Nourish Me:: Week Ten:: Putting Myself First

I found this beautiful artwork here

I've been thinking about this post for a while now. I had lots of different nourishing things I wanted to talk about and to share with you. I have been busy doing all sorts of things and thought I could write about some of those but then I realised that I had been putting this subject off. *Sigh*

It's really hard for me to write about attachment parenting without coming up against all of my wants and needs and hopes and dreams for my children. It's hard for me to contemplate letting some of my hopes go but it's harder still to be here struggling, as I so often do, to do the right thing, but ever at my own expense. Does that sound selfish? Then I'll explain.

Right now, I am sitting in my bed at home choking my way through my fifth bout of bronchitis since last Winter. I have asthma so bad that I can't take an in or an out breath without rattling which leads to more coughing, coughing so hard it makes me gag. Coughing so hard I can't sleep. And so finally, at my husband's insistence, I started taking the cortisone that I have resisted taking in all the other episodes I've enjoyed. I started taking the damn cortisone because antibiotics were having no effect. I started taking them even though it meant abruptly interrupting my breastfeeding relationship with my wee Bear. It was not an easy decision to make but I hope that it was the right one.

The house is empty. As in, without the balls of funny, furiously active and beloved energy that are my babes. It is empty because I am worn out, completely run down (despite vitamin supplements and immunity tonics up the yin yang) and struggling to look after my babes with no voice (literally - I have laryngitis too), no energy and no patience . So my ever practical husband called in the reinforcements and his parents stepped up (as they always do - I am amazingly lucky to have the second family that I do) and the wee ones were whisked away to stay with his mum and dad for three, yes THREE, days. So that I can sleep, rest, get well, stop spreading these godawful germs around and find health, if it indeed still resides in this house of lurgy.

My little Finnamon Bun

The children and I have been consistently sick for a year now - since Finn was 2 weeks old and he got his first cold, followed swiftly by his first chest infection and his first dose of antibiotics. As each cold/infection/chesty episode went, within a week a new one was arriving. The children and I have spent more time at the doctors this year than I have at any other time in my life. I even joked to my GP that I should just camp out in his waiting room. Har bloody har.

So the house is empty and it feels... well barren actually. Devoid of life and energy. I can feel how alone I am in this big house that is normally so warm and full of them. I miss them terribly, particularly my wee bear because I keep feeling like he is so small and must not understand what is going on. Part of it is, of course, my ever present anxiety/PND/neuroses, but the other part is the loss of my connection to my babies. No little greedy face smiling up at me between drinks from his beloved boobie. No needs having to be met. No-one trotting in in the night for 'a quick snuggle' before being tucked back into her own bed. No sleepy, pink-cheeked, grumpy little face surrounded by fluffy bedhair, crying softly with eyes still closed, for cuddles, comfort and a return to sleep. Nothing. Just me and my man (even though that is always comforting) and the quiet of an empty house. And in the night I dreamt that I could hear Beanie calling out for me. "Mamma, mamma, no - I want mamma." I woke thinking that she was in the next room and was then stricken because I realised she was far away and I could not comfort her. Could not fold my tousled, long limbed, thumb-sucking, still so young, Beanie, into my arms and give her a mamma's sleepy late night kisses that let her know all is well. All is well.

Yes, she is asleep.

This is why I struggle. I struggle with the need to sometimes put myself and my needs first without feeling horrible guilt. I struggle with being with my kids and being without them. I struggle with wanting needing space and time and rest, and feeling resentful when I don't get it, the need to be there for my children when they need me to. Something has to give, doesn't it? And I've come to the, somewhat obvious, conclusion that it just doesn't always work out the way you want it to. Someone occasionally has to lose, if only for a little while, and up until now that has been me. I have consistently put myself second and have dragged myself through the days bone weary and tired beyond belief. I have done it when I have wanted to and when I would have given anything to be in a galaxy far, far away. And it has taken it's toll on me mentally and physically.

