School Holidays

We are in the middle of Week 4 school holidays.
Now I love school holidays. Sleeping in, staying up a bit later, lazy mornings, hanging with the kids.
We run on a balance of about 65% great, 35% fuck this I'm enrolling you kids in vacation care STOP ARGUING ABOUT BULLSHIT.
However I will not enrol my children in vacation care, mostly due to the fact I'm not currently working and no-one will pay for it, but also because a few years ago Leo did go for about a week and it was not a great experience.
Anyhoo. We are making our way through the holidays, together.
After spending an entire day with one another today, I'm talking swimming, playground, completing a 300 piece puzzle, driving, eating, reminding them to clean their teeth.

Question - how many times do you need to tell a person to brush their teeth before they actually start to do it without being told? Yesterday we had been out for about 45 minutes (queuing in Medicare/Centrelink no less) when I questioned my kids as to whether they had brushed before we left the house. The answer was no. So that means my 9 year old STILL needs reminding. Which equates to thousands of daily reminders.
Good to know.

Anyhoo. Tonight I decided I needed a bath. Josh was in the kitchen cooking his dinner.
Sidenote : I love to cook. Occasionally.
I also love not to cook, sometimes. Tonight was one of those nights. So the children and I had cheese toast and cucumber slices (one of our faves) & Josh spent about an hour in the kitchen preparing his steak, homemade potato cakes and caramelised onion. It was ready by about 8.45pm which is almost my bedtime & if I had to wait that long for dinner I would be curled up in a corner sobbing - so I didn't feel I missed out on too much.

Back to the bath. I shut the bathroom door, decide not to lock it, sink into the deliciously hot and bubbly water.
Knock knock knock. Door opens.
"Mum, can we have an ice-cream?"
No.
Door closes. message is relayed to sibling. 10 seconds passes.
Knock knock knock. Door opens.
"Mum I'm still hungry"
Is Dad in the kitchen? Ask him.
Door doesn't quite close. About 20 seconds passes.
"Mum, can I have an apple?"
Yes. Door is left wide open.
"Mum can I have a nectarine?"
Yes.
"Where are they?"
In the fridge.
20 more seconds.
"Where in the fridge?"
In the drawer.
15 seconds.
"They aren't in the drawer"
Look in the fridge.
"Where in the fridge?"
In the fucking fridge dickhead. (Ok so I thought that, I didn't say it.)
Check the shelves mate.
23 seconds pass.
"They aren't there Mum"
Yes they are.
Pause.
"Can you look Mum?"
No.
17 seconds. "I can't find them Mum".


I take a few moments to submerge my head, try to be thankful for the 7 minutes of glorious bath time I've been allocated and then I turn and look him in the eye.
How long do you think it will take me to find them mate? I'm thinking 15 seconds max.
He says "I don't think there are any Mum".
I graciously heave myself out of the bath & wrap myself up in my Mum only towel. Its about a month old & the chances are it won't retain the title of Mum Only for long. For now though, it's luxurious, soft and special. I love it.
We walk to the fridge (6 seconds?) and as I open the door I start to count....1....2....3.....
4.
It takes me 4 seconds to find the nectarines. They were in the door, not on the shelf. My mistake. Dickheads.
We have spent the rest of this evening curled up in the parental bed watching screaming goats on youtube. I mean that shit is hilarious.

There are moments, hours, sometimes days where I fret that I could be more, should be more than just a Mum. That time will come. For now, there is a day like today, where we got it almost completely right, together. Thank goodness for screaming goats.

Christmas Traditions

Another Christmas done and dusted.
I've just finished packing away the tree, carefully storing away ornaments, branches and all the other bits and bobs involved.

