The Pink Helmet

Today we went down to the bike store to purchase a helmet for Boy.

When I told him earlier this week we needed to go and get a helmet he said

" Yes, I want a pink one. A pink helmet."

Later, he said he wanted an orange one.

Today when we arrived and made our way down to the back wall there wasn't a question in his mind.

He wanted the pink one.

So we got him the pink one. Because pink is his favourite colour right now. Because to Boy and every other three year old in the world. Pink is just another colour. Like orange.

It's not gender specific, it's not girly. It's a nice colour.

More importantly, the only people who will have issue with the colour of his helmet are inevitably the adults in his life, or the children who have been taught by those adults that pink is just for girls.

And you know when I type 'pink is for girls' all I hear in my head is the leering of someone who is implying that liking girly things is a negative.

Like if a boy wants to dance or sew or play with a baby doll he's girly and that's bad.

Or if a girl wants to jump or wrestle or fight she's a tomboy and that's bad too.

So what I really want to say. What I really want to model to my son. Is that everyone EVERYONE is different.

Some people like black. Some people like blue. Others like orange and some like pink too.

It's O.K to be different and its O.K to like the same things.

But what's isn't O.K is leering or jeering at someone because they like something that is different from what you like.

It's O.K not to like what someone else likes.

What isn't O.K is not accepting others for liking blue, having blue eyes or wearing blue shoes just because you don't like those things.

Because the world is a rainbow. And a rainbow is just as beautiful as a small Boy wearing a pink helmet in a park near you.

 

2 am

I have pregnancy insomnia.

Easily woken and difficult to get back to sleep, I've decided to do some blogging.

Not that blogging puts me to sleep. Just that its better than listening to Hunna breathe, reaaalllly heavily in his sleep.

Also, its not insomnia because I'm uncomfortable either. It's just can't switch off insomnia. Which is way worse, cause otherwise I would totally just go get one of those crazy looking worm pillows and go back to sleep.

I probably have subconscious pregnancy sleep issues - I wish I knew what they were so I could solve it all ready and go back to sleep.

Last week we finally ...finally got our first ever couch.

For the first few years we didn't need one because we mooched off Mummy Gibson or The Shire.

But then last year we grew wings and flew to Phillips.

But our furniture was sparse. ( thank goodness for my glory box obsession as a teenager )

When we moved to 3056 this year, we sold most our furniture so we wouldn't have to pack it up ( genius ) because this was my second move whilst pregnant I wasn't prepared to pack and lug much.

Plus our new apartment is teenie.

Mum says its not big enough to swing a cat in. I decline to comment on swinging cats but I can quite happily dizzy whizzy Boy in my empty lounge room and that's good enough for me.

Anyway, we sold anything that wasn't an absolute necessity.

Our new teenie apartment philosophy is love it or leave it.

It means if we are debating on something it generally means it won't come home.

So basically we've been sitting on the floor for 10 weeks since we moved in.

And the floor is hard. Especially for my soft pregnant ligaments. And I'm pretty sure the carpet doesn't have underlay, so it's like sitting on cement. Literally.

But last Tuesday, thankfully, our couch finally arrived. And a week early. And exactly two days before we had visitors so they didn't have to sit on the ground.

And it was awesome. And it is awesome.

I'm pretty sure I'm in love with three things right now. Hunna.. Boy.. and the couch.

Also, its on castors.. So I can push it around.

It moves about a hundred times a day.

Into the sun. Closer to a power point so I can charge my phone. Closer to the computer when we Skype. Around the room while I vacuum.

Yep. It's awesome. Why did I never think of castors before?

Have you tried cleaning behind/ underneath a couch before?? It sucks.

Actually, cleaning just sucks. So at least the castors mean I can get it done in 0.2 of a second.

Anyway, I just want to advocate putting wheels on your couch. If you haven't done so.. do try it.

Also. This whole post was about a couch. I'm sorry. I'm pregnant. It's 4 am.

Goodnight.

 

A bun.

 

Last Friday I ticked over to 22 weeks.

 

Where has the time gone?

 

I've been so busy cooking my little girl bun that I've been absolutely too completely busy to sit down and type.

 

Although, I will say this, before I go out to enjoy another warm day.

 

I was eating some cake, some deliciously yummy, raw strawberry and sunflower seeded base cake ( a new cook book, a new recipe ) and Boy had a piece too of course.

 

Except he finished his first and he asked me to share and I seriously, unequivocally did not want to share because he'd had his own piece and.. well, it was soo good.

 

And I was down to the last bite, and you know how you set yourself up for the last delicious bite and if you don't get it you're not ever satisfied. ( this happens a lot with Boy, he always seems to want to 'share' my food on the last bite ) and usually I'd share because telling him that he's all ready had his own piece and that is what's fair never works. So this time I said:

 

" Oh.... I'm sharing mine with the baby "

 

And the spoon hung at my mouth, with the delicious last bite sitting -glistening on it, while I waited to see if this answer would suffice for the three year old in the room.

 

And he smiled, and he looked at me with genuinely adoring eyes and he said:

 

" That's SO good Mumma."

 

And he looked lovingly down from my face at my little round belly and off he went.

 

And I sat there stunned.

 

Stunned that it had worked, so I greedily shoved that last bit of cake in my mouth before he realised the deception and came back.

 

But it didn't taste as good as I had imagined.

 

Because now I was completely distracted with feeling torn with guilt and awe.

 

Later Hunna said " You do technically share everything you eat with the baby"

And I thought about it, and it eased the guilt a little. But I am still in awe, at my Boy.

 

Who all ready loves this baby, so so much.

 

Who will kiss me and then her.

 

Who will hug me around the neck and then firmly wrap his arms around my belly and say " I hug the baby"

 

Who will yell out " Goodnight " to all three of us from bed.

 

And who will share, along side me, the last bite of delicious cake with her.

 

Love comes softly.

I wish I had the courage to show you my growing belly.

The way the scar from my surgery sits across it, a badge of honour on my slowly rounder stomach.

The pain of sickness contrasts with the smooth, ever tighter skin next to it and the life it contains.

The way its jagged edge veers around my belly button and the way Hunna traces it with his finger because he knows I can't feel anything on my scar.

The way he rests his head on my small blossoming belly and listens for signs of his ever stronger daughter.

Yes, baby is a girl.

We took the 20 week scan last Friday.

I lay there, my stomach bare for the technician to see, the machine wand swirling across my belly.

