For those who live under the rock next to mine, there has been a 10-day challenge doing the rounds on the Book of Faces. It was a challenge to post a picture every day for 10 days representing a day in the life of being a mum. The photos were to be posted without a single explanation and then you had to nominate somebody to take the challenge with you.
It has been a lovely little stroll down memory lane seeing what some of my Facebook friends shared of their life as a mum. What I noticed though, was that my visual representation of being a mum conjured up something else besides those I was viewing. Sure, I visualised the little squishy baby shots and the family moments, happy holiday snaps, along with the youthful selfies I took with my babies when I was wrinkle-free and had a lot less Hooch in my Mumma.
But because I’m a notorious whinger and like to share an alternative viewpoint, I’ve been trawling the archives and I’ve also collected a few recent images that represent my experience of motherhood.
I can’t stick to the “no explanation” either. There will be commentary.
There may also be poo.
You have been warned…
Here are my top 10 pictures of a day in the life of being a mum.
Ah.. this is where it all begins. A most treasured photo. Also a treasured time when they didn’t answer back or complain about what I gave them for dinner.
Then this happened…. a LOT.
*photo cred – Catherine Leo Photography*
Then it would stop by doing this. I did nine years of this. NINE. I deserve some kind of boob medal surely?
WARNING… POO SHOT.
Dealing with your offspring’s poo doesn’t stop once they are out of nappies.
Laundry. Always odd socks. Boring. Never ending. Enough said.
This is the time our 8 year old rises in the morning to sneak out to the lounge room and watch Netflix. He used to sing and play the piano, so things are looking up.
Total disregard for toothpaste extraction techniques.
It wouldn’t be motherhood without witnessing some WWE action. These are still shots from a video I took. I like to make them re-watch their fights and workshop some ideas for the next round. Good times.
These three spunk rats made me a mum. They have also made me equally bonkers and happy. I’ve cried with pride and cried with frustration. They’ve worried me, worn me out, made me laugh and feel ecstatic all within the same day.
I think I got talked about by the nursing staff at hand-over. I rekon theres a high chance I may have been referred to as a “Karen”.
Well, buckle up. I’m a Melissa.
Here’s a bit of a back story and update:
We’re heading into week 3 with number one son in hospital. Usually it’s a stock standard 2 weeks of IV’s… bug dead.. see ya later. Didn’t quite happen this time. Anyway… he has an inhaled med he does with his chest physio, and because it can cause a bit of lung irritation, it’s being diluted to half strength… all within the orders written up by the Dr etc etc blah blah.
Time comes to have this medication. I remind the nurse that he’s having it half strength. Nurse returns telling me he’s been having it full strength, because that’s what’s been signed off on the drug chart so that’s what she’s brought in.
She told me this THREE times, because each time I corrected her, her ears must have imploded and she couldn’t hear what I said.
I reiterated my point AGAIN and politely but assertively suggested that it may have been signed off incorrectly on the drug chart by the physios and can we just have it mixed the way I’ve asked….please and thankyou very much, for fucks sake, Amen.
Now this is where I shall intervene and just hit up anyone who is embarking upon a career in the health or caring industry.
LISTEN TO YOUR PATIENT’S. For the love of god, even if you think they’re complete cretins and dumb as a bricks….listen to them.
They’re not always going to be right, but the chances are that when you question those who live with chronic illness, they probably know what they’re talking about. I might even be so brave as to say that the PARENTS of children with chronic illness know more about their disease than you, and sure as hell know what the fuck is going on in the room of which you weren’t present when the bloody mediation had been given.
Gah.
I don’t think in anyway that my exchange was aggressive or rude, I just had to repeat myself until she actually listened, and by the third time, I may have had a tone in my voice that resembled “Karen wanting to see the manager”.
Also, I was tired, so I wasn’t my usual delightful self. After all, I’d been sleeping on a bed the devil himself designed and quite frankly, since I’ve hit my 4th decade, the idea of making others a bit uncomfortable doesn’t destroy my thoughts or conscience as it once did. I’m over pleasing people who aren’t pleasant. It’s exhausting.