I love decorating the tree. When I was a kid it was the most wonderful thing to open the box of Christmas. It had a little wooden nativity set, decorations and a smell. The Christmas smell. To this day I'm not sure what the smell was but I know when we opened that box I would be flooded with joy. Christmas! In Alice Springs we used to buy our REAL Christmas tree from Kmart. Oh how I loved the process of selecting a tree and inhaling that pine fresh smell. We would take it home, stick it in a bucket and decorate it, listening to Boney M carols and feeling that all was right with the world.
Then of course my dear Dad went and died early one Christmas morning. From then on, Christmas was greeted with dread, not joy. My Mum in particular found it terribly hard, the carols, the well wishes, the memories. We would just endure it and be glad when it was all over.
I can't remember when it was that I re-opened that box of Christmas, I think it was some years later. I was an angsty teen, trying hard not to care, self pity flowing through my veins. But when I opened that box and smelt that smell, of so much joy and happy memories, when I saw that precious nativity set, I felt love, not pain. I felt happy to have the memories. Sometimes remembering the good stuff is harder than the bad stuff, sometimes it hurts more to remember the love. But that smell reminded me of too much happiness, so I was never going to be miserable about Christmas again.
You know the rest. My magnificent children came along and healed me up, at least where Christmas is concerned. Now it's a time for family, food and presents! They look forward to it as much as I ever did. I felt so privileged today, packing away that tree, remembering all this (so much so I had to write it whilst it was fresh!). Grateful for making these memories now.

Holidays

We are going away for 12 days this festive season.
Months ago we started to wonder who we could get to look after the house and dog. Our previous housesitter had selfishly gone and become a homeowner so she was no good to us.
Someone I know had housesit for a friend of mine and I totally got the vibe that he spent some serious time sniffing around her private affairs. Searching bedside drawers for vibrators, reading through personal notebooks, looking for porn on her browser history. So I knew I wouldn't be asking him to stay. Oh the notebooks he could read! We needed a responsible stranger of mature years to mind our lovely home and dog.
Miraculously easily we found them! A husband & wife on the mindahome.com website. I was able to check them out (totally legit & 'normal') through their references via airbnb and the only thing I was really concerned about was how they would cope in my tidy, but not particularly clean, home.
Honestly if I could change one thing about myself it would be that rather than eating when I feel stressed instead I would clean.
Our home is by no means dirty, it's just a bit dusty and smudgy. The floors are maintained but goddamn it you do know if you clean one area of a wall you then need to clean ALL the walls in that room because it looks just as bad with one clean area as it does one dirty spot.
Anyway I became aware of how many areas needed to be clean in order for me to comfortably allow these strangers to stay in my home free of charge for 12 days. Fucking ridiculous.
Kitchen drawers. Cupboards. The pantry. The fridge (17 dead flies. 17!? How did they get in there? When? Who let them in? Fuck!). The cupboard above the pantry that actually had cleaning products in that expired in 2012. Along with a few more dead flies. And heaps of dust. So much dust.
I hired 2 lovely Irish girls to help me clean for 2 hours ($100 - money well spent!) the day before the housesitters arrived. What a genius idea that was. My house is just lovely. It always was, but now it's lovely without being dusty.
The housesitters arrived today, they are delightful (semi-retired, here to visit grandchildren, easygoing) and I am so pleased to be leaving them in my wonderful, clean home. We are going to have a lovely Christmas break and I look forward to returning to our deliciously clean and tidy (for now) home.

Secret Santa

Here's something I wasn't exactly prepared for.
Yesterday morning, as his sister ate breakfast alongside him, Leo nonchalantly said 'Mum, is Santa real?'.
There was an awkward pause whilst a low hum of static blew through my mind. Eventually I said 'well mate I believe in him'.
He looked at me inquisitively - 'a kid at school said it's just your mum and dad that do it'.
I managed to change the subject but later pulled Leo aside and said - 'mate - if you want to talk about any of that stuff make sure Mags isn't around to hear it - ok?'.
Ok. Great job so far Mum.
I mean, he's 9.5 years old. He's ready to know the truth. I'm just uncomfortable admitting to him that we've been feeding him bullshit for his whole life. Lovely, magical, present-inducing....bullshit.
Later that day after Mags is in bed I walk out to our lounge room. Josh & Leo are sitting together deep in conversation. Luckily I'd given Josh a head's up earlier and as he's never been particularly delighted with the whole Santa Lie, was more than ready to talk it through with his eldest child.
Leo looks at me, his eyes filled with a kind of bewilderment, a bit wounded, slightly shocked. 'Santa isn't true' he says.
I will honestly never forget his face in that moment. My child has grown up. I am so pleased, but heartbroken as well. I'm sure 9.5 is a good age to find this out. We sat and had an honest and funny conversation about the whole thing. He confessed to having his suspicions, for not only did he see some wrapping paper last year that looked exactly like santas, but he also thought the idea of flying reindeer was ridiculous.
Not quite as ridiculous as a rabbit that hands out chocolate to commemorate the resurrection of Jesus so we discussed both that and the tooth fairy. He is now in possession of very important truths that he must uphold - by lying to the people around him that don't yet know the truth.
What a complex web we've woven.
So tonight we are all sitting on the couch and little Mags, who is only 5, says 'Mum- is Santa real?' and I say - 'Well who's that on the tv mate? Looks like the real santa to me' (This week Elf starring Will Ferrell has been on the tv twice and we have watched it both times. I had never seen it before, but it has established itself as one of my all time favourite christmas movies ever. Hilarious. Poignant. Perfection.). Leo quickly pipes up to his sister, legitimately and almost truthfully - 'yeah! Of course he is Maggie'. And even I believe him.