My nervousness clearly seen by the sweat seeping though the under arm material of my top.

When she told us her gender I knew she was our beloved.

Our little light, the one we could see at the end of the dark and drafty tunnel of the last few years.

The one we had been walking towards, our ray of hope.

And I felt as if we had made it to the end of the tunnel and stepped out into the glorious sunlight.

The radiance of light so bright, the warmth so enveloping, all I could do was feel, and stand in awe.

I feel more love. More love than I've ever felt before. For Boy, for Hunna. For our new baby girl.

For our, soon to be, more perfect family.

My heart has been on a journey these last few years.

A journey to learn to love and trust. A journey of recovery.

And I fear I will never be the same again.

 

Admittance

When I was pregnant with Boy, I worried a lot.

I worried a lot about life, about how we would cope with having a child and living with Hunna's parents.

But there is something I worried about more than anything else.

Babies.

I don't like babies. I mean ... I really don't like babies.

I have to say it.

I wouldn't mind if all babies arrived at about 4 months old. I'm happy with a 4 month old. I like 4 month olds. They're predictable. They interact. They smile.

{ I do understand why we don't push out 4 month olds, imagine that! }

But really baby babies and I have a somewhat rocky relationship.

Sometimes I feel pressure, pressure to pretend that I'm in love with other people's babies. That they are joyous and cute and I can't get enough of their baby smell.

I feel that I mustn't be maternal enough or perfect enough because I can't automatically love them or coo at them or trace their features with my finger.

People would tell me ' It's different when you have your own. '

But as my due date drew nearer, with Boy, I wasn't overly concerned about getting him out.

Because then I would have a baby.

And not just any baby. A baby that I couldn't give back. He would be my baby.

I desperately hoped for the instant bond that others said they experienced after birth.

But I can genuinely say. It wasn't instant.

I'd never had a baby. I'd never had a child. I didn't know what loving my own child was, or how to do it or how it would make me feel or react.

He was essentially a stranger, with different ideas on life. With different ideas on sleeping and eating. With different ideas on everything.

It was awkward and new and different and insane but eventually.

He changed me.

He taught me about pure love. About how it starts very small but grows and grows until you think your heart will burst.

How it fills you and radiates through your entire body.

How it changes you so radically that you know you will never be the same again.

Boy taught me about selfless love.

He taught me I have a greater capacity to love and be loved.

So, this time I am excited. I am allowing my self to look forward to having a new baby.

I know it will be hard and awkward and I accept that perhaps I'm just not a baby person.

But I also feel it will be different with this baby.

Because Boy with his infinite patience and understanding has paved the way.

And I can't wait to love and cherish and adore another member of our family.

Even if it will be awkward just for a little while.

 

It's about food.

When I was younger and living on my own, I loved to feed people. It began after dating an apprentice chef for a while.

His love to cook was catching and after we stopped dating I continued to learn and cook and invite people over to test my food.

Early on in the piece I had a guy friend. We had been friends forever. I would invite him over to eat ( one of his favourite past times ).

We had never dated, I don't think we knew where we were going at that point in time and we both accepted the fact that friends are much more reliable and fun than being interested in each other.

One afternoon I invited him over to try some pasta.

It had pesto and potatoes and beautiful thick pappardelle mixed in with garlic.

Unfortunately, instead of putting the right amount of garlic in, I had doubled the garlic needed.

It was obvious that the pasta was destined to fail once I realised what had happened.

He insisted on trying it anyway, and in what others would see as gentlemanly- ate it anyway. Insisting it was good.

The only thing was, I knew it wasn't.

And right then I knew - over some extremely garlicky pasta, that I wasn't ever going to marry someone who couldn't be truly honest. It annoyed me that I couldn't trust him to be constructively critical ( he was a very honest person, I'm not saying he wasn't) I just didn't want anyone to insist I was perfect or what I made was prefect because .. well.. we all know I'm not.

Which is strange because I coin myself as a romanticist. And that is a very realist perception.

When I met Hunna. I fell in loke almost immediately, I fell in loke because of his good looks ( haha ) charm, and genuine concern for me. But I fell hard in love with him because of his honesty. But the right honest. Not the rude, condescending honest. The well balanced honest. The improving honest.

I remember cooking for him, this time the pasta dish was a spaghetti with thin lemon sauce, pine nuts, chives and other yummy light summery ingredients.

At the time I was very use to eating mainly vegetarian meals to keep the shopping bill down.

He had come from his Mothers house, where scottish traditions of meaty meat and veg with gravy and bread reign supreme.

I loved the dish, I thought it was light and zesty.. But it needed more sauce. It was a little dry.

Hunna ate his dinner up and when I asked him what he thought his reply was honest, considerate, constructive and beautifully formed.

He said he recognised the dish was yummy and that he could see other people would really enjoy it. He said it definitely needed more sauce but in the end, his personal taste meant he just didn't like it that much.

A few weeks ago, we sat in our favourite cafe in 3056 and each ordered a sandwich.

Menu: Miss Marmalade

He had #1 ( full of meat and cheese ) and I had number #2 ( packed with delicious flavour ).

When we go out, we each order something and share half with the other.

We each ate half our sandwiches and handed the other half to each other.

I took a few bites out of my new sandwich and he took a few out of his new sandwich and without saying anything we swapped back.

Hunna said " It's a delicious sandwich I can see why you like it, it's very you"

And I said " It would be good for you because you love meat"

I love that we agree on almost everything. But I also love that when we disagree on things some times; we can both be honest. I relish our different opinions. Because we can always talk constructively about stuff and not feel offended if its not what the other person thinks.

And its good for Hunna because if he lied and told me something I made was tasty I'd probably make it for him again!

Hunna has taught me that honesty is the best policy, when delivered with tact and thoughtful consideration.

He has taught me, the way you package something is just as important and what you are trying to give.

*although I may not always get the tact right, hey Collette?

 

The Finish.

Hunna finished his apprenticeship the other day. It's been three and a half years of trial filled with little excitement or hope.

We learnt big lessons. We learnt that although it's tough and hope is rarely given. It is made. It can be manufactured in our minds.

Hope can be found where we foster it. It's found in the little things. The small pleasures, the big dreams.

It's found in big plans which are solved creatively because of a little purse.

It's found in freedom, faith and free things.

In friends and in family.

On his last day as an apprentice, a Thursday, he was away from us.

There were no loud bangs, large epiphanies or exuberant celebrations.