What was interesting was that the next morning the day staff mentioned something about the conversation slash exchange I’d had with the nurse the day before. This nurse was older, more experienced and appeared supportive. She empathised about how she is aware that parents know what’s going on with their children’s health blah blah blah…but during our chat she used words and phrases like “argument”, “good for you”, “tiger mum” and “speaking out”.
Ummmm….What!?
And what exactly is a tiger mum..?
I asked the Google machine and this is what it said.
I’m confused because I’m obviously not Chinese and I don’t know Amy Chau so I think she meant being a mum “like a tiger”.
This is much more accurate, plus the father reference is much more relatable too…
Please bare with me while I pull up my feminist knickers here as I ask…
What is the male equivalent of a “tiger mum”? Who is the male equivalent of “Karen”? And why are women seen as difficult, argumentative or speaking out of turn when they make others uncomfortable or question something or god forbid….disagree?
I may be wrong, but think I can pretty safely say that if I had a dangly thing between my legs and was in the same situation, I wouldn’t be seen or described in the same way. I’d probably be seen as confident, strong, knowledgeable and interested. We don’t use these words for women enough. We assert them to be difficult, bitchy, sassy, opinionated and up-themselves.
Plus our names get changed to Karen.
Well I love Karen’s. I know a few awesome ones too.
I think we should all find our inner Karen, and I mean that in the most wonderful way possible. We should demand more than the bull shit we’ve been dished up over the generations.
Question the nurse. Speak to the manager. Ask for more information. Disagree. Speak up without fear of how is “looks” or “sounds”. Assert your point when you’re not being listened to. Don’t be afraid to cause someone just a little bit of discomfort.
It’s taken me over 40 years to be okay with the idea that I may offend someone or cause an eyebrow raise by just asking a question and that it’s NOT MY PROBLEM.
Fair chance the people we make uncomfortable are under 25 years old who think they know everything there is to know, can’t differentiate between you’re and your and lack the ability to count back change without a calculator. How’s that for stereotyping?
Their time will come though. They’ll hit their 40’s and feel the freedom of age and wisdom. They’ll want to talk to the manager and ruffle a few feathers because they’re old and sick of everyone’s shit. They’ll do this and look back remembering the Karen’s of yesteryear. They may even smile, shake their head with a knowledge that they have now become the Karens they eye rolled in their twenties. They will embrace this change and their new found title.
Without further adieu, I present to you the “Jessica’s”
And in 20 years time, they’d like to see the manager.
M
*disclaimer.. I adore nurses. They do one of the hardest job in the world and don’t get paid nearly enough for what they do. I was a nurse for a while too, and this is definitely #notallnurses
Recently I’ve had my memory launched back to my Primary School days when I was 7 or 8 and things were a bit bumpy in the friend department.
One particular name pops up…
Vanessa Fucking Pickard. I don’t think her parents gave her that middle name.. it was probably Jane or Louise like most girls born in the ’70s.
Vanessa was the unelected leader to the cohort of girls in our class. All the girls seemed to follow her and do what she said. They loved her and I couldn’t figure out why because she scared the beejeebers out of me.
Maybe the other girls in my class were a bit scared of Vanessa too? She seemed to have some kind of magical power. It was a power I was envious of. How’d she get everyone to like her? How’d she become the boss of our little world of girls? I don’t know how or why but one day she decided that she didn’t like me, and that was it…I was “outed”.
I think my gatekeeper friend was in another classroom perhaps? She was a year older than me and hey, maybe she was just sick of the shy new kid that she got lumped looking after because her dad was the principal. I don’t blame her. I was almost mute in my younger years. (I’m sure that wasn’t the case Cath..ha!)
I remember wishing for recess and lunch to never come. I felt so safe in the classroom…I didn’t know what to do at recess and lunch. I had no one to play with. When the girls would see me, they’d shoot off in another direction. I remember the look on a couple of their faces. It was guilt mixed with “if we don’t follow her, I might be you next week”. With nowhere to go, I would seek out my older sister who was in year 7. Popular, pretty with lots of friends, she was nice enough to let me hang around a bit until one day she pointed out that I had a GIANT BOOGER hanging from my nose in front of all of her year 7 friends. I think she was trying to be discreet but my reaction to the devastation of “CODE BOOGER” alerted everyone else to the fact of my unfortunate situation. Tears ensued, which made code booger a giant boogery mess of a situation.
