Christmas seemed to go by in a whirlwind. But it was lovely... filled with leisurely bath times with the little one, family visiting for food and cuddles, walks in misty London mornings.
This year I feel that I've accomplished a hell of a lot. We have accomplished a lot. I have felt the pangs of failure, the drifting of time between my fingers, the swells of hope for the coming year and the new baby, the longing for more time with my beautiful little girl, not so little anymore.
Sometimes I feel as if even one second spent on lamenting or complaining would be bad karma, but sometimes it's a necessary evil, when you're a working parent trying to juggle all the balls in your arms. I always want more, I want life to give us more- more children, more love, more beautiful chaos... but with that comes the inevitable: more time, more space to indulge in each other, more quiet moments to take it all in and be thankful.
You're always told: life is what you make it. But really, sometimes I believe life is what makes you. You're molded by what it throws at you. If you react badly, you don't learn anything. It's like a really long road trip that keeps getting stalled by traffic and flat tires. You can't change the environment around you, but you can smile and joke and remember that at the end of the road, at the end of your life, you'll remember the sweetness in the chaos. Because that's the kind of person you've become.
I'm not a naturally positive person. I have to work at it. But when I let go and realise that life is too short, and that my time with my children and my husband is limited.. well, I'm compelled to choose the sweetness.
So here's to having a sweet 2011, and everything that comes along with it.
Thursday 30 December 2010
Tuesday 14 December 2010
Love and other assumptions
Should I care what people think? Not really.
I’m in my early 30s. I roughly know what I want and who I am.
Do I care what people think though? Unfortunately, yes, sometimes I do.
Being pregnant with #2 is an interesting situation to be in, in this country. The ‘norm’ is: “two kids and you’re done!”. 2.5 kids, picket-fence perfect little family.
I don’t like, have never liked, being part of the cookie-cutter crowd. It’s not in my DNA. It’s not how I operate. And people repeating the same things make me fear the appearance of a little voice in my head saying... what if they're right? What if your body won't make any more babies?
I’ve never really noticed how my visceral objection would be to this kind of life until I fell pregnant with our second.
The reactions to our news were interesting, to say the least.
Oh... wow.. so soon... wow.
Oh, sure.. well.. congratulations are in order. Well done you, goodness.
Oh, good. You’ll have two, and now you’re done.
Oh dear.. lots of work ahead of you, that’s for sure.
Hmm.. wow. Interesting. Why the rush?
Gosh, where will you find the time? You’re both thinly stretched as it is...!
Mothers will always get strange feedback from family, friends and strangers. It’s what we all have to deal with. But maybe I have a low moron threshold. I feel like I want to grit my teeth and start justifying my actions to people about the kind of life I/we want to live, the kind of size that we want our family to be. Everyone’s “perfect” is different than everyone else’s. Why do I have to live according to someone else’s assumptions of perfect? Chaos, challenges, schedules, work, fun, adevntures and being parents. That’s our personal perfect.
To set the record straight, I will know when I’m done. I will. Not you. Not they. I will know. And 2 kids isn’t “it” for me/us. I realise that some things can’t be helped, but at the moment, and for the foreseeable future, I feel that my body isn’t done yet. It’s a strange yearning. An organic, feel-it-in-my-bones feeling. It's not something I can explain, but it is intense in its profundity.
Maybe it’s tempting fate to let that out there into the universe whilst baking #2... or maybe it’s just a nice thought to let go of and release more love into the world. More hope. More positivity. Maybe it's entirely normal for me to immerse myself this haze of pregnancy because of the complete miracle that it really is. I love it. I did last time, I do now, and I hope to repeat it again in the future.
Thing is, I just have too much love in my heart for my little burgeoning family to ever be in a standard box. It tends to radiate from my pores. Makes me feel really calm and content with the world. And I hope that we’re lucky enough to have as many kids as we feel we want, in order to give them all that kind of life, full of love and sweetness and hope and adventure.
So, to all the judgers: assume all you want. I’ll live my perfect the best I can, and you live yours.
I’m in my early 30s. I roughly know what I want and who I am.
Do I care what people think though? Unfortunately, yes, sometimes I do.
Being pregnant with #2 is an interesting situation to be in, in this country. The ‘norm’ is: “two kids and you’re done!”. 2.5 kids, picket-fence perfect little family.
I don’t like, have never liked, being part of the cookie-cutter crowd. It’s not in my DNA. It’s not how I operate. And people repeating the same things make me fear the appearance of a little voice in my head saying... what if they're right? What if your body won't make any more babies?
I’ve never really noticed how my visceral objection would be to this kind of life until I fell pregnant with our second.
The reactions to our news were interesting, to say the least.
Oh... wow.. so soon... wow.
Oh, sure.. well.. congratulations are in order. Well done you, goodness.
Oh, good. You’ll have two, and now you’re done.
Oh dear.. lots of work ahead of you, that’s for sure.
Hmm.. wow. Interesting. Why the rush?
Gosh, where will you find the time? You’re both thinly stretched as it is...!
Mothers will always get strange feedback from family, friends and strangers. It’s what we all have to deal with. But maybe I have a low moron threshold. I feel like I want to grit my teeth and start justifying my actions to people about the kind of life I/we want to live, the kind of size that we want our family to be. Everyone’s “perfect” is different than everyone else’s. Why do I have to live according to someone else’s assumptions of perfect? Chaos, challenges, schedules, work, fun, adevntures and being parents. That’s our personal perfect.
To set the record straight, I will know when I’m done. I will. Not you. Not they. I will know. And 2 kids isn’t “it” for me/us. I realise that some things can’t be helped, but at the moment, and for the foreseeable future, I feel that my body isn’t done yet. It’s a strange yearning. An organic, feel-it-in-my-bones feeling. It's not something I can explain, but it is intense in its profundity.
Maybe it’s tempting fate to let that out there into the universe whilst baking #2... or maybe it’s just a nice thought to let go of and release more love into the world. More hope. More positivity. Maybe it's entirely normal for me to immerse myself this haze of pregnancy because of the complete miracle that it really is. I love it. I did last time, I do now, and I hope to repeat it again in the future.
Thing is, I just have too much love in my heart for my little burgeoning family to ever be in a standard box. It tends to radiate from my pores. Makes me feel really calm and content with the world. And I hope that we’re lucky enough to have as many kids as we feel we want, in order to give them all that kind of life, full of love and sweetness and hope and adventure.
So, to all the judgers: assume all you want. I’ll live my perfect the best I can, and you live yours.
Saturday 4 December 2010
But it doesn't look any different.
Men don't get hair.
They think that women can just pop into a salon, say to the stylist "this. I want THIS", and be done in 30 minutes.
Some women can.
I am not one of those women.
I've had terrible luck with stylists, colourists...for the life of me, I have not found one damn person who understands my hair and what I want to do with it. I have thick, long-layered, wavy, past my shoulders hair that's dry, has a mind of its own, and has a chocolatey brown colour to it.
no, I don't want stripey highlights.
no, I don't want a drastic colour change.
yes, I want you to have more than 3 months' experience doing this kind of thing.
no, I don't want to be sold 35 products that will "change" the lifespan of my colour.
Just DO it like I want you to. Is that so much to ask?
So, I've been growing out my hair, and I haven't had it cut in about 8 months. Quick, free trims, yes. But I don't know a good stylist in London, so I haven't chosen to take the risk. The last one I had is now miles away from where we live, and with a 13-month old in the house now, it takes a bit of military-precision planning to even get 2 hours to myself.
I decided to grab a Saturday and book a few hours for an appointment, including travel time. The mister was doing daddy time until the afternoon, when he had to go into the office, but I'd be back by then. Or so I thought. It all seemed perfect.
I got to the salon, and the lady that usually does my hair had left. They recommended another guy to me. He had no idea what he was doing because he had never done what I had requested before. I stopped him right there, and refused to go any further. The last thing I want is to walk out having paid a decent amount of money and be horrified. No thanks. Been there, done that.
I complained to the manager that booked me in. After almost bursting into tears, they sent me to another salon a few streets away that specialised in colour. Before I left, though, I managed to get a free quick trim, which made me feel a little bit better.
I went to the new salon, told them my dilemma, and as fate would have it, one of their senior colourists was available to direct another stylist in what I wanted.
Then I waited to be seen. As a walk-in, I appreciate that I was lucky to even get a slot on a busy Saturday, but still.... I was well aware tha I was on a time limit, and this little window of mine to get my hair done was getting smaller and smaller. After a few "heads up" texts to home, I still hadn't heard anything. So he was either annoyed, or just busy. Oh well.
Finally I was ushered in and they started to work on me. This is after an hour had passed since I began this dramatic morning. So I absorbed the lastest fashion magazines and tried to relax.
After the first part of the colour, and waiting under a heat lamp for 30 minutes, I was getting it shampooed out of my hair. My 4-months along belly now has a mind of its own and as I was lying there in the chair, the protective robe slipped open and revealed my shirt. I was wearing my favourite Breton-striped shirt that goes with everything. All of a sudden I heard a "oh no" and the colourist was furiously dabbing my shirt with a wet towel. I looked down and saw a big blob of brown dye right on the front of my shirt, plain as day. That's never going to come out, I thought. In her haste to clean it, more dye fell off her glove. I asked her to stop and told her it was pointless, the shirt was ruined. Poor woman was so upset she offered to buy me another shirt (which I accepted, thanks very much... but they don't make them at the store that I bought them anymore).
I tried not to let it get to me and just asked her to keep going, because so far, my hair looked pretty decent, and I was getting what I had wanted, colour-wise. Screw the shirt.
I still needed to burst into tears, though, so I call home and tell the mister what was happening and that he could come into town and bring the baby and I would take over and he could go into the office.
I then proceeded to tell him how upsetting it was that one of my favourite shirts was ruined.
He told me it was just a shirt and to stop freaking out about it and get a grip.
Oh. Okay, then. I forgot that I was talking to a very pragmatic male, and not a girlfriend that would probably sympathise. Oh well.
Cut to 2.5 hours later...
Just to give you an idea about how the rest of the day went...I left the house at 8:30 am and was finally done with my hair at 3pm. 6 hours. 6 HOURS! I was exchausted, both emotionally (feeling upset with how this seems to happen to me every time, and guilty that I spent so long on doing something so superficial) and physically (sitting in one place isn't exactly my favourite thing to do). However, I was happy with my results, albeit very subtle. Without posting a picture of myself, here's roughly what it looks like:
The mister and the little miss finally met me at the salon so we could do the handover.
And you know the first thing he says to me after my 6-hour marathon of drama and ruined clothes?
[Squinting] "What exactly did you do to it? Because it doesn't look any different. Everytime you go into a salon, the same thing happens. All this drama about how you want them to do a certain look, and in the end, it doesn't really look like you did anything to it."
"Umm.. does it look nice, though?"
"Sure. It always looks nice."
I repeat. Men really just don't get hair.
They think that women can just pop into a salon, say to the stylist "this. I want THIS", and be done in 30 minutes.
Some women can.
I am not one of those women.
I've had terrible luck with stylists, colourists...for the life of me, I have not found one damn person who understands my hair and what I want to do with it. I have thick, long-layered, wavy, past my shoulders hair that's dry, has a mind of its own, and has a chocolatey brown colour to it.
no, I don't want stripey highlights.
no, I don't want a drastic colour change.
yes, I want you to have more than 3 months' experience doing this kind of thing.
no, I don't want to be sold 35 products that will "change" the lifespan of my colour.
Just DO it like I want you to. Is that so much to ask?
So, I've been growing out my hair, and I haven't had it cut in about 8 months. Quick, free trims, yes. But I don't know a good stylist in London, so I haven't chosen to take the risk. The last one I had is now miles away from where we live, and with a 13-month old in the house now, it takes a bit of military-precision planning to even get 2 hours to myself.
I decided to grab a Saturday and book a few hours for an appointment, including travel time. The mister was doing daddy time until the afternoon, when he had to go into the office, but I'd be back by then. Or so I thought. It all seemed perfect.
