tOOleS

2009-03-26T23:39:00.000+11:00

I remember her.

Confused. Lonely. Dazzled.

Walking through the world skeleton first.

Dark and moody.

I don't want to forget her.
I don't want to be her either.

When you trawl through your history you remember your youth like a jewel. Like anything it's tumbled and polished over time and it looks cleaner and more precious than it really was.

I don't want to do that. I want to remember what it was.
Gritty, messy and dark.

It was the foundation for where I am now.

Once I was milk crates and planks of wood. Musicians and writers.

Now I'm Ikea and shiny cars. Children and scribble on the walls.

Nothing's changed. I'm the same - only the world around me has evolved.

2009-03-22T23:37:00.005+11:00

I'm still here. Kind of.

The past couple of years have been fuller than I thought I would ever cope with. There you go. I'm a mum.

My days are completely swallowed by the work I have to do. The challenges and the frustrations of trying to be me in the middle of being someone everyone else needed me to be.

And the years pass like a long sigh. You don't even notice they're disapearing.

One day, you wake up again and it's almost as if you'd been asleep the whole time. You've missed nothing, you've had a full life.

Just.... you weren't consciously part of it.

Life's easier when you don't try too hard to live it.

2007-11-29T23:05:00.000+11:00

DISGUST

The boy is teething and his sharp screams of pain are the epitome of frustration.

There’s so much he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand why his mouth hurts. He doesn’t understand why I’m not fixing it. He doesn’t understand why his mother slapped his legs for just playing.

Neither does his mother.

He was pinching and pulling at the light tuffs of hair around my neck. The pain was excruciating but he didn’t understand. Still, I snapped. I always swore I wouldn’t be this kind of parent and now I’m disgusted with myself. It was just one short, sharp slap but he went from laughing joyously at my repetition of “no” to the most horrified face I’ve ever seen.

That’s a look I don’t ever want to forget.

Perhaps it will remind my why I was so against hitting as a form of punishment. I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to be the kind of adult that lashes out at a child because they’re frustrated.

I always saw hitting as a sign of incompetence.

Parent’s are only human, I accept that. But we are supposed to be adults. We are supposed to be restrained and controlled. I can’t say I won’t do it again – be it from exhaustion, frustration, fear or plain and simple anger. I am, after all, only human. Like any animal I am prone to momentary lapses in control.

But the self-loathing and disgust I feel will well up each and every time.

2007-11-20T23:24:00.001+11:00

ABSORBED

Each day with little boy just gets better.

No longer is he a tiny lump of babiness but he's turned into his own little character and I am totally wrapped in him.

For he past 12 months that's where my dedication has been. I have done nothing but watch him change. At times I've been upset and angry at all I had lost - my creativity sapped, my Independence obliterated, my privacy non-existent, my strength tested.

But be damned if it doesn't take just one belly-laugh from the boy and it's all forgotten. One hug and I'm completely his.

Today his chubbiness played in an empty wading pool with a 4-litre ice-cream container of water and some little plastic animals. We'd set the mini-water world up in the loungeroom because it was too hot to go outside.

He splashed, the water spraying finely across my face each time and I didn't wipe it away. I didn't want to move but instead just laid there watching him.

He was so amazed and fascinated by the way the water felt and how it flowed across the crumpled plastic pool's floor. His eyes lit up with surprise each time the water splashed into his face and then he would laugh joyously as if it were the greatest experience of his life.

Laying on the carpet I was wrapped into his little world. Each splash a discovery of something I'd long forgotten. And I couldn't have had a happier moment then to be there with him while he discovered this.

The funny thing is, all of my life I've been so afraid of losing myself to someone else. Why? What's so frightening about giving yourself over to the people you love?

In many respects, nothing has changed. I am still who I am. But for right now the lives of those around me have me hypnotized; absorbed.

And it's not frightening at all. In fact, it's exhilarating.

Well, except for the eye-watering nappies.

2007-11-19T00:27:00.000+11:00

OH BROTHER

Even since I was little, I have imitated my big brother.

I wanted to play the sports he had outstanding skills at - soccer; martial arts; archery. I listened to the music he listened to and we fought over who liked them first. I wanted to go where he went. I wanted to do what he did. I wanted the friend he had.

He was my idol.

He still is.

No doubt he saw me as nothing more than a pesky little sister who got on his nerves but the truth was I would intentionally goad him just for a little attention. I used to untune his guitars just so he'd spend and extra 30-minutes in the loungeroom tuning them. I would "borrow" his music just so he would have to come looking for it.

Little changed when we go older. Only the methods of trying to get his attention became more sophisticated (at least I thought so).

I worked hard in a job I loathed, bought a unit I didn't need, travelled the world to extricate myself from a family dispute and . In doing all of this all I've ever wanted was for him to see that I was a success just like him.

Over the years I've speculated as to why he wants little to nothing to do with me. I've told myself lies that I know aren't true. I've fomulated theories about his situation. But I can't hold onto them anymore.

I'm a dissapointment to him.

And it doesn't matter how old you are. It doesn't matter who you are. There will always be a link between siblings that goes unsaid.

Little sisters will always look up to older brothers, in the hope one day they'll look down and see them.

2007-04-01T23:19:00.000+10:00

RAMBLING 26

According to my doctors it wasn't anything too dramatic. A little, just a little, internal bleeding. Over the course of a few weeks I became increasingly anemic until my doctor suggested I make a rapid visit to the local hospital for a transfusion.

But despite all of the exhaustion the one thing that amazes me and that I can't seem to shake my affection for a certain little boy. With all that's going on, his gummy smile is enough to force me to battle against the exhaustion and make it through yet another day.

Currently I am getting better but there is still a way to go. According to the doctors recovering from anemia is more a matter of months than weeks so it'll probably still be some time before I get my act together.

Don't stress though. I will be back. A lot has happened and 99 per cent of it has been good. My little boy has changed so much from the

Enough of the rant. I'm off to bed.

For now, it's

Goodnight.

Hopefully I'll be back soon and I'll be able to put all of my experiences into some sort of order.

I

just pray that all of these memories don't slip away.

Keeping tOOleS up to date is difficult at the best of times and right now it just isn't a priority.

Little boy tops that list.

My Tom comes in a very close second.

Not that it's a competition. Right now I just can't seem to find where one day begins and the other ends. They're all merging together.

Only little boy isn't the reason for that. I'm grappling for some time to myself and it appears that with how busy the day is, the late nights are the only time I have to myself. Unfortunately being exhausted doesn't allow for clarity of thought.

Perhaps I should stop putting so much pressure on myself.

Question all the expectations that others have heaped upon my shoulders.

Resist the temptation to judge myself too harshly.

Some things are easier said than done.

Try silencing the voices of a dozen generations coursing through your veins.

Understand that everyone means well but that when it come down to it, every child is different and every way of reacting to them differs too. Little boy, for example, is

very fond of staying awake all day but lucky for me he chooses to sleep through the night at only eight weeks.

We'll just have to wait and see what happens.

X-rays, stitches, injections. All of these things are in the future. He will break bones and scrape his knee but I can't be burdening myself with those worries now. We have

years in which to experience all these worries. For now, I need to get myself healthy. Otherwise it'll be impossible for me to cope with what's to come. Anyhow, off to bed for some well earned

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

2007-02-05T19:54:00.000+11:00

TIME

It’s taken 19 days but I’m finally in the swing of things.

I can tell what cries mean what. The hungry cry. The tired cry. The attention cry.

It’s as though all the pieces fell into place one morning. Suddenly I could understand what he was saying when he wasn’t saying a word.

Little rascal is now so tired that he won’t sleep. This is the most frustrating of cries because you know the solution is a simple as him closing his eyes. But he hasn’t learned that yet – instead he just looks at me all confused and frustrated wondering why I don’t fix what’s wrong.

Time cures this cry.

Time cure all.

As for getting my head around the trauma of the birth – I’m slowly coming to terms with that. I don’t feel as angry as I did in the first week. Perhaps the anguish and the nightmares heal just like the wound. Each day the pain is a little less.

I’m getting more sleep. That always helps. I’m also being treated for anemia which was making my life just that much harder.

For now though, Boy and I are getting on pretty well. I no longer look at him and wonder where he came from. I no longer look at him and think he would have been better of with someone else as a mother.

Snuggled now in his dads arms I know that the tough newborn days will pass but that they’re preparing Boy for something wonderful.

2007-02-01T12:26:00.000+11:00

HELP

The spitting image of his father, Boy already has a receding hairline and a thinning patch of hair on the crown of his head.

His face is round and when I watch his small mouth pucker I wonder what it is he’s so desperate to tell me. His lips making a perfect O shape as he stares straight into my eyes.

No eye-brows to talk of – that’s my trait – just thin wisps of white hair. His ears are small shells that serve only to pick up that stray sounds and startle him while he sleeps.

He doesn’t so much cry as squeal and even while I was in hospital I could easily identify his cry above the hundreds of other babies in the ward.

But what’s disturbing me most is that link.

I honestly thought it was a bunch of crap. I honestly thought it was something new mothers just said they felt because they loved their kids. But it’s true. He knows me.

When I cry he cries. When I’m calm he’s calm. When I’m angry he twitches with anger.

Just another thing I’m to blame for.

When he’s upset I get the tilt of the head from who-ever is there at the time… At the hospital the midwife flat out told me “he was in you for nine months, you think he doesn’t know when you’re in pain? Since the day he was born he’s been able to tell that you’re no longer with him and it scares him. He needs you now, more than when you were pregnant.”

Who asked for that? I honestly thought when he was born that Tom would be able to share the burden equally but he can’t. Even without the umbilical cord Boy is connected to me on a level that, for now, can’t be shared by anyone else.

How much more pressure will be put upon me?

And I’m fighting again with my beast. Depression. Only now it’s officially “postnatal depression” like it wasn’t there long before I fell pregnant.

But I refuse to surrender. I refuse to give in.

I spend my night marveling at what Tom and I have created and I know that no matter how dark I feel there is one undeniable fact – Boy needs me.

I can’t afford to be self-indulgent. I can’t afford to let the beast win.

So I’m swallowing my guilt – one green pill at a time – and chasing the darkness from my head. I’ve called out and found that the support available to me is endless. I am not alone and I won’t isolate myself as I’ve done before.

Boy deserves more than a hollow shell of a mother and I’m doing all that I can to make sure he gets that.

2007-01-27T16:15:00.000+11:00

SHOCK

I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know what to tell you.

At exactly 5am on Wednesday, January 17 my waters broke. On Thursday, January 18 I gave birth to a son.

All didn’t go as smoothly as plan. Both Boy and I are fine. We’re healthy. But we’re only now getting over our shock and exhaustion.

The labor lasted a grueling 36 hours but just didn’t progress. It wasn’t until well into the 30th hour that they tried to induce me. Five hours later – nothing had changed.

I’d spent most of the first 12 hours just moaning in pain. The next 10 hours sucking on gas until they gave me an epidural and I spent the rest of the time numb from the waste down.

The epidural wore of (or was reduced) in hour 34 as I entered break-through phase and increasingly it became unbearable. I begged and begged for a C-section but the doctors delayed and delayed.

In my 36th hour I began to push and after one solid hour of bearing down the baby hadn’t moved an inch. The doctor came in, told me there was no other option. The next thing I knew I was being run by a massive wards man for emergency surgery.

Tom’s been filling in blanks from here out because I just don’t remember much of what happened. It’s true what they say – it’s the world’s worst pain but the quickest forgotten. I remember enough to know that I was crippled by pain but not enough to tell you what that pain felt like.

I can tell you how terrified I was – the glimpses of hallway I caught through eyes clenched shut in pain. I can tell you the anesthetist had a calm voice and warm hands when he held mine to explain what he’d be doing. I can tell you that they couldn’t drug me up quick enough and that I didn’t understand one word they said because I was barely together enough to breath.

Tom tells me that they took me into surgery while he was squeezed into a hospital gown and cap and made to wait in a small room just outside of surgery – watching Hughie’s Cooking Show on Channel 10.

When they let him in, he sat beside me and held my hand while I screamed for someone to check on the baby (they’d disconnected the heart monitors) and a kind midwife held a speaker by my ear so I could hear his heart beat.

Once I heard Boy's heart beating I relaxed and stopped screaming.

They erected a blue screen across my chest and I could feel them pulling and tugging but no pain. And then, crying. Over the screen they showed me his purple foot and asked Tom to come and cut the cord.

A few minutes later they brought him to me all bundled up. But that’s when things fell to pieces. They sent Tom and the baby to the ward so they could finish closing me up.

As soon as my boys left I began to feel the pain. I could feel them pushing and shoving and stitching. Part physical sensation, part hysteria. At that point the anesthetist had no other option but to fully knock me out and the next thing I knew I was waking up in recovery.

It took three days for the nightmares to stop – both mine and the baby’s.

Seven days for my aching abdomen to heal enough for me to walk properly without having to support the muscles with my hands.

Nine days and my milk still hasn’t come in and I’ve decided there is no other option but to bottle feed.

And only now and I in a position to see my son without the tears of guilt and failure filling my eyes.

I still cry though – at my body’s inability to bring him to this world and sustain him – but this too shall pass.

2007-01-16T10:19:00.000+11:00

SWOLLEN

Today I am exactly 40 weeks pregnant. That’s right – pregnant.

My plans for an early and small baby have been destroyed by a 9 pound baby that has no desire to move from its current location. But since all is well the doctors flat out refuse to induce me until I’m the full 10 days over.

Clearly all the doctors are men who have no idea what it’s like to carry a bowling ball in their abdomen. Doctors who laugh and tell me they “understand” my frustration and that it “won’t be long now”.

I’d like to give them a call at 3am to share the experience of trying to lift my enormous belly out of bed for the umpteenth time to go to the bathroom because it’s all too much for me to sleep more than an hour and a half without relieving my matchbox sized bladder.

Other than the anticipation, being at home is a boring as all hell.

I’ve watched enough day time TV to know that there are some writers out there who, despite their professions, haven’t got an ounce of creativity in their bones.

Our computer went down for two weeks so I haven’t had that escape either. Not that having the computer would have made much of a difference. The swelling in my fingers means that typing is a new experience in pain and frustration as my finger, more often than not, simply won't do what they're told.

The only upshot is going to clinic every week and seeing that there are women out there a lot worse off than me.

Being at home you’re isolated. There’s a sense that you’re the biggest, fattest pregnant women in the world and that you’ve been pregnant for longer than anyone in the entire history of pregnancy.

But every visit to the clinic you are given a show of stick-figured women with bellies swollen and red from stretch marks. Their enormous stomachs are spewing out from under their woefully inadequate clothing because they, like me, have decided buying maternity clothes is a waste of money.

But, unlike me who wore big clothing in the first place and who has accepted going up two sizes into my more daggy of outfits for the sake of discretion and comfort, they have refused to give up their trendy skin-tight jeans and mid-riff shirts.

The result is a humorous, and slightly disturbing, skinny woman with a nasty growth who makes you grateful you were fat in the first place so you don’t look so ridiculous now.

I’m not a prude. Pregnancy is a beautiful thing to look at. These women are not. Their stomachs are pushing out of the zipper of their pants and their tops barely cover their breasts and their belly-buttons are finger like protrusions pointing in an accusatory fashion at anyone in their path.

They simply look swollen – not pregnant.

The draw back of clinic is that it works both ways. While there are these women to make you feel better about how you’re making your way through pregnancy, there are those women who look simply radiant.

They’ve decided that they’ll pay the massive, gouge of a price for maternity wear. Their bellies are well sculpted bumps under their dresses and shirts while mine is a lumpy mass that could easily be mistaken for stored porridge.

These women have well groomed hair while mine looks like I’ve just come in from a windstorm. Pregnancy makes these women glow while I simply look green faced from being sick and puffy-eyed from no sleep.

The small consolation is that these women are few and far between. More often then not at clinic it’s people like me – in the middle of the road. Pregnancy hasn’t brought out the best in us but it’s clearly not the worst either.

We’re tired, uncomfortable and frustrated. We’re all just worried for the welfare of our potential children and that stress is written across our faces, knotted in our hair and staining our stretched t-shirts.

I tend to think, any women without the sense to have these fears etched into their being probably shouldn't be having a child in the first place because they're woefully under-prepared for the reality of it all.

2007-01-04T11:03:00.000+11:00

STILL WAITING

I spend my days watching my belly twist and warp.

What was once an idea is now a reality. There is no denying there there is a human being other than myself inhabbiting this body. It twists and turns and my stomach bulges and dips with each wave of movement.

And there are distinct shapes that disturb, more than amaze, me. Everyone talks about the miracle of pregnancy and birth but I can't seem to get past the weirdness of it all. I can't see the miracle because all I can see is a hand or a foot where it shouldn't be - coming from inside me.
Perhaps I'm too clinical. Maybe I can see the miracle but I just can't shake my utter fascination to focus on the spirituality of the event.

Still, at this stage (week 38) I'm starting to think my child will never come. I'm starting to think that I'll be inhabbited forever. I'm starting to think that I'll be this lounge bound, moron, for the rest of my life.

I really miss work. I miss having a nimble mind. I miss my motivation to change out of my PJs before 3pm.

While I wait, every promising twinge and stabbing pain that makes me think labour is coming turns into just another discomfort that is forgotten 20 minutes later. And no matter the discomfort I can't help but laugh at the pain because it's too odd for words.

My abdomen is nothing more than a shell now and I'm acutely aware that inside is something with a mind of its own. My child.

I feel like a great big bubble or rather a massive water balloon. Heavy and cumbersome, yet completely aware that if Nugget wasn't there that I would be hollow (and I wonder if this statement doesn't have a double meaning but I don't want to dwell there for now).

It'll seem strange but now I get a feeling of how a house must feel. There is someone knocking on all my walls and I have no ability to respond or react - at least not in a manner that person would perceive.

Does Nugget know I exist? Is Nugget even conscious of other human beings or completely oblivious to the world outside of its little room? Is Nugget able to comprehend how complex things are about to get? Does Nugget see me as the pain moving and pushing against it rather than realising it's inside of me?

Oh my God. I've just realised. I'm someone's world.

But it's only temporary and I know what I can't provide Nugget will be at it's fingertips. There is a wealth of experience out there to fill the gaps and I'm looking forward to not only teaching a child about the world around it but also learning about life from it.

2006-11-30T15:20:00.000+11:00

SICKNESS

Thank you for spreading your sickness.

It’s not enough that I’m not sleeping at night because of the small human being tap-dancing on my bladder; I’m unable to walk more than 10 metres without a break; I have searing pain up my spine from the unnatural bulge out in front of me.

It’s not enough that I’m in a constant state of exhaustion and sickness trying to push myself through these last days of work.

Now your generous gift means on top of all of this I can barely breath through the mucus building in my sinuses and my eyes are constantly blurry because of the non-stop hacking cough. When I sneeze I need half a toilet roll of paper to catch the gunk.

All because of you.

As I saw you trudging through the day, complaining about the burden of being sick, I can only assume that you were oblivious to anyone else.

You leant next to me, coughed onto my desk, spluttered your joys at the fact I’m pregnant and your “how excited you must be” speech. All the while you coated me in your filthy infection.

Then, when I get sick, you have the hide to dismiss it as part of “pregnancy’s tough burden”.

I am going to return the favour.

I have coughed all over your keyboard. I’ve been dumping my soggy tissues into your waste paper bin right under your nose. I used your phone, making sure I breathed as heavily as possible.

Sure, I can’t get you pregnant (no doubt your ovaries are all withered and dried up by now anyway) but I can give you back your flu.

What? Feeling a little headachy?

Suffer - you inconsiderate rat. Here’s hoping that the mutated version of your virus hits you twice as hard…

2006-11-24T14:36:00.000+11:00

BOSWELL WHO?

Well, it’s odd. Now that there’s only eight weeks before Nugget is due I suddenly don’t feel so obsessed with being pregnant. In fact, quite the opposite, I’m kind of regretting it.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy to be becoming a mother and it’s everything I’ve wanted.

I just regret that I’ve let it come to this.

For the past seven months the pregnancy has been central to everything I did and only now I’m beginning to wonder - what about me? What happens to me after the baby is born? Who am I now?

I’ve spent my days wondering about whether the baby was ok or whether we had everything ready enough for when it arrived. I’ve wondered what kind of baby I’ll have and if it’ll look like me or like Tom.

But in the past two weeks it’s occurred to me that this entire obsession has left little room for me to just be me.

The panic culminated in a massive breakdown where a calm and collected Tom reassured me that I am not just a baby incubator.

I am still Boswell.

Still, to date my achievements while pregnant have been small and I’ve been frustrated beyond anything I’ve ever felt before.

I’ve watched as co-workers have begun new courses to further their understanding of our profession while I was deemed ineligible. My designs and plans have been put on hold and I am simply sitting here waiting for the time to pass.

I’ve watched as Tom has achieved his goals quickly and efficiently while I sit curled on the ground exhausted and resentful of Tom’s agility. I am incapable of achieving my own small objectives without assistance.

With the daunting prospect of 12 months of staring at a wall I’m wondering just what I’m going to do with my maternity leave. You can only fake interest in something for so long before you go insane and slip into the grips of the beast.

For my entire life I’ve equated getting out there and doing something to achieve a goal as a sign of success. I have never equated sitting around and waiting for something to happen to me as a significant achievement.

And that’s what I’ve been doing. I’m waiting. It goes against every grain of my being to be passive about the direction of my life.

But I have no choice other than to wait.

I’m waiting for the baby to develop enough to be born. I’m waiting for Tom to come and help me cook dinner or do one of many meaningless tasks. I’m waiting for work to end so I can stay at home and wait.

I am dependant on the people and forces around me and I don’t like it one bit.

It’s unnatural. And until things change I don’t think I can shake these blues and the creeping anxiety that comes from feeling lost.

If I were still Boswell as I know her then I wouldn’t tolerate this one bit.

2006-11-03T13:43:00.000+11:00

POINTLESS

There are forces at work in Sydney that scare me.

There are forces that seem intent on manufacturing fear and hatred.

There are forces working hard to ensure that a community once unified is irrevocably torn apart.

And I’m scared.

I don’t want to feel scared. It’s something I went to great lengths to overcome. I quit a job and travelled to Canada and spent 6 months getting rid of the fear.

But terrorists are planning to bomb a Sydney train station, more than an hour away from my home.

Now, we are safe in our leafy suburb but, and this is what the voices remind me, I work in Parramatta. Something in my bones tells me this would be a secondary target for the less than ambitious terrorist. It’s a major hub of activity. Any terrorist without the gall to attack Sydney would take this city to be a reasonable second place.

Now I can’t seem to shake one question. Why? I’ve always had a tempered perception of the world. I’ve always seen people for what they are and never been inclined to generalise about races. I’ve disagreed with certain policies and points of view but I have never, to my conscious knowledge, hated someone just because of where they came from or what they believe.

Ironically I’ve been a staunch supporter of allowing people to believe what they want to. If I hadn’t then I wouldn’t have quit journalism with such enthusiasm.

When I disagree I have voiced my opinion but only in the interest of raising dialogue and understanding, not to attack.

And here I am, a walking target.

What’s worse is that if there’s an attack it won’t be personal. It’ll be indiscriminate. They won’t know who I am and they won’t particularly care. All they’ll (whoever the mysterious they are) will be worried about is that they’ve made their point.

But, I’m still struggling to figure out what the point is.

In Israel the point of the attacks from Hezbollah is that they want the Jewish settlers out. They bomb the cities to drive them from their homes. In that sense I understand the point of their attacks (don’t agree but understand their objectives).

In most countries where there are terrorist attacks this is the point of the bombings – to drive people away.

So by attacking New York did the terrorists want the city deserted so they could take over? It doesn’t make sense. What could they have possibly hoped to achieve – it only made them look foolish. Only arguments to flimsy to stand up to close scrutiny resort to violence as a means to be heard. Even then those attacked are twice as unlikely to suddenly see "the error or their ways" just because someone's killed their family and friends.

So what could be achieved by attacking Sydney or Parramatta?

It would only create greater fear, greater resentment and greater hatred towards a people who by-and-large don’t deserve to be treated with such contempt.

The world would fare so much better if only those few inept and weak fanatics were silenced or at least shown the flaw in their logic.

2006-10-30T10:59:00.000+11:00

NEED SLEEP

Pregnancy: 29-32 Weeks Changes Your Body Will Experience
* Strong and more frequent fetal movements. (sometimes)
* Lower abdominal achiness which is related to the stretching of ligaments. (Ooooouch - think having your pubic mound punched)
* Shortness of breath
* Difficulty sleeping (difficult - read f**king impossible)
* Braxton Hicks contractions
* Colostrum leakage from the breast (change sheets every day)
* Leg cramps
* Backache
* Increase in constipation (as if not going at all could increase)
* Heartburn
* Exhaustion
* Varicose veins and or hemorrhoids
* Mild swelling of ankles and feet
* Occasional headaches, faintness or dizziness
* Increase in clumsiness

Add to this the already embarrassing list of symptoms the ongoing terror of things such as – fear of the pain of labor (get the pun?) – anxiety about baby’s amount of movement – anxiety over genetic deformities – stress from obnoxious relatives telling you what to do – frustration over not being able to do all you used to.

And they wonder why women are putting off their pregnancies until their 30s.

There is very little that is joyous about this condition. There is very little that I can tell you that wouldn’t make you consider instant sterilisation for both the pregnant woman and their partners.

On Saturday Tom and I spent two and a half hours shopping and I was done. Down for the count. Utterly exhausted. So tired that lifting my handbag from the seat of the car proved difficult. I grabbed its handle and managed to drop it not once, not twice, but a grand total of three times before bursting into tears (my handbag is particularly heavy). Tom took the offending luggage and then herded me into the bedroom demanding I get some sleep.

