.
So first up was my little boy's bike. My aunt gave it to him for his third birthday in the (vain) hope that it would prompt the ex into putting it together for him as a father-son bonding session. Here's his bike right up until recently;
Sad, right? So I assembled my not inconsiderable collection of tools and got busy.
Here's my issue with this sort of caper. I've got the tools. I know how to wield them. But oh my God instructions? I have never been the "Insert Tab A into Slot B" type. It doesn't help that they insist on a one-size fits all instruction booklet to cover the nine different kinds of bike they make and you wind up with instructions like, "if your bike has a cam shaft differential prong you will need to rotate the locking pin 90 degrees before insertion. WARNING - If your bike has a fiscal foreign deficit prong and you rotate the locking pin 90 degrees instead of 60 before insertion your child's bike will explode the instant he sits on it taking his genitals with it and it will be ALL YOUR FAULT*." And then there's the vague sketches that are meant to help you identify which model you have as opposed to just writing the model number on the fucking box in the first place and clearly marking the booklet with which instructions apply to which model. I digress.
I gave up on page two straight after the identification of all the parts and decided to wing it. 20 minutes later we had a shiny metallic red bike and one very happy little Viking who insisted it was his "Lightning McQueen" bike, shouting "KACHOW!" while posing for photos with it. Best. Mother. Ever.
* ACME Fuck You Co does not accept liability for any injuries that result as a direct result of your failure to pay the $200 assembly fee on your $60 bike you miserable cheapskate. Best of luck.
Tuesday, 15 October 2013
Can I go now?
Some days I think I might be permanently broken. I think I have used up all of myself trying to help others, make things better and there's nothing left over for me. Nothing really prepares you for the moments when you put yourself out there, extend yourself beyond your comfort zones to a place where your heart and health are at risk and you are rebuked as though you came with evil intent.
I'm spent. I'm drowning. And no one is noticing. Kat tells me it is because I do such a good job of emulating someone who is coping. If only she could see the hurt, the anger, the gathering rage which for all it's substance still feels like a superficial film masking a rising tide of black nothing. I don't have the capacity to love the way I used to. I don't want to care about anyone or anything. I am morbidly obsessed with what it would be like to be empty and feel nothing.
I want to be swallowed by the earth, with nothing remaining but the occasional memory. Hey remember that girl with the red hair who smiled even when the tears ran down her face and said she was fine even when she wasn't? What happened to her? I don't know. I think she moved away.
Why does the thought of becoming a whisper seem so attractive? Because if I could fade like that I could give myself permission to take a bow and leave.
Tuesday, 1 October 2013
Family portrait
This weekend I took my babies to the park for a picnic with friends at Floriade. My goal was to get one nice photo of the three of us together. Five attempts. Here's what we got;
Well if nothing else we managed to capture the personality of the subjects in this portrait. *sigh*
Well if nothing else we managed to capture the personality of the subjects in this portrait. *sigh*
Monday, 30 September 2013
FML....and my photinia
So on the back of the can't stop crying thanks to family abandonment issue I decided to do what I usually do...channel my impotent anger and sorrow into something productive. In this case, pruning the photinia that was starting to damage the fort I built for the kids a few years back. Halfway through cutting through the branch that was pushing into the fort there was a cracking sound. Not from the branch but, rather ominously, from near the base. And just like a buxom opera singer on her final curtain call, the whole thing curtsied majestically to the ground.
See all that there photinia? It used to be three metres off the ground. Fuck. My. Life. And fuck the photinia, which I will now have to disassemble with a bloody hand saw and a pair of secateurs. As I stood there in shock, surveying the devastation my sassy pants little girl came and stood beside me.
"Mama," she said quite calmly, "you said you were going to prune it. Not kill it."
Thank you sweetheart.
See all that there photinia? It used to be three metres off the ground. Fuck. My. Life. And fuck the photinia, which I will now have to disassemble with a bloody hand saw and a pair of secateurs. As I stood there in shock, surveying the devastation my sassy pants little girl came and stood beside me.
"Mama," she said quite calmly, "you said you were going to prune it. Not kill it."
Thank you sweetheart.
Sunday, 29 September 2013
Total rant
Today I snapped. Again. I've been crying ever since. See my sister-in-law was pregnant and I had a niece on the way. Like all my previous nieces and nephews I said I'd make her a quilt and took her shopping for fabrics. Know how I found out my niece had been born? Because my ex called me to say he was going to go and introduce his new "partner" to the baby and he wanted to make sure I wasn't going to be there when he did. Didn't even know she'd been born. Still don't know her name or any other details about her birth. Guess I'll pop the quilt in the post if I can bring myself to finish it. Cannot believe his "partner" of six weeks has met the niece I don't even know the name of. Still don't know what the right etiquette is. Do I send an SMS saying congratulations, hope it all went well?
