Helping Hand

There are numerous witty hand related titles I could have used for this entry. Hand Me Down. Handfull. Second Hand Story. Hard to choose.
To fix my broken metacarpal an overpriced surgeon cut my hand open, scraped some bone from a healthy meta carpal then grafted it onto the broken bone. To enhance the graft he added a plate which attached to the bone using 7 screws.

Yes that is rather a lot of screws.
Yes it was and often still is quite painful.

Here is a list of things I'm not to do :

Drive a Car
Use my hand
Get the plaster wet

Although a short list, it's quite restrictive.

A visit to the doctor yesterday resulted in a fairly stern warning/reminder to Not Use My Hand. To Keep It In A Sling. To Try And Rest.

I'm finding these instructions slightly difficult to adhere to.
Have you ever been to the toilet using only one hand?
Have you ever tried to cut a cucumber using only one hand?
Have you ever eaten a steak with one hand?

I'm getting accustomed to asking for help. A man in the supermarket pulled a bunch of bananas apart for me. I've stopped using the self serve registers. I'm allowing friends and family to cut my dinner up.

I've always thought one of my better qualities was my independence. Was quite proud of it.
Now I feel vulnerable, a little out of control and somewhat powerless. It's challenging.

THAT'S A GOOD THING - RIGHT?!?

Here are some other good things.
In the space of 3 weeks my handwriting has improved from a 4 year olds to a 9 year olds. That is progress.
My Mum is here and she is cleaning! The kitchen! The kids rooms! Real cleaning! I love her. Not only for the cleaning but it really is the cherry on top of amazing.
I've watched Seasons 1-4 of Parks and Recreation and Lesley Knope makes me happy.
By using my left hand for everything, I'm changing my brain. Right hand has been the boss for so long, Leftie just did whatever it was told. It didn't have to think.
Now, we are thinking. A lot. Arduously. Every action requires thinking about because Leftie is still learning. Ergo, I'm being mindful.
I'VE BEEN MEANING TO BE MORE MINDFUL FOR AGES!
So there we go. Turning negatives into positives. Always changing. Developing new skills.
I think I'm finally an adult.

Of All The Luck

Congratulations are in order. Not only did I get selected for my first ever jury duty but I also broke my right hand! In the words of the hipsterish cool kids I work with: 'I know - right?'.
I feel its necessary to add I am in something of a codeine riddled haze but that it is working for me, especially the staring at nothing/can't really move out of my chair thing I've got going on.

Anyhoo
I've made it to the computer, am not gonna give up now.
So I get selected as unlucky for some juror #13 on Tuesday morning. Meaning I'm to sit through the entire (3-4day) trial as a reserve and unless someone drops out I will be dismissed before the real jury decided their verdict.
Someone drops out - I'm off the bench! I thought this was kind of cool until I had to spend almost an entire day in a windowless room with 11 almost strangers trying to come to a unanimous decision about the fate of another almost stranger. Not fun, but we did it.
Broken hand and all.
Wednesday night we play mixed netball. 2 minutes to go, I'm gunning for the ball, get my fingers caught up in the netting that encloses our court, feel something tear/pop/wrench in my hand but I carry on, run around & avoid the ball as much as possible until time is called.
I feel very light headed, am clasping my injured hand tightly to my body and may possibly vomit. I'm aware I've done some damage but not willing to speculate. I consider going to emergency butfigure if I rest it, ice it and compress it I'll be right by the morning.
Fortunately a dear friend and team mate gives me some night time mercyndol and after 2 of those I'm the most relaxed I have possibly ever been. How did I not know about this drug? Mummys little helper.

So I spend the next day still on jury duty in pretty good pain but fairly well medicated, so it's bearable. One doctor visit and xray later (both bulk billed - no cost to me - Australia I love you) I'm in the hospital emergency room with an unstable meta carpal fracture. The nurse gives me an endone for the pain and the next 4 hours are really lovely.

