I've never understood why people keep working in jobs they don't like. I guess I've always naively thought that you could always find *something* to enjoy about your work, or if you couldn't, that it was the impoetus to find something else. Study/learn, reskill. I never expected that I would be the one dragging my feet to work. Feeling sick at the sight of the doors that i have to walk through and push myself to be there. Of feeling not very competent. Of feeling below par. Of feeling unexceptional and unrequired and unnecessary.
It's demoralising. And when it's on top of the guilt and the pain of leaving the Possum it's almost unbearable. I've tried really hard to find that niche. To find that part of me that is good at things, that finds things easy and naturally enjoyable. But it's been missing. And I've wondered what the point is.
Tonight, at 7:30ish after I'd come back from dinner I clicked on the next patient and had a quick flick through the triage notes. A couple of lines on a screen giving you a hint as to why a patient was here. An elderly lady with a fall, 91 years old. I am pretty numb to it these days, scarred by the alcoholics with their fetid breath and lewd comments, the malingerers and the drug seekers. My compassion has been stretched to its limits, tried sorely by the long hours and vomited on by the youth who imbibed 50 standard drinks in an evening.
But when I walked in and saw Rita, something that should always be there nestled back into my chest. That warmth and that want to heal and soothe. That cliched desire to help people and actually be meaningful to someone, if only for a few hours. She is old, not frail, and suffering dementia. Over the next four hours I think I repeated the same things at least 20 times, but I didn't care. I liked that when I talked to her she settled, looked at me with some sort of comfort and I helped.
She broke her collarbone, and I diagnosed that without the x-ray. I explained it to her every time I went back to her bedside, because with her dementia she would forget. But one thing she didn't forget was my face. Every time I started talking to her, as she would get agitated being in the unfamiliar surroundings, she would soften and settle. I explained everything, carefully, to her and not over her. And she thanked me. Over and over too, because she didn't remember between times. "You've had a fall, you've hurt your shoulder and broken a bone. Yes, that one, where this bump is." Over and over again. And not once did I feel frustration in it. Not once did I want to walk out and throw up my arms, because every time I did it, she nodded, understood, and calmed.
Her daughter was there and she thanked me too. Relieved that someone was talking to her, relieved that someone was talking to her Mum, and I wanted to hug her, because the love she felt for her mother was so touching to see.
Over the next 4 hours I made her better, excluded nasty things and carefully wrote notes in the chart. Talked to superior doctors and checked I was doing the right thing. But the thing I did best of all was go back to Rita's side and have her thank me and me thank her, because every time I felt like I was doing what I was supposed to do as a doctor. Feeling like, for the first time this rotation like maybe this whole thing was not a mistake.
Several times Rita held my hand, squeezed it and looking into my eyes said "you're an angel, a beautiful angel, thank you for helping me". It made a lump swell to my throat. Having just one person, even a beautiful old lady with dementia who won't remember me tomorrow and doesnt' remember a thing I say for more than 3 minutes appreciate me and what I'm doing is the first validation I've felt this whole rotation.
Just as my shift was ending, I managed to finish everything I could do for Rita so that she could go home. I finished all the loose ends and got everything ready for her, and when I walked out of the hospital doors my heart was light. Even better it was storming, lightning flashing across the sky and heavy splodgy rain squelching in the gutters and running down tree trunks. The first time I've thought that I want to come back tomorrow.
And there on my car was a $100 parking infringement notice. Nearly 4 hours I worked tonight, to pay for a parking fine. I sank then. Caved like someone had kicked a giant flail segment in my chest. I just want something to be fucking easy. Just one good night. FOUR hours of work for nothing.
And then I thought about the fact that for four hours tonight I had been helping Rita. Helping her daughter. Actually learning again that medicine may be the career for me. That I will make more than an adequate doctor and may actually make a good one. Feeling pride in accomplishment but more than that feeling human empathy and compassion and joy in my work again.
And Rita, for you I would have done it for free. Fuck the $100. It was worth it, because for four hours I felt like a doctor again. And I wanted to be.
Thank You.
Sunday, 7 February 2010
Sunday, 31 January 2010
Water
He doesn't smell like me any more. He is still beautiful. His eyes are still wonderful. But he smells different. Not so sweet. He is getting sick. I can smell it in his scalp and I feel my breasts filling in response. Active milk, strong milk, milk to settle his belly and to ease the pain in his throat. And he won't take it. It soaks my shirt impotently as he feeds from the bottle that won't soothe him and I cry.