Yesterday my brother-in-law had a family dinner to say goodbye before he goes off to rehab. Not invited. Haven't seen him since. Assume he's gone but no way to know. The final straw came today. I was doing more cleaning and decided to run a few bags of clothes that Charlotte has grown out of over to my other sister-in-law. When I got there I found out my former mother-in-law is across from Perth to see the new baby because she was there. I didn't know that either. In that moment it hit me. I have not just lost my husband, I've lost my family too. I'm totally out of the loop and not even an after-thought. I couldn't help it - I started to cry and I fled.
My sister-in-law sent me an SMS asking me if I was okay and saying they're here for me but I find it hard to believe at the moment. I am so fucking hurt. I've been a part of that family for over ten years and it feels like they, just like Charles, have switched track without a backward glance. I feel disposable all over again. I am trying to tell myself that it must be hard for them. That it's tricky to balance the new dynamic, hard to know what the right thing to do is. But in my head I am going over all the times I've put myself out there for them and in my heart I'm broken.
I think I might be becoming toxic and bitter and I hate myself for it. *sigh*
Yesterday my brother-in-law had a family dinner to say goodbye before he goes off to rehab. Not invited. Haven't seen him since. Assume he's gone but no way to know. The final straw came today. I was doing more cleaning and decided to run a few bags of clothes that Charlotte has grown out of over to my other sister-in-law. When I got there I found out my former mother-in-law is across from Perth to see the new baby because she was there. I didn't know that either. In that moment it hit me. I have not just lost my husband, I've lost my family too. I'm totally out of the loop and not even an after-thought. I couldn't help it - I started to cry and I fled.
My sister-in-law sent me an SMS asking me if I was okay and saying they're here for me but I find it hard to believe at the moment. I am so fucking hurt. I've been a part of that family for over ten years and it feels like they, just like Charles, have switched track without a backward glance. I feel disposable all over again. I am trying to tell myself that it must be hard for them. That it's tricky to balance the new dynamic, hard to know what the right thing to do is. But in my head I am going over all the times I've put myself out there for them and in my heart I'm broken.
I think I might be becoming toxic and bitter and I hate myself for it. *sigh*
Tuesday, 24 September 2013
My chivalrous little Viking
Anyone who knows me knows that I'm not really big on gender definition. I grew up with an amazing father who never used the phrase "when you grow up and get married", opting instead for, "when you grow up and find the right person for you". When you grow up in a house where being a good person and being happy are the focus, where homosexuality is explained with a shrug of the shoulders and "some people love men, some people love women, some people just love people depending on who they are and not what's between their legs" then you tend to have a different view than those coming out of homes where bibles were thumped and fears about the death of humanity were espoused.
To me kids should be allowed to define who they are. That means they choose what they want to wear, they choose what hobbies and sports they like and I don't use language that implies what they should or shouldn't be doing and especially not linking those phrases to gender. So a crash course on my kids.
Charlotte is a girl. She does not do pink and frilly. Unless it's teemed with some sort of punk goth arrangements. This is a typical Charlotte outfit combined with typical Charlotte activity:
She's into rock climbing at the moment.
And Hello Kitty but only when it's "cool" and not "pretty".
Previously it was martial arts. Particularly weapons.
But she's gone off that a little bit lately because it got boring. So this week she's starting training for competition sparring to try and spice it up a bit for her again. Oh yes. She also likes to do Mama stuff. Specifically. Renovation.
My nicname for her is Lara. As in Croft.
Then there's the little Viking. I wrote previously about Mama addiction. At age four it shows no sign of abating.
My son loves dressing up. Especially in my and his sister's stuff.
He might do pretty but he's also, fundamentally, a Viking. He does not eat and drink. He scoffs and quaffs. Sometimes he gets so hungry he doesn't even bother with hands.
He's also big on renovating.
And martial arts. Which he calls "tikey-won-do".
Oh yes. And they are both big on cooking. Or, more specifically, licking the bowl.
So you can see that my kids have sort of decided for themselves what they do and don't like without a whole lot of influence from me. The thing that I find curious is the strong chivalrous streak my son has developed in the absence of any instruction or modelling.
James only plays with girls at his daycare. He has about four of them who have consistently been his friends for a few years now. He joins in with them, invites them to his birthdays (no boys) and in general just sticks like glue to them. He looks after these girls like a mother duck. I watched him recently at his little friend Livvy's party. He showed her how to swing the stick at the pinata, patted her and told her how well she'd done when her turn was over and, after she blew the candles out on her cake he said, "You did such a good job Livvy and I'm so proud of you." He also insists on choosing their birthday presents online for them - actually going so far as to pick out dresses that would suit their "style" not just things he thinks are pretty. I'm pretty darn proud that my boy hangs out with kids he likes and is a good friend, regardless of gender.
The trouble is that he won't let any of the other little boys near them. Girls are okay. But not boys. After the carers pointed this out to me I asked him if it was because he gets jealous when other boys play with his friends.