Spilt Water

Tonight my 8 year old spilt an entire glass of water all over my bedside drawers, soaking one phone, 2 library books, my journal, the wall, a lamp and a power plug board.
I really wanted to yell at him. I stomped around, rescuing items and towelling things dry, thinking I just want to SHOUT! Bloody Bloody Bloody.
Anyway, other than stomping, I did not shout. I was quite pleased with myself about this because showing restraint is not my forte and I would have felt like an ASSHOLE if I had of yelled at him.
So I'm laying next to him after reading him a chapter of Harry Potter & the Chamber of Secrets, feeling pretty good. I love reading to my kids and I especially love that he still lets me read to him - he has outgrown a lot of me lately - I'm gonna hang onto this reading privilege as long as he'll let me.
So I hand him a glass of water and say  "Careful - you wouldn't want to spill it". He gives me a cheeky smile. I say - "Did you notice I didn't even yell - how good am I getting at this Mum stuff?"
His eyes light up and he says "Yeah but you did say a swear word"
I say "No. Nope. Definitely not"
He's grinning from ear to ear "Yes you did. And it was the worst one"
I'm shaking my head "No way mate. No way. You must have been hearing things"
He's laughing. I'm laughing. In all my stomping and not yelling I had forgotten that the only thing that had left my mouth when I heard the splash was an almighty 'FUCK!'
So what could have been a shitty parenting moment turned into a shared mischief. I guess I didn't exactly get it right, but I sure as fuck didn't get it wrong!

Gardening

Now I've never really been one for gardening. It's hot, it's dirty and I've always found it a bit difficult. I'd look around the yard and think - well it's green and it's growing - I'll leave it be. Not quite sure what to do. Lately though, with this wondrous monsoonal weather, cool breezes and SO MUCH RAIN I've been tempted. Inspired I suppose.
Several of my good friends are gardeners. I admire them so for their  motivation in getting into the yard work on any given day, regardless of whats on tv, or what demands their children are hurling toward them. I want to be a gardener - it's such an appropriate hobby and I need more of them.
So my dear friend Leisa got us over to her Dads place, who has this amazing garden full of tropical splendour. His wife walked me through the garden, cutting off branches from many a tree/plant/bush/foliage and placing them in my arms with love. She said over the past 10 years they have given their friends cuttings from the same plants - many of whom have blooming gardens based on the produce they received the same way I was now receiving.
So we took it all home. Surprisingly 3 weeks earlier I had mulched our yard, because I thought it was about time. We have only lived here for 5 years. 3 hours and one trailer load of dirt scattered through the garden, I was exhausted but pretty bloody pleased with myself.
Heres what I know now, one week into this gardening hobby. It turns out you can cut branches of plants off, stick them in the ground and they grow. Especially during the wet season. Why do people even go to the plant shop? We now have a delicious array of crotons with leaves of deep green scattered with spots of orange and pink, stuck in a row along our fence line. Big luscious bromeliads with juicy branchlike leaves. Hibiscus and bougainvillaea in buckets waiting to be transplanted. Elephant Ears (possibly not the scientific name) looking all Jurassic Park in our delicious garden.
I am in the process of weeding out a plague of purple flowered devils, who have slowly overtaken our front garden. They won't be pulled out by hand - it's a trowel and glove job - I have the blisters to prove it. Terrifically there are about a thousand worms per square metre so the kids are completely onboard with gardening, as it seems worms are awesome. The fatter and juicier the better.
We dig in the rain, the wind, the heat. I find it strangely meditative, the sweat dripping off me, the pile of dug up weeds growing larger, the arranging of plants in a line. I've committed myself to doing 10 minutes a day, which is so easy I end up doing 2-3 times more. It's exercise, it's outside, it's rewarding. It's even free!
So. My ode to gardening in the wet season. Mild case of chafing and several (what I would consider) severe blisters, but dammit I'm sticking with it! Open Garden 2016 here we come!

Every (2-3) days I'm shuffling

I've started running again.
To clarify that - I've started shuffling again. I am beyond slow. It's possible I walk faster than I run.
Nevertheless it's definitely classified as running. And I'm doing it, regularly.
I've hooked up runkeeper, who cheers me on via my iphone & keeps sending me emails telling me what personal records I've broken. I love it. So supportive.