I got to the salon, and the lady that usually does my hair had left. They recommended another guy to me. He had no idea what he was doing because he had never done what I had requested before. I stopped him right there, and refused to go any further. The last thing I want is to walk out having paid a decent amount of money and be horrified. No thanks. Been there, done that.
I complained to the manager that booked me in. After almost bursting into tears, they sent me to another salon a few streets away that specialised in colour. Before I left, though, I managed to get a free quick trim, which made me feel a little bit better.
I went to the new salon, told them my dilemma, and as fate would have it, one of their senior colourists was available to direct another stylist in what I wanted.
Then I waited to be seen. As a walk-in, I appreciate that I was lucky to even get a slot on a busy Saturday, but still.... I was well aware tha I was on a time limit, and this little window of mine to get my hair done was getting smaller and smaller. After a few "heads up" texts to home, I still hadn't heard anything. So he was either annoyed, or just busy. Oh well.
Finally I was ushered in and they started to work on me. This is after an hour had passed since I began this dramatic morning. So I absorbed the lastest fashion magazines and tried to relax.
After the first part of the colour, and waiting under a heat lamp for 30 minutes, I was getting it shampooed out of my hair. My 4-months along belly now has a mind of its own and as I was lying there in the chair, the protective robe slipped open and revealed my shirt. I was wearing my favourite Breton-striped shirt that goes with everything. All of a sudden I heard a "oh no" and the colourist was furiously dabbing my shirt with a wet towel. I looked down and saw a big blob of brown dye right on the front of my shirt, plain as day. That's never going to come out, I thought. In her haste to clean it, more dye fell off her glove. I asked her to stop and told her it was pointless, the shirt was ruined. Poor woman was so upset she offered to buy me another shirt (which I accepted, thanks very much... but they don't make them at the store that I bought them anymore).
I tried not to let it get to me and just asked her to keep going, because so far, my hair looked pretty decent, and I was getting what I had wanted, colour-wise. Screw the shirt.
I still needed to burst into tears, though, so I call home and tell the mister what was happening and that he could come into town and bring the baby and I would take over and he could go into the office.
I then proceeded to tell him how upsetting it was that one of my favourite shirts was ruined.
He told me it was just a shirt and to stop freaking out about it and get a grip.
Oh. Okay, then. I forgot that I was talking to a very pragmatic male, and not a girlfriend that would probably sympathise. Oh well.
Cut to 2.5 hours later...
Just to give you an idea about how the rest of the day went...I left the house at 8:30 am and was finally done with my hair at 3pm. 6 hours. 6 HOURS! I was exchausted, both emotionally (feeling upset with how this seems to happen to me every time, and guilty that I spent so long on doing something so superficial) and physically (sitting in one place isn't exactly my favourite thing to do). However, I was happy with my results, albeit very subtle. Without posting a picture of myself, here's roughly what it looks like:
The mister and the little miss finally met me at the salon so we could do the handover.
And you know the first thing he says to me after my 6-hour marathon of drama and ruined clothes?
[Squinting] "What exactly did you do to it? Because it doesn't look any different. Everytime you go into a salon, the same thing happens. All this drama about how you want them to do a certain look, and in the end, it doesn't really look like you did anything to it."
"Umm.. does it look nice, though?"
"Sure. It always looks nice."
I repeat. Men really just don't get hair.
Friday 12 November 2010
There. But not.
Ever felt like you're in a moment but watching it unfold outside of yourself?
Sort of like... standing in front of the Taj Mahal and saying "hmm. that's nice."
I've noticed this lately.
It's not an apathy, it's more of a functional numbness. As if the activity I'm doing is too precious for me to understand how to absorb it. How to manage it. How to immerse myself in it.
I was giving her some warm milk last night, and as she fed, lying in my arms in the semi-darkness, poking my face and touching my hands, you know what I was thinking? Hmm..wonder what I'll make for dinner later.. wonder when he'll get home tonight.. crap, I have to put the laundry on... did I vacuum her rug today... oh man, I so could just use 10 minutes to myself with a nice cup of coffee and the paper...oh, I feel flutters in my stomach, someone's swimming around in there, how amazing is that.. I'm so lucky...
And then the guilt sets in, and I force myself to be there, shake myself out of my selfish thoughts and be in the moment. With her. It's not fair to do otherwise, because I'll miss these moments when she's older and doesn't need to lie in my arms anymore.
So I correct myself and tune into her. But I feel a bit numb. I look at her and I realise that I helped make this beautiful little creature, with her curved mouth, her full cheeks, her dark green eyes and long lashes... and she's growing up. Too fast. But the combination of all of these thoughts make my brain go thhppppppttt.....bzzzt. Like screen static on a TV.
You see what happens? I go from a 5-lane highway of my own thoughts about my life, to a jumbled mess of thoughts about her, her life.
There is no quiet. No sense of peace within the moment.
I wonder why that is. I know it's not because I don't love her enough. I love her so much that it's painful, sometimes. Is it a coping mechanism so that your heart doesn't explode from too much love? Is it the same kind of coping mechanism when you try and tune out the monotonous bored whines when they're strapped into a buggy and you just want to stuff earplugs in your ears and tell them to just. be. quiet?
Hmm.
I'm there with her, I am. Really. But sometimes I'm not. Sometimes I think I could be better. More present. More affectionate. More motherly. Less functional and schedule-oriented.
And maybe this is the lesson that children teach their parents. Maybe through the next 5 years of children and pregnancies and chaos and sleep deprivation, the most important lesson that I'll learn is to be present. At each and every moment.
To just be.
Sort of like... standing in front of the Taj Mahal and saying "hmm. that's nice."
I've noticed this lately.
It's not an apathy, it's more of a functional numbness. As if the activity I'm doing is too precious for me to understand how to absorb it. How to manage it. How to immerse myself in it.
I was giving her some warm milk last night, and as she fed, lying in my arms in the semi-darkness, poking my face and touching my hands, you know what I was thinking? Hmm..wonder what I'll make for dinner later.. wonder when he'll get home tonight.. crap, I have to put the laundry on... did I vacuum her rug today... oh man, I so could just use 10 minutes to myself with a nice cup of coffee and the paper...oh, I feel flutters in my stomach, someone's swimming around in there, how amazing is that.. I'm so lucky...
And then the guilt sets in, and I force myself to be there, shake myself out of my selfish thoughts and be in the moment. With her. It's not fair to do otherwise, because I'll miss these moments when she's older and doesn't need to lie in my arms anymore.
So I correct myself and tune into her. But I feel a bit numb. I look at her and I realise that I helped make this beautiful little creature, with her curved mouth, her full cheeks, her dark green eyes and long lashes... and she's growing up. Too fast. But the combination of all of these thoughts make my brain go thhppppppttt.....bzzzt. Like screen static on a TV.
You see what happens? I go from a 5-lane highway of my own thoughts about my life, to a jumbled mess of thoughts about her, her life.
There is no quiet. No sense of peace within the moment.
I wonder why that is. I know it's not because I don't love her enough. I love her so much that it's painful, sometimes. Is it a coping mechanism so that your heart doesn't explode from too much love? Is it the same kind of coping mechanism when you try and tune out the monotonous bored whines when they're strapped into a buggy and you just want to stuff earplugs in your ears and tell them to just. be. quiet?
Hmm.
I'm there with her, I am. Really. But sometimes I'm not. Sometimes I think I could be better. More present. More affectionate. More motherly. Less functional and schedule-oriented.
And maybe this is the lesson that children teach their parents. Maybe through the next 5 years of children and pregnancies and chaos and sleep deprivation, the most important lesson that I'll learn is to be present. At each and every moment.
To just be.
Thursday 28 October 2010
I need a transporter.
My commute to work is getting harder.
The winter has set in in London, which means that when I leave the house at 7:15, it's still dark out. When I come home, it's dark out.
I'm lucky if I manage to wrestle into the train car amongst all the puffy coats, umbrellas, newspapers and elbows askew.
It gets so hot on the train that I take all my layers off.
I transfer to another train halfway to work. And I don't get a seat on that one either.
Before I get out of the train station, I put all my layers back on.
All of that takes about 50 minutes, and then I walk to my office (10 minutes).
I do this trip twice a day, because I love to work and I love my job. Plus, it's pretty entertaining people-watching on the train. I always make up stories about them in my head.. I wonder who's just broken up with her boyfriend... I wonder who has kids... I wonder who has something stolen in their bag... I wonder if that guy likes his job...I wonder if she's going on a trip somewhere soon..
But people-games aside, it's getting exhausting, especially being pregnant. Yes, yes... mama's a-cookin' again. Life is very exciting at the moment. And very hormonal.
I fantasize about living in a country house in a small country village, walking to work and walking back. And getting some farm fresh produce on the way home, for dinner.
Then I realise that I don't exist in a Norman Rockwell painting. I did when I was growing up, but I don't now. Someday, maybe. But for now, I hope I get a transporter for Christmas.
Monday 25 October 2010
It's been a year.
To the girl who takes me on new adventures, determined and full of wonder.
My heart has never known this much love.
Happy birthday, my magical creature.
My heart has never known this much love.
Happy birthday, my magical creature.
Wednesday 13 October 2010
I want. I don't need.... but I want.
I'm slipping into this new, strange phase. Consumerism. Specifically "things" that make me sound highly materialistic: Shoes. New clothes. Scarves. A new coat.
Is it because my birthday came and went, I spent the money going to a salon and got my hair glossed and taken care of... and it started me down a dangerous path of more more more?
Is it because my hormones are going nuts?
Is it because I want to be selfish and not just think about kids and family all the time?
Is it because I work hard at being a mother and I feel I deserve it somehow?
All of the above, probably.
See, the thing is (calculated justification coming up....), I actually need a nice pair of black boots for winter. Leather. Riding-boot style. Something that goes over jeans or with skirts. Flat heel. I have a pair of brown, faded beat up boots that I've worn with everything, and a different colour would be nice. And my fake-Uggs have a hole in the bottom of them.
I don't have brown shoes. I really want a nice pair to wear with jeans. Wearing Converse all the time is okay, but it would nice nice not to look like I'm 15 sometimes.
I want a big, wooly scarf. A lovely huge one that I can wrap around my neck like a big wooly blanket. A beige one, ideally.
Okay. I let it all out. It feels nice to confess my want, though I always feel guilty for doing so. Our money needs to be spent on other things at the moment, but I can't help but ache for just a few things to tide me over for the winter. It's perversely a constant reminder of how careless I used to be about money, flitting here and there, buying things that I wanted, indulging my desire for pretty things. Most were good purchases. Some were impulse. It's the opposite of how I deal with money nowadays.
Maybe it's intrinsically vain for me to say "but I deserve it because I work so hard and I don't really spend money on me!" I don't really have a right to say that. The mister works damn hard at his job, but he never says "hey, I work 16 hour days every day, I need that shirt!!".
Maybe it's a woman thing. Maybe I shouldn't compare myself to anyone else. Maybe it's okay to want something you know you can't afford, because it makes you appreciate the stuff that you do have, and makes you reinvent how you use/wear things.
Or maybe I should just raise my hand and say out loud: "Hi. I'm Myshka. I have a mild obsession with shopping, and I make no apologies for it. Pleased to meet you. And I really like your shoes."
Is it because my birthday came and went, I spent the money going to a salon and got my hair glossed and taken care of... and it started me down a dangerous path of more more more?
Is it because my hormones are going nuts?
Is it because I want to be selfish and not just think about kids and family all the time?
Is it because I work hard at being a mother and I feel I deserve it somehow?
All of the above, probably.
See, the thing is (calculated justification coming up....), I actually need a nice pair of black boots for winter. Leather. Riding-boot style. Something that goes over jeans or with skirts. Flat heel. I have a pair of brown, faded beat up boots that I've worn with everything, and a different colour would be nice. And my fake-Uggs have a hole in the bottom of them.