"No," he said, "but the boys play really roughly and they always wind up hurting them and it makes them sad and they cry. The other boys wouldn't listen to me and play nicely so now they're not allowed to play with them at all."
And then there is the way he is reacting to my separation from his Dad. About a week ago he brought me a frame that contains a photo of me and his Dad together.
"Mama," he said, "Can you please put a different photo in here?"
"What photo would you like in there buddy?" I asked, assuming he wanted a particular photo put up.
"I don't mind," he said, "As long as it's not Daddy."
That got my attention.
"Not Daddy huh? Why is that?"
He looked at me very seriously then and he said, "Mama, Daddy wasn't very nice to you. He didn't look after you and he doesn't live here any more. I don't want photos of him here."
This floored me. I'd always been so careful to cover Charles' behaviour around the kids because I knew it was his depression talking. But obviously James still picked up on it. I tried to explain to him that Daddy had been having a hard time and it wasn't the way he normally is but James stopped me by patting my hand again and saying, "It's okay Mama, I know that and I still love Daddy but I don't like the way he treated you and I don't want photos of him here in our house."
When I got all teary my small son cuddled me hard and reassured me that it was okay, Daddy isn't allowed to yell at me any more and he, James, would look after me always.
The thing about it is this. Without prompting, without anyone saying anything, my small son has assumed the role of protector for the women and girls in his life. It isn't a role that's been demonstrated for him. It isn't something he's been told to do. He has just forged his way forward and decided who he is. A gentle boy who loves to wear pretty things, play hard and look after his friends and his Mama.
To me kids should be allowed to define who they are. That means they choose what they want to wear, they choose what hobbies and sports they like and I don't use language that implies what they should or shouldn't be doing and especially not linking those phrases to gender. So a crash course on my kids.
Charlotte is a girl. She does not do pink and frilly. Unless it's teemed with some sort of punk goth arrangements. This is a typical Charlotte outfit combined with typical Charlotte activity:
She's into rock climbing at the moment.
And Hello Kitty but only when it's "cool" and not "pretty".
Previously it was martial arts. Particularly weapons.
But she's gone off that a little bit lately because it got boring. So this week she's starting training for competition sparring to try and spice it up a bit for her again. Oh yes. She also likes to do Mama stuff. Specifically. Renovation.
My nicname for her is Lara. As in Croft.
Then there's the little Viking. I wrote previously about Mama addiction. At age four it shows no sign of abating.
My son loves dressing up. Especially in my and his sister's stuff.
He might do pretty but he's also, fundamentally, a Viking. He does not eat and drink. He scoffs and quaffs. Sometimes he gets so hungry he doesn't even bother with hands.
He's also big on renovating.
And martial arts. Which he calls "tikey-won-do".
Oh yes. And they are both big on cooking. Or, more specifically, licking the bowl.
So you can see that my kids have sort of decided for themselves what they do and don't like without a whole lot of influence from me. The thing that I find curious is the strong chivalrous streak my son has developed in the absence of any instruction or modelling.
James only plays with girls at his daycare. He has about four of them who have consistently been his friends for a few years now. He joins in with them, invites them to his birthdays (no boys) and in general just sticks like glue to them. He looks after these girls like a mother duck. I watched him recently at his little friend Livvy's party. He showed her how to swing the stick at the pinata, patted her and told her how well she'd done when her turn was over and, after she blew the candles out on her cake he said, "You did such a good job Livvy and I'm so proud of you." He also insists on choosing their birthday presents online for them - actually going so far as to pick out dresses that would suit their "style" not just things he thinks are pretty. I'm pretty darn proud that my boy hangs out with kids he likes and is a good friend, regardless of gender.
The trouble is that he won't let any of the other little boys near them. Girls are okay. But not boys. After the carers pointed this out to me I asked him if it was because he gets jealous when other boys play with his friends.
"No," he said, "but the boys play really roughly and they always wind up hurting them and it makes them sad and they cry. The other boys wouldn't listen to me and play nicely so now they're not allowed to play with them at all."
And then there is the way he is reacting to my separation from his Dad. About a week ago he brought me a frame that contains a photo of me and his Dad together.
"Mama," he said, "Can you please put a different photo in here?"
"What photo would you like in there buddy?" I asked, assuming he wanted a particular photo put up.
"I don't mind," he said, "As long as it's not Daddy."
That got my attention.
"Not Daddy huh? Why is that?"
He looked at me very seriously then and he said, "Mama, Daddy wasn't very nice to you. He didn't look after you and he doesn't live here any more. I don't want photos of him here."
This floored me. I'd always been so careful to cover Charles' behaviour around the kids because I knew it was his depression talking. But obviously James still picked up on it. I tried to explain to him that Daddy had been having a hard time and it wasn't the way he normally is but James stopped me by patting my hand again and saying, "It's okay Mama, I know that and I still love Daddy but I don't like the way he treated you and I don't want photos of him here in our house."