My lonely days came once more. There was no way I was going anywhere near all of the big kids. “Rogue booger” may strike again and I couldn’t risk another humiliation. Around this time, I remember our Principal talking to our class, or maybe it was the whole school…. there weren’t many of us. He spoke of inclusion and kindness and friendship. At that moment I knew he was talking about me. I knew he was talking to Vanessa. I also knew that my dad with his big fat giant mouth was the reason this was happening. I was 7 or 8, but I wasn’t stupid. I can’t remember how long this friendship outage lasted. It may have been a week or months. It’s all a blur now. But I’m 45 years old now and I can’t recall where I put my phone most days, but I remember this. I remember the feeling. I remember the sadness and the sick feeling in my belly. I remember not wanting to go to school. I remember hiding behind the classroom so no one could see me..the pasty quiet kid with no friends.
God, school years can be so hard.
Vanessa Pickard moved away that year and I never ever again experienced that kind of ‘outage’ for the rest of my school days. I think I was one of the lucky ones.
But in turn, I’m sure I was no angel either. None of us are. We all slip up on the pathway of learning how to live in the world. I’m certain I have been cast as a villain in at least a couple of people’s stories. Most of us are at some point in our lives.
The 8-year-old Melissa hopes that Vanessa stepped in a few dog turds on her path to adulthood but the older and wiser Melissa wonders about what happened to Vanessa. I wonder if she learned what it meant to be a good friend? Or did she grow up to be an older version, changed her name to Karen, and makes demands to see the manager. I wonder if she ever had a turn at being “outed” during her school life? I wonder if she was even aware of her actions and the impact they had on others?
This child-ing business is tough. And parenting our children through these times is tough too. I’m sure Vanessa Fucking Pickard never knew how many tears I cried about being left out. She may have had a whole bunch of stuff to deal with herself. Who knows? She probably wouldn’t even remember her years at our little school, as she was shipped off to yet another place to live, like all of the other Army kids.
So to all of the Vanessa’s out there, please try your hardest at not being mean bitches. There are good bits to everyone, even the bitchiest of bitches have goodness buried in there somewhere. Let that shit shine! You never know…maybe one day it will be your turn to be crying behind the classroom.
And to all of the Melissa’s, for the love of God, carry a hanky. Code booger is never far away.
Learning from home, homeschooling, home learning….what ever you call it, that’s what’s been happening in the Hooch House this week.
We did a half arsed version of this late last term when the world turned to shit and we decided to pull the kids out and tuck them under our protective safety wing. Anxiety levels were high for a lot of people, especially those of us with family members who fall into the high risk bracket. My energy was taken up by simply processing our new world and trying to keep up with the daily changes we were seeing sprawled across the news. I filled my brain with an endless information stream and then wondered why I wasn’t sleeping so well…? Needless to say, the school work took a back seat and a hit and miss attitude it was.
By the time term 2 kicked in at the beginning of the week, so had all the amazing prep work done by the schools. They had us sorted. School packs and online learning were ready to roll! We were on. Here we go. Term 2 come at us. Mrs Mum was up for it.
Unfortunately it started off slightly rocky on Monday morning. It appears that some better “teacher” prep by Mrs Mum on Sunday night might have helped a little bit. We had schedules and papers all mixed up; apps downloading, login pass words flying, breakfast crumbs in library books; systems crashing and not enough coffee. We had tears before 10am, a teenager sneaking in some Netflix and a cat shit in a shower.
What. The. Actual. F*#k.
I’m not ashamed to say that on Monday night I was a bit knackered and if I had heard “muuuuum” one more time, I think I would have cracked. Also, why do they do it at the same time?
BUT….fast forward to Friday and the Hooch House was a well oiled machine of education gloriousness.
I have honestly been blown away by the way the kids have adapted to this situation. Not only have we been stuck together 24/7 for 7 weeks, they have also taken to a new way of learning with hardly a whinge. It’s been an interesting insight into the “school version” of each of them. Like a lot of parents, when I’d read their school reports, I think “who the hell are these kids? They don’t sound like mine AT ALL”….My messy and seemingly lazy 11 year old is anything but that when it comes to school; the big one actually does have a great work ethic and my funny little fella… well, actually, he doesn’t change his spots too much 😂. I understand his teachers frustrations and wonderment at the fact that it appears that his head is secured up his arse but somehow the information gets in…?