Three hours later I woke and felt no better.

There are six weeks of work left and I really do wonder if I’m going to make it. Of all the physical symptoms and discomforts it is the sheer exhaustion that is driving me under.

I get nine hours of broken sleep – running every 15 minutes to the toilet – and after three hours of sitting at a computer trying to understand what the latest moron is really asking me to explain to them I am done. I can’t focus anymore.

It’s the little details that suffer.

Whoops, forgot a security check before giving out someone’s banking details. I’d laugh if it wasn’t a sacking offence. Luckily I have a stunning boss who understands and I managed a quick, if late, save.

Whoops, gave the wrong balance. Oh well, it’ll come out in the wash. I’m sure they won’t be upset that they’ve lost $10,000 if not literally then figuratively to my exhaustion.

Of all the difficulties of pregnancy it’s the loss of my mental faculties that is proving the most difficult to bear.

I cannot function properly.

When at the registers buying something I’m the idiot who asks for cash out – after the purchase has been completed.

When standing at a table of food I’m the one asking where are the plates, oblivious to the pile in front of me.

When driving I ask Tom to tell me when to turn. He tells me, I turn two streets later.

It’s not good. Not good at all.

I worry about what kind of mother I’ll be if I can’t even remember the basics anymore and it doesn’t help to have everyone telling me it’s only going to get worse.

Soon tOOleS will be nothing more than mindless dribble.

Hell, maybe it already is and I just can’t notice. Tired. Need sleep.

2006-10-13T14:25:00.000+11:00

OOH BABY

Why, you ask, haven’t I written more about the pregnancy experience?

Scanning the Internet I’m finding a plethora of blogs about pregnancy. I’ve read and read women’s experience and it’s been helpful and heartening and insightful. Even though I’m now six months pregnant I can’t bring myself to join them.

I potter around with my more mundane thoughts because being pregnant largely defies description or perhaps I just didn’t have the focus necessary to put it into words. More than likely though, it’s because I simply don’t want to share too much of this experience – I’ve wanted to keep it to myself.

Still, it bears mentioning at least for the sake of tOOleS’s continuity.

I could write about the aches and pains (all of which are 100 times more powerful than I thought possible).

In the past six months I spent a total of: 3 months vomiting; 2 months of carpel tunnel syndrome; sore breasts for 2 months; frequent urination for all six months; 1 haemorrhoid; ongoing exhaustion; rapidly failing eyesight (short-sighted since 3 months) and; 2 months serious pubic pain.

I could write about the tears I’ve cried over the small, inconsequential things and things that are not so small and inconsequential.

I cried because; I was scared of labour (at 12 weeks); I don’t look pregnant (ongoing); Tom brought me flowers; Tom cooked me dinner; I couldn’t do the washing up; I couldn’t paint the lounge room in one go; I dropped my handbag; I dropped my keys and; I walked into a wall.

Or, I could go through the long series of medical examinations I’ve had.

I’ve had; blood taken to test my liver function; ultrasound to see if nugget had a genetic disorder; blood tests to see if nugget had a genetic disorder; amniocentesis to see if nugget had a genetic disorder; ultrasound to make sure all of nuggets bits and pieces were there; ultrasound to make sure the placenta was still attached (after the car accident); internal to make sure I wasn’t leaking amniotic fluid (also after car accident); endless urine tests; endless blood pressure tests and; had my abdomen poked to find my fundus (successfully located at week 22 in the right place).

It just doesn’t cut it. Particularly not when you feel that flutter in your abdomen that tells you it’s all real. You are the proud owner of a new life.

I first felt Nugget kick way back when… About week 16-17. Small flutters that were a presence but nothing too significant. They came, but more often they went and remained my little secret.

Week 23 things changed. Nuggets small flutters became rather pronounced bangs. Washes against my abdomen wall that made me feel, quite frankly, a little sea sick.

Now, week 26, the hits and kicks are clearly life. Nugget is no longer a thought and I find myself finally getting into the swing of being pregnant.

I can’t deny Nugget’s existence any more. And the sensation is indescribable. I could grapple with terms – like fish swimming into your sides; like popcorn popping; like rhythmical bubbles of gas; butterflies flapping - but the imagery (all a little disturbing if you ask me) just doesn’t come close to explaining what it feels like.

So I rub my belly with pride, even though I don’t look particularly pregnant and instead look like I’m congratulating myself after a good meal. It’s enough (sometimes) that I know inside is a small child stepping on my bladder. And I complain about the inconvenience of running to the toilet for such false alarms. I complain with a smile on my face that nothing could wipe away.

Because I know something you don’t know. I know Nugget’s real name and I’ve been using it during our private times together.

Nugget is…. Real.

2006-10-09T16:48:00.000+11:00

WELFARE

Well, it’s begun. Tom’s kids were on the path to becoming just like their mother – a professional victim and sponge - I just thought we’d have a bit more time to try and intervene.

Three weekends ago, both miss 8 and Mr 13, stole $120 from their grandmother. The money was being held in money tins for them, however they had been told time and time again that it was savings that they could have when they turned 18 to go towards a car or whatever they needed then.

Grandmother had been putting in $5 a week for them and last weekend left them alone to count their money, which they love to do. While she was in another room they pocketed all the notes they could find – including money from their grandmother’s wallet.

The kids have been bragging about all the new things they’ve bought lately too and I can’t help but suspect they’re not even feeling the slightest pangs of guilt.

It’s the culmination of a few months of lies and carry on that Tom has been in denial about. And he’s still in denial. He still thinks it’s “understandable” and “not their fault” and my personal favourite “not as bad as you’re making it out to be”.

I’ve been screamed at by Mr 13; listened to them fight and scream at each other non-stop for hours on end; been blatantly lied to by Miss 8; broke up fist fights and all of this in the past two months. It seems as though it’s never going to stop because no one, other than me, gave a damn about it.

The problem with this latest incident is that their grandmother wants to deal with this herself and as a result we won’t be saying anything about it. Grandmother won’t be either.

“That’s just the way my family works,” Tom sighs. “If she wants to deal with it that means that I can’t say anything or she’ll get upset.”

WTF? Whose children are these? Is no one going to step up to the plate and be a parent? Will no one take responsibility for them and their well-being?

They’re going to end up thieves, liars and dole bludgers all because no one wants to say anything. No one wants to hold them accountable for their own actions. No one wants to teach them that they can’t and won’t always get want they want and that they have to earn their place in this world.

What is with Tom’s cloak and dagger obsessed family – they’re wonderful to your face but tearing you to shreds behind your back or in sneaky hit and run attacks? Who cares if she’ll get upset? Just like everyone in your lineage it’s just something she’ll have to get over.

The big question is, is Tom’s entire bloodline incapable of being honest with themselves and with others?

I’ve gone beyond caring what happens to the kids. No one backs me up and I’m fighting a losing battle because I have no say what-so-ever. What is the point caring when even their own blood relatives are willing to watch the kids’ lives fall into rack and ruin because they don’t want to be seen as the bad guy?

So I’m cutting my losses, at least for now, and focusing on my responsibility to myself, Tom and Nugget.

When they’re in my house I will tolerate them but nothing more. I will lock my valuable away and let Tom deal with them because I simply can’t deal with it anymore.

Every fortnight there’s a lingering presence of the resentment I feel towards Tom, for allowing the obnoxious pair to rack more damage than a whirlwind through our lives and not calling them to account for their behaviour.

My attitude will come and go. My resolve to allow their family to take responsibility for them will waiver – particularly when their behaviour impacts on me directly – and I’ll find myself trying to amend their ways. But for right now I can see no reason why I should care what happens to them anymore.

It’s been made painfully clear that no one wants to see the kids for what they are – obnoxious brats heading for complete destruction. Destruction that could be easily diverted if someone would set some simply boundaries and teach them what’s right and wrong.

Something tells me that Tom’s in for a rough time when the teenage years really hit.

It’ll be a tough thing he’ll have to handle on his own because every time I try to help, it’s made crystal clear the kids are not my concern.

And I won’t be concerning myself with their welfare any longer.

2006-09-28T17:35:00.001+10:00

I

I wish I could be one of those people who just let it go.

I wish the driver of the penis-enhancing 4WD that tried to kill us getting away with his behaviour didn’t make my blood boil.

I wish watching people who weren’t even working here six month ago walking off to do the course I was promised more than a year ago didn’t make me want to cry.

I wish that in the face of ongoing injustice I could be as cold as ice.But I can’t. I’m not like that.I wake at 1am and can’t sleep until dawn because it’s injustice that makes me want to give up on the world.

Not only the injustices visited upon me but those that are visted upon my family and friends and even the strangers in the street, I carry those injustices with me too.

I know these are little thing. I know that they’re inconsequential.But all of the little things build up to one big, unbearable existence.

I wish I knew how to forget about it all and I wish that I could take things as they come.

I want to believe everything happens for a reason. I want to believe that there is balance to this world. I want to believe that I can accept the universe’s decisions and that when one door closes another opens.

But when I see fools, cheats and losers getting ahead and I’m falling further behind I lose heart.

Why bother?

Why not cheat and lie and steal?

God knows it’s those people who appear to be wining.I want to believe that that’s all it is – appearance – and that their victories are hollow victories.

But I know that a win is a win any way you can get it.

So I’m tired. I want to quit right now and curl up in bed.

It’s disheartening, sometimes, that this is the world I’m bringing Nugget into.

Frightening to think that this is what my child has to look forward to.

But then I think I’ll teach Nugget to be a fighter too. I’ll teach Nugget to stand up and fight for justice.

I wish I could do that and that it would change the world.

And then I think – I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Having your heat broken each and every day is a horrible way to live.

2006-09-25T16:39:00.000+10:00

ACCIDENT

It happened in slow motion.

Tom pulled onto the shoulder of the highway and a black 4wd, which had decided at the last minute to undercut a truck, shot past with plenty of room to spare.

Tom pulled back onto the highway and began to merge as our lane dictated. The black 4wd swerved back across the line into the merge lane and locked up its breaks.

We hit the breaks. Slid. And the front of Tom’s car crumbled.

Tom screamed abuse but then regained his composure before stepping from the car to confront the driver.

“What?” Tom demanded from the other driver who’d also jumped from his car.

“That’s what you get for cutting off a car doing 80.” The red-haired prick responded.

And so the dialogue continued and I can only remember it in bits and pieces.

The prick told Tom he’d had a bad day. Tom topped his bad day with a detailed description of his. I said I’d call the police. Prick then disappeared. But we’d already exchanged details. We know where he lives. We know what he looks like.

The police were no help. Tom was coming from behind so he’s at fault. The fact the Prick declared he did it on purpose makes no difference. The fact we have witnesses makes no difference. The facts play little part in an incident like this.

What followed is also a blur. Hospital. Worried looking doctors. Uncomfortable beds. Invasive procedures. I’m fine. Nugget’s fine.

Apparently shock is a big deal when you’re pregnant.

My heart rate doubled. My blood pressure jumped dangerously. I spent four hours attached to a drip while Tom waited in the emergency lounge for his turn to come – a sprained wrist.

Doctors took blood tests, urine tests, ultrasounds and internal examinations to assess whether Nugget was stressed or to see if I was leaking amniotic fluid. I had my blood pressure checked every half hour.

At 1am I was ready to go home but instead they wheeled me up to the maternity ward and stowed me in a room full of women destined for inductions the following morning. It took a further hour before I fell into a restless sleep – half afraid that they’d induce me by accident in the morning.

After an intensely boring period of waiting the doctors sent me home at 3.30pm the following day with a clean bill of health. I feel physically fine. I just don’t know that I’ve dealt with it all yet. I can’t shake this feeling that I’ve forgotten something or that it’s not really over.

What’s more disturbing is that I’m not seeking justice. Normally I’d be boiling about this but I’m not. I don’t care. I hope the Prick dies in a fiery wreck but I'm not motivated to do anything to help that along.

In fact it’s worse than that – I don’t care about anything.

Other than Nugget, Tom and myself.

What we could have lost weighs me down. I spend my days waiting to go home and make sure Tom is there. I sit, silently, waiting for Nugget to kick.

Tom promises me that he’s not going anywhere and that Nugget is going to be fine but it’s not up to him, is it?

His words offer little comfort as I obsess over the fact I could lose them at any time and there is nothing anyone could do about that.

Until that fear subsides I don’t think anything I does matters to me.

2006-09-18T12:47:00.000+10:00

THE BEAST

The bitch is back.

After a peaceful and ignorance filled couple of years the bitch that is my mother (on Ativan and armed with clinical depression) is back. So far she’s two for two visits.

Her behaviour trashed what were otherwise a perfect birthday (Tom's sterling efforts to make it special making her carry-on all the worse) and the exciting setting up of the nursery.

I had planned on going into details but the conversations are usually too absurd for me to want to re-live. She says something. I respond. She starts crying because clearly any response I make is an attack on her and couldn’t possibly be a joke or the honest sharing of my opinion.

We are not allowed to have opinions or disagree with her when she’s like this. In her eyes we should smile and nod and accept all the rubbish that flies from her mouth. Even then we’d be being condescending and that would simply make us a further target for abuse.

It’s exhausting and with all that’s on my plate it’s the last thing I need.

Of the appalling situation I now find that the one time in my life that I’ve truly needed my mother she’s simply not there for me. She’s there for herself.

In the past her behaviour has stressed and upset me but this time it’s something more devastating. It’s total abandonment and I promise myself that I will never do this to my child.

Every day I am grateful that I have acknowledge and confronted my beast and that while it still exists I can distinguish between mine and it's actions enough to keep it in check. Having this knowledge is power and means that should the beast take control I have techniques to put it back in it's place.

Mum has never accepted depression’s part in her behaviour. She has never been willing to admit that people disown because of what she's said and done. In fact, nothing she ever does is wrong. It’s always someone else’s fault. In her eyes she’s so incredibly hardly done by.

In my life I haven’t had a Christmas, birthday or major event in my life that wasn’t ruined by her carry on. Looking back I can see all that my brother and I did to try and help only to be told we were failures time and time again.

The crying for no reason. The constant abuse and reinterpretation of events to make her look like the innocent victim. The sulking in a corner like a 3-year-old. The surprises she ruined because she didn’t want to get our hopes up about the crappy presents she’d bought.

Like I said. I could quote a hundred stories but I am just too tired.

I know it’s not all her fault. I know the beast that’s crawling through her veins. But it’s her fault that she won’t see the beast. It’s her fault she won’t do anything to combat it.

It’s her fault that she would rather make us miserable than deal with her problems.

The family has pleaded. The family has explained. The family has withdrawn. And still she refuses to see her beast for what it is.

What makes the situation worse for me is that for some God forsaken reason my father uses me as a sounding board. I’ve endured hour-long conversations about her behaviour and been asked a million times what I think he should do.

But I can’t be there for him anymore either. I can’t go back to the way things were just because other people refuse to change.

I’ve changed. I’m not their counsellor anymore. I refuse to be. I sacrificed my childhood to the beast and I won’t go back there.

I’m tired. Really tired. I don’t need this crap right now.

From what my dreams tell me I’m washing my hands of her. I have to. Maybe being completely cut off will encourage her to get the help she needs.

But more than likely she’ll just see it as proof that she’s right and everyone else is wrong.

The beast has it's way with us all and you can either choose to stand up and fight or become it's bitch.

2006-09-14T11:38:00.000+10:00

NESTING

I don’t want to go outside or leave the house. I don’t want to socialise. I don’t want to meet with friends. I don’t want to make idle chatter with family members. I don’t want to hear about my friends/families woes.

I don’t want to be at work. I don’t want to have lunch with colleagues. I don’t want to meet with friends. I don’t want to deal with screaming children in lifts. I don’t want to overhear dull, predictable conversations on the train.

I don’t want to walk through the rain to my car at the car park.

I don’t want to hear about what’s happening in the world. I don’t want to be miserable over killings in some far off country. I don’t want to be warmed by charming stories about puppies.

I just want to curl up in bed, preferably with Tom by my side, and let the days slip away.

Is this being pregnant?

Finally things are starting to move. Reaching the halfway mark took so long I thought it wouldn't end. Now I'm finding the second half is moving much quicker.

I'm running out of time.

I have to make sure the house is ready to receive Nugget and to do that I need at least 12 more hours in the day. Of those 12 hours I need to sleep about 6.

It's an odd combination. I'm equally motivated to make major changes and too exhausted to execute my plans.

At night, before going to bed, I find myself walking the halls and mentally listing all that has to be done.

We have to move the drawers from Miss 10's room into Nuggets and the drawers in Nugget's room into Miss 10's. We have to paint the kitchen. We have to renovate the main bathroom and remove the mouldy old walls replacing them with new plasterboard (I am not taking my child into that bathroom!). We need to sand down and stain the nursery chair. We need to wash down the walls in our bedroom. We need to steam clean the carpet. We need to install a door on the ensuite. We need to build a massive shelving system in the loungeroom.

By the time I've finished the list I'm too exhausted to do even the smallest thing on it.

"It'll get done. Maybe not before Nugget's born but it'll get done," Tom assures me.

I don't tell him but that's not good enough. I want the house to be perfect. I want the house to be perfect now.

So I spend my weekends puttering around the halls and doing the little that I can to bring my vision that bit closer to reality.

I've concentrated my efforts on Nugget's room. For now I'm making myself settle for perfection in that one small space.

But I just can't stop myself walking the floors, writing my to do list and worrying myself to the point of exhaustion.

2006-09-11T14:16:00.000+10:00

IT’S TIME

You are going to die today. Nothing you say or do will change that. How do you want to spend your final moments?

With the death of Steve Irwin, Peter Brock and the five-year anniversary of September 11 it’s a question that’s been on my mind quite a bit.

In 2001 after the initial tragedy it made me change my life forever because, while I didn’t want to die, it is inevitable. The only control we have is not when or how we go but in what surroundings.

I’m not talking – On the couch, facing north, watching Days of Our Lives – specifics. I sure as hell didn't want to die being miserable journalist trapped in a thankless and pointless job, living in a tiny unit and having seen nothing of the world. I didn't want to die having done nothing.

I want to live.

But making a change, making the decision on how we want our life to be, has to be tended to every day.

So we choose a job we love rather than sticking it our at a place we hate – ask yourself, if you were going to have a heart attack would I die happy at this desk?

We choose relationships that are fulfilling – ask yourself, if I died today would everything be said that has to be said?

We choose adventures to make life worthwhile – ask yourself, if I died today have I done all or at least most of what I’d planned to do?

No one is prepared to die. No one wants it or even contemplates it nearly enough. But I remember the gut-wrenching feeling from September 11 didn’t come from all the senseless deaths. I recall the daze of walking around muttering to myself like a mad woman “they just went to work.”

I imagined they hated their jobs and their lives as much as I did and now they weren’t ever going to get the chance to right that wrong. I thought about the waste – not the waste of life but the wasted opportunity if I were to let that realisation pass me by.

From that moment on I vowed I would make a life for myself in which I would be happy to say I have lived. And for the most part, I have.

I waivered. I wasn't perfect. Despite my best instincts I almost returned to my life before. But I am lucky and fate has interviened to steer me straight again. I am thankful every day for that intervention.

Now I will be late to work in favour of hanging with friends or family. I have travelled and seen the world’s greatest beauties. I have a job, while frustrating, that fills that hole without causing any disruption to my life as a whole. I have a husband I love completely and from whom nothing is held back. I have a child on the way who I have wanted all of my life.

Still, there are times I feel as though I have a long way to go before it’s complete. There are rough edges to my life that need to be smoothed away before I am content. Being on this path makes certain I will achieve that goal.

Steve Irwin’s death, while sad, is reassuring. It proves all of the above is achievable. He died doing what he loved. He died with a life complete – a wife and children who he loved completely, charities designed to protect the animals he loved, adventures that will make him legendary.

Peter Brock appears to have a similar sense of completion to it. He was doing what he loved and has died with everything in order.

With Irwin and Brock I wonder how much is appearance and how much is fact. If I choose to accept it as fact then their deaths are less tragic and more inspiring. They are tales of lives completed.

Yes they died too soon – we all do – but in their time they have lived.

It really is something to aspire to.

2006-09-08T11:09:00.000+10:00

CALL ME

This is what I’m thinking when you call me…..

“I don’t care about how much you earned.”

“Shut up woman. Shut up. I don’t care who you have to call and I sure as hell don’t care that you’re stunned your employer has ripped you off. I hear it every day and your piddly missing money doesn’t concern me one bit.”

"Woman, if you want me to answer your question you are going to have to let me say more than two words without interuption. Come on. Can you not hear that I'm still talking? Forget it - go about your ignorant ways and I hope it costs you a fortune."

“Damn. Are you senile? I’ve told you twice and now you’re repeating it back to me and you’ve still got it fucking wrong. And you’re an employer. You are walking proof that this world is run by idiots.”

“I gave you two options. I said there are only two options. Now you ask if me if there’s a third one. Yes, you moron, it’s a secret third option kept only for special people like you. The third options is fucking off. There, was that what you were after?”

“Do you not understand no I will not give you any more money? Perhaps if you tell me your pathetic story one more time I’ll change my mind. Really, your husband left you for another man? You’re car’s been impounded because you own $50,000 in speeding fines? You’re having a life-saving lobotomy? No. No. No. Oddly enough our pathetic plight doesn’t change the law. Sure. Scream at me. Your screams will rocket me to the head of this company and I’ll suddenly have the power to change laws that were put into place a decade ago. Now that you’ve vented your spleen… No. Sure. I’ll get my supervisor. She says no in much more creative ways than I can.”

“I’m not repeating myself again. You are a loser and I have no desire to help you.”

“When I ask your name I just want to know what to call you. If you insist on spelling every single letter in such a long, exaggerated fashion, I will call you dick head. I honestly don’t care that you pronounce Cunt as if it were Kent. I would simply like to get on with my life.”

“Really, I didn’t know that you were calling on your mobile. No. I won’t call you back. This is a local call. If you’re too stupid to take yourself to a landline and would actually choose to spend $1 a minute for the next 20 minutes on your mobile rather than forking out the 40c then that is your stupid fault. And by the time I’ve finished padding out the basic speech about how we can’t make outbound calls I comfort myself that your stupidity has been punished to the value of $3.50.”

“You called me. That tells me that you knew why and who you were calling. Well, you’d think it did. To fumble through your wallet searching for your account details after 5 minutes on hold demeans us both and I find it increasingly hard not to ask you to call back when you’re better prepared. Ah, found it. Why did you call? Can’t remember. I’m hanging up. I have better things to do with my time.”

….. it’s been a tough, idiot filled week.

2006-08-24T09:50:00.000+10:00

WAITING

In my Ben Lee haze driving to work today, all I wanted to do was talk to Nugget.

I don't know what I wanted to say just that I was desperate to say it.

Up until now I've done what I can to keep my distance (as much as you can when something's inside you) because of all the things that could have gone wrong. There was this dark fear in me that I was putting too much stock into my pregnancy running smoothly. I simply didn't want to get too excited in case something went wrong.

But today, for the first time, I'm allowing myself to let go of that fear. Today, Nugget became more real to me than it ever has before.

We're only half-way there. Everyone keeps telling me how quickly the first five months have gone and I can't help but ask them what drugs they're on.

They weren't there every single morning when I threw up. They weren't there when I spent three months living on toast. They weren't there at 2 in the morning when I was peeing for the eighth time.

It's gone quickly for them because they weren't there.

Now I have the pleasure of this dragging on a further four months when all I desperately want to do is see my child. All I want to do is dance with Nugget in the lounge room and start telling it stories.

Still, the last thing I want is for Nugget to come early too. I want Nugget to take all the time it needs to take full shape before entering this world.

I just wish that the next four months could slip by like the past five months have for all the people who weren't there.

But then for that to happen I would have to be somewhere else and since everything is finally beginning to go smoothly - I wouldn't wish that for a second.

It's the connundrum of anticipation. To want something so badly and at the same time to want it to not happen before it's time.

2006-08-22T11:06:00.000+10:00

WHY BOTHER?

The question is why do I bother?

I come in to work, without fail, whether I'm sick or well. When I do take sick days it's as a last resort and more often than not those sick days are half days because even when I'm at my worst I drag myself in. On the odd occasion when I can't drag myself into work I will call and explain that and still state "but if you really need me I can come in." and when they've asked I have done just that.

When I'm at work I have to admit I'm not perfect. My scores rise and fall, as any human's would, depending on how tired or distracted I was. But I can honestly say that I have always given my best - although it may not have been up to my high standards.

Now though, I wonder why.

I have survived on promise after promise after promise.

I was promised we could begin a course in October last year but were asked to wait because "everyone" would be doing the course in January. In January we were promised in April. In April were were promised "soon".

Now, in August, apparently that promise was just for some.

The company has just allocated the course for 3 people only. 2 of the three have been here less than half the time I have, barely even bother to turn up for work and are your garden variety slackers.

I'm ropable. I'm so angry my chest is hurting. I have been fighting for the course for so long and made my determination clearly known and then I'm not even considered. I want to scream discrimination but I wasn't the only worthy candidate overlooked.

I'm just really really tired and wondering if I shouldn't do what everyone else here does and gets rewarded for - go home because I've got a headache.

Indirect discrimination.... The implementation of a policy that indirectly discriminates eg: holding a course on a Friday night which means Orthodox Jew could not attend and would miss out on valuable skills.
Or perhaps, delaying the start of a promised course until it's impossible for a pregnant member of a company to take part.

Should I play that card? Am I going to have to?

Do I really still want this course that desperately? After two-years I really do love this job but is this enough to make me stop caring about this place?

How can you respect people who aren't true to their word? If you can't respect your supervisors then what motivates you to do a good job?