I don't have brown shoes. I really want a nice pair to wear with jeans. Wearing Converse all the time is okay, but it would nice nice not to look like I'm 15 sometimes.
I want a big, wooly scarf. A lovely huge one that I can wrap around my neck like a big wooly blanket. A beige one, ideally.
Okay. I let it all out. It feels nice to confess my want, though I always feel guilty for doing so. Our money needs to be spent on other things at the moment, but I can't help but ache for just a few things to tide me over for the winter. It's perversely a constant reminder of how careless I used to be about money, flitting here and there, buying things that I wanted, indulging my desire for pretty things. Most were good purchases. Some were impulse. It's the opposite of how I deal with money nowadays.
Maybe it's intrinsically vain for me to say "but I deserve it because I work so hard and I don't really spend money on me!" I don't really have a right to say that. The mister works damn hard at his job, but he never says "hey, I work 16 hour days every day, I need that shirt!!".
Maybe it's a woman thing. Maybe I shouldn't compare myself to anyone else. Maybe it's okay to want something you know you can't afford, because it makes you appreciate the stuff that you do have, and makes you reinvent how you use/wear things.
Or maybe I should just raise my hand and say out loud: "Hi. I'm Myshka. I have a mild obsession with shopping, and I make no apologies for it. Pleased to meet you. And I really like your shoes."
Thursday 23 September 2010
The calm. No, not before a storm. Just the calm.
I'm sitting here, the glow of the computer one of only two lights in the dark living room. I'm wearing black tights and oversized tshirt, a leftover outfit from my work day. Hair in a messy top knot. A sort of half-dressed lazy ballerina. The lights across the river by our balcony glow through the windows. Everything is silent. She's asleep upstairs, very soundly. He's out catching up with old friends over a few beers.
And I'm right here. Like the sentry of some modern fort, standing guard. Keeping everyone safe. Absorbing the silence.
Tonight I indulged a bit in the past, and a bit of the present. After I put her to bed and gave her that kiss that sends her to a giggly sleep, I padded down the stairs slowly. But I stopped when I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror. I walked a bit closer. I don't "do" makeup, and for work it's always moisturizer and lipgloss, so I never really examine myself, because I never have time to, at 6:30am (I'm usually more concerned about leaving the house in pyjama bottoms by mistake). But this time, I did. Just one minute, I told myself.
I spent what felt like an eternity looking at myself, seeing the lines in the corners of my eyes, the perma-freckle sat like a star on my right cheek, the colour of my eyes (a faded hazel-green.. which my daughter ended up inheriting), the shade of my hair (a wavy oaky-brown with faded highlights and some grey hairs showing through), the scar on my forehead (the result of a horrific dog-bite when I was 4 that left me with 12 stitches). My face has changed so much, I noticed. More lines. Thinner skin. More freckles.
I stepped back a bit, like a painter does when he's working. And that's when I saw the whole story. My story. My lines, my scars, my body with its square-like structure and flat little chest.... those are the chapters to my story. And sometimes I feel like it's barely begun to unfold, you know? And that makes me smile.
Sure, I'm unhappy with a few parts here and there. I desperately need a haircut, but I haven't had time. I probably need to rest more instead of trying to do too much. My posture could be better. Seems like yesterday that I was 25 and didn't give a shit about anything and everything, thinking that I had millions of years left on this planet. And here I am, with a birthday looming and parts of me creaking.
But the thing is, after I saw my reflection, I actually saw what I looked like. You know that fairy tale where the boy wants to find the magic mirror that lets him see himself as others see him? That's what I feel like I saw today. I indulged in a moment of complete agreement with the usually opposing sides. Nothing seemed out of place. Everything seemed to fit. I made sense to myself.
Sure, I liked who I was when I was 25, but I love who I've become, so many years later.
And I'm right here. Like the sentry of some modern fort, standing guard. Keeping everyone safe. Absorbing the silence.
Tonight I indulged a bit in the past, and a bit of the present. After I put her to bed and gave her that kiss that sends her to a giggly sleep, I padded down the stairs slowly. But I stopped when I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror. I walked a bit closer. I don't "do" makeup, and for work it's always moisturizer and lipgloss, so I never really examine myself, because I never have time to, at 6:30am (I'm usually more concerned about leaving the house in pyjama bottoms by mistake). But this time, I did. Just one minute, I told myself.
I spent what felt like an eternity looking at myself, seeing the lines in the corners of my eyes, the perma-freckle sat like a star on my right cheek, the colour of my eyes (a faded hazel-green.. which my daughter ended up inheriting), the shade of my hair (a wavy oaky-brown with faded highlights and some grey hairs showing through), the scar on my forehead (the result of a horrific dog-bite when I was 4 that left me with 12 stitches). My face has changed so much, I noticed. More lines. Thinner skin. More freckles.
I stepped back a bit, like a painter does when he's working. And that's when I saw the whole story. My story. My lines, my scars, my body with its square-like structure and flat little chest.... those are the chapters to my story. And sometimes I feel like it's barely begun to unfold, you know? And that makes me smile.
Sure, I'm unhappy with a few parts here and there. I desperately need a haircut, but I haven't had time. I probably need to rest more instead of trying to do too much. My posture could be better. Seems like yesterday that I was 25 and didn't give a shit about anything and everything, thinking that I had millions of years left on this planet. And here I am, with a birthday looming and parts of me creaking.
But the thing is, after I saw my reflection, I actually saw what I looked like. You know that fairy tale where the boy wants to find the magic mirror that lets him see himself as others see him? That's what I feel like I saw today. I indulged in a moment of complete agreement with the usually opposing sides. Nothing seemed out of place. Everything seemed to fit. I made sense to myself.
Sure, I liked who I was when I was 25, but I love who I've become, so many years later.
Monday 20 September 2010
Driving me insane
We were away for a much-needed break. Which flies defiantly in the face of my previous post, thinking I didn't need one. But oh man did I.
My parents, being now retired, are looking to travel more, so we met them at a rented villa in the mountains. With a pool. It was bliss (well, for me anyway. My poor other half was glued to his laptop or phone for his business the entire time. But hey, at least we managed to see eachother poolside now and again.).
Bliss, however, only began after the first couple days. Why? A hilarious (yes, I'm kidding) turn of events that was a result of the common illness "IKnowHowToGetThereandDon'tNeedInstructions-Itis". What's even more surprising is that I wasn't the one driving.
Oh yes, audience, this was HIS mistake.
[sits down with a bowl of popcorn and begins the story]
We landed at 12pm. We got the rental car. We were already prepared that the villa was about 3 hours away. I was armed with snacks for all of us, I had toys and books for the 10 month old little person in the back. All was good. We got in the car at 1pm, preparing to drive.
Me: "The villa pack says not to use the GPS because it'll take us a really weird way, and to use the main roads/highway signs."
Him: "Nah, we rented a GPS, we'll use it. What's the address of the house?"
Me: "We don't have it, but we have the area, so it says to drive to the area, and then use the villa pack to get to the actual house."
Him: "Too complicated. We'll use the GPS. I'll just put in the town name."
Me: "Umm... what if there are 10 towns of the same name?"
Him: "Nah, we'll be fine."
Me: "Okay." [silently prays for some other-worldly guidance]
Three and a half hours later... 4:30pm...
Him: "Uh, I'm going to pull over for a sec."
Me: "Oh my god. What? Why? Are we lost?"
Him: "Just let me check... Umm.... okay, here's the thing..."
[I get out of the car and slam the door]
Me: "Are you f*cking kidding me?! We're lost? How far? Are you kidding? We have a whining baby in the back strapped into an uncomfortable chair, we're in the middle of nowhere... how did this happen?!?"
Him: "We went in the wrong direction. Towards the Alps, to be exact. I put in the wrong town in the GPS. We have to drive back the same way. I'm so sorry. We'll probably get there closer to 8pm now."
Me: "Right. GPS. Yeah. I remember that one. Fine. We'll just have to stop at some petrol stations along the way to give the little one a break and feed her dinner."
...8:30pm...
Him: "Ummm....."
Me: "Don't. Even. Begin."
Him: "I know, I know. It's just that navigating these winding roads tired and stressed is doing my head in. I have to pull over and look at the map again."
[baby starts whining in the backseat, bored and tired]
Me: *&&&^£%"%^&&!!!!?"*£"*^% You *(&"£&^"% ridiculous (&*"*£"&%^ Why don't we just get a hotel room somewhere and forget it and continue tomorrow."
Him: "Where do you see anything open now, in the hills? I think we should just do it. We can make it. We just have to keep navigating these roads, but at least we're going in the right direction."
Me: [teeth gritted] Fine. Just. Keep. F*cking. Driving.
Him: "I'm so sorry. Please please say something positive, even though you're angry."
Me: [death stare]
12 hours later...1 am....
[pulls into drive of house]
Him: "We're finally..."
Me: "I'm going to bed. Don't even think about talking to me right now."
[end scene]
My parents, being now retired, are looking to travel more, so we met them at a rented villa in the mountains. With a pool. It was bliss (well, for me anyway. My poor other half was glued to his laptop or phone for his business the entire time. But hey, at least we managed to see eachother poolside now and again.).
Bliss, however, only began after the first couple days. Why? A hilarious (yes, I'm kidding) turn of events that was a result of the common illness "IKnowHowToGetThereandDon'tNeedInstructions-Itis". What's even more surprising is that I wasn't the one driving.
Oh yes, audience, this was HIS mistake.
[sits down with a bowl of popcorn and begins the story]
We landed at 12pm. We got the rental car. We were already prepared that the villa was about 3 hours away. I was armed with snacks for all of us, I had toys and books for the 10 month old little person in the back. All was good. We got in the car at 1pm, preparing to drive.
Me: "The villa pack says not to use the GPS because it'll take us a really weird way, and to use the main roads/highway signs."
Him: "Nah, we rented a GPS, we'll use it. What's the address of the house?"
Me: "We don't have it, but we have the area, so it says to drive to the area, and then use the villa pack to get to the actual house."
Him: "Too complicated. We'll use the GPS. I'll just put in the town name."
Me: "Umm... what if there are 10 towns of the same name?"
Him: "Nah, we'll be fine."
Me: "Okay." [silently prays for some other-worldly guidance]
Three and a half hours later... 4:30pm...
Him: "Uh, I'm going to pull over for a sec."
Me: "Oh my god. What? Why? Are we lost?"
Him: "Just let me check... Umm.... okay, here's the thing..."
[I get out of the car and slam the door]
Me: "Are you f*cking kidding me?! We're lost? How far? Are you kidding? We have a whining baby in the back strapped into an uncomfortable chair, we're in the middle of nowhere... how did this happen?!?"
Him: "We went in the wrong direction. Towards the Alps, to be exact. I put in the wrong town in the GPS. We have to drive back the same way. I'm so sorry. We'll probably get there closer to 8pm now."
Me: "Right. GPS. Yeah. I remember that one. Fine. We'll just have to stop at some petrol stations along the way to give the little one a break and feed her dinner."
...8:30pm...
Him: "Ummm....."
Me: "Don't. Even. Begin."
Him: "I know, I know. It's just that navigating these winding roads tired and stressed is doing my head in. I have to pull over and look at the map again."
[baby starts whining in the backseat, bored and tired]
Me: *&&&^£%"%^&&!!!!?"*£"*^% You *(&"£&^"% ridiculous (&*"*£"&%^ Why don't we just get a hotel room somewhere and forget it and continue tomorrow."
Him: "Where do you see anything open now, in the hills? I think we should just do it. We can make it. We just have to keep navigating these roads, but at least we're going in the right direction."
Me: [teeth gritted] Fine. Just. Keep. F*cking. Driving.
Him: "I'm so sorry. Please please say something positive, even though you're angry."
Me: [death stare]
12 hours later...1 am....
[pulls into drive of house]
Him: "We're finally..."
Me: "I'm going to bed. Don't even think about talking to me right now."
[end scene]
Sunday 29 August 2010
Friday 27 August 2010
A new perspective. Fresh steps.