Not in his hotel room, and not in our apartment at home.

Nobody slapped him on the back for a job well done. Nobody called his name from a stage and handed him a scroll of ribbon tied paper.

But as I went to bed that night, I smiled at the empty spot next to me.

I smiled because we made it, he made it.

So here's to you Hunna. Here's to self reliance, to creativity and perseverance.

Here's to turning the next page and continuing the adventure.

Here's to wangling life.

 

Teaching Boy.

I have no qualifications other than that; I have an opinion, have been a child and I am a parent.

But I feel sometimes that can be qualification enough.

I want to respond to a post I read. It seems I have more to say on parenting than I thought.

This is in response to an article by Mayim Bialik on Today Moms.

When I was young I was taught to say please and thank you with a wooden spoon.

In other words. I learnt to say things without genuinely knowing why I was saying them. I learnt to say them to get out of trouble/hurt, I learnt to lie.

When I went to school I learnt to memorise, I passed an entire geography test on Tasmania ( there was a picture of Tasmania with numbers all over it ) by memorising what number (1) corresponded with what town/city ( Launceston) on the map. If the teacher was smart enough to change the test from the cheat sheet He had given I would've been completely stuffed.

It wasn't until I learnt to drive at 17 that I actually remembered where the Midland Highway was, because up until that point I had never wanted to drive down it before.

So you see. I learnt a whole lot of stuff in school I will never remember because it wasn't relevant to me at the time and it wasn't even made to seem relevant. And to be honest, it's not relevant now.

In fact, I don't know most of my times tables instantly - if I want to figure something out it takes me longer because I never bothered memorising it and if I can't be bothered counting, I'll just get out a calculator.

I still sing my 6 times tables to the song on a tape that Mum gave me as a kid. 1 six is 6, 2 sixes are 12, 3 sixes are 18.. ( you get the point) it's not the best when I'm in the middle of a shop...

( I actually think its less important to know everything and more important to know where you can find out something )

So basically. I didn't know WHY I was learning a lot of things, and I didn't know WHY I was saying a lot of things.

All I knew was that apparently I needed to do, say or be something or I would get in trouble.

As an adult, I have a massive problem with motivation because I was never taught self motivation.

I was always motivated by ' getting in trouble ' and not the curiosity to learn and apply something.

So now my motivation doesn't depend on anyone else, I have little. Sound much like Gen Y?

Lots of us are all muddling around, because we don't know what we want to do, or what makes us fulfilled, in a melancholy state. Because we don't know how to be genuinely self motivated.

Ever heard the quote " I get more house work done in the 10 minutes before someone comes over than I do in a whole week?" Well, that's me. External motivation.

Now don't get me wrong, external motivation IS important. It helps regulate us so we know what is socially acceptable in certain circumstances. If we weren't externally motivated at some point we would all end up behaving like brats saying stuff like " I'm not doing it because I don't want to do it" or the current " YOLO" .

So there is a balance, in everything.

So here's where my childhood affects my parenting.

 

I try to parent genuinely.

I try to understand things are interesting to me and not to Boy. Things that are relevant to me are not relevant to him.

I use real world opportunities to teach and they tend to stick more than, singing the ABC song.

( He does sing the ABC song but his WHY right now is because he loves to sing, he just thinks its a nice tune..)

It's more important to me that he sits in a cafe and, looking at the waitress, orders from his menu. ( Seriously, way Mum proud )

It's more important to him and me, that he learns how to wipe, put his wee in the toilet after going potty, flush and wash his hands independently than it is for him to count to 100.

It's more important right now that he learns communication and self regulation than what the square root of any number is.

Shock, my 3.5 year old can only count to 16 and maybe 17 on a good day.

Why? Because he doesn't need to count any higher.

Right now, his real world application range for counting (" Mumma, can I please have three pieces of apple " ) stay within the limits of 1 - 17.

So he uses what he needs.

He is motivated by : communication.

( *I fully expect this will change in the future and I will hopefully adjust accordingly.)

I want something, I want a certain amount of something, or I need to describe something to get it.

So I'll use some counting, some colours, some shapes, some size references.

One day I sat with a bunch of shapes and tried to teach him their names and it just didn't work. He wanted to build a tower which he could knock down. He didn't want to look at shapes. He didn't have a reason.

Yeah I could've drummed it into him, until he'd memorised it and become a child genius.

But when I teach, I try to give him a reason. A reason why he wants to learn this. A reason why he wants to remember it and a reason why he wants to do it.

Today it's because he wants to communicate.

But this rarely ever happens over a piece of paper or siting at a table.

We started with:

" Mumma, look a dog "

Me " Wow. What a little dog "

( next time we see a dog )

" Mumma look a little dog "

Me " Wow. Look at that little brown dog "

Boy " Yes, and white too "

But this extends past general mathematics.

It also extends to saying please, thank you and sorry. It extends to sharing and behaving in a socially acceptable manner.

He will only remember it and do it; if its applicable to him. And I want him to do it because he is self motivated not externally motivated.

I want him to be genuine. There's nothing worse than getting a disingenuous apology as an adult. It sucks and it makes me feel invalidated.

The good thing on this occasion is that he genuinely wants to be heard, loved and accepted. He wants to communicate with me and others positively. And when someone is upset he knows that its not positive.

Which is why, if he asks politely for something, even if he doesn't say please I thank him for being polite and give it to him.

Imagine if you approached someone and said " would it be possible to have that put over there?" And instead of acknowledging your polite and reasonable request they said " Say please, say please or I'm not doing it for you" ...

Well, you'd say please to get what you wanted, and then you would learn to say it simply to get what you wanted. But I don't think you would learn to be genuine.

And ironically, insisting another adult say please is pretty rude in a social situation. We just don't say it to our peers. So why do we say it to our children?

Model the behaviour, praise them when they use it and teach them why so they learn to be genuine. ( rinse and repeat )

One of the other big issues I have is saying sorry.

If Boy upsets me or does something wrong I communicate why.

" Boy, you really upset me when you spoke that way. It hurt my feelings."

( and because he is 3.5 he doesn't get the implication that he should apologise, in-fact I'm glad he doesn't because one day this happened.)

" Boy you really hurt me when you threw the toy and it hit me, I feel hurt now.. ( awkward pause) ... you should say sorry.."

And then he said " I don't want to say sorry."