And this is where I find attachment parenting a little unyielding (and I am prepared to admit that the unyielding part may be just my interpretation of its ethos. I do set my own parenting bar very high). The co-sleeping I love right up until the part where I can't turn over because I have about a square inch of bed to myself and nowhere to put my arms, or I'm getting kicked in the back or boobs, or hit in the face by small arms and legs. Or, God forbid, there is a delicious warm sensation underneath me which suddenly and inexplicably goes cold and wet. The breastfeeding I love except where I get bitten and pinched and where I worry that I am going to affect Bear's health long term by giving him boobie milk tainted, no matter how minimally, with anti-depressants or the fact that he needs to stay attached to the boobie long, long, long after he has fallen asleep and immediately wakes up if I try to disconnect him. The carrying I love (and do a lot of ) right up to the part where my scoliosis plays up and the hip displacement joins in, just for funsies. The gentle discipline I love right up until the part where I want to tear my hair out and scream because trying to get my girl to do ANYTHING without a major meltdown is seemingly impossible, to the point where even my hubble is losing his cool and this man is second only to the Dalai Lama in terms of being peace. I love it all right up until the part where I am worn out, run down and in need of sleep and rest and peace.

Photo by eikei

Don't get me wrong. I don't intend to give any of these things up entirely. I love carrying the wee man for the most part. I love having him in bed with me and have done up until recently when I realised how much I missed being able to stretch out and not worry about accidentally walloping the wee man in the head. I sleep so lightly that its become almost impossible to have the bubs in the bed for any length of time. And you know, I want to be able to put him down in his cot and have fall into a much needed sleep, without me having to stand over him for 45 minutes. And I've noticed something interesting about this. Sometimes he'll be in my bed and restless, grizzling and turning over and over, so I scoop him up, pop him down in his cot and he goes straight to sleep. Perhaps even he needs a little space to himself now.

I guess what I'm trying to say, and what it has taken me over 4.5 years to learn, is that I have to take what works for me and leave the rest. Even if that does make me feel like a 'fake' attachment parent (and honestly, what parent isn't attached to their child?). I have to accept that in order to give them the best of me, I need to put myself and my needs first when I can. Mamma needs her body, her mind, her sleep, to herself sometimes. I need to trust that I am enough even in those areas I fail seemingly every day. Who gets it totally right? Even attachment parents who do everything by the book get things wrong. We are fallible human beings and it has taken me a lot of time and sadness to realise this. I won't be the 'perfect' mamma no matter how hard I try. I can only be me - a woman who stumbles and falls all the time, but still gets back up and tries again, tries harder. I have spent a lot of time wanting to be other people. It's probably why I studied acting. Yet, comparing myself to others never made me feel any better about being myself. It just gave me a whole other box of reasons to dislike myself and to question hate myself as a parent. I do want to get my issues under control. Of course i do. But I want to do without beating myself up all the time. I DO hold myself accountable. I DO take responsibility for myself and my actions but I don't need to exacerbate the problem with unkindness and a lack of compassion for myself. In some ways, I am still a child too. I need to put aside the fear based thoughts of what will become of my children in the future because what I have 'done to them' in the past, and trust, really trust, that their innate goodness, their own unique light, will shine no matter what. And that loving them, as deeply and as overwhelmingly as I do, will be enough. That I will be enough.

So my nest is empty and I am trying to drop into this new space and take care of myself without my thoughts consistently swinging towards my Beanie and Bear, wondering how they are, if they want to come home, if they are needing me... and concentrate on getting well. I'm not used to it. Normally I relish my time alone simply because it is so fleeting. Now I have three days of it and I don't know what to do with myself. My hubble insists that I sleep. He has told me, in no uncertain terms, that 'resting is not the same as sleeping'. I guess he doesn't get how restful crafting is for me but he's also got a point. Sleep is the one thing that has been consistently missing from my life for 4.5 years. Nourishing, deep, deep, restorative, dreamless sleep. Is that possible for me I wonder? I am so attuned to my babies sleep rhythms that I suspect that this kind of sleep may still elude me.

In my immediate future I forsee lots of expressing (not quite ready to give up feeding the wee boy yet, just while I am on nasty cortisone), knitting, sewing, napping, eating maltesers, reading, napping, watching movies, napping and then some of the aforementioned sleep.

I will leave with my sweet nourishy bites because everyone needs something cheerful at the end of a long rant.

:: watching :: Game of Thrones. If you haven't, you must. MUST.