When I got all teary my small son cuddled me hard and reassured me that it was okay, Daddy isn't allowed to yell at me any more and he, James, would look after me always.
The thing about it is this. Without prompting, without anyone saying anything, my small son has assumed the role of protector for the women and girls in his life. It isn't a role that's been demonstrated for him. It isn't something he's been told to do. He has just forged his way forward and decided who he is. A gentle boy who loves to wear pretty things, play hard and look after his friends and his Mama.
The divorce disclaimer
I started this new blog because I like to write about my experiences and I think it's important that people see what others are going through - I think we all harbour that fear that we're the only ones that feel a certain way, the only ones struggling with our insecurities while everyone around us has this fabulous life experience where they feel confident and happy 24/7.
The trouble is that my husband and I are going through the process of separation and divorce...and I have trouble knowing where the line is and what I should or shouldn't say here. I have taken the trouble of only inviting people to this blog who don't really know him. I haven't even shared this blog with my own family because I don't want his relationships with people to be tainted by my opinion because, let's face it, this is my blog and therefore it is my opinion by definition. But still I've been largely silent and restrained myself from writing about these things.
Which brings me to this post. I don't want to feel like I can't be open and honest. I want to be able to write about what I'm going through. So here is my divorce disclaimer. I love my husband so much. I miss him every day. I do not regret our marriage. But I've come to see that he is a different person now from the man I married. Five years of dealing with his depression has worn me down to nothing and I've become broken.
We have both done incredibly crappy things to each other but I like to think that much of that is a product of the circumstances we found ourselves in. I've actually admitted my fault to him and apologised*. I am doing my best to be happy about the fact that he has chosen to move on with someone new rather than try and fix things between us. That part is really hard for me. I threw myself against the wall of his depression for so long and forgave him so much it was a shock to have him tell me he couldn't forgive me, he deserved better than me and he was going to go and find it. The truth is that I don't really like who he has become and I don't want to be married to this version of him. I am disappointed in the way he's behaved and the things he's said and done. I imagine he would say the same of me.
BUT I am trying to see that he is a different person from me. And it probably would have been healthier and better for me had I walked away from him and his issues the way he has done to me.
So please, as you read this blog, understand that what I have to say about my ex goes through a filter and is my opinion only. I am sure he can tell you all the things that are wrong with me. In fact, I've kept all the emails where he tells me what a fuck-up I am and all the things I did wrong. I'd be happy to forward them so you can see his opinion, from the horse's mouth in rich, live technicolour. Anyway, there's the disclaimer. I am trying my best to remember what I loved about him in the past and to see echoes of that man in the one I have to deal with now. But this is my blog. These are my thoughts. And I'm not censoring myself anymore.
* He did not reciprocate and when I said he deserved better he said, "Yes, I do" and moved on.
The trouble is that my husband and I are going through the process of separation and divorce...and I have trouble knowing where the line is and what I should or shouldn't say here. I have taken the trouble of only inviting people to this blog who don't really know him. I haven't even shared this blog with my own family because I don't want his relationships with people to be tainted by my opinion because, let's face it, this is my blog and therefore it is my opinion by definition. But still I've been largely silent and restrained myself from writing about these things.
Which brings me to this post. I don't want to feel like I can't be open and honest. I want to be able to write about what I'm going through. So here is my divorce disclaimer. I love my husband so much. I miss him every day. I do not regret our marriage. But I've come to see that he is a different person now from the man I married. Five years of dealing with his depression has worn me down to nothing and I've become broken.
We have both done incredibly crappy things to each other but I like to think that much of that is a product of the circumstances we found ourselves in. I've actually admitted my fault to him and apologised*. I am doing my best to be happy about the fact that he has chosen to move on with someone new rather than try and fix things between us. That part is really hard for me. I threw myself against the wall of his depression for so long and forgave him so much it was a shock to have him tell me he couldn't forgive me, he deserved better than me and he was going to go and find it. The truth is that I don't really like who he has become and I don't want to be married to this version of him. I am disappointed in the way he's behaved and the things he's said and done. I imagine he would say the same of me.
BUT I am trying to see that he is a different person from me. And it probably would have been healthier and better for me had I walked away from him and his issues the way he has done to me.
So please, as you read this blog, understand that what I have to say about my ex goes through a filter and is my opinion only. I am sure he can tell you all the things that are wrong with me. In fact, I've kept all the emails where he tells me what a fuck-up I am and all the things I did wrong. I'd be happy to forward them so you can see his opinion, from the horse's mouth in rich, live technicolour. Anyway, there's the disclaimer. I am trying my best to remember what I loved about him in the past and to see echoes of that man in the one I have to deal with now. But this is my blog. These are my thoughts. And I'm not censoring myself anymore.
* He did not reciprocate and when I said he deserved better he said, "Yes, I do" and moved on.
