Archives for posts with tag: anxiety

There’s a lot of things I’m kinda good at, and another lot of things that I’m okay at. Then there’s a whole other lot of things at which I suck.

I don’t know why these skills are so elusive to me, try as I might, I have never been able to fully manage doing them gracefully, or gratefully or anything-fully.

I thought it might be fun to write them down, because that’s what you do when you think that you may never come up with an interesting blog post again, because you can’t seem to find the inspiration anymore in your daily life, because all you ever do is home, work and play with your partner.

(When I named this blog 3 years ago, I never knew how those words would come back to haunt me.) Perhaps I should rename the blog: “AT HOME WORK PLAY with FITTY“?

But enough of that! That’s a whole other blog post

Here’s to still trying to learn:

MascaraI have never been able to put this stuff on without poking my eye with the brush, smudging it over my cheek 10 seconds later (by rubbing at my eyes), or clumping my eyelashes together!

Plus, what’s with the label saying “No Clumping” when clearly, around 24 hours after you buy it, that shit is going to clump all over the brush anyway? *Cue advice from bitches who know how to “Mascara”, (and who will slap me for adding tap water because that’s the only way I know how to stop it clumping!)

EyebrowsMy eyebrows are stupid…  Normal eyebrows seem to grow above the eye, and follow the line of the brow bone, right? My eyebrows just grow in bushes all over my face. There are gaps and hairy bits, there are isolated hairs in the middle of my forehead, and even a line of hair on its way to my ears?

When I was younger, (before I had them waxed for the first time), they were okay. Stupid – but not noticeably ridiculous. Ever since that first wax, (which incidentally was the only time my eyebrows ever appeared to be “groomed”), they have followed their own path. Wherever they like. I totes give up, especially now that I can’t even see them without my glasses on. How the fuck are you supposed to pluck, wax or burn your eyebrow hair off with cream, when you can’t even differentiate between your brow line, and your scalp/ears?

11667495_1014841348533962_137151418621049693_n

DirectionsI can’t even. Even if I pay attention, I still manage to get myself turned around somehow and have no idea which way I turned into a road, in order to get back out.

At work, when I have to consider things like the goddamn direction of the prevailing winds, or the “view corridor” on a certain block of land, I have to find the north point on the map and guess, work it out from there, (ask Fitty.)

If you were directing me you might say something like, “Easy! Just turn left at the next T-junction, go for about 150m and then turn right, followed by an immediate left into such and such a street. Your destination is 5m from the corner.” Aaand I would be like – “yep…right… ok – easy!”

*I would turn left at the T-junction, then I would be all ummm, left – then 50m from the corner and then 150m’s right and there it is! OMG WHERE IS IT?

Walking in front a room full of peopleI’m at a show, an event or at the school assembly hall  (watching the kid’s get some kind of award or perform “Beethoven’s 9th” on a recorder.) Nature calls, or I have to leave the room, or change position to get that photo I promised I’d get?

I stand – my chair either screeches across the floor, or I get my leg tangled around the chair leg. Stumbling into the next person’s lap, I recover – apologise, then step gracefully out into the aisle and make my way to the bathroom.

No. I don’t.

I stand there with my head doing slow rotations as I try to locate the toilet. Every eye in the room is on me. It takes the concentration of every cell in my body to make my legs walk, placing my feet one after the other seems incredibly hard! It’s like I’m stuck in quicksand..

By the time I make it to wherever it is I’ve gotta go, my face is fire engine red, and I’d  rather die than have to walk back to my seat. I have perfected the art of looking confidently like I don’t care, (whilst inwardly cutting the flesh of my inner thigh like the world’s most depressed emo-teen.)

Behaving in public:  

I just can’t. Neither can Fitty.

Do the two of you fight over who gets to push the elevator button?

Race each other to the car shouting “SHOTTY DRIVING!?”

Have you ever been bowled over, (literally – like a bowling pin) in the aisle of a supermarket, by a tin of MILO?

Does your partner shout at you from aisle 10, when you are in “Fruit and Veg?”