:: loving :: crafts, crafts, crafts. Oh I have discovered dry needle felting and I cannot be stopped! Show and tell next post.

:: longing for:: this illness to be gone and to feel truly well again. Punching the air and leaping into the air kind of well.

:: looking forward to :: being rid of the old man 60-a-day phlegmy smokers cough, to finishing Finn's sheepy pants and starting on my 'Tea Leaves' cardigans for me and the Beanster (thanks DocWitchy!). Oh and starting on a little project for my lovely lady Sol-Y-Luna - she of the big heart and healing hands. She gave me a massage and now I am giving her something soft and warm and knitted, just for her own self.

:: heading towards :: adventure. Maine being the focus of that adventure. We are seriously looking into moving to Maine for a few years, just so that I can enjoy some snow and some time in the Northern Hemisphere, where everything makes sense to this northern girl again.

:: enjoying :: the cold, the mist, the bare trees, the occasional hail, the spare simplicity of Winter in the southern hemisphere. Audio books - fiction mainly because I have overdosed on non-fiction in recent years. It feels good to just sit back and enjoy a different kind of yarn (often with my yarn!). My creativity being stimulated by the lovely Goddess Leonie's e-courses and Goddess circle group. Don't be put off by the hippy look of the site, the woman is sharp as a tack and gives an amazing package for those creative ladies who want to delve further into their creativity or start up a new business. There is even a Goddess Circle which gives you access to support from other women and a chance to make connections. It's awesomeness. Chai, mocca lattes, Kate Bush and her wonderful album The Hounds of Love. Now that's winter in an album. The link takes you to my absolute favourite track from the album. Listen to it and you'll understand why I love it so much.

::making:: more wool roving summer fairies but this time with embellishments (piccies to come), sewing little birds for summer swaps, winter things for winter swaps and the beginnings of a daily rhythm chart for Lily, so she has some idea of what is happening next. It makes our days more peaceful if we have our path illuminated somewhat.

:: surprising myself ::  not at all.

:: feeling :: weak and tired but at least I'm resting.

:: hoping for :: good health, energy and some time with good friends.

:: grateful for :: my supportive hubble and his amazing family.

And I've added a new nourishy bite - 

:: just for funsies :: Funniest video on YouTube - I'm afraid that this is why people of the pagan persuasion are not often taken seriously. And where are they running to?

Nothing Compares To You

Wonderful (but just the tiniest bit tiring?)

Reading through other people's blogs gives me inspiration. I love the colour, the thoughtfulness, the raw edges exposed. One of the reasons I trained to be an actor was because I wanted to live all those other lives. Lives that were not open to me, that I would not choose or that I would. Lives that I admired and despised. And so it is with blogging. I visit, I enjoy, I swoon, I covet, I crave, I am inspired. And yet. Sometimes the very blogs that give me the most pleasure are the ones that can make me feel the guiltiest. Strange really. How something that can give you joy can make you feel bad about yourself.

Paint my skin with the poetry of truth.

I realise that for me it is in comparison that the folly lies. I compare my life to the (seemingly ideal) lives of women who, to me at least, are doing it 'right'. The women who grow their own veggies, make their own clothes, knit with love, clean their houses naturally, recycle, reuse, repurpose. All things I do or aspire to do, with varying degrees of success. Our veggie garden being one of my failures this year. Most of what we planted didn't grow and I didn't have the energy to give it sufficient attention. See, I WANT to be someone who loves gardening but I'm not. It's just one more thing to do. One more responsibility in a life that already feels over full. I WANT to be a grounded, down to earth mamma with nothing more pressing in my life than raising beautiful, happy children. Sometimes I can feel myself getting closer to that ideal but then my Rooster self pops up with a 'What about me?' and I slip into resentment and yes, guilt. It seems I can never convince myself that I am enough. I know myself only in the failures of my mothering journey. Never in the successes. It is a slippery slope of wanting to be more than I am and never quite getting there.