Sunday, 22 September 2013
My secret sock shame
I have this orange milk crate that sits in the bottom of my wardrobe collecting odd socks as I do the laundry. Back in the day, when it was just Charles and I, this was a perfectly workable system that would only drive me up the wall once every six months or so. Throw in two children though and it was disastrous. I was last on top of the sock crate situation somewhere in 2006 - probably late in the year after the Winter when my daughter graduated from onesies to outfits with shoes. It's been spilling out of its wardrobe home for a couple of years now and I have to cram the wardrobe door shut to contain it all. I have been known to head to Kmart at ten at night to buy my children new socks so I don't have to locate a pair out of the orange crate in the morning. The sock crate is now a repository of forlorn, feeble little socks that don't even fit anyone in my small family and still I can't let go.
The fact that I am atrocious at pairing socks doesn't help. I used to put away all the washing all the time and the socks were Charles' one washing-related job that he absolutely must do. I'd usually wind up begging for him to please do it now because I'd be cycling through the last two pairs I had and he'd say something completely reassuring like, "it's not that hard you know" and he'd roll his eyes at how much self-congratulation I showered myself with for managing to pair three lots of socks when he'd done the remaining fifty in the same amount of time.
I digress. Anyway, recently the sock crate became the sock crate and a washing basket and tonight I resigned myself to sorting them out. On my own. Here's what the initial pile looked like;
Sitting down and spreading it out made it look worse.
Yes the dump truck is purely coincidental if somewhat ironic.
I made a huge mug of decaf coffee, threw in cocoa and sugar for extra measure and then added a small bowl of chips. I sat down with a ridiculous fluff film and tackled it. An hour later and this is what I wound up with;
24 pairs for me (including 3 pairs of bed socks and yes I need that many because my daughter constantly pilfers them)
29 pairs for James (!)
6 pairs that are too little for any of us
18 socks belonging to the ex (which I didn't bother matching but threw into the latest crate of things I have to return to him along with a bunch of Collingwood supporter gear)
The problem is this;
There are 109 odd socks and 2 odd gloves in there. I'm monumentally screwed. Please someone. I need some sort of intervention. My small family unit has 65 pairs of socks between us. I need someone to break the cycle and make me throw this lot out because we clearly don't need any more than we've already got.
Tuesday, 10 September 2013
How do I look?
My little boy adores his Mama and her wardrobe. He likes me to wear dresses or skirts. He loves flowers in my hair. He loves stockings. Not just for me though. He wants purple painted nails and stockings too. Tonight as I worked away on the computer he caught my attention by saying my name in that breathy little voice kids have for special moments.
"Mama," he breathed, "how do you think I look?"
I turned to find him decked out in his sister's necklaces and bracelets with stick-on mirror tiles on his earlobes.
"I think you look so pretty darling," I smiled.
"Do you?" he asked all wide-eyed astonishment, "I think I look gorgeous."
Well of course you do. :-)
"Mama," he breathed, "how do you think I look?"
I turned to find him decked out in his sister's necklaces and bracelets with stick-on mirror tiles on his earlobes.
"I think you look so pretty darling," I smiled.
"Do you?" he asked all wide-eyed astonishment, "I think I look gorgeous."
Well of course you do. :-)
Strive to be happy
Before my girl was born, I was not a morning person. But waking up, even at four in the morning, to a sunny little personality who is just so obviously delighted to see you would shame the tardiest, grumpiest wombat into changing their morning attitude. Who on earth can maintain a sour mood in the face of that?
I might be a morning person now but unfortunately now that she's older Madam often wakes with a different sort of attitude. She growls at me for waking her, she growls at me for prompting her about what she'd like for breakfast and lunch, she hates me brushing her hair...the list of things Mum does wrong in the morning is endless. As a rule I try to make the house a happy place by being a happy person. I sing and dance while I cook, I chat to the kids, I do stupid things with the eggs and I chase them every chance I get. But maintaining that in the face of a constant grump is trying and it wears you down. Often I'd finish the school run and need a few moments to just breathe and collect myself before heading to work.
One morning as Charlotte ranted at me about all the ways I was hurting her with the hair brush I'd suddenly had enough. The entire morning had been one thing after another and the anxiety of being constantly berated wasn't something I was willing to bear a moment longer from anyone - not even my beautiful little girl.
I put the hairbrush down with a snap, sat down on the edge of the bath and turned her around to face me so we were eye to eye. This, I told her, is an important moment and I need you to listen very carefully because what I'm going to say matters. I waited for her to nod her acknowledgment and then I asked her if she'd ever tried to continue to be happy when someone was constantly yelling at her and telling her all the things she was doing wrong. She nodded slowly, looking instantly remorseful and I asked her if she felt a terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach when that happens - does it feel like you're being eaten from the inside out? And again she nodded. Well, I said, that's how I feel when it happens to me too. When you treat me this way - tell me all the things I do wrong, yell, criticise, I feel thoroughly miserable. I want the people I love happy and I feel like a failure when I can't do anything right.