Perhaps you have seen us shopping together? Tutted and turned your back on us, because “Seriously, who behaves like that at our age?”

We do…

Then there’s T, my bestie and “spiritual cleanser” – we went to the movies last night. Seconds after we took this selfie, T  choked on a mouthful of popcorn when I whispered to her that the woman behind me had “vaginey odour.”

movie date

Popcorn Goes In Your Nose

Maturity: “See above.”

My anxietyTruth be told, I am getting a handle on this.

F i n a l l y.

Well that’s not entirely true – but I am learning to live with a speedy heart beat, nauseous gut, sweaty palms and feeling kinda like I left the stove on at home with a small child in it.

Usually as I’m trying to fall asleep at night, that little bastard anxiety will try and make me imagine that one of my children is that very moment driving into a tree, or falling off an abseiling rope.. (My anxiety is very imaginative at night!)

When I am truly exhausted by my anxiety, for some reason reciting something such as *”The Lord’s Prayer” (over and over again really fast) keeps my mind busy enough to allay even the most vicious animal attack or run away train.

*I’m as baffled by my brain’s choices as the next guy most of the time…

Appropriate nudityThere is a time and a place for nudity. The shower is a good example. Sex is another.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD why can I not limit my nudity to those occasions? I’m completely innocent here…  I might just be going out to the clothesline to get clean knickers, but of course that will be the day that the ENERGY GUY COMES TO READ THE METRE and drives up the driveway to see my shiny-white-ass running full speed for the door…

With the advent of menopause and the hot flashes, I often rip my shirt off and wave my arms in the air screaming “FUCK ME I’M DYING IS IS HOT IN HERE OR WHAT?” Of course I’ll be doing just that when one of the children decides to end its 9 hours of cyber-hibernation and come looking for food!

Taking a compliment:

Why do people even compliment women? I have never heard a woman accept a compliment gracefully. I’m the worst..

“Your eyes look so pretty today” – as if, I’ve been crying all morning! *crosses eyes

“Have you lost weight?” –  yeah right, I use mirror illusions, (learned it at magic school.)

Not being awkward:

If I look like I’m avoiding you on the street, I am.

I’m terrified I’ll say the wrong thing. I have an uncanny knack for retrieving half the information I need from my memory in order to not say awkward things. For example: I know the last time we chatted you said something about your mother. (I can’t remember what, but I think it’s probably a good idea to ask about your mother?)

You tell me she’s still dead – and yes you did tell me that last time we spoke.

I go and stab myself. (It’s better I just avoid you..)

Not being filthy mouthed:  I try, and if I have to – like (when around the in-laws), I can certainly curb my swearing – but in every other situation, I can’t seem to stop my filthy mouth. I say things to Fitty like, “I’m not going to call you a fucking dick face anymore”, and then not 10 seconds later he’s being a fucking dick face, and I have to..

I honestly don’t see why the word “cunt” is an invalid scrabble word either, but Magoo would NOT ALLOW!

Nail polish:  I started out carefully, but then frustration happened. I believe nail polish is messier than childbirth, and requires just as much hand holding and coaching.

nailed it

nailed it!

Footnote: I think one of the things I’ve totally mastered, is not taking life too seriously. It’s what I do to keep the smile on my face, and to help keep the smile on the faces of those I love. You only get to live one life – so live it and be happy, don’t take yourself so seriously that you forget how to laugh at yourself!

Restraint – The act of controlling the expression of one’s feelings – Farlex free dictionary.

In the last 7 days, I have been subjected to a lot of stress. A lot. I’m sick of restraining my feelings, sometimes you just gotta have a go, say what you want to say, and feel better. Right?

First event: The youngest child (and usually most sensible/sensitive), had a demonic outburst of anger and hatred which lasted approximately 15 hours, (one hour of declaration and 14 of withdrawal), which was directed solely at me. Luckily I had the sense and maturity to restrain myself from reacting, and carried on with life and parenting as usual – because “teenager”.

