So it's been a really social weekend for me this one. And I've enjoyed every second of it.
First up, KIMBA flew up to stay on Friday evening. There were drinks at my house with the very awesome canteen manager and the three of us sat up late and drank and listened to Prince and wondered about some very rude lyrics. A little box with a tongue and a mirror inside? WHATEVER CAN THAT MEAN?!
On Saturday Kimba and I took the middle child out for a special day to Gorman House, in the city. They have these artsy type markets which was quite lovely and two simply fabulous things happened. Number 1) I joined the Canberra Writer's Centre. I am a paid up member and now have access to script writing classes and workshops and festivals and being a part of that simply fabulous community. I'm so happy about it. The number 2) fabulous thing? Finding out that there is going to be a JANE AUSTEN FESTIVAL here, right here in Canberra over a few days in April 2010. RESTRAIN ME NOW. There is going to be dress making and bonnet making and dancing and reading and talking and tittering about lovely, lovely Jane and her books and her era. So glad I moved to Canberra. A Jane Austen festival indeed.
Then on Saturday evening - Kimba and I met up with a girl blogger (who doesn't have a blog anymore) who has been reading us for quite some time and we her. 'Deece' was lovely lovely lovely - you know it's always an awkward thing meeting a person who you only know from their writing - you can't always guarantee that the person whose words you enjoy will be as accessible and thoughtful in real life. She was. And super smart. And warm and friendly and spunky to boot! We enjoyed our evening with Deece very much - thanks chickie!
So Sunday night was another social event with wine and too much food (how funny that seems to be a pattern with me). My brother (my wonderful brother) came over - we ate a feast of fresh, home cooked food and drank expensive wine while listening to David Gray. Just a bit lurvely really. And then Kim and I sat up and watched a Billy Crystal and Debra Winger movie - Forget Paris. That movie is one of my favourites but I still can't watch the parts with Billy Cyrstal kissing and in bed with Debra. I can't. I'm sorry.
And so now it is Monday morning and I am dropping Kimba off at the airport shortly. It will be back to real life for me - I have a laundry basket overflowing with things that need to be folded and sorted and put into rooms. I have a floor that needs vacuuming. I have a kitchen that needs wiping and cleaning. Because of the ants. Let me tell you about those FRIKKIN ANTS.
Every summer they arrive just one day out of the blue. Mum, Dad, Uncle Fritz, Aunt Edna and the kids. All those kids - they just turn up. I tell you, it's so rude.
I know that whatever I do to get rid of them, they just send more rello's in, so it's no use carrying on and throwing a fit about it. They'll leave when they are ready in oh, about two or three months time.
Grrrrr.
So this is my newsy update. It's been a really nice time for me - and I will be a little bit melancholy and sad when Kimba's plane flies away and I am back on my own. But then the kids will be home from school and there will be noise and chatter and life back in the house and things will go back to how they always are and I will be alright.
Me, Bart, the Kids and the Ants. In our little house in Canberra.
Lovely.
*POSTSCRIPT*
Well, subconsciously I really didn't want Kimba to leave, did I? No, because I managed to make her miss her flight.
I was late and tardy in the morning. I said we had PLENTY A TIME. No worries.
But I was wrong. We were 5 minutes past the cut-off for boarding and Kimba had to pay extra money for the next flight.
Then she had to pay me so I could pay for parking.
And buy me a cup of tea, because I have no money on hand. No money, no coins, no sense.
What a perfect host I am.
So to Kimba - what a gracious, calm friend you are. I feel terrible and all a bit hopeless but what I feel more than that is glad you are such a kind girl. x
Monday, November 16, 2009
Friday, November 13, 2009
Another one from the vault
I wrote the following post 18 months again when my little girl had her 10th birthday.
She is now almost 34 with a lifetime of hardship and drudgery under her black-stud belt. Or just 11 and a half and a bit confused.... anyway, here's my old post:
She is now almost 34 with a lifetime of hardship and drudgery under her black-stud belt. Or just 11 and a half and a bit confused.... anyway, here's my old post:
from Sparsely Kate by sparsely kate
This day exactly 10 years ago I was in a little bush hospital up in the hills of Perth meeting my baby daughter for the very first time. That child was a lot of work to get out and I fainted and tipped off the bed after having her and if not for the quick thinking of a midwife, would have smashed my head open on the tiled floor below. I bloody told that woman I didn't feel good.
But this post is not about labour. Oh no. It's a celebration of life and the fact that when one door closes another certainly does open.
I had an Aunty who was only 48 years old and she passed away just a few days before. On the day my daughter was born in Western Australia, all my family including my Mum was up in Queensland getting ready to attend my Aunty's funeral.
She had always wanted a little girl - and tried four times to have one, but ended up with four strapping sons instead.
The birth of a little girl on such a sad, dark day was like a shining ray of sunshine and my Nanna proclaimed that their Pammy had sent a baby girl to me as a gift from heaven. I think it helped my Mum to stay afloat.
Seeing my little girl dance around this morning with all her new CD's of music made me remember what I was doing at her age and what songs I was playing.
10 was when I discovered my Dad's cassette tape of Michael Jackson 'Off the Wall'. Remember Wanna Be Startin' Something? I danced like crazy to that in my bedroom and when Thriller came out, why, I was just over the moon in love with Michael.
At ten, I began to raid my parent's music collection. Dad had Slade....I can't even remember the name of the album or the song I played over and over again. But I can remember the look of quiet admiration in his eyes every time I begged him to play that album one more time. :)
On my tenth birthday I was given money and high tailed it down to Melbourne city with the folks to a record store. I bought my very first album, Cyndi Lauper. She Bop and Time after Time still get me grooving along. Drove all night...Money.....Girls just wanna have fun. You don't get much better than Cyndi, that woman is a legend.
At ten, I loved Boy George and Duran Duran. I wore fluoro socks and knickers and shirts. I had ribbons everywhere.
At ten, I thought the world was heading for a nuclear disaster (the year was 1984/1985)
Somebody told me that what my Dad did up at his work was actually make the bombs that could kill us all. Dad had to sit me down and explain that what he did was actually protect us from getting bombed and I believed him.
At ten, I got interested in the occult from hanging around some weird girls at school.
I read horror stories about vampires and started sleeping with the light on and my radio playing.
At ten I stopped having baths with my brother and for the first time heard my parents having sex and felt kind of intrigued but nauseous at the same time.
At ten I told my brother to tickle me 'everywhere' and he tried to kiss my flat chest to see if milk could come out. But it felt wrong and shameful so we never mucked around like that again.
At ten I got a piece of soap stuck in my vagina and panicked.
At ten, the teacher chose me to play Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz school play. She hated my singing voice though, so I wasn't allowed to sing any of the songs solo. Even Toto was allowed to sing my parts!