Comparing myself to these wonderful women is not inspiring. It is depressing quite frankly. I love the lives they lead. The quiet purposefulness of their approach to living and loving. I love their brilliant creativity, their beautiful prose, their still souls. Yet. I am unlike them. My soul burns with this restless fire. I long to create but when I do get the time, I waste it with seemingly important tasks which do not feed this creative fire. I am permanently dissatisfied. I have so much gratitude for the life I live and the people in it, yet it never seems 'enough'. I am part of the universal malaise that is a constant craving for 'more'. More what exactly? In lives that seem simpler, more profound with less - what is there to want, to need, to buy? And yet, there it is. In all it's shameful glory. This ache within me that wants more. More recognition, more time to myself, more time to create, more skill, more patience (oh yes please God - more of that), more wisdom, more stillness, more life, more passion, more money, more freedom, more space, more, more, more. I am never satisfied with what I have. Worse - with who I am.

I am an open book, in want of a reader.

I try. I do. I have come to this place time and again. I know myself to be a Rooster. A bossy, loud, disorganised, funny, colourful, lazy, impatient, sarcastic, know-it-all Rooster. But I want to be a swan. A glidy, quiet, silken, peaceful, compassionate, patient swan. Why? I crave peace. I crave silence. But when you go into the silence - hoo lordy - the noise that emerges could deafen you from 20 years away. And I ping pong back to reality and lose myself there with a million excuses so that I don't have to truly sit with any of it. And so, instead of 'doing' well, anything actually, I lurk around other people's blogs like some creepy cyber-stalker with one hand down my pants, and dream of being someone who home-schools their progeny, cans their own produce, eats well and takes fantastic photographs. Someone who exercises and loves it. Someone who loves their kids and never gets frustrated with them or swears bilingually at them. Someone who is splendid in her mothering and spectacular in herself.

Coming up for air.

But that's not me.


This is me:

1. Overweight but too feckin' tired to do anything about it.
2. Eats badly and craves too much salt, sugar and chocolate. And I'll admit it. I LOVE McDonalds. I do. I hate the business but love the food. Please don't hate me. 
3. Is frequently impatient and grumpy with her beloved children and hubble. 
4. Whinges frequently. (Well, I am British).
5. Is never satisfied because the grass is always greener...
6. Spends too much money (even though it's on charity shop buys and books).
7. Says 'fuck' a lot. A real lot. With 'bollocks' inexplicably making a reappearance recently. (I do like that word though. It's satisfying in the mouth - if you'll excuse the horrible double entendre).
8. Is driven crazy by her willful, beautiful, funny but seriously stubborn and feisty daughter. She  make me want to tear my hear out, cry and laugh all at the same time. Every. Day.
9. Has a terrible, unseemly obsession with books. Library books, second hand books and new books. It's an addiction. Relentless Book Sluttery. I buy them and then they sit on my shelves unread. I currently have over 65 library checkouts (though some of them are for my girl). I think I have OCD.
10. Am chronically sleep deprived yet often sit up until 1 or 2am being aforementioned online stalker of superior blogs.
11. Hates cooking and is frequently found slumped in front of pantry bulging with 'stuff' unable to come up with any kind of creative combination that is edible. That hasn't stopped me buying beautiful 'wholefood' cooking books obviously.
12. Loves the cloth nappy idea (and my gorgeous colourful itti's) but detests scraping retch inducing poop off nappies, before putting them in the washer, (over and over again), until the stains come off. The smell of ammonia is unbelievable and it is not water friendly in our drought ridden state.
13. Loves plants. Loves the idea of homesteading. Hates gardening. 
14. Loves to write but just doesn't.
15. Has grand dreams and ambitions (and is often jealous of other people's successes even though she is glad for them) but does buggar all about them.
16. Is a good friend most of the time but doesn't seem to have that gene that disposes one to be really thoughtful. I wish I did. I think of things after the fact and then am sad that I didn't do more.
17. Is often creatively inspired and excited about some new idea or project, but then gets bored or discouraged if its too hard or if I can't 'get it' immediately.
18. Is lazy.
19. Irreverent.
20. Judgmental.
21. Loves her bed more than her husband and children. Almost.
22. Let's her girl watch too many movies in an effort to have a moment to herself. (Or to sneak a nap with the wee bear).
23. Is guilty of setting the bar way too high for herself in just about every area of life.
24. Doesn't know how to adjust bar.
25. Hates reading manuals. To anything. But has more parenting books that Barnes & Noble, Angus & Robertson and Waterstones combined.