I’m so very proud of them and during this week, I’ve also learned a few things along the way. I’ve learned that explaining when and how to use quotation marks is harder than you’d think; that if allowed, ice cream for ‘recess’ would be the order of the day; I need to brush up on my times tables; the English language has way too many weird rules that make no logical sense; like me, my daughter likes to slam doors when she’s pissed off; I should have incorporated ‘laundry duty’ into the daily lesson plan; in the deep recesses of my brain is the ability to help explain how to calculate the volume of a triangular prism but the four years of French has left the building. Mostly I have been reminded of how fabulous our educators have been throughout this time and how lucky we are to have been serendipitously born in Australia whilst living through a pandemic.
To my fellow Mrs Mums…I wish you strength and good internet connection as we smash out another week of school work delivery, while questioning our IQ’s and clambering through the golden nuggets of knowledge we were once taught and now forgotten.
We’re slowly regressing into an abyss that I can’t deal with right now.
As I write this the middle one and the young one are fighting over a mattress on the lounge room floor.
There are declarations to “stop… get off” and “oh my god she just blocked my mouth and nose AT THE SAME TIME”.
Followed by ….”Mmm acting strong there are you tough boy”.
And the old classic….”I was on here first”.
Then came the rebuttal….”But you left to go to the toilet”.
Seriously, is there a bigger argument ever in the whole universe about how much time you can leave your spot and what activity you can leave your spot for before your spot becomes a free for all? It’s an argument that will live on forevermore. I’m not even sure I can nail that one down. Snooze ya lose in this house. Especially when the whole seating situation is currently in a state of disarray. I’ll explain in a sec. We have lounge room issues.
So the argument ended with an arm twist (or something… I wasn’t looking) and a declaration of “I hate you and I wish you never existed”. (Harsh, but understandable). There was even a well placed F-bomb. And that came from the one who doesn’t swear! 4 weeks iso with potty-mouthed mother has clearly changed that.
I didn’t utter a word.
Not one.
I just couldn’t be bothered with it.
Kill each other for all I care. I’ll have a couple less to feed, which would be nice because holy shit balls I’m sick of feeding these people 15 times a day.
So.. the mattress…why do we have a mattress on the floor you may ask? (Or more than likely you didn’t… but I’m gonna tell you anyway).
Well… besides being savages, we ordered a new lounge which feels like about 5 years ago and it isn’t here yet. “It’ll be here soon” apparently. Anyway…We had the house re-floored because we had stupid bloody carpet moths eating our stupid bloody carpet so we moved all the stupid furniture out like a stupid game of musical chairs which included more than chairs, unfortunately. It wasn’t real fun. It was in fact, stupid.
So why go to the effort to put the crappy lounge back in the loungeroom when the new one will be here any year now? Let’s just put the armchairs back in, chuck a bean bag in there plus the mattress off the trundle. It’s not like we’re having visitors any time soon. That way we can listen to the kids argue over where they will sit every day. They can risk breaking limbs and getting blood noses all for the prime position of “mattress in front of TV spot”. Listening to that will be SUPER fun. Yep let’s do that. Good idea.
In completely unrelated news, I went into town today wearing a top with holes in it, faded old tracksuit pants, suitably styled with Havianas. I didn’t have makeup on and the white regrowth sprouting from my mane is something to be equally admired. I saw people I knew and I didn’t even mind. It was quite refreshing. I at least usually wear clothes into town that I haven’t slept in.
Did I mention we were savages now?
Week five iso has started off to be quite the kicker!
I suggested to the kids that we should all keep a journal. I banged on how we were living through a time which will be marked in history for ever more. We have no idea how this will play out, and to write down our experiences would be fascinating to look back on. Well, I certainly hope we can look back on this. I’m doing my dandiest to make sure that’s the case.
I pointed out that when this nightmare is over, one day they will be telling their grandkids about their time in history. How fabulous would it be to have all their thoughts, feelings and first hand experiences written down and documented? Also, there is something special about the insight of a child living through tough times.