At ten, I would stand on the fence out the back and spy in a neighbours yard. He had beer bottles stacked up behind a shed, so many beer bottles that I couldn't count. I was shocked - I never saw my Dad drink beer at home unless it was a BBQ party. There was a girl that looked sad and slow and every day she would come out and hang washing on the line and take it off. She wasn't allowed to talk to me and there was a LOT of yelling coming from inside, all the time. I still think about that girl.
At ten, I sung to Flame Trees by Cold Chisel and learnt how to ride my bike without touching the handlebars.
At ten, in my school, everybody played with marbles and the girls spent all day on the monkey bars. I got blisters on my palms the size of a 50 cent piece. They eventually hardened and became rough.
At ten I found out that bad things can happen to children when a young girl from the next suburb got abducted, raped and murdered and the school told us to walk in pairs until they caught the man who did it.
At ten I began to think I was quite fat and unattractive. It could have just been how my Mother dressed me up though , with my faux -mullet hairstyle and a pale yellow tracksuit.
Mostly good memories. I wonder how my daughter will look back and see her 10th year?
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Underpants
I've never made it a secret that when it comes to underwear, I'm a plain cotton undies type who will always choose lilac, pink or pale blue colours with lots of pretty flowers on them. I buy them cheap, usually in budget packs, and I've been like this since forever. I did have brief interlude of sexy underwear when I was 21 and 22 and having sex with Nevin like little rabbits. I wore g strings and lacy things and black silky knickers, the works.
Soon as I had my kid it went back to cotton florals though, and the silky black knickers only came out for special occasions like when Nevin took me down to the local tavern and bought me a fisherman's basket and a lemon lime and bitter.
The g strings, however, never saw the crack of my dawn again....
The other day I was helping out in the school canteen. I really like the canteen manager very much - we get along like a house on fire and I find I can pretty much tell her everything from what I had to breakfast that morning to how I feel about my breasts and she is cool with everything. I think she's a friend for keeps. Anyway, there was another Mum in there working and the three of us together often talk rather smutty things. We have a lot of laughs over pikelet batter and chicken nuggets.
The talk ended up on underwear. The school Mum said she only buys designer brand knickers. She said her husband got her onto buying the really good stuff because he believes a woman is like a present, and she should have beautiful, enticing wrapping for him to uncover.
Who is this man and where can I meet him?
Ahem, anyway.... when I confessed that I only wore knickers you buy in a six-pack from Big W they both dropped their tongs and whisk and gaped open-mouthed. "You are kidding?"
No, no I wasn't.
Turns out the canteen manager wears silky animal prints and the school mum wears black Calvin Klein's with just a hint of lace. I know this because they showed them to me.
*sounds of men dropping everything to sign up at the local school canteen*
I showed them the tops of my undies, with the peach trim and apricot coloured flowers.
"Oh my GOD!" they screamed. "Mel, for God's sake. Google Victoria's Secret and order yourself some beautiful sets."
I went on about the money and the cost and how nobody sees my bloody knickers anyway, so why bother? I don't have sex, I don't have a boyfriend, I'm just not.....that way.
They both looked me sternly in the eye. You do not buy beautiful underwear only if you have a boyfriend. You buy it for yourself. So you know you are wearing lovely things.
The school mum went on, "My husband is away for six weeks. I still put on my lovely matching bra and knicker sets, even though I'm the only one who sees it because it makes me feel good."
Turns out there is a whole psychology about undies and how we feel about our bodies, ourselves and sex.
I've had lots of time to think about this. I choose 'little girl' underwear. I wear the same sorts of patterns I was wearing when I was 6 years old, the same sorts of colours, the same style. Only three thousand times larger.
I choose these knickers because subconsciously.... I resist feeling like a grown up, sexual woman. I do. There's a whole session in therapy right there.
I also resist spending money on good quality undies because I do not feel like I deserve it.
Another therapy session.....
They both threatened to come into my house, run for my undies drawer and burn the cotton florals. No, I wailed, not the cotton florals! Please!
Yes, they said. We are coming in there and burning the lot. You go and buy yourself a pair of beautiful, good quality knickers - today! There is no excuse, ever, for a woman not to feel sexy.
You probably know how this will end..... I haven't thrown out my cotton underpants. I haven't bought any sexy underwear. I'm still figuring out if it means that much to me to go and spend a hundred dollars on three pairs of pants.
Until then, I'm locking my undies drawer and not answering my front door.... just in case.....
Soon as I had my kid it went back to cotton florals though, and the silky black knickers only came out for special occasions like when Nevin took me down to the local tavern and bought me a fisherman's basket and a lemon lime and bitter.
The g strings, however, never saw the crack of my dawn again....
The other day I was helping out in the school canteen. I really like the canteen manager very much - we get along like a house on fire and I find I can pretty much tell her everything from what I had to breakfast that morning to how I feel about my breasts and she is cool with everything. I think she's a friend for keeps. Anyway, there was another Mum in there working and the three of us together often talk rather smutty things. We have a lot of laughs over pikelet batter and chicken nuggets.
The talk ended up on underwear. The school Mum said she only buys designer brand knickers. She said her husband got her onto buying the really good stuff because he believes a woman is like a present, and she should have beautiful, enticing wrapping for him to uncover.
Who is this man and where can I meet him?
Ahem, anyway.... when I confessed that I only wore knickers you buy in a six-pack from Big W they both dropped their tongs and whisk and gaped open-mouthed. "You are kidding?"
No, no I wasn't.
Turns out the canteen manager wears silky animal prints and the school mum wears black Calvin Klein's with just a hint of lace. I know this because they showed them to me.
*sounds of men dropping everything to sign up at the local school canteen*
I showed them the tops of my undies, with the peach trim and apricot coloured flowers.
"Oh my GOD!" they screamed. "Mel, for God's sake. Google Victoria's Secret and order yourself some beautiful sets."
I went on about the money and the cost and how nobody sees my bloody knickers anyway, so why bother? I don't have sex, I don't have a boyfriend, I'm just not.....that way.
They both looked me sternly in the eye. You do not buy beautiful underwear only if you have a boyfriend. You buy it for yourself. So you know you are wearing lovely things.
The school mum went on, "My husband is away for six weeks. I still put on my lovely matching bra and knicker sets, even though I'm the only one who sees it because it makes me feel good."
Turns out there is a whole psychology about undies and how we feel about our bodies, ourselves and sex.
I've had lots of time to think about this. I choose 'little girl' underwear. I wear the same sorts of patterns I was wearing when I was 6 years old, the same sorts of colours, the same style. Only three thousand times larger.
I choose these knickers because subconsciously.... I resist feeling like a grown up, sexual woman. I do. There's a whole session in therapy right there.
I also resist spending money on good quality undies because I do not feel like I deserve it.
Another therapy session.....