Cry because he is hurting. Cry because I feel useless. Cry because of the pain of engorged breasts that I can't empty. Cry because I want to press rewind and start over.
It's is dark tonight. Rainy and cool. My favourite time. And I am so tired. So overwhelmed. Floating on a sea of emotion both hormonal and induced. A body clock that doesn't know if it's night or day. Skin that can't decide if it wants to be touched or cloaked in protective warmth. Eyes that fill far too easily.
The air is liquid. The rain has drenched everything, even breathing is like drowning. Each breath shuddering up and down like water in a rip and I feel myself being pulled along and then under until I gasp and want to just give in.
My skin is covered in prickles. The coolness of the wet breeze licking along it with too much familiarity. I am being assaulted with sensation I don't want. I just want to curl up, in a blanket and wait for the storm to pass.
Normally I would revel in it, the juiciness of the water sloshing out of gutters. The delicious smell of wet earth rising between the floorboards. Of children giggling in gumboots, splashing in puddles.
But I just want to be alone. Alone and cool and comforted.
Cry because he is hurting. Cry because I feel useless. Cry because of the pain of engorged breasts that I can't empty. Cry because I want to press rewind and start over.
It's is dark tonight. Rainy and cool. My favourite time. And I am so tired. So overwhelmed. Floating on a sea of emotion both hormonal and induced. A body clock that doesn't know if it's night or day. Skin that can't decide if it wants to be touched or cloaked in protective warmth. Eyes that fill far too easily.
The air is liquid. The rain has drenched everything, even breathing is like drowning. Each breath shuddering up and down like water in a rip and I feel myself being pulled along and then under until I gasp and want to just give in.
My skin is covered in prickles. The coolness of the wet breeze licking along it with too much familiarity. I am being assaulted with sensation I don't want. I just want to curl up, in a blanket and wait for the storm to pass.
Normally I would revel in it, the juiciness of the water sloshing out of gutters. The delicious smell of wet earth rising between the floorboards. Of children giggling in gumboots, splashing in puddles.
But I just want to be alone. Alone and cool and comforted.
Wednesday, 27 January 2010
Australia Day
It's nearly 3:30am, and this is important, because 3:30am marks the midpoint of my shift tonight, and even more importantly, the midpoint of my run of night shifts. 5 nights in a row, where I see the beginning and the end of each day here at the hospital instead of curled up in bed.
I'm actually taking my designated, non paid for break tonight. Watching the lights of a sleeping city while taking long warm mouthfuls of hot chocolate that soak into me. It's been tough. I think I can say that. Sleeping during the day is really, really difficult. It is so bizarre to walk out of the hospital after a 10 hour shift into brilliant sunshine and know that after driving home in such intense Summer lightness that I have to somehow convince my body to lay quiescent in bed and sleep.
So what happens is I walk out into the sunshine, feel my blood swell, and the bone breaking tiredness dissolves and is replaced by some strange consciousness. And I fitfully grab naps of an hour or two at a time and try and convince my weary body that they count.
Tomorrow, or technically, today, is the Elfling's first day of Grade One, so when my shift finishes in 5 hours, Bingley will bring her here to the hospital so that I can take her in and meet her teacher. My hair will be lank and I will be wearing the rumpled look of someone who hasn't slept in a week, because I haven't.
Because of the upheaval we missed the narrow window to go to the uniform shop and it's with pure motherguilt that I remember that she doesn't have a new uniform to wear tomorrow even though we'd promised her one with the start of the year. So after I drop her off and orientate her (probably late, because my chances of getting from the city to her school in 15 minutes including parking are slim to non-existent) I will then race to the uniform shop and buy her everything she needs.
We didn't buy the booklist pack either, because in October last year when they sent around the forms we were still contemplating moving schools to one closer to our new house, and we missed the deadline there too. So my poor beautiful Elfling will start grade one in a hand me down uniform and no new books. I feel tremendous pointless guilt about this. In the scheme of things it doesn't matter. She is highly unlikely to be the only child without everything ready to go, but it makes me feel inept. Especially as I know that if I hadn't gone back to work that she would be turning up to school tomorrow with everything in perfect order.
The house is trashed. I barely remember my neat ordered shiny floored abode. And I have been studiously ignoring the mould that is again encroaching on the ensuite.