I think I heard their eyeballs roll when Scarlett piped up with… “well… I might not even have kids, so I’ll have no one to tell”.
Ok… point clearly missed.
I was drawing on visions I had of Anne Frank, tucked up in the attic during one of the most horrid times in history, writing her diary, clearing her head, not realising what an impact her words and story would have on the world. Sure, my kids diary’s wouldn’t have the level of Anne’s insight and word poetry. Also, I’m not comparing this to WW2, (although this feels like a version of WW3) but the concept of leaving words behind, sharing an experience and an insight into real time during a world changing event, made me think of her. The idea of the kids keeping a journal was also a way for me to provoke the expression of thoughts and feelings so we can all process what’s going on for us personally when the world around us seems so unstable.
The words I envisage from my lot would probably be more akin to “so, like, Elliot farted on my blanket today and he’s so gross. He hits me all the time and he doesn’t get told off enough. Mum makes us wash our hands for EVERYTHING but MAFS is so cool. That Stacey is such a bitch.”
Or… “I think my eyebrows are darker. I’m a lot like dad. I have the same hands as him and I have his brain too. Dad is cool. I can stand on my head for ages”.
Or… “grunt, grumble, grumble”
I’ll let you figure out who is who.
So in light of my futile attempts to encourage my crew to write their story while I earn some homeschooling points from the homeschooling over achievers, I thought I’d keep my own journal. I’m not sure if I’ll share it or not, but I encourage everyone to keep their own Rona Files. It could be photography or videos; drawings, music, poems or writing; a blog, vlog or pod; a collection of recipes or stories or letters. The list is endless, but I can pretty much guarantee that whatever we do, whatever we keep and leave behind, will be treasured by our future generations. They will gain a personal insight into a time when the world was gripped by an invisible enemy and maybe, just maybe…hopefully… with fingers crossed….a time when the world changed and came out the other side a little bit better.
We are currently week one of the hostage situation. There has been limited learning, sleep ins longer than needed and only mild attempts at instilling some “school work”.
Despite this, I’ve discovered a few things.
• I can’t do this without swearing.
• An SSO would be handy right now.
• I’m not sure if the people who voluntarily home school are slightly mad or slightly amazing.
• My children are not the children I read about in their school reports. The versions I have suck.
• Don’t give the youngest one the novelty pen with the little ball that spins around.
• Hoochiemumma Home School needs a stricter “Feeding Time Policy”. Currently we have 12 recess breaks for each child at varying times of the day.
• Year 6 maths is harder than I remember, but thanks to Mr Leo’s maths obsession I am the queen of fractions.
• Saying “just because” isn’t kosher in teaching land, which leads to the fact that…
• I’m really bad at explaining division.
• I don’t know my times tables as well as I thought I did.
• Everything is boring when you’re 8 and the use of full stops is apparently overrated.
• I think I need to take a mental health day tomorrow.
And finally….
• Teachers need to be paid a gazillion dollars a day. A GAZILLION. (Which can be divided by a Zillion with the quotient being a Jillion)
Well, 2020 can go and choke on a roll of sorbent. I remember thinking that 2020 had a special ring to it. I thought that this year was going to be something special.
This was NOT WHAT I HAD IN MIND.
On Sunday night I sat on the lounge talking with Mr Hooch, trying to figure out if we should send the kids to school or not. The only people who read this would know our situation, but just in case more than 5 people click the link, we have a son who has Cystic Fibrosis. He therefore falls into the ‘vulnerable’ category if he were to contract Covid-19.
I have felt this kind of anxiety before when Mac was a brand new baby, and I was a brand new mum. I cannot even imagine what the new parents of little babies with CF are feeling right now. It’s tough enough without the added fear of this unknown virus.
And what did I do when I felt like this? I mopped the floor a lot. Weird. But I’ve found that I’ve done it again. My floors don’t know what’s hit them because let’s just say, I’ve been a bit laissez-faire when it comes to whipping out the vileda. Also, we made the choice to tuck him away a bit. When I say a bit, I mean that I didn’t leave the house with him for a month, and anyone with a slight cough or cold would receive some serious laser eye gaze. I was young and polite back then. If you come near my kid now with your snot and cough I might just tell you to fuck off. I’m 45 now and write complaint letters like all good women who are over 40. People change.