They both threatened to come into my house, run for my undies drawer and burn the cotton florals. No, I wailed, not the cotton florals! Please!
Yes, they said. We are coming in there and burning the lot. You go and buy yourself a pair of beautiful, good quality knickers - today! There is no excuse, ever, for a woman not to feel sexy.
You probably know how this will end..... I haven't thrown out my cotton underpants. I haven't bought any sexy underwear. I'm still figuring out if it means that much to me to go and spend a hundred dollars on three pairs of pants.
Until then, I'm locking my undies drawer and not answering my front door.... just in case.....
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
The terror of slang.
A while ago I wrote a post about how I had found the WORST coffee shop in Canberra. The staff were slow and bored looking. They made only ok sorts of chai lattes. They charged a lot. They were slow and bored looking....and slow and bored looking.
But I found myself going back all the time because there wasn't anywhere really else I could be bothered to go. I resigned myself to the fact that the service was a bit crap, and I was alright with it.
I have recently found the BEST news agency in Canberra. The staff are smiley and perky and quickity quick. They are friendly to everybody and they seem to like their job.
It absolutely freaks me out. I am now too scared to go in there.
"How are ya mate?!" yells the chick behind the counter and all I've done is walk in with my head down, looking for a weekly magazine.
When you go to the counter with your purchase, the staff always comment.
"Aw, good choice mate!" they say. "It's a ripper!"
And I kid you not, (because I just went into their store and have come straight home to write this post) after you collect your change the booming chick says, "There ya are mate, have a good one eh?! Beautie' Mate!"
Beautie Mate.
It's just so ..... funny. I thought the only time you met people so earnestly and wonderfully Australian was in American-made movies and at roadhouses north of the border.
My dilemma is that I just don't know what to say in return. How do you top a 'beautie mate' ?
Do I say cheerio cobber? thanks sheila? 'ave a bloody good one?
What'd the etiquette for colonial slang? Am I being an unpatriotic snob by cringing at her broad Aussie accent - well yes of course I am - but why I do feel so guilty about it?
It's a very sad indictment of the times (and my personality) that I would rather go somewhere with pauper-poor service than go into a place where the staff are happy to acknowledge you and talk like old Uncle Bill from Townsville after six beers on a Sunday lunch.
It's a flamin' joke I tell ya, mate. A flamin' mongrel of a thing.
But I found myself going back all the time because there wasn't anywhere really else I could be bothered to go. I resigned myself to the fact that the service was a bit crap, and I was alright with it.
I have recently found the BEST news agency in Canberra. The staff are smiley and perky and quickity quick. They are friendly to everybody and they seem to like their job.
It absolutely freaks me out. I am now too scared to go in there.
"How are ya mate?!" yells the chick behind the counter and all I've done is walk in with my head down, looking for a weekly magazine.
When you go to the counter with your purchase, the staff always comment.
"Aw, good choice mate!" they say. "It's a ripper!"
And I kid you not, (because I just went into their store and have come straight home to write this post) after you collect your change the booming chick says, "There ya are mate, have a good one eh?! Beautie' Mate!"
Beautie Mate.
It's just so ..... funny. I thought the only time you met people so earnestly and wonderfully Australian was in American-made movies and at roadhouses north of the border.
My dilemma is that I just don't know what to say in return. How do you top a 'beautie mate' ?
Do I say cheerio cobber? thanks sheila? 'ave a bloody good one?
What'd the etiquette for colonial slang? Am I being an unpatriotic snob by cringing at her broad Aussie accent - well yes of course I am - but why I do feel so guilty about it?
It's a very sad indictment of the times (and my personality) that I would rather go somewhere with pauper-poor service than go into a place where the staff are happy to acknowledge you and talk like old Uncle Bill from Townsville after six beers on a Sunday lunch.
It's a flamin' joke I tell ya, mate. A flamin' mongrel of a thing.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Goodbye uni old friend.
I never thought I would go to university. When I was in year 11 and I was 15 years old, it wasn't in my line of vision. I had had a tumultuous education because of my Dad's job in the army, having me pulled out and into schools from five different states and territories. By the time I got to year 11 I was just hoping to pass. Didn't know what I wanted to do, or end up being. Just wanted to get out of going to school really.
My first interest in further study was when I was 21 and wanted to go back and try and get a year 12 certificate. I had finally cottoned onto the fact that unless you had a year 12 certificate, many many doors would remain closed and also, Nevin had teased me in front of his mates that the only job Mel could get was at Chicken Treat takeaway as the drive-thru chick. I knew I could do better (pity I didn't think that about my choice in men!).
I wanted to be accepted into tafe, which is like a practical based college for adults. I had an interest in the welfare field - the helping profession. So I got my year 12 via a correspondence school and then I got into tafe but I was not able to finish my course there. I fell pregnant and Nevin wanted me working full time at the supermarket to save as much money as we could to get a house deposit. I dont' write that with any resentment actually, it was just the way it was. We needed to knuckle down fast.
When I was at tafe there was a representative from the University on site and I ventured in one day to see what uni was all about. I walked out of that little room filled with the brochures and enrolment packages and study material wanting to be a part of that world too. I didn't want to settle for just a tafe certificate when I, Melanie - the high school drop out and young pregnant girl - could aim for the top. For once, I would like to aim high.
In 1999 I started at a university in the primary education sector. I was going to be a kindy teacher. After a week I decided that no, what I really wanted to do was follow my passion. I changed over to an arts degree majoring in english and history. For two weeks I was in tutorial heaven - we started learning about the Black Plague and what duels were and in english I got to choose some wonderful books to study.
But then a crisis happened in my life and I dropped out.
I enrolled again a year or so later, in a different university and went back to early childhood teaching. I lasted a year. I've written about some of those girls that I worked with and their bullying.... I was so scared to be around them (and we were all grown women) that I changed degrees. I did a very happy six weeks in a creative writing course but then...
A crisis happened in my life and I dropped out.
In another year, I enrolled in a different university and began a social services degree. I lasted two years in that..... then I swapped to a bachelor of arts in writing.... then back to a social services degree.
A crisis happened in my life and I nearly dropped out.
But this time I sought out the help of a really great support coordinator and we worked out a degree I could finish via external studies.
That's what I've been doing these past three years - finishing a bachelor of arts majoring in social justice. It's a hotpotch degree -bits of creative writing units, bits of english lit, lots of community development units, lots of early childhood development studies. Sprinkles of psychology and feminist units.
In a couple of hours I'm done. It's over - I stuck at it and I'm on the home stretch.
No more crisis's. No more struggling and swapping and changing my mind - I am a woman with a degree. And as soon as I'm finished? I'm going to be a writer. Who works in the school canteen. Who has some really interesting text books for sale :)
My first interest in further study was when I was 21 and wanted to go back and try and get a year 12 certificate. I had finally cottoned onto the fact that unless you had a year 12 certificate, many many doors would remain closed and also, Nevin had teased me in front of his mates that the only job Mel could get was at Chicken Treat takeaway as the drive-thru chick. I knew I could do better (pity I didn't think that about my choice in men!).