I've changed the way my blog looks. Why? Well, I found this background and it reminded me of the road we travel on our way to our sailboat on the coast. I like it. It reminds me to breathe, and escape the city in my mind for a bit.
And it's fitting in a way, to have a picture of a path in front of me, because my baby, my just-a few days over-10-months baby, took two independent steps toward me.
I was showing her how to dance, to a song on the radio, and she smiled at me, grabbed a lime-green maraca, and took her first steps. To me. To reach me. And the look on her face (from what I saw through my proud tears) was priceless. It was confident. Pleased with herself. I wanted to hold her and help her along, I wanted to reach out to her and touch her delicate outstretched fingers with my own, but she had a look on her face that said "no, Mamo. I can do it. Let me show you."
I know it sounds terribly cliche, but as I watched her, two very contradictory things happened. My heart stretched and expanded with immense pride and love, and my lungs deflated, as if someone had taken my breath out of me. I couldn't breathe. I didn't want to. Didn't want to make a sound. I just watched her, and felt my heart pounding in the back of my throat, the noise distracting as I focused on this little girl with her incredibly long legs tentatively walking towards me.
This moment, although precious and a tiny bit surreal, came almost before I was ready for it. Is it possible that my baby is almost walking? Is this the same little alien that I brought home from the hospital not so long ago? Have I become the mum that jumps to peek at her every time she does something remotely interesting or even mundane?
Yes, my heart tells me. With an indulgent, drawn-out delicious Yesssssss, as if to encourage me.. to remind me... to look up, close my eyes, spread my arms wide, and let myself fall backward into the kind of love (and fear) that exists only in storybooks.
And my eyes start to fill again.
And I remember to breathe.
And it's fitting in a way, to have a picture of a path in front of me, because my baby, my just-a few days over-10-months baby, took two independent steps toward me.
I was showing her how to dance, to a song on the radio, and she smiled at me, grabbed a lime-green maraca, and took her first steps. To me. To reach me. And the look on her face (from what I saw through my proud tears) was priceless. It was confident. Pleased with herself. I wanted to hold her and help her along, I wanted to reach out to her and touch her delicate outstretched fingers with my own, but she had a look on her face that said "no, Mamo. I can do it. Let me show you."
I know it sounds terribly cliche, but as I watched her, two very contradictory things happened. My heart stretched and expanded with immense pride and love, and my lungs deflated, as if someone had taken my breath out of me. I couldn't breathe. I didn't want to. Didn't want to make a sound. I just watched her, and felt my heart pounding in the back of my throat, the noise distracting as I focused on this little girl with her incredibly long legs tentatively walking towards me.
This moment, although precious and a tiny bit surreal, came almost before I was ready for it. Is it possible that my baby is almost walking? Is this the same little alien that I brought home from the hospital not so long ago? Have I become the mum that jumps to peek at her every time she does something remotely interesting or even mundane?
Yes, my heart tells me. With an indulgent, drawn-out delicious Yesssssss, as if to encourage me.. to remind me... to look up, close my eyes, spread my arms wide, and let myself fall backward into the kind of love (and fear) that exists only in storybooks.
And my eyes start to fill again.
And I remember to breathe.
Thursday 5 August 2010
Break shmeak. Of course I can do it all. (cue pie in the face)
I'm working 4 days now.
It's nice, in the fact that I can grab us some more money (well, some of it anyway, 98.9% of it goes to the nanny ).
It's also nice to come home and be greeted by giggles and claps and smiles and "mumm..mum..mum..." ( I assume that's her name for me, but I can't be quite sure, as she also says the same thing to her stuffed monkey.)
It can be hard at times, though, and like every working mum out there, I have moments of guilt. I have moments where I skip out the door happy to start my day, strutting (yes, strutting) down the sunlit streets of Soho, wearing all my old pre-pregnancy clothes. Then I come home, and when I do the bath and put her to bed, she nuzzles my neck as she falls asleep, talking in her gibberish baby-talk, and my heart breaks into pieces. Partly from happiness for having such a beautiful family, partly from the fear that she's growing up so fast and that I've already missed her learning how to clap properly and hold a bottle on her own.
What's also hard is that I'm missing my other half. My mister. The irony is that we work 3 blocks away from each other, but have never met for lunch or coffee. He and I have been like passing ships, which is alternately great (because business is good), and at times lonely (because a spouse working 14-hour days 5 days a week takes its toll on any couple). We tend to forget the little things, like stolen kisses and hugs that used to be the norm. We pack everything in on the weekends, divvying up baby duty between each other, trying to go sailing, seeing friends, finishing the weekend exhausted in bed with only enough energy left to shut off the bedside lamp.
With a baby and a tough work schedule, we sometimes have nothing left. Which is perversely gratifying sometimes, because we feel like we're really working towards something, and life is never boring. But sometimes the perverse tips the scales and leans over into the ridiculous, so it's a very delicate balance to try and preserve. My default setting is pointing things out and talking about them ad nauseum, which can be draining. He is the complete opposite sometimes, and just wants to get on with it and get going and not dwell on the little things. Both are valid solutions, but both have their time and place. Like I said... balance. It's tricky.
I'd like to slow-dance, just him and me. I'd like to meet him for a drink and steal an hour for ourselves. I'd like to feel his hand on the small of my back as we walk down the street. I'd like a long, lingering kiss.
But for now, I just have to keep looking up. And remembering to give myself time to breathe. Because if I do it, the idea just might catch on at home, too.
It's nice, in the fact that I can grab us some more money (well, some of it anyway, 98.9% of it goes to the nanny ).
It's also nice to come home and be greeted by giggles and claps and smiles and "mumm..mum..mum..." ( I assume that's her name for me, but I can't be quite sure, as she also says the same thing to her stuffed monkey.)
It can be hard at times, though, and like every working mum out there, I have moments of guilt. I have moments where I skip out the door happy to start my day, strutting (yes, strutting) down the sunlit streets of Soho, wearing all my old pre-pregnancy clothes. Then I come home, and when I do the bath and put her to bed, she nuzzles my neck as she falls asleep, talking in her gibberish baby-talk, and my heart breaks into pieces. Partly from happiness for having such a beautiful family, partly from the fear that she's growing up so fast and that I've already missed her learning how to clap properly and hold a bottle on her own.
What's also hard is that I'm missing my other half. My mister. The irony is that we work 3 blocks away from each other, but have never met for lunch or coffee. He and I have been like passing ships, which is alternately great (because business is good), and at times lonely (because a spouse working 14-hour days 5 days a week takes its toll on any couple). We tend to forget the little things, like stolen kisses and hugs that used to be the norm. We pack everything in on the weekends, divvying up baby duty between each other, trying to go sailing, seeing friends, finishing the weekend exhausted in bed with only enough energy left to shut off the bedside lamp.
With a baby and a tough work schedule, we sometimes have nothing left. Which is perversely gratifying sometimes, because we feel like we're really working towards something, and life is never boring. But sometimes the perverse tips the scales and leans over into the ridiculous, so it's a very delicate balance to try and preserve. My default setting is pointing things out and talking about them ad nauseum, which can be draining. He is the complete opposite sometimes, and just wants to get on with it and get going and not dwell on the little things. Both are valid solutions, but both have their time and place. Like I said... balance. It's tricky.
I'd like to slow-dance, just him and me. I'd like to meet him for a drink and steal an hour for ourselves. I'd like to feel his hand on the small of my back as we walk down the street. I'd like a long, lingering kiss.
But for now, I just have to keep looking up. And remembering to give myself time to breathe. Because if I do it, the idea just might catch on at home, too.
Monday 12 July 2010
Open letter to a "friend".
I have a friend. She's quite intelligent, rather nice looking, is a mum. I've known her for a while now. My one issue with her?
She never reaches out to me. Never gets in contact.
We were close friends for a while. And when I told her I was pregnant last year, she seemed pretty casual about it (that's fine, not everyone is gooey about kids), and when I tried to make plans to see her, she would only agree to meet me for a quick walk in the park with her son because he had playgroups to go to. Okay, so I tried to make it lunch instead, figuring the kid eats at some point, right? Strike two. Apparently, she said that he doesn't do well in restaurants, and a 2-year old shouldn't be "expected" to behave in a restaurant anyway. Eh?? what the fuck?
So I finally found some self-respect and left it up to her to contact me. I've begged girlfriends to be my friend my whole life, it seems. I'm always the one reaching out. I'm always the one checking in. I'm always the one rearranging my time. Sorry, but I'm not 20 anymore, and I don't like being taken for granted. If you want to be my friend, you have to do the legwork too sometimes.
So, the other day she calls me. After a year of not reaching out. And basically told me that she's having personal problems and that she doesn't know why we haven't gotten together. I was genuinely pleased to talk to her again, and told her that it doesn't matter what happened in the past. What matters is that we're in touch again. And I asked her to email me to give me some dates that work for her, and that I would arrange babysitting to see her and catch up, just the both of us, one-on-one. I even emailed her to make sure she had my correct address.
Guess how long ago that was? A month ago.
Complete radio silence. Though curiously enough, she does update her Facebook status every damn day, so I don't think she missed my email.
Do me a favour.. if you want to be friends, let me know. Otherwise, don't keep yanking my chain and make me feel like a needy chick. That shouldn't be too much to ask.
*steps off her Ideal World soapbox*
She never reaches out to me. Never gets in contact.
We were close friends for a while. And when I told her I was pregnant last year, she seemed pretty casual about it (that's fine, not everyone is gooey about kids), and when I tried to make plans to see her, she would only agree to meet me for a quick walk in the park with her son because he had playgroups to go to. Okay, so I tried to make it lunch instead, figuring the kid eats at some point, right? Strike two. Apparently, she said that he doesn't do well in restaurants, and a 2-year old shouldn't be "expected" to behave in a restaurant anyway. Eh?? what the fuck?
So I finally found some self-respect and left it up to her to contact me. I've begged girlfriends to be my friend my whole life, it seems. I'm always the one reaching out. I'm always the one checking in. I'm always the one rearranging my time. Sorry, but I'm not 20 anymore, and I don't like being taken for granted. If you want to be my friend, you have to do the legwork too sometimes.
So, the other day she calls me. After a year of not reaching out. And basically told me that she's having personal problems and that she doesn't know why we haven't gotten together. I was genuinely pleased to talk to her again, and told her that it doesn't matter what happened in the past. What matters is that we're in touch again. And I asked her to email me to give me some dates that work for her, and that I would arrange babysitting to see her and catch up, just the both of us, one-on-one. I even emailed her to make sure she had my correct address.
Guess how long ago that was? A month ago.
Complete radio silence. Though curiously enough, she does update her Facebook status every damn day, so I don't think she missed my email.
Do me a favour.. if you want to be friends, let me know. Otherwise, don't keep yanking my chain and make me feel like a needy chick. That shouldn't be too much to ask.
*steps off her Ideal World soapbox*
Saturday 22 May 2010
Change is good. Even if it's only hair.
After years of sticking to the same old (light brown hair, caramel highlights), and going through a pregnancy where my hair totally changed colour (got so dark that I felt like Elvira), and after months of debate and trying to find the cheapest colourist I could that was still good enough (if I actually define the word "cheap" in London terms, it is still insanely expensive. Oh well)...
I did it.
Maybe it's not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, and yes it's a little bit vain... but I don't really do anything for me anymore. I work to be able to save the money and put it into the house, or the boat, or the nanny, or spend it on things for the little one. But today was the day I indulged for a few hours. So I went red. Different. More provocative. And dare I say I got some once-overs by some young men on the train. *blush*
It's nice to do something just. for. me.
I did it.
Maybe it's not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, and yes it's a little bit vain... but I don't really do anything for me anymore. I work to be able to save the money and put it into the house, or the boat, or the nanny, or spend it on things for the little one. But today was the day I indulged for a few hours. So I went red. Different. More provocative. And dare I say I got some once-overs by some young men on the train. *blush*
It's nice to do something just. for. me.
