Monday, 28 February 2011

She's tattooed. She's thoughtful, deep, AND hot .... she's the Stay at Home Babe

This is a guest post from The Babe. I met her online through Fadra, who I met at BlogHer in New York last year. One day this year I am going to get my hair cut exactly like The Babe, and she can't stop me because we live too far apart.


My dear, sweet boy:

You sleep like the dead and stink of preteen pheromones. Seriously it takes a herd of water buffalo charging through your room to wake you at one in the morning. Water buffalo… or just me spooning you and hugging you so tightly that a passerby might think I was trying to cram you back into my rib cage where you loved to stick your feet in the third trimester. Maybe it was the hugs, or maybe it was the thick, plopping tears on the side of your head while I tried to imagine all the things I would need to tell someone to take care of you if I died… either way, I woke you.

See, I stayed up until one in the morning exchanging emails with your Aunt about how to raise you and your sister if I died. How do I do that in an email? How do I tell her that you need an endless stock of art supplies? Which can mean anything from scotch tape and the straws in the cupboard to a full paint set or a camera to record the world as you see it… just anything your artistic whims might need. Lots of that.

How can I remember to tell her that your baby sister likes spicier food than you, but it makes you feel slightly emasculated when someone points it out? And I forgot to tell her that if your socks don’t match then you won’t be able to concentrate all day. Shit, I forgot to tell her that.

I did tell her that you’re deeply stubborn and an excellent liar who only cracks under relentless, consistent interrogation. I told her that you have a heart the size of Texas; that you are shamelessly sensitive and thoroughly devious, like a friendly neighborhood serial killer who cares. Like Dexter. You’ll probably outgrow this, but for now I feel like your personal probation officer just waiting to throw you back in the penitentiary.

Only, you’re funny. You’re so hilarious. In the history of the world, there’s never been anyone who loves a good joke as much as you do. Shit, I forgot to tell her how much you love jokes.

So yeah, the water buffalo got the night off, because after trying to imagine everything I would need to pack into the in-case-I-die email to your aunt, all I wanted to do was hold you and never let go. I squeezed too tightly and it was just enough to make you whimper and squirm a little. You pulled your lanky arms out from underneath my hug and flopped over onto your belly, grunting.

I’m sorry I squeezed you so tightly, but setting up life insurance and guardianships and in-case-I-die emails got the best of me. It got me in that space right in the center of me which aches on your birthdays and goes all mushy when you tell me you love me. I know you need your growing rest and I woke you in the middle of the night and maybe it was selfish to need to cuddle you at one in the morning, but I needed you to know why.

I needed you to know that it’s because I hope that you will forgive me for my mistakes and always know that I love you more than breathing. I would donate my legs to science if it meant that I could be guaranteed to see how your life turns out and meet the man you will grow into. And there is nothing in the world that I wouldn’t give up to keep you from ever feeling brokenhearted, or to keep you from having to learn the hard lessons that I did.

I am not the perfect mother that I wish I could be, that I know you deserve, but I turn myself inside out to do the best I can. I love you to the moon and back, bigger than the whole wide world and I’m sorry that I woke you up in the middle of the night to tell you. Promise me that you won’t forget.

-Momma

I chase two kids, two cats, two guinea pigs and four chickens around all day. I cook anything that sits still long enough, plant things in the dirt all spring and summer and write whenever I can steal away a moment at the keyboard. I'm an American living in the UK since 2008 when I married my English husband, and I find short bios almost impossible to write. I have a personal blog (with moxy) at Stay At Home Babe and can be found on Twitter and Facebook as well.

Saturday, 26 February 2011

Pinocchio and Betty Boop

It's the last weekend of summer. Good. Bring it. I need a change of season badly. Don't know much at the moment. I know that yesterday, when I took Rocco to the park - when I packed a blanket and called it a picnic, he got so excited. And we both sat there in the sun, with our big vanilla milkshakes. I patted and kissed and loved on him. And talked to him, looked him in the eyes and really focussed on him. Maybe for the first time in - ever. I have been so pre-occupied, so hectic. A lot of realisations are making their way to the surface now.

Earlier, Rocco told me *very* gravely that he had a present for me, and to come into his bedroom. I did, vowing that I would clean up the big mess in there, after I get better. I have never gone through his clothes properly, like you're supposed to when you have a kid. Never put a photo of him in my wallet. His birthday cards are scattered everywhere ... the cards from the day of his birth all mixed up with chemotherapy pamphlets. Still.