It didn’t stop me from having a couple of sleepless nights worrying about the cause of his outburst, or trying to discuss the situation with OM, (his mother), which was unfortunately the wrong move for me this time. I can’t, for all that is sensible, believe in or condone  free range parenting. I see it more as a neglectful, abject dissolution of responsibility.

But that’s just me..

I restrained myself from commenting further because what I wanted to say would have come from years of frustration, and probably not helpful in any way other than unburdening myself of said frustration!

Sometimes I struggle with the 3 way parenting model. Sometimes I struggle so hard I want to scream. Instead, I’ve spent years intensively working on trying to accept that my parenting style is not perfect, and not everyone has to adopt a similar style in order to raise children. But I have my limits!!

Second event: Fitty had been complaining of pain in his right lung, neck and shoulder for about 2 weeks. On Tuesday night, around 6pm I arrived home (from a visit with my spiritual cleanser and bestie, T), to find that his pain was increasing. I suggested, as I had been for a week, that we really should get him to a doctor. Fitty had been refusing, but his increasing pain was starting to talk him round..

By 7.30pm I was speeding him to the emergency room with a suspected collapsed lung. He was in terrible pain, hyperventilating and going into shock.

We didn’t think we had time to wait for an ambulance, so it was up to me to get him safely to the hospital… I don’t think I need to comment further on the amount of fear, anxiety and panic created by that situation?

Upon arriving at the ER, he was immediately surrounded by 3 staff, attaching all kinds of cables and monitors. His heart rate was way up, his oxygen stats way down. He was in a lot of pain. At the time, I busied myself filling out the form, and trying to stay out of the way, whilst trying to control my own hyperventilation!

It was when they wheeled him into the critical care room and rolled in the “crash cart” that I began to feel the overwhelming seriousness of the situation, and my utter helplessness!  I felt sick, fearful and ready to burst.

I restrained myself immediately, opened the curtain that separated us from the rest of the patients in the emergency room, took myself away from Fitty, into a corner near the exit and stared at the wall. I can’t even tell you what I was thinking, it would hurt too much, but I will tell you that I didn’t cry, I didn’t collapse, I just took a couple of long deep breaths and told myself to hold together. It wouldn’t do to have Fitty see me in tears, the last thing he needed was more stress! I returned to critical care and stood once again by my love’s side, with resolved strength. (I doubt he even noticed my absence.)

I have since thanked all the Gods in the universe for his safe return home to us. The staff at the hospital were able to stabilise him quickly, and although a thorough diagnosis is still not available 5 days later, Fitty’s pain is manageable and his symptoms have abated. We are waiting for further test results to determine the cause, but we both feel confident he is receiving the right treatment. He is soo much better!

Upside: Fitty gave up smoking the morning before he fell ill. He knew something wasn’t quite right. A few days later I stopped, and we are now both smoke free. (Those who follow this blog will know this isn’t our first rodeo, if fact this will be attempt number 7!) “They” say it takes an average of 7 – 10, so we’ll just keep trying until we succeed.

The teenage angst has passed, he told me he didn’t even know why he said the things he did? Well fuck son, thanks?

Seriously…  Now it’s the dog…

SIKLate last night Pooh dog was vomiting and shitting liquid waste. Listless, forlorn and sleepy, she hadn’t eaten properly and wasn’t drinking much either. It was the excessive “bowing” that clued me in to the fact it may be gastritis. I remembered reading about the behaviour having something to do with gut pain. I followed the advice I got online, and she’s doing much better today.

I guess it does you good to get smacked upside the head with a bit of “life” now and again, but I really need it to stop now.

Unrestrained,

Meg XO

*this post brought to you by “nicotine withdrawal” and “fuckoff life I’m sick of your shit”*

The past 12 years or so have been enlightening on so many levels, but the single most important realisation I’ve made, is that most people are just like me.

Sure some hide it well – like me – and some live isolated lives, begging for the cessation of the endless cycles of stress – evaluating every move in order to not draw attention to one’s limitless faults!