The Naked Truth

However, this is also me:

1. Funny.
2. Excitable.
3. Fun (at least, I used to be).
4. Loves Nature and yes, that now includes camping. Who knew?
5. Loves books.
6. Loves poetry, literature and writing - even if she doesn't have time for any of them.
7. Loves her man and her babies. A lot. A very lot. An inescapably, frighteningly, overwhelmingly lot.
8. Hates letting people down.
9. Gives generously when the mood strikes.
10. Loves op shops (thrifting) and would throw them down by the fire and make sweet love to them if they were people.
11. Is eclectic and let's face it, a wee bit eccentric.
12. Is passionate about many things but mostly about being a good mamma.
13. Is very creative. Even if what I make is shit by my own standards.
14. Talks a lot but is learning to listen well.
15. Occasionally takes great photos.
16. Loves craft of any type.
17. Is deeply spiritual but lazy.
18. Always has the best of intentions but frequently falls short in their execution.
19. Is soft hearted, kind natured and compassionate.
20. Cries easily and often.
21. Is dramatic.
22. Is very adaptable and quick to pick up new things.
23. Isn't afraid to try new things.
24. Is charismatic, charming and engaging.
25. Is inspiring.
26. Is brave. Often. Because life often scares me.
27. Tries really, really, REALLY hard.

So - there you have it. The truth in all its gory or glory depending on your perspective. I know that there is a way to find the balance and to not be so hard on myself all the damn time. I am not saying I know what that answer is but at least I'm searching for it. I'm trying. Even if some schools of thought think that trying is wrong.

The Doors of Perception

I am calmed by the sea. The flow of the water reminds me to breathe in and breathe out. And that really, that's all there is. Breathing, watching, walking, eating, loving, sharing, talking, listening, reading, hoping, wondering - it's all just one long extension of the whole breathing thing. And so I lurk and I read and I compare and I feel sad and then I remind myself that this is not all that I am. I am also the second list and that I have parenting wins sometimes. I remind myself that no-one could ever say I didn't try. I know that my roosterness will come in handy one day, I just don't know how yet. And I promise myself to spend less time looking through rose tinted glasses at other people's lives and spend more time living mine. Imperfect as it is.

So there.

Now that's more like it.

All photos courtesy of Bohemian Shoebox 
Please go there to see where the originals came from. Thanks.

The Place Where Health Resides

Is about a million bloody miles away from our house.


How I'm Feeling Right Now

ARGH! Can I just have a gigantic whinge please? OK. As of today, we have ALL been ill consistently and without a break for 14 sodding weeks. 14. I am not exaggerating. I am currently hacking and wheezing my way through my THIRD chest infection (complete with flu like symptoms) and am enjoying the many and varied psychedelic effects of my third round of antibiotics. Lily is over her ear infection (and her recent fever) but is still partially deaf and snotty. Finn has just finished his second round of antibiotics (for his chest infection) and, as yet, has not caught this latest bug. Michael went away to Brisbane for work on Monday and by Monday afternoon I was in the grip of this latest delight. So over it. So not fun caring for two children, one of whom refuses to sleep for more than 20 minute stretches during the day, when all you want to do is take enough panadol to floor a rhino, and sleep. Hah! Fat chance of any of that!

Oh I do love my boy. His smiles light up my life and when he chuckles, ye Gods, it doth melt my foolish heart. Still, the little beggar makes me cross and shouty when he cries (and cries and cries and cries and cries) and nothing I do makes it better. Not picking him up, not putting him down, (heaven forbid I do that), not lying down, not sitting up in his chair, not his dummy and, drum roll please, often not even the beloved boobie. He is, at the moment and probably due to everyone's prolonged illnesses and mummies antibiotics, a grumpy little fecker! 


In truth, it's sheer slog at the moment and not much of the joy of the newborn or anything else for that matter. Beanie is still in her oppositional and defiant stage and increasingly I am resorting to threats and time outs, neither of which are much fun for either of us, to get her to do ANYTHING. Still, I can see that our power struggles are only going to get worse unless I change my approach. I just don't have the energy to do it right now. Not with a sick baby and a sick mummy and absolutely no energy for anything. 