He held something behind his back, I knelt down to be on his level. He pulled it out .... a pinocchio, from a McCrappy Meal. He gave it to me very seriously. I said thank you, VERY much Rocco. It was like he was telling me to get real. But then ... he had another toy that he pulled from behind his back. It was an identical pinocchio. (Rocco really wants me to get real.)

Thank you for your kind emails .... you made me realise one of the best things about blogging, which is the connections you can form with people. And the connections people form with you - people you've never heard from, until they send an email laced with love, and you're all like, wow ..... there are some amazing people in the world.

I have some great guest posts coming - on Monday is one from this cool American chick who lives in the UK. She has tattoos. She loves her children fiercely.

Please send me through some words if you want ... you don't even have to have a blog. I need your words to gnaw on, while I work out what shape mine are going to take from now on.

Here is a post from Amy Q Coocachoo (try not saying that with a Betty Boop-esque twang). She is Australian - I met her on twitter a while ago. She talks here about the risks of being online, working out how much you should disclose on your blog.


::

I have tried and failed with blogging many, many times. In highschool I blogged about my friends, boyfriends, mean teachers and general teenage stress, until people started to get angry at my honesty. I actually had a [very immature] teacher fail me in highschool because she saw my blog in which I accused her of favouring me and my best friend because she saw us as friends more than students. My straight As went to Ds. It cost me my desired uni course. In my late teens while at uni I confided things in my blog about my long term boyfriend and the pressure I felt about settling so young. He read the blog and that relationship soon crumbled. These days I genuinely fear sharing anything, even with false names, in the fear that the people who I might whine about will hunt me down and cause me grief. I believe in honestly and transparency. This gets me into strife thanks to ye olde facebook.



Unfortunately these days, what I really want to share, and desperately wish I could, is that of my battle with depression. Anyone who's dealt with any form of depression knows how harrowing and lonely it can be. So I'm taking up blogging again. I am an avid reader of edenland and blog such as yours gives me the courage and desire to write what I feel, to be part of the Australian mummy blogger revolution! And to share what I feel, because I might just be touching another mum sitting behind her desk in Brisbane.


Peace! x


http://amyqcoocachoo.blogspot.com

Thursday, 24 February 2011

Susan from Mummydaze proves that we are not alone.

Susan sent me her post today. She lives in Sydney and has two daughters. I cried when I read the post she sent me. Thank you, Susan.

::

When I was given the opportunity to guest post at Edenland (thanks Eden) I mulled over what sort of a blog to write. Should I do funny, sad or thought provoking? But then I thought about what Edenland means to me and for me, it's honesty.

I admire how honest Eden has been about her life, especially as I struggle with how transparent my life should be at my blog http://www.mummydaze.com/

So I thought I would take the opportunity make Edenland my safe space and talk about things I cannot mention freely at my blog so welcome to Edenland: land of my confessional.

I am a 30-something chick, who has a great life. However it’s taken a while to get here and to realise that I may actually count for something in this world. My father passed away 9 years ago and with his passing, the world as I knew it crumbled. As loving as my mother is, she was always into my brother, and my father was the only person in my family to utter the words: and how are you Susan?

When he passed, this stopped. No one asked how Susan was. No one knew what Susan was up to, where she worked, what she studied, what she liked, that she relied on alcohol a bit too much etc-you get the point.

It was like not having the support a family while having one to support. It sucked. The remaining family were so self-involved that nothing mattered except them and their feelings. It was a trying time and it definitely tested us.

Over the past 9 years my DH and I have supported them through: bankruptcy, violence, blackmail, divorce, alcoholism, substance abuse, money problems, police problems, runaway children, mental and physical illness, business failure and more.

Whilst all this happened they did not ask how I was, if my new marriage was thriving given the constant demands of such a dysfunctional family or if their demands were ever too much. I was just expected to give, help, no matter the financial or emotional cost to me. And I did. No matter what the cost.

But. One day it hit me. The last family member that asked me how I was or showed genuine interest in what I was doing with my life was my dad. That, while it was a long time ago, I actually did have someone that wanted me to thrive and be happy.