During a texting event in the early-bird hours of this morning, with an old friend, we discussed this topic. As usual, I have more to say.. I want more people to understand the basic level of anxiety that most of us operate under every day.

The old friend, is a writer, an artist, an actor, a father, a contemporary – we attended High School together and enjoyed a bittersweet teenage romance – based on the fact that we were both shiny people, (whom nobody else appreciated as much as we appreciated the distraction we created together.)

We’ve had very little communications since school, until coming back to our friendship in the last few year’s – in the form of irrational, early morning, drunk (him), texting rants about just about anything we can think of.

We both suffer from terrible anxiety. I didn’t clue on to mine until 12 years ago, (I can’t speak for him but he was onto his years ago from memory?)

So when he says ,”you’re cursed by seeming to look like you know what you’re doing”, I know exactly what he means. (It’s not true though. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing 90% of the time because I’m just a co-pilot.)

“Captain Anxiety” runs the ship around here – I take orders and do a complex analysis of each situation, each category of unrelated bullshit thinking that brings about situation’s of high panic and adrenalin surges that knock you down, if not out.

And by “knocked down” I don’t mean “physically stretched out on the floor”, I mean knocked down.

Everyone experiences anxiety differently, my most common responses are, ringing in the ears, rapid heartbeat, feeling my pulse in my neck – (it pounds from the side and into the back of my head), a spreading of heat – (the blood rushing to  organs), shaking hands – (general shakiness actually), instability – (it’s hard to stay upright during a really bad panic attack), nausea, sweating… not to mention feeling lousy, knowing what’s happening, yet being unable to control it.

People without anxiety can’t even.

Fitty can’t even – he experiences “stress” – has a hissy-fit, (if extreme), then moves on all, “Everyone still onboard? Righto then..”   He doesn’t “linger” in the emotions like I do. He doesn’t analyse everyone’s immediate response, or tally up the damage points. He’s already moved on with his day..

Apparently that’s what “normal people” do.  Why can’t I be normal then?

We are all different, we have all had experiences that shape and make us. I’ve had a plethora of life experiences. Most are good, if not great, but some would shave the whiskers from your chin in an icy chill of a minute.

I didn’t come here today to talk about those experiences. More about the effect they have had on my nervous system and my overall mental health. I believe I have been working my way through some of those experiences, trying to learn a little about my personality along the way.

Sometimes it’s been a great process, leading to understanding some of the “gaps” I have in my memory around certain events. Sometimes it’s horrifying and I can’t process the memories as my own, (*so I invented a younger, stupider version of myself years ago in order to escape from having lived those events myself.)

*I don’t quite understand either, but the “invented young woman” has a voice, and I am compelled to listen to her cries to be heard.

On the occasion that I have shared information about some of these events, I have almost universally had the response:

“You…. went through that? You wouldn’t have put up with that for a second!”

And that’s true too. (You see now, why I had to invent a whole other entity?) I didn’t “put up” with any of it. I just experienced it, and slowly it became part of me along with all the other experiences. Consequently – I invented Captain Anxiety. I became her copilot and settled into life in the pounding lane.

Around 18 months or so ago, I got tired. I was nearing a break-down and knew I had to pull back from work, social activities, whatever, until I felt “well” again.

That was when I decided to form a discussion/support group with myself…

Since then, all the parts of me, have been sitting around in my head, sipping luke-warm coffee, smoking and “discussing my life”, and we’re getting somewhere!

Writing is key here, there is a very enabling aspect in writing your innermost thoughts and truth on a blog. For me, the most confronting part of this is living in a small town, knowing lots of people, giving them access, via the blog, to knowledge that I’m a perfectly flawed mess!

It’s ok with me. The act of publishing each post that tug’s at a wound, is a freeing act – I let go of a lot of the negative energy when I release it to the “internet”.  I don’t know how this works, but this is the best damn therapy I’ve been part of so far..

Healing has come with the love of an exceptional man, one who can ignore the noise in my head. One who can direct the traffic when chaos seems certain. One who makes light of my control issues, even though they make everyone crazy! One who compares me to no other woman on earth.