And I stopped .. and instead of forcing him to say sorry I said. " Ok, if it happens again you will loose the toy "

( please note: even if he apologises and says sorry there is still a consequence.. For instance: " Thank you for saying sorry, if it happens again you will loose the toy, perhaps you could do that outside so you don't hurt anyone else ")

I didn't force him to say sorry. And here's why. 10 minutes later he came up to me and he said " Mumma, you no sad, I'm sorry " and I knew he felt genuine remorse. He thought about it. And that was way more positive than forcing him to say sorry because I wanted him to.

It also taught me not to get hung up on receiving an apology to forgive. ( Hunna and I often model this behaviour in our own dealings- sometimes we need time to cool down before we can give a genuine apology. Because that's real life. )

In fact. I've over reacted about something and lost my temper, thought about it, and later apologised to Boy and he's even said " I'm sorry too Mumma"

Its the genuine positive communication, the type where he is the instigator and he uses his self motivation that makes me feel like we are raising him to be a darn real good member of society.

So I really don't give a hoot if he can't count to 59, why would he need to?

Sometimes, as a parent, there is so much pressure to make sure our children succeed by ' societal standards' that what we actually do is end up stifling their creativity, their ability to self initiate learning and their motivation to do good.

 

*If you want to know my philosophy on sharing, then I agree whole heartedly with that particular section in the article from Mayim Bialik.

Please note, I don't agree with everything in the article I am responding to.

*all of the above is my ( currently ) self validated opinion. Externally validated because I think I have a very patient, loving, genuine and polite son.

Which is probably partly to do with my parenting but more likely to do with the fact he's just a cool kid.

 

Dear Baby

Dear Baby,

Two weeks ago I started feeling your first little jabs and now they are strong enough that even your Dadda can feel them.

^15 weeks (September 27th)

In another two weeks I find out what you are. I'm sorry if you wanted it to be a surprise. I'm just not very good at surprises.

Your Dadda thinks you are a boy and some days he thinks you are a girl. I think he can't make up his mind!

You are growing every day. I like that.

^18 weeks (October 18th)

I like the way you make my belly rounder every week and that I get to feel curvy and feminine. I don't get to feel curvy very often.

I am very happy for you to stay inside for a while longer, I don't feel bloated or sick or anything except maybe a little moody.

In fact. You've been so good to me that I only felt a little tired in the beginning.

This spring/ summer will be our last as a family of three and when Autumn comes so will you.

We are savouring every moment of it being just us three for now but we are equally excited for your arrival.

 

Yours truly,

Mumma

 

DAY 12

* the cutest monthly desktop calendars can be found on Love Mae

 

On day 12 without him.

We finished our conversation and I text 'Love U' & he replied 'Love you' and I felt so cheap.

One tiny little word difference: YOU.

And I felt like his 'you' had hurled my 'u' into orbit.

He had spoken. It was final. He loved me.

I realised the power of words.

Words not spoken, words spoken.

Spoken so clearly, so directly, that they could not be misunderstood.

And I wished so hard that my lame little 'u' would morph into an orbit hurling 'you' too.

Because I really wanted to tell him.

Just how much I missed him.

Just how much I loved him.

Because I do love YOU dear Hunna.

YOU, YOU, YOU.

You are mine and I am yours for eternity.

WE are married- not just til death- but forever. Fact.

This alone comforts me the most when we are apart so much.

Because I think that's just about the absolutely, most positively romantic thing you could ever have done for me.

When I play ' what if ' in my head and plan vastly different life scenarios where my life leads to endless riches or Nobel prizes for curing cancer.

You are always there. You take me to the alter in every new scenario just so I can kneel across from you and say " YES! Yes, yes, yes!!" over and over again.

I want to be with you forever. I love that we are together forever.

If there was a choice ( in another life scenario) of only remembering one thing and forgetting everything else; I would choose to keep the knowledge that you and me are together, forever.

Screw you death.

 

Also, in this scenario I would hope we'd have a special notebook and you'd patiently read it to me every week to bring me back to full cognition, even for a moment.

Except in this scenario, the knowledge we would be together forever would make the final scene - our two old dead bodies next to each other on a single nursing home bed - way more romantic and emotional.

 

* if you've missed my corny splurges, you'll be happy to know the Internet had finally been connected in our new home and regular blogging updates will of course now re-commence.

( I know you've been hanging out for this stuff Collette ..)

 

Surprise!

 

 

To Dad.

I have a Dad..

 

When Dad first passed; when I was thirteen.

I thought the hole in my stomach, the big black hole that sucked everything into it, I thought it would never leave.

The darkness followed me. It sat in my stomach. A constant and hidden reminder that my Dad wasn't here anymore.

The ugliness settled in my stomach the morning he passed. The morning I heard the paramedics cross the threshold of our front door.

I heard it all, the way Mum spoke to them in hushed whispers. The way Collette crept from her room with tentative steps.

I knew he was gone. But I wanted to lay there. I just wanted to lay there in my bed, in the semi-darkness, and freeze time in the moments where there is still some hopeless hope before Mum quietly stepped into my room with tears in her eyes and finally told me.

I wished she wouldn't come.

I wished I could lay there forever pretending to be oblivious to the truth that lay in the other room.

But of course she came in, and the rest of the day is a flurry of movement.

I watched from the front window as they rolled his still body in a bag down the path.

I knew I would never touch him again.

I would never hear his voice again. His infectious laugh.

And the hole in my stomach began to grow.

Later that day, when the shock wore off, I sat crying ever so softly in my room. When Simone walked in.

She said " Were you thinking about it?"

And I told myself that if thinking about it hurt so much, I wouldn't think about it anymore.

And the black hole in my stomach grew.

At the funeral I sat, with family around.

I disconnected, and the darkness covered my eyes.

I thought of nothing. I saw nothing.

And I didn't cry. Not one tear that day.

Not when I saw his lifeless body resting in a sea of white cushions in his coffin.

Not when tiny J.P stumbled through the lyrics of a primary song when he became overwhelmed. His body shaking from grief.

Not even as I stood at the grave site and the dirt pile stood tall next to the hole. Each grain of earth representing the immense weight of the day.

I thought of nothing. I saw nothing. I felt nothing.

My grief, had lasted less than three minutes a few days earlier when I'd softly cried in my room.

After the funeral I changed from the heavy dark coat I had been wearing; I would never wear it again. I put on jeans and a t-shirt. I surfaced as if a butterfly from a chrysalis.

My absent Aunty said " You look different."