In this house, I told her, we love and care about each other and we all want to be happy. So we do not yell. We do not whinge. We do not complain. We do not criticise. If we have a problem then we talk about it respectfully and we solve it together because that's what you do when you love people and that's how you find happiness and hold onto it. I told her I love her and that I will do everything I can to help her fix any problem she has in life - starting with making her whatever breakfast she asks for because I want her to go to school feeling warm, full and nourished. She threw her arms around me then and told me that she was sorry and that she loves living in a house with a happy Mama who looks after her. Since then she's been making a real effort to be sunnier in the mornings. She doesn't always get there but usually in the face of my singing, tickling and in general all the nonsense I can muster (commentating her putting her shoes on, cheering when she's ready to go, etc), she manages to turn it around at some point and by the time we leave the driveway she's smiling despite herself.
This morning was my big moment. She turned into the cuddles and kisses I delivered to wake her, smiling in her sleep and nuzzling me back. She thanked me for bringing her her clothes so she could get dressed under the covers and stay warm. Please Mama, can I have a soft boiled egg with toast soldiers for breakfast? You betcha sweetheart, get dressed and I'll go make it for you. And it was like that all morning, I sang and chatted with them both while I made breakfast and lunch, both kids cuddled me and each other as they went about their business and when it was time to leave I took a moment to do the usual spot check before leaving the driveway.
Are we full? Yes.
Are we dressed? Yes.
Are our shoes on? Yes.
Teeth brushed and faces washed? Yep.
Hair done? Yep.
Seat belts on? Yes Mama.
Are we happy? YES!
At school she asked me to drop her in the first carpark so she could walk to school and read her book. She donned her backpack before leaning back into the car to cuddle her brother goodbye - something that can mean the difference between tears and smiles for him when we leave her. Giggling because he didn't want to let her go and she had to extract herself, she shut the car door before wrapping her arms tightly around me for a farewell hug.
"Mama, can I tell you something?"
"Always baby, hit me with it."
"You are a much better Mama when you're happy and I appreciate all the things you do to make me have a great day. I liked you waking me up, I liked getting dressed in bed and my breakfast was delicious. And I really like how you always get out of the car to hug and kiss me goodbye - it makes me feel loved and my friends notice because none of their parents ever has time to say goodbye properly."
As the tears stung my eyes I held her hard and told her all the things she'd done that morning that would mean her brother and I went out into the day feeling fantastic. I called her my little ray of sunshine and told her I'll always work to keep her happy so she can keep shining. I told her I was proud to have her as my daughter and I hoped her day would be awesome but even if it wasn't I would be in a good mood when I picked her up and we would have a good time to make up for it at home.
Sometimes it can be very easy to forget just how much our own mood and attitude impacts those around us. Don't forget. It matters.
I might be a morning person now but unfortunately now that she's older Madam often wakes with a different sort of attitude. She growls at me for waking her, she growls at me for prompting her about what she'd like for breakfast and lunch, she hates me brushing her hair...the list of things Mum does wrong in the morning is endless. As a rule I try to make the house a happy place by being a happy person. I sing and dance while I cook, I chat to the kids, I do stupid things with the eggs and I chase them every chance I get. But maintaining that in the face of a constant grump is trying and it wears you down. Often I'd finish the school run and need a few moments to just breathe and collect myself before heading to work.
One morning as Charlotte ranted at me about all the ways I was hurting her with the hair brush I'd suddenly had enough. The entire morning had been one thing after another and the anxiety of being constantly berated wasn't something I was willing to bear a moment longer from anyone - not even my beautiful little girl.
I put the hairbrush down with a snap, sat down on the edge of the bath and turned her around to face me so we were eye to eye. This, I told her, is an important moment and I need you to listen very carefully because what I'm going to say matters. I waited for her to nod her acknowledgment and then I asked her if she'd ever tried to continue to be happy when someone was constantly yelling at her and telling her all the things she was doing wrong. She nodded slowly, looking instantly remorseful and I asked her if she felt a terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach when that happens - does it feel like you're being eaten from the inside out? And again she nodded. Well, I said, that's how I feel when it happens to me too. When you treat me this way - tell me all the things I do wrong, yell, criticise, I feel thoroughly miserable. I want the people I love happy and I feel like a failure when I can't do anything right.
In this house, I told her, we love and care about each other and we all want to be happy. So we do not yell. We do not whinge. We do not complain. We do not criticise. If we have a problem then we talk about it respectfully and we solve it together because that's what you do when you love people and that's how you find happiness and hold onto it. I told her I love her and that I will do everything I can to help her fix any problem she has in life - starting with making her whatever breakfast she asks for because I want her to go to school feeling warm, full and nourished. She threw her arms around me then and told me that she was sorry and that she loves living in a house with a happy Mama who looks after her. Since then she's been making a real effort to be sunnier in the mornings. She doesn't always get there but usually in the face of my singing, tickling and in general all the nonsense I can muster (commentating her putting her shoes on, cheering when she's ready to go, etc), she manages to turn it around at some point and by the time we leave the driveway she's smiling despite herself.