One who is flawed himself, most importantly!

Fitty’s flaws are hilarious – he’s such a laid back, gentle loving person that you would never guess what an Alpha-Male-Derp-Jerk-Face he can be sometimes…

He doesn’t do these things often at all, so they are almost like a “mystery song” on your favourite band’s album – Gold!

Yesterday he got out of bed with his “Terminator – My Hormone Bag is Full” face on, storming around the house yelling about how “when he gets up – he has a shower, and why the fuck is somebody already in the fucking shower?”

(Background info – 3 out of 5 of us had to leave the house by 8.30am. He was not one of the three, and therefore was not in the line up for a shower, in my head anyway…)

I started to get all up in his face in response, my anxiety doing most of the hard work, “Right, sweat, tingling, shaking? Check. Can we get her heartbeat right up and maybe a little more ringing in her ears so she can’t fucking concentrate on what’s being said? Check. Make her do that denial thing where she questions whether this is too unfair to be even happening? Oh good one! Check.”

But – then I said something astounding. I said “Fuck off, you dickhead!”

Then I just did nothing but breathe….  I decided HE could take the kid to get her haircut, and he could fucking well have ALL THE SHOWER I was going to have in order to take her myself!

Then I made another coffee and sat on the balcony watching him realise what a complete fuckstick he had been. Then I listened to his apology.

I am learning how to divert the anxiety, and make use of the methods I’ve read about on Dr. Facebook.

Smiley face.

In just under 17 hours, Magoo and I embark on a road trip to Wolf Creek Broken Hill.

Broken Hill is in the middle of nowhere.

Many anxiety sufferer’s will agree with me when I say that the absolute worst thing you could do is travel roughly 2500 km’s with your 78 year old mother, into terrain that is “the most remote landscape on earth.”

The kind of territory where you HAVE to make sure you filled up in the last town, bought water, had food, because there is no more petrol, water or food….

Not only remote, the area is categorised as a “hot desert climate”. (My peri-meno hot flushes are going to be so fun!)

I got to wondering what kind of people might be lurking around an area such as this, with a relatively low population and therefore low date selection criteria? What kind of web fingered freaks are there? Because I’ve watched this now –

– all I have is wtf’dness…. I may encounter desert musician’s?

Going back seven months to when I actually had a chance to get out of this trip, I clearly remember the phone conversation that began it.

Magoo: “If I asked you to do something really important to me would you do it?”

Me:       “Ummmmmm…. wot?

Magoo: “This is really important and I’m only asking you because you are the only one I would want to ask to go with me.

I’d ask your brother but he eats too much and I can’t put up with him eating everything the whole way there!”

So clearly I am her favourite child because I don’t eat too much.

I said yes, because at the time I had already fallen off my stepladder twice and figured if I can fall off a stepladder on even ground, I was pretty sure I would kill myself on planks in the stairwell by October when the trip was to commence.

I tried really hard to at least break a leg or arm, but for some reason I am alive and well enough to travel tomorrow…

So that’s just the anxiety about the destination. I haven’t even begun to tell you about the way I have been dreading anticipating the actual 1250 km’s there, and the 1250 home?

Valium or Vodka?

She’s 78 years old and she wants to do most of the driving! Let that sink in before I just remind you that I didn’t name her Magoo because she is an excellent driver…

Her original thoughts on this were that we would swap every hundred or so kilometre’s to which my response was blowing a mouthful of coffee through my nose laughing!

“So you want us to crawl to Broken Hill?”

I think we finally agreed that I would probably try and take over all the driving and she would get the shits and it will be a

clusterfuck

“bungled or confused undertaking,” 1969, U.S. military slang, fromcluster + fuck, probably in the “bungle” sense. Earlier the compound meant “orgy” (1966).

Much like the film “Thelma and Louise”, I imagine the journey will start with a couple of well dressed and clean women who slowly change due to the burning heat and endless miles of flat desert highways. We will become fierce as the sun fries our brains and we discuss all the things that pissed us off from the moment we were born to now.

