How Much of it Matters?

I sometimes worry about the pieces of our lives that we haven't quite managed to pick up again, since Mum died, since coming back from the trip.

The girls aren't doing any activities outside of school and home.  We are unscheduled.Which is lovely.
Some of the reason is financial, some of the reason is due to the hours we both now work. It means that my Dad has the bulk of all after school and early evening time and I want it to be peaceful and relaxed for all of them.

I worry about the skills they might be missing out on but it is also guilt. Am I a bad parent if my child doesn't participate in a team sport?  Have I doomed them to a life of couch potato or hanging out with the "wrong" crowd.

Then I read this awesome paragraph on the HONY page.

It answered my question.

“The hardest was when she left for college. We dropped her off a couple days early, so the campus was empty, and I have this very clear image of her walking alone across the quad. I stared at my daughter’s back while she literally walked into the next phase of her life. So many questions were running through my mind: ‘Did we prepare her enough? Is she happy? Will she feel comfortable enough to tell us if she’s not?’ Looking back, I wish I hadn’t fretted so much over the small stuff. When she was young, we were worried so much about whether she started on the soccer team, or if she got chosen for the front row at the dance competition, or if she was playing flute at the recital. We worried so much about that stuff because we were looking for any sort of validation that we were doing a good job. And in our desperation to be good parents we became our children. I wish I knew how fast all that stuff would fade away. And how little any of that would matter once she became an adult.”

Thank you random New Yorker. You have helped me more than you know.

 

How do you know its true love??

I arrived home from work today and found Dad sad.
He had been reading his old letters to Mum. There was a lovely poem in one.
It was true love between my Mum and Dad, but not because of the poetry.

It wasn't perfect, it wasn't sudden. It required a lot, like heaps, of work and compromise.
Mum was a young Portuguese woman, who had been ill, marrying a widowed older man with a son...In a different country. But I know from the stories and I can see in the photos that there was always laughter and friendship. There was also a solid 12 months of serious wooing on my Dads part :)

I am not sure what it felt like from their point of view...but I can give my own perspective, a kids perspective, on why I knew it was love.

Nick names, they had many and varied nick names for each other, a constantly evolving list, some serious and some funny. Like "Nudibranch". It was the nickname Dad used for Mum when she "streaked" to the bathroom. She did this a lot.

Every morning and every evening they greeted each other with a kiss, every morning Dad made mum breakfast or at least coffee.

They laughed at each other. Mum did many funny and crazy things.
Dad also copped his fair share from Mum. When Dad was younger and rocked an awesome moustache, he looked a lot like John Cleese. Mum and Dad went to see "A fish called Wanda" in the cinema. Apparently Mum spent most of the time pointing at Dad and then pointing at the screen and losing it with laughter, so much so that Dad got up and left the cinema. They were real.

They knew each other, faults and all. Dad would never stop Mum, no one could anyway. But right or wrong, Dad would let Mum go and do her own things and was always there to pick up any pieces. Mum, conversely supported Dad and through all the ups and downs they were always, always on the same team.

Compromise. Mum liked to eat chinese take away from the Fremantle markets on the weekend. Dad loved to listen to classical music and read the paper. The result was that every Saturday we would get takeaway and sit in the car at the South Mole in freo, listening to Dads music and watching the ocean, while he read the paper. One of my favourite memories, is sitting in the backseat with the calvin and hobbes comics and a whopper.....

Mum once said that Dad was her "safe". No matter what she had done or how ill she became, she knew that Dad would be there for her and help her. Nobody knew her better.

I didn't realise how lucky I was to have them as my example of marriage.
Now I am sad. This weekend is Mothers Day and also My Mums Birthday. This is for the lady who taught me what love is.

How I ended up Aussie

I wasn't born here. I am an Australian citizen. I can throw on an Aussie accent that would make Steve Irwin, Slim Dusty and Pauline Hanson shed a tear of pride. My kids are the first generation of my family to be born here. So what does it mean to me to be "Australian"?

Firstly, it means to be funny. We walk the line of irreverent shit giving and good natured self depreciation that makes us some of the funniest people in the world, second only to the Scottish...they just sound funny without having to try.

We are honest. Call a spade a spade or a dickhead a dickhead, as the case may be.

After travelling a bit and seeing a lot, I can also say that we are in the enviable position  of being able take all our luck, safety, isolation, beauty and richness for granted. Apart from days like today.

The story of why my parents decided to immigrate from Zimbabwe, is a small example of the things we don't ever need to think about.

My Mum was pregnant with me. At the time there was civil unrest and armed guerrilla militia were becoming a common sight. My mum was walking on the foot path in a shopping precinct. The foot path was blocked by some militia walking with machine guns towards Mum. Rather than allowing Mum to pass, they pushed her over into the road and traffic. That night, bruised and scared my parents decided to get out of Africa.