Grandpa Ball

My Grandpa died this week. He was 98 and one of the best men I've known.
He was kind, compassionate, clever and strong. He told wonderful stories off the top of his head. He was both interesting and interested. People mattered to him. Kindness mattered. Treating other people the way you would like to be treated was his way.
I've a shoebox FULL of his letters. I didn't write enough back. I knew I would lament this when he died and I was right. I wish I wrote him more. He wrote of current affairs, the weather, he enquired after the family, school, work, he wrote the kids poems about a funny little mouse named Montgomery.
He was a wonderful person. I am proud to be his granddaughter.
Upon receiving the news that he had died I felt the breath leave my body. It took a moment to return. Despite knowing he was in ill health, that he was ready to go....I don't want him gone. I want him strong and kind and present. I grieve for him. I feel sadness run through me, a stream of loss.
I will keep him strong in my heart forever. Rest now Grandpa. See you on the otherside xo

Underhanded?

It's been approximately 26 weeks since I broke this here hand.
After the initial shock and surgery were over I told myself 12 weeks. 16 at the most. It will get better. You need time to heal. It's your right hand. Be patient. Go easy.
So I did all that - or tried to. I returned to work after months off, I did all the physio I was told to do.
I took pride in my kick ass scar.
It didn't really get better though. It stayed sore, swollen and not that capable. It aches when I wake up, it hurts when I use it. If I knock it the pain jags down my body like a lightning strike.
The worst for me? I can't hold a pen for much over 5 minutes. So I can't write. I can't scribble. I can't doodle.
I feel lost. Afraid. I'm worried about the pain, about taking painkillers, about what to do next.
I'm sore. Not to mention slightly deformed.
My most recent xray showed a displaced screw is the cause of my 'discomfort'. It's the 3rd one down and appears to be nestling into the juiciness of my knuckles.
So it needs to be removed. More surgery. More money. More recovery.
I'm terrified. I don't really want to be cut open again. I don't want more pain. Or recovery. I'm over the uncertainty. I'm sick of being stoic. I've started complaining and I'm not sure I'll be able to stop. Pain, just like fatigue, accumulates. I'm tired of it. Worn down. I don't feel like being chipper or brave. I feel like whinging, possibly even crying sometimes.
Actually I may have burst into tears on my friend last Wednesday when I ran into her in the school carpark. There weren't too many people around and I knew she would understand. She just kind of rubbed my back & hugged me which was really all I needed. Aside from a better hand. That's pretty much what I need, but trusting someone enough to burst into tears on them is a pretty good thing. Thanks Cindy. You're a legend.
Most of all though I'm scared that it's not going to fix the problem. That I'm stuck with a dominant hand that doesn't perform. That we are going to pay more money to some rich asshat surgeon who doesn't really give a shit what becomes of me once I walk out of his office.
You know what I'm doing here? I'm keeping my expectations very very low. It took me 3 days to type this, because prolonged anything with my hand fucking hurts. But I had to write something.
I'm booked to go to Adelaide in a weeks time, child free, to have surgery & then recover at my Mums place for 5 days. I figure if I go in expecting it to be a terrible ordeal the chances are I'm going to be pleasantly surprised. That's the plan. I can feel you both wincing and wishing me luck from here. Thanks. I'll do my best.