There's a bit part of me that's just given up. With maternity leave pending I honestly don't give a damn anymore. I've been fighting for so long and it's just not worth it anymore.

I'm leaving here in four months for a 12 month break. 12 months is long enough to decide if this is a job worth fighting for.

I don't want to leave - I don't want to be adrift again - but they're not really giving me any reason to stay.

2006-08-15T12:17:00.000+10:00

THE AMNIO

I've never been very good at forgetting what I know.

I got the amniocentesis results. There are 46 chromosomes. Or as my doctor told me there are 46 "insert sex of baby here" chromosomes.

I am nothing short ecstatictic that everything is fine (part of my already knew and it's odd that when something's wrong we trust our instincts but when something's right we always second guess them) and just can't stop grinning.

But the results have opened up a new can of worms.

Tom does not want to know the sex. He wants to be surprised. So did I but the doctor's delivery of the results made me more knowledgeable than I wished to be.

It has always been incredibly hard for me to hold my tongue when IÂm excited. My resolve not to tell him that I even knew only lasted an hour.

This is important. It's important that I not tell this one secret.

I need to hold it tight to my chest and do the only thing that will make the next 20 weeks bearable.

I have to go back to seeing Nugget as this undefined bundle rather than foreseeing the child Nugget will become.

Now that people know I know. Will they assume that my use of "he" means that it's a boy - regardless of the fact I've used "he" long before I knew. I guess I'll have to consciously alternate sexes now - or I'll simply have to avoid all references to sex and just say "baby".

Mind you, I'm thinking too much. Tom's the only one who knows I know so no one else will make those assumptions.

It's a tough call and if I over think the way I behave it will only increase my chances of accidentally showing my hand.

I have to forget.

For the sake of peace over the next 20 weeks I have to bury this fact from even myself.

2006-08-10T08:48:00.000+10:00

MOVEMENT – 17 WEEKS

I had thought about what this moment might feel like.

For some reason I thought I would jump for joy but instead I felt only calmer. I curled into myself and held onto the moment. Instead of telling anyone it was my little secret.

Nugget moved.

At first it wasn’t anything pronounced. Actually, it never did become anything pronounced. Just a light fluttering only I could feel.

No one around me knew what was going on. Even if I’d said something the rush of hands probably wouldn’t have felt it from the outside anyway.

I didn’t want to waste it on any one else.

And in a rush I realise what has been until this moment the chance I was going to have a baby has become I will be having a baby.

There’s so much to do. So much to organise. In that one flutter of movement I realised there are still walls to be painted, carpets to be cleaned, clothes to be bought, nursery’s to be filled and rooms to be repaired.

Time is quickly running out.

Last week it seemed like an eternity to go but at 17 weeks I realise that I only have a few months before my belly will stop me from doing anything drastic.

I have four months to go (allowing for the last month of my pregnancy to incapacitate me). That’s 16 weekends. We have the kids for half of that time so it leaves us with 8 weekends to get everything done.

Only 16 clear days until nugget is born.

Knowing that number. Knowing that Nugget is now a reality. Knowing that there is so much to do and I’m at half-strength at best. Knowing Tom doesn’t see the same urgency that I do in making sure the preparations are done.

All this had me a little over-wrought.

In response, five hours after the fluttering experience of Nugget’s first movements, I stood in the middle of the lounge room and cried. Tom was mystified as any man would be. My attempt to explain the panic failed and only made him more confused.

Once the sobbing was done I was exhausted and fell asleep to the rhythm of Nuggets kicking.

2006-08-08T13:23:00.000+10:00

WRONG

Perhaps it’s the hormones. Perhaps not.

Either way I’ve reached my asshole threshold.

I can stand it no more.

Every day they call and carry on as though I owe them something. They huff and puff and make demands. Snide remarks about my competence and my skills as though I were responsible for the actions of the entire company.

The more it’s their fault the more they abuse you.

What’s worse than the assholes are the idiots. People completely incapable of understanding basic instructions or simple premises. No matter how long you talk or how hard you try their tiny brains can’t follow what you’re talking about.

The more basic the instruction the more confusing they find it.

Parents calling on behalf of their lazy ass kids; employers who haven’t bothered to make payments for their employees; members who have filled in forms incorrectly; bitter disputes over the estate of a family member; members spelling every letter of their name and address at such a slow speed you would think I was a 3-year-old.

I hear the tone in my voice and know that I’m not helping the situation. I cut people off, tell them to wait until I’m finished and correct them while implying that they’re stupid or incompetent.

I have made them re-read forms until the obvious information they had previously missed is read and understood clearly.

“Well no one told me I had to send identification,” one client huffs at me.

“Do you have the form there?” I’m curt and cold. “Can you see the very first paragraph under personal information? Read that to me…”

Then I huff back at them. “We didn’t tell you because it’s there on the form.”

It’s two weeks until I have a holiday and it seems a long way off. Still, I’m determined to hold off until that time. Mind you it’s not easy. I wonder, each day, whether or not that final buttons going to be pushed and I’ll snap.

I’m struggling to bite my tongue and keep my job.

But surely even the highest ranked manager must understand that at time, when dealing with the sheer quantity of assholery, that we are only human and the customer is not always right.

2006-07-31T19:53:00.000+10:00

THE TEST

“That’s it?”

I had built the ordeal up in my head over the past two weeks. I had expected a doctor to walk into the room with a foot-long needle to insert into my abdomen.

Instead I spent 20 minutes with the ultrasound technician giving Tom and I a detail tour of our 13.6cm child’s anatomy. When the doctor finally came into the room the procedure happened all too quickly for me to register that it was actually happening.

“How many of these do you do a year?”

‘Oh, about three to four hundred.”

“Ouch” A massive stinging pain that came and went quickly.

“Sorry, I can’t help that. It’s going to hurt.”

Out of the corner of my eye I watched Tom. He was staring intently at the picture the ultra-sound operator had given us. But on saying ouch he looked up quickly and then began pinching my elbow.

It’s a technique a dentist taught me – if you wiggle your fingers and toes while something unpleasant is happening then you have to concentrate so hard on that action you don’t notice the pain. Tom had wanted to help at this particular dental procedure so began squeezing a toe. The result was that I was concentrating so hard on what he was doing that I actually survived the removal of a wisdom tooth.

Today he couldn’t get to my toes and my hands were full so he squeezed my elbow. I laughed and then realised my rocking body probably wasn’t a good idea while the doctor was inserting a massive needle into my uterus.

But then it was all over. What I had thought was an injection of local anaesthetic was actually the procedure I’d been so afraid of.

The doctor took a needle full of amniotic fluid then told me I was good to go.

“Um, you mean that’s it?”

“Yep.”

“I had so built that up in my head.”

The nurse laughed. “You’re not alone.”

I spent the rest of the day on the lounge, as instructed, watching poor day-time TV and a couple of specially chosen DVD. All day Tom regularly checked on me, fetched coffee and kissed and hugged me.

All-in-all an amniocentesis isn’t something to be toyed with but when it’s necessary it’s also nothing to fear. At worst, it’s unpleasant. But all kudos for the experience comes from having access to the best doctors and the best facilities.

It's only at times like these that I truely appreciate what I have right at my fingertips.

2006-07-27T11:27:00.000+10:00

HUSBAND

"Tom, I really think my belly's gone down."

"I wouldn't worry about it. Nugget's just moving the furniture around."

"It's easy for you to say don't worry, I'm the one who'll probably pass an ottoman in the morning."

Odd the things that make us smile.

2006-07-26T16:35:00.000+10:00

FOUR DAYS

When I first found out about nugget’s test results I didn’t think I’d survive the stress of waiting for the amniocentesis. Now there’s only four more days to wait and the deed will be done.

I’ve fared well thanks to massively supportive friends and family but it’s been tough not telling my parents what’s going on. Our conversations about visiting the doctor have been stilted and vague. Not wanting to lie and not wanting to tell them the truth I walked a very fine line.

Still, it’s for the best. They’ve had enough worries in their life without having to worry about things they have no control over.

I guess I just feel I’m too old to be burdening my parents any more.

If I thought for a second they could help or that it was something they needed to know then I would tell them but for right now they simply don’t need to know. Nothing is set in stone yet and it’s only then that I would tell them something – when it’s fact rather than suspicion.

After these two weeks the test results are becoming more abstract.

I have a 1:23 chance something is wrong. A 4% chance nugget has a genetic disorder. Sure it’s more than anyone my age but it’s not really a massive chance and I honestly don’t feel as though anything is wrong.

I’m trusting my instinct which friends tell me is much more reliable than any test.

But of the past two weeks it’s been the support I’ve been offered that has changed my mind and I can’t help but play these quotes though my head when I’m worried.

“Seriously if I got a 96% in any of my tests I’d be pretty impressed with myself.”

“If statistics was a perfect science then every gambler would be a millionaire.”

“Think about the millions of women giving birth and who have already given birth and they got by without knowing half of what you know. You said you wanted to sit back and enjoy pregnancy. You told us all to resist telling you horror stories and we have. But you’ve got to stop making up your own and start enjoying yourself.”

It’s worked. Rarely pep-talks do anything for me but I’ve found that instead of being the bearers of doom and gloom everyone I know has been working double time to keep my beast at bay.

For now I am fine. I’m nervose but I’m no longer terrified. The test has been done a million times and the risk is minimal. The results are another two weeks off and I’m more than confident that they’ll come back in my favour.

And then that niggling voice pops up “what if you’re wrong?”. I can’t entertain it right now. I have to hold on to the few things I am certain of because if I were to doubt myself for a second I’d fall into a heap on the ground.

If I’m wrong, if I’m devastated, I’ll deal with it then.

There’s no point trimming the sales while you’re still on land. It doesn’t get you anywhere.

2006-07-24T11:46:00.000+10:00

BUSY HANDS

Too all of you with busy hands.

I am now 15 weeks pregnant and even at these early stages the second I mention that I’m pregnant (because it isn’t immediately obvious yet) the hands are flying at me to rub my belly as if I were some good-luck Buddha.

Just for your information, the belly that you are rubbing is the result of my compressed innards making way for my uterus, which is still down in my pelvic region.

And no, you can’t rub there.

It’s not that I find the action uncomfortable or invasive. I’m not offended or feeling violated. It’s that I find the whole idea of people suddenly wanting to touch my stomach odd.

When it was just fat you weren’t so interested.

Now that I’m going through the “blooming” transition of bearing a child you’re all suddenly so interested in my gut. It’s not that interesting. What’s interesting is going on inside that ballooning skin.

Mind you, when exposed to light I’m sure the little 10cm creature would look more odd than adorable. Its translucent skin and its eyes fused shut make it look like a toy more than anything else. (Still, as odd as he looks, I’m kind of getting attached to my little nugget.)

If only you knew what was really going on then… wait, most of you are actually women with your own children and you should know better.

You should know that under your hand my stomach is churning as I battle through my fifth week of morning sickness. You should know that under your hand the pressure on my bowels is causing sever constipation. You should know that under you hand my tendons are stretching and aching mercilessly.

I also have haemorrhoids.

But I’m betting you don’t what to touch that.

So, you are now obsessed with my gut but then again, so am I. I rub my belly as though I was waiting for a genie to pop out but at least I have a reason for the rub. The pull of the tendons is killing me and the gentle rub eases the pain.

Whatever, I’ve got other things on my mind and I’ll have to go without understanding this mysterious human behaviour which I can only I treat with bemusement.

I’ll tolerate being Buddha for a while – there are worse things than people caring enough about me and my child to want a tactile connection.

But I am hormonal and if I suddenly turn on you like a beloved Pit-Bull who’s had enough of grotty people patting it without invitation then don’t act all offended and hurt.

You have been warned.

2006-07-17T12:19:00.000+10:00

BAD TESTS

I don't know if this is where this belongs but here goes. It’s been a long week and I’m exhausted from the stress.

I got my Nuchal Translucency and blood test results and I've been in shock. My Nuchal Translucency test, in itself, said my chance of having a child with genetic abnormalities was 1 in 1300. Pretty good. But my blood test threw everything into chaos. I have a 1 in 23 chance that my child will have a genetic disorder.

Now a 4% chance doesn't sound that bad but compared to other women my age who have a 0.4% chance I was hysterical. Now it's a 2 week wait for an amniocentesis test and then a further 2 weeks to get the results.It's already been the longest five days of my life I just don't know how I'm going to stop worrying and stressing about this.

Everyone keeps saying "just put it out of your head" and "well, if it does have downs then it's still your child and you'll be fine" which only makes it worse.

My doctor tells me that she's had about 6 women go through the same thing in the past 18 months and that all were cleared by the amnio which puts my mind at ease but it's the lingering "what if..." that's got me preoccupied.

I don't know what I need right now except that I'm finding it gets better the more I just come out and tell people what I'm going through.

Airing my concerns seems to give them less of an ability to bounce around my head and compound into something worse than they are.
Tom’s been no help. He’s been lost somewhere in his own world – not fully understanding of the implications of the test.

“So nugget’s got something wrong?”

“No, there’s just a bigger chance that something’s wrong.”

“I don’t get it – if nothing’s wrong, there’s only a chance something’s wrong, then what’s the problem.”

That I’m high risk is the problem. But Tom just can’t see it. Tom’s a man of absolutes and as a result he simply can’t understand why I’m constantly worried.

I don’t know how I’d cope of nugget was anything other than your regular child. Small problems, small disorders and individual quirks I can work with but I worry that there’s something more serious that I won’t be able to handle.

But life only dishes out challenges we’re capable of handling.

In the past though I’ve proven that when faced with a challenge my greatest skill is running away.

Right now, I’m wishing that were an option and that I could slip into ignorance. At least for the next month or so.

2006-07-10T14:29:00.000+10:00

HELPING HANDS

While the nanna’s painted the nursery I couldn’t help but realise just how lucky I am that these are going to be the matriarchal figures in my child’s life.

For a good, solid, 14 hours the matriarch’s talked. I don’t know the topic of all discussions as I’d been banned from the room but I do know that they seemed to be genuinely enjoying themselves.

In one Hallmark moment I stood in the room as they sanded downs the walls in preparation for paining while the mums told me about their birthing experience.

Half talking to me, half reminiscing with each other.

“Oh, remember the salt baths? Did you have one of those?” My mum asked. My MIL shook her head. Mum then went on to tell me about the salt bath – a method by which women who had just given birth were put into salt water baths to encourage healing.

MIL also went on to tell me some harrowing tales about how things were done when she had Tom.

All-in-all it was enlightening and I wasn’t so much scared by what I was told but encourage to learn these two small women (and my mother who screams when she stubbs her toe) have made it safely through child-birth.

On the other side of the house Tom and dad were also doing their manly best to renovate the house – with a new backdoor and window blinds to keep out the cold. They too, managed to talk for near on 14 hours about manly things.

With me in my “delicate” condition anything involving fumes or heavy lifting I had been relegated to the position of “little woman”. I organised morning tea, lunch, afternoon tea and then pointed at the fridge at around dinner time if anyone was hungry.

By 10pm my parents drifted off and Tom and I literally ran into the bedroom to sleep. Despite our exhaustion it took at least an hour to settle down.

It was the perfect family day. One I’ll be thrilled to tell nugget about when he asks about what preparation we made for him/her.

2006-07-03T13:58:00.000+10:00

FOOD

Everything stinks. Everything.

There’s someone on the other side of this room eating a lunch that smells somewhat like stewed vomit.

My boss, a lovely women, is wearing at least 12 litres of her favourite perfume.

A co-worker who I haven’t been able to identify needs to be reunited with deodorant.

“You look a little green,” Karen smiles.

“You would too if you could smell what I can.”

I just want to go home. I just want to curl up in bed and cover my nose.

I want to catch up on the sleep I lost last night tossing, turning and running to the toilet.

I’m living on mashed potatoes, white bread, and overcooked and tasteless chicken.

T-bone steak tastes like horse. The sight and smell of raw red meat, oozing blood make me want to vomit. The sight and smell of cooked red meat has the same effect.

All chicken tastes off.

Hamburgers are the one exception – not Mcdonalds hamburgers but rather the saucy Hungry Jacks or Burger Bun. Subway is also acceptable.

I’ve become a junkfood-a-holic. It’s the only food that stays down.

I’ve also lost 2 kilos.

If this seems a little food centric you have to understand. I’m either sick because I haven’t eaten, sick because I’ve eaten too much, sick because I’ve eaten the wrong thing, sick because I can smell food.

My stomach feels as though I’ve done 3 rounds with Jean Claude Van Dam and he’s chosen nothing but body blows.

The hormones are also causing their share of problems but I’m too busy vomiting and crying to pay them any mind.

Right now I feel like I need a long holiday. But something tells me there’s worse ahead and I should be saving my sick days for as long as I can.

2006-06-22T16:33:00.000+10:00

THE ANNOUNCEMENT

Dad has three kinds of emotional outburst.

If his facial expression doesn't change then he's not happy. In fact, he's either angry or really sad. His unwillingness to talk or short sharp conversations of annoyance are the only way to tell the difference.

If he smiles he's mildly happy or bored out of his skull.

If he smirks then you know he's almost set to wet his pants from elation.

"So do you want to tell them the good or the bad news," Tom started.

We'd been nervous about this moment. We were going to wait but the anticipation has been causing me headaches and we've decided that it's not worth adding to my stress to keep my pregnancy a secret.

"The good," he said.

Mum and dad were tinkering with the BBQ. The step-kids were safely locked inside and oblivious to our little meeting around the meat. Neither appeared to be paying us much attention.

"The bad first," I responded. Tom looked puzzled.

We hadn't planned this, or rather Tom didn't know what I had planned.

Mum looked up from the kebabs.

"I've got a growth." I announced flatly.

Dad's expression didn't change. Mum looked like she was going to cry.

"But the good news," I said quickly not wanting the growth comment to linger too long and into morbidity. "Is that in about seven months it'll come out crying."

Mum cried. Dad smirked. They kissed us and shook hands and the job was done.

For all the trouble my parents are. For all the pain and frustration and anguish they've caused me. I've always been able to rely on their ability to see the joke. They can accept my dry sense of humour without too much fuss and unjustified "insult" at a bad taste joke.

And they couldn't shut up. Dad was adamant he already knew and for the rest of the afternoon he and Tom boasted about their manhood. Mum prattled on about how she was "no good for nothing." Their elation difficult to conceal from the none-the-wiser skids.

Finally the glorious day ended and we headed home.

The next afternoon I spoke to a slightly calmer mum.

"You're to blame you know," she said lightly. "You're father didn't stop talking until until 1.30 in the morning."

We spoke for nearly and hour before exhaustion, at a pathetic hour of 8pm, claimed me and I had to end the call.

They couldn't be happier for us. They couldn't want to do more for us. Dad's making plans and doing what he does best - helping turn the house into a home - by planning new doors and bathroom renovations. Mum's discussing how she's going to take up the cleaning I'm too afraid to do (the duties involving toxic chemicals that I just can't bring myself to touch).

They're doing their thing and it's making them happy.

Me. I'm too exhausted to resist anything - so if they want to run my house they're welcome to. I'll be curled up in bed while my body deals with the scary prospect of growing another human being.

But I'm trying not to think too much about that. In addition to being an exhausting task it's a little creepy to think about the other human being floating around inside my abdomen.

They'll be more than enough time to ponder that creepiness when I start seeing it's foot push out, alien style, from my belly.

2006-06-11T19:16:00.000+10:00

THOUGHTFUL

Infinite beauty rosy pallet – to make your day brighter.

I love him. With everything that I am. And just when I think that love couldn’t be any bigger he does something simple – like buying make-up from a saleswoman – to make sure I know that he loves me.

It was a small, red, folder containing make-up and brushes “you know, for when something happens at work or when you’re out and you’ve got to use it… you know.”

The last gift from a committed boyfriend was a Ford Stubbie Holder. I’ve never had a man buy me something that was just for me. I’ve never had a man acknowledge that I was a woman who loved all the girly things.

I was always treated as one of the boys.

Quite frankly, I’d given up. I’d assumed men were simply genetically incapable of understanding what a woman wants or needs.

I started to cry.

“It’s not that I don’t think you’re pretty,” he started back peddling. “It’s just that the woman said it was a really good brand and it was red and I know you love red.’

It was the last thing he needed to do and I kissed him as quickly as I could.

“You’ve got no idea. This is probably the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever been given. It’s beautiful.”

I kissed him some more and then cried like the girl I am.

You can blame it on the hormones if you like. Others do. Others who have known me as a cold, hard bitch since my early days of high school (that was if those particular foul-weather friends were still talking to me) would claim this “new” me a chemically educed farce.

But I know better. I know I’ve always been like this only too scared to show it.

Tom’s pretty happy with himself. He deserves to be. And I’m storing the make-up away for a special occasion – because it’s just so precious and I don't ever want to forget what it feels like to be so purely loved.

2006-06-06T11:28:00.000+10:00

TIME TO KILL

The News has been slowly seeping out.

I couldn’t hold it in any longer.

And with one foul swoop I confirmed one co-worker’s query about whether I was pregnant and the headache that had been eating away at my brain for a week abruptly stopped.

It felt good to just let it go.

Still, I haven’t seen nugget yet. The ultrasound isn’t until Thursday.

Technically, if to be is to be perceived, nugget doesn’t really exist.

And now I feel the announcement a little premature.

And then I’m confident I’ve done the right thing.

And then I feel the announcement was a little premature.

I still haven’t decided yet.

The once thing that’s certain is that Tom and I haven’t told our parent’s yet. We don’t want to just dump it on them. We wanted to make the announcement special.

We want to make sure we’ve both seen nugget and that all is well in the womb before we drop that bombshell on them.

After all, both Tom’s and mine’s parents thought their grandchild days were done and they’d gotten all they’d get.

Surprise!

Sure they’d been nagging but with the questions about my fertility they were more or less resigned to the idea that there would be no more.

The last thing we’d want is to tell them we were going to have a new addition to the family and then it turned out we were wrong.

It wouldn’t be fair.

They’ve both reached a time in their life when they don’t need to support us in the bad times any more. They’ve paid their dues and we’re old enough to look after ourselves.

I choose to tell them only what they need to know to make their life easier – just as they’ve spent countless years making our lives easier.

So there’s only four more weeks to go and then we’ll release the News to the public on large.

It seems so very far away.

2006-06-05T09:44:00.000+10:00

SHOWING MY GRATITUDE

Dear all,

My name is Boswell and I have the simplest request.

Do not, under and circumstances, prepare me for the worst.

I want to be surprised.

I want to be oblivious.

I want to be totally and utterly ignorant.

There are worse things in this world than not knowing the statistics for miscarriage in the first trimester of a pregnancy; the world will continue to spin if I don’t know the number of people who starved to death in the last 20 minutes and; the misery of people I do not know has minimal impact on my ability to live my life.

It’s not that I’m cold. It’s not that I’m lacking compassion.

I’m just doing the best I can to live my life.

I know I’ve got it good. I don’t need to be constantly reminded of that. I don’t need people trying to make me feel bad for having a great life.

Above all I don’t need reminding that at the drop of a hat I could lose it all.

I already know how fragile life is.

So let me be happy while I can be.

I understand there are people less fortunate and that they are struggling but how can me being miserable about someone else’s situation be of any help? Would throwing a few dollars at the problem alleviate my guilt? Would carrying their burden change the weight on their shoulders?

I doubt it. I doubt the ramblings of this insignificant on the other side of the world, completely removed and incapable of truly understanding their circumstances, is going to change their life in any great way.

There are people out there who are destined to change the lives of others – I am not one of them.

At this stage in my life, knowing how fragile life is, I would think that I have an obligation to be happy while I can be to show my gratitude.

How ridiculously ungrateful would I be if I were to feel sad and desolate when things are so good? To be miserable and anxious when I have no reason to be only trivialises the pain and anguish of people who are justifiably miserable.

By not preparing me for the worst, not making me feel miserable for all the things I have and for allowing me to wallow in ignorance you would, in fact, be making this a better world. You will be recognising that there are people out there more worthy of your pity (other than yourselves).

That’s all. I don’t really have much more to say today.

Other than I appreciate your efforts to leave me to live my life and to show my gratitude in my own way.

Best of luck to you, on your path.

Boswell.

2006-06-01T16:20:00.000+10:00

NORMAL

Whenever I’ve looked at pregnancy woman they’ve always looked like they were glowing.

Pregnant woman have about them a sense of wonder and a beauty that made it all look so incredibly easy – natural.

Sure there were hints of tiredness but they still had a radiance that was to me alluring.

So why, dear God, why, do I look like I’ve been hit by a bus.

I’ve discovered morning sickness is not exactly how they described it.

The stories told about mild nausea and discomfort was all grossly under-exaggerated. I feel like I’ve been chewed up and spat out.

There’s a nausea that pushes to the back of my throat and sits there. I can’t vomit, I can’t swallow it back down. I can only feel it sitting there.

Speaking of sitting. It’s not as pleasant as it used to be. I have this obstruction that doesn’t allow me to sit all the way up. A bubble of a belly that’s protruding just enough to make itself felt, if not seen.

Embarrasingly, to be able to work, I have to pop the top button of my pants and undo the zipper so I can sit upright enough to use the keyboard. Thank God for the second pair of pants underneath to “cover the spread” so to speak.

It’s all as if I had just had a massive meal and it was slightly off.

Kind of ironic really, when you consider that the thought of food makes me want to bolt to the bathroom for a verbose one-sided conversation with the porcelain bowl.

Still, I’m kind of relieved. Odd I know.

But when you read that your should be having morning sickness you get a little concerned that things aren’t progressing as normal.

All I can say is that I’m normal.

So be careful what you wish for. Normality isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Quite frankly, it’s sickening.