If anyone has any natural remedies for viral and bacterial infections that might help us plump up our immunity and get past this, then please share. I am open to anything that might help and stop us passing it back and forth between us.


Yesterday was the worst. I started to feel increasingly ill in the afternoon and I think the antibiotics are having a very strange effect on me. I felt faint and all jittery inside, so I rang my mother-in-law and she came and cooked us a roast and took Lily off my hands, so that I could just cope with Finn. I am blessed indeed to have such a fantastic supportive family of in-laws and I was grateful for the break. However, leading up to Nanna taking Beanie to hers for the night, Beanie and i just had fight after fight after fight. When she finally left, she was subdued and I was beside myself with grief and guilt. All the hugs in the world don't feel enough after one of our spats. And I hate myself for being so easy to anger, so irritable and so impatient with my beautiful girl. When they left I broke down in tears and felt worse than I have in quite a long time. I felt PND low and seriously anxious. I phoned my mother-in-law and asked her to call me when they got home, so that I would know Beanie was safe. Always when I hit this low, I am convinced that the Gods will punish me for my many mothering sins by taking her away from me and I am anxiety ridden until she is returned to me. It's made worse by the fact that I am occasionally intuitive/precognitive in my feelings about things and events, so I never know if I'm feeling so crazy because I am, in fact, crazy or because something bad is going to happen. 


I know. It's not healthy. It's not even particularly sane. But it is possible and it is because of that possibility that the fear is able to get in. The thought of losing her is... well, in all honesty, there aren't words adequate enough to describe how it makes me feel. So I did the only thing that makes me feel better at times like these. I called my hubble. He has this way of calming me down, of making me feel less like a basket-case and of making my head less frenetic and punishing. I don't envy him his task. I am not the easiest of people at the best of times, (and I do wish I was more sunny of personality but intense and feeling and anxious is the best I got, sorry), and this is certainly not the best of times. Anyway, he talked to me until it got a little quieter in there and then I slept as much as my wee boy would let me and felt slightly better this morning.

Beanie - what seems like a lifetime ago.

I live in fear of the PND returning in all it's repugnant fulsomeness. I was only just freeing myself from it's frozen grasp when I got pregnant with Finn. Now, I am watching myself and yes, there are signs. There is the anger and frustration that I am all too familiar with. Those bitter, twisted emotions that take all the colour from my life and mar the bond I have with my children. I am awash with that. Yet, I still find joy in the moments in-between and I take comfort from that. I see the soft-hearted, empathetic nature of my girl  and delight (and suffer) in it, even as I see how easily it will be for those she loves to break that bright heart of hers. I see how brightly she shines with intellect and wisdom far, far beyond her years. I am awed by her spirit, her humour and her ability to  make me laugh with her funny comments and actions. 


And my little man? Well, it's all about the gummy grins and the little chubby thighs. And, of course, those rare chuckles that are making more of an appearance as days go by. I watch as he grows bigger and stronger by the day, despite all the sickness that has plagued his young life so far, and I delight in his daily accomplishments. Bringing his hands to his mouth, trying to swallow his entire fist, filling his nappy with great gusto and reaching out and grasping things with more ability every day. He almost rolled over today and I clapped with joy. It never gets old. It simply reminds me of how Lily did these things too, how precious they are and how quickly these times are over. I don't want to miss a thing. I don't want to look back, as I often do at footage of Beanie as a youngster, and only be able to remember the anger, the grief and the guilt and all the mistakes I made. I don't want to miss the opportunity to revel in these moments. I don't want to be that mother again. I want and need for something to change.  And it has to be me. And I am trying. I have been trying. So hard and for so long. And yet here I am again. I am trying to remind myself that my 'word' for this year is 'Compassion', and show some to myself.

Cuter than any real puppy

How I long to come and write something that is jolly and bright and humourous and full of hope. I can do it. I have done it, but it all seems rather far away right now. I am sure much of it is illness but then there is a lesson in that too it would seem. Asthma after 15 years is certainly something to think about. As are three chest infections in three months. Guess where the seat of grief is in the body? Yup - lungs. 