This morning was my big moment. She turned into the cuddles and kisses I delivered to wake her, smiling in her sleep and nuzzling me back. She thanked me for bringing her her clothes so she could get dressed under the covers and stay warm. Please Mama, can I have a soft boiled egg with toast soldiers for breakfast? You betcha sweetheart, get dressed and I'll go make it for you. And it was like that all morning, I sang and chatted with them both while I made breakfast and lunch, both kids cuddled me and each other as they went about their business and when it was time to leave I took a moment to do the usual spot check before leaving the driveway.
Are we full? Yes.
Are we dressed? Yes.
Are our shoes on? Yes.
Teeth brushed and faces washed? Yep.
Hair done? Yep.
Seat belts on? Yes Mama.
Are we happy? YES!
At school she asked me to drop her in the first carpark so she could walk to school and read her book. She donned her backpack before leaning back into the car to cuddle her brother goodbye - something that can mean the difference between tears and smiles for him when we leave her. Giggling because he didn't want to let her go and she had to extract herself, she shut the car door before wrapping her arms tightly around me for a farewell hug.
"Mama, can I tell you something?"
"Always baby, hit me with it."
"You are a much better Mama when you're happy and I appreciate all the things you do to make me have a great day. I liked you waking me up, I liked getting dressed in bed and my breakfast was delicious. And I really like how you always get out of the car to hug and kiss me goodbye - it makes me feel loved and my friends notice because none of their parents ever has time to say goodbye properly."
As the tears stung my eyes I held her hard and told her all the things she'd done that morning that would mean her brother and I went out into the day feeling fantastic. I called her my little ray of sunshine and told her I'll always work to keep her happy so she can keep shining. I told her I was proud to have her as my daughter and I hoped her day would be awesome but even if it wasn't I would be in a good mood when I picked her up and we would have a good time to make up for it at home.
Sometimes it can be very easy to forget just how much our own mood and attitude impacts those around us. Don't forget. It matters.
Thursday, 5 September 2013
What's in a name?
New blog! Welcome to all the TC readers who are joining me from my old blog. That one kind of petered out and died at the same time my marriage did I'm afraid. I was so raw and exposed already, I couldn't bare myself any more. Plus there's the whole inability to write when miserable factor.
But NO MORE. I've been thinking of starting a new blog for some time now. I went overseas with my Dad for five weeks a couple of months ago and while I was there I remembered who I am and what I stand for. I came back home determined to keep hanging onto that and to not fall back to the place of desperation. Since then I've been flirting with starting a new blog to go with the new life, but I didn't know whether I could be honest and real yet and I wasn't sure what to call it. I needed to be more sure of myself. I needed to start with a name.
Names in my world are important. My children have names of significance, ties to the people who love them. I consider it a part of the armour I've equipped them with for the world. My name is a curious thing. Hardly anyone calls me Rebecca. Most of my friends call me Bec. My Dad calls me Rebow. Some call me Ginger and one instance this got extended to Ginger Ninja and then just Ninja. My brother calls me Becca Becca. Even my kids are different. The big one calls me Mama, the little one calls me Mummy. My previous blog was a nod to a nic name my sister gave me. I never thought about all the names I wear until my marriage went south. I was always "kitten" or "sweetie" to the ex but in his rage as our marriage dissolved he would use my name like a weapon. It hurt so much at first and then I thought, hang on a minute, first of all, this is your real name and second of all, why does the label someone gives you matter?
From that moment on I decided it didn't matter what anyone called me providing I knew who and what I am. Providing I stand for the things I believe in and refuse to bow or compromise purely for the satisfaction of another. This new blog is about the new path I'm forging on my own and the identity I'm reclaiming and building on. So the name has to fit what I think of myself and who I really am.
As I forge my new life, build a home for my children based on my desires and needs alone, I am conscious of a part of me growing that has been dormant for some time. Usually I'm a very laidback, easygoing person. Someone once said that if I was any more laidback I'd be comatose. But I've always been capable of furious, righteous, vengeful fury on behalf of others...especially my children.
I remember the first time I was literally blind with rage. My three-year-old daughter came home from daycare and was quieter than usual. Sat on my lap, sucked her thumb. Not herself at all. My husband related an incident with the preschool teacher that occurred when he'd gone to collect her. Charlotte had asked for a "memory box" that the other children were taking home and there hadn't been one for her. The teacher had taken her aside to "deal with this" as she'd explained to the ex. She'd spoken quietly to Charlotte, the thumb went in and she'd been subdued ever since. I started talking to Charlotte about memory boxes, what they were and I said don't worry darling, we can make one ourselves. And then she quietly said, "No Mama, I can't."