"At least I'm being paid" has been the rhetoric of the last week, and today I was. So I took my paycheque, looked at the lovely largeish number that still makes me feel proud. And I paid the Monkey's kindy bill and the Possum's daycare bill and I am left with... almost nothing. More than nothing yes, but considering the deficit, it hardly seems fair.
I'm coping, the house is running, my children are happy and I'm getting my work done. But this suspended animation and the sheer grit and determination that it's taking just to stick with this can be hard to deal with sometimes.
And yes he weaned. I weep blue-white tears every morning.
I'm actually taking my designated, non paid for break tonight. Watching the lights of a sleeping city while taking long warm mouthfuls of hot chocolate that soak into me. It's been tough. I think I can say that. Sleeping during the day is really, really difficult. It is so bizarre to walk out of the hospital after a 10 hour shift into brilliant sunshine and know that after driving home in such intense Summer lightness that I have to somehow convince my body to lay quiescent in bed and sleep.
So what happens is I walk out into the sunshine, feel my blood swell, and the bone breaking tiredness dissolves and is replaced by some strange consciousness. And I fitfully grab naps of an hour or two at a time and try and convince my weary body that they count.
Tomorrow, or technically, today, is the Elfling's first day of Grade One, so when my shift finishes in 5 hours, Bingley will bring her here to the hospital so that I can take her in and meet her teacher. My hair will be lank and I will be wearing the rumpled look of someone who hasn't slept in a week, because I haven't.
Because of the upheaval we missed the narrow window to go to the uniform shop and it's with pure motherguilt that I remember that she doesn't have a new uniform to wear tomorrow even though we'd promised her one with the start of the year. So after I drop her off and orientate her (probably late, because my chances of getting from the city to her school in 15 minutes including parking are slim to non-existent) I will then race to the uniform shop and buy her everything she needs.
We didn't buy the booklist pack either, because in October last year when they sent around the forms we were still contemplating moving schools to one closer to our new house, and we missed the deadline there too. So my poor beautiful Elfling will start grade one in a hand me down uniform and no new books. I feel tremendous pointless guilt about this. In the scheme of things it doesn't matter. She is highly unlikely to be the only child without everything ready to go, but it makes me feel inept. Especially as I know that if I hadn't gone back to work that she would be turning up to school tomorrow with everything in perfect order.
The house is trashed. I barely remember my neat ordered shiny floored abode. And I have been studiously ignoring the mould that is again encroaching on the ensuite.
"At least I'm being paid" has been the rhetoric of the last week, and today I was. So I took my paycheque, looked at the lovely largeish number that still makes me feel proud. And I paid the Monkey's kindy bill and the Possum's daycare bill and I am left with... almost nothing. More than nothing yes, but considering the deficit, it hardly seems fair.
I'm coping, the house is running, my children are happy and I'm getting my work done. But this suspended animation and the sheer grit and determination that it's taking just to stick with this can be hard to deal with sometimes.
And yes he weaned. I weep blue-white tears every morning.
Friday, 22 January 2010
Bereft
It's dawn. Outside the window the sky is breaking out into fiery magnificence. The birds are caroling and the sun is primed to burst above the horizon in golden splendour. How many mornings have I sat here, on my couch, waiting for the sunrise, a golden haired boy in my lap grinning cheekily as he finished his morning feed. His navy blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he patted my breasts and extracted every last drop of milk.
The sensation of waking in the early hours, breasts swollen and heavy, nipples erect and sensitive, waiting for the first snuffle against my skin. Waiting for his searching urgent mouth and the palpable sensation when he first suckled and the rush of hormone to my pituitary gland. Of feeling the tingle through my blood of oxytocin, the cuddle hormone, as my milk filled breasts swelled and he gulped in that first heavy letdown.
It's an intense emotion when there is oxytocin coursing through your blood. In those first milk filled months I floated on a euphoric, adrenaline filled high. It didn't matter that I was deathly tired. I still loved everyone and everything. From that first feed in the late hours of June the first, the sharpness of his powerful and violent birth was gone, the second that he latched on. With every feed I felt it, the rush of pure emotion. Of wanting to be touched and revelling in the way that he snuggled so close to me. Milk drunk and soft. Hands either side of the breast cradling and patting, sometimes kneading the flesh.
It has been such a powerful reinforcer to hold him, on the days when it's felt like I was messing everythign up, and to look at his luminescent skin, to smell his musty golden head and to know that I gave him that. I fed him, nourished him, provided for him. To know that he always smelled of me. And the milk I made especially for him. The antibodies that my body made for him every time he was sick. Liquid gold.