2006-05-23T15:42:00.000+10:00

IT BEGINS

I expected the constipation.
I expected the bloating.
I expected the nausea.
I expected the fatigue.

But nowhere, nowhere, in the literature about pregnancy does it say that you’ll lose 50 IQ points overnight!

Poor Tom. He’s a little worried about me and I can’t say I blame him.

I’m walking into walls; putting ice cream in the pantry; losing my keys and; spitting out food at every turn.

I’m crying, for God knows what reason. Crying because my slippers are on the wrong feet; crying because I can’t understand the math associated with calculating an allocated pension; crying because I deleted the heading of this post and wanted to make it bold. Just plain crying.

It was fine a week ago.

I was a little tired and easily frustrated but now it’s all gone to hell and virtually overnight.

But it comes and goes. After a few rough days it appears as though the symptoms are starting to balance themselves out and I’m finally getting a little clarity in my thinking.

Perhaps this particular symptom of pregnancy isn’t physiological but rather purely emotional.

A week ago I was just me. Now, it’s us.

We were so looking forward to this moment and the pressure was building that when it finally happened the excitement and anticipation and angst all came crashing down.

And then I realise it's got nothing to do with pregnancy what-so-ever. I’ve got the flu and my decline into idiocy can be attributed to its onset. Aggrevating the symptoms is the fact I've chosen not to take any form of medication.

Oddly enough, because of my past experience with doctors, I don't care if they say antibiotics and panadol are safe for the baby. I've chosen to try and battle this out alone. Bearing this discomfort puts my mind at ease where as taking medication would cause me unneccesary worry.

My pregnancy concerns aside, when the flu has run it’s course then things can get back on track and I can start to face what pregnancy might do to my intellect and my sense of self.

For now I've got a stuffy nose, exhaustion, the shivers and a headache to contend with.

I've no doubt pregnancy will be a walk in the park when compared with unmedicated infected sinuses.

At least, that's what I'm hoping.

2006-05-19T10:07:00.000+10:00

WAITING part III

I spent the day dreaming.

Things I decided before I boarded the train to head home:

1. We’ll have a full range of tests to make sure everything’s ok.
2. We’ll tell everyone when the three months mark has passed.
3. We’ll paint the nursery pale blue and add pink if it’s a girl.
4. My breasts, really, really hurt.

But when the train pulled into the station I couldn’t help but start to shake. We’d be planning this child for years but now I worried that maybe Tom would be angry that I’d discovered I was pregnant too early in the scheme of things.

Our plan was always to delay learning of a pregnancy until I was at least six to eight week. Here I was at five weeks (now five weeks three days) pregnant and about to drop that news into Tom’s lap.

It was a long walk up the platform and by the time we left the station I was more confident that I couldn’t hold my tongue for the 30-minute walk home.

“I’ve got a present for you,” I told Tom when we hit the first suburban street past the station and set of shops. Reaching into my bag I gripped a small rattle I’d bought at the nearest junk shop just for this occasion.

We kept walking and I wanted to make it as casual as possible.

With a sweeping motion I held it in front of him and he grabbed the rattle, shook it and then just stared for a few moments.

“What’s this for?

I smiled weakly; a little unsure about how he’d react. “Well in about seven months you’ll have someone you can play with and I thought you could use that.”

He stopped walking. His eyes lit up. I honestly thought he was going to cry.

“You’re… ? Really ?”

Tom stepped forward and hugged me and I almost began to cry. Instead we started straight into practicalities.

“I’m going to need to need to book in for blood tests and ultrasounds. You’re coming to the ultrasounds, right?”

“Definitely. I’ll find a way.”

And then it was over. It’s all rush and now nothing. We have to wait another three weeks before things actually begin because it’s simply way too early to call this confirmed.

But I oscillate in my confidence.

There are times I feel invincible. There are times I am at the peak of my fitness and nothing could phase me. At these times I am 100% certain that nothing could go wrong.

Then there are moments of doubt when I realise that we’ve only really begun and there’s so far to go and so many hurdles to overcome.

Today, right now, I’m just exhausted and sore (which is normal they tell me).

For now there are six long weeks before we can tell anyone. It’s going to be a long haul, considering my inability to keep my mouth shut when I’m really happy.

But it’s enough to have our hearts broken without have to deal with the broken hearts of the entire family.

2006-05-18T08:05:00.000+10:00

WAITING Part II

When I walked into the doctor’s office on Tuesday I flatly declared "I'm not getting excited until it's confirmed"

My doctor smiled and flatly replied, "Well, if you're going to tell a lie like that you might want to wipe the smile off your face."

All right. I was excited about the prospect of being pregnant.

Tom and I have wanted a child right from the get-go and it’s been frustration after frustration.

Oddly enough, only when I stopped obsessing about it and stopped taking everyone's "advice", did the second blue line appear.

Yesterday morning I watched as the nurse fumbled with my paperwork. It was all I could do not to scream “hurry up” at the poor woman.

Finally she located my results. “The doctor will see you shortly,” she said.

Shortly, in doctor speech, is at least 45 minutes and only a thin piece of cardboard stood between me and the results.

“Look, it’s going to be a long wait and I’m really anxious. Smile if it’s positive and frown if it’s negative.”

Then nurse looked at me and made no noticeable change to her expression. “Sorry, you’ll have to wait for the doctor.”

Crap. I’d spent the night holding out on Tom. It would have been enough if I was disappointed but I didn’t want Tom to be disappointed as well. Instead of telling him I was grumpy and withdrawn.

“Boswell.”

I practically launched myself out of my seat and bounded after the doctor.

“So,” she said. “You’ve had some good news.”

“I don’t know yet – I haven’t seen the results.”

She closed the door behind me.

“I wasn’t asking, I’m telling you – you’ve got some good news. You’re about five weeks pregnant.”

The rest of the visit is a blur. She signed me up for ultrasounds and blood tests and told me to get plenty of sleep.

The rest of the day is a bit of a blur too but I finally managed to fumble my way through it.

All I could think was how desperately I wanted to get home and tell Tom that things were about to change.

2006-05-16T14:47:00.000+10:00

WAITING Part 1

I can’t stop shaking.

My periods are a week late. That’s not unusual.

So I took a pregnancy test. Also, not unusual.

One bold blue line. One blue line half as vibrant.

My first positive pregnancy test.

I took the test in the toilets at work this morning and haven’t had a chance to break free to see a doctor so the internal dialogue is keeping me company today.

“Don’t get your hopes up.”
“It’s probably a faulty test.”
“It’s early days yet – you might not keep it.”

The longer this drags on the more tense I feel. I’m not pregnant, there are simply butterflies in my stomach.

It’s been four and a half hours since I took the test and I’m torn between wanting confirmation and being disappointed by a failed blood test.

If I take the test and it fails I’ll be miserable.
If I take the test and it’s positive, I’ll be worried because it’s so early.

So now I have the inner dialogue, the butterflies, the excitement and the disappointment all weighing down on me.

It can’t be good for the baby.

If there’s a baby.

But there’s only one way to know for sure.

Off to the doctors I go yet again. The big chair and the big needle.

Then the big 24 hour wait.

2006-05-15T08:31:00.000+10:00

ENTANGLED

I’m honestly sorry that I spoke.

“Well, he’s cheated on me five times and doesn’t want to commit to marriage but we’ve been together nine years and we have a beautiful little boy together and I can’t help but forgive him. You know what I mean?”

I don’t know if she noticed but my eyes glazed over. No, I didn’t know what she meant.

It isn’t love that makes you happy to be a doormat. It’s nothing but sheer stupidity.

She went on to tell me how he’d slept with her best friend of 18 years.

How he told her that, for the first time in nearly three years, she was “allowed” to go to her friend’s wedding and have a little fun without him. But, she made it very clear, his last words to her weren’t I love you or simply have a good time – they were “don’t hook up with anyone.”

“Sounds like he’s a little worried you might do something he’s always doing.”

She stopped mid-drink and looked at me.

“I didn’t think about it that way. Maybe I should give him a taste of his own medicine.”

No maybe about it. Or rather, not that she should cheat on this human piece of flotsam but rather simply walk away from him all together.

It’s not my place to say but I often wonder, if people are happy to tell you about the intimate details of their life, why are people so shocked by an honest response.

A few drinks later I finally plucked up the courage and asked her “Why are you with this guy? You don’t trust him, he doesn’t trust you. He won’t commit to you and you don’t care if he does. It sounds as though you guys love each other simply because it’s convenient.”

She looked shocked and then relaxed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right but I’ve known him since I was 15. He’s the only guy I’ve known. I do love him.”

“Better the devil you know, huh?”

“Yep.”

I can’t criticize her decision. It’s her life and it’s easy for me to be all lofty and superior now that I have Tom by my side.

She’s happy. I might not agree and I might just believe that she could do a damn sight better but that’s my opinion.

Still, sometimes I wish I didn’t talk so freely to strangers. The last thing on my mind is becoming tangled in their lives.

2006-04-28T23:20:00.000+10:00

TEARS AND RAIN
James Blundt...

Trevor has made a choice I can’t support.

He’s taken a path and he’s made the active decision to no longer be my friend. He’s asked, in effect, for me to choose between being a friend and being who I am.

I am who I am, I can’t change that as much as I’d like to.

If I could choose, I would choose our friendship but I can’t because it would mean sacrificing the very fabric of my being. It would mean sacrificing my love.

It won’t happen.

I won’t choose.

That’s my choice.

I understand that he needs to keep that distance between family and friends but it’s killing me that he’s chosen to believe rumour and innuendo to justify his desire to terminate a friendship of 20 years because of his insecurities.

It kills me that he’s chosen to see my love for Tom as a violation of the boundaries of our friendship.

But it’s Trevor's decision to see it as that, not mine.

I know my obligations and my boundaries and I won’t be violating those. I know the difference between the obligations of friendship and the obligations of family.

Tom comes first, he always will. He is my love and the one I will never betray. He is my family but that doesn’t mean I see his family in the same light.

They’re a distant second to my own flesh and blood and the friends who have been granted the same position.

But as for friends Trevor is as close as flesh and blood family. Our history, the secrets we have shared, will stay just that. Nothing changes in my eyes.

I can only assume, however, that in Trevor's eyes things have changed. For the sake of protection he’s fed me to the wolves and I wonder if I’ll ever forgive him for such a violent betrayal.

If I am ever given the opportunity I’d like to think I’d forgive him. Right now I’m too angry to see that day. Right now all I know is that I’ve lost a friend because he can’t see that I’m not the person others have accused me of being.

I’m raw and exhausted. I’ve been crying for Trevor as if he were a lost love. And in a way he is, he’s a brother to me and a surrogate son to my parents and he’s been lost. I pray it’s not for good but that’s his decision.

What are my choices?

I could forgo my love for Tom to appease him. Because from my perspective I see it as that love that’s made him see me as a threat and a liar. Because he refuses to talk I have to take the limited information I have to piece together a picture of what’s going on.

Forgoing my love for Tom is not going to happen.

So I have to wait, God knows how long, until Trevor remembers that of all the people who have known him for the past 20 years I have always loved him for who he is and that’s not going to change just because I’m family now.

There’ s a lifetime to figure this all out. I can only pray Trevor doesn’t wait until it’s too late to mend our friendship, all because he’s afraid of what his family might think.

I don't think of them at all, but I think of him. I wonder when he'll understand that I miss him and need him and that nothing has changed - except that I'm happy now.

2006-04-19T08:04:00.000+10:00

TIRED

“You mean I gave up my weekend of this?” Tom’s mum was livid but it’s not as though we had much of an option.

Miss 8 was hysterical. She screamed and begged us not to leave. Finally, after three hours, we caved and let her come with us.

“Well I won’t be helping you out if that’s what’s going to happen.” She threw the comment in between asking if we’d like a drink and the weather’s kind of chilly.

Like it was our fault. As if we planned this.

Somehow we’re the heartless ones for not forcing a hysterical eight-year-old to stay with her grandmother. As if the favour she was doing this for us and not Tom’s bitch of an ex.

We weren’t even supposed to be having the kids but the bitch was “working” and had asked us to take them for four days instead of the usual two. We said three but that we have plans for Monday.

Bitch called Mother-in-law. Mother-in-law said she’d love to take the kids. The kids didn’t want to stay with her – so rather than forcing her to deal with a screaming child we decided to take Miss 8 home with us.

And now we’re in trouble. We’re in the wrong.

Whatever.

I’m tired. The kind of tired you get when you’ve experienced every emotion on the scale in 48 hours.

I’m not used to this. I’m not used to a family that operates by cloak and dagger. The snide remarks and false face seem to me a petty and unproductive way to deal with conflict.

Nothing’s ever resolved if nothing is ever said.

Still, it’s the way it’s worked for them and they’re welcome to the strategy. Once again, I’m too tired and too confused by it to want to get involved.

It’s not what I signed up for.

When you love someone you take on all of their faults with their strengths but there’s nothing in the vows that say you should tolerate the irrational behaviour of their relatives.

You’ve got to laugh, you have no choice. The other option is insanity and I don’t think that’s the path I want to take just yet.

But give me time and it might stop being a choice and the insanity will swallow me whole.

2006-04-07T12:19:00.000+10:00

VENTED

On Tuesday night it was one of our neighbours.

He and his family all jumped into our backyard and were swimming in our pool.

Tom begged me to let it slide, to let them swim in our pool, but the idea of this filthy bunch not even showing the common decency of asking to come over made it impossible for me to let it slide.

I was irate and demanded they leave. I first asked politely and was ignored. I then threatened to call

That’s when he attacked me.

The wiry redneck, with his cigarette hanging out of his mouth, took long gangly strides up the back yard. He stood less than a foot away from me and then punched me in the nose.

I could taste the blood trickling down the back of my throat and my eyes blurred a little. Out of fear I retreated into the house.

My neighbour followed and Tom was nowhere to be seen.

I was cornered in my bedroom and the slack-jawed creature burned my on my arms with his cigarette. He warned me of “interferin’ with his kin” but other than that remained silent and continued to burn and hit me.

Finally he just left me sitting in the corner of the bedroom cradling my wounds.

On Thursday night it was one of our customers at work.

I don’t normally do face-to-face contact but on this day she’s come to the office to see me in particular.

We talked and I can remember the conversation but it started off pleasant enough. She was a pleasant looking woman in a grey suit with short, blonde hair.

Then she turned on me. She was screaming and yelling so loud that her words distorted. She began kicking and punching me and I decided to hit and scream back.

Eventually co-workers intervened, she was dragged outside and I could see her standing on the other side of the glass doors gesticulating wildly. I was on the other side defending my actions.

The neighbour lives in a house on the cul-de-sac that doesn’t exist and the meeting was held in an office where I don’t work.

Clearly my subconscious is trying to work something out. It’s working, I’m feeling a lot clearer and happier as though overnight all of my anger and frustration and self-doubt has been vented.

But is it any wonder I wake up feeling tired?

2006-04-06T15:18:00.000+10:00

FAT OPTIONS

Do I want to go that far?

Is my desire for something greater than my fear? I’m trying to choose between two equally deadly options.

One option means I stay the same the other means I will be physically changed forever and I can’t turn back.

The problem with being fat is that everyone has their assumptions as to why you’re fat. The list, although blandly simplistic, is long:

Maybe you’re retaining water.
Maybe you eat too much.
Maybe you don’t eat enough.
Maybe you need to exercise more.
Maybe it’s muscle weight.

The woman at the next desk. She’s eating pizza & carrot cake five days a week. If not that then it’s a sausage roll or ice cream. For some unknown reason she’s a stick figure that could be snapped in any forcible wind.

Then there’s me. Piece of fruit for breakfast, salad at lunch, bland lean meat for dinner with double veggies. And I’m a walking barrel.

Maybe it’s gluten intolerance
Maybe you’re glucose intolerant.
Maybe it’s cushing’s syndrome.
Maybe it’s food allergies.
Maybe Hypothyroidism

But despite the current barrage of tests for infertility it seems I’m a glutton for punishment and I want to know why I just can’t lose weight.

The truth is, no one knows why some people are fat and others are skinny even though they live identical lifestyles. But I’m yet to find a doctor who’ll admit that.

I’ve suggested – maybe it’s just metabolism and that I’m just built that way. They’ve suggested maybe I exercise more (and I’m sure I could if I quit my job!) and eat less (half a piece of fruit?).

I’ve found one woman who appears to understand…

“I restricted myself and battled and felt like a complete loser, and had dieticians and everyone else say, "if you do this you will lose weight" and then treat you badly when you don't. Like it’s all your fault that their plan isn’t working for you.

“At that time I did give up, and ate whatever I wanted, which made me a lot worse.”

And then she underwent bilio-pancreatic diversion – a terrifying procedure where the stomach is cut in half and the small intestine is cut in half reducing the absorption of food.

Is this the road I’ll be forced to take?

I don’t know that I’m ready to have my body torn apart without exhausting all of my options – without knowing why I am the way I am.

But it’s an option I have to consider because I have no others.

2006-04-05T09:55:00.000+10:00

ROLLERCOASTER

That chubby little bundle of joy you’re shoving under my nose doesn’t make me smile. It doesn’t make me giggle with cluckiness. I don’t want to watch him coo and gurgle.

It makes me want to scream.

And all your comments - “you’re next” or “maybe you’re pregnant” or “when are you having children” - doesn’t make me excited. You comments don’t fuel my enthusiasm to have children.

They make me want to cry.

Tom tries but he’s no help.

“Have you ever thought the problem’s me?”

He’s trying to be nice and I know that he’s feeling the pangs of failure but not being able to fall pregnant will always be seen as a woman’s failings, not the mans.

“Ah, you’ve got an 8-year-old walking, talking statement that the problem is me,” I bight back.

Every fortnight his progeny comes to visit. Every fortnight I’m reminded that some hideous, undeserving creature has spawned the child of the man I love.

Every fortnight I’m reminded that her deception bore fruit and my honesty is causing nothing but frustration.

“Look, I’m going to get upset and angry and moody a lot. I’m really upset about this and it’s a big deal. But it’s my problem and I just need you to hug me when it’s called for and ignore me when I’m being completely irrational,” I can’t explain it to him. I’m trying to but this anguish doesn’t have words.

Tom looks even more confused. “How will I know when to do what?”

“I’ll tell you.”

So there are more tests and more medications than I can poke a stick at. I’ve had blood drained from my body to the point of making me faint and I’m taking medication that’s made me an emotional wreck.

I’d like to say that it’s all coming to an end but there is a long way to go. We’re talking more tests, more invasions and more medication.

It’s draining and I’m exhausted more than anything else. Tom and I always said that we weren’t trying to fall pregnant but that we just weren’t not trying either. We’ve taken this tack for two years and it’s not working – time for a different tack.

So now I spend a couple of hours a week just waiting in the doctor’s office. I spend nights staring at the ceiling trying to figure out what's wrong with me.

“You know, when nugget does come along we’re going to look back on all of this and laugh,” he smiles.

I, as is my response to everything lately, burst into tears.

“This is one of those hug times isn’t it?” he asks, honestly concerned that the wrong action could have worse repercussions.

I just cry harder.

“So I'll take that as yes.” and he hugs me.

These days, that's the most effective medicine there is.

2006-03-30T17:42:00.000+11:00

STAYING PUT

“I get as far as writing an application letter for another job but never send it,” I moaned to Christine over coffee yesterday.

When I quit journalism it wasn’t a big deal. Not really. It came naturally and I, apart from the odd pang of regret, was at peace with it.

However I just can’t seem to drag myself away from this job. I spend my days giggling with my co-workers, bitching about the conditions and chatting with customers about the weather.

It’s really easy, to me, and as such sometimes it feels as though I’m merely keeping the job because it’s easy money. It’s largely pointless busy-work to keep me out of trouble.

“Maybe you’re just afraid of failing,” Christine gurgles over coffee. “Maybe you don’t want to risk taking a new job in case it doesn’t work out.”

“Maybe,” I sulked. Her answer seems so simplistic.

The prospect of moving to another job and then finding I hate it is enough doubt to stop my search in its track.

I really do love this job. I love its little complexities and legalities. I love helping the newbies. I love the personalities in this office and how they interplay. I love that when the day is over my job is done and nothing is waiting for me in the morning. I love not having an in tray.

Come to think of it, there’s not that much I hate about it.

The money sucks – not completely but just enough to be noticeable. There are limited advancement opportunities.

In all honesty, I don’t know what I want to do with “the rest of my life”. I don’t know that I even want to think about it.

“You know, maybe it’s not that deep an issue,” Christine’s blowing a hole through the froth while I’m staring at the girl behind the counter.

She’s happy. I know her job probably doesn’t pay that much but it’s probably enough to sustain her while she’s still at school. There’s plenty of time to think about the future when it arrives.

“I don’t think I’m afraid I’ll fail at a new job, I just think I don’t want to leave.” I’m a little pissed at Christine. Her “observations” of late have been unnecessarily dark. “Maybe, just maybe, I don’t want to leave.”

My tone of voice has caught Christine’s attention and she looks up from her coffee. “Then why are you looking for jobs?”

“Because I feel like I should be doing more. I feel like I should be living up to my full potential.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“Because I don’t know what it is…”

“Well, maybe this is your full potential. Maybe you’re supposed to be happy, not rich and successful.”

Maybe. And that doesn’t sound like too bad way to spend the rest of my life.

2006-03-27T14:52:00.000+11:00

TORTURE

Last night I had an 8-year-old girl threatening to live in my car. She just did not want to get out and go back to her mother. For 20 minutes we sat their coaxing her from her seat.

Tears were streaming down her face and she blubbered that she “didn’t want to go in there with her” and that “she’ll just scream and scream at me”.

We stood on the footpath and I hugged her and I told her the only things I could – that we’re sorry. That when her mother’s screaming to “switch off”. That one-day things would be better. I told her to think of us because we’re thinking of her.

And I have to remind myself that these are not my kids. I can’t afford to be making myself miserable over something I can’t control.

Still, when there’s an eight-year-old holding on to you for dear life, you tend to be a little irrational.

There was a dark, cold ball forming in the pit of my stomach that made me want to throw up. I felt it sucking the warmth from my body.

And I wanted to keep them.

For all the trouble of having step-children most of it is because you’re forcing yourself to keep a distance that isn’t natural. When children live in your home and hug you and want to be with you always it’s kind of hard not to become attached.

Tom’s face remains etched in my mind. For all the anguish I’m feeling for two kids that aren’t mine, I am only scratching the surface to his pain. His eyes all watery and red – straining not to cry.

I would have happily taken the kids back home. No child should be forced to live with someone they hate.

If it had been a one-off, if the kids hadn’t been expressing this want every fortnight for the past two years, then I could have shrugged my shoulders and walked away. It would have been so much easier to dismiss this as a stage.

But I know that it’s not. This little girl may be able to manipulate her dad but all the tricks don’t work on me. And this was no trick.

We drove home in absolute silence, neither of us wanting to talk about it in case the conversation tore the wound further.

Why couldn’t Tom have been a widower? Why couldn't they stay?

2006-03-24T10:43:00.000+11:00

COMING HOME

Driving home each night is like stepping into a renaissance painting.

We’ve moved to an area that is Sydney’s plains.

The land lies flat and in the distance you can see through the haze to the Blue Mountains. The mountains themselves are largely silhouetted by this time as the sun hangs low on the horizon. It’s not setting though and still has enough strength to show the details of the thick, fluffy bushlands on the mountain slopes.

Looming over these mountains are big, black clouds cracking open only wide enough to allow the slender fingers of God to reach down and touch the earth around my new home.

It’s dangerous, as I drive, to allow myself to linger too long on the scene but it’s beauty is hypnotic.

For some reason when we were shopping for a suburb we hadn’t even considered the one we ended up in. We searched long and hard in the areas we all ready knew – not wanting to stray too far.

Then a chance barbeque at a friends place and we instantly fell in love. Driving home that night Tom just turned to me and said “this is it” and almost immediately we began concentrating our search in the area.

In a rare moment of clarity I realise I don’t regret the purchase in any way. I have never once thought “if only I was closer to work” or “if only it has the same facilities as Parramatta.”

And each night I am torn between wanting to stay on the roads and watch this artwork unfold or rushing home to be with Tom.

Tom always wins out.

2006-03-22T12:36:00.000+11:00

FAMILY TREE

There is one branch of the family tree that I simply can’t understand.

It’s a branch that seems to thrive on gossip about themselves to the point where they actively seek to claim every comment as an attack upon them. They are, by all accounts, amazing people but it’s incredibly difficult to get across to them that people aren’t talking about them behind their backs – no matter how much they want them to.

“I’ve got no idea.” I told Tom last night. “Apparently I said something offensive about people that I actually really like. It’s a little frustrating.”

Tom nodded and let me vent for an hour about the fact that I simply couldn’t understand. I spewed forth a rather unflattering interpretation of the situation before pulling myself back into line and back to reality.

I’ve offended them without even talking about them.

He agreed and told me of his much similar history of having every word re-interpreted and turned from a simple flippant comment about not liking the colour blue to actually meaning he hated their home and their blue curtains.

Still, for 24 hours I’ve replayed the past 12 months through my head. I’ve thought about the very few times I’ve actually mentioned these particular relatives and narrowed it down to one of three conversations. One was about wedding seating. One was about hair. One was defending them against an attack from another relative.

It was probably a comment about their hair that did it.

I know I’m obsessive but for some reason I believe in the truth and that it’s an absolute. However, too many people in this world don’t care for the truth – it’s only important to them that they’re right and that they can twist the truth to satisfy their own delusions of self-importance.

It’s the reason I quit journalism. People don’t want the truth.

That being the case I also accept that everyone believes what he or she needs too to get through this life. If this particular branch need to cruicify me to make themselves feel justified then there's nothing I can do but accept the martyrdom they've bestowed upon me.