I wanted to be accepted into tafe, which is like a practical based college for adults. I had an interest in the welfare field - the helping profession. So I got my year 12 via a correspondence school and then I got into tafe but I was not able to finish my course there. I fell pregnant and Nevin wanted me working full time at the supermarket to save as much money as we could to get a house deposit. I dont' write that with any resentment actually, it was just the way it was. We needed to knuckle down fast.
When I was at tafe there was a representative from the University on site and I ventured in one day to see what uni was all about. I walked out of that little room filled with the brochures and enrolment packages and study material wanting to be a part of that world too. I didn't want to settle for just a tafe certificate when I, Melanie - the high school drop out and young pregnant girl - could aim for the top. For once, I would like to aim high.
In 1999 I started at a university in the primary education sector. I was going to be a kindy teacher. After a week I decided that no, what I really wanted to do was follow my passion. I changed over to an arts degree majoring in english and history. For two weeks I was in tutorial heaven - we started learning about the Black Plague and what duels were and in english I got to choose some wonderful books to study.
But then a crisis happened in my life and I dropped out.
I enrolled again a year or so later, in a different university and went back to early childhood teaching. I lasted a year. I've written about some of those girls that I worked with and their bullying.... I was so scared to be around them (and we were all grown women) that I changed degrees. I did a very happy six weeks in a creative writing course but then...
A crisis happened in my life and I dropped out.
In another year, I enrolled in a different university and began a social services degree. I lasted two years in that..... then I swapped to a bachelor of arts in writing.... then back to a social services degree.
A crisis happened in my life and I nearly dropped out.
But this time I sought out the help of a really great support coordinator and we worked out a degree I could finish via external studies.
That's what I've been doing these past three years - finishing a bachelor of arts majoring in social justice. It's a hotpotch degree -bits of creative writing units, bits of english lit, lots of community development units, lots of early childhood development studies. Sprinkles of psychology and feminist units.
In a couple of hours I'm done. It's over - I stuck at it and I'm on the home stretch.
No more crisis's. No more struggling and swapping and changing my mind - I am a woman with a degree. And as soon as I'm finished? I'm going to be a writer. Who works in the school canteen. Who has some really interesting text books for sale :)
Saturday, November 7, 2009
When I was doing my counseling assessment the other morning (was it yesterday? it feels so far away) I was asked about my support structures. Do I have any? Do I talk about my problems with anyone?
At first I said no, no I don't and I was shocked at this realisation. I sort of gasped as I explained that there was nobody in my real life that I speak my real and honest truth too. I joke about putting on weight and being a whale, or not having confidence to talk to boys, but I don't share honesty behind those self depreceting statments.
And then I went, no, hang on. I do tell people...I write on my blog.
As soon as the words came out I know that must of sounded a bit hokey. So I elaborated. I have a blog you see, that I write in and tell a lot of private things to. I talk about my eating disorder on a blog and I have a lot of people that write to me back and tell me to keep trying and to believe in myself.
I don't think you guys out there even know what a life line you are when you write to me. The other week? when I flipped out and wanted to hide under a rock and not share anymore and then I had a moment in the doctor's surgery and there was nobody else I could have told but write it up on this forum? I had so many nice emails and so many supportive comments. You kind of dont' appreciate what you have sometimes until you leave. Those words really mean a lot to me. You guys mean a lot to me.
I'm crossing into hokey, but I feel very sincere about this. This blog helps me. The people who read it and then write to tell me they've read it, help me. I tell the truth on here. It's kind of a big deal to me.
thank you.
At first I said no, no I don't and I was shocked at this realisation. I sort of gasped as I explained that there was nobody in my real life that I speak my real and honest truth too. I joke about putting on weight and being a whale, or not having confidence to talk to boys, but I don't share honesty behind those self depreceting statments.
And then I went, no, hang on. I do tell people...I write on my blog.
As soon as the words came out I know that must of sounded a bit hokey. So I elaborated. I have a blog you see, that I write in and tell a lot of private things to. I talk about my eating disorder on a blog and I have a lot of people that write to me back and tell me to keep trying and to believe in myself.
I don't think you guys out there even know what a life line you are when you write to me. The other week? when I flipped out and wanted to hide under a rock and not share anymore and then I had a moment in the doctor's surgery and there was nobody else I could have told but write it up on this forum? I had so many nice emails and so many supportive comments. You kind of dont' appreciate what you have sometimes until you leave. Those words really mean a lot to me. You guys mean a lot to me.
I'm crossing into hokey, but I feel very sincere about this. This blog helps me. The people who read it and then write to tell me they've read it, help me. I tell the truth on here. It's kind of a big deal to me.
thank you.
Friday, November 6, 2009
what I've been up to...
I'm still feeling a little sad knowing that I'm in the bad books with my parents and they are in mine. Haven't heard boo from my Mum and I feel so guilty knowing I am the cause of her silence, and guilty because I am enjoying the little break.
I won't be winning any daughter of the year competitions anytime soon....
Today was my assessment for the mental health and eating disorders unit. Yay! So proud. I know it's something every little girl dreams about; one day being able to sit and find out if you qualify for free psychiatric care, I'm certainly patting myself on the back about it.
Gripes aside - it wasn't so bad. I managed to give straight and honest answers and a pretty condensed life story covering all the bases and major story lines - like I moved lots of times and changed schools. Like my Mother is controlling and never wanted a fat daughter. Like I was a bit of a boy-crazy lunatic in my early teenage years and got a bit of a name for myself. Like I then turned into a reclusive heavy metal loving teenage girl with acne and a muffin top. Like I married the first guy who said he loved me, even though he was damaged goods. Like the break in. Like the suicide attempt. Like the divorce and having the baby on my own. The big things. The things that shaped and changed the course of my life - have you ever sat and thought about what your major life shapers are?
I got through it all without crying or blubbering. It was a bit touch and go right at the end part however because I had to answer the question of whether or not I thought I was depressed. Am I depressed? I don't think I am, even though I do feel sad, and I feel scared about being the world's oldest bulimic (and the fattest)....in my heart I know I am not officially depressed.
I'm just in a bit of a 23 year slump, that's all. Any minute I know I'm going to snap out of it :)
The psychologist thought that I sounded very much like somebody who would get much from having individual counselling. She wanted me to think about what a strong, resilient person I am and that I actually have come further than I think. I have been thinking a lot about that, and I have decided that I am going to agree with her. I am resilient and I do fall down a lot and get back up, but gosh, does it ever end - this falling down part? My knees are so dirty and sore.