So in the light of the arrival of the newest member of the Corona family, my first instinct was to hook on the caravan, head north and sit in the desert for 6 months. After I calmed down and realised that I don’t care much for the desert climate, I figured we should just lay low. On Sunday I thought this may be seen as an over-reaction, but it seems in the two days that followed, Australia joined in. There are no convoys of caravans heading to the desert, but there has been enormous changes for the world, our country and our community. A sad reality, but selfishly, I’m relieved that the decisions we’ve been grappling with have been taken out of our hands.
Scarlett and Elliot also get the fringe benefit of staying home at this time. I think the novelty may wear off pretty quickly because we haven’t hit full strength “home school” so I’m expecting that their apparent early joy will no doubt come crashing down when they realise there was a good reason I didn’t pursue the idea of teaching.
Over the weekend I filled more information about Covid-19 into my head than a doomsday prepper fills pasta into a trolley.
All I know from my self induced media frenzy is that we need everyone to stay healthy to reduce the risk. The more people who stay healthy also help keep those who fall in the vulnerable category to stay safe. It ain’t rocket science…
Please do the “social distancing” thing. It’s such a lame phrase akin to “conscious uncoupling” but do it anyway. Wash your hands… don’t spread your snot and sneezes, and most importantly please think of others. M
I get it. It’s hard to play second fiddle. It would shit me to tears being the younger sibling to a brother who wins stuff and gets awards and seems to have more than his fair share of moments to shine. So when I told Scarlett that Mac had won the U15 boys swimming medal, her response was “of course he did”, followed by an eye roll.
I understand her anguish, I really do, but I reminded her that her big brother achieving something doesn’t take anything away from her. I’d hoped that she would be happy for him. But I still “get it”. As much as we don’t make Mac’s health a topic of too much conversation, I gently reminded her that these small victories taste a little sweeter. Sure, he’s not an Olympic athlete, but at the same time it’s a big fat giant middle finger to CF. This stupid disease might eventually rob him of being able swim at all, let alone win a race.
Her eyes dropped down, and silence fell. I didn’t want to make her feel bad. God parenting is hard. “But I still get it” I assured her.
Earlier that day a woman approached me after the swimming carnival, sharing her congratulations to Macauley and telling me how she hopes I let the doctors and people at the hospital know what he achieves. “He’s an inspiration” she added. Wow. Inspiring. I guess he would be for some.
Later, I realised that it’s not the people at the hospital who need to hear this story. It’s new parents of children who have CF or any other condition which may see them sitting behind the eight ball of life. I remember being drowned with the harsh reality that was ahead, eagerly searching for the positive stories. I needed good news. I had to know that sometimes good things would happen too.
This one is for them….
.
.
Dear You,
I see you…The new mum who’s holding her baby in the waiting room. I see you grapple with forcing medication into your brand new baby. I see your eyes darting around this strange place, which one day, will become all too familiar. I see you staring off into the distance wondering what this all means. I see the exhaustion and stress on your face….a deer in the headlights of an insidious disease, beaming into your reality.
I hear your thoughts…What does this mean for my child? What is his future? How sick is he really going to be? Will I have to bury him? I can’t ever leave him. I can’t ever go back to work. We can’t ever have any more children. This is it. Our lives are going to be swallowed up by doctors appointments and sickness and treatment and sadness.
I see you, as you research every morsel of information. I see you, as you constantly clean your house and disinfect toys to prevent the germs. I see you, as your stomach flips inside out at the sound of another child coughing near your baby. I feel your anxiety not knowing how to stop the sickness, how to stop the germs, how to protect your child from normal childhood things. I feel the monotony and relentlessness that daily treatment brings you.
But as they say, time stands still for no-one. The days roll into weeks and the weeks become months, months into years.