“Does it really bother you that much?” Tom asked as we walked through the park.

“I guess it bothers me because their version of what I’m supposed to have said isn’t even close to what I actually said. It’s amazing what you can do if you take something out of context.”

We walked for about half-an-hour and by the time we got home I was all angered out. I want them to see my truth. I want them to see that I didn’t say anything that could be construed as offensive and that if I did it wasn’t meant to be.

But if they don’t want to see that then can I really make them? If they’re determined to turn everything they hear as an attack upon them can anything I do or say change their beliefs?

Probably not. It’s wasted energy and I’m just going to let it slide.

There are people in this world who spend their days thinking about what other people are thinking and saying about them. These same people, in the absence of anything validating their need to be gossipped about, will create the insult themselves.

They have nothing better to do.

Me, I’ve got a life.

2006-03-18T23:26:00.000+11:00

Middle Of The Hill – Josh Pyke

All of the major upheavals in my life are associated with the smell of wet paint.

1992 I finished high school and waited the painful time to receive my results. I closed my bedroom door with a tin of pain and stripped back the walls until all traces of my childhood were gone. Then, with the radio blaring, I shut myself away from the world until I owned that room and felt secure about the future and who I was in the face of change.

2001 I bought a unit and began my career as a journalist and bought myself a unit. In pride I closed the door and scrubbed away the unit’s history. Then I gave that space a new skin in which I could feel comfortable and secure against the uncertain future.

2006, now, the stress and strain and disorientation of falling in love and getting married has culminated in the purchasing of a home to call our own for the rest of the foreseeable future.

I’ve stared at these walls and couldn’t bring myself to accept them. It was someone else’s mark on my home. Someone else’s lives imprinted upon them. Their hand marks and their smudges of dirt making a clear and obvious claim to ownership.

So, for the past three weekends, I’ve locked myself in the master bedroom. The plan was to remove all traces of the previous tenants. Not only their physical presence but their entire imprint.

Tom helped, when I allowed him, but largely it was a job I greedily dominated. I needed to paint as much as the walls needed to be painted.

It’s just the way I am when things change – when my boundaries are encroached upon. I was Determined to mark my territory in the only way I can - with the sweat from my brow.

Tom, seeing my desperate need for space, sweetly interrupted only for lunch and offers of coffee through my day’s labour. But all in all I had locked myself away from everything.

Painting, for me, is cathartic. I washed away the past the best I could but not before I took due time to acknowledge it existed and that it had brought me to this point. I prepared the surface with long, sure strokes that make my back ache and my wrists and hands throb. Then, I wildly added the colour to the walls until all that was beneath it was completely covered – gone for good.

The adding of colour a commitment that couldn’t be taken back because the nature of paint is that, if you’ve prepared the surface well, it bonds with the walls.

I’ve had many a rental place between. I’ve scampered across Canada and across Australia but none of those places have the same connection as those I’ve painted myself.

They always felt and smelled like someone else’s home.

But a simple coat of paint, four days of solid connection with the walls themselves, and I know this room is Tom’s and mine. It’s history has been stripped away and it’s future seems so much more secure now that we’re in sync.

At least Tom and I can sleep in peace while we work on the rest of the house.

2006-03-13T10:56:00.000+11:00

MISERY

A married person is akin to being Mormon. Nobody wants you around unless they’re also married.

Since last April things have been different and I’m trying desperately to contact my friends but to no avail. How many emails do I have to send? How many SMSs before it’s clear there’ll be no response? At what stage do I just give up trying to contact my friends?

Chrissy is unreachable. Mick and Milo won’t respond. Sarah’s always been a bit of a recluse. Trevor has simply disappeared. My work friends are around quite a bit but, while they’re wonderful people, they simply don’t have the comfort factor of the people I have know since I was young and stupid.

“They’re probably just busy,” Tom tries to be positive but I’m not convinced.

“Nope, I know my friends, this is the silence of concealment. Or worse – they’re talking about me. They’ve included me in their round of people to complain about.”

I used to be the complainer - now I’m the complainee. It’s as though I’ve been forcibly pushed to the other side of the tracks. Occasionally I receive a non-committal email or a vague SMS but otherwise I hear nothing of substance and it’s driving me insane.

“Why don’t we just drop around and visit them. They can’t ignore you if you’re on their doorstep.” I know Tom’s being rational but this is a completely irrational situation.

“No. I’ve done everything I’m going to. It’s up to them to come to me now. I mean – I sent a long letter telling them we’d bought a house and that I’d bought a new car and that everything is going great and not one of them could send a congratulations. God, not one of them bothered to ask what our new address was. For all they care I could have slipped off the face of the Earth.”
And then it occurs to me. I’m married. I’m part of the cult my friends and I mocked since high school. Maybe I have fallen off the face of the Earth.

“Well, then stop worrying about it. I know you, I know you’ll go on an on about this until you hear something.” Tom hesitates over the sink. Then, somewhat absent-mindedly adds. “But you know what they say – misery loves company. Maybe you’re too happy.”

Is my generation completely incapable of being happy? It appears as though we go to great lengths to avoid it.

We sabotage relationships, we avoid people who are too perky and we seem to bloom with grief after disasters that have nothing to do with us. Our entire lives seem to be spent chasing a reason to be unhappy.

I’ve been there. I’ve had disastrous relationships and I’ve spent endless nights alone with a tub of ice-cream. I’ve been let down and had my heart broken. And, I must admit, I kind of liked it. Being miserable is easy. Happiness takes some effort.

But because I’m so happy, I’m thoroughly friendless and alone. Being friendless and alone makes me miserable.

I guess that means my friends will be calling sometime soon.

2006-03-04T22:02:00.000+11:00

HOME part 3

This story is boring me. It was a long time ago now and I want to get to the point.

That night Tom and I sat down on the back step of our Merryland’s home with a bottle of scotch half drained. By 3am we’d decided to make a bid $20,000 below the asking price.

That Monday I called. Tuesday they came back with an offer 12,000 below the asking price.

We said yes and two months later – many a fight and many tears and stresses behind us - here we are.

For the past two weeks we’ve been sanding, tearing tiles from the wall of our bathroom and painting the bedroom. We’ve been walking the streets of our new neighborhood in a bid to get a feel for where we’ll be living for the, hopefully, next 30 years.

But above all this house has a fourth room so I can close the door and write. Hopefully, once the boxes are put away, I can finally find time that I need to remember who I was before this whirlwind began.

2006-03-03T22:55:00.000+11:00

HOME Part 2

When the house hunting began I switched off from the world. I focused on this one thing with an unnatural obsession.

I’d spend hours scanning the different houses and suburbs we had considered. All within our price range. Most with one or two flaws that meant they were culled from the list.

I shut Tom out of the process, taking it onto my own shoulders simply because I felt I should. I thought about the search night and day. I ran comparisons of home loan options and wrote long lists of features each loan had to offer.

At night I would toss and turn trying to formulate a plan to achieve our goal. Leaving Tom with instructions on not being too enthusiastic and to pick the places we were looking at to pieces.

And so our new strategy began. But finding a house is all well and good in theory; you still need the agents to show you inside.

On our second weekend we booked a further six houses to view with one particular agent. We told him, quite bluntly, that we’d already been dicked around and that we wouldn’t stand for it. With so many houses out there if he couldn’t help us that we’d simply look elsewhere.

At 10am he was standing outside of the first house. On time and quite apologetic about the fact we’d only be seeing four houses instead of six because two had guests coming over.

Fine. Still, none of the houses sang to us and Tom and I would park at the local lakes with an esky of food and drink to tide us over. It had become a tradition that we both loved and as we sat there we’d talk and talk about what we’d seen.

I had written up a checklist and Tom was enthusiastic about filling in it.

“Sorry, I meant the next left,” Tom glanced up from the clipboard to see I was heading to a cul-de-sac instead of to the main road.

“Oh, well it’s the lake anyway. It’ll do.” I said, pulling up to the curb.

Tom and I talked. We talked about the fact we had no other plans for the day and wondered what we’d do next. Half-way up the road was a house with a For Sale sign out the front and decided it probably couldn’t hurt to have a look.

We dropped into the agency and was met by a gruff blonde man. He agreed to show us around and we followed him back to the cul-de-sac. Something about the man made me uneasy. He was rude, inflexible and clearly knew nothing about the house.

But something was undeniable. This song not only sang to us – it played an entire musical.

We ran through our checklist and asked the agent all the standard questions and the real estate agent the same questions we’d asked of the past dozen houses we’d seen but they weren’t necessary.

I knew, the second I walked into the door, this was home. My stomach tied in knots and I was already planning the colour scheme.

Tom was playing it cool making me think he was unimpressed with this four bedroomed, two bathroomed mansion just two minutes walk from the lake.

There was no way I was going to force him into buying a property he didn’t love but if this was it I wasn’t going to let it go without a fight.

2006-02-24T21:33:00.000+11:00

HOME part 1.

It's the most daunting thing you'll ever have to do. Buying a home. For me it was so much more than the commitment to a loan - money doesn't bother me - it was what that home represents. I'm sure I'll figure it out in time.

My behaviour and my ability to understand it over the past three months has been poor to say the least. Tom and I have fought over small, petty things. I've pushed and pushed much more than usual to try and prove that I am unlovable. But it hasn't worked and tonight I'm sitting in the computer room of our home.

When we started looking for a home Tom and I wrote a list of wants. We argued and disputed about the priority of these wants and then we narrowed down the list until we finally reached an uneasy agreement about what our home would include.

Brick. Three, maybe four, bedrooms. No Garden – we’d make our own. A car port/garage or potential for one. Room for a water tank. Quiet location.

The first weekend was a disastrous success.

Our first appointment, 9am, we arrived early. The agent we had an appointment with decided he’d rather go sailing. So, we were stranded an hour from home without anyone to help us navigate the treacherous housing market.

But, if I’ve learned anything in the past five years of my life it’s that fate has a way of steering me onto the right path.

Tom and I drove to a local lake to try and regroup and formulate a plan to tackle the disaster. We were an hour away from home and there was no point turning around only to have to come back again for our 4pm appointment.

The car swerved and I thought perhaps Tom was returning to the incompetent real estate agency. Instead he circled a roundabout and headed up a side street smiling broadly.

From the corner of his eye he’d seen an open house sign and was following his gut that it would lead to something more.

The house was out of our market. Too small. Too perfect. When we told the agent this she smiled and handed us a list of three other properties that she would make sure we could see.

This woman did more than show us houses. Kelly, a tall, dark haired woman who took Tom’s initial grumpiness with charm and grace, gave us the much-needed guidance to find the perfect home.

We talked, largely about what we’d wanted and she listened intently. She was enthusiastic about our needs, not only making sure she talked us into one of the houses she had to sell.

By 3pm we had seen all she had to offer and stood on the footpath to talk. We told her about the first agent and how daunting it all seemed.

“Look, if I can tell you anything it’s that you’ve got to stick to your guns. There are so many houses on the market at the moment that you don’t have to settle. It’s out there and if I don’t have it then someone else will. But don’t get stressed and don’t think of it as a chore. This is a big thing your doing and above all you’ve got to have fun. I know it sounds nuts but if you put out the right vibe then the right house will come to you.”

We said our goodbyes and made the next appointment but our attitude had changed considerably. No longer were we waiting for the agents to return our calls.

We’d find our own house.

2006-02-09T09:45:00.000+11:00

TRAGEDY?

What do you say when a piece of crap dies?

“I’m really sorry. What happened?”

She shrugs her shoulders and I can see she’s getting a little teary. “He just didn’t want to be here any more.”

Her love affair with him is a long story. At first he’d been sweet but after a year, when things got serious and she started talking marriage and babies, he was abusive and treated her like a dog. A man that after two failed marriages and a nasty custody battle had turned bitter and violent.

I struggle to find the good about him. I run through his life and she’s giving me a new perspective to the one she was showing before Christmas.

Before Christmas, before he took the cowards retreat from life, she had told us she was leaving him. She’d told us he had pushed her around, told her that he would never love her as much as he loves his sister and that she was just another slut.

Now he’s a kind and sensitive man who was pushed to the edge by circumstance. The man she says loved his kids and was a sad and frustrated man instead of the arrogant, rude pig she’s been living with for the past year.

But it’s no good. Many people can look at a person after death and only see their good. I can only see who he was not who they’re all wishing he’d been.

However, for her sake, I soften my tone and let her talk without correcting her tainted memory.

“Are you ok?” my concern is for her, not him.

“I’ll be alight. I just need a distraction.”

Part of me wants to recite the post relationship support script. You’re better off without him. He was an idiot and got what he deserved.

But I know I don’t know the whole story.

Maybe he was really a good man. Somewhere deep down. But I didn’t know that man and I’m not going to mourn the loss of someone I didn’t know.

2005-12-28T16:49:00.000+11:00

FAIR

These is this state some place between drunk and sober where I can actually think clearly. I can think broader thoughts and they can make more sense then when I haven’t had a drink. In this state most things are acceptable and have their reasons.

In this state these is logic and order to the chaos and exhaustion is actually a fuel for action.

I like being here. Not drunk. Not sober.

However, should you over step that mark. One drink too many, one drink not enough, then the smallest complication becomes a massive melodrama.

“Why couldn’t you just say no?” I scowled at Tom. I scowl at him a lot when he talks to me of his interactions with the ex.

“I just didn’t want to fight.” Seems logical enough but nothing is logical in the step-family environment. Everything to do with the ex is a transgression. Everything to do with standing up for his new wife is a transgression. And conversation about the step-kids is a painful reminder of a life he had elsewhere.

“Well you’re having a fight now. I guess it’s just a matter of which fight you’d rather avoid. Clearly you don’t want to upset your ex but you’re happy to upset me.”

Tom sighed heavily and I could tell he was fighting to not say anything that would enflame the situation further. So we simply both retreated.

I took my typical position behind the keyboard. He retreated with the kids into the lounge room and I’m glad for the peace but also painfully aware that it will always be like this.

Him and his kids and me and my computer.

We’re planning on kids and there’s a lot of room for “us” but, at least once a fortnight it is certain that there will be a painful reminder that, when the chips are down, it’s Tom and his kids as a unified force and me feeling more and more like an intruder on their life.

Then the alcohol wears off completely and I find myself still here behind the keyboard wondering why I make it into such a big deal. So what if he had a life before. So what if that past comes to visit.

I adore the step-kids but it hurts to be constantly reminded of that other woman. We both want the kids around but if only it could be done without her.

Nothing’s perfect. Nothing comes without some sort of cost. The price of my loving Tom is that we go and visit his past once a week.

My past, however, can be vocal almost every day. My past, my insecurities and my fears and my frustrations all create a tone in my voice that I detest.

Sometimes I think I got a raw deal. Sometimes I think how incredibly unfair it is that I have to tolerate visiting Tom’s ex-wife and I have to watch his guilt and overcompensation with the kids.

And thing I think sometimes it’s Tom who has the hardest lot. Me with my unjustified tantrums and the darkness I retreat into whenever I’m afraid.

Maybe it’s not a matter of fair and unfair. Maybe it’s something considerably less complicated than that. Maybe it just is.

Either way I have to toss up whether I’m going to prolong my disconnection and reach for another wine or whether to engage the conflict.

Tonight, it’s no more alcohol. Instead I’ll slip quietly into the lounge room and snuggle into Tom comfortable with the mutual understanding that this signals tonight’s battle is over.

2005-12-16T13:20:00.000+11:00

BREAD

Cronulla, like some many suburbs of Sydney, has become a penitentiary.

Thanks a lot. As if there wasn’t enough fear in our lives. Now there is a curfews and increased police patrols. There are barricades to keep the residents in and unwanted guests out. Random car searches and home invasions backed by law.

For some odd reason seeing police on the streets doesn’t settle my nerves just like passing through the five custom counters to enter America didn’t make me feel safe.

Until I saw the troops of police patrolling our streets I didn’t realise I should be this afraid.

I have to say I loved the Telegraph’s spin on the issue. Police Blanket Thrown over Sydney as if the presence of increased security forces is a saving grace.

It’s not. I’m suffocating. My friends are suffocating. And there’s nothing I can do.

“God Boswell, please don’t go to Granville on your own. Make sure you’re with Tom.”

I hadn’t heard from Mick for ages but like any true friend he surfaces with words of warning when he senses I could be under threat.

“One of our neighbours had the side panels of his car kicked in by a gang of 6 Lebanese guys when he stopped at the crossing there. I don’t want you going there on our own.”

I want to tell him not to worry but there’s no point. Mick, for all his superior abilities, is a man prone to always thinking the worst. He’s a man acutely aware that evil lurks in the streets and at this time I’m more concerned about his safety than my own.

Sometimes I think the baser elements of society, the kind of mindless yobbos that are fighting over turf rights for Cronulla (and now Granville), can smell fear. Perhaps they’re more like rabid animals than human beings and they seek out either the weakest prey or the prey that is the greatest threat to “their” territory. They are incapable of simply being at peace in their environment.

If this is true then Mick must reek of fear and I worry about him. I guess that's what friends do.

“Ok,” I respond.

I want to put his mind at ease. If I can’t ease his nerves about what’s going on in the streets then at least I can take the worry of my safety off his shoulders.

Still, there’s nowhere I won’t go unless I choose not to. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a complete fool. I’m not about to throw a chunk of meat in front of the rabid beasts. I’m also not about to spit at the Police for doing their job.

Still, I will visit the Granville Woolworths because it’s the one closest to my home. It’s the one I’ve been going to for the past two years.

It’s not like I want to “own” the place. I’m not about to pitch a tent on the street and move in. I want to pick up a loaf of bread. If someone’s got a problem with that then it’s their problem. I’ll let them deal with their own issues.

If I’ve learned anything in this life it’s that I’d rather die having truly lived then live forever in an Ikea inspired prison.

And I will buy my bread where ever I want to.

Police state be damned.

2005-12-13T18:51:00.000+11:00

IMPLOSION

I’m tired but it seems I’m not alone.

Sydney is slowly imploding. The pressures of pandering to so many minorities at the expense of the majority is finally rearing its head and the media is showing itself to be the biggest terrorist organisation in the world.

Our newspapers, radio and television conglomerates have branded this our “race” wars. Whatever, it’s fodder for the cattle at Newsltd/Fairfax and co. They’re spreading fear and mistrust with every misquoted word and every edited image. As usual the deeper truths are ignored in favour of the most superficial and spectacular reason.

These riots have been a long time coming. Cronulla is just the tip of the ice burg. Soon it will spread into the greater Sydney area until the anger burns itself out.

Personally, I don’t care if you’re black, white or brindle – you attack my friends and family and make me feel unsafe in my own streets then I’m going to fight back. If you try to change my world and dismiss my right to live my own life then I am going to resist.

Does any of what I say matter? Would anyone from an ethnic background believe me – after all, I’m white I must be racist. But I don’t care what people think, I only care that I am honest to myself.

I know for a fact that when a group of eight to 10 20ish ethnic guys come barrelling onto the train that I clutch my handbag tighter. I also know for a fact I have exactly the same reaction when it’s a gang of white guys.

I know for a fact that when I’m walking along a street on my own and an ethnic guy walks behind me I quicken my pace. I also know for a fact that if it’s a white guy that creeps up behind me that I’ll do the same thing.

Above all I know that if anyone decides they’re going to tell me what I can and cannot do that they had better have the power of law behind them or there’s going to be a fight.

For the past 10 years or so the minority trouble-makers have had the law on their side because even the law is afraid of creating ill-will with a minority organisation and being labelled racist. But now even having the law on their side is not enough. The unfortunate thing is that innocent people are getting caught in the crossfire.

A woman on the other side of this office is Muslim and she’s probably one of the most vivacious women I know. She’s funny and smart and in all honesty I haven’t thought too much about her ethnicity until today.

Just one of those insidious, fear-mongering emails claiming that there were signs of escalating tensions at the Parramatta Train Station and that the violence had also flared up at the nearby Granville and Merrylands stations too.

I ignored it. Or tried to ignore it. But no matter how rational you are it’s only natural to be afraid when irrational violence is on your doorstep.

I watched as her eyes scanned the room. I watched as she slumped into her chair.

“Are you going to be alright tonight?” I asked. She had the late shift. She’d be all alone with the wolves at the door.

“Yeah. I’ve got someone picking me up.”

I don’t know why I asked. It wasn’t any of my business. But beyond the battle of good and evil there was this one, single woman, as far removed from the fray as possible. Someone I saw day-in and day-out and who I talk with and spend my lunches with without a second thought.

Now she was under attack and I was taking it personally.

But the utterance that came next surprised me. With the ongoing slanging matching from people who are ashamed to be “Aussie” (and don’t even get me started on this particular reference in the papers because it would go on for days) this woman just shook her head.

“Lebanese boys are so stupid.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Anglo boys are so stupid.”

“See,” she laughed, “We’re more alike than anyone would know.”

Under the skin. That’s where it counts.

When this war is over they’ll be another to take it’s place but the mob mentality doesn’t appeal and I’ll be watching from the sidelines. The sheer stupidity of it all is too exhausting for my tastes.

From my friend’s response I get the feeling I’m not alone.

2005-12-04T18:43:00.000+11:00

PETTY

Mum spat venom through the phone and I could feel the darkness creeping into my veins. But this time I refuse to give in.

“Can I go now?” I switched off. It’s the only defence I have left that is effective against their attacks. It’s the only way I can stop myself from becoming involved and trying to find a solution to a problem that isn’t mine.

“Yeah, sorry I shouldn’t heap this on to you. But thanks for listening.”

I want to tell her it’ll be the last time, like I’ve told her so many times before but I know damn well that it won’t be and I can see no point in engaging her when she’s this pissed off.

“Ok, bye.” I pull the phone from my ear and hang up quickly to prevent any chance of interjection.

It’s on again. For young and old. The young being my brother and the old my mother. Their similarities making their relationship akin to dynamite. Things can be fine for a long time but inclement weather and the passing of time make the relationship unstable and the slightest movement, the most insignificant of sparks, and explosion is inevitable.

And the spark responsible for this war? Fajitas.

Mum was babysitting and grumbled that she didn’t want to make fajitas for the kids because she’s bad at it. And then my brother went off (as he’s prone to do) accusing her of not being reliable and so on and so on.

At least that’s my mother’s version of the story. From my perspective it’s just so incredibly trivial I find it hard to care.

“But that’s it,” she’d told me earlier in the conversation. “I’m through with them. Never again.”

I want to laugh at her and tell her that she’s promised me she’d never again drag me into a war that wasn’t mine yet here she was asking me to take sides.

It’s not going to happen.

My mother is one of the least instinctual people I know. Her inability to interpret the meaning behind what’s being said is dangerous at the very best. It’s always an attack, it always means someone doesn’t trust her or love her or want to be around her. Then again, who would when every word that comes out of your mouth is going to be so badly misinterpreted.

My brother is exactly the same with the added burden of being arrogant and insecure. Every utterance you make is either an insult or an indication that you don’t know what you’re doing (the fact you may know more than him is not only unthinkable but another attack on his fragile ego so there’s no point arguing with him.)

Between the two of them I seem well adjusted.

Life is too short to be hung up on the little things, the insignificant things. It’s taken me a lot to get here. I sacrificed my entire childhood to being a peacemaker and I’ve decided I’ve done enough. My mother and brother are both amazing people in their own right if they could just stop caring about what other people think and do.

I’m going to pass the burden to my mother and brother who are both responsible for the direction of their own lives.

If they want to waste time fighting over fajitas and imagined insults then let them.

2005-11-24T17:23:00.000+11:00

NO TURNING BACK NOW…

It’s been a week since I signed my past away.

The contract was a massively bulky deal with diagrams and elaborate phrasing beyond my desire to understand. I’m a bottom line kind of girl – what does it all mean in the end.

“It mean your unit now belongs to them,” my solicitor smiled.

I’d bought the property four years ago for $79,000 and sold it for a health $150,000.

The unit was a small, dingy, two-bedroom affair that served the single career-driven me well. Something of a metaphor really – it was quite, unassuming and largely ignored. Buried at the back of a unit block its views were limited to an open yard of grass, two rusting clotheslines and a slowly rotting wooden fence with over-lapping palings.

Within its walls I was safely hidden away from the world. No one even knew I was there and I kept largely to myself. Occasionally, on my bolder days, I would make eye contact with my neighbours but otherwise I was convinced that if I had dropped dead within its walls no one would have noticed me missing.

I refinanced two years ago – put it up for rent – and decided it was time to put the old me to rest. I used the money to travel to Canada, to evolve and to redefine myself.

Without the small piece of property I would not have been able to do so.

With all the history wrapped into that tiny space it’s hard to let go but I’m doing so with an enthusiasm I couldn’t have predicted.

Over the last six months my past has gone silent on me. Chrissy is knee deep in work. Mick and Milo have simply disappeared, Sarah is wrapped in divorce blues and Trevor is out of reach. I have no doubt they’ll resurface in time but for now their absence is noticed and I’m worried about them.

Journalism is rearing its ugly head but on my terms and shaped into a new passion.

Other than that, my future is all bright and shiny.

We’re house hunting, talking about babies and making plans. The house we’re searching for will have three to four bedrooms, a yard, garage or twin carports. All the suburban trappings in a leafy location.

I have a new crew, or pod as it’s referred to. Simone, Peta, Leanne in the immediate vicinity. Nelly, Stella and Roma. All solid friends. All quality people. All ripe with potential.

Everything new and it’s getting less and less likely that I’ll ever go back to where I came from.

2005-10-27T11:45:00.000+11:00

TRAINING

“Um, I just got a call from Bob and he asked me to tell you to get off training.”

I’d set the phone system on training to help a colleague out of a sticky situation without interruption.