And I told myself I could play the part.

Much later, Mum asked a friend who is a counsellor to come and see me.

I sat, my body turned from her as I faced the fireplace.

I sat while her words probed and felt through the darkness that had grown out of my stomach and into my heart.

And the anger grew.

Today. Today I cry with grief more than I did in the first seven years after his death. I think of his love, his smile and even his wrinkles.

I think of him. Sometimes constantly. Sometimes a little.

I allow myself to mourn. I allow myself to cry.

And most importantly I feel.

The anger and the darkness has gone. It doesn't rule my every action and decision anymore.

Instead I feel as if I am missing a piece of my heart.

Yesterday I thought of him. But instead of thinking of his face I thought of the plate above his grave. The butterfly and the flower etched into the metal.

A few years ago, one of my best friend's mother passed. I stood, in her parent's kitchen, gripping her close in an embrace that felt like none other before it.

Her tears wet my neck as she sobbed into my shoulder and asked me if it ever gets better.

I wish I could have comforted her in some way, I wished that I could lie and tell her tomorrow she would wake up and all the pain would be gone.

Instead I told her the truth.

" It never gets better. It never goes away - but it does get easier. "

Because even if you aren't thinking about how you lost a mother or a father, even if you forget for a little while. There is always a nagging in the corner of your heart that something is missing.

Like when you pack for a holiday and you bite your lip as you shut the front door because you know you've forgotten something on your list but you just can't remember what it is.

That feeling is always with you. Forever.

And eventually you learn to embrace it, and live life with the feeling.

And you accept it because it becomes a part of your new life. And you even use the feeling, because you like to know its there when you want to get out the magnifying glass and remember and smile about what a great life you had with them.

Today I got out the magnifying glass because yesterday I thought of the plate above his grave and not his whispey white hair and sun touched skin.

Because today I needed to remember him. Not his grave.

Happy Father's Day to the best Dad I'll ever have.

 

The third person

 

Sometimes I feel like there is another woman in our marriage. A third person. Unfortunately the work mistress rather openly diverts Hunna's time and attention.

 

When I am at home I wonder what he is doing, where he is and where he is going.

 

I wonder if he sleeps in dingy hotels with her or if she takes him to places more upper class.

 

I wonder if he loves her more than me.

 

I wonder if what she pays him is worth it, if its enough for the sacrifice.

 

Last week they were in Perth together. Him & and Her.

 

They spent nights in the city and days together in the wind and rain.

 

I wonder of he likes it like that, just him and her for days on end....

 

 

Over the last few weeks I got a gentleman friend.

 

Now there is four in our marriage. His work mistress and my work gentleman.

 

My gentleman and I only spend time with one another late at night. When I leave Hunna and kiss him on the head as he settles into bed.

 

Unlike Hunna's mistress I don't need my gentleman for the money. It's more because I actually really like him. I like how he is mine and I don't share him with anyone else.

 

As I drive to work I don't have the chatter of a little person in the seat behind me.

 

Sometimes I turn on music that definitely isn't Play School up really loudly.

 

Sometimes I sit in silence. Amazed at the quiet. My eyes staring out into the darkness.

 

I like to think that while I am away on my late night trysts that Hunna misses me as much as I miss him when he's with her.

 

But when I return he is inevitably tucked up snug in bed asleep and most probably happy he had some time alone.

 

I wonder if I am a jealous wife.

 

I wonder if I should feel guilty for having a gentleman.

 

I wonder if wanting to work makes me a good mother or a bad mother.

 

I wonder if it makes me a better wife.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today

Today I can hear him wherever he goes...

Today is a magical musical melodious day.

 

Some things we will miss...

As we anticipate another move, I reflect over the last 12 months here at Phillips.

There are some things we will definitely miss.

One of those is the new local library/learning hub which was completed at the end of June. It's a huge 22 million dollar building with all new 'stuff'

Particularly they run a free program for Pre-Schoolers twice a week for an hour.

Each week there is a theme, books read, songs sung and then a crafty activity at the end.

It's really fun and unlike other libraries which have 20 minutes of Rhyme Time once or twice a week (with huge amounts of people) we get a massive plasma that flashes activities and words up as we sing, read and sign Auslan for a whole hour! 

We plan on going as much as possible before we leave ( if only to play with all the dogs )

Clean Up Cloud 9

Over the last week and a bit ( since the blog went dead ) the ball has begun to roll.

I'm simplifying.

First- I have started packing for our exciting move. Yes, we are moving again. Closer to the city. To become real melbournites.

This means. We are down sizing, which helps me justify selling most of the stuff we don't use and just hang on to ' just in case'

It's very gratifying packing and sorting and knowing soon, very soon, our adventure here at Phillips will be over and a new one begun.

It's also very gratifying removing the clutter from my life. Everytime I tag and box an item for our upcoming garage sale I feel a little lighter. A little more exited about being free from our extra stuff. ( and we have a lot of extra stuff)

I have been reading a blog called Documenting Delight.

Georgia is on an adventure to reduce and has decided not to purchase anything unnecessary for a whole year she calls it 'doing without'.

I love the idea of creating community swaps and gleaning items from family and friends.

I don't know if I would have the stamina to go for so long without buying absolutely anything except the absolute necessities.

So my happy compromise is to live with less. Purchase less and make sure what we have is well worth the money and space.

Did you know she lived in a bus once?

Anyway.

I am organising a combined garage sale. I don't have enough stuff to justify having a garage sale on our own, and even if we did. It wouldn't be as much fun if I couldn't do it with my beloved friends.

So come buy our stuff. ( including two of these suede chairs at a bargain price ) clothing, craft items, books, furniture, booqi stock, retro signs and glass doors and anything you can think of. We've got it for sale.

 

A bunch of stuff.

Hunna says I should stop reading other people's blogs because their lives are definitely not as perfect as they might seem.

I'm not under the impression that Joy has the perfect life or Kelle or Ashley or any one from any of the other blogs I read.

I think it's more about remembering, relishing and enjoying the good things. Moving on from the bad things. Capturing the moments and making memories.

They uplift me, they motivate me. They're better than any trashy mag I've ever read because they're real.

Most of all I want to read things that are real.

I want to blog about stuff that is real, that saunters around in me. That is the important stuff in my life bubble. My little monologue.

Currently, my quarter life crisis is in full swing. I feel weighed down by our stuff ( and some people who know us would probably think we don't have much stuff ) but to be honest with you, the mountains of stuff we drag from house to house weighs heavy on my shoulders.