Anyway, the hubby is back late tomorrow night, so I'll hopefully be able to spend Saturday and Sunday recuperating and being gathered up into his long, warm arms for a much needed hug. This is the longest apart we have been since we met. And as someone who has spent only one week as a single mum to two kids, can I just say that I have nothing but utter respect for single parent families. I can't imagine how hard it was for my mum to raise the four of us alone as she did or for my sister to do it with six, one of whom is autistic. And on nothing. I send out a big hug to all those women (and men) who are doing this alone for whatever reason. It takes a lot of heart and a lot of courage to raise children but it's so much harder when you have no-one with whom to share the joys and the sorrows, or to just get a cuddle from at the end of the very long day. So take one, over cyber-space, from me. Cos I get it.

Me. Sick and Tired. 

I need to go now. I need to sleep if I can. I only came to empty my head and my heart for a while. To make sense of the fragments all swirling madly about and to connect, if only anonymously, with those of similar heart. 


May all the things that lay us low tonight, be gone by morning.

Idealism, Motherhood and Being a Rooster

Well. As often happens when I am gnawing on a particularly meaty problem, wisdom pops up and bites me on the ass whilst I'm driving. In this case, the biter was the lovely Wayne Dyer, of whom I am a big fan. I know he's not everyone's cuppa but I like him because he's very Zen about everything. Being present is so not a skill I possess yet and I therefore admire it greatly in others. Like my darling hubble.

Anyway, as also often happens, I digress. So there I was - daughter sleeping gently in the car seat, on my way home with a Mocca and a sarnie, when it hits me (a realisation, not a car), I have been idealising motherhood. (Was that a resounding 'Duh!' I hear?). This is an interesting revelation because for a lot of my life I saw only the drudgery of motherhood. My mum was a slave to a demanding, violent bully of a husband and four kids and she had to try and fit a job in around all this chaos. Not my idea of happiness I have to say. Not many people's I would think. So the sudden realisation that I had idealised motherhood to the extent that I was now driving myself completely insane with trying to achieve impossible dreams, was nothing short of shocking. Yet it makes sense of so many things that I've had trouble understanding recently.

Firstly - I don't idealise ALL motherhood - just the type of motherhood in which i believe. Hence the ability to both loathe it (because of the drudgery and demands) and idealise it (because of what is possible) at the same time. It's not that on an intellectual level I honestly think that motherhood is all roses, kittens and sunny days spent cooing at a smiling, impossibly good natured baby. I don't. I'm nuts but I'm not that nuts. It's more that I have this idea of myself as a mother and I am falling miserably short of it. This ideal can do all of the things that I have often talked about on this blog. She can cook wonderful nurturing wholefoods for her family, she can play for hours without boredom or a stiff gin, she can raise a happy, well- adjusted little camper without Ritalin and she can make stuff by hand. Well, that's all fine and dandy but it's not me. At least, not right now.


Idealism is one of those strange things. It seems like a good idea at the time, to imagine a wonderful, better future for ourselves (and it is - but within certain parameters). But it is also a constant source of frustration and misery because we put off everything waiting for those idealised 'magical moments'. It doesn't matter if it's a new job, a promotion, achieving a certain level of financial security, a new house, a bigger car, a family, a relationship or whatever, if you are always waiting to reach that goal then you are simply not 'living' now. You are quietly existing and waiting for that moment to arrive and THEN you can be happy, be content, be relaxed. It never comes. I'll repeat that in big letters for emphasis, IT NEVER COMES. There is no magical day when everything will be better, there are just more days like today. The trick is to make the absolute best of these days, in the here and now, living them fully even if not always happily. Otherwise, you are stuck in a constant cycle of Idealism followed by Frustration/Anger (as you fail to meet your own ideals), followed by Depression/Inertia (as in, 'what's the frigging point anyway') followed by Apathy ('I give up!') followed by a new idea of what is right, what will makes things all better again, which leads to Idealism again and so on...

A beautiful and wise woman wrote me an email in response to my last posts and she said basically the same thing to me. I know. It takes me a while to 'realise' things as opposed to understanding them intellectually. She reminded me that who I am is enough. Even when it feels like anything but. Even when I'm crazy and resentful and bored and disinterested and reluctant. Even though I am the very definition of a messy mother (psychologically at least), it's still ok that this is who I am. And, more to the point, it's ok that this is who I am for Lily. On some level she chose me precisely because I would make a hack of these early years, (more or less), and she would get to learn about anger and how to make rude suggestions to motorists who drive up one's bottom on swervy bendy roads. That is who I am. I'm a mess sometimes. I'm a control freak at others, (which is interesting because I have been gifted with the world's grubbiest little girl. I kid you not, there are boys who are more fastidious about their clothing and person than my little grubnut - Ah, the letting go. The letting go.).