I talked quite openly about my parents and how on the one hand, they are so kind and loving and supportive of me and on the other, they are so quick to judge and expect perfection and they just feel so awfully entitled on having a say on my life.
We talked about why I feel stuck. Why I don't feel like a self sufficient grown up handling her own affairs in life.... money has a lot to do with it. Living in my parents house has much to do with it. The kids settled in their school has a lot to do with it - I'm not planning on moving them again now that they have established friends and a life here.
I can't afford to leave my parents house and go and live in another private rental. I am on the waiting list for public housing but it's been two years and still no word....
I know these things will work themselves out in time, but at the moment feeling stuck and dis empowered creates many feelings of resentment and frustration for me, and I daresay my folks too.
And then there is the actual eating disorder. The disordered eating. Is it the chicken or is it the egg? Which part came first?
That riddle and more to be solved in the next instalment of:
(dumdumdumdaaaaaaa)
MEL GOES TO COUNSELLING, SESSION NUMBER 85785475733.
I won't be winning any daughter of the year competitions anytime soon....
Today was my assessment for the mental health and eating disorders unit. Yay! So proud. I know it's something every little girl dreams about; one day being able to sit and find out if you qualify for free psychiatric care, I'm certainly patting myself on the back about it.
Gripes aside - it wasn't so bad. I managed to give straight and honest answers and a pretty condensed life story covering all the bases and major story lines - like I moved lots of times and changed schools. Like my Mother is controlling and never wanted a fat daughter. Like I was a bit of a boy-crazy lunatic in my early teenage years and got a bit of a name for myself. Like I then turned into a reclusive heavy metal loving teenage girl with acne and a muffin top. Like I married the first guy who said he loved me, even though he was damaged goods. Like the break in. Like the suicide attempt. Like the divorce and having the baby on my own. The big things. The things that shaped and changed the course of my life - have you ever sat and thought about what your major life shapers are?
I got through it all without crying or blubbering. It was a bit touch and go right at the end part however because I had to answer the question of whether or not I thought I was depressed. Am I depressed? I don't think I am, even though I do feel sad, and I feel scared about being the world's oldest bulimic (and the fattest)....in my heart I know I am not officially depressed.
I'm just in a bit of a 23 year slump, that's all. Any minute I know I'm going to snap out of it :)
The psychologist thought that I sounded very much like somebody who would get much from having individual counselling. She wanted me to think about what a strong, resilient person I am and that I actually have come further than I think. I have been thinking a lot about that, and I have decided that I am going to agree with her. I am resilient and I do fall down a lot and get back up, but gosh, does it ever end - this falling down part? My knees are so dirty and sore.
I talked quite openly about my parents and how on the one hand, they are so kind and loving and supportive of me and on the other, they are so quick to judge and expect perfection and they just feel so awfully entitled on having a say on my life.
We talked about why I feel stuck. Why I don't feel like a self sufficient grown up handling her own affairs in life.... money has a lot to do with it. Living in my parents house has much to do with it. The kids settled in their school has a lot to do with it - I'm not planning on moving them again now that they have established friends and a life here.
I can't afford to leave my parents house and go and live in another private rental. I am on the waiting list for public housing but it's been two years and still no word....
I know these things will work themselves out in time, but at the moment feeling stuck and dis empowered creates many feelings of resentment and frustration for me, and I daresay my folks too.
And then there is the actual eating disorder. The disordered eating. Is it the chicken or is it the egg? Which part came first?
That riddle and more to be solved in the next instalment of:
(dumdumdumdaaaaaaa)
MEL GOES TO COUNSELLING, SESSION NUMBER 85785475733.
So I've been avoiding my German-shepherd owning neighbours for a week now. Still simmering away thinking how rude and ungrateful and arseholish that bloke is and how I will never speak/look/talk/sign language him ever again.
Until yesterday when he was out having beers in the lane way with the other neighbour and he waved at me and called out a bunch of sentences but because I couldn't hear him properly I just did the royal smile and wave and got my arse inside quick pronto.
Then a bit later I went to empty the bin and those two blokes were still out there drinking and chatting and they saw me and again yelled out. This time I got, "Oi matey! Come have a beer!" and I smiled and waved like the royal enigma that I am and got the fuck inside.
Internal debate raged on whilst making my kids' some paupers style food of baked bean jaffles. I took a good look at the facts.
Fact number one was clearly that Mr Friendly-neighbour obviously had NO clue that I have been hating his prickly arse this whole week or plotting my nasty comebacks and fiesty confrontations.
Mr Friendly-neighbour is completely puzzled why I won't speak to him or come anywhere near him, hence he really doesn't have a clue into the complex workings of the female brain (Ok, my particular female brain has been known to drive people completely whacko because apparently what goes on in there does not add up to anything resembling a rational or steady thought process)
So I do the only thing I can do and that is go outside and join them both for a drink. He pulls me up a fold out chair and hands me a bottle of midori mixed with coconut rum and pineapple. In two seconds flat he asks me what's been up and what's with the avoiding? -have I turned into a fucking snob or what?
I have my chance to say, "Listen, I hate feeding your dogs because frankly I can't be sure they will not chew my arm off to the bone and I'm terrified. And secondly, I hate that you saw me in my pink night gown and my boobs were loose and you caught me off guard and I have spent the last week or more imagining scenarios of you making fun of me."
But of course I don't say any of that. I say this: "What? Me? Avoiding? Noooooo, I haven't been avoiding. I've just been really busy. So did you have fun that weekend or what?"
And after two drinks we were all jolly good mates and there was laughter and merriment all round. UNTIL..I got up to go home and wobbled a bit on my feet and patted my head. "Oh lookie here, I'm half drunk," I tell them, "Yay!"
And you know what they say to me, "Good! Maybe you'll relax a bit and let someone get into your pants for a change."
Oh my God. Do they not get that I am royalty?
I immediately did the hand actions to create an invisible forcefield around myself just like they do on the cartoons. "You can't say that to me!" I protest and then I sing, "Lah lah lah, not listening."
"Stop being so damn conservative!" my friendly neighbour tells me and the other nuggett chimes in, "Ya need a root mate!"
And that my friends was the end of my drinkies session with those two neighbourhood bogans. I went home and put my head under the doona. Why do I even venture out in public?
Thursday, November 5, 2009
plodding along with my head in the clouds
Thanks to Ms Smack, I've got some old posts I can again post up here. She's a gem, eh?
So I'm still feeling sad and sensitive about the other day so I've been doing what I usually do when I'm in hermit mode: I watch movies. And read. And drink.
Last night I finished off, almost, a bottle of dry white wine from Vasse Felix Estate in Margaret River. By golly it was lovely - who'd drink that cheap stuff when we have such beautiful wineries making gloriously crisp plonk, wine from the Gods?