Apparently we had the choice to move to Australia or Canada. I am really glad this isn't a blog about the virtues of Maple syrup and snow.

Cheers to being Aussie.

Can someone please hurry the f** up and invent a time machine already??

Like sands through the hourglass... lol, just jokes.

I have just realised that Leah, my 9 year old, won't hold my hand anymore. Even when crossing the street. "Mum, I can see the cars...(eye roll, huffiness)".
What if its not for your safety , child, but mine!?? I hardly remember I am an adult half the time....

All the dolls are gone... slowly merging into a knotty mass of plastic limbs in the black hole of our storage room. Playgrounds??? Nah... lets go to a cafe Mum.

Tooth Fairy?.... hmmm the jury is out on that one. Leah asked some questions and gave a raised eye brow in response to how I am not sure why she thinks its me... But I think the tooth fairy has brown hair ....possibly carrying a few extra kilos...dressed in Pjs....ooops.

Santa is still safe ...mainly cos he is kick arse at giving gifts.

Photos? Not unless an out fit has been styled appropriately with "Rock star" hair and correct filter and I have promised not to put them on Facebook (yes, I lie...I'm a Mum)

Boyfriends...soon, all to frigging soon.

Sigh...  So as we hurtle towards Teenagerhood (shiver), I happily grab Brianna (Miss 8) and give her a big smoochy public kiss while skipping up the road.

Today, here in Perth, there has been a terrible story reported of the loss of innocence and childhood at the hands of a yet - to -be - caught monster for a little 5 year old boy and 4 year old girl. It makes me sick  and heartbroken and I don't, at all, want to make light of it. So while I am lamenting the fast pace of childhood, give them all an extra cuddle tonight.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

Puppy Trainer, rock star and skateboarding fashion designer are my Kids current career choices and I hope the list is still the same when they are 45. I want them to stay open, stay free, because you sure as hell don't know whats right for your life at 17.

I firmly believe the fact that I have no particular direction when it comes to career has led me into the most interesting roles. Yes I am poorer, no I won't be a secure self funded pensioner, but I have life skills up the wazoo.




I am easily distracted when it comes to work/ job ideas and could easily apply for the role of Segway tour guide, dental receptionist and cake decorator all in one day.

I know without a doubt that I would make a kick-arse lady of leisure. You know, the pearl wearing do - lunch lady who volunteers once a month at some charity for rich dyslexic puppies and who's idea of housework is to write a note for the cleaning lady.

or maybe a tortured writer?, small cabin in the country, polo neck jumper, a goat and 4 dozen half written novels and a borderline addiction of some sort?

In all seriousness though, if my fairy god mother was to grant me the opportunity to win any job I wanted in the world, I would choose to be the "Colour trend forecaster" for Pantone (the world famous experts in all things colour). I am not even sure this role exists, but I dream that it goes something like this. I travel the world with a camera and photograph colours and colour combinations both in natural and urban settings. I find inspirational colours.

or win lotto, you know, I am easy.

Poke... yep still hurts

When you find a bruise on your body, do you poke it? Do you continue to poke it every 10 - 15 minutes throughout the day just to see wether it still hurts?

Yeah, me too. Like some weird sadist and masochist rolled into one.

Carrying the grief over Mums death, like a bruise.

I know its there and every so often it gets poked to see how raw it is.  Poke... yep still hurts.

I found some video of mum dancing on Facebook. My brain wanted to know weather I was strong enough to with stand this punch to the bruise, my heart wanted to hear her laugh. I am strong enough. I will continue to be strong enough.

Poke... yep still hurts.

For all those perhaps going through something similar... its now a bruise... thats progress. Take heart.

The silence is deafening

Since you've been gone, we have had 5 bbq's, 2 birthdays, 3 public holidays and a few dinners.
At each one of these events the absence of you is in every pause, every silence.

I can just about hear you over my shoulder talking. Conversation came so naturally to you that there was almost never a lull. Our times together now as friends and family are comparatively quiet.

As a result, I sometimes find it harder to make conversation because I am conscious of you not being there to say your part.

The silence at these moments screams MUM, MUM, MUM, MUM.

I Want To Leave A Pile Of Nothing

We have been back for 2.5 months. I am already searching for the next "thing". The next big adventure or move.
We are in absoloutley no position to do ANYTHING but I look and dream anyway. I am no longer able to just be content with what we had. I am not looking to aquire new things but more new experiences.
I am now an "exciting life" junkie. It is going to be a while down the track, but it will happen again, because so far it has happened anyway, but now I am behind the steering wheel.