My father was the one who instilled confidence in me. He was the one who told me to be a strong independent female, to do something, be someone. To not just be at anyone’s beck and call, to never be a victim, to not feel lesser than, to not be fearful. And to know that my opinion counts.

It took 9 years of supporting others to realise I was not supporting myself. That I was not happy or fulfilled and that I never prioritised myself. Ever. Over anything. The cost of all this had been me. And for the sake of my kids and my future it was not a price I was willing to pay anymore.

2010 was my transitional year. It was then that I realised the price I paid for sacrificing myself and my needs for so long. I had become negative, unhappy, unhealthy and did not think I deserved anything I may have wanted or that I should strive to be anything. So I started to rectify this and still continue to take the steps I need to in order to have a better outlook on life and be the best me I can be while showing my kids how to do the same.

It takes time, there are still times I am wracked with negative thoughts, some too dark for me to confess even now, as I still sometimes struggle not having someone who is truly in my corner as my dad was, but the dark days are fading fast as I enjoy 2011 which I call “the year of me’, because you know what? I think I might count after all.

Away

Hi computer. I can't write here for a while, because there's too much to say. I almost deleted this blog, but will hold off for a while. In the meantime, do you want to write a post here for me? I would consider it a personal favour, because seeing it stagnant makes me sad. This is not about marketing or stats or any if that crap - I don't think I want to grow this space bigger, somebody else can be the biggest and best blogger in the world. It's not my intention. Does anyone have tips on how to grow your blog smaller?

If you want to write up a few paragraphs on something - anything. Please. And email it through to edenriley at gmail dot com

Because I can't delete and I can't write so I'm stuck. And I am just so sick, and so tired of being stuck.

Thanks heaps.
Eddie xoxox

Saturday, 19 February 2011

My Weekend Rewind



Allison lives in a pink, 1960's fibro house, therefore her blog is called "Life in a Pink Fibro." How cool is that?! Every weekend she does this thing called Weekend Rewind, where she gets people to dust off old blog entries.

Today she asked what people were doing last June .... so I had a snoop in my archives, and came up with the time I blogged about my affair. (I would like to clarify that the cigarette in the picture is a fake one I bought from the costume hire shop .... I tricked Dave when he got into the car once, pretended I was puffing away. He's not easily tricked, but I got him a BEAUTY.)

PS Thank you very much for the comments and emails from my last post. Now let's never speak of it again. Until the next time I'm all messed up. HAH.

Friday, 18 February 2011

Miss

Angelina Jolie has a Latin tattoo: "Quod me nutrit me destruit." It means: "What nourishes me, destroys me."

I get it - I really get it. Sometimes, the thing that used to nourish you almost completely destroys you. Almost.


This plant is in between our house and garage. Every time I walk past it, I think, "That's me."

And I'd feel all serious, maybe even a bit pious. It's just so symbolic .... that plant wasn't growing very well at all until the pot blew over in a storm and cracked open. Now, the plant thrives in a broken pot.

For a few years I've watched the deep purple leaves grow and bloom. It really is magnificent. I thought that was the end of the story .... but it's not.

The other week, it suddenly dawned on me - I need to transplant the deep purple plant to a new, unbroken home. You can't grow in a broken pot forever. Sooner or later, you'll end up dead.



I can pat myself on the back all I like; that the things I used to do in the world I no longer do. I am responsible and free and a soccer mum goddamit. And still, sometimes, out of the blue comes a flash or a bolt or a pang of an insatiable need I thought was long gone.

So I bit the bullet and locked in the dates for some stupid intensive counselling. I need to get out of my stupid broken pot.

Wednesday, 16 February 2011

Wordless Wednesday: A photo of me in 2001 dancing in my bikini in our old house the day before I gave birth to Max.



I was dancing to the Bombfunk MC's "B-Boys and Fly Girls." Dave came in, took one look at me, and said "Oh for fucks sake hon where's the camera?"

What? What's so funny?

Tuesday, 15 February 2011

I'd like mornings better if they started later.

I'm not a morning person, and never will be. I've tried. Mornings SUCK.

Especially in a family with young children - they are busy. And early. I usually sit there in a stupor, until the coffee kicks in. Getting up to pour cereal and pack school bags and lunches and wipe bums; bark orders, sometimes sneak a shower in.