Do we really need it all?

No we don't. Nope. Not at all.

Will I miss any of it? Probably not.

When we moved in to Phillips I set about acquiring stuff thinking it would complete the picture of our family life.

I bought a table and chairs. A chest of drawers and more.

Over the last 6 months since major could've died surgery, I've decided we don't need that stuff. So I've been selling it. All of it. All the new stuff and some of the old.

Like Adam Baker. I want to accumulate experiences, not stuff.

My perspective is slowly shifting.

Stuff doesn't love me. It doesn't care for me, and it won't be the thing I look back on in 50 years and say " Gee, I'm glad I had all that stuff "

So I want to tear back the stuff mentality I am caught in. I want to whittle it down the the bare essentials. A few well made pots and pans, rather than 10 crappy Kmart ones. A few timeless tops, rather than 50 cheaper ones. From 150 pairs of shoes to less than 20.

We can make do. Because I am absolutely sure. Everytime Nan got a new recipe that called for a different type of baking tin, she didn't go buy a new one to fit.

Our lounge room looks like it has been trashed, I'm in packing mode as our rental agreement finishes up in September and I am hoping we can grab somewhere a lot closer to the city, a lot smaller and fit in a lot less stuff.

{But at least Boys room looks like this ( for now)}

So please buy my stuff. Because I don't want it back. Ever.

 

List-erine

I'm not 100% sure why I typed my life is a mess into google. (It's really not that bad)


I'm pretty sure I'm bored, and being melodramatic helps me beat off boredom.

So of course the Dr. Phil website pops up with links to :

What was I thinking?
Stop excusing inexcusable behaviour
Take responsibility for your life.

Hmm..
Interesting, some people have huge issues.

But I've got bigger fish to fry Dr. Phil.

I am on the path to self discovery
( read about my quarter life crisis here)

Ok, so it seems the haircut might not have worked to jettison my butt into action. ( I'm not even sure if jettison was the right verb to use then, but it sounded important. So I'll stick with it..)

So now it's down to me and a list.

What type of a list helps with self discovery?

I suppose I better use my excellent list making skills to list a few things I need to finish:

Things to finish:
#1 From like to loke, from loke to love and beyond.
#2 Dear Boy

Things to do:
#3 Search for meaningful online course which is relevant to me..
#4 Search for meaningful job which will suit my SAHM/ lady of leisure lifestyle.
#4.5 Take life a lot less seriously.

Things to start:
#5 write my life story

Things to wish for:
#6 talent scout finds you, loves your writing and pays you to write a weekly column like Carrie Bradshaw in Sex & The City, only with a lot less nudity attached and much better humour.

Epiphany: ( see i told you list writing helps!) look into journalism, writing and or becoming the next J.K Rowling. ( but most definitely not like Charlie Cussing Pickering and his biased platforming pseudo journalistic posse)

Although props for Pickering because he probably doesn't type 'my life is a mess ' into google.

List out.

Rubicon Red

Sometimes I think my life is like hating Alison Ashley.

Like I am Erica Yurken.

 

The awkward, self absorbed, über ( seriously, who uses über anymore?) dramatic, plain, short one.

Then ( regularly ) my life/the situation montages in front of my eyes - like at the end of the movie.

Snippets of conversation and a flash of 2 second images brightening my cornea.

 

That's when I realise what a complete twat I have been this whole time.

 

Sigh.

At least I accept that I am a massive brat.

 

Oh! ....Hey Mum!

 

P.s: Tasmania has great cheese. I miss great cheese.. and apples. You guys don't know how good you've got it down there with your cheese and your apples..

When I pay.

Whenever I go to the shops, and I'm standing over the POS machine.

When the cashier says " That'll be $42.70."

And I say " Just on eftpos please. "

When I slot my card into the machine, select the account and type in my pin.

In the small space of time while the little screen says 'processing'.

I always, always feel really awkward.

Should I look at the machine? Because I don't want to come across as being too eager, waiting for the machine to say ' approved ' -- like I'm crossing my fingers and toes it'll work..

Should I look at the attendant? Smile and make the awkward pause seem twice as long while neither of us says anything?

Usually.. I pretend that my wallet has something interesting in it, or needs re-arranging or simply needs to be zipped back up.

Yesterday, when this happened for the bazillionth time, I actually accidentally dropped my wallet on the linoleum. And I was thankful I had a decent excuse not the feel awkward, because I legitimately had something to fill in those few seconds between processing and approved.

' Woops' I said, as I bent down and picked it up. And the thought crossed my mind that I should pretend drop my wallet from now on because it wasn't as awkward as standing awkwardly waiting for everything to process.

Which is ridiculous.

But it got me thinking. How many social restraints do we put on ourselves because of how we think others are perceiving us?

The other week when Simone came to visit we were sitting on the bench next to one another while Flynn and Boy played at the park.

She said she always felt she was suppose to look at her phone while she was waiting for him to finish playing, because she needed to seem busy.

Which is the exact opposite of the pressure I feel when I go to the park. I feel, I am not allowed to look at my phone, that I must constantly watch Boy and be an active participant ( from the park bench ) by watching his every move or people will think I'm a bad parent ( this has something to do with my age / how young I look)

Why am I always doing things to try and appeal to the way I want / think others perceive me?

Why can't I just sit and watch or go on my phone or play with Boy and not feel awkward every step of the way because I am worried about what other people are thinking.

And the logical truth is, I know that nobody is thinking about me. I know that people don't care. That they're so involved in their own selves they probably don't even notice what I am doing.

So why do I continue to feel so awkward?

So I went to the hairdresser on Saturday, ( I loathe going to the hairdresser ) it always presents yet another situation for utter awkwardness.

Two people. A long period of time. A mirror. Touching from a complete stranger. If I didn't find it so frightening I'd find it hilarious.

Luckily, I had decided to just walk in to a random hairdresser and get, come what may, whom ever I got. I have no loyalty to hairdressers. Except to Craig.

First awkward situation, hair washing.

Do I look at the ceiling? Do I shut my eyes and enjoy it? Do I talk to the assistant who is leaning so close to me, I can feel her breath on my face as she scrubs and washes.

I resign to look at the down light. Her jaw line an out of focus fuzz as I look directly up like a glazed zombie.

Thankfully, the hairdresser was not one to begin awkward conversation. So the next hour was only filled with " head back please, head forward please, is this length good?