Its been 2 months since Mum died, to the day. The "things" she had didn't matter, and amounted to quite a small pile at the end of the day. It didnt bother me though, because what mattered to her was the fact she could see trees and hills from her hospital bed. What mattered to her was the taste of the Orange juice after days of fasting. What mattered to her were her "babies". If Mum could have written a book about her life, it would have been 1000 times more interesting than anything I have written in this blog. I wish now I could have written them for her. Nothing matters more than family and the time we spend together.... at the moment I would like that to be in a range of exotic places. I hope the pile I leave behind one day is tiny.

The weirdest of the weird...

Warning: This is weird and a little black. I apologise if I offend anyone, It's not my intention. It is at the heart of it, really quite funny and one of the many weird things we encounter in life. Its how we cope sometimes with loss of a most cherished love one, like my Mum. I have realised it's only weird and funny because its true xx



Have you ever just stopped and thought to yourself "Never in a million years did I ever think that I would end up doing...This , this is really, really weird".

I have a pretty high tolerance for weird, I do, but when I am sitting at my kitchen table with a spoon, snap lock bags, small boxes and my mums ashes, even I have to stop and wonder a bit.

It all started innocently enough, Mum requested that her ashes be scattered in a rose garden. Right, easy. Well no, firstly, there is heaps, they are really heavy. Secondly, lots of people want to be involved. Its ok. These people are all loved ones and were truly loved by Mum. Its just not what I expected. I had nightmares of a big cloud of dust enveloping picnic goers and romantic couples as they enjoyed a lovely day in the park with the rose garden, while we were saying another goodbye to Mum.

So we came up with the idea of everyone getting a small box to scatter for themselves, in their own time on a rose garden of their choosing. Lovely, in theory. Really weird in reality. Its a big responsibility, what if I spill some? Do I just vacuum it up and say a sorry to Mum? Also would she be pissed off to learn her ashes are in Woolworths brand snap lock bags?? and Reject shop gift boxes? Do I sticky tape them shut? We don't want a random accident involving little dust piles. What do I do with the left overs????

Its just really weird and something I never ever contemplated. Poor dad is with me on this too, we have been putting it off for quite a few weeks now. Mum has had pride of place on the kitchen bench in their home. The cylinder with her ashes even sports a small soup stain on the outside of it, which for Mum, is really, really fitting.

I know with all my heart that Mum wouldn't mind me sharing this story. She is,where ever she is, rolling with laughter. Mum always was the weirdest of us. I guess we are following a grand tradition.

A bit of my history

When I was about One Year old, I suffered burns from a hot cup of coffee. It was one of those unpredictable and unforeseeable accidents in life.

We were visiting friends, The coffee was too hot for the adult to drink, they had carefully placed the cup on the kitchen bench and pushed it back for it to not be in reach. I climbed up the kitchen draws and pulled it down over my head.

In a funny coincidence, my Mum had just read an article in The Readers Digest (As you do) on how to treat burns, so instead of covering me in butter (as was practiced at the time), she rushed me to the shower and peeled off all the clothes and burnt skin. The end result was a skin graft from my thigh to my underarm and my neck. I have no facial scarring and no ill affects thanks to her actions. I don't remember the event or any of the aftermath at all.

As a family, we had recently immigrated from Zimbabwe, and were only just settling into a new life in Perth. I was in Princess Margaret Hospital for months. Everyday, for more than two months, Mum would have to drop my brother to school and then catch two buses from Booragoon (where we rented at the time) to PMH and then back again. Mum didn't speak a lot of English and could't drive and didn't know Perth well at all.

After my Kids were born, I remember asking her about this time. She said it was hard, that she missed me when she couldn't see me, that it made her sad. However she also told me that the hospital offered her counselling to deal with any guilt or depression... "Thank you but no, I'm not depressed and I'm not guilty, I didn't burn my daughter and don't feel like it was my fault. " She told the Nurse at the time. My Mum was so strong and absolutely right. I can imagine, now, as a Mum, dealing with Mothers guilt etc how easy it would have been to fall into the cycle of guilt and depression but Mum didn't even consider it. She did the job that was at hand. Mum didn't often complain about the trials and tribulations that were delt her, she just got on with living.

knock, knock....Who's there? EVERYONE

This morning I received a visit from my local Jehovahs Witness lady. I have spoken with her on quite a few occasions. If it wasn't for the giant gap in our spiritual beliefs, we would be fairly similar people. Mums of primary school age children, living in the same area etc. 

I have no interest in converting, but I do enjoy chatting with her, mainly because we are fairly similar and yet she very seriously holds these interesting and vastly different beliefs.

Today, when we spoke, I told her that my Mum had passed away. Now, an interesting part of this particular religion is the belief that one day all the dead loved ones will be resurrected here on Earth.

...(Blink)...

I know what you're thinking "But, How? How on earth would all the ressurected loved ones of every person fit on this planet??". 