I imagine the journey could end with Magoo’s little-red-old-lady-car poised on the edge of a mineshaft?

Probably not, but you never know when you go ahead and put members of the same family together in a hot, sweaty environment?

On Monday the 12th of October it would have been my late stepdad Pete’s birthday, so Goo and I are going out to fulfill his final wish, along with Pete’s sons who are traveling from all over the country. We’ll meet at Pete’s favourite spot, a place he always said he wanted to die, and there we will scatter his ashes.

He always said to me,

“Girl, when it comes my time, just drive me out there, find a tree and leave me alone with a bottle of scotch.”

I’m assuming he said that to everyone, as that seems to be exactly what we are doing next Monday and I didn’t plan it at all. Except the Scotch, I may plan that yet.

guilt trip

I am the mother of this child.

elliot

I am also the mother of his two younger brothers. My middle child (5) is terrified of his older brother’s driving skills, and drives sedately. My youngest (6), drives like an Asian in New York traffic when he is on a lonely dirt road. (He is only learning?)

Stepmother to another five adorables, I reckon I know a thing or two about worrying..

When the above pictured maniac first got his license, I went a little crazy with the safety advice, and a routine was born. Every single time my kids got in a car I’d start.

“Don’t drink and drive. Who’s driving home after? If you get stuck call me or sleep in the car? Don’t speed. Promise? If you’re drinking, no motorbikes, okay? Where’s the party at? Who’s looking out for you all? Parent there? Do I know them? Look just stop for a minute! I love you okay, I just want you to be safe..?”

We are Mothers. We bleed when you cut yourself. When you cry, we bravely try to blink away our tears, they fall on your shoulder, (behind your back), because we know we need to be strong for you. But you can feel our shoulders shake, right?

So you know. We love you. Would do anything for you. Always will.

So why do you have to make it so hard for us? Why do you ride a four wheeler on two wheels in a rocky, tree studded paddock with no helmet and safety gear? Didn’t I always tell you how precious your sweet little face is?

Don’t you know your head is just a watermelon waiting for the right set of circumstances, to explode?

I know I am anxious and paranoid as a mother. I get that I fear things a little more than “normal mum”, but dammit I could never stop the endless stream of horror movies in my head?

I used to imagine they stopped breathing all the time. Things would get too quiet, and I’d tiptoe in to make sure. In my head, I’m seeing a blue baby boy, his eyeballs rolling back in his head. I’ve left him too long. He’s brain damaged! In reality a peacefully sleeping baby confronts me.

It just got worse. The kids didn’t help at all. Sporty, active and death defying, 3 tested every nerve in my body. When I received a phone call from his school telling me he’d been hit in the head with a 8lb shot put and had been taken by ambulance to Emergency, I darkened. There’s no other way to put it. My soul kinda goes black like death. I can’t breathe, think or speak intelligibly until I know.

The possibility of a broken neck during 5’s football game? Outta the park! I had to follow the Ambulance, my son in a neck brace inside. I have a quadriplegic brother, I know this shit happens. All. The. Time. I’ve been visiting in the spinal ward. Plenty.

I also visit the grave of my tiny stillborn. You don’t need any more graves to visit after that. Trust me.

Mostly we have sensible, intelligent children who do much to protect themselves against the elements of nature and danger. Occupationally, there are exceptions.

Fitty’s eldest son, 2, is in the Armed Forces. On his first posting overseas, he was in Afghanistan. He wasn’t in direct conflict situations, but his job makes pretty sure he travels the unsafe passages and sniper-filled roads. The danger is real.

It wasn’t long after 2 left that I had a particularly rough day at work, (undergoing operations and recoveries at record speed for 12 months will do that). I got home, crept up the stairs in the early evening dark, and left the lights off. I sat in front of the fire, which was still glowing softly from the morning, hung my head and cried.