Friday 21 May 2010
Forget Chinese New Year. Apparently, 2010 is the Year of The Cheater.
I don't know what's in the air, or in the water, but there's obviously something itching in someone's pants.
Everywhere I look, the front page news (both here and over in the US) is heralding the death of another relationship. Some of them only a handful of years old, some of them 25-plus. Some of them split up for "amicable reasons", some of them admit to having affairs. Doesn't matter how long or short, it seems that no one has any need to work at anything anymore.
Yes, I sound judgmental and old-fashioned. I don't profess to know anyone's story, anyone's baggage, anyone's circumstances. But, as this blog is from my point of view, I'd like to share my two cents.
So, here's the question I have: How did we get to a point where people call it quits when the going gets tough? Or the partnership gets boring? Or stale? Or you want to upgrade to a younger model?
It's not just about marriage. It's being with someone long enough that you've gone through some major stuff together. You've been a witness to another person's triumphs, failings and bleakest moments. You've planned adventures. Shared dreams. Supported ideas that you weren't too sure about (but you did anyway). You made each other laugh. You kissed each other goodnight. You smiled that secret smile that only the other knew.
So what makes you give all that up? What makes you get bored to the point where you kiss someone else or make someone else laugh? Or just want to leave?
I don't get it.
"Well, we just drifted apart.."
"He/she worked long hours, and I got bored. I needed attention."
"We just became different people."
"I have no idea why. I just did. And now I regret it. "
"I was tempted. I'm only human."
Bullshit. There's always a way to make something right, make something better.
I don't think there's any earthly reason to rip someones heart out like that. Have some cojones. If you really think there's nothing worth saving in so many years spent with someone, then suck it up and tell it like it is. Say it. Talk about it. Be honest, before you start being polite to each other and start looking elsewhere for help.
The hard part is working at it. We're all human, we all get tempted, we all get bored, we all get annoyed at the other person for little things. It's normal. But do you risk losing the promise that you made to someone just because you wanted 5 minutes to alleviate your boredom? Mmm... yeeahhh. Not buying it.
Why do I get so angry at stuff like this? Well, because I was that person.
In a nutshell? I was in a very serious relationship before I met the mister. It was long-term. For keeps. We made promises to each other that we probably shouldn't have. Or, more accurately, I shouldn't have.
We were together past the point of needing to be together. But I stayed because I thought "well, that's what you do. You stick around. It's the natural progression. He's the guy, right?" It was terrible of me to be so ambivalent, because that was the death of us. And that was the death of me for a long time. And I behaved quite badly. Emotionally, I tore us apart. Flattened us. Destroyed any trust and good will. And the whole time, I knew when it was time to say "enough". I knew what I needed to say. But I didn't. I decided to be polite, and while I smiled at him, I did things behind his back as an act of self-destruction. It was a horrible point in my life, but I don't regret it, because I came out of it with a crystallized awareness of who I am and what I wanted.
So, this is why, in a small way, I might have a small insight into the "reasons" that these people are giving as to why they cheated. And I still say it's all bullshit. If you really can't be bothered to work at a relationship, then you probably weren't meant to be with that person anyway. Please, just say it. Say the words that you most fear. I promise you, it will be much less painful than anything else you were planning on doing.
Give it a shot. Have some patience. Be nice to eachother. Find the love.
Everywhere I look, the front page news (both here and over in the US) is heralding the death of another relationship. Some of them only a handful of years old, some of them 25-plus. Some of them split up for "amicable reasons", some of them admit to having affairs. Doesn't matter how long or short, it seems that no one has any need to work at anything anymore.
Yes, I sound judgmental and old-fashioned. I don't profess to know anyone's story, anyone's baggage, anyone's circumstances. But, as this blog is from my point of view, I'd like to share my two cents.
So, here's the question I have: How did we get to a point where people call it quits when the going gets tough? Or the partnership gets boring? Or stale? Or you want to upgrade to a younger model?
It's not just about marriage. It's being with someone long enough that you've gone through some major stuff together. You've been a witness to another person's triumphs, failings and bleakest moments. You've planned adventures. Shared dreams. Supported ideas that you weren't too sure about (but you did anyway). You made each other laugh. You kissed each other goodnight. You smiled that secret smile that only the other knew.
So what makes you give all that up? What makes you get bored to the point where you kiss someone else or make someone else laugh? Or just want to leave?
I don't get it.
"Well, we just drifted apart.."
"He/she worked long hours, and I got bored. I needed attention."
"We just became different people."
"I have no idea why. I just did. And now I regret it. "
"I was tempted. I'm only human."
Bullshit. There's always a way to make something right, make something better.
I don't think there's any earthly reason to rip someones heart out like that. Have some cojones. If you really think there's nothing worth saving in so many years spent with someone, then suck it up and tell it like it is. Say it. Talk about it. Be honest, before you start being polite to each other and start looking elsewhere for help.
The hard part is working at it. We're all human, we all get tempted, we all get bored, we all get annoyed at the other person for little things. It's normal. But do you risk losing the promise that you made to someone just because you wanted 5 minutes to alleviate your boredom? Mmm... yeeahhh. Not buying it.
Why do I get so angry at stuff like this? Well, because I was that person.
In a nutshell? I was in a very serious relationship before I met the mister. It was long-term. For keeps. We made promises to each other that we probably shouldn't have. Or, more accurately, I shouldn't have.
We were together past the point of needing to be together. But I stayed because I thought "well, that's what you do. You stick around. It's the natural progression. He's the guy, right?" It was terrible of me to be so ambivalent, because that was the death of us. And that was the death of me for a long time. And I behaved quite badly. Emotionally, I tore us apart. Flattened us. Destroyed any trust and good will. And the whole time, I knew when it was time to say "enough". I knew what I needed to say. But I didn't. I decided to be polite, and while I smiled at him, I did things behind his back as an act of self-destruction. It was a horrible point in my life, but I don't regret it, because I came out of it with a crystallized awareness of who I am and what I wanted.
So, this is why, in a small way, I might have a small insight into the "reasons" that these people are giving as to why they cheated. And I still say it's all bullshit. If you really can't be bothered to work at a relationship, then you probably weren't meant to be with that person anyway. Please, just say it. Say the words that you most fear. I promise you, it will be much less painful than anything else you were planning on doing.
Give it a shot. Have some patience. Be nice to eachother. Find the love.
Tuesday 11 May 2010
I think I can I think I can...
Sometimes I don't know if I'll manage to dig up that last little bit of push in order to keep my head above water. The task list seems endless. I'm just about to drown. My eyebrows sink under the surface.
Dishes.
3 loads of laundry.
Bathtime.
Grocery shopping.
Park playdate.
Music class.
Naptime (ideally, for both of us. But who am I kidding...)
Work projects.
Deadlines.
Balancing our accounts.
Cooking dinner.
Making and freezing babyfood.
And with very little sleep, it makes things even more jarring, even more intimidating.
Case in point: My day today.
My lovely other half, whom I love to pieces, thinks he's invincible. Whilst that's a lovely quality to have, it results in very long and drawn-out colds and coughs and illnesses. Which he doesn't help by smoking the occasional cigarette. But, I digress.
Last night, he woke me up when he got into bed at 2am from a long night at the office (I do like when he does this, because I like seeing his face before I drop off back to sleep). However, he wakes me up with his coughing at 4:30am. Which results in me not being able to get back to sleep. Not pleasant.
Then, our little lady decides to get the party started at 5:30am. Not hungry, not upset, just wakes up screeching with joy at starting her day and wanting to see us. Beautiful in retrospect, but at that moment, it was the vocal equivalent of a chainsaw.
I try and feed her in bed, but she keeps tapping on daddy's shoulder, screeching for his attention. He gave me a look like "oh, please, can I just get a few hours' sleep before I get up for work again?" Okay, fair enough. I feed her in her room, and then we start our day with games and music downstairs in the living room. Me in rat's-nest hair and boxer shorts, her in her little t-shirt and nappy. With such a grin on her face, I swear, she's oblivious to the fact that I'm in a terrible mood.
He comes downstairs a couple hours later.
"Hey, you ok?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Sorry I kept you up."
"Mm-hmm."
"Maybe try and rest today. Nap when she naps."
(Death stare.)
We went about our respective days, just getting on with things, he left for work, I had errands to run, parks to go to, groceries to buy, calls to make.
I could've started our morning with a snide comment or a martyr-ish comment about how I'm so tired and how I do so much. But I didn't. It's taken me a long time to learn, but I think I'm finally realising that the instant gratification of venting (although cathartic for about 2 seconds) ultimately ruins a moment, ruins a day, keeps you on separate teams. It's much better to find that little voice that whispers: hey, you both have a lot going on. Focus on the positive stuff, and everything else will fall into place.
Tonight, whilst my mister works damn hard at his job for all of us, I ended my day with a little girl, having had her warm milk, asleep on my shoulder, a velvety-soft hand clutching my arm. Her breathing deep and regular, her breath smelling sweet.
I realised that I did have it in me. I did have the strength to put all the pieces together without drowning. I did have the patience to let her know that no matter what, she would always see me smiling and covering her with kisses. I felt so proud that I could give her what she needed, and also be the woman and wife that I wanted to be.
I thought I could.
And today, I did.
Dishes.
3 loads of laundry.
Bathtime.
Grocery shopping.
Park playdate.
Music class.
Naptime (ideally, for both of us. But who am I kidding...)
Work projects.
Deadlines.
Balancing our accounts.
Cooking dinner.
Making and freezing babyfood.
And with very little sleep, it makes things even more jarring, even more intimidating.
Case in point: My day today.
My lovely other half, whom I love to pieces, thinks he's invincible. Whilst that's a lovely quality to have, it results in very long and drawn-out colds and coughs and illnesses. Which he doesn't help by smoking the occasional cigarette. But, I digress.
Last night, he woke me up when he got into bed at 2am from a long night at the office (I do like when he does this, because I like seeing his face before I drop off back to sleep). However, he wakes me up with his coughing at 4:30am. Which results in me not being able to get back to sleep. Not pleasant.
Then, our little lady decides to get the party started at 5:30am. Not hungry, not upset, just wakes up screeching with joy at starting her day and wanting to see us. Beautiful in retrospect, but at that moment, it was the vocal equivalent of a chainsaw.
I try and feed her in bed, but she keeps tapping on daddy's shoulder, screeching for his attention. He gave me a look like "oh, please, can I just get a few hours' sleep before I get up for work again?" Okay, fair enough. I feed her in her room, and then we start our day with games and music downstairs in the living room. Me in rat's-nest hair and boxer shorts, her in her little t-shirt and nappy. With such a grin on her face, I swear, she's oblivious to the fact that I'm in a terrible mood.
He comes downstairs a couple hours later.
"Hey, you ok?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Sorry I kept you up."
"Mm-hmm."
"Maybe try and rest today. Nap when she naps."
(Death stare.)
We went about our respective days, just getting on with things, he left for work, I had errands to run, parks to go to, groceries to buy, calls to make.
I could've started our morning with a snide comment or a martyr-ish comment about how I'm so tired and how I do so much. But I didn't. It's taken me a long time to learn, but I think I'm finally realising that the instant gratification of venting (although cathartic for about 2 seconds) ultimately ruins a moment, ruins a day, keeps you on separate teams. It's much better to find that little voice that whispers: hey, you both have a lot going on. Focus on the positive stuff, and everything else will fall into place.
Tonight, whilst my mister works damn hard at his job for all of us, I ended my day with a little girl, having had her warm milk, asleep on my shoulder, a velvety-soft hand clutching my arm. Her breathing deep and regular, her breath smelling sweet.
I realised that I did have it in me. I did have the strength to put all the pieces together without drowning. I did have the patience to let her know that no matter what, she would always see me smiling and covering her with kisses. I felt so proud that I could give her what she needed, and also be the woman and wife that I wanted to be.
I thought I could.
And today, I did.
Friday 30 April 2010
I'm a hypocrite.