I am not criticising, honestly, I am very curious as how this could possibly be? Where is the cut off? Is it everyone who has ever died? Is it only loved relations? Is it only for believers? or is it the homeless guy that passed away and no one knew??? What age will they be??
Then what happens??? 
Well apparently we all live forever, in perfect health, no sickness and no death. Again... HOW? A never ending, hugely expanding population, here, on Earth?

This information was offered in kindness and I thank her for it. The lady was hoping it would give me solace and hope, that I would certainly see my Mum again, in perfect health, here in this life.

But would I really want that? I have dreamed about it. That all of a sudden Mum comes walking back through the door. 
Honestly, If we are talking impossible and fantastical, then I would rather visit her, where ever and however that may be. I would savour that extra time and be over joyed to see her again, but, this would be because It would end. It has to end. I would love some extra time, I am sure millions of people would.
I am desperately sad that the end of Mums life was now, but I understand that at some point it has to. I couldn't imagine living forever, nothing would be special, life is special because it is fleeting and finite, it ends, at least as we understand it.

Don't steal imaginary Unicorns

What would you say to your childless self to prepare you for parenthood?

What piece of advice do you wish you had received, before the baby bomb hit?

and "Don't do it" doesn't count ok?

I have a couple of stories that best some up my parenting experience.

After giving birth to Leah (number 1 girl). We left the hospital, Dave was driving. Well he was trying. He was going so slowly and being so careful, like 45 kms. I think he may have even yelled out the window a couple times "I have my baby in the car!!!" to annoyed people flying past. The Dad responsibility hit him all at once, while driving. I was heart warmed and amused all at once. He now drives like he's trying to claim pole position, so it didn't last all that long.


Fast foward a couple of years and I stink. That sickly foul smell of baby vomit. It's on me somewhere, but I can't find the source. I've changed clothes, but it didn't help. Crap I need a shower. I put a 2 month old Brianna into the baby jail (playpen) for her own safety and protection from the craziness that is toddler Leah. I barricade Leah in the lounge room so she can't destroy more of the house. I jump in the shower for 5 minutes.
I come out of the shower to find Leah dropping steak knives onto her baby sisters head. Somehow she had escaped the barricade, opened a child proofed draw in the kitchen and decided to "give" them to her baby sister. I still stunk.


Another time, I was ready to go out with Mum, I didn't smell, I was wearing actual clothes and I think I may have even brushed my hair, so winning. Mum notices I have a brown mark on my hand. She points it out a little warily, asking "what is that???". "Im not sure....." I said and I licked it... 
"Oh, its cool, its vegemite".  Mum was looking at me horrified... "But what if it hadn't been???????". 

Mums of toddlers, Just. Don't. Care. 

Now that I've covered the gross part.

I think this next story is the best for explaining the futility and powerlessness that parenting can sometimes be.

The girls are about 6 and 7. They are screaming and crying, a full on fight. "What is it??" "whats the matter?" I enquire. 
Brianna, sobbing, says  "Leah, stole my imaginary unicorn and now I don't have one".   20 minutes, I tried to explain that she can have whatever imaginary things she wants. But No, she wanted that one....
How do you fix that? I was done. So, done. I made Leah give it back and told her off for stealing the imaginary Unicorn.

As they get older, it is easier sometimes. I can sit down and drink a coffee while observing them playing, hell, we travelled around the world with them and only had a couple of hair raising incidents and not too many "Please adopt my children" moments. 
But the problems we do have are bigger. We no longer have tantrums over which dress to wear, we have instead "Mum am I fat?" or "Why are people mean to me" or "Why can't I keep up with the rest of the class? Im so stupid", "Why did Vovo die?". These are less immediate but scarier problems, a kiss and cuddle doesn't fix this.

So what would I say to the clean smelling, bright eyed past me?

"Don't lick your hand woman...It could have been poo!"

I want a Tattoo for Mothers Day

I have always loved tattoos.

The ultimate art form to me. If I stuff up a drawing or painting, I start again, not possible when skin is the canvas. I love the colour and skill.

If it was more socially acceptable and I wouldn't have to live off the dole because I couldn't find work, I would have a lot more.

You guys know I have my "courage" tattoo on my arm. I got it when I most felt that I needed to grow a pair. I think I succeeded for the most part and it is one of my favourite things.

I have another tattoo. A BAD tattoo. If I was willing to show you all, I would be the poster child for never ever being allowed to get a tattoo before the age of 30.

It was a lion paw print, It is in such a stupid place, that now, post kids it resembles a blobby smudge of ink.
Once, along time ago, when I was getting out of the shower my kids saw it and asked me why I have a tattoo of a "Blues clue" :) (mum joke).

This still hasn't been enough to put me off though. I am going to ask that instead of perfume or pjs this Mothers day, that the family will give me money for new ink.

Yes, it will be dedicated to my Mum, No, it won't be a love heart draped with the word MUM on a banner with a sword going through it.

I won't ruin the surprise, but I promise to show it off when I get it OK?