I relaxed because I didn't need to fill the next hour with painstakingly awkward small talk with a stranger.

And for this first time at the hairdresser, I actually looked at myself in the mirror. I mean, really looked at myself.

Usually, I don't want to seem on my self, and I avoid.. at all cost, looking at myself.

I looked at the shade of my skin, the slightness of my wrists resting on the arms of the chair, the blue hue of my eyes. The ashy brown of my hair colour. The plumpness of my lips.

And I realised, for the first time in my life. That I could actually be pretty. In 25 years I have looked at my self most mornings, with make-up in hand : trying to desperately fix the flaws but never really looking at myself. Never noticing the good stuff. Only the stuff that needed to be fixed.

I suddenly noticed the slight shimmery glow that emanates from my porcelain skin, the way my natural hair colour suits the hue of my eyes and the pallor of my skin, my delicate clavicle.

I've dyed my hair and tanned my skin and plumped and preened all of the things I suddenly saw could actually be pleasant.

For the first time in years I didn't cry about my haircut, I didn't whinge afterwards about how horrible it was.

I simply rejoiced in the newness of it all.

I felt a completely different person.

Liberated. Genuinely confident. And like, through all the awkwardness I should just be myself. I could be myself. The possibilities are endless.

 

Golden crust on an apple pie

Sinking.

 

Drifting.

 

Sleeping.

 

Feeling.

 

Heart Beating.

 

Who am I?

 

Time for a hair cut.

 

9 lives.

They say cats have 9 lives, lucky for cats.

Unlucky for us non cats.

I am sitting here today after yesterday's entry and trying to drum up something in my head that is doable.

The words of the sunscreen song whirling around in my mind, over and over.

" Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life…the most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives, some of the most interesting 40 year olds I know still don’t. "

It doesn't make me feel any better.

 

So of course, I google ' the prefect life' because apparently I google everything these days. Seriously. I do.

( At this point in time I wonder if Mum is ever embarrassed by me, If I was my Mum would I be embarrassed by a child who googles 'the prefect life' and then unceremoniously dumps her baggage, regularly, online?... ...probably, except she'd definitely use an adjective like uncouth to describe the whole deal)

 

At the top of the google search page I found 5 things a palliative care worker says her patients say before they die:

1. 1.) I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.
3. 2.) I wish I didn’t work so hard.
5. 3.) I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.
7. 4.) I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.
9. 5.) I wish I had let myself be happier.

I absolutey and utterly understand number one. It makes me feel even more determined to commit to something right for me.

The problem being, I don't know what the right thing for me is yet.

Also, I called Collette. From this blog post - you'll know that means I am ready for cold hard facts.

She's good at that.

And telling people who push in to get to the back of the line.

But mostly I am still just as confused as I was.. As I have been. My whole life.

 

Cake, it's delicious.

I'm going to be 25 this year...

Bring on the quarter life crisis.

If you ask anyone who knows me, they might tell you that I am very non-committal.

O.k -- they probably won't. Because that would be rude, and you'd probably be gossiping if that sorta topic came up. So stop.

But..In general, I would say; I am well and truly over some things within twelves months .. O.K - not some things.. 99.9% of things.

However, I need to buoy myself up a bit.. Because I've decide I can be a Wife/Mum and do work/study..because I am woman and I am strong and I can have my cake and scoff half of it before I need to share.

Also: I am a bit depressed that next year is my 10 year reunion and I still haven't committed to anything much...

Oh! Side point.

* So Hunna is having his 10 year reunion in November and I was all like. Hang on, I'm due to have mine next year.. How does that work? You're like heaps older than me ( ok, heaps meaning 2.5 years ) and he was all " I was one of the oldest in my class " ---that totally makes sense as an answer ( it doesn't)

Then I realised his school went to year 12 and mine only went to year 10.. Problem solved and so I told him.

And he goes " wow, you just blew my mind.. I've always wanted to know why my school was called Newcomb Secondary College.. Not just Newcomb College"

True story.*

Back on point.

There are three things in my life I can think of that I have committed to:

 

1. My marriage

( 4 years )

Seriously, I'm here for eternity.

 

2. Motherhood

( 3 years )

Again. Eternity.

 

3. ...

 

O.K, make that two things I can think of.

Anyway, the point. The point is...

I don't know what I want to do. And it's all good and well to say ' Hey, Pray about it' but I seriously don't know what to specifically ask.

I would actually really love it if someone said, go to school - get this degree which leads to this job and you'll be fulfilled forever.

I love doing everything.. and nothing. But do I love anything enough to do it for more than 12 months?

I will all ready be on my 6th job. Third degree. 50th idea for life pathway..

How do you know what you want to do?

And don't say find something you love and do it because I will hurt you.

 

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I need feminism because:

There was a time when I feared the thought of feminism. I felt that all feminists were radicals, felt that they were constantly screaming oppression, never wore make-up or shaved their underarms.

That the word feminist was out dated now the era of bra burning was over.

I thought feminism could never fit in with my religion, that it wouldn't suit to be a feminist and a Mormon. To me, they were two very different ideals.

One night I was watching a program on 60 minutes about a British woman living in France who caused an uproar by saying she is a beautiful person and then deciding to live as a trophy wife.

Her name was Samantha Brick.

Mum and I were sitting watching and Germaine Greer appeared on the screen.

After the segment Mum grumbled an unapologetic " ugh, shut up Germaine Greer " - I wasn't shocked at the slight.

But it got me thinking. What does feminism mean to my Mother? A woman who lived in a time when the biggest feminist movement in history was playing out.

Of course I don't always agree with Germaine Greer, in this instance I severely disliked the fact she scathingly said " because she's just not a great beauty " and then " people discriminate against her because she's a pain in the arse"

Although I'm not perfect, remarking rudely about people's looks or attacking them is one of the things I'm trying very, very hard NOT to do.

Because, really, what gives you the right?

But more than that, the segment got me thinking. Germaine has a point.. But Samantha Brick has a point too.

I am constantly seeking validation from Hunna, Do I look beautiful? Am I beautiful? Does this look good? to make up for my own insecurities.

Was I raised to never say " I look great" and then did I eventually just start to think I am not beautiful because admitting it would be prideful or boastful..

When people compliment me I mostly cheapen their compliments with a huge massive ' BUT' and point out faults.