The roller coaster you are on is sometimes scary. You will scream for it to stop, but you’re strapped in and can’t get off. You will get used to the ride, and settle into it. You will eventually go back to work and will be able to trust others to take care of your baby who is now a toddler. You will have more children too. Your life and that of your family’s won’t be swallowed up by this disease, because you won’t let it. You will somehow become used to the sharp turns and the steep falls. You will learn to expect the unexpected and be open to the unknown. Once you’ve been on this ride for a while, you will learn which dips you need to brace for and which ones to simply raise your hands and surrender. You will surprise yourself at how far you’ve all come. The daily grind will become part of a daily routine, and the things you stayed awake worrying about will seem not so worrisome anymore. Life will be messy and good and normal for the most part. The disease will get the attention it needs but you won’t feed the beast. It will have no more power or control over everyone’s life, other than which it is given. It will define no-one. You will make it fit. You will work around it. It will be like the unwelcome visitor at Christmas… the drunk uncle in the corner. It has to be here, but you don’t have to like it and you’re certainly not going to celebrate it or give it more attention than it needs.
Then one day you will turn around and your baby will be almost 15. Not only is he taller than you now, but he is also living a pretty awesome life and achieving things that you never thought would be possible for that little baby in the hospital waiting room.
To everyone’s surprise, those runty little legs helped him run like the wind. He began to love sports and he wasn’t too shabby. He went on to win trophies and awards and ribbons for all kinds of stuff. He got picked for teams and development squads. He collected a shelf full of trophies and a draw full of ribbons. Along with this he managed to come home with some snappy school reports despite the missed weeks for hospital stays. He developed a good work ethic and strives to improve. He helps out, takes on leadership roles and despite the normal frustrations of raising a teen, he is turning out ok.
Somehow, this disease which was seen as such a curse, has given as much as it’s taken away. It’s taught the lessons of patience, persistence and determination. It’s taught us all about resilience and the power of reframing thoughts. It is part of the fabric that has made our son who he is. It’s part of the fabric that has made those of us who love him.
The future is still a scary place. It’s still unknown. There are some fabulous new treatments, but there’s still no cure. There will be many hurdles to jump as time unfolds. But that’s a truth for everyone, with or without a chronic illness.
Out of all the things you will need to power through the hard times, it is the power of hope. So strap in, hold tight, cross your fingers and be prepared for the possibility of being pleasantly surprised.
I seemed to clamber out of the January pool of holiday bliss, bundle our kids off to school and February smacked me in the face. February is upon us.
February 2020.
When I was a little girl I had imagined 2020 to be some kind of supercharged world, unrecognisable to the ’80s in which I was living. I wondered what the world would be like, what I’d be doing, where I’d be living. I had quite exotic thoughts about the future and I defintiely thought we’d be living more of a Jetson-Esque lifestyle with flying cars and robot maids.
To my disappointment, there’s not a single flying car to be seen and the closest we got to a robot maid was that stupid round vacuum thingo that banged into furniture.
Instead, 2020 sees the comeback of the scrunchy and a high waisted jean. There has been a resurgence of bodysuits and a new take on the rah-rah skirt.(less Rah-more skirt). What’s next…blue mascara? One can only hope actually. I loved my blue mascara, with complimentary blue eyeshadow and a touch of pink in the corners for the brave ones.
However, I am determined to tick off some goals in 2020, but 2020 started a month ago.
I’m already behind and I haven’t even started yet.
Let’s face it though. The year really doesn’t “start” until February. Or is that just me? I don’t even know what January is anymore. I think we need to give up on January because it shouldn’t even count as a month. Nothing productive happens in January. NOTHING. January feels like December’s hang over, and for some of us, the “check liver” light may also be blinking. Also, for the love of all that is good and decent, don’t even think about standing on scales or looking too closely at your bank balance after the month long soirée we call January.
February, on the other hand is a whole other situation.. it feels like it’s GAME ON. February is intense and wildly reminds me of all the crap I promised I’d do throughout 2020 while in the slumber of that stupid week between Christmas and New Year. Somehow the new year seemed such a long way away in that inbetweeny week of the post christmas/pre new year vortex. It’s a time where the dreams that are dreamt can easily become broken promises.
But if you’re like me and have begun to feel the tick-tock of the life clock and want to cross off some bucket list items before you actually ‘kick the bucket’, then I’m feeling ya, or I’m gearing up for a mid-life crisis 🤔.