Dave and Tim leave early .... Tim is in his last year of being Dave's apprentice. He's done really well and I'm so proud of him. They start work at 7am so leave at the crack.  I get Max off to school, and if it's a daycare day, Rocco goes off too. This morning went really well, despite the rainy cold weather.

The three of us sang made up songs, talked about who would win if the Hulk and Ironman got in a fight (Hulk), and brushed our teeth together. Max started snapping silly photos of himself (NO idea where he gets that from.)



Then he snapped one of me holding my tiny baby:




In the car, Max talked on and on about his teeny skateboards:



While Rocco talked and talked about the Hulk and Spiderman:



And I sat there, politely pretending that what they were saying was interesting, making sure to maintain eye contact so they would both feel heard and validated. (My GOD it's boring sometimes.)

Appropriately nodding and agreeing, I kissed Max goodbye, and watched him do his regular "knuckles, hi-five, handshake" with Rocco. Max pleaded with me to buy him another mini-skateboard today with his pocketmoney.

"We'll see, mate."

::

Later, I bought two brand new teeny boards for him, drove back to his school, and snuck them into his lunchbox - on top of his vegemite sandwich, with a note.

"Dear Max, Here are the skateboards you wanted. I love you!
From, the Best Mum in the World. xxx xxx"


 
His classroom was empty, so I had a snoop around. And wished I could be in his class, just for one day. Sit with him, watch him interact and learn and play. His recent project on the Waratah was up on the wall, the teacher had given it two ticks. I noticed that no-one else had two ticks.

I helped him do it last week. For the first time in a few years I've turned my attentions back to his schoolwork - I want him to reach his full potential, not think he was dumb at school like I did. 

(When I was walking past the school hall there was a HUGE explosion and I jump out of my skin, in disbelief but you know, of course a bomb would go off when I'm there. It wasn't a bomb, it was a science experiment. School is DANGEROUS.)

::

I found this in my phone last December - still don't know how he did it:


I can't wait for him to come home today, and hear all about his new skateboards.

Monday, 14 February 2011

This Strange Business of Blogging.

"A blog is merely a tool that lets you do anything from change the world to share your shopping list."
- Unknown


Being a blogger is an odd kind of thing. I've been doing this for a few years now ... sometimes I get all writery, sometimes I act like a fool.

Why do I blog?

Last week, I received an email.

"I debated writing today, because I don't know if I sound off base and bitchy, and maybe out of line. But here goes - I don't feel like your blog and your twitter sound like "you" lately - I am reminded more of mommy bloggy conferences and brands than I am of you. (I have left this in my drafts folder for three weeks, I am so wishy washy about sending it.)

But since I don't know you I feel ridiculous saying that - all I have ever known is what you choose to share and write, and whatever and however is not something I should be having an opinion on, no? Besides, we all change and evolve.
So, that's my observation, based on nothing but a few months of a vague feeling. I'm not making a value judgment, or trying to be unkind - I really am coming from a place of genuine affection for you and a feeling that you would want the feedback."


::

I was fascinated by this email - I recognised the email address it was sent from, so I knew she was genuine. I thanked her for her honesty, and really appreciated the fact it was sent as an email and not an anonymous comment. After a few exchanges back and forth she wrote: "I think it's awesome that you're going to conferences and speaking and whatnot - and I have a little bit of invested pride, like hey, I read her way back when!  Confession, I still read the boys' names as Tiger and Monkey."

Oh, the Tiger and Monkey days. Back when Max was a six-year old Tiger and the tiny embryo was a baby Monkey Rocco. Back before it all went to shit.

Dave getting cancer is something I'm not sure I'll ever be "over." Even though he's in remission now - even if the cancer never comes back - life took the biggest dump on me back then and I kind of went crazy and never completely came back.

Seriously - a few weeks ago I had a bit of a mental health episode, so I rush to my GP and crisis person and meetings and end up in a counsellors office. And she asks me, "So, Eden - have you ever had therapy before?"

And I laughed so long and so hard, waiting for her to laugh too. Except she didn't laugh, and I was the crazy lady who stopped laughing and said that yes, yes I've had a LOT of therapy before. And I suddenly became super-aware of my body language, and my facial expressions, wondering what she thought of me as I gave her a "brief" rundown of my history that ended up with us *both* tearing up. (I make therapists cry!)