Retail Queen

After not working for months because of my dodgy hand in the last few weeks I have picked up some extra work in 2 different retail stores at our local shopping centre.
Both are chain stores, with particular styles. For example in one store I'm encouraged to dress 'geeky chic' which I think, I said I think, is how I've always dressed. However one of the girls wears trouser braces and black framed glasses that are just for show - e.g. they have glass? plastic? in but are of no use to anyone who actually has vision problems. She also wears high wasted stonewashed jeans so needless to say we probably won't be friends.
10 years ago I was the manager of a successful small business working for wonderful people who allowed me a great deal of control within the shop. I loved customer service, making connections through a shared love of the products we sold, being friendly but not in your face, running the shop to suit the environment I lived in.
Here I am in a brand new world of formulated sales plans, KPI's, visual merchandising and a goddamn piece of machinery attached to the doorway that counts how many people enter the shop to keep track of how many convert to sales. A happy face appears on our home page if we hit 25%.
I had some 'training' with my manager recently in which she went over my sales figures for the past month. Apparently it seems I'm only selling 1.92 items per sale and I need to try and push it up to 2.5.
Which means adding on items at the counter.
It means selling people extra crap at discounted prices whenever they make a purchase.
I worked a 4 hour shift last week and during it my manager asked me about 15 times how I was going with my extra sells. Let's give them an acronym - 'exs'.
Beginning of shift - "Ok Clare, today we're going to have you on the register, working on selling those exs with every purchase. I've written you down some goals for today, I'd like you to sell 8 exs this morning."
Oh. Ok. I'll try.
"Well remember that if you don't sell your total then they pass down to the rest of the team and they then have to make up the difference."
Oh. Ok. No pressure then.
I try to sell them, without seeming like an asshole who is greedy for your money. I sell none. People either say 'No Thank You' in an almost defensive tone, or they pretend I haven't said anything and stare hopefully at the EFT machine, willing me to get on with it. Several times Miss Manager comes over to enquire how I'm going. The third time she does and I say, apologetically, 'nope, still none' and she looks at me like I'm her greatest disappointment.
By the third hour I've sold 2 exs,  and I'm starting to actually feel like a disappointment. The thing is - the exs are pretty shitty plastic crap that people just don't want to buy, regardless of my damn sales pitch. I'm biting my tongue each time she questions me for an updated exs tally - I want to say STOP IT WITH THE PRESSURE YOU FUCKER. I GET IT. I KNOW. 8. I HAVE TO SELL 8. I'VE ONLY SOLD 2. YOU'RE WASTING YOUR BREATH.
Instead I breathe deeply and finally enquire - 'so how many did you guys sell yesterday?'
She fluffs about a bit, looks through her Very Important Folder and eventually finds yesterdays tally.
8. She says, without looking at me.
Get fucked. They sold 8 yesterday. The same amount I'm being pressured to sell in 4 hours.
"Oh," I say. "That makes me feel a bit better!".
She looks at me again like I'm a small piece of shit on her shoe. I realise that I am not meant to be funny, or clever, or have personality, I'm just meant to sell fucking exs.
I feel a bit sick and eventually mention to one of my coworkers that the exs are a bit stressful.
She's about 20 and she looks at me like I'm a child. "Don't worry about them" she says.
"How?" I ask. "I keep being reminded about them! It's driving me mad!"
She looks at me kindly and wisely, for someone so young. "I just don't worry about them. It doesn't make any difference to me. I ask people if they want them, most of them don't, so no problem."
I feel surprised but also really relieved. She's exactly right. I'm doing what I have to do and it's completely unnecessary to take on any stress. Full stop.
So I shall persevere as a poorly paid mature age retail staff member despite the challenges. In this frightening new world of high performance and coworkers born in 1997, wearing pretend glasses. In fact that's probably the hardest part, those youthful and carefree sprites reminding me of who I used to be. Or possibly - who I still am. Minus the gammon glasses.