I have been to Vasse Felix Estate, when I was on my honeymoon with Nevin and then again a few times with visitors. Drinking the wine last night I remembered how much I loved being down that part of the world in WA and what a magic spot it is. Have you been to Margaret River? You really have to see it!
Anyway, yesterday I went and wasted 2 hours of my life watching 'Couples Retreat'. Some parts were entertaining and amusing, other parts were just frackin' 'orrible. Ridiculous. Cringe worthy - clunky dialogue and over the top acting. And really - I know a few Americans and there is no way that they'd be so boorish and vulgar and rude like the Americans portrayed in this film.
So yeah, while I was grateful to get out of the house and see a film, I wouldn't recommend this one.
Today after walking the dog I am off to see The Time Traveler's Wife..... and I think that will be amazing, I'm so excited.
What's that you say? I'm meant to be studying? Yes, I actually am meant to be studying but you know what? I'm in a mood. I'm hurtin'. Movies make it better ;)
So here are some more posts from the vault that I wrote about 2 years ago. I hope these don't make you cringe!
Last Friday night, so almost a week ago, I was at home in my pink nightie with the teddy bear on the front.
It was 9.15pm...the kids were up late watching a movie and I was pottering around doing an assignment. I was bra less. Yes that's right, I was letting the girls out free and wild and there was saggage of the boobage; there was wubblies of the jubblies.
But hell, it was late and I was in my own home with my own children (they can talk about it in therapy later).
So there is a knock at the door and before I can say, "Wait a minute guys!" my three kids have answered the door in excitement at who our late night guest might be.
The lights in my house are all on but outside the door it is dark. He can see me but I can't see him. As I walk down the hall and towards the front door I see that it is my neighbour - the man from over the back, the one with the two German shepherds that never get walked.
I immediately put my hands over both my breasts and grab a cushion from the couch to shield my chest. He is a friendly man, a bit of an Aussie ocker - he used to cycle for the Australian national team in bike racing and traveled all over Europe. Generally, I like him and we can share a quick chat.
"G,day mate," he says to me.
"Oh hi," I reply and hide myself behind the door.
"Yeah look, we're about to go away for the weekend..last minute decision. Would you be right to feed our dogs for two nights?"
I really really don't want to do this but he's put me on the spot and I nod, yep, ok, sure.
He stands there looking a bit dopey for a second and I wait for him to give me some follow up details and....a key, is there a key?
"Oh shit yeah sorry mate, a key. I was just a bit thrown off from watching ya walk down, that's all."
I immediately take this as a reference to seeing me walk down the hall in a pink nightie with my gallavanting gooligans swinging across my chest. I am ashamed.
I half laugh and say in a dry tone, "Yes well I suppose that would put anyone off their train of thought. And their lunch. Enough to make you feel sick, really."
He laughs with me. He doesn't agree with me, but he doesn't help me to feel better about myself either.
After he walks off I resent him twice as much. How dare he ask me to feed those two huge animals when he knows I don't like to do it and that I'm nervous around big dogs; and two , how dare he make a joke about me when he was the rude asshole who knocked at my door that late at night.
They have been back from their trip now for four days now and neither him or his wife have been over to say thank you to me for looking after his animals, or for leaving his key on the counter with a plate (MY plate) of home cooked apple slice.
I know this is my issue but every day that goes past I hate him a little bit more and worry about me being made the source of a joke to him and his wife.
So I'm still feeling sad and sensitive about the other day so I've been doing what I usually do when I'm in hermit mode: I watch movies. And read. And drink.
Last night I finished off, almost, a bottle of dry white wine from Vasse Felix Estate in Margaret River. By golly it was lovely - who'd drink that cheap stuff when we have such beautiful wineries making gloriously crisp plonk, wine from the Gods?
I have been to Vasse Felix Estate, when I was on my honeymoon with Nevin and then again a few times with visitors. Drinking the wine last night I remembered how much I loved being down that part of the world in WA and what a magic spot it is. Have you been to Margaret River? You really have to see it!
Anyway, yesterday I went and wasted 2 hours of my life watching 'Couples Retreat'. Some parts were entertaining and amusing, other parts were just frackin' 'orrible. Ridiculous. Cringe worthy - clunky dialogue and over the top acting. And really - I know a few Americans and there is no way that they'd be so boorish and vulgar and rude like the Americans portrayed in this film.
So yeah, while I was grateful to get out of the house and see a film, I wouldn't recommend this one.
Today after walking the dog I am off to see The Time Traveler's Wife..... and I think that will be amazing, I'm so excited.
What's that you say? I'm meant to be studying? Yes, I actually am meant to be studying but you know what? I'm in a mood. I'm hurtin'. Movies make it better ;)
So here are some more posts from the vault that I wrote about 2 years ago. I hope these don't make you cringe!
Being passive-aggressive is no fun at all
Last Friday night, so almost a week ago, I was at home in my pink nightie with the teddy bear on the front.
It was 9.15pm...the kids were up late watching a movie and I was pottering around doing an assignment. I was bra less. Yes that's right, I was letting the girls out free and wild and there was saggage of the boobage; there was wubblies of the jubblies.
But hell, it was late and I was in my own home with my own children (they can talk about it in therapy later).
So there is a knock at the door and before I can say, "Wait a minute guys!" my three kids have answered the door in excitement at who our late night guest might be.
The lights in my house are all on but outside the door it is dark. He can see me but I can't see him. As I walk down the hall and towards the front door I see that it is my neighbour - the man from over the back, the one with the two German shepherds that never get walked.
I immediately put my hands over both my breasts and grab a cushion from the couch to shield my chest. He is a friendly man, a bit of an Aussie ocker - he used to cycle for the Australian national team in bike racing and traveled all over Europe. Generally, I like him and we can share a quick chat.
"G,day mate," he says to me.
"Oh hi," I reply and hide myself behind the door.
"Yeah look, we're about to go away for the weekend..last minute decision. Would you be right to feed our dogs for two nights?"
I really really don't want to do this but he's put me on the spot and I nod, yep, ok, sure.
He stands there looking a bit dopey for a second and I wait for him to give me some follow up details and....a key, is there a key?
"Oh shit yeah sorry mate, a key. I was just a bit thrown off from watching ya walk down, that's all."
I immediately take this as a reference to seeing me walk down the hall in a pink nightie with my gallavanting gooligans swinging across my chest. I am ashamed.
I half laugh and say in a dry tone, "Yes well I suppose that would put anyone off their train of thought. And their lunch. Enough to make you feel sick, really."
He laughs with me. He doesn't agree with me, but he doesn't help me to feel better about myself either.
After he walks off I resent him twice as much. How dare he ask me to feed those two huge animals when he knows I don't like to do it and that I'm nervous around big dogs; and two , how dare he make a joke about me when he was the rude asshole who knocked at my door that late at night.