I didn't blog about that, because I'm waiting until it doesn't hurt so much so I can make fun of it. Maybe that's what prompted the above email .... I usually am very open in my blog, and I have felt quite guarded lately.

::

So all week I've been wondering ... why do I blog?

A lot of reasons - I like it. It's free. It's the biggest and best hobby of my life. I get to share things, like the Valentines Day card I gave Dave this morning. (I am *so* romantic):





He laughed so hard - a big throaty laugh. I gave him a present, too. When I handed it to him, his exact words were, "Oh you bloody bugger!" I know he won't get me anything, and these days I don't care. I used to, but not now.

I share my life here. Maybe, as I change and learn and grow ... so will my blog? Is that ok? Am I allowed? I love the business of blogging, but for me it isn't a business. Just a hobby.

I have known for a while that some people and brands are interested in my blog, which is a great ego-booster. I'm not good at how to do life, very well. This year I am determined to get more organised and focussed. I like talking about my struggles - I want you to know that you are not alone. We're all walking around this strange planet, bumping into each other, doing the best we can. I hate pretending.

I've never scheduled a post, just come here and see whatever feels like spilling out. Sometimes the post that demands to be written just writes itself and I have little to do with it, just hit publish and go and clean some poo up or something. I know I need to install a better commenting system, so that I can reply back to comments.

I've shied away from monetising this space, for a while now. I didn't want to answer to anyone. Would it be so bad, if I hooked up with a sponsor who might be a good "fit" with me? If I did, I might be able to make this space even better by writing more consistently, to justify putting more time and energy into it, instead of sneaking time away from my family and other work. I don't have a media kit or PR page or any of that shiz .... but I can talk to you about the benefits of blogging until the cows came home. I'm passionate about it.

I'm in the middle of getting to know a lot of wonderful Australian bloggers. The scene down here is just heating up; with brands and agencies and sponsors starting to cotton on now, to the benefits of social media. Next month is the Inaugural Aussie Bloggers Conference, and I have a feeling it's going to be pretty big. I like being in the same room as other bloggers. Like, if you're a chess player at a chess conference.

Blogs open me up to so many things. I need to read about Amy Turn Sharp's beautiful Lucky Teeth. I'd like a cake like this.  I love what Schmutzie wrote about blogs today. I went to the beautiful Stirrup Queens Melissa Ford's (American-based) Lost and Found Connections Abound (LFCA) - to see if I could spread any comment love to somebody who needs it. Somebody did, and I cried - for her and for Grace. Then I realised she is in Sydney. (The world isn't as big as you think.)

Last night, I sat up and watched the very powerful Henry's Story, from Mamapundit. All 28 minutes of it. It's a subject very close to my heart, and for the umpteenth time was reminded of why I see blogs as so amazing, such a powerful way of storytelling.

I have so much to say on my blog, that it feels like I'm only just getting started.
::

What do you think about blogging? And blogging about blogging? Do you care if a blog has ads?

::

There was a knock at the door while I was writing this. I accidentally didn't answer it - went and checked later, and found a big bunch of flowers. For me! I honestly had no idea who they were from, wondered how was I going to explain them to Dave?

I opened the card - "Happy Valentines Day .... love Dave."

*faints from shock*

Wednesday, 9 February 2011

Sunday, 6 February 2011

Easy Like Sunday Morning

It's Sunday morning and Dave is sitting on his throne. We just had a laugh together about how we can't have nice things .... maybe in ten years, we'll be able to have nice things. Everything gets wrecked, when you have young children. Everything gets renewed, when you have young children.

Everything is so precarious and scary. We must live anyway.

There were two snakes, at our front door. A taipan, and a red-bellied black snake. It was because of the heatwave ... they came close to us, looking for some water from the dogs bowl. Every time I go outside, I am terrified that the snakes are there, waiting to strike. Under the car! Next to the bin! Never go outside again ... don't you know what could happen!

Yet, I still go outside. I have to. I cannot live in this Fear forever. There's going to be snakes on every corner .... right next to the Guardian Angels.

::

Today I will take the boys to the pool. Rocco will kamikaze jump into the deep end, and people will stare, as usual. And make some remark to me about him, like they always do. And I will laugh and say that's why he is wearing a heavy-duty hardcore lifejacket. I grew tired of running up and down and around ... I let go and Trust that the lifejacket will save him. It always does.