So I didn’t know quite know whether I wanted to laugh or to storm down three floors and smack Bob across the head (figuratively speaking of course). Of late, everyone’s obsessed with our adherence to the roster. So much so, they’ve brought on a big-brother team to make sure we’re not goofing off.

I understand the company has to protect its interest but as the screws tighten I’m beginning to feel the pressure.

I email Bob and make my distaste at his inability to contact me directly clear. But, from the response, I have my new enemy. Bob is “the man”.

“Training is not for your convenience” he wrote. “The only breaks you can take are those that are rostered into the system”.

I'm boiling. I want to protest against the company’s dehumanisation.

Then I email my response:

“It's a case of having two newbies on either side of me. I would be more than happy to improve my overall adherence however, since the "help-line" has them on hold for up to five minutes, they rely on the people around them. When the issue is particularly complicated I can't stop half-through otherwise they risk violating privacy or one of a number of critical errors because there's no one there to help them.

I can assure you, it has nothing to do with using it for my convenience or just for taking a break. But I will tone down the assistance; refer them to the help line, to bring up my adherence. I will even cease taking personal breaks to go to the bathroom and risk kidney stones to ensure my adherence is at a suitable level.”

The silence deafening.

This war isn't over. I love my job. I love the people around me. I have no intentions of leaving. But, as my team leader is smart enough to realize, I won’t be silent when something’s wrong.

My co-workers make it bearable.

“Maybe we should all get catheters,” Michelle chirps in one of the rare breaks in the calls.

“It’d just be cheaper to cut holes in our seats and install plastic bags,” Sam suggests.

“You people are disgusting. I wouldn’t work in an office like that,” Liz’s tone was too serious for our liking but with the way the conversation was going we were at risk of offending someone sooner or later. But a smirk creeps across her face. “This is the wireless age people. Headsets and laptops. You don’t have to defecate at your desk anymore. That could be Big Company’s new recruitment logo.”

We giggle and laughed for a full hour about the possible implications of not being able to leave our desks and the anger is vented. There are grunts and moans and immature behaviour all around.

And then the response comes:

“i think you are taking this whole thing way out of proportion, i was not saying you where doing anything bad or using training to your convenience, i was just asking if you could please jump off training…i do agree with what you are doing and saying so there is no need to freak out, but i need to know, or else i get in trouble.”

Fair enough. He, too, is being oppressed by “the man”. Still he’s a little closer and he’s doing “The Man’s” dirty work so I can’t cut him too much slack.

“Look, don’t stress so much, I’m simply saying that if you’ve got a question then call us directly. That way the message won’t be reinterpreted. It also wouldn’t hurt if you got to know the personalities involved so that you’ll be able to see the kind of people involved and then you wouldn’t need to question our motives.”

And it's left at that. The issue is dead (for now).

With all the quality jokes the situation offered us, it’s hard to maintain the rage.

2005-10-19T16:13:00.000+11:00

INVASION

The tiles were crooked and slid down the wall in a subtle arc.

“Did you drink the water?” The doctor was young, probably in his early 20’s. His red hair and freckles made him less authoritative then I would have liked but he balanced enthusiasm and seriousness like a skilled juggler.

“I couldn’t hold it.” They wanted me to drink 1 litre of water and then hold it in my bladder for two hours. It wasn’t going to happen. Not a full 10 minutes after consuming the lot I was in horrid pain and couldn't get to the bathroom quick enough (I mean literally, didn't make it. Luckily I have my own car and don't rely on public transport). “But I drank a litre 15 minutes ago so hopefully that’ll be enough.”

For some reason this particular medical institute had chosen a creamy-brown tile and that always made me anxious. How in the hell did they know if they were really clean or if they’d missed some scungy piece of offal from a procedure gone awry?

Suddenly the goop hit my lower abdomen and I flinched. The doctor smoothed out the gel and began examining my internal configuration.

“That’s plenty of water. I can see your bowel clearly.”

I didn’t respond, instead I focused on the tiles. Rather than completely smooth they had a soothing ripple. The reason for allowing the intrusion far out-weighed my embarrassment at dropping my pants in front of yet other stranger. Still, it helped to focus elsewhere .

I returned my focus to the doctor and to the small area he had targeted. “I didn’t realise it was that small. I mean all those drawings we’re shown growing up it’s a hell of a lot bigger.”

He laughed at the monitor and responded without looking at me. “Those pictures are to give you a general idea but in reality it’s only about eight centimetres wide and four centimetres long.”

He hummed and hared over the monitor, making small sweeping motions and stopping occasionally to take a snapshot of my innards. Then, he abruptly stopped.

“See, that wasn’t so bad. Now there’s just one more thing. While this scan is 85% clear we do have another procedure that allows us to see things a lot more clearly. You don’t have to do it but it will be able to see things with an accuracy of 99%”

The instrument he was holding was nothing short of offensive.

I shook me head and got off the bench in disbelief but 'in for a penny in for a pound' as they say. So into the little cubicle where I shed my clothing. I then dressed in the funkiest plastic robe they owned and re-perched myself on the bench - bracing myself for the invasion..

And back to the tiles I went for the next 40 seconds watching them arc and twist in the light.

“All done,” he chirped. “It looks as though everything’s in perfect working order.”

I re-shuffled into the cubicle, dressed, paid for my violation at the front desk and then left.

If everything’s fine with the hardware then it’s time to start considering there could be a bug in my software. So I’m off for more test. Off for more poking and proding and exposure.

But it’s worth it. I have to believe that in the end it’s all going to be worth it.

2005-10-11T15:29:00.000+11:00

IN THE NEWS

I’m doing eight things at once and not one of them is being done properly but finally the task that I’ve been working on for the past two weeks has been completed.

My first, national, press release.

Australia’s leading newspapers, magazines and radio stations are now all in possession of my dry, yet informative, release. Well, not all of them, I’m still knee deep in fax cover sheets and email addresses – sitting comfortably half-way through my always updated contacts list.

It’s an introduction, of sorts, of not only my organisation but of my newly formed company – Nameless Promotions. No doubt, burried under the hundreds of faxes and emails they receive a day but it's out there.

I’d been toying with the idea since I left journalism. While the entire industry makes me sick to the stomach I couldn’t see one reason why my journalism skills couldn’t be put to use helping organisations I believe in.

Suffice to say, the assistance I’ve provided to date has been minimal.

Local papers, local radio and so forth. But when I was first asked to make it a more national approach I couldn’t resist dragging out the old contact book and touching base with the world I left behind.

I called in favours, apologised for my lack of contact over the past 18 months and I made sure my friends were still my friends. I equally made sure my enemies didn’t know it was me (the married name has helped create new bridges where the old ones were burnt).

While the project has brought the stimulation I’d craved of late, it’s also brought a sad reminder of what I’ve left behind.

Deadlines. Cafes and idle chatter. Questions.

My mentor was the first on the line. I’d left on less that fantastic ground last time when she challenged my decision to quit.

“I knew you couldn’t stay away,” She was chatty and friendly but a little too smug for my liking.

“It’s just a visit.” She smiled but it was half-hearted.

“You know of all my juniors I honestly thought you’d be a journalist till the day you died.”

What could I say? I mean, when I started in journalism I had all intentions of making a big career and becoming a political correspondent. Leading some adventurous life. Maybe settling in New York or London.

Something more exciting than this. Something remarkable.

But then my priorities shifted. I said something I meant and lost a job I didn’t want. There is not one thing I would change about that decision.

But with my press release on the fly and the adrenaline pumping through my veins I’ve temporarily forgotten what it was I hated about journalism.

Finally I dig up the response for my old editor.

“I thought that too.”

When my head clears I’ll remember why I’ve chosen having a life over having a career but for now I’m feeling the slightest pangs of regret.

2005-10-10T15:04:00.000+11:00

NUSIENCE

The crank calls simply stopped but the identity of the caller was revealed.

“Well, I guess it was just our turn,” my mum said. “She’s called everyone else in the family and it was only a matter of time before she started abusing us.”

The Friday they stopped at our house, they began at my parents’. My father and I have the same initials so we’re often mistaken for each other by anyone who uses the phone book as their primary resource.

And who was the mystery caller? My Aunt Unstable, or rather her daughter Cousin Apple, making the nuisance call rounds.

Back when my father’s mother died there was a massive dispute over the will. For some insane reason my grandmother left everything to my father and his other sister but flat-out ignored her adopted daughter, Aunt Unstable. Prior to that my father hadn’t spoken to Aunt Unstable for near on twelve years.

After discussing the issue Dad and my other Aunt proposed to sell Grandmother’s house and split the money three ways to be completely fair. Aunt Unstable simply wasn’t satisfied.

She wanted the house.

Bare in mind this house was built by my grandfather in the early 1960s. Neither a carpenter nor an electrician the house is a death trap. Lights flicker when it rains. The wind has removed most of the fibro at the back of the house. There are more car parts and broken bricks in the foundations than actual concrete.

The real estate agent valued the place, on a massive block of land, for $600,000 plus – one third being more than enough to buy Aunt Unstable a nice town house. My father and aunt also said they would contribute $25,000 each for a trust fund for Cousin Apple.

It wasn’t good enough. Aunt Unstable wanted the house.

The saga dragged on for nine months until through some miracle the unemployed, single-mother who has no credit rating “found” the money and paid out my aunt and father – for a considerably lower amount than market value.

What ever, both my father and aunt were glad to have the matter put behind them and to move on. But Aunt Unstable and Cousin Apple weren’t satisfied.

Ever since the settlement Aunt Unstable or Cousin Apple have called my cousins, my aunt and uncle and now me and my parents to abuse them for all their current woes because they can’t afford the upkeep of the house.

My father and aunt have done what they can for Aunt Unstable. One of the stolen generations they did what they can to encourage her to embrace her Aboriginality but Aunt Unstable was adamant that she was in fact African.

Like so many of the stolen generation lies surrounded her adoption. My grandparents were told that her real parents had been killed in a car accident and, being kind hearted, they wanted to share their good fortune.

Kind of ironic considering my grandparents didn’t have enough money to buy themselves shoes that they would still considered themselves fortunate.

When she was 20 her real mother walked possibly the longest path of her life to my grandmother’s front door to meet her daughter. The family celebrated. My father and my other aunt waited quietly in the kitchen as she approached. After a few minutes of muffled talk, Aunt Unstable slammed the door in her face, once again telling her that she wasn’t an Aboriginal.

I remember seeing my father crying that night - for the torment Aunt Unstable's mother had gone through and for what Aunt Unstable had lost.

Perhaps it’s because my grandparents spoiled her. As the baby from such a tragic background they had bent over backwards for her. Knowing she’d lost so much they wanted to make it up to her.

Perhaps my grandparents were too hard on her. My grandmother, in her last years, was a bitter, twisted woman. Without my grandfather she was a spiteful cow and we couldn’t possible know what she went through at the hands of that woman.

I honestly don't know. She's a stranger to me. Like my grandfather I know her only through stories and there's nothing to say those stories aren't heavily biased to make my father and grandparents look as the saviours of the piece.

There is no way I will ever know the truth. I may ask again and again but the truth is subjective.

The phone calls have stopped – for now – and I can go back to pretending like she doesn’t exist.

It makes my life so much easier to put her in the “Family I Don’t Know or Don’t Care to Know” cupboard along with my Uncle Greedy Snob and What’s His Name grandfather.

The problem is that the skeletons in that particular cupboard pick up the phone and call me - bringing my sense of guilt to light.

2005-10-07T15:48:00.000+11:00

BUY, BUY, BUY

I’m not one for gushy recommendations. I respect Paul Ford. He’s a talented writer and always produces something worth putting everything else on hold to read. In this age of over information it's rare to find something that's actually worth reading but Paul Ford always delivers.

http://garybenchleyrockstar.com/

Go. Look. Enjoy. And then buy a damn copy (if you want).

2005-10-04T09:52:00.000+11:00

HOME

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the six degrees of separation. I think about how small my world really is and how easy it has been for me to cross paths with people who have links to every facet of my life.

One of my supervisors, I discovered after 12 months, is the husband of my sister-in-law’s best friend.

Yesterday I discovered that a woman in this building has also lived in Canmore, Alberta. Our experience at that crossroads overlapping by a few weeks. She, too, talks about that town and her experiences there in hushed tones.

I did a dance with my husband for 17 years. Only one person away from each other the whole time. Oblivious to the coincidence until we finally met – at just the right time to think the separation humorous.

Then there’s his ex who lived a suburb away from me for the entire time I lived at home.

Little things, knitting themselves together, to create the tapestry of my life.

I wonder if this is what karma is – the coming back and repeating of your life until it makes sense. Coming together of the same people, of similar situations, until I figure it out.

Have I got it right this time or is there something I overlooked?

I guess there’s no point to trying to figure this out. I don’t know the mistakes I made before and I don’t know that knowing what they were would stop me repeating them. But this time I feel as though something has slipped into place.

Five months after getting married I find that I am still essentially the same – except for one minor difference. I’m happy.

If I’m going to overdo metaphors I may as well continue.

My life feels like a baseball game. For the first 25 years I don’t even get out of the dugout to swing. Finally my chance comes and I hit it out of the park.

I run to Canada, I run from one side of that continent to another.

Once there I can't stay still and I run to Canberra and then I head full pelt for home. Suddenly I realise that the hit wasn’t as far as I thought it was or that the opposition are a lot more organised than I planned and I can see that this is my one chance to reach the place I’ve been running towards my whole life.

Home.

It’s close. The ball’s in the catcher’s mitt but I have to do it, there’s no point standing on third, nestled with Trevor, and being “safe”. I want to win.

So I slide home. At first the slide is unnatural but then I ease into it and I’ve won.

I’m home.

A strange thing, that we should do everything we can to run away from home only to struggle to reach it again.

2005-09-09T16:14:00.000+10:00

BORED

Anyone can rage against the machine. Anyone. It takes no intellect and no skill what-so-ever. There is an ongoing parade of half-wits and morons who have labelled themselves authorities.

Perhaps all it takes is a high degree of ignorance to the fact what you’re saying has been said a million times before – in a much more elegant manner.

Howard’s an idiot. Brodgen attempted suicide. Beazely is ineffective. Abbott is a moron. Costello is a woman.

Forgive me while I yawn. It’s all been done.

Oh, what about the skill it takes to tear down Australia’s television gems. There’s a challenge. Blue Heelers see Cop Shop/Homicide/Rafferty Rules etc or perhaps Neighbours/Home & Away see crap, crap and a little more crap.

There isn’t one original idea out there.

I’ve given up on the media. I’ve given up on the radicals who think they’re going to save the world by bitching and moaning while they sit in cafes.

I’ve especially given up on the woman who sits opposite me at work.

I am, by all conventional definitions, a big beast of a woman. But compared to this malcontent – I’m Elle McPherson.

“You know I don’t know what they’re thinking keeping Brogden on. I mean he’s clearly not politician material,” she snorts over her mass produced, predictable, Starbucks purchase. “If the Liberal Party what to keep their hopes of ever being taken seriously they need to seriously reconsider the character of their representatives.”

I’m sure they’ll take your advice on board. There's going to be a "Walrus saved the Liberal Party Parade" to thank you for your opinion which saved their dying party.

I let her prattle on. It’s kind of gratifying to witness people making fools of themselves. That is, it’s gratifying until I’m almost bored into a coma.

She’s not deep, she’s not hip to current affairs. She’s boring. She’s filling her empty life with concerns and worries that are not her own.

“Oh, God, things look rough in New Orleans,” She shakes her head as though she can commiserate. “What a tragedy.”

She’s a fascinating study of the blatantly obvious. I wonder just what percentage of her is American.

It’s a long enough day and I fake getting calls to cut off her talk. I pretend that those calls have hung up on me and switch the conversation to more daily matters.

I try to ground it in reality but she’s awash in the things she’s read and reinterpreted and keen to offer simplistic, regurgitated overviews of what she’s seen and heard. Nothing of what she’s experienced.

At the end of the day I’m drained and rush to leave the building and avoid her. At home the TV remains off and Tom and I find better things to do, relevant and original things to talk about.

I have more important things in my life than the unoriginal dribble that passes me by.

But there is enough room in my life to pity her.

2005-09-06T11:50:00.000+10:00

STEPFAMILY EVOLUTION

Miss 7 and I had a fight on Saturday.

“Can you get your dad,” she blinked and said nothing. “Miss 7, can you get your dad.” She simply walked away. I stood there with eight bags of shopping absolutely fuming. But the time I stumbled through the last-minute father’s day shoppers out of the store I was ready to throttle the little beast and she knew it.

Not by what I said but by what I didn’t say.

“I didn’t hear you,” she sobbed. I wasn’t moved by her tears, they only worked to fuel my anger. “Then why didn’t you say that?” she sat silently. “Do you understand that that’s why I’m angry? I really needed help and you just ignored me.” I measured my tone, trying to conceal just how incredibly pissed off I was.

She sucked back the tears. “Sorry.” It was the first genuine apology I had received. “That’s ok,” I softened my voice. “But next time, don’t ignore me.”

And then it stopped. She stopped sulking and I stopped feeling angry with her. We’d both learned something. It was one of those “moments”.

Things got worse. It happened when I least expected it. Miss 7 jumped up from her bed and gave me a great big kiss on the cheek and then fell back under the covers. I walked to the second room and Mr 10 threw his arms around me and wished me a good night.

Then my tormentors, the children who had invaded my home and my life, drifted off to sleep. I tossed and turned for hours, trying to assess this new sensation.

Damn it. I had the walls all in place. I was creating my boundaries and they had crossed them.

We all stood at the cars ready to take the grots home. “Why can’t we stay?” Mr 10 squeaked. “Yeah,” Came Ms 7 mummble past the thumb permanently shoved in her mouth.

“I wish you could stay,” Tom said. “But it’s not up to me.” I felt as though I were to blame but I know that’s not the case.

The kids sulked a little and slowly climbed into the car as though they had the weight of the world on their shoulders. I understood how they felt.

Last night was the final straw. “Is Boswell there?” the kids had called Tom after a failed MSN attempt at communication. “Yep, she’s right here”. “Say Hi,” they chorused.

I responded with equal enthusiasm and joined Tom as we talked about Ice Cream, Dumb and Dumber and sheep’s brains.

That ping in my chest was unfamiliar. The thoughts running through my head were completely alien.

I miss them.

All of a sudden I was all maternal and resented that someone else was raising my children. My children. I wanted them in my house and I wanted to talk to them. I wanted to check their homework and I wanted to kiss them goodnight.

Now I don’t know what to do with myself. So much has happened in the past 12 months and I was determined to hold on to who I had finally discovered was the real me.

Suddenly, I’m a different me and I can’t keep up.

I hadn’t planned on children. A baby, sure, that’s a fresh slate but not a ready made set of children with quirks.

And now I have to accept that I am mother, biology aside, to two children. We are slowly, but surely becoming a family. This wasn't on the agenda, but then again most of my life fails to follow any of the paths I plot.

Damn. This is going to sting.

2005-09-01T11:43:00.000+10:00

HYPER-VIGILANCE

It’s a blue day. No real reason. Just is.

After a mild panic attack on Friday night I seem to be completely disconnected from my life. I am, in effect, feeling a little omnipresent. Like I am watching over every facet of my life and not actually part of it. It's exhausting.

The panic attack began like this – I opened the door to our house and in the half-light I saw someone run down the hallway and into our bedroom.

I stood there and shook, I was frozen to the spot. Blood rushing to my head throbbed mercilessly and I could only utter Tom’s name in a whisper even though I knew at that moment there was someone in our home. Someone uninvited.

It’s been going on the weeks. We’ve received phone calls where the caller simply hangs up when we pick up. On Wednesday I received no fewer than eight calls in a 20-minute period.

These calls have terrorized me. Nothing is said but that’s enough to get my heart racing.

Curiosity may have killed the cat but not knowing will surely kill me.

On Thursday there were four calls.

On Friday, none. This was probably the worst assault they could have dealt me.

After a glorious dinner at my Mother-in-laws to celebrate my birthday (which by all accounts was a fantastic three day celebration – supper with mud cake at my sister-in-laws on Thursday, Dinner on Friday and a flash hotel room on Saturday) we drove home and I was enthusiastic about entering the house.

Then the form ran from one side of the house to the other and disappeared into our bedroom. Tom came up from behind and I told him what I’d seen.

“There’s only one way to deal with this,” Tom turned on all the lights. He scoured each room and made sure the house was clear. His confidence and aggression making me feel as though the house was safe and that in fact, no one was there.

“I know what I saw,” I whimpered, still standing in the doorway. I was unable to make my feet cross the threshold.

“I believe you. This house has one hell of a history and we are definitely not alone.”

I didn’t for a second feel foolish for my panic. But the anxiety didn’t go away. My heart is beating at twice its normal pace. The blood is pushing painfully through my veins. There is the feeling that something is about to happen that I just can’t shake.

Then there are the numbers. The triple 1. The palindromes. The repetitive patterns.

I know it’s just the way I’m seeing the world right now. I know that the world isn’t trying to send me some sort of cosmic sign.

But I can’t help feeling this constant awareness that something is about to happen – good or bad – and that I have absolutely no control over the direction my life is about to take.

2005-08-16T14:38:00.000+10:00

PARTY

There were so many people crammed into the apartment I was waiting for the floor to collapse beneath us. I was hoping the ground would swallow me whole.

Trevor turned 31. What had started out as a small get-together of five guests exploded into a room of more than 17 people.

Among them, my new extended family who watched me with a keen eye.

“That’s your fourth wine isn’t it?” my new cousin, who had dragged her screaming child to what was clearly an adult function, asked.

I smiled sweetly. ‘And I’ll have to have at least a dozen more to make you interesting’ I thought sourly.

“No, my third. I’m not driving tonight.”

And so it begins.

For 25 years I was a complete fraud with my family. I lied. I acted. I was everything they could want in a daughter.

But I wasn’t me.

It took five years of kicking and screaming to shed that skin and get them to see me for who I was.

In this time I sold all of my possessions, ran away to a foreign country and sought an American Beauty experience. I sought freedom and happiness. And by God I found it. I reshaped myself, or rather freed myself, and then spent a lot of time reshaping my world.

Family and friends resisted but with a lot of persistence I prevailed.

“So, how’s married life treating you?” my new Aunt asks, no doubt fishing for some chink in the armour.

“Same as single life, only more washing,” I laugh lightly.

For four gruelling hours Tom and I hid in a corner and avoided making eye contact. We busied ourselves and were grateful for the few minutes we could steal in the joyous company of Milo or Sarah.

At times I fled the building for fresh air, descending the stairs to the basement where I was confident my new family wouldn't follow.

All we could do was wait until Tom's family went home around midnight before we finally kicked back and relaxed. Before we could be ourselves again in the safe company of friends.

So the battle is on again. I have a new family now and, as if becoming an instant mother wasn’t trauma enough, I will have to shape them too. For the years before now they have only known me via rumour. They have known me as Trevor’s friend.

Suddenly I’m family and they’re going to treat me with the same pious, judgemental, condescending attitude with which they treat their blood relatives.

Tom’s not so worried. “Tell them to get stuffed.” He huffs.

One day I will but for now I’m happy just to avoid them.

2005-08-10T10:28:00.000+10:00

TIME

The shifting sands of time have swallowed me and I’m going under.

Not really, that just sounded like a rather melodramatic start to today’s entry. For the first time in forever I have official, paid holidays coming my way.

I’ve officially been working three months here – odd because it’s been more than 12 months since I walked through the door – and now I have my first week of annual leave.

Once again everyone’s asking what I’ll be doing and once again I tell them I’m planning to do nothing. As you saw last time however – plans go astray.

“You’ll have to get the car serviced,” Tom suggests.

Crap. One thing I have to do.

“Oh, and don’t forget you’ve also got to paint your unit.”

I really could do without his help.

“Then there’s the cupboard that you’ve been promising to paint.”

And with that I’ve pretty much got most of my five days covered when you include washing, mopping the floor, vacuuming and cleaning the neglected bathroom. Then there’s the oven as well and the fridge that could both do with a clean.

Perhaps the first sentence was correct. Time is just slipping away. It’s been almost four months since I got married and I have no recollection of where the time has gone. My birthday, the eternal marker of passing time, is creeping towards me.

Soon I’ll be 31 and I don’t feel at all prepared.

Then there’s my novel in a constant state of inactivity. It still rattles through my brain. It calls to me in the middle of the night just begging to be completed.

But I don’t have the time for myself let alone the fictitious voices crying to be heard.

And the phone rings once again and I’m back at work and I have no choice but to ignore the voices and ignore the plans. Another day slipping away as I do what I can to earn enough money to, one day, stop doing it and get on with the things that matter.

2005-07-28T17:49:00.000+10:00

WOGDOM

Samantha makes it very clear.

“I’m a wog. I’m from a wog family. My entire life is based on wogdom.”

When I ask her to define a wog she pauses, struggling to give the concept words.

“A wog is my father. For example, when I cut my hair he denounced me. ‘I have two sons now’ he said. (She puts on the accent of an elderly Serbian man) ‘What have you done with my daughter?’.”

When I tell Samantha that her answer doesn’t really explain it to me. She smiles.

“I guess it doesn’t have words because it’s a way of being. My mother, even on the hottest day, will cook a full roast meal. We’re all sweating and complaining about the heat and no matter what we say she wouldn’t even consider having a salad and cold meat.”

“Or it’s the fact that we have our Easter in May and our Christmas in January. Maybe that’s what it means to be a wog – being completely unable to go with the flow of society. I mean I can’t see that it would kill them to move their Easter and Christmas so that we get a public holiday like everyone else.”

“It’s these entrenched ideas that simply won’t waver no matter how the world changes. God forbid I should consider moving out of home and living on my own. I mean, I’m 23 and I really want my own place but that’s not going to happen.”