They have been back from their trip now for four days now and neither him or his wife have been over to say thank you to me for looking after his animals, or for leaving his key on the counter with a plate (MY plate) of home cooked apple slice.
I know this is my issue but every day that goes past I hate him a little bit more and worry about me being made the source of a joke to him and his wife.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
You had a bad day
Yes I did. Yesterday was horrible and I couldn't even collect my thoughts together about why it was so horrible, until I woke up this morning:
First off was my middle son, L, who decided that he didn't like his bedroom anymore because he has to share a bedroom with little O and that this is beneath him. He hates the posters on the wall and he hates the 'baby toys' and he hates the bedspread and he hates EVERYTHING. I told him he could swap rooms with his sister if she agreed and if O didn't mind.
That was my first mistake.
L worked really hard for an hour, and the kids seemed to be getting along and doing everything cooperatively. They emptied their rooms out and all we had to do was swap the beds over.
I told them that my Dad would have to come and dismantle the bunks and it was a big job - he might not say yes. L ran and asked him on the phone.
Second mistake.
My Dad said no. Absolutely not - those bunks are new, he only spent four hours putting them up a couple of months back and he thinks the whole idea was bad.
My Mother rang me and said, 'Why would you stress your Father out like that? He's very cross about it."
Now have I ever written before about L and his meltdowns? The meltdowns that can last FOUR HOURS?! When he was a little boy, he'd have them quite a lot. I was a wreck parenting him - I tried so many ways to get him to stop throwing huge tantrums, I saw social workers and counsellors and parenting classes for years. Anyway - he rarely has them. I'd say one every quarter to half a year usually over things like not wanting to go to school because of an incident or hair cuts. Hair cuts set him off....
Anyway - after having his hopes up (my fault) they were very quickly dashed and he threw himself in his bedroom and started screaming and wailing.
Have you heard a nearly-10 year old boy scream and wail? It's kind of distressing.
I tried talking to him gently. He argued and pleaded and begged and I had to keep on saying no. No. You can't swap rooms.
PLEEEEEASE MUM! PLEEEEEEEASE! I'll do anything - I'll do all the work. PLEASE!!
I had to keep saying no. No no no no no.
So he got worked up - started breathing funny and his red cheeks were tear-streaked and he did the stuff he used to do when he has a full blown meltdown. There is hitting his head. There is rocking. There is threats of wanting to die. And then he starts on how much he hates everything - how he has nothing that is his. He has no toys that are his...he has no 'stuff'. I told him that's because you don't play with 'stuff'. You've never played with stuff! Not lego, not blocks, not cars or trucks etc. The only reason O has so much 'stuff' is because he actually plays with it. L has never played like other little boys - the things he likes are play station games, and basketballs and bikes and clothes. So he has lots of those things. Unfortunately none of them are in his bedroom so he kind of forgets....
Anyway. FOUR HOURS of this went on and on an on. O got upset - hearing his brother scream about how much he hates sharing a room with him. I didn't know this, but during those four hours, O rang my Mum and told her that they were so mean not helping us with the bunks.
My Mother called me back. How dare you let O ring us and speak like that. "Mum," I explained, I have a distraught child that I am trying to calm down, I had no idea he did that. He's upset because L is throwing a tantrum."
Yes well, my Mum replied, thanks a lot for making us look like the bad guys. Why couldnt' you have just said no in the first place?
So I try to move the bunks on my own and I don't do a great job, but I move the furniture round a little bit so that L can have his own corner of the room that is his own bit of a space. We take the baby posters down. We draw a compromise that there is equal amounts of 'stuff' for each boy and each boy has a section of the room that is for their things. Thank God O is such an easy going type.... most of his toys are now out in the lounge room.
After a while L's tears stop and he helps me put books back in the shelves and he has settled down. I discover that the ladder for the bunk bed has loose parts so I try to fix it myself but I need bigger screws. I tell L to call my Dad and ask if he'll come over and fix the ladder to the bunk bed. L leaves a message.
An hour later my Dad calls us back and I tell him what has happened. I tell him that the bunks are fine and all I've done is shift them over a bit, but a screw has come loose from the ladder and does he mind popping over with some tools? He says he is on his way.
My Mother calls me straight after.
"How could you do this to your Father? After everything he does for you and the kids. You get L to leave a message saying, 'the bunk ladder is broken' and your Father, who paid a lot of money for those bunks, is so stressed out with this Mel. He's so disappointed."
I tell my Mum to cut it out. There is nothing to stress about.
She goes on. And on. And I have had my fill of listening to warbling shit, that exhausts me and takes away my will to live. So I yell at her, I yell at her that she doesn't know what she is talking about. That we havent' done anything wrong and once again she's too involved and thinks she knows everything.
She puts on this superior voice and says, "The ladder is broken because you tried to move the bunk, isn't that right?"
NO! I yell. The ladder isn't even stuck to the bunk. Those screws have been loose for a while. You dont' know what you are talking about - get your facts straight!
And I hang up on her.
Woops.
That won't go down well.
Dad comes over and it's awkward. He does a lot of sighing - I hardly speak. I feel judged by my parents.... because I am. I feel defensive because the kids and I seem to be disappointing them quite a bit. My parents think I dont' keep my house tidy enough, that I dont' do enough. I don't weed or garden. I don't clean the fish tank out. I don't stop the kids running amok. I don't make the kids have more respect and on and on it goes. Everytime something goes wrong in my house they are so quick to say to me, "It's because you let the kids swing/jump/pull/sit/run on it that is has broken." They don't listen for the story about what really happened. This takes its toll on me.
It was not a good day for my Mum to chastise me about the way I stress my Father out. I was spent. I had had enough of attacks and I snapped at her. She DID have her facts wrong as well - moving the bunks did not cause a screw to come loose in the ladder. It's because I was around the ladder that I noticed - but my Mum only sees what is wrong with what I do.
It is not good to have your parents have so much a say in your life but with their support (financial, emotional) comes a price. I live in one of their homes, so they come over a lot and know everything that happens here. They know a LOT about my life and I guess they feel entitled to comment on it. For instance: I asked my parents would they mind babysitting the kids for me this Saturday night? A friend is leaving for Canada and Julie and I want to go out for dinner and then back to my house for some drinks to farewell her off.
"When's your exam for uni?" Dad asks me.
It's the Monday following.
Mum and Dad both laugh at the same time, "You've got buckleys" my Mum says.
"Absolutely not," my Dad agrees.
Way to go eh? Way to be 35 and treated like an adult. Woohooo.
So last night I was feeling really bad about yelling at my Mum on the phone. I was feeling exhausted from four hours of dealing with my irrational, highly strung son who has real trouble dealing with disappointment. And then I jumped on facebook and commented on finger's status in a dopey way and some lovely woman obviously didn't get my sense of humour and well, she just topped off what was a fairly crap day.