" Jess, I love your jacket "

" Oh, ( surprised) thank-you ( I look down embarrassed ) but its nothing flash"

I have occasionally gone to the other extreme.

" Jess, I love your jacket"

" oh! I know " ( other person is shocked at my bravado)

But why can't I just look them in the eye and appreciate it and say " Thank-you" ?

It also goes the other way. People often put a big ' BUT' in the middle of their compliment.

Here's one I got the other day.

" Jess, Boy is so placid - he sits so well in sacrament BUT I bet he's not like that at home "

( I was confused for a second and desperately wanted to rebut: actually he is pretty amicable most of the time )

" Yeah.." ( awkward pause because I lied by agreeing )

Later, I was reading a blog by C.Jane who is also a Mormon - this particular entry explains exactly what I have been struggling with.

Am I too expected to just hand over the remote?

Why do I feel so guilty about not feeling completely fulfilled in my role as a mother?

I constantly pep talk myself, "Boy is only young, there is a time and a season, do this now for our family and you can work on your hopes, and dreams later when it's your turn."

How is it that I constantly try to do what's best for Boy and Hunna and our financially shallow pockets but not what I need?

If I did go back to school or work, would I be a better wife/mother? Or would I be time poor and a worse wife/mother?

How would doing any of this fit in with my role as nurturer. How would it fit in with Mormonism?

Just over three years ago, when we first moved to Victoria and moved in with Hunnas parents - I was four months pregnant with Boy and I started looking for work.

I was able to work, being pregnant doesn't incapacitate me, I worked right up until we moved. I felt like I still had plenty to give.

I was very honest in my applications and stated I was pregnant, I didn't know if I would leave permanently after Boy was born or just take a few weeks off. I thought I would decide how I felt as I went.

I applied for many, many jobs.

I never got a reply. Apart from one. From a woman who had advertised for after school care.

She stated that my résumé was immaculate and that I sounded like I would fit into the job perfectly but because I was pregnant they wouldn't be able to employ me as they were looking for someone a little more long term.

It confirmed what I already knew- why I wasn't getting any replies. I was sad that she never asked if I intended to stay on after baby was born or facilitate any more options.

But I admired her for being the only one honest enough to say what every one else was thinking.

It was a blow to my ego, and it made finding somewhere to accept us into a rental very difficult because an apprentices income is not very appealing on an application.

The situation was made even worse one day when Hunna's brother ( who, at the time was also living with the parents ) approached me and asked when we would be moving out.

I shrugged sadly, now not knowing what the future would hold. I was now 8 months pregnant and still couldn't find work.

He said rather callously " What do you do all day? You should look for a job. Then you could move out "

Sadly enough, " why don't you just move out" was a phrase I got very use to hearing over the next 2 years.

Today while I was on facebook I found a link to ' I need feminism because'

Here's mine:

I need feminism because as a SAHM ( stay at home Mum) I can't get a new phone or a car loan without my husband signing every form and being guarantor on the contract.

I need feminism because as a young SAHM people have stigmatised me and implied I must be dumb or illiterate or bogan for choosing to have a baby and not finishing University.

I need feminism to give me courage to help deflect the negativity that is constantly thrown my way for choices I make.

So I am beginning to think.

Is feminism really out of date and is it possible for me to be a Mormon and a feminist?

 

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Sink or swim

All my life I have felt like I am swimming.

Most of the time I am swimming painstakingly slow. ( I am a terrible swimmer) I struggle along, trying different strokes to help ease my journey along.

Often my destination feels so far away. For all the effort I put in, a current pulls me off in a direction I don't want to go.

Sometimes I get tired and my ribs start to hurt, my lungs start to ache and every time I strike out it feels as if my arm is hitting hard cement.

As my arms start to bruise and turn purple from the effort I inevitably panic.

Suddenly I stop moving forward.

I start thrashing about, flailing and throwing masses of water into the air as I gasp and scream and swallow water and resurface, over and over again, in a desperate attempt to save myself.

Later, after the initial denial. I accept I am drowning.

I come to a point where I know that it's too difficult to swim anymore and allow my body to still. I empty my mind. I let the water envelope me and I allow myself to slowly sink into the calm blue waters beneath me.

It is usually at this point - when I finally will my life into the hands of God, that I have an epiphany and I suddenly remember how to float.

I adjust my weight and spread my arms and legs open, my body begins to rise and I bob to the surface.

I breathe deeply and keep my eyes tightly closed because the light is so bright.

At first, I float- with my ears lulling in and out of the water. Hearing gulls and wind and water and bubbles swilling around.

Then slowly, ever so slowly, I regain my energy. I open my eyes. Turn from my back to my stomach and noticing how much closer the island is now than it was.

I find the will to swim on.

Last Sunday I was thrashing about. My thin arms trying ever so hard to keep me afloat, my lungs screaming for air, my legs kicking with all their might.

I woke up with a terrible headache.

And a terribly ominous grey cloud hovering over me.

It followed me out of the bedroom into the bathroom where it suddenly started to rain. Heavy. All over my parade.

I went back to bed. I needed to be alone.

Because what's a girl to do, except accept that it's not her day.

I tried sleeping it off, but it didn't work.

Later, when the headache had subsided, I got up again. Got into the shower and tried to start over.

The hot water, the hot water which has the amazing power to wash away all feelings of doom was gone.

In its place were ice cold, heavy, grumpy inducing droplets of pain.

Each droplet of freezing water pummelled my neck and back like icicle knives as I stood there glowering.

I got out.

There were no towels. I had inconveniently forgotten to hang the washing out the day before. And as it happened, the day before was towel day.

I stood, freezing, naked and dripping wet on the tiles in our bathroom.

I had a temper tantrum. One where I might've stomped my foot defiantly like a three year old and screeched rudely out the door at a passing Husband to dry me a towel. ( I'm not proud of this )

Then I clambered into the bath. Put the plug in, huddled underneath the tap and cried.

10 minutes later, while still shivering and wailing, I heard a shuffle behind me.

Inside the door - a note.

" I lub you "

I finally accepted I was loosing the battle against my emotions and suddenly felt better.

I turned the tap on, it would be nice to say scalding hot water rushed from the tap and washed all the cold and pain away, but it didn't. It was barely warm.

But I was rejuvenated enough to come up with a plan, which involved boiling the kettle, and I finally lay back to float in a toasty bath thanks to Hunna.

Only to be interrupted by Boy wanting to get in too.

And I didn't mind, not one bit.

 

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