A beautiful friend of mine wrote about patience the other day.
Patience.
I told her that it's better to focus on the amazing things she's actually getting done than to lament that there isn't enough that she's getting accomplished.
Do I believe that? Absolutely, 100% yes.
Do I do that for myself, and practice what I preach? No. 100%, unequivocally no.
I'm not a patient person, yet I offer advice and help friends that come to me when they're hanging at the end of their frayed rope and don't know what to do. I tell them to be kind to themselves, to be patient and focus on the beautiful little achievements that they do rather than the larger projects that tend to overwhelm them and make them feel like they've failed.
People like me tend not to listen to themselves, I'm realising.
At best, I'm a happy-go-lucky, funny person who is a loyal, affectionate woman with a generous and pure spirit. At worst, I'm a glass-half-empty impatient worry wart, who tends to focus on the little things that are going wrong and that can't be fixed immediately.
When I have the "mean reds" ala Holly Golightly, I don't go to Tiffany's (though that might be a nice idea actually..), I feel stagnant and helpless. Incapable of doing anything for anyone. I feel transparent and angry that no one seems to give me a break, resentful that I work so hard to make sure everyone is happy. I feel like I give and give until I have very little for myself, and no one seems to give back, so I run on empty and have to build myself up again. If I ask for more, I come across as demanding. If I don't say anything at all, I'm seen as distant and closed off.
I'm impatient for the rewards of my hard work, but that's 100% my fault. If I actually just focus on the doing of everything and satisfy my own personal best, then everything else will fall into place. I know that. But I see the proverbial carrot in front of me, and instead of focusing on what I need to accomplish my goal, I focus on making sure that I've pleased everyone that's watching from the sidelines and make sure they're proud. I want to make sure they know how hard I've worked, and to give me credit.
It's a bit sadomasochistic.
When I look inward, I don't see the woman I've become, I don't see the smile lines that accent my green eyes like happy apostrophes, I don't see the lean body that has bounced back from pregnancy, or the long piano-playing fingers that my daughter watches flitting across the keys in admiration.
I see an exhausted girl with too many wrinkles around her bloodshot eyes, legs that should be shaved more often and sun spots on my hands.
I wait impatiently for someone to notice me, rather than taking the initiative and looking in the mirror and smiling back proudly. I wait for someone to say hey, you're pretty amazing, you know that?
I haven't learned how to ask for things that I need, like more affection, or more help or "couple-time" yet. I don't know how to ask for things without feeling guilty for asking for them. Every time I want to speak up, my guilt answers back and my mouth stays firmly shut.
I need more kisses, I need to connect more. But the baby is the priority, we need to make sure she gets all of our kisses and cuddles right now.
I need more time with you, we need to try and make time for each other. But we do make time, it's just much more infrequent right now, so appreciate what you do have and stop moaning about what you don't have.
Do you ever read my blog? Aren't you proud of me? Of course he is, but don't put him on the spot, let him discover it for himself.
I don't feel like I'm good enough, and I need reassurance that I'm doing a good job. That's your problem, and you're the one that needs to get a grip and get on with things. Stop relying on other people to help you. You can do it yourself.
If I actually stopped and saw myself as others see me, I would be much more forgiving. I would probably be amazed at how things would nicely slot into place if I give them a chance to, organically.
But I don't let it happen. I get impatient, and I push and push for results, because I fear that things won't happen the way I need them to, the way I crave them to, to make me satisfied.
So, I'm working on following my own advice. Patience. Being kinder to myself.
It won't be easy, but nothing worth it ever is.
Patience.
I told her that it's better to focus on the amazing things she's actually getting done than to lament that there isn't enough that she's getting accomplished.
Do I believe that? Absolutely, 100% yes.
Do I do that for myself, and practice what I preach? No. 100%, unequivocally no.
I'm not a patient person, yet I offer advice and help friends that come to me when they're hanging at the end of their frayed rope and don't know what to do. I tell them to be kind to themselves, to be patient and focus on the beautiful little achievements that they do rather than the larger projects that tend to overwhelm them and make them feel like they've failed.
People like me tend not to listen to themselves, I'm realising.
At best, I'm a happy-go-lucky, funny person who is a loyal, affectionate woman with a generous and pure spirit. At worst, I'm a glass-half-empty impatient worry wart, who tends to focus on the little things that are going wrong and that can't be fixed immediately.
When I have the "mean reds" ala Holly Golightly, I don't go to Tiffany's (though that might be a nice idea actually..), I feel stagnant and helpless. Incapable of doing anything for anyone. I feel transparent and angry that no one seems to give me a break, resentful that I work so hard to make sure everyone is happy. I feel like I give and give until I have very little for myself, and no one seems to give back, so I run on empty and have to build myself up again. If I ask for more, I come across as demanding. If I don't say anything at all, I'm seen as distant and closed off.
I'm impatient for the rewards of my hard work, but that's 100% my fault. If I actually just focus on the doing of everything and satisfy my own personal best, then everything else will fall into place. I know that. But I see the proverbial carrot in front of me, and instead of focusing on what I need to accomplish my goal, I focus on making sure that I've pleased everyone that's watching from the sidelines and make sure they're proud. I want to make sure they know how hard I've worked, and to give me credit.
It's a bit sadomasochistic.
When I look inward, I don't see the woman I've become, I don't see the smile lines that accent my green eyes like happy apostrophes, I don't see the lean body that has bounced back from pregnancy, or the long piano-playing fingers that my daughter watches flitting across the keys in admiration.
I see an exhausted girl with too many wrinkles around her bloodshot eyes, legs that should be shaved more often and sun spots on my hands.
I wait impatiently for someone to notice me, rather than taking the initiative and looking in the mirror and smiling back proudly. I wait for someone to say hey, you're pretty amazing, you know that?
I haven't learned how to ask for things that I need, like more affection, or more help or "couple-time" yet. I don't know how to ask for things without feeling guilty for asking for them. Every time I want to speak up, my guilt answers back and my mouth stays firmly shut.
I need more kisses, I need to connect more. But the baby is the priority, we need to make sure she gets all of our kisses and cuddles right now.
I need more time with you, we need to try and make time for each other. But we do make time, it's just much more infrequent right now, so appreciate what you do have and stop moaning about what you don't have.
Do you ever read my blog? Aren't you proud of me? Of course he is, but don't put him on the spot, let him discover it for himself.
I don't feel like I'm good enough, and I need reassurance that I'm doing a good job. That's your problem, and you're the one that needs to get a grip and get on with things. Stop relying on other people to help you. You can do it yourself.
If I actually stopped and saw myself as others see me, I would be much more forgiving. I would probably be amazed at how things would nicely slot into place if I give them a chance to, organically.
But I don't let it happen. I get impatient, and I push and push for results, because I fear that things won't happen the way I need them to, the way I crave them to, to make me satisfied.
So, I'm working on following my own advice. Patience. Being kinder to myself.
It won't be easy, but nothing worth it ever is.
Tuesday 20 April 2010
Words.
I struggle to find a title to this post, because I don't know how best to convey how powerful just one word can be.
"Stupid little brat."
Those words echoed in the packed train car, more so because it was rush-hour, and people didn't know how to react, where to look, so we all just dug our noses into our free newspapers.
"Oh, just fucking shut up.. we're almost home already."
I watched as the young mum pushed her tired 6-year old to the side, genuinely frustrated that he was acting.. well..like a normal kid. His sister sat in the pram, looking like a 2-year old that's already had a bit of a rough life. The girl reached out to touch the hand of a passenger that stood close to her, wanting to play.
"No, I said no, fucking brat. Leave that lady alone. "
The passenger nodded at the girl telling her that it was okay to play. It was okay to reach out. But the girl seemed confused that someone was being nice to her.
The girl then turned to me. I was standing next to this little family, holding onto the pole in the middle of the car, with my newspaper hanging loosely in my other hand. She reached for my paper, gingerly touching it and then looking at me for approval, to see if it was okay to touch.
"No, I said NO. I said to fucking leave those people alone!"
This is where I reached my threshold. My eyes were burning from trying to hold back tears, and I was clenching my fists to suppress my anger at this woman. So looking directly at her, I said:
"Hey, she's just a baby. Give her a break, okay?"
The mother briefly looked at me, shrugged and then looked away, blandly ignoring her kids.
The 2-year old kept looking at me, and now her brother became interested, gingerly commenting that he liked the photo on the front of the paper. But both of them were wary, like timid animals. They just stared at me, but couldn't figure out how to respond to me. How to accept my encouragement to play a little.
It broke my heart as I left the car and headed home to my own little girl*, wondering what life was like for those kids and unfortunately, imagining the worst.
I don't presume to understand how tough it is for a young mother of two, probably living on benefits. She may be a single mum as well, and maybe has no idea how to figure her life out. She could possibly be at the depths of her frustration, if not a little resentful about being a mum at her age in the first place.
But the only thing I do know, is that no matter how bleak it looks, the words you choose are the words that your kids will use someday. At the end of the day, when they're dreaming, they'll remember those moments. All they really need (all anyone needs, really) is kindness, patience and affection. It's not that easy, but sometimes it really is, you know?
*And gave her extra kisses, knowing how very lucky I am for my little family.
"Stupid little brat."
Those words echoed in the packed train car, more so because it was rush-hour, and people didn't know how to react, where to look, so we all just dug our noses into our free newspapers.
"Oh, just fucking shut up.. we're almost home already."
I watched as the young mum pushed her tired 6-year old to the side, genuinely frustrated that he was acting.. well..like a normal kid. His sister sat in the pram, looking like a 2-year old that's already had a bit of a rough life. The girl reached out to touch the hand of a passenger that stood close to her, wanting to play.
"No, I said no, fucking brat. Leave that lady alone. "
The passenger nodded at the girl telling her that it was okay to play. It was okay to reach out. But the girl seemed confused that someone was being nice to her.
The girl then turned to me. I was standing next to this little family, holding onto the pole in the middle of the car, with my newspaper hanging loosely in my other hand. She reached for my paper, gingerly touching it and then looking at me for approval, to see if it was okay to touch.
"No, I said NO. I said to fucking leave those people alone!"
This is where I reached my threshold. My eyes were burning from trying to hold back tears, and I was clenching my fists to suppress my anger at this woman. So looking directly at her, I said:
"Hey, she's just a baby. Give her a break, okay?"
The mother briefly looked at me, shrugged and then looked away, blandly ignoring her kids.
The 2-year old kept looking at me, and now her brother became interested, gingerly commenting that he liked the photo on the front of the paper. But both of them were wary, like timid animals. They just stared at me, but couldn't figure out how to respond to me. How to accept my encouragement to play a little.
It broke my heart as I left the car and headed home to my own little girl*, wondering what life was like for those kids and unfortunately, imagining the worst.
I don't presume to understand how tough it is for a young mother of two, probably living on benefits. She may be a single mum as well, and maybe has no idea how to figure her life out. She could possibly be at the depths of her frustration, if not a little resentful about being a mum at her age in the first place.
But the only thing I do know, is that no matter how bleak it looks, the words you choose are the words that your kids will use someday. At the end of the day, when they're dreaming, they'll remember those moments. All they really need (all anyone needs, really) is kindness, patience and affection. It's not that easy, but sometimes it really is, you know?
*And gave her extra kisses, knowing how very lucky I am for my little family.
Thursday 15 April 2010
My other self.
That would be the side of me that I try not to focus on. But maybe I should.
She gets lost in the day to day of London life, work, mummying, being a wife, a friend, a lover, a cook, a banker. She exists only when I fall apart.
And I did today (a little bit).
I had a bit of a wobble. A moment of insecurity. Panic. Chicken Little, sky falling in, all that...
And my other self came out in full force and started spiraling into the negative. She took center stage and declared war on everything rational, her eyes wild and determined. Determined to do what? Undermine me, and everyone around me. Dress that up with stage lights and jazz hands, and you have yourself a pretty rockin' musical.