Samantha shifts in her seat, raises her hands and begins waving them around wildly.

“No daughter of mine is going to be slutting it around town.” The imitation of her father is convincing. I can almost see the crinkled old man before me. “You stay at home, you get married, you have babies. That is the way it is. There is no other way.” She's almost screaming.

Samantha smiles to herself at, no doubt, what has been a life of such lectures about her place in society.

I ask if it bothers her.

“Not really. I haven’t known any other life. I mean when I was younger I took my dad at his word, now I realise it’s just funny. It’s unrealistic. But he’s not going to be around forever and I think he deserves the respect.”

We sit quietly for a while and then I ask if she thinks their way of seeing things is wrong.

“No, not at all. I just think it’s their way. It’s not mine but I’ll have my own kids to impose upon when the time comes. Until then...” She clears her throat and begins imitating her father again. "I'll stay home. Get married and have babies. It's just the way it is."

And she seems so at ease with her life.

2005-07-27T18:28:00.000+10:00

IGNORANCE

The warehouse has been quite of late. Few acquisitions have been added and I’ve missed having my place to hide.

I wrote once of how in the middle of the night I would slip through its door and rummage around, trying desperately not to disturb the dust. Ever hopeful that there would be a new, but oddly familiar and comfortable, artifact.

Of late I have found myself called there once again and I slip through the door only to find that not even the owners have been there to disturb the dust.

Not that I blame them. Life has a way of making us forget what were once our precious belongings. I’ve been doing that of late.

With Tom and the wedding and a life screaming ahead at full pace I have to admit that there is a lot of me that has been over looked.

TOOleS has suffered. My writing as a whole has suffered. The novel that was heading towards completion is now languishing unfinished in a corner.

Maybe it’s true that a poet needs the pain and now that I’m happy I’m seeing the world through rose coloured glasses. Or, more aptly, I’m not seeing the world at all.

No one’s to blame for these changes. They just happen. And just like the warehouse’s owners I will pick up where I’ve left off.

It’s coming back to me now and I’m confident that one day my happiness won’t blind me completely but offer a new way of seeing the world.

For now, barr the experience of being a step-mother, it’s all sunshine and puppies and little fuzzy bunnies.

Could you really blame me for wanting to be a little ignorant about what’s going on after living my first 30 years acutely aware of what was happing around me?

I think I’ve earned a little normalcy, no matter how ill the fit.

2005-07-18T19:15:00.000+10:00

LATE SHIFT

"…talking in the air...."

She's got the lyrics wrong but her headphones are screaming and I don't know that she even knows that she's singing for the office to hear. God I love the late shift.

"…say it aloud. Say it is. You and me as the world as you hear."

It’s been a horrible couple of weeks but there has been one, oddly compelling, feature in my day. Work. Or more importantly, the late night cleaner.

She enters the office at 7pm and sings her way across the room.

“…So we open up a quarry between presents that last…”

Badly.

”..you sometimes see as fate it may have and new perceptive on a different date…”

But she had such joy in her voice that I don’t think I could stand to ask her to stop. No matter how frustrating it is to hear her butcher an otherwise easy song. There is something about the comfort that she has in her own skin that makes the broken music bearable.

“…I wasn’t there to mourn him when my father went away…”

At first I fight the urge to laugh. It’s simply absurd. But after a while I find myself listening intently, trying to unravel the song she’s singing.

Tonight it’s The Living Years by Mike and the Mechanics. I know this because of the tune she’s warbling as apposed to following the lyrics which she has reshaped by either mishearing or mispronunciation.

Tomorrow, it may be something different or as she has proven in the past she may very well do an encore performance. But I know for the next week she’s going to float into this room and float around this office.

There’s so much going on.

Terrorists creeping ever closer to what I once took for granted as a safe haven.

People so paranoid by the current threat that they’re quizzing couriers about their motives and resorting to burning books to make themselves feel safer.

Communities riddled with suspicion and fear that even the safest of streets people won’t go outside after dark – just in case.

The media does all it can to feed the fear. More fodder for its revenue generating pages.

And this woman still sings despite it all. Despite the terror. Despite the paranoia. Despite her horrible voice.

”Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It’s too late when we die
To admit we don’t see eye to eye.”

Some nights, I wish I was her.

2005-07-10T13:18:00.000+10:00

RED

Mr10’s face turned bright red. His eyes wide open and fat tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Spit it out,” I say casually, rolling my eyes in mockery at Mr10’s inability to realise the easiest course of action. I look away, my eyes following Tom who’s returning from the toilet.

Then I look back. Mr10’s shaking now. His cheeks are puffed out and I know for a fact the fresh batch of hot chips he’s shovelled into his gob are burning through the cheek lining and scalding his tongue.

“Spit it out,” now with more urgency. Still Mr10 doesn’t move. He’s frozen in time. His face getting redder. His eyes screaming in pain. Mr10’s cheeks are stained with long streaks of tears.

Tom hadn’t noticed, he’s watching the bowlers on a lane next to our table.

“Mr10 just spit it out.” There’s panic in my voice and Tom’s alerted to the situation. He puts a hand on Mr10’s shoulder and tells him to spit out the food with more force then I can muster.

Finally the weedy boy spits the mashed chips onto the plate. A much smaller ball then his puffed cheeks would have suggested.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats three times in higher and higher whines. “I’m sorry.” He snuffles and his face contorts as he begins to cry.

Tom consoles him but I’m just confused. What on earth would make a 10-year-old boy not spit out boiling hot food? Why would he subject himself to such pain over something so trivial?

My compassion lost in the sheer confusion. “Mate, crying’s not going to cool down your chips it’ll only make them soggy. Why didn’t you just spit it out?”

He snorts back the tears and won’t look up from the plate. He’s sitting on his hands and appears to be making himself into a small ball.

“Mummy screams at me when I spit out food that’s too hot.”

And I feel sick. I’m so angry I can’t seem to stop shaking.

“Well, you’re not with mummy,” Tom says calmly, as though the words haven’t shot him through as well. “Here, with us, you have permission to spit out your food if it’s burning your mouth and you won’t get into trouble.”

Mr10 snuffles.

“Wait,” I interject. As always trying to find some levity. Trying to pretend like I don’t want to cry myself. Trying desperately to hide my shaking hands. “You will get into trouble if you spit that food into your sister’s face.”

Mr10 coughs out a small laugh.

“Or if you spit it in dad’s face,” Ms7 throws in just for the sake of it.

“But what if it’s an accident,” it hasn’t worked. Mr10 is worried. His mind has weaved around the humour and found the most unlikely of possibilities - what if the food did hit someone in the face.

Mr10's always worried and always in tears over something which seems so trivial to me. But they’re not trivial to him. There’s so much more going on behind the scenes that I just can’t understand.

“Well,” it’s lame but the best I can do. “If it’s an accident then you’ll have to say sorry and get a cloth to clean up the mess.”

Mr10 eventually looks up and begins poking around his plate but he doesn’t eat anything. He sips slowly on his drink and thanks Tom a hundred times for getting it.

Tom jokes that the mass of half-chewed chips are his and that no matter how we beg we can’t have them. But then the matter is over and we move on.

I can’t.

I leave the bowling alley and move to a secluded area behind the building and cry.

2005-07-05T16:49:00.000+10:00

SILENCE

I wish I could be eloquent. I wish I could find the words. But for the past month I’ve been dealing with too many repetitive phrases to have an original thought.

Oddly enough, I don’t mind the silence.

tOOleS has been a little quite of late not through lack of interest but rather lack of words. I’m all talked out although I’m pretty convinced I haven’t said anything of worth.

Pregnancy disappointments. Step-kid dramas. Work over-load with the frantic end of year scramble. Friends are scattered but calling at regular intervals.

Even my dreams turn against me. Their aggression waking me with a start and making me cling pitifully to an unaware Tom.

Now things are beginning to quiet down and I’m beginning to pull myself together.

Still, the beast is doing its bit to keep a grip on my life. It’s bizarre that I can be this incredibly happy and still be miserable.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Tom smiled as I woke. He was already dressed and on his third run to wake me up in time for work.

“How did you know?”

The dream had Tom leaving me stranded at my nephew’s second birthday. It had me struggling with my brother’s uncooperative car and screaming at strangers that I had to go, that I had to find him. It was all too real for comfort and when I woke my fingers ached as though they’d been holding the steering wheel of the car for hours.

“You said you had a bad dream and I just wanted to reassure you. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Thanks.”

I snuggle further into the blankets and try to resist getting up but Tom’s smiling face is hard to ignore.

Of late I’ve been felling a lot of emotions but they don’t have names. Everything seems mashed together.

I know that I’m happy. I know this because the days are passing altogether too quickly.

I know that I’m frustrated with my newly bestowed motherhood. But that’s an entry on its own. Probably some time this weekend.

I know that I’m content. Although at times my mind wanders to Canada when I least expect it but I have no desire to be there.

There is just this sense of anticipation that I can’t shake. I feel as though something is about to happen and it’s neither a good nor bad. It just is.

I’m girding my loins so to speak. Heaven only knows why.

2005-06-11T20:41:00.000+10:00

DISSAPOINTMENT

As I sat in the waiting room the man opposite me played incessantly withhis worry beads. Each click corresponding with a second passing and for a time I concentrated on his rhythmical movements in the hope they would putmy mind at ease.

“Monday is the Queen’s Birthday,” a young man with Autism sat next to his weary mother and spoke with the characteristic stilted tone. “I don’t care,” she hissed, taking her anguish out on him. “I know, I know,” he said defensively. “I was just saying that Monday is the Queen’s Birthday.”The woman sighed heavily. “We’ve been waiting here two hours and I’m tired. I don’t care about Monday.” The young man went quiet.

I didn’t want to think about why I was there. I didn’t want to think about the blood tests and the urine samples I’d taken. I didn’t want to think about appendicitis, pregnancy, bowel obstruction or ovarian cists. I didn’t want to consider that I was either going to have a child or never beable to have one. I wasn’t ready to face either situation.

“No,” a young mother scolded her child for poking me in the leg. I smiled at the child and tried to conceal my disgust at the child’s weeping eyes and snot-smeared face.

A large islander woman pushed her way into the crowded waiting room withher three boisterous children in tow. She passed over her card and ignoredthe children’s demands for fizzy drink and lollies. She took a seat as thechildren played a loud game of eye spy. “I spy something beginning withB.” the smallest child stutters. “Box.” His sister replies. “Belly” hisother sister, suggest. “No it’s a baby.” The youngest offers ruining thewhole game before its time.

“Boswell.” The doctor called after a painful one-hour and seventeen minutes wait.

I followed behind his sizable frame and into the small office. We chatted for a while and he asked how I was and I laughed at the stupidity of the question but then we moved on.

“So you’re not pregnant,” he said quickly and I was instantaneously relieved and disappointed. “You’ve got a bladder infection and it’s causing your abdomen to swell and cramp causing nausea. As for your periods stopping well I can only assume it’s because you’re sick. And as for your breasts swelling well – you’re going through a late PMS.”

I nodded but I wasn’t really listening any more.

I wasn’t pregnant. This wasn’t the pregnancy experience. Considering how much pain I’d been in I was incredibly grateful.

As I left his office with the script for antibiotics in hand I began to cry big fat tears of relief and disappointment.

That night we curled up in bed I asked if Tom was disappointed.

“Yes and no,” he responded.

“What do you mean ‘yes and no’?”

“I have to say yes and no because if I admit that it’s only yes then I’ll start thinking about it and wondering what I’ve done wrong. I’d have to start thinking about the possibility we will never have kids and then I’ll just get too depressed. So I’m saying yes and no so that it doesn’t seem that bad.” He paused. “Does that make sense?”

“It makes perfect sense."

2005-06-09T15:32:00.000+10:00

IN THE BLOOD

If it’s not one thing it’s another. For the past two weeks I have been fighting with a physical mystery. I have not been myself at all.

For the past two weeks I have been doubled up in pain. I have been agitated and emotional. And I’ve visited my doctor in a search for answers.

I've been poked and prodded and had samples taken of all possible bodily fluids and today it finally came to it's conclusion. The final blood test came back from the lab.

My doctor summarized the past two weeks.

“You’re abdomen is very sensitive."

“Yes.”

“You’re breasts have swollen?”

“Yes.”

“You’re periods are a week late.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re nauseous or starving?”

“Yes.”

“Do I have to tell you?”

“Yes.”

2005-06-06T12:09:00.000+10:00

WORKING AGAINST ME

“Does this hurt?” The doctor pushed two fingers into my abdomen up to her second knuckle.

My eyes watered and I pulled my knees up against the pain. I wanted to scream and kick out at her. Instead I grunted in the most undignified manner and pushed my back harder against the vinyl bench wishing I could dissolve into it.

“So that’s a yes?” She moved her hands into four different locations, repeating the process at each point. I repeated my reaction in a bid to move away from the assault.

The doctor then put a freezing cold stethoscope against my abdomen and held it there for a time before standing back. “Well your bowels sound fine.”

I held back on the sarcasm – my natural defence mechanism – and twisted into a sitting position. The pain in my abdomen began two weeks ago and on Friday I finally went to the doctors because it had become unbearable.

Not pain so much as discomfort. I couldn’t sit at work. I couldn’t sleep. I could only eat very little otherwise I was painfully bloated. It felt as though the muscles were stretching beyond their limits and that sooner or later the pressure would blow the contents of my abdomen onto the floor.

I needed relief.

“Well, it could be anything. You could be pregnant, have appendicitis or have a bowel obstruction. It could be wind. Your symptoms are common for a lot of things.”

I buttoned up my pants and took the seat opposite her.

“So what can I do?” Please prescribe drugs. Please prescribe drugs. Make it go away. My brain rattled on.

“Nothing. If you have appendicitis then we’ll have to wait and see. Here’s a letter which will see you admitted to hospital if the pain becomes acute.” She passed the plain envelope to me and it did little to ease my mind.

“What can I do in the meantime to treat the discomfort? It’s driving me crazy. ”

My doctor smiled. “You should relax. Go home. Have a hot shower and sleep. Try not to think about it. I can’t prescribe anything more because we don’t know what it is.”

Over the weekend the discomfort did ease a little. But the concern didn’t.

Life is so fragile. Whether it’s a vein in my head popping or a useless appendage in my abdomen exploding we all walk a fine line between life and death.

Our bodies are poorly-designed machines and I can’t help but wonder why all of a sudden mine is working against me.

“Maybe it’s not your appendix. Maybe you’re pregnant,” Tom purred in the darkness.

It’s one of the many options and I don’t know whether I should be fearing for my life or elated at the prospect of becoming a mother.

All I know is that I’m waiting to see what will happen next.

2005-05-22T18:40:00.000+10:00

ENDINGS

“We’re calling it a day.”

There was no emotion in her voice. Sarah had never been one for over-emotional scenes. But today it seemed even flatter. Not as though she was concealing something but more because I really believe she didn’t care.

“When did you decide that?” I asked cautiously, trying to figure out the most appropriate reaction.

In all honesty I didn’t want to hear it. I’d only just been married and didn’t want to hear about a divorce.

“Simon came over for the last week. We just agreed that it was for the best.” She paused, sighed. “It’s been a long time coming.”

I wanted to agree whole-heartedly with that but chose to remain silent. The pair had been living apart for some time and the end had been forcast by everyone but her. She had clung to the hope that coming home would make everything all right again.

That somehow landing on Australian soil would make Simon rational again.

When they’d gotten married Sarah and Simon had lived together quite happily. He had a high flying job and she was working herself towards a career in teaching.

But then they began to travel further and further apart. Simon’s job took him further and further away from home leaving Sarah behind to keep the household running smoothly without him. He’d turn up on weekends and then be gone as quickly as he came.

“So, now what?” it was all I could think to say. I didn’t want to say I was sorry, because I wasn’t. I didn’t want to advise her about what to do next. I didn’t want to tell her that everything was going to be all right because I didn’t know that it would be.

“Well, would it sound strange that I’m relieve,” suddenly he voice rose with enthusiasm. “I mean, it’s not like he was around very much any way and now I can finally start making plans for my own life. I’m going to get a job, find a school for the kids and find a place of my own.” She almost began to gush.

“What about, you know, love?”

There was silence and I wondered if I’d over stepped the boundary. That this question was a little out of place when consoling someone about an imminent divorce. But the pause wasn’t that long to make my concern grow any more than a momentary concern.

“I want to concentrate on me. I’m not giving up on love but I figure that when I’m who I want to be and where I want to be that it’ll turn up – like it did for you.”

Until this point the whole conversation had been weighing me down. I didn’t want to talk about divorce. I don’t even want to consider that one day Tom and I may go our separate ways. Right at this time that is the furthest thing from my mind. I couldn’t imagine a world without Tom in it.

I acknowledged the comment and wished her well. We’ll catch up soon and talk a little more about things. Then we hung up.

“So what’s going on in Sarah’s world?” Tom asked.

“Her and Simon are getting a divorce.”

Tom pulled his face into a grimace. “Bummer.”

“Yeah.”

Nothing more was said for a while. He continued pruning and I sat with my eyes closed against the sun. I could hear Tom’s boots shuffle towards my across the grass but didn’t move to acknowledge it. Then he planted a rough kiss on the top of my head.

:”Love you.” He said and I looked up at him with the biggest smile and tears in my eyes.

I know.

2005-05-16T15:48:00.000+10:00

DONE WITH

“And?” Tom’s response once I finally vented about the anguish over my niece puzzled me.

“And what?”

“And what does it change?”

Um. I stopped. In all honesty, over the past two weeks my niece’s diagnosis was all I could think about but I hadn’t once stopped and asked myself this question.

“It means that all of her actions are now determined and dismissed. It means that she’s trapped because no one will ever expect her to be more than her condition.”

It sounded so feeble when I said it our loud.

“But she’s still who she is? Right? I mean does it mean she’s going to die young?”

“No”

“Does it mean she can’t have children?”

“No”

“Does it mean she will become deaf and mute?”

“No. But… But it means that they’ve explained away her uniqueness. They’ve labelled her and limited her and …” I paused, a little embarrassed that this is what’s really been on my mind. “What does that mean for me? I mean we’re identical in behaviour. Does it mean that I’ve got this syndrome too?”

I was floundering. The truth is after two weeks of running around in circles I had come to him for some answers. I rely on Tom to show me the alternative perspective, and he’s yet to fail.

“Well if it’s worrying you that much go through the testing, get yourself analysed and checked. But really, what will it change?”

I had to admit it and Tom knew it too. He stood there looking at me across the kitchen I had lapped in my frantic search for understanding.

“Nothing.”

Once upon a time a person with Aspergers was considered quirky. They would have been dismissed as having an artist’s temperament. They would have been called highly-strung.

Now she’s got Aspergers.

Maybe it’ll make people more accommodating to things they can’t understand. Maybe it’ll give them a handle to be crueller than they already are.

Nothing’s changed really, just the name.

I could use it as an excuse.

I could become one of those people who are content to give in to their beasts (“I can’t work I’ve got depression.” “I’m a single mother with two kids so I couldn’t possibly work”) and become a professional victim but then that wouldn’t be me.

Now I think about it, Aspergers isn’t me either. I honestly don’t think it’s her either. I believe that it’s just the trend of the moment.

But for the time being it’s making life easier for those around her and I have to accept it has its benefits.

With at least 80 years ahead of her I’m certain my niece, like me, will prove that people outgrow their labels no matter how genetically entrenched.

So that’s that done with. Time to move on.

2005-05-09T13:34:00.000+10:00

WIRING

For the past few months they’ve been “testing” my niece.

They’ve poked and prodded and assessed her to find out what is “wrong”. She’s over-emotional, doesn’t seem to get on with other children very well and seems to get bored easily.

I was exactly the same in primary school. Once I mastered a skill I just couldn’t see the point of repeating it endlessly. I would read the designated books in a day and then face being lectured about not doing my work properly when in fact I had a better grasp on the books then the teachers themselves.

To me, once you achieved something it’s time to move on to something else and for my niece it is the same.

“I can already write the letter D,” My niece screams after abandoning her homework. “Why should I write it again and again?”

To me it’s incredibly logical. To me it makes complete sense. But to her teachers and parents they simply couldn’t understand why she was so stubborn.

As far as I was concerned she was displaying all the reactions of a normal, if highly intelligent, child who simply doesn’t like being caught in crowds.

There had to be a reason for her behaviour. Behaviour my sister-in-law and brother couldn’t relate to. They want so badly to give her everything she needs to be happy and healthy. So they took her to doctors, psychologists and had cat scans and intelligence tests (which shows she had an IQ in the top 25% for her age group).

Now I relate to my niece. I always have. I’ve watched her in a room and seen how the crowd bears down on her. I’d seen how she lashed out when overwhelmed and did everything she could to push away the people around her.

When she’s had a tantrum I can sit with her in her room and not have her lash out.

“So you’re a little overwhelmed huh?” I’d ask as I quietly slipped into the room. She’d nod, her eyes bleary from crying. “It’s just too much when everyone’s talking at once and no one’s listening. But is it ok if I just sit in here with you, I need a break too.”

And there we’d sit, not doing much. Talking lightly and tucking ourselves away from the overwhelming chatter of a family function.

After their months of research they have their answer and I’m faced with the real possibility that rather than being simply “different” to the people around me she is disabled.

What’s more disturbing about this is that now, when I’ve finally discovered my voice, I may not be the person I think I am.

Asperger’s Syndrome is a much nicer way to say it but the syndrome is actually a mild strain of autism. This diagnosis explains everything. It explains why I, and now my niece, see the world the way we do.

And I’m torn between accepting or rejecting it.

I’m wondering if having a name for the beast will make it easier or simply be an excuse for failure to battle against it. After all, if she has the syndrome then there’s nothing she can do about it? Right?

Right now the general consensus is that she has “limitations” and won’t be able to function “normally” but can still have a full and rich life.

My whole life I’ve struggled against the assumptions. The assumptions that I’m fat because I eat too much when in fact I eat very little and simply don’t exercise. The assumption that by talking with big words I think I’m smarter than everyone when in fact I feel like a moron most of the time. The assumption that because I don’t want to do something means I can’t.

And for the past two days I have grappled with the diagnosis. I’ve tried to understand what it means. I’ve wanted to kick and scream about the fact someone else is defining my niece (and by default me) because of a list of “symptoms” someone decided were an indication of disability rather than uniqueness.

My niece has been defined as having Asperger’s Syndrome. I may have it. But I don’t want to believe that we are “typical” and that we are so definable.

My niece and I are wired differently. Why are people so determined to label us because they can’t understand?

2005-05-03T19:02:00.000+10:00

BOSWELL GETS MARRIED - PART III

Finally seeing Tom eased the anxiety. He smiled and squinted against the sun which was shinning in his face.

They’d been predicting rain which is every bride’s nightmare but despite two days of crappy weather Saturday was a glorious, clear sky. The sun heating up early in the morning and partly responsible for my happiness.

I paced myself down the garden isle, ever aware that the heels of my shoes were sinking into the soft ground.

We exchanged our vows without hesitation and slipped the gold bands onto each other’s finger before returning down the isle to Kiss You Till You Weep by Paul Gross.

It was all too quick. It ran all too smoothly. I came to one conclusion at this moment, while family members tugged at us for quick kisses of congratulation, this day was perfect.

As guests swanned around with cocktails in hand, Tom and I posed for photo after photo. We were then rushed into the venue and the official ceremony began.

Entrees were served. We had rolls of fish with a tomato dressing and chicken crepes with a creamy mushroom sauce. Then a pause while we mingled with the guests - although I can’t for the life of me remember what I said or who I spoke to.

Dinner. Lamb medallions with vegetables or a chicken breast with vegetables.

Then mingling again.

And then desert – a rich chocolate mousse or a piece of cake with ice cream on top and a caramel dressing.

Then a little more mingling. All the while, champagne in hand. The floorless staff floating in and out of the room unnoticed. Their ability to keep every glass full and to remove all the dirty plates without intruding on the day was nothing short of amazing.

Finally the time came for the speeches and while this entry is no more than dribble because the day was a blurr to me, I will do my best to transcribe these speeches in another entry. Particularly my father’s which was witty and sincere.

The venue then had a few surprises for us including a fountain of love which consisted of a tower of champagne goblets filled with dry ice which we poured water on to so soft, cold, clouds floated all around us.

And, you’ll love this, seven nights accommodation in Bali so that we can have a real honeymoon.

Then we danced. And this is a moment that I can’t seem to shake from my head. Tom, singing every word, to Ben Fold’s The Luckiest and staring deep into my eyes.

But pretty soon that was it. It was all over and we were taken away in a golden Jaguar to the Carlton at Parramatta.

But that’s a story for a more adult themed board. Suffice to say our honeymoon basket thrown together by my brother and sister-in-law and friends included a can of cream, chocolate spreads, strawberries, a dog collar and a plunger.

Paint your own pictures.

2005-05-01T16:34:00.000+10:00

BOSWELL GETS MARRIED - PART II.

Arriving late to your wedding isn’t conspired. It just happens.

My father pulled up to my house at 9.45am (Tom and Mr 10 had left an hour before). The time we were supposed to leave. We were anything but ready.

I was a mess. Rushing and flustering. But it seemed as though everyone else around me was fine. They weren’t the slightest bit worried.

“Calm down,” Sister-in-law cornered me in the bedroom as I rummaged through my drawers trying to find a set of earring I had borrowed but which were alluding me in my panic. “He’s not going anywhere. He’ll wait until you arrive. Besides, you’re supposed to be late.”

“I don’t want to be late!” I pulled the earrings out from the drawer and unclipped my sleepers as quickly as possible. “We had this all planned. We should have been gone by now.” My voice strained by my anxiety.