For some reason I promised both boys I would take them to build their own bears, down at the mall. Max - my gangly pre-teen, is *so* excited. He is still little. He is still mine.

::

Dave must take a father back to jail after his weekend leave. There's always somebody to help.

Last week, I cried to him. Sometimes I need help too! And he was as shocked as me. I tell him we need to downsize everything and live simply. Nothing changes.

Maybe we just need to simply live.

I realised this week that everybody is in the same boat. We are all just muddling through, trying to do the best we can.

::

I dream of the house of my childhood - I thought those dreams were over, long ago. The past has this annoying habit of lying in wait, waiting to bite you when you least expect it. Like a snake.

::

I have watched this particular version all week. She kind of breathes her Soul into it.



I want to breathe my Soul into everything I do.

Otherwise, what's the point?

Wednesday, 2 February 2011

Digital Natives ... why it's ok to write a blog.

"Digital Natives – also known as Generation Z – are people born between 1990 and the late 2000′s. They have never known a time before computers and video games. Most have never known a time before the World Wide Web."

- Susan Murphy from Social Media Today



Pic - Rocco Riley, seven weeks gestation, 18th Oct 2007

I write about my children on the internet. I write about myself on the internet. I have my boundaries, and I know everybody is different.

I've made blogging transitions .... from starting an IVF blog, to a pregnancy blog, to a cancery/newborn/messy blog, to .... this. Now I just call myself a "personal blogger" when people ask. I grappled for ages, but I understand that people need labels.

I find it hard to label myself. I blog my Truth as I see it. It's ok that all bloggers are not as open as I am, and I do understand the needs and concerns for privacy ... especially for children, on the big and permanent internet.

I started writing about Rocco when he was my biggest desire - he has been written about on the internet since he was just four cells old. Complete with pictures posted of the embryo transfer, my growing belly, and ultrasound photos. Max is now nine - I write about how, when he came into the world, something changed in me forever. My eighteen year old stepson Tim *adores* when I write about him. (But pretends to sleep when I try to show him a post. He only wishes that my readers were younger. And single.)

I have asked permission to write about them, and I will not embarrass them in any way - Tim still wears a pull-up nappy at night, at the age of eighteen. I would *never* blog that, for example.

If I thought this would damage or hurt them in any way when they are older ... I wouldn't do it. Simple. I'm not even sure they could be bothered, to sit down and pore over post after post that their mother wrote. They might skim it - but seriously, BO-RING.

In 2029, what will a twenty-year old Rocco care, that his mother is about to go for a long-overdue therapy session where, when the therapist asks that AWESOME question - "So why are you here?" - his mother can just point to her heart leaping up and down all over the floor because the anxiety has become so crippling? Who gives a crap about that? He'll be too busy checking out his new 3D-Facebook 2.0. Or going scuba diving. Or working hard. Or, I don't know ..... hopefully being a well-adjusted adult because that's all his caring parents ever wanted for him.

And in that - there is telling your children the Truth. I will not lie to my children. I will not sugarcoat life for them. I answer honestly. Max has started asking me about my real dad. Or my stepdad. Or my second stepdad - wait - mum, which one is the Scottish guy? Why did he used to drink? What does "suicide" mean?

I tell him. As gently and openly as I can, as much as I think is appropriate for his age at the time. But one day - he will be an adult. And then I will go into even more detail and hopefully, learn from other peoples mistakes. Be wise in the world. Children are much smarter than adults ever give them credit for. I have written nothing here that my children won't already find out about me anyway. Family skeletons have a way of sneaking out of the cupboard when you least expect it ..... you can't outrun your shadow. There are many shadows, in life. Why not point them out gently to our children, instead of covering their eyes and crossing the street?

Did you know that in the real tale of Little Red Riding Hood .... the wolf actually eats her, in the end?

Beware the wolf, kids.

::

This post was prompted by recent comments about Lori, questioning her decision to write through her horror and grief about her husband 's recent suicide - on her blog. Something she wrote yesterday has been stuck in my mind:

" ..... Why is everyone always so fucking worried, about our children seeing what we write on our blogs? Aren't they people, too? One day, they will be older, and have their own emotions, perspectives and ideals. And I don't mind the thought of them knowing mine, years down the track, when they're old enough."