I asked her why not and she said, "Because I'm a naughty girl and naughty girls can't have nice things".
I still remember the name of that wretched teacher and I remember how this odd buzzing sound started in my ears and my vision clouded over in red. For the first time in my life I felt sure I could kill someone with my bare hands. It felt like large black leathery wings were spreading out of my back. I remember the ex looking at me wide-eyed while I sat there and just saying, "Perhaps I'll have a word with the centre tomorrow..."
At the time I felt like a demon unleashed but fast forward a couple of years to a weekend at my Dad's where he was constantly raving about the "tiger mother" he'd read about in Time magazine. My very smart, precocious daughter was never in favour with my father. She's so darn smart she thinks she's on par with the adults around her and he's from the "because I'm older than you and I said so" generation. They were always at loggerheads and this particular weekend he was constantly bringing up the tiger mother style of parenting in front of her. Finally she rolled her eyes, turned to him, cocked her hip and said, "Yeah well my Mama's a DRAGON MAMA".
"What's a dragon Mama?" my father asked suspiciously.
"It's exactly the same as a tiger mother," my daughter informed him, "Except that she's on my side".
Welcome to the Lair of the Dragon Mama. Enjoy your stay and don't fuck with my kids*.
* My kids = my actual kids, my family, my extended family, my friends, my staff, my co-workers and anyone remotely connected to me or in my vicinity in need of protection. Righteous anger. I has it and I will use it.
But NO MORE. I've been thinking of starting a new blog for some time now. I went overseas with my Dad for five weeks a couple of months ago and while I was there I remembered who I am and what I stand for. I came back home determined to keep hanging onto that and to not fall back to the place of desperation. Since then I've been flirting with starting a new blog to go with the new life, but I didn't know whether I could be honest and real yet and I wasn't sure what to call it. I needed to be more sure of myself. I needed to start with a name.
Names in my world are important. My children have names of significance, ties to the people who love them. I consider it a part of the armour I've equipped them with for the world. My name is a curious thing. Hardly anyone calls me Rebecca. Most of my friends call me Bec. My Dad calls me Rebow. Some call me Ginger and one instance this got extended to Ginger Ninja and then just Ninja. My brother calls me Becca Becca. Even my kids are different. The big one calls me Mama, the little one calls me Mummy. My previous blog was a nod to a nic name my sister gave me. I never thought about all the names I wear until my marriage went south. I was always "kitten" or "sweetie" to the ex but in his rage as our marriage dissolved he would use my name like a weapon. It hurt so much at first and then I thought, hang on a minute, first of all, this is your real name and second of all, why does the label someone gives you matter?
As I forge my new life, build a home for my children based on my desires and needs alone, I am conscious of a part of me growing that has been dormant for some time. Usually I'm a very laidback, easygoing person. Someone once said that if I was any more laidback I'd be comatose. But I've always been capable of furious, righteous, vengeful fury on behalf of others...especially my children.
I remember the first time I was literally blind with rage. My three-year-old daughter came home from daycare and was quieter than usual. Sat on my lap, sucked her thumb. Not herself at all. My husband related an incident with the preschool teacher that occurred when he'd gone to collect her. Charlotte had asked for a "memory box" that the other children were taking home and there hadn't been one for her. The teacher had taken her aside to "deal with this" as she'd explained to the ex. She'd spoken quietly to Charlotte, the thumb went in and she'd been subdued ever since. I started talking to Charlotte about memory boxes, what they were and I said don't worry darling, we can make one ourselves. And then she quietly said, "No Mama, I can't."
I asked her why not and she said, "Because I'm a naughty girl and naughty girls can't have nice things".
I still remember the name of that wretched teacher and I remember how this odd buzzing sound started in my ears and my vision clouded over in red. For the first time in my life I felt sure I could kill someone with my bare hands. It felt like large black leathery wings were spreading out of my back. I remember the ex looking at me wide-eyed while I sat there and just saying, "Perhaps I'll have a word with the centre tomorrow..."
At the time I felt like a demon unleashed but fast forward a couple of years to a weekend at my Dad's where he was constantly raving about the "tiger mother" he'd read about in Time magazine. My very smart, precocious daughter was never in favour with my father. She's so darn smart she thinks she's on par with the adults around her and he's from the "because I'm older than you and I said so" generation. They were always at loggerheads and this particular weekend he was constantly bringing up the tiger mother style of parenting in front of her. Finally she rolled her eyes, turned to him, cocked her hip and said, "Yeah well my Mama's a DRAGON MAMA".
"What's a dragon Mama?" my father asked suspiciously.
"It's exactly the same as a tiger mother," my daughter informed him, "Except that she's on my side".
Welcome to the Lair of the Dragon Mama. Enjoy your stay and don't fuck with my kids*.
* My kids = my actual kids, my family, my extended family, my friends, my staff, my co-workers and anyone remotely connected to me or in my vicinity in need of protection. Righteous anger. I has it and I will use it.
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