I sometimes wonder why she does that. Why she appears in random silly unimportant moments, after weeks and months of lying dormant. Every time it happens, I see it unfold in slow motion, watching as she makes me lose any power I had in a situation.
Maybe she appears because I force her to be dormant. I don't deal with her, and would rather put her in a corner, neglecting her in a dark recess of my brain. So she probably just gets resentful after a while and wants her say.
My other self is the manifestation of any irrational fear I have, any insecurity that I push down and ignore. And when I ignore her, she comes out with guns blazing, relishing the spotlight. She loves the attention and the release it gives her, irrespective of the damage it may cause.
So maybe I should give her equal say. Maybe I should let her out more often. Maybe I should talk about what I fear.
But I can't, because I feel completely apologetic and ridiculous for having irrational fears to begin with. They span the entire spectrum from the truly crazy (what if I lose my looks and the mister starts flirting with a hot Swedish chick?), to the probably common (what if I'm not a good mother?). I sometimes think that I have more of these than the average person, but then no one ever really discusses theirs, so we could all be in the same boat.
One of my favourite blogs is Post Secret, because it lets people reveal themselves without giving away anything. Genius. Feels like a bit of freedom from that person in your head that keeps you up at night. Or, is it a cop-out? Why not face your fear and just dim the spotlight on the crazy for a moment?
If you've read this far, and don't think I'm crazy, then I'm very grateful (and impressed). I think we all need to let off steam every once in a while anyway. Although I should probably try and learn how to use that energy more constructively...
[End scene. Exit stage left.]
She gets lost in the day to day of London life, work, mummying, being a wife, a friend, a lover, a cook, a banker. She exists only when I fall apart.
And I did today (a little bit).
I had a bit of a wobble. A moment of insecurity. Panic. Chicken Little, sky falling in, all that...
And my other self came out in full force and started spiraling into the negative. She took center stage and declared war on everything rational, her eyes wild and determined. Determined to do what? Undermine me, and everyone around me. Dress that up with stage lights and jazz hands, and you have yourself a pretty rockin' musical.
I sometimes wonder why she does that. Why she appears in random silly unimportant moments, after weeks and months of lying dormant. Every time it happens, I see it unfold in slow motion, watching as she makes me lose any power I had in a situation.
Maybe she appears because I force her to be dormant. I don't deal with her, and would rather put her in a corner, neglecting her in a dark recess of my brain. So she probably just gets resentful after a while and wants her say.
My other self is the manifestation of any irrational fear I have, any insecurity that I push down and ignore. And when I ignore her, she comes out with guns blazing, relishing the spotlight. She loves the attention and the release it gives her, irrespective of the damage it may cause.
So maybe I should give her equal say. Maybe I should let her out more often. Maybe I should talk about what I fear.
But I can't, because I feel completely apologetic and ridiculous for having irrational fears to begin with. They span the entire spectrum from the truly crazy (what if I lose my looks and the mister starts flirting with a hot Swedish chick?), to the probably common (what if I'm not a good mother?). I sometimes think that I have more of these than the average person, but then no one ever really discusses theirs, so we could all be in the same boat.
One of my favourite blogs is Post Secret, because it lets people reveal themselves without giving away anything. Genius. Feels like a bit of freedom from that person in your head that keeps you up at night. Or, is it a cop-out? Why not face your fear and just dim the spotlight on the crazy for a moment?
If you've read this far, and don't think I'm crazy, then I'm very grateful (and impressed). I think we all need to let off steam every once in a while anyway. Although I should probably try and learn how to use that energy more constructively...
[End scene. Exit stage left.]
Monday 12 April 2010
The 3six5 Project
I'm writing this in a shameless shout-out for my other half.
My husband (yes, I'm not using the "the mister", so you know I'm being serious here..) has written a great piece for this project. Though he's pretty talented in a lot of ways, one of my favourite things about him is that he writes with such a great voice, such a great turn of phrase. Apparently, the people of 3six5 thought the same, and recruited him for a mini-chapter in their little masterpiece. April 11, 2010.
My husband (yes, I'm not using the "the mister", so you know I'm being serious here..) has written a great piece for this project. Though he's pretty talented in a lot of ways, one of my favourite things about him is that he writes with such a great voice, such a great turn of phrase. Apparently, the people of 3six5 thought the same, and recruited him for a mini-chapter in their little masterpiece. April 11, 2010.
http://the3six5.posterous.com/
This project is a labour of love from people all over the world: it's 365 days, as told by 365 people. Each person gets a day to write about anything they want, a sort of modern-day equivalent of an adolescent diary entry. But without the cheap gold lock and skeleton key.
I love the idea, and I'm hoping to reach as many people as possible out there in the blogosphere to have a look at it. Yeah yeah, I'm biased, because his entry is beautiful and quite personal to us (and now you too know our big dream that we've been planning diligently for some time now)... but I really think the whole idea is fascinating, and makes the world feel more like a neighbourhood for a brief moment in time (which, let's be honest, I think we all need a bit of lately).
Go ahead and have a read. I guarantee that these people, their words, their lives, their honesty... they'll make you smile very proud.
This project is a labour of love from people all over the world: it's 365 days, as told by 365 people. Each person gets a day to write about anything they want, a sort of modern-day equivalent of an adolescent diary entry. But without the cheap gold lock and skeleton key.
I love the idea, and I'm hoping to reach as many people as possible out there in the blogosphere to have a look at it. Yeah yeah, I'm biased, because his entry is beautiful and quite personal to us (and now you too know our big dream that we've been planning diligently for some time now)... but I really think the whole idea is fascinating, and makes the world feel more like a neighbourhood for a brief moment in time (which, let's be honest, I think we all need a bit of lately).
Go ahead and have a read. I guarantee that these people, their words, their lives, their honesty... they'll make you smile very proud.
Tuesday 6 April 2010
Brought to you by the letter B
Birthday.
The mister's.
He's half way to old age, I keep joking. I think he finds that offensive.
Today was our first birthday as a family. We spent the morning before he had to leave for work in bed, opening presents, the little one in between us in bed in her nappy, rustling the wrapping paper. I bought him some books, framed a couple pictures, and made him a card. I always make cards for him, I love doing it- I've mastered the art of drawing cartoons (I have a specific character that I've been drawing for about 15 years), and I go crazy on the coloured pens and glitter. So sue me- I think I have a 5-year old in permanent residence in my brain.
We don't manage to find much time to spend together lately, but sacrificing 10 quiet minutes in bed to 10 minutes of chaos with her, playing, laughing, screeching, giggling and the occasional leaky nappy... it was worth it.
Happy birthday, my beautiful boy. I fall in love with you more every single day.
The mister's.
He's half way to old age, I keep joking. I think he finds that offensive.
Today was our first birthday as a family. We spent the morning before he had to leave for work in bed, opening presents, the little one in between us in bed in her nappy, rustling the wrapping paper. I bought him some books, framed a couple pictures, and made him a card. I always make cards for him, I love doing it- I've mastered the art of drawing cartoons (I have a specific character that I've been drawing for about 15 years), and I go crazy on the coloured pens and glitter. So sue me- I think I have a 5-year old in permanent residence in my brain.
We don't manage to find much time to spend together lately, but sacrificing 10 quiet minutes in bed to 10 minutes of chaos with her, playing, laughing, screeching, giggling and the occasional leaky nappy... it was worth it.
Happy birthday, my beautiful boy. I fall in love with you more every single day.
Thursday 25 March 2010
I am SO un-PC.
Umm... fellow mothers may gasp at the following post, so I apologise if I sound heartless and selfish.
Firstly, I really like being back at work.
Granted, I feel like hell when I drag my ass out of bed at 6:30am after having only 3 hours of sleep due to a teething 5 month old. But as soon as I put my work clothes on, kiss my little family and step out into the fresh air and sunshine unencumbered by a heavy pram... I feel like I can breathe a bit. I feel like I have a day to myself. A day for my brain to think about things other than dirty nappies and vomit-stained clothes.
I love my little girl with every last bit of me, and sometimes when I kiss her goodbye it rips my heart out, but I'm realising that this is good for me. It may not work for anyone else, but it's my own personal perfect, for the moment. The mister and I have a relay-challenge, trying to now juggle both of our jobs, time with her, scheduling activities for her, for ourselves, and trying to find time with each other. It ain't no picnic. But it's what we've decided we want right now.
You know what else I'd like to say that's a bit selfish?
I wish I had time to do my hair, get a bikini wax, go shopping, do my nails and get a massage.
I wish I could have 8 hours of blissfully uninterrupted sleep.
I wish I didn't have this bit of belly flab from being pregnant.
I wish we could have more hugs and kisses saved for ourselves rather than our little one.
I know, I know... indulging in the things that aren't possible is setting myself up for disaster. But you know how people say " I can't imagine what I did with my life before I had kids..!" Well, I still can. I'm not saying that I was materialistic and shallow in my pre-baby life, but I do miss the days of spontaneous trips, irresponsible spending, partying too late and using random living room furniture for... um.. well, you get the picture.
The ironic thing is that all the things I want to do I don't even have the energy for. My everything is now her everything. My indulgence in the things that "could be" hinders my vision of the future. Our future. I have to keep reminding myself that this new life isn't about what we could have. It's about celebrating what we have now and how we appreciate the now. If she needs more kisses, she gets them. If all I see is the back of his head every night as I fall asleep, I have to remember that it's because he's grabbed my hand and curled it around his chest to pull me closer.
I guess the living room furniture can wait for now.
Firstly, I really like being back at work.
Granted, I feel like hell when I drag my ass out of bed at 6:30am after having only 3 hours of sleep due to a teething 5 month old. But as soon as I put my work clothes on, kiss my little family and step out into the fresh air and sunshine unencumbered by a heavy pram... I feel like I can breathe a bit. I feel like I have a day to myself. A day for my brain to think about things other than dirty nappies and vomit-stained clothes.
I love my little girl with every last bit of me, and sometimes when I kiss her goodbye it rips my heart out, but I'm realising that this is good for me. It may not work for anyone else, but it's my own personal perfect, for the moment. The mister and I have a relay-challenge, trying to now juggle both of our jobs, time with her, scheduling activities for her, for ourselves, and trying to find time with each other. It ain't no picnic. But it's what we've decided we want right now.
You know what else I'd like to say that's a bit selfish?
I wish I had time to do my hair, get a bikini wax, go shopping, do my nails and get a massage.
I wish I could have 8 hours of blissfully uninterrupted sleep.
I wish I didn't have this bit of belly flab from being pregnant.
I wish we could have more hugs and kisses saved for ourselves rather than our little one.
I know, I know... indulging in the things that aren't possible is setting myself up for disaster. But you know how people say " I can't imagine what I did with my life before I had kids..!" Well, I still can. I'm not saying that I was materialistic and shallow in my pre-baby life, but I do miss the days of spontaneous trips, irresponsible spending, partying too late and using random living room furniture for... um.. well, you get the picture.
The ironic thing is that all the things I want to do I don't even have the energy for. My everything is now her everything. My indulgence in the things that "could be" hinders my vision of the future. Our future. I have to keep reminding myself that this new life isn't about what we could have. It's about celebrating what we have now and how we appreciate the now. If she needs more kisses, she gets them. If all I see is the back of his head every night as I fall asleep, I have to remember that it's because he's grabbed my hand and curled it around his chest to pull me closer.
I guess the living room furniture can wait for now.
Thursday 4 March 2010
The push and pull.
I'm about to enter the work world.
And I have massive excitement as well as massive misgivings. The perennial struggle that all working parents face.
Ideally, I picture us in a country house, me looking after 3 kids, tending to our garden, and us sailing on the weekends and shopping from the organic farmer's market down the road.
Reality? We live in an apartment in an odd little run-down town, we have 1 beautiful little girl (for now), our garden is a wooden porch, we haven't visited our sailboat for about 6 months, and the local market is actually a big cheap-o supermarket with about 150 different kinds of potato chips.
In order for us to really save up and live out our dream of circumnavigating the globe and living on our boat someday, I've decided to go back to work.