The connection is powerful and intense with breastfeeding. It can be hard for some to take. The rush of hormones can provoke anxiety or fear. But for me it swept it all away. Every time. The bonding I feel with breastfeeding can't be replicated, once it's gone I still love my babies, intensely, but it's not the physical craving for touch. I still love them and kiss them, but I don't have the need within my very skin to hold them close to me. But when I feed, without him in my arms, it sometimes hurts when he's not there.
Going to work has been so hard because of this. It's felt like I've ripped off an arm at times. Because I physically needed him and expressing doesn't replicate very much besides the soul searing need for my baby. But I have persisted, even when I was so tired I wanted to throw up, using what few if any breaks I've had to run upstairs, lock myself in a room and squeeze out the rich, creamy milk that I made just for my baby.
And every night I've come home, dead on my feet, but grateful for the time that I could slip out of my work clothes, put on my robe and curl up in the rocking chair with the Possum and feed and feed and feed. Stop caring about how much I was not enjoying work, stop caring about how horrible I've been feeling, and wash it away with the beautiful and intense connection that we have.
Until tonight. When I held him, heavy and warm and musty. He had slept through for the first time in months, instead of waking every 2 hours or so like he has ever since I went back to work. It was 4am and the gentle prowling light of dawn was beginning to creep through the curtains. I had slept for hours in a row, and was sleepily joyous. Yesterday at work was the first time I enjoyed myself, felt competent and like I might, finally, be doing the right thing. I came home happy, I loved everyone and everything, and I didn't cry in the shower with the bone aching, hormone stripped tiredness of it all.
And he refused to feed. Refused my breasts and yelled angrily. Arched his back and refused to open his mouth, looking at me as if I was insane. I fumbled, tried repositioning him, but he would have none of it. He pushed himself away from me and asked again, noisily for his bottle. And I had to find one, make it up for him, mix it together while my breasts tingled and waited, primed, for the release that won't come. Letdown as his hands clasped his bottle, his head using my breast only for a pillow.
I held him as the tears welled up and trickled down my cheeks. The desperate craving to hold him still there, still hormonally bound to my baby. But him not wanting me. And me knowing that this is it. That we've weaned. My last baby. My last physical connection to babyhood.
He doesn't need me any more. And it hurts so much.
The sensation of waking in the early hours, breasts swollen and heavy, nipples erect and sensitive, waiting for the first snuffle against my skin. Waiting for his searching urgent mouth and the palpable sensation when he first suckled and the rush of hormone to my pituitary gland. Of feeling the tingle through my blood of oxytocin, the cuddle hormone, as my milk filled breasts swelled and he gulped in that first heavy letdown.
It's an intense emotion when there is oxytocin coursing through your blood. In those first milk filled months I floated on a euphoric, adrenaline filled high. It didn't matter that I was deathly tired. I still loved everyone and everything. From that first feed in the late hours of June the first, the sharpness of his powerful and violent birth was gone, the second that he latched on. With every feed I felt it, the rush of pure emotion. Of wanting to be touched and revelling in the way that he snuggled so close to me. Milk drunk and soft. Hands either side of the breast cradling and patting, sometimes kneading the flesh.
It has been such a powerful reinforcer to hold him, on the days when it's felt like I was messing everythign up, and to look at his luminescent skin, to smell his musty golden head and to know that I gave him that. I fed him, nourished him, provided for him. To know that he always smelled of me. And the milk I made especially for him. The antibodies that my body made for him every time he was sick. Liquid gold.
The connection is powerful and intense with breastfeeding. It can be hard for some to take. The rush of hormones can provoke anxiety or fear. But for me it swept it all away. Every time. The bonding I feel with breastfeeding can't be replicated, once it's gone I still love my babies, intensely, but it's not the physical craving for touch. I still love them and kiss them, but I don't have the need within my very skin to hold them close to me. But when I feed, without him in my arms, it sometimes hurts when he's not there.
Going to work has been so hard because of this. It's felt like I've ripped off an arm at times. Because I physically needed him and expressing doesn't replicate very much besides the soul searing need for my baby. But I have persisted, even when I was so tired I wanted to throw up, using what few if any breaks I've had to run upstairs, lock myself in a room and squeeze out the rich, creamy milk that I made just for my baby.
And every night I've come home, dead on my feet, but grateful for the time that I could slip out of my work clothes, put on my robe and curl up in the rocking chair with the Possum and feed and feed and feed. Stop caring about how much I was not enjoying work, stop caring about how horrible I've been feeling, and wash it away with the beautiful and intense connection that we have.