I went to bed feeling blerch. I read New Moon by Stephanie Meyer and pretended I was an 18 year old girl who lived in Forks and was in love with a vampire. Sooooo much better than reality.
First off was my middle son, L, who decided that he didn't like his bedroom anymore because he has to share a bedroom with little O and that this is beneath him. He hates the posters on the wall and he hates the 'baby toys' and he hates the bedspread and he hates EVERYTHING. I told him he could swap rooms with his sister if she agreed and if O didn't mind.
That was my first mistake.
L worked really hard for an hour, and the kids seemed to be getting along and doing everything cooperatively. They emptied their rooms out and all we had to do was swap the beds over.
I told them that my Dad would have to come and dismantle the bunks and it was a big job - he might not say yes. L ran and asked him on the phone.
Second mistake.
My Dad said no. Absolutely not - those bunks are new, he only spent four hours putting them up a couple of months back and he thinks the whole idea was bad.
My Mother rang me and said, 'Why would you stress your Father out like that? He's very cross about it."
Now have I ever written before about L and his meltdowns? The meltdowns that can last FOUR HOURS?! When he was a little boy, he'd have them quite a lot. I was a wreck parenting him - I tried so many ways to get him to stop throwing huge tantrums, I saw social workers and counsellors and parenting classes for years. Anyway - he rarely has them. I'd say one every quarter to half a year usually over things like not wanting to go to school because of an incident or hair cuts. Hair cuts set him off....
Anyway - after having his hopes up (my fault) they were very quickly dashed and he threw himself in his bedroom and started screaming and wailing.
Have you heard a nearly-10 year old boy scream and wail? It's kind of distressing.
I tried talking to him gently. He argued and pleaded and begged and I had to keep on saying no. No. You can't swap rooms.
PLEEEEEASE MUM! PLEEEEEEEASE! I'll do anything - I'll do all the work. PLEASE!!
I had to keep saying no. No no no no no.
So he got worked up - started breathing funny and his red cheeks were tear-streaked and he did the stuff he used to do when he has a full blown meltdown. There is hitting his head. There is rocking. There is threats of wanting to die. And then he starts on how much he hates everything - how he has nothing that is his. He has no toys that are his...he has no 'stuff'. I told him that's because you don't play with 'stuff'. You've never played with stuff! Not lego, not blocks, not cars or trucks etc. The only reason O has so much 'stuff' is because he actually plays with it. L has never played like other little boys - the things he likes are play station games, and basketballs and bikes and clothes. So he has lots of those things. Unfortunately none of them are in his bedroom so he kind of forgets....
Anyway. FOUR HOURS of this went on and on an on. O got upset - hearing his brother scream about how much he hates sharing a room with him. I didn't know this, but during those four hours, O rang my Mum and told her that they were so mean not helping us with the bunks.
My Mother called me back. How dare you let O ring us and speak like that. "Mum," I explained, I have a distraught child that I am trying to calm down, I had no idea he did that. He's upset because L is throwing a tantrum."
Yes well, my Mum replied, thanks a lot for making us look like the bad guys. Why couldnt' you have just said no in the first place?
So I try to move the bunks on my own and I don't do a great job, but I move the furniture round a little bit so that L can have his own corner of the room that is his own bit of a space. We take the baby posters down. We draw a compromise that there is equal amounts of 'stuff' for each boy and each boy has a section of the room that is for their things. Thank God O is such an easy going type.... most of his toys are now out in the lounge room.
After a while L's tears stop and he helps me put books back in the shelves and he has settled down. I discover that the ladder for the bunk bed has loose parts so I try to fix it myself but I need bigger screws. I tell L to call my Dad and ask if he'll come over and fix the ladder to the bunk bed. L leaves a message.
An hour later my Dad calls us back and I tell him what has happened. I tell him that the bunks are fine and all I've done is shift them over a bit, but a screw has come loose from the ladder and does he mind popping over with some tools? He says he is on his way.
My Mother calls me straight after.
"How could you do this to your Father? After everything he does for you and the kids. You get L to leave a message saying, 'the bunk ladder is broken' and your Father, who paid a lot of money for those bunks, is so stressed out with this Mel. He's so disappointed."
I tell my Mum to cut it out. There is nothing to stress about.
She goes on. And on. And I have had my fill of listening to warbling shit, that exhausts me and takes away my will to live. So I yell at her, I yell at her that she doesn't know what she is talking about. That we havent' done anything wrong and once again she's too involved and thinks she knows everything.
She puts on this superior voice and says, "The ladder is broken because you tried to move the bunk, isn't that right?"
NO! I yell. The ladder isn't even stuck to the bunk. Those screws have been loose for a while. You dont' know what you are talking about - get your facts straight!
And I hang up on her.
Woops.
That won't go down well.
Dad comes over and it's awkward. He does a lot of sighing - I hardly speak. I feel judged by my parents.... because I am. I feel defensive because the kids and I seem to be disappointing them quite a bit. My parents think I dont' keep my house tidy enough, that I dont' do enough. I don't weed or garden. I don't clean the fish tank out. I don't stop the kids running amok. I don't make the kids have more respect and on and on it goes. Everytime something goes wrong in my house they are so quick to say to me, "It's because you let the kids swing/jump/pull/sit/run on it that is has broken." They don't listen for the story about what really happened. This takes its toll on me.
It was not a good day for my Mum to chastise me about the way I stress my Father out. I was spent. I had had enough of attacks and I snapped at her. She DID have her facts wrong as well - moving the bunks did not cause a screw to come loose in the ladder. It's because I was around the ladder that I noticed - but my Mum only sees what is wrong with what I do.
It is not good to have your parents have so much a say in your life but with their support (financial, emotional) comes a price. I live in one of their homes, so they come over a lot and know everything that happens here. They know a LOT about my life and I guess they feel entitled to comment on it. For instance: I asked my parents would they mind babysitting the kids for me this Saturday night? A friend is leaving for Canada and Julie and I want to go out for dinner and then back to my house for some drinks to farewell her off.
"When's your exam for uni?" Dad asks me.
It's the Monday following.
Mum and Dad both laugh at the same time, "You've got buckleys" my Mum says.
"Absolutely not," my Dad agrees.
Way to go eh? Way to be 35 and treated like an adult. Woohooo.
So last night I was feeling really bad about yelling at my Mum on the phone. I was feeling exhausted from four hours of dealing with my irrational, highly strung son who has real trouble dealing with disappointment. And then I jumped on facebook and commented on finger's status in a dopey way and some lovely woman obviously didn't get my sense of humour and well, she just topped off what was a fairly crap day.
I went to bed feeling blerch. I read New Moon by Stephanie Meyer and pretended I was an 18 year old girl who lived in Forks and was in love with a vampire. Sooooo much better than reality.
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