I've thought of loads of unconventional, creative things I could do for money, like giving singing lessons, working from home as a telemarketer, setting up my own business and getting back to my writing that I've always done..
But the lure of my previous life and the ability to earn good money is calling out to me. I can't help but be tempted by how easily I can walk through an agency door and feel like I've never left. I actually got a job offer today, a really good one at that, earning about 10% more than I did at my last job, and it seems so simple. So black and white. Business lunches. Presentations. 12 hour days.
Easy? Hmm.. that word is a double edged sword. Sure, I could warm up my Blackberry fingers again, but what's the compromise? Does it bother me that half of my salary would go to paying a nanny? Nope, money isn't the issue, as I'd want someone perfect to be with the baby all day. Does it bother me that I'll be in an office environment, meeting with clients again? No, I like the challenges, the deadlines, the boys' club, the energy.
It's her. My mirror image. My heart. Her smile. Her chubby arms reaching out to touch my face. Her new skill of blowing raspberries at me. Her giggles. Her smell. The way she watches me get dressed in the morning, as if to memorise me. The way she melts into my body and we sway to "Claire de Lune" in the darkness of her room before I put her down for bed.
Someone else will be seeing her face all day. Someone else will be holding her. Someone else will be getting her giggles. Someone else will have to pronounce a few Ukrainian words, so she keeps hearing the language all day. Someone else might see her first steps, might hear her first words.
I know no child ever resented their parents for working hard and seeing them a bit less than they'd like (my parents did it for years), but this is new territory for me. She is my drug. My baby. Mine. I feel so fiercely protective of her, it's like a sickness and its cure rolled into one. It's all-consuming love, and I just want to give her 150% of my time, because that's what she deserves. That's what she wants. If I do any less than that I feel like I've failed as her mother in some way.
But the reality is, that while we still only have one little one, the push to get us two incomes right now and help the mister build his business, well, that's what needs to be done right now, no question.
But the pull. Oh, the pull on my heart... it leaves me breathless.
And I have massive excitement as well as massive misgivings. The perennial struggle that all working parents face.
Ideally, I picture us in a country house, me looking after 3 kids, tending to our garden, and us sailing on the weekends and shopping from the organic farmer's market down the road.
Reality? We live in an apartment in an odd little run-down town, we have 1 beautiful little girl (for now), our garden is a wooden porch, we haven't visited our sailboat for about 6 months, and the local market is actually a big cheap-o supermarket with about 150 different kinds of potato chips.
In order for us to really save up and live out our dream of circumnavigating the globe and living on our boat someday, I've decided to go back to work.
I've thought of loads of unconventional, creative things I could do for money, like giving singing lessons, working from home as a telemarketer, setting up my own business and getting back to my writing that I've always done..
But the lure of my previous life and the ability to earn good money is calling out to me. I can't help but be tempted by how easily I can walk through an agency door and feel like I've never left. I actually got a job offer today, a really good one at that, earning about 10% more than I did at my last job, and it seems so simple. So black and white. Business lunches. Presentations. 12 hour days.
Easy? Hmm.. that word is a double edged sword. Sure, I could warm up my Blackberry fingers again, but what's the compromise? Does it bother me that half of my salary would go to paying a nanny? Nope, money isn't the issue, as I'd want someone perfect to be with the baby all day. Does it bother me that I'll be in an office environment, meeting with clients again? No, I like the challenges, the deadlines, the boys' club, the energy.
It's her. My mirror image. My heart. Her smile. Her chubby arms reaching out to touch my face. Her new skill of blowing raspberries at me. Her giggles. Her smell. The way she watches me get dressed in the morning, as if to memorise me. The way she melts into my body and we sway to "Claire de Lune" in the darkness of her room before I put her down for bed.
Someone else will be seeing her face all day. Someone else will be holding her. Someone else will be getting her giggles. Someone else will have to pronounce a few Ukrainian words, so she keeps hearing the language all day. Someone else might see her first steps, might hear her first words.
I know no child ever resented their parents for working hard and seeing them a bit less than they'd like (my parents did it for years), but this is new territory for me. She is my drug. My baby. Mine. I feel so fiercely protective of her, it's like a sickness and its cure rolled into one. It's all-consuming love, and I just want to give her 150% of my time, because that's what she deserves. That's what she wants. If I do any less than that I feel like I've failed as her mother in some way.
But the reality is, that while we still only have one little one, the push to get us two incomes right now and help the mister build his business, well, that's what needs to be done right now, no question.
But the pull. Oh, the pull on my heart... it leaves me breathless.
Thursday 18 February 2010
Running on empty
Sometimes I feel like I can do it all. Wife, mum, friend, lover, cook, cleaner, laundry-girl, schedule-keeper, banker, repairman. Oh, and then there's time for "me", whenever that is. Mostly "me" time is using her bathwater, after I put her down for bed, to shave my legs. Multitasking at its most glamorous. mmm.
Sometimes though, like this week, I feel like I'm at the end of my rope, and I'm dangling into that miserable stew of inadequacy and frustration. I don't know how I manage to do so much, try and look for a job again, help the mister build the new business and have anything left at the end of the day. He comes home, and I'm going to bed. Dinner's in the oven for him. Weekends are spent doing up the house, he takes the baby, I get to sleep in, then he goes to the gym later. No time to talk, catch up, hug. The day goes by in hourly-slots: naps, feeds, walks in the park, sorting out dinner. I manage to always look nice in jeans and shirts and boots, so that makes me feel more human, but otherwise, I am giving our little one everything I have, because her demands are endless.
Positivity keeps slipping through my fingers. Just when I think I manage to keep everyone happy and organised and above the water, I crash hard and can't seem to pick myself back up again quickly.
It's a cliche really, because all parents, working or non, experience this in one way or another. It's the desire to go above and beyond and make sure your family is right on track, and then you turn a corner and feel guilt for not doing everything perfectly, for having to keep going without any praise or help, for keeping a smile on your face through the rough stuff. The mister deals with the guilt of being away from home so much because of his job, and I deal with the guilt that I can't seem to give 100% to my daughter and 100% to my husband and 100% to myself.
I read the other day that the best way to problem solve is to write all of your worries and stresses each on strips of paper. Then you take each strip, ask yourself if it's something that you can solve now. If not, put it in a pile to the side. If you can deal with it now, then put it in a "to-do" pile. Once that pile is full, make a battle plan to deal with your worries.
Seems simple. But how do I deal with the worries that are more emotional rather than tangible? How do I stop looking over my shoulder and saying "what if I had done that better?", "what if I don't get a job?", "what if the mister and I lose touch with each other?".
Hmm. Well, stuff like that can be self-fulfilling in a way. The more I think about it, the more I'll dwell in the past, and the more of a vicious circle it'll become.
There's never going to be a black and white answer, I'm realising. The only pure thing at the moment is that I have a baby on my lap at the moment giving me the sweetest flirty smile, and just wants me to give her kisses and stroke her face. Her time with me is precious, and I can't spend it worrying about what will happen in a month's time.
Things fall into place, I just have to breathe and believe it. Refuel, as it were.
Sometimes though, like this week, I feel like I'm at the end of my rope, and I'm dangling into that miserable stew of inadequacy and frustration. I don't know how I manage to do so much, try and look for a job again, help the mister build the new business and have anything left at the end of the day. He comes home, and I'm going to bed. Dinner's in the oven for him. Weekends are spent doing up the house, he takes the baby, I get to sleep in, then he goes to the gym later. No time to talk, catch up, hug. The day goes by in hourly-slots: naps, feeds, walks in the park, sorting out dinner. I manage to always look nice in jeans and shirts and boots, so that makes me feel more human, but otherwise, I am giving our little one everything I have, because her demands are endless.
Positivity keeps slipping through my fingers. Just when I think I manage to keep everyone happy and organised and above the water, I crash hard and can't seem to pick myself back up again quickly.
It's a cliche really, because all parents, working or non, experience this in one way or another. It's the desire to go above and beyond and make sure your family is right on track, and then you turn a corner and feel guilt for not doing everything perfectly, for having to keep going without any praise or help, for keeping a smile on your face through the rough stuff. The mister deals with the guilt of being away from home so much because of his job, and I deal with the guilt that I can't seem to give 100% to my daughter and 100% to my husband and 100% to myself.
I read the other day that the best way to problem solve is to write all of your worries and stresses each on strips of paper. Then you take each strip, ask yourself if it's something that you can solve now. If not, put it in a pile to the side. If you can deal with it now, then put it in a "to-do" pile. Once that pile is full, make a battle plan to deal with your worries.
Seems simple. But how do I deal with the worries that are more emotional rather than tangible? How do I stop looking over my shoulder and saying "what if I had done that better?", "what if I don't get a job?", "what if the mister and I lose touch with each other?".
Hmm. Well, stuff like that can be self-fulfilling in a way. The more I think about it, the more I'll dwell in the past, and the more of a vicious circle it'll become.
There's never going to be a black and white answer, I'm realising. The only pure thing at the moment is that I have a baby on my lap at the moment giving me the sweetest flirty smile, and just wants me to give her kisses and stroke her face. Her time with me is precious, and I can't spend it worrying about what will happen in a month's time.
Things fall into place, I just have to breathe and believe it. Refuel, as it were.
Friday 12 February 2010
Watching.
I'm a voyeur.
I'm trying to capture every bit of my little wriggler during the day- with pictures, with film.. but sometimes I laugh because I would be infinitely making her a digital memory if I could. I have ot be honest, though- there aren't enough hours in the day, really, and I'd be missing out on these incredible moments if I had a recording device in front of my face.
I watch how she lulls herself to sleep in her cot, singing to herself.
I watch how she's grasping at things and shoving them in her mouth, as if to taste her entire new world.
I watch how intently she scans my face when I feed her, as if she wants to memorise every grey hair, every freckle, every smile line.
I watch how she swims in the bathtub and tries to talk to the rubber ducks bobbing up and down in front of her.
I watch how she looks at cartoons and giggles at the screen.
I watch her in spite of the fact that I need to rest, I need to do the laundry, the bottles, the dishwasher, the bills, the job-hunting, the cleaning.
And all this watching paid off, because right in front of me, at 3 months and 2 weeks, she turned herself onto her stomach and began to crawl. She did it with this desperately angry determination, this fiery stubbornness that she's inherited from I-have-no-idea-who. She did it despite our wood floors being slippery, despite not being able to grip her playgym mat. And though I was so close to helping her to rescue her from her cries of frustration, I sat on my hands and just cheered her on. And she did it. Again and again and again, her eyes glimmering with excitement through her angry grunts.
She knew that I was watching.
Oh, my heart.
I'm trying to capture every bit of my little wriggler during the day- with pictures, with film.. but sometimes I laugh because I would be infinitely making her a digital memory if I could. I have ot be honest, though- there aren't enough hours in the day, really, and I'd be missing out on these incredible moments if I had a recording device in front of my face.
I watch how she lulls herself to sleep in her cot, singing to herself.
I watch how she's grasping at things and shoving them in her mouth, as if to taste her entire new world.
I watch how intently she scans my face when I feed her, as if she wants to memorise every grey hair, every freckle, every smile line.
I watch how she swims in the bathtub and tries to talk to the rubber ducks bobbing up and down in front of her.
I watch how she looks at cartoons and giggles at the screen.
I watch her in spite of the fact that I need to rest, I need to do the laundry, the bottles, the dishwasher, the bills, the job-hunting, the cleaning.
And all this watching paid off, because right in front of me, at 3 months and 2 weeks, she turned herself onto her stomach and began to crawl. She did it with this desperately angry determination, this fiery stubbornness that she's inherited from I-have-no-idea-who. She did it despite our wood floors being slippery, despite not being able to grip her playgym mat. And though I was so close to helping her to rescue her from her cries of frustration, I sat on my hands and just cheered her on. And she did it. Again and again and again, her eyes glimmering with excitement through her angry grunts.
She knew that I was watching.
Oh, my heart.
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