Until tonight. When I held him, heavy and warm and musty. He had slept through for the first time in months, instead of waking every 2 hours or so like he has ever since I went back to work. It was 4am and the gentle prowling light of dawn was beginning to creep through the curtains. I had slept for hours in a row, and was sleepily joyous. Yesterday at work was the first time I enjoyed myself, felt competent and like I might, finally, be doing the right thing. I came home happy, I loved everyone and everything, and I didn't cry in the shower with the bone aching, hormone stripped tiredness of it all.
And he refused to feed. Refused my breasts and yelled angrily. Arched his back and refused to open his mouth, looking at me as if I was insane. I fumbled, tried repositioning him, but he would have none of it. He pushed himself away from me and asked again, noisily for his bottle. And I had to find one, make it up for him, mix it together while my breasts tingled and waited, primed, for the release that won't come. Letdown as his hands clasped his bottle, his head using my breast only for a pillow.
I held him as the tears welled up and trickled down my cheeks. The desperate craving to hold him still there, still hormonally bound to my baby. But him not wanting me. And me knowing that this is it. That we've weaned. My last baby. My last physical connection to babyhood.
He doesn't need me any more. And it hurts so much.
Tuesday, 19 January 2010
Tourbillon
I'm so tired. So very very tired.
My brain isn't working right. At work I'm just not like I used to be. I feel like I need to apologise continually. At home I am fucking up.
I got one break today, 25 minutes at 3pm after leaving home at 7am. I didn't have time to express and my breasts were full and hurt. I cam home and Bingley was feeding The Possum a bottle because it was past his bedtime. And I climbed into the shower and sobbed. And sobbed.
I had 15 minutes to find out how my baby girl's first day of kindergarten went. I had less time to ask the Elfling how her day was. I read them books and tucked them up in bed and climbed into Bingley's lap and sobbed some more. And then he headed off for a meeting and now I'm curled up on the couch crying some more.
I keep telling myself that this is all worth it, that I love what I do. But I'm not loving it. I don't like this rotation. I drag my feet going. I make stupid errors. I am not as quick and clever as I used to be. I"m behaving erratically and I am scaring myself.
I just feel like I'm fucking up on every single front there is to fuck up on.
My brain isn't working right. At work I'm just not like I used to be. I feel like I need to apologise continually. At home I am fucking up.
I got one break today, 25 minutes at 3pm after leaving home at 7am. I didn't have time to express and my breasts were full and hurt. I cam home and Bingley was feeding The Possum a bottle because it was past his bedtime. And I climbed into the shower and sobbed. And sobbed.
I had 15 minutes to find out how my baby girl's first day of kindergarten went. I had less time to ask the Elfling how her day was. I read them books and tucked them up in bed and climbed into Bingley's lap and sobbed some more. And then he headed off for a meeting and now I'm curled up on the couch crying some more.
I keep telling myself that this is all worth it, that I love what I do. But I'm not loving it. I don't like this rotation. I drag my feet going. I make stupid errors. I am not as quick and clever as I used to be. I"m behaving erratically and I am scaring myself.
I just feel like I'm fucking up on every single front there is to fuck up on.
Wednesday, 13 January 2010
Where were we
I needed to get that big ball of yuck out the other day so that I could physically force myself to work. And once I had, I was mostly ok.
And now I'm properly ok, because I'm doing what I do and trying to do it well.
The house is trashed and the Christmas tree is still up. That part of going to work is depressing me the most. As was dropping off the boy today instead of playing in bed.
But I'm doing good work and I'm enjoying my work. I like talking to people and I like making them better. I like talking to families and seeing the relief when they see that someone cares and that someone is explaining to them what's going on.
The Possum is going well. There are only 2 other children in his room at the moment so he is being spoiled rotten. He said his first word the other night, sitting in my lap looking at Bingley when he waved and started saying DaDaDa. First time Daddy gets to be the first word.
I thought my heart might explode.
And now I'm properly ok, because I'm doing what I do and trying to do it well.
The house is trashed and the Christmas tree is still up. That part of going to work is depressing me the most. As was dropping off the boy today instead of playing in bed.
But I'm doing good work and I'm enjoying my work. I like talking to people and I like making them better. I like talking to families and seeing the relief when they see that someone cares and that someone is explaining to them what's going on.