This wonderful woman, who has so often been an inspiration to me because she is such a kind and gentle and amazing mother, reminded me that I don't have to be something else. If I can't nurture, if I can't play, if I am angry sometimes and wildly happy at others, if I'm inappropriately humorous, it's all the same. I am the mother I am and that has to be enough. Has to be because to try to squeeze myself into even my own wide definitions of motherhood, is to try and fit myself into a shape that is not my own. Of course, I can want to be better. I can want to find better avenues for my aggression and my anger. I can want to nurture and to play. But it's ok if I don't. Maybe, despite my beliefs to the contrary, what my daughter needs from me is not excessive amounts of play-time or country soups, but the drama, the poetry, the love of literature of reading and dance and magic and imagination. That I can give to her in spades. I can give her an opportunity to be herself only if I am truly myself around her. Myself around everyone. It doesn't give me cart blanche to be a crap mother but it does give me room to make mistakes and not give myself blunt force trauma when I fuck up. Which I will.


It reminds me, strangely, of my primary school nativity. I was a pretty precocious little kid (I was the kid who wrote and staged and acted in a play at the age of 10. You know, the annoying one) and i was good at two things English and Acting. I longed for the part of Mary in the nativity - not because she was cool but because she was the LEAD. I so wanted that part. Anyway, I didn't get it. Nope. I didn't even get to be one of the Angels or the Shepherds or anything. No. I got to be...The Rooster. Yes, I know. It's like that moment in 'Love Actually' when Emma Thompsons' (love her SO much), daughter proudly reveals that she is the 'Second Lobster' in her school nativity and Emma incredulously replies, 'There were TWO lobsters at the birth of Baby Jesus?'. Well, yes. I was the Rooster whose gift to Baby Jesus was not to crow on his first morning and wake him up. However, I did get to sing a song which, from memory, had the lines 'Cockadoodle do' repeated a lot. My mum made me a stunning jumper full of crepe paper feathers and I donned my red tights and sang with all my heart. And I stole the show. Everybody remembered my part. Partly because it was so bloody ridiculous and partly because I was doing what I do best - being me. Annoying, precocious and pretty bloody interesting for the most part.

And so, this well warm groove slides around me again. It's not the first time I have realised this little message, but it is the first time that I have gotten it so fully. I expect I will be back here again. Wisdom is a bit like an onion, it has many layers and as you peel back each one it is likely to make you cry. There are evidently levels of understanding about the same situations, the same processes, that we come back to again and again until they are fully realised and we are healed of the need to tread that little groove again. We then move on to the next and the next. Is there a place of no groove? Possibly. (I think its called 'middle-aged white people dancing - particularly men'). But I'm don't think I'm anywhere near ready to go there yet. In fact, I think I'm like that Goldfish that Billy Connolly sings about, going 'Round and round and round. And round. And round.'

So this is where I'm at right now. Not bouncing off the walls with happiness but not drowning in a pool of my own anxiety either. I'm sort of quiet, if that's possible for me. And listening. And learning to be okay with the accepting and the not accepting, the struggle and the ease. I expect that it will take me quite some time to really stop the striving to be something different, to let go of the idea of perfection in motherhood. More importantly, it will take time to let go of the idea that if I am less than perfect my daughter can still turn out to be a strong, confident and amazing woman. I mean, half of my friends had less than perfect starts in life and have continued to have interesting dynamics within their families and they are some of the most amazing women I've ever met. I'm proud to know them.

And I expect it will take me longer still to really understand who and what I am as a mother. In the meantime, I guess I'll just stay here until something moves me in a different direction. Sitting with the 'what is' instead of trying to get to the 'what may be'.

This is me, signing out.

Cockadoodle Doo!

"There is no way to be a perfect mother, and a million ways to be a good one” Jill Churchill