Still my father, Ms 8 and Sister-in-law kept it together. My bridesmaids dressed themselves as quickly as possible while I fumbled with underwear and jewellery. And then the time came. Sister-in-law slipped the dress over my head and did up my shoes.

I felt, I’m a little embarrassed to say, like a princess. And I acted like a pretentious princess at that.

“In the car, in the car,” I bossed and everyone went to battle stations. As we drove I bossed my father, told him how to drive and basically made an ass of myself.

“We’ve got plenty of time,” he said in a calm measured tone.

“No we don’t. Look at the time, look at the time. It’s 9.58. We’re not going to make it and he’s going to get sick of waiting.”

And they had the hide to smile. Ms 8 remained calm and looked out the window but in the front seats my father and my sister-in-law had know-it-all grins across their faces. I figure now it’s a case of been there and done that for them and if it had been any other situation then they probably would have had a fair dose of the irrits with me. But they didn’t.

They were calm. I, on the other hand, was ready to jump out of the car and run to the venue in high heels and a wedding gown but I was packed in to tightly to move.

At 10.10am we pulled through the gates and drove in behind the bushes. Tom obscured by the greenery. All I wanted to do was run down that isle and grab onto him – tradition be damned.

But the swarm of people around me soothed my nerves and paced my stride.

Insert here the Theme from Men with Brooms. The song we had chosen as the most appropriate isle march.

Ms 8 went first and nearly ran down the isle – the venues manager harshly whispering “slow down” when she took her first steps.

Sister-in-law followed second, carrying our ring-bearer who decided he didn’t not only not want to walk but didn’t want a bar of the ring bear.

And then finally I came around the corner and began walking down the isle – green grass made all the greener by the rain the week before.

There Tom stood looking more hansom than any man on the globe.

2005-04-30T11:31:00.000+10:00

This will be in instalments because there’s simply too much to write about and there are gaps in my memory that only time will fill. It took me a week to write this and then Blogger decided not to cooperate. Anyhow…

BOSWELL GETS MARRIED.

My wedding day began at 6am when Mick knocked quietly on my door. I’d spent the night at his house, my last night of freedom, and he, Milo, Christine and Sarah had done all they could to create an impromptu Hen’s Night because exhaustion on my part saw it cancelled the weekend before.

Despite the big night (at least two bottles of champagne and three daiquiris not to mention a barrage of condom balloons and a viewing of Muriel’s Wedding – plus a 2am bedtime) I scrubbed up pretty well and headed for the shower. Mick, while I was showering, prepared breakfast of bacon and toast.

“Are you ready?” he giggled as I swayed into the kitchen. “I think so – I actually think I’m still drunk which means I’m quite relaxed.” Mick laughed and placed the plate before me. “This’ll soak it up.”

There wasn’t a lot of time though as my Sister-In-Law (the world’s greatest Matron on Honour) pulled up in my car that we’d left for her the night before. She bounced up the stairs to the apartment I’d called home for so long when my life fell apart. Clearly, she’d had a sound nights sleep.

“Let’s go,” she bubbled. Paying no attention to the fact I still had a plate of food before me. I shovelled in a mouthful. “Just a sec,” I replied, bits of bacon spitting out before me. I swallowed hard. “If I don’t eat something to soak up the alcohol then I’ll gush down the isle.”

Sarah stirred on the mattress in the lounge room. “Are we leaving yet.” Sarah is a professional make-up artist and had promised to do the make-up. At that moment I wonder just how drunk she still was. But, still in her clothes from the night before, she bounced out of bed, took a piece of toast and was standing at the door with her make-up kit.

Finally, but not without some coaxing, they pushed me out of the door. Unanimously agreeing that perhaps my sister-in-law should drive because I was, most definitely, still over the limit.

Our first stop was to pick up Ms 8. She’s spent the night with Tom and we swung past the house in high spirits. Ms 8, I found out later, had woken Tom at 5.55am and told him to get up and wash her hair.

Sister-in-law ran into the house and an enthusiastic Ms 8 who jumped into the car and put on her seatbelt before even greeting myself or Sarah, leaving a lagging sister-in-law behind.

But our first true duty of the day was a visit to the hairdressers.

Merrylands was deserted and considering the way we looked when we arrived I was glad to be sneaking in there under the cover of the early morning lag. Our hairdresser, the wrinkled old lady from the tirals, was waiting for us. She started on sister-in-law first. Rolling her hair into tight curls and wrapping it in a 1950’s style of bonnet before sitting her under the dryer. Ms 8 was next, once again the top of her hair tightly wound.

As my bridesmaids had their hair done, Sarah dabbed make-up on my face and I did what I could not to be nervous. But it was slowly dawning on me that in a few hours I was going to be married. By the time my make-up was done and the hairdresser was pulling at my head I was a bundle of nerves.

Not because I doubted the marriage, not because it was such a big day but we were running out of time and I was eager to see Tom.

Ms 8 sat perfectly still the whole time. Throwing me a smile every so often to show that she was ok. Sister-in-law flicked through magazines patiently. She was deafened by the sound of the hair dryer.

We were done by 9.30am. Half an hour late and leaving us only half an hour to make it to my wedding on time.

2005-04-22T12:15:00.000+10:00

UPON US

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

But for today I’m a shaking mess. My eyes are blurry and for some odd reason I’m talking a hundred words a second.

I’m a little nervous.

For the past week Tom has been waking me up with a cheery countdown.

“Four days left for you to change your mind.”
“Three days and you’ll be my wife.”
“Two days before I make an honest woman out of you.”

So I’m getting married. Oddly enough I have no doubts, no concerns, about becoming Tom’s wife. Absolutely everything about that is right. He’s all I’ve ever asked for in a man – in a partner.

But the wedding itself is driving me under. You just pray and then pray and then pray a little more (which is difficult when you don’t have a specific God that you pray to) that everything is going to run smoothly.

Today the kicker came from dad. An SMS telling me that while my mother has been amazing over the past couple of months, in fact she’s been supportive and helpful and not at all the basket case that she normally is whenever there’s an important moment in our lives, she’s still up to her old tricks.

“Mum’s been at it again.” The SMS was enough for me to know that behind the scenes it’s been a whole different story to my experience. I know what’s been going on and that while to me she has been blissful, to everyone else I have no doubt she’s been a psychotic mess.

So I didn’t respond. I don’t want to know. It’s enough for me to know that mum has put on a brilliant performance around me and that her anxiety hasn’t been added to my own. I am thrilled that I’ve been left, for the first time ever, completely in the dark about everyone else’s bickering and pettiness.

As for the countdown, just talking about it is helping.

Last night Tom and I prepared the final touches. I hanged the dress, my sister-in-law’s dress and the hoop skirts in our bedroom. I ironed Tom and Mr 10’s shirts. We re-hashed Tom’s speech and laid out the clothes for our overnight bag.

And then we stopped. For the first time in four months we stopped and did nothing. Curled on the lounge we mindlessly watched TV and then fell into bed.

And Tom woke me this morning.

“Only one more day before we begin our life together.”

Tonight I’m staying with Mick. Going back to where it all begun.

It seems only fitting.

2005-04-20T15:25:00.000+10:00

COUNTDOWN

And it’s almost here. In four days I’m going to get married. And I’m not anxious anymore. An eerie calm has set upon me.

Long ago, in the early days of tOOleS, I spoke of sitting on the banks of the Thames with one of my exs. I told how we looked at the stars and for the first time I began to see shapes once I realised it wasn’t the points of light I had to follow but the spaces in between. It was then I discovered how to see the big picture.

Now, as my wedding draws closer, I wish I could reach out to this particular ex and thank him for his instruction, how I hope he understood too. I wish I could freeze that moment in glass and keep it on the mantle piece to contemplate from time to time.

You see, on the shores of that concrete river, I finally understood the meaning of life.

That one moment brought me here.

And I look around at my world and for the first time in a decade I am content. Tom is perfect for me, a blend of protection and liberation. He hasn’t once tried to change me and even at my most irrational he seems to take it in his stride.

The instant parenthood thing is a bit of a challenge but I never did like things to be too easy. I’m already getting that warm parent feeling when things go right and I have all the faith in the world that it’s going to be ok.

But then there’s me. With my ring that fits so perfectly.

Sometimes I doubt I am really here. Sometimes the beast does what it can to drag up the darkness into my life and I fight every day to keep it at bay. The darkness is part of who I am and although I know I could easily medicate it away I would be medicating away much more than the beast. It’s a risk I can’t take.

But to date the beast has lost. It tried to convince me Tom was cheating and failed. It has tried to convince me that I am a failure as a parent and shouldn’t be attempting to raise Tom’s kids. It failed there too. It tried to convince me that Tom didn’t love me and was only using me to raise his kids – this lasted longer than it should have but was eventually defeated. Now I think the beast is thoroughly exhausted.

So only now am I really excited about what the future has to hold. Today I am, for the first time, looking forward to my wedding.
Only three sleeps to go.

2005-04-14T17:42:00.000+10:00

ONE THING LESS

I’m in a foul mood. I could rip the heads of kittens.

Not literally, I’m not that kind of person. In fact, looking back at that paragraph I’m a little disturbed but you get the severity of my mood.

There’s no real reason. There’s no one incident that has inspired my attitude. Just all of a sudden the beast jumped up and swallowed me whole.

I can feel a storm front coming on.

So I sneak into tOOleS and hope it will calm my nerves.

I love my job, don’t get me wrong. I love the people I work with and I love the technicalities of the industry. There are so many things that make me happy about my current situation but damn…

I’m spending my day explaining a simple premise to morons.

“Superannuation can not be claimed until you are 60 and retired from the workforce.” “Ok. So you’ll send out that claim form then.” “No, you’re 30 and still working which means you can’t claim your superannuation.” “Why?”

One more moron out there breeding.

“How can I make a co contribution to get the money from the Government?” “There are three ways to make a co contribution payment. You can…” “Like send in a cheque or do you do EFT because I don’t have the facilities for that I do have a credit card.” “You can have your employer…” “I’m not talking about the employer contributions I’m talking about my contributions.” “Sir if I can finish a sentence I can explain it to you.”

Still they keep calling. Customer after customer completely incapable of listening, incapable of understanding. It’s not as complicated as they make it. If they would stop for just once second they could see how simple it was. But you could say that of everything about their lives. I shouldn't segregate - I'm one of them too.

“No, I understand the privacy act. I don’t want any personal details, I just want the balance of my son’s account.”

There are more important things I could be doing. I could be filing my nails. I could be choosing shoes and jewellery. I could be lying on the beach somewhere reading my book. I could be at home with Tom curled up on the lounge.

When it comes down to it I doubt there is any work in this world that is really going to make a difference. Not in the bigger sense.

So I’ve stopped seeking meaning in my job. I’ve stopped looking for work that does something. It’s enough for me to get paid at the end of the week for doing something that people are willing to pay for.

I am customer service which essentially means I listen attentively to customers and say what ever it takes to make them feel as though they’ve achieved something. I do what ever it takes to allow them to cross off one of the many chores they have on the neverending list of Things to Do.
And merely prattling eases my mood. Funny how achieving something, however small, is enough to ease the burden we all carry.

2005-04-09T20:52:00.000+10:00

STEALING HOME.

I have a dream. Waldon inspired.

There’s a passage in the book which says, loosely, that Thoreau didn’t need to waste money buying furniture because someone was always throwing out something suitable to his needs.

If I can’t live off the land in the bush somewhere then I have a dream of doing the next best thing. Stylishly furnishing my house with completely recycled furniture. I know it’s ambitious and unlikely but to date I’m not doing so badly.

We have found, abandoned and alone, an ironing board, two sets of drawers, a single bed and now a wardrobe. All in fantastic condition and requiring minimal repair.

Last Friday night when we picked up the kids we spotted the cupboard. It was bright green and pretty hard to miss against the red brick wall in front of a block of units. Someone had smashed out the back and the hanging rod was missing but otherwise it was in fantastic condition.

Tom sized it up. “Well, do you want it?”

I hesitated. There was a good chance it wouldn’t fit into the Excel. But still, it was perfect and headed for the tip – a complete waste.

“Yep – I need a project.”

Then we formulated the plan. I would drive Tom and the kids to the spot and we would try to fit it into the Excel and Mr 10 and Tom would walk home while Ms 8 and I drove the wardrobe back.

Unfortunately, it didn’t fit. The plan changed. Ms 8 and I drove back home and then walked the eight blocks to meet up with Mr 10 and Tom. During our walk we got a chance to talk.

By the time we met up with the boys, sweat was dripping down Tom’s face and Mr 10 was beaming with pride.

For the rest of the journey Tom took the lead with the cupboard and Mr 10 and I alternated carrying the back. We joked around about the fact this was a big heist and that we were making a getaway.

Residents watched us suspiciously and we did our best to move out of their gaze as quickly as possible. We moved through the shadows and tried not to draw attention to ourselves but blinds bent as we passed and I wondered what they could have been thinking.

But the work was hard and my arms were stinging from the cumbersome weight. I marvelled at Mr 10 who proved himself to be stronger and more resolute than I was and Tom, who didn’t put the cupboard down once to rest his back.

It took an hour-and-a-half but finally we reached home and I was left with the daunting task of stripping back this beast.

Heaven knows I love a challenge.

2005-04-07T13:19:00.000+10:00

OTHER STUFF

Tuesday and Wednesday have been contrasting days. Tuesday was dreary and my mood followed its lead. Overcast and drizzling and I couldn’t find the motivation for much.

I dragged myself to Parramatta Westfields and pottered around the shops seeking jewellery and shoes.

I stopped, uncomfortably, in the perfume section of Myer and considered my options. For the past month I’ve been looking for a scent that reflects me. My odour of choice so to speak. Unfortunately all the leading perfumes gave me a headache. Pure Poison, from its description, would have been the perfect scent. Mandarin, Sandawood and a variety of other scents mingling together. Unfortunately the combination made me want to vomit and I raced from the store in search of a toilet to wash the offending scent from my wrist.

This scene has reoccurred on no fewer than a dozen occasions as I sought that one scent. The blends simply offending my senses. Dior, YSL, Elizabeth Arden and their cronies all too much. Coming together and smelling less like mandarins and sandalwood and more like a congested elevator.

Carrying only paint stripper after four hours of shopping I gave into the dreary day and slumped home.

Wednesday was sunnier and so was my mood so I headed for Merrylands in search of the final touches to my wedding. The shoes were all too small, too high, too low, too pink, not pink enough, too expensive and too cheap. The jewellery was all of the above but without as many varieties.

As for perfumes I thought a little harder about my selection and decided I’m not as complicated as all that. I don’t need every single one of my favourite smells crammed into one small nasal space.

After another three hours shopping I bounced home, happier but still with only one purchase for the day – a sanding block.

Sweating as I worked on the cupboard we had found on Friday I thought about how all of those scents made me feel – inferior, overwhelmed, burdened. I thought about the shoes I didn’t want and the jewellery that just isn’t me and was thrilled that I hadn’t made a rushed purchase just to appease my family and friends who have been nipping at my heels to get these final touches completed.

The paint stripper stung at my nose, burned my fingers and I was truly happy.

Tom will be home soon and I know that he will congratulate me on my efforts. I know he will run his hands along the wood and make kind and helpful suggestions on how I can make the cupboard smooth and ready for painting.

I know Tom will come home and that all the scents and shoes and jewellery in the world won’t make me any more beautiful to him then I am with clumps of stripper handing from my hair and sawdust sprayed across this dirty t-shirt and jeans.

Suddenly my shopping failures don’t seem so bad.

2005-04-06T13:51:00.000+10:00

WIRY WOMEN

The first day of my week of sloth began in a hair salon.

I had booked the hair trial for the first day of my week off because I had originally planned to squeeze as much as possible into the week. My mind changed about the objectives of this week over the past month but the hair appointment stayed as the only organised event.

And there I sat for an hour, flicking through the wedding magazines trying desperately to visualise how the stunning models’ hairdos would transpose onto my less than glamorous head. Finally, with the assistance of the world’s best matron of honour – my sister-in-law -, we decided on a design that incorporated my existing fringe style and a mass of soft curls falling to my shoulder.

“No, no cut. You’re hair just long enough.” The elderly hair dresser said in broken English as we pointed to the design. “You sit in that chair and we’ll start.”

It began with foils. My blonde hair just not blonde enough for my liking and in need of some highlights. All I could do was watch as the woman tugged at my hair in small clumps all over my head, painted them blue and then sharply folded them in small squares of foil.

As I sat with my head tucked into the hair dryer and drowning out all sounds I watched the woman take care of two other customers in her busy salon. She talked with them, I know this because her lips moved and theirs in turn, although I heard nothing of their conversation.

In my cocoon I assessed whether this was the woman I wanted styling my hair for the wedding.

But the break seemed brief and after a quick wash and head massage from her silent assistant she began tugging at my head once again. She said nothing but the movement of her muscular arms mesmerized me. This woman was about the age of my grandmother, has she lived through her bitterness to this day. Her hands knotted with overworked muscles and her wiry arms straining.

She pulled my hair and teased it until I felt it was nothing but a big meringue and struggle as I might I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t see how she would turn this mass of hair into the creation I had specified.

“You sensitive?” she asked as I winced for what was possible the 50th time that day.

“Uh, only on the side there where the hair is shorter,” I lamely responded.

“No worry. I be quick.”

She moved too quickly for me to see how she did it, only that within 15 minutes my head was the perfect curled mass and my fringe swept across my forehead in a flattering line.

And it was done.

With the hair out of the way I have only shoes and jewellery to purchase and I'm ready to be a bride. Well, almost.

2005-04-02T20:43:00.000+10:00

DISAPPOINTING EVERYONE

“Where are you going?” The woman looked at me with hope in her eyes. “What are you doing?” She continued with equal enthusiasm as though my holiday plans would somehow liberate her from the drudgery of her own life.

“Nothing and Nowhere. That’s my plan.” I couldn’t help but beam. Sure, my week’s plans weren’t going to liberate anyone but me.

She looked a little depressed. Clearly my response left her feeling a little let down.

And the scene repeated itself through out the week as I announced I was going to have the next week off. Their questions were dripping with anticipation, their disappointment palpable.

So for the next five days I have a carefully mapped out agenda that will bring joy to no one but me.

Monday I’m getting my hair cut and coloured. Then in the Afternoon I might just have a little nap. Maybe I’ll tackle my latest project – the cupboard (I will explain this in my time). Maybe I’ll do the washing and clean the house.

Tuesday, through to Friday, will not involve hair but will involve the latter. I also have a long list of maybes.

My plan is to be plan less. Free of all obligations and duties.

Sure, there are things I have to do. I have to have my hair done. I have to finalise the DJ. I have to find jewellery. I have to choose the wedding cake. But none of these have to be done at a specific time or specific place. None of these have to be done at all.

There’s three weeks before the wedding and in that time I will find the time to do these few, minor things.

But this week is my week and perhaps it will be enough to curl up in tOOleS and deal with the most neglected facet of my life. My writing.

Either way this week is my week. I’ve been waiting for months to have a little time to myself. Not because I wish to be anti-social nor because I’m finding I need a break from work (because for the oddest of reasons, for the first time in my life, I’ve actually found a job I enjoy) but simply because I’m that kind of person who must lose herself in the world a little so that I can breathe.

There’s clouds to watch drift across the sky. There’s coffee to be drunk as some anonymous café dweller. There’s conversations to overhear and really, really listen to.

So I’m savouring this week. I’m going to drink it dry. Knowing all too well that it will be brief and I’m going to have to return to my responsibilities and ambitions.

But first, above all, I’m going to sit down in the sun, possibly at the beach, and read a book. That doesn’t sound like too much to ask but it’s been out of my reach for the past six months.

I don’t care how disappointed everyone else is, I’m going to have possibly the most relaxing week ever.

2005-03-14T14:32:00.000+11:00

PLANNING

I haven’t written about the wedding plans for the simple fact I just haven’t had the clarity of thought to do so. I haven’t had the clarity of thought to write about anything. It’s all rush and stress. It’s all miscommunication and misdirection.

It’s all too much.

This is not how I imagined it. I imagined it being exciting and fun but instead it’s just annoying and frustrating. There’s the hair and make-up and jewellery and shoes and rings and dress fittings and seating plans to figure out. There’s the ongoing struggle to see that the kids can come – one week they can, one week they can’t and we’re being held to ransom by the ex.

“Boswell, come look at this,” Tom calls from the backyard and these few minutes I’ve stolen are filled with movement.

“Just a sec,” I respond a few minutes later but it’s too late, he’s come into the house to see what I’m doing.

“Sorry. If you’re writing it can wait.” He smiles. And I know that it can wait. The tour of our blossoming garden will be there in a few hours but I can’t not be drawn away from the computer.

And with that the assignment I had been working on is forgotten. The flow necessary for writing anything coherent is broken.

And I don’t mind. It’s not that bad.

For all the stress and worry I am living a wonderful life – it’s all I’ve every wanted. But, sorry, I just can’t tell you about it yet.

It should simply be enough to know that I'm happy. I'm content. But it's not and sooner or later I'm going to have to take a break from it all and slip into my world of words.

Slip into tOOleS.

2005-03-02T12:51:00.000+11:00

IDIOT MOB

Lets be clear about this.

I have no time for people who put their heads in the mouths of crocodiles.

The Daily Telegraph, however, has no hesitation in telling their tales.

“THE death-smash driver on the run after two friends died sparking four days of rioting wept hours later as he said: "I've lost my best mates."

Well so he should weep – he killed them.

Maybe that’s a bit harsh, it appeared to be a murder-suicide. Three boys willingly ride in a stolen car. They get chased by the police who by definition are supposed to chase criminals. Two of the passengers are killed when the driver loses control of the and he then runs away from the scene of the crime.

Then all hell breaks loose simply because the inevitable happened. There’s riots in the streets. Why? God only knows. I can only assume it comes down to a couple of half-wits with nothing better to do then blame someone else for what’s wrong in their lives.

Whenever I see situations like these I can’t help but think back to a story.

As the parable goes there was the most perfect village in the world. There was plenty of food and water, no crime and the members of the village wanted for nothing. The village itself was on the side of a plentiful river surrounded by crocodiles but the crocodiles were placid and never came after the residents. Because their life was so peaceful they had no need for rules – except one. Don’t put your head in the mouths of the crocodiles. Despite the happiness of the villagers some of the more rebellious youths would torment the crocodiles and put their heads in their mouths and sure enough the crocodiles would snap, biting their heads off.

The moral of the story? Do I have to explain it?

Still the whole of Macquarie Fields jumps up and down about the injustice and only the parents of the two murdered youths, the only people in the sad and sorry mess who have a right to claim grief and anger, seem to have any common sense.

They knew what they were doing, they got in a stolen car and then ran from police and they paid the price for their actions.

Still the Daily Telegraph beats the victim drum. Switching from justifying the rioters anger to justifying the actions of the driver who doesn’t have the courage to admit his mistake and pay the price and finally justifying the action of the police.

“THE grandparents of death smash driver Jesse Kelly said last night he was the product of a troubled childhood.”

“The comments came as the unemployed 20-year-old remained on the run as the community of Macquarie Fields tried to mend relations after four days of rioting.

(Ah, so it’s because he’s unemployed that he was forced to steal that car.)

“Peter Perkins said his grandson went off the rails five months ago after breaking up with his girlfriend, who is the mother of their 2 1/2-year-old child. "

(No, wait, it’s his girlfriend’s fault. Or maybe it’s his 2.5 year old daughter who’s really to blame.)

"But many of his problems came from a diagnosis of ADHD when he was 13. His childhood wasn't always loving. He has lived with us from time to time and we have tried very hard to keep him on the straight and narrow."

(Well, there you have it, ADHD made him steal and drive that car. It’s not his fault at all).

This isn’t reporting the facts, it’s not objective journalism. It’s pathetic emotionalism to sell newspapers and make their readers “feel” for the criminal. I can’t help but be nauseated by it all.

There are no innocents in this. There is no injustice.

Three boys put their heads in the mouths of crocodiles and two had them bitten off.

Would you expect anything different?

2005-03-01T16:17:00.000+11:00

EVIL ME

The more I try to see the world through their eyes the harder it becomes to see myself.

“My dad got married about six years ago,” my temp agency rep shared, without invitation. “Before he hooked up with his new wife he did all sorts of things for us but suddenly he was too busy for us. I think the wife hated us. Then they moved to Queensland and we haven’t seen them since.”

This isn’t me but I wonder if, when they’re older, the skids will see me this way. Regardless of what I do will I end up as an amalgamation of their frustrations – the wicked step-mother?

Will they be unable to see only one side of this complicated situation? Will they fail to see their father’s frustration at having no control over their day-to-day life and his eventual resignation that there’s nothing he can do so he may as well do nothing? Will they see that I’m not working against them or trying to steal their father away but merely trying to get on with my own life the best way I can with part-time children and their demanding mother?

Tom's and my friend Samantha clutched the toy tightly. An over-stuffed white bear that was much more than it appeared.

“She wouldn’t let me have it so my grandfather bought it about a month before he died.” She eyed it with a greedy gleam. “Then when I moved out she took it and gave it to her daughter. I mean how dare she. So when I was visiting I told her I was taking it and there was nothing she could do about it.”

I want to defend the step-mother. I want to step up to the plate and tell people how incredibly hard it is to have a family step into the middle of your relationship. How you simply don’t know what to do with those damaged bundles who are torn between two homes.

You treat them like your own children and you’re trying to steal them from their mother. You treat them like nieces and nephews then you’re being to easy on them. You ignore them and you’re cold. You smother them and you’re being too friendly.

I won’t win this battle and I doubt they’ll ever see me as I am in their lives.

Confused and frustrated.

At least you know.