The Possum is going well. There are only 2 other children in his room at the moment so he is being spoiled rotten. He said his first word the other night, sitting in my lap looking at Bingley when he waved and started saying DaDaDa. First time Daddy gets to be the first word.
I thought my heart might explode.
Sunday, 10 January 2010
Douleur
I'm not ok. I don't know how we got here so fast. I don't want to go back to work tomorrow. I'm not sure how I will cope. I have forgotten everything I knew. All I know is what the back of his neck smells like. How his sweaty fuzzy head feels under my cheek. How warm and heavy he feels against my chest as he falls asleep in my arms.
I think about tomorrow. Of being separated from him and it feels as though someone is scraping off my skin. Long bloodied strips of pain. My throat is clenched and dry and my eyes burn. My breasts are heavy and ache. As if they know that they will not be stroked and kneaded and suckled by him tomorrow. Instead it will be plastic that catches the breathless tingle of letdown while I try not to cry.
I went to the gym today to inflict as much pain on myself as I could, to leave myself breathless and unable to think. And it worked, I sweated and pushed myself far beyond my limits until everything burned and my head was empty. For an hour. Maybe two.
But it's back. The other pain. The pain that's curdling in my heart and spitting through my veins like an angry cobra. He's sitting in my lap a the moment, babbling and occasionally looking up and grinning at me. Snuggling into my bathrobe and smelling me. I can't bear that tomorrow I have to leave him.
I wish that things were different. I wish I had chosen some other career. I wish that I could just be happy with the way things are and not want more. I wish I didn't have the ability to do anything else and I wish I didn't have this stupid soul destroying need to keep achieving.
Everything feels wrong at the moment. Everything. Like every choice and every path I've taken in my life is wrong. I want contradictory things. I want things that can't ever happen and things that would destroy me if they did. But most of all I just want my baby.
I think about tomorrow. Of being separated from him and it feels as though someone is scraping off my skin. Long bloodied strips of pain. My throat is clenched and dry and my eyes burn. My breasts are heavy and ache. As if they know that they will not be stroked and kneaded and suckled by him tomorrow. Instead it will be plastic that catches the breathless tingle of letdown while I try not to cry.
I went to the gym today to inflict as much pain on myself as I could, to leave myself breathless and unable to think. And it worked, I sweated and pushed myself far beyond my limits until everything burned and my head was empty. For an hour. Maybe two.
But it's back. The other pain. The pain that's curdling in my heart and spitting through my veins like an angry cobra. He's sitting in my lap a the moment, babbling and occasionally looking up and grinning at me. Snuggling into my bathrobe and smelling me. I can't bear that tomorrow I have to leave him.
I wish that things were different. I wish I had chosen some other career. I wish that I could just be happy with the way things are and not want more. I wish I didn't have the ability to do anything else and I wish I didn't have this stupid soul destroying need to keep achieving.
Everything feels wrong at the moment. Everything. Like every choice and every path I've taken in my life is wrong. I want contradictory things. I want things that can't ever happen and things that would destroy me if they did. But most of all I just want my baby.
Monday, 4 January 2010
Clair de lune
Lying back in the darkness, surveying the city lights. A warm shot of muscat clinging to my lips listening to the beauty that is Debussy's Suite Bergamasque. Drifting in and out on a sea of loveliness. One foot kicking the ground lazily to keep the hammock swinging.
Wednesday, 30 December 2009
Resolution time
It's about the time of year that we make promises that never last and plan to do things with our fingers crossed tightly behind our backs. I make a swathe of them each year, and on the whole I'm not so bad at it. I keep the "spirit" of most even if the flesh is weak. I've been pretty good with the exercise thing this year and have really enjoyed going to the gym. I;m still married and the kids still speak to me, so that seems to be going ok as well.
So, with this being the dawn of the new decade (just not the same ring to it as the new millennium is it?) I've decided that 2010 is going to be about me. I'm going to start putting myself a little bit more up the priority list, get better at saying no, and enjoy being a 28 year old woman with a stupendous life in front of her.
That all sounds very earnest no? Well how about some mini goals?
First of all I'm going to keep getting my hair cut every 6 weeks or so. At a proper salon. Where I have my own preferred stylist and I'm not going on cheap student Tuesday. I'll even buy the recommended products occasionally even if I'm allergic to upselling.