Fitty had arrived home, and in my pain and misery, I hadn’t heard him coming up the stairs. What I didn’t know was that Fitty had heard there had been an attack on an Australian unit, 4 young men were dead, and he hadn’t heard from 2’s wife or anyone yet. He was a little worried. He didn’t know.

When he came up and saw me in front of the fire, on my knees in the dark, sobbing, can you imagine what he thought? I’ve never seen a man drop to his knees like that, look at me with such a pleading look. A look that shows me how much he will break if anything happens to our children.

Having all this time to think, (and I know I say this all the time now, but I find I’ve never had so much free space in my head, time to process all the things..), I’ve decided to actively change the way I worry. I’m just going to try not to do it so much anymore.

Be Safe.

I have already condensed the safety speech above down to – “Be safe.”

When I first started this a few weeks ago it came out more like, “be safe…?” I have amended it. The question mark is gone forever. I command the universe to protect you. I demand you be safe out there. No question about it!

You’ve been taught, you know the drill, you’ve broken enough cars and bones to prove it. Time to settle down. Be responsible, be safe.

Be Free.

Oh Lawd, the baby girl is a teenager now, has a job and an opinion about everything! How in the hell are we gonna keep this gorgeous kid safe?

I have been lied to, swindled and conned by every teen in this house. I know you people, I know how you operate, (yes, even you trainee-man 8, tryna wink your way into my heart.) You’re just practicin’ on me! You want another hug? Sure baby boy.. but you’re still doing the dishes and making your bed!

Is 6 coming home tonight? Where will he sleep? What street? Near what school? Whose mother? When are you coming home? Tomorrow. Okay. Fine. Yes I know you’re nearly 18 son, but you haven’t slept in your own bed all week, there are 5 nutritious meals in the fridge that you’ve replaced with KFC and Oreos, washed down with energy drink! Have you showered? How’s your flu? I can hear you wheezing.. Where ARE YOU?

I’ve learned. My mother didn’t raise any dummies… What to do?

Practical stuff. Do the shit that seems like it’s actually going to happen. Worry about the real things.

7 will have a boy come callin. She will want to. He will want to more. She will need to make up her own mind about all that, but I have provided her with the information I feel she needs in order to make a decision which will ensure she is respected and ready. It’s all you can do really. They just lie if you treat the subject like it’s not a thing. It. Is. A. Thing.

Fitty and I removed our porch swing from the upstairs balcony where all it was getting were sticks from the Gum trees and love from Pooh dog. An ugly thing, it looks much better in it’s new location under our balcony, strung up on long chains, facing the lake. It is a sunny but private little space.

In Fitty’s head: “Awesome, we’ll turn this part into a frame for netting, and we’ll grow herbs and tomata’s up here? It get’s the best sun here. This is perfect!” Cue another Fitty Recycling Project, (we still have a trampoline on steroids in the yard within it, a luxury brooding house awaiting the final process..)

In my head: “This is cool. Perfect place for 7 to sit and swing and stare at the lake. Kissin on future boyfriend’s face if she wants, and daydreaming about the future… ”

serial killer sunday-1

Fitty’s domain (the yard) is a creepy place full of wonder and junk. I call this shot “Serial Killer Sunday”

There’s an element of reality that you can’t escape when you’re on your umpteenth teenager. Shit is going to go down.

They are going to come home one day, with huge dilated eyes. They’re gonna chatter and race about for around a day or so then they’re gonna sleep like the dead for another. This is Pinger Boy.

They are going to come to you and say “Mum Sally’s pregnant!” (Hasn’t happened yet, but it will.) I’m gonna welcome that child into the family even if it never arrives. This is No-Franga Boy.

They are going to look you in the eye and lie to you about where they are going and who they are with. I’m gonna let them know I see their bullshit, but that they have a choice about the lying. This is Gone Girl.

We cannot protect them, we can only stand by and watch. We can teach them what we have learned about the world, but they’ve already seen it through their own eyes. They’ve built their own belief system, based upon the experiences you have allowed them to have, and the ones you’ll probably never hear about.

I am finally learning. We can trust them. Be safe xox