BRAVA. (Lori I adore you but I had to change your "their" to "they're." HA!)

::

I stay on facebook because I want to keep an eye on it ... its evil ways are changing the face of social media, and much as I disagree with the privacy issues - check this out. Are you the parent of a teenager? Have you checked their settings? In a few short years my children will have many accounts on many sites across the net. (And I will be savvy enough to monitor them all.)

Guess what? The digital natives do not care as much about this notion of "privacy" that we do. They will be more out there and open than you can  ever imagine. The current children of bloggers and writers on the internet ... they're just getting a head start.

If you are over the age of thirty, you are Digital Immigrant ... born before the existence of digital technology and adopted it to some extent later in life. Well done you.

There are more people than ever before discovering social media/internet/blogs for the first time ... I have a feeling that these people are shocked, at what they find being "put out there." Until they get used to it.

The future arrived a while back, baby. Aint nothing wrong with the Truth.

::

I applaud Lori's decision to write her shocking, painful, and graphic truth. Her blog has recently become a beautiful ode, the saddest poem in the world. Yet still she writes and still I read - shocked and in awe, yes. But not concerned for her children. They already know the Truth ... it's with them, now, forever. The saddest part of it is that they have to learn it from their mother, because their father is not here to tell them his.

(I wish he could have spoken to someone - anyone!)

Lori has pretty much changed the face of blogging, in Australia - not that she asked to, not that she would want to - not like this. I believe she deserves every ounce of love and compassion, and understanding. Not fear, or doubt. I'm sure she already has a lot of that.

::

To a twenty-year old Rocco, twenty-six year old Max, and thirty-eight year old Tim .... how's it goin', boys? Am I even still ALIVE? Did I go grey or keep colouring? Am I on holiday in the Himalayas? Have you told me how beautiful I am today? Are you treating your womenfolk well? Have you learnt how to wipe bin juice off the garbage bin yet - I know, it's *pretty* hard. Life is full of hard things, my loves. I love you. Forgive yourselves more. Laugh a lot.

By the way - you all owe me. RAISING THE THREE OF YOU IS HARD.

Tuesday, 1 February 2011

One day is a thousand years; a thousand years is one day.

It's been a thousand years since I last posted.

Everything has happened. Everything is still the same.

::

On last count, we have four Buddhas in and around our house. Rocco has broken them all ... yet still they sit, silently, heads glued back on, missing limbs .... but still they sit, unperturbed.

Perturbed - that is what I have been. The last few days I have taken many steps to be rid of my perturbedness.

per·turb/pərˈtərb/Verb;
1. Make (someone) anxious or unsettled.
2. Subject (a system, moving object, or process) to an influence tending to alter its normal or regular state or path.

::

I got quite perturbed two and half years ago, and never really settled back down again. I am so strong! I can do this!

I am not as strong as previously thought and I can't do this. So relieving.

::

Sorry for the cryptics .... I am quite "out" as a blogger, with my real name - a lot of friends and family read here now, that's strangely fine. I never started my blog to become famous. I just wanted a place to write, connect.  Sometimes, people can use your own words against you as ammunition so for my childrens sake I won't post "specifics."

I will say some facts though ....

1) Ever since Dave got cancer I have been running. And when I bump into people in the street and they ask me how Dave is and I say that he is in remission and they look shocked and say, "Oh really? Still?" In that look on their face, in that moment ... they are voicing the fear that I keep hidden away.
2) I can't run any more.
3) I start counselling this week - and I swear to God I don't care if that counsellor is the straightest person in all the land. I don't care if she wrinkles her nose at my swearing or tattoos or my fears. Then good. So be it. I have decided to Trust that whoever I land, is the right one for me.
4) I contemplated going to confession - then checked my motivation and it would only be to shock the shit out of the Catholic priest.
5) I am worthy to do nice things for myself. AREN'T I?? Why are we so tough on ourselves? Why does everyone hide themselves away?
6) Is there an Award for how many breakdown one can sustain over a lifetime? Can someone photoshop me a button for that?

::

Every. Day ... has been a huge hard struggle for a while ... I just want to lay my weapons down, man. 

Again.



^ I love them.

::

Computer - how do you love yourself? Does it come easily to you? How do you not let shame run your life? Have you ever seen a grown man naked?
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