Secondly, I'm going to buy a luxe moisturiser. When I was pregnant with the boy I had lush hair and skin and kind of got addicted to it. It's nice to glow instead of looking like an oil slick or the dessicated bit of your Mum's heel. I've never paid much attention to beauty products before, because me and beauty in the same sentence was a bit of an oxymoron. And like a moron, I hid in my ugly clothes, bad hair cut and terrible skin for most of this decade. BUT! No more!
I actually tried to buy one in the post Christmas sales the other day, but baulked at firstly the $140 pricetag at the Lancome counter, and secondly when she talked about my mid-30s, pre-ageing skin. I had better luck at the Shiseido counter where she talked about my "youthful skin" (I'm so fucking vain) but I ended up buying a cleanser instead because they had sample moisturisers in the "gift with" pack (I love these packs. I have about 12 mini mascaras).
Third one is a bit of a follow on from the above, in that I'm going to wear my makeup and perfume on days other than weddings/funerals/dates. I still can't abide foundation, but a sweep of mascara can make my eyes look awesome and they're my favourite feature so why not.
I can hear some of my low maintenance friends snickering into their coffees as I write this, but I've decided to give all this a go for at least a year. Try it out. I've allowed myself to be in photos this year too. Smiled for them. Let Bingley take pictures of me playing with the kids and documented my thrilledness with my corset. It's not all about the superficial here. It's also about how I feel about myself.
I've had years of congratulating myself on how low maintenance I am. About how I don't fall into those superficial traps of make up and "hair" and clothes. And I've not been scarred by the experience, but neither have I been empowered. It kind of sucks to go out at night looking like the poor country cousin being dragged along by their glamorous friend. To go to the shops and look like a harrassed mother of 3.
I like going out and being completely anonymous. Of being 28 and people not automatically being able to guess that I'm a SAHM with no time or inclination for herself. I love my children dearly. They inspire me and guide me and teach me every single day (and not just to drink wine). When I look like I could be anyone or do anything, I feel much the same way. Maybe I'm just superficial. I *do* love shiny things after all.
So anyhow, there's my pretty pathetic list. Of course world peace is in there too. I'll schedule it in once I've had my blowdry.
So, with this being the dawn of the new decade (just not the same ring to it as the new millennium is it?) I've decided that 2010 is going to be about me. I'm going to start putting myself a little bit more up the priority list, get better at saying no, and enjoy being a 28 year old woman with a stupendous life in front of her.
That all sounds very earnest no? Well how about some mini goals?
First of all I'm going to keep getting my hair cut every 6 weeks or so. At a proper salon. Where I have my own preferred stylist and I'm not going on cheap student Tuesday. I'll even buy the recommended products occasionally even if I'm allergic to upselling.
Secondly, I'm going to buy a luxe moisturiser. When I was pregnant with the boy I had lush hair and skin and kind of got addicted to it. It's nice to glow instead of looking like an oil slick or the dessicated bit of your Mum's heel. I've never paid much attention to beauty products before, because me and beauty in the same sentence was a bit of an oxymoron. And like a moron, I hid in my ugly clothes, bad hair cut and terrible skin for most of this decade. BUT! No more!
I actually tried to buy one in the post Christmas sales the other day, but baulked at firstly the $140 pricetag at the Lancome counter, and secondly when she talked about my mid-30s, pre-ageing skin. I had better luck at the Shiseido counter where she talked about my "youthful skin" (I'm so fucking vain) but I ended up buying a cleanser instead because they had sample moisturisers in the "gift with" pack (I love these packs. I have about 12 mini mascaras).
Third one is a bit of a follow on from the above, in that I'm going to wear my makeup and perfume on days other than weddings/funerals/dates. I still can't abide foundation, but a sweep of mascara can make my eyes look awesome and they're my favourite feature so why not.
I can hear some of my low maintenance friends snickering into their coffees as I write this, but I've decided to give all this a go for at least a year. Try it out. I've allowed myself to be in photos this year too. Smiled for them. Let Bingley take pictures of me playing with the kids and documented my thrilledness with my corset. It's not all about the superficial here. It's also about how I feel about myself.
I've had years of congratulating myself on how low maintenance I am. About how I don't fall into those superficial traps of make up and "hair" and clothes. And I've not been scarred by the experience, but neither have I been empowered. It kind of sucks to go out at night looking like the poor country cousin being dragged along by their glamorous friend. To go to the shops and look like a harrassed mother of 3.
I like going out and being completely anonymous. Of being 28 and people not automatically being able to guess that I'm a SAHM with no time or inclination for herself. I love my children dearly. They inspire me and guide me and teach me every single day (and not just to drink wine). When I look like I could be anyone or do anything, I feel much the same way. Maybe I'm just superficial. I *do* love shiny things after all.
So anyhow, there's my pretty pathetic list. Of course world peace is in there too. I'll schedule it in once I've had my blowdry.
Tuesday, 29 December 2009
Christmas 2009
Christmas was a highly anticipated event here at Chez Elemental. There was much food to eat, much wine to drink, stockings and santa sacks to lay out and the distinct whine of the Ryobi as Bingley and his Dad tried to get the swingset completed in time. I finished in good time and wrote on here while sipping away, jumping out of my skin a bit in preparation for how excited the kids would be. The big ones anyway, because at 6 months old, Iwasn't expecting anything more than the general sunny cheerfulness of the Possum. I underestimated the appeal of gifts and wrapping paper though, as my baby boy was well into the spirit the second his eyes clamped on his new parking garage!
The girls were in an orgy of paper ripping and ooooohs and ahhhhs over their gifts. The Monkey had to be persuaded several times to keep looking in her Santa sack and stocking, her eyes big and round as surrounded by loot she found yet another book or pair of undies. And I swear I have never seen a child as excited by a box of pencils in my life. The Elfling being a veteran knew the score and soon had both her packs emptied and piled around her. She was most excited by her new pram and by her Christmas outfit that I made for her, complete with fairy wings (I covet an overlocker, and sewing seams when you're a wee bit tipsy is even harder than it sounds). She certainly looked angelic in it.
As did the Monkey in hers
But the biggest hit of the day, far and away was the swingset. We, being extremely unlike us, were organised this year, and planned, with the our co-conspirator parents to buy a set of swings this year. The plan being to both give the kids something to play with AND to have the convenient side effect of getting them out of the house. We researched, found and purchased the swings and they came in two large flat pack boxes a week or so ago. Obviously "some assembly required". But before we could do anything about the assembly, we needed somewhere to put the swings. Since moving in a few months ago, the yard has been very low on the list of priorities, but with Christmas approaching and a need to swing a mattock and get dirty Bingley, cleared a patch of yard, topsoiled it and ordered some lush Sir Walter to go over the top.
It's a truly lovely grass. Big blades, soft, doesn't require much mowing and doesn't seed. It's heavy as hell though, I could barely lift most of the pieces with my weak girly wrists and much of the task was left to Bingley.
Not that I was slacking. Being unable to lift the big pieces I was left to cut and create the tesselation of small pieces to fit the holes and let me tell you, that the root system of Sir Walter will give you a decent work out. The girls thought the grass was the Best Invention Ever (tm) and could not stop running on it as we laid it while the Possum sat up and grinned at everyone and everything while scrunching his toes in the grass.
Finally it was all finished, and we could all run around on it before giving it a good water.
Which we didn't actually need to do, as literally within seconds of the last piece being put in place, it started to rain and nearly a week later I don't think it has stopped! We actually need to buy a mower now as the grass has already sprouted in a verdant lush green over the whole area. But back to Christmas, when we told the girls to come outside to see their present their eyes were very wide, before they gleefully threw themselves at the swings.
Bingley didn't quite manage to finish them, but the swings were up and useable and the girls used their imagination for the rest. (We completed them on boxing day)
After breakfast of ham and eggs and tomatoes and toast on the back verandah, we headed up to Mum and Dad's place where we feasted again on turkey at the table and popped crackers and wore silly hats and revelled in a further orgy of gift giving. The highlight of the day was actually the Wii that Mum bought for Dad, with competitive games of bowling and baseball being fought in the lounge room on their 52" plasma screen. I still love my board games, but am willing to admit that I may have been a bit dismissive of Wiis - they're lots of fun! (And I'm not just saying that because I am a Wii Bowling prodigy!!)
By 7pm that night we were on our last legs, and though they tried hard, the kids were all tired and getting cranky. So we loaded back in the car and I popped my new Radiohead cd in the player and let the modern lullabies soothe them all to sleep as I chatted sleepily to Bingley for the 90 minute drive home. Pulling into our driveway and seeing the fairy lights out the front, the Christmas tree glinting through the windows was the strongest feeling of home and family I've ever had. We carried our sleeping bundles upstairs and as I tucked them in bed I felt so very full and happy. Christmas has always been my favourite time of year, but this year it just felt complete.
Hope yours was wonderful too.
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