I've several playlists to choose from, all fast, dancey, motivating tracks. I've taken to wearing a headband so the earbuds stay in my ears, as it seems my entire body is capable of sweating, including my inner ear. I like to think I look pretty cool with that headband on, in fact I'm sure of it. Without it my hair is frizzy, several shades of brown/blond/grey and messy. Always messy. Even when I 'do' my hair it still looks messy. The humidity in Darwin only adds to my windswept appearance. Doesn't bother me most of the time, unless I catch a surprise glimpse of myself in a window and I wonder who is that strange looking person and why doesn't she brush her hair?

My feet have been troubling me for over 18 months now. Heel spurs, plantar fascitis, whatever it's called they hurt. Like crushed glass beneath the skin on the sole of my foot. Being overweight doesn't help matters. In fact, according to that rude and slightly offensive BMI chart I am now considered obese. My poor feet. What a load they must carry. I thought I would never run again, considering how hard it often was to walk. Then I found out about orthodics. Inserts for your shoes. You can have special ones fitted by a podiatrist, but that costs a lot. I went with middle of the range one size fits all from the physio and hello! My feet don't hate me anymore. I'm even feeling quite fond of them again.

Anyway, the running. The first few minutes it hurts, I reassure myself I will only keep going for another minute or two, then I'll walk for a bit. The next few minutes hurt more but I suck it up. Breathe and plod. Breathe and plod. Breathe and plod. Then miraculously that's what I'm doing, my mind is wandering but focussed. Breathe and plod. Breathe and plod.

I'm not going far, or for long periods. Averaging about 3k, running/shuffling/plodding for most of it.
I'm stretching like a yogi afterward (the trick is to keep my headphones in & let the music keep me moving), drinking heaps of water and feeling....shit hot. I love it.

Yesterday I took the dog to the beach and mostly we walked, but we are in the middle of a glorious monsoon and soon enough we were in the midst of some serious rainfall. So I ran, over the sand, laughing, puffing, running back to the car. It was a magnificent feeling, free as a bird and completely willing and able to run. The dog loves it. I love it. That's pretty good.

What would you do?

In early 2012 I got a job as an Independent Observer working within the Immigration Detention Centres with UnAccompanied Minors (UAMs).

I sat in on over 100 different interviews, with different kids.

There were many kids who identified as coming from Pakistan and they mostly had similar stories. Fear of the Taliban, of the police, of young men reaching a certain age (about 15) and being identified as targets - you are either with us or against us.

Some of the stories were very worrying, older male relatives had gone missing but often I found myself thinking - 'what else happened? who died? Is just being scared a strong or valid enough reason for being granted asylum into Australia?'

It made me question my own ethical beliefs - how bad did it have to get before it's determined that someones life is in enough danger? Who has to die to enable you permission to come here? How many terrible things have to occur before it's acceptable for you to be called a refugee?

I know we can't accept everyone, but how can we say no - when these children have risked so much? When their parents were desperate enough to let them try? Can you imagine? Where is a safe place? Where is the future?

Then today we hear of the terrible atrocities occurring at Peshawar. A school attacked by extremists, killing so many children.

After 100 interviews I know that that the one thing these kids had in common was their desire to be safe and to get an education. EVERY kid said it. I just want an education. It is not safe in my country.

My heart burns tonight.
It burns for the mother of 3, Katrina Dawson, who could have been me, in Sydney.
It burns for the 132 students gunned down by these fucking extremists, who somehow sleep tonight, but I can only think their heads are filled with pain for they have gone beyond all that we know as humanity.
It burns for the Australians who instead of feeling compassion feel hatred, because there is no easy way back from that.
It burns for those boys that I met from Pakistan, who made it here, safely, to safety in Australia and who are now faced with such uncertainty - who dares send them back to that? The same judge who allowed the madman to walk free on bail and into the Lindt cafe? Who dares make these decisions?

What would you do? Will you ride with them? Or will you feed the hate?

Silver Fox

Let's be clear. I'm not talking about George Clooney.
I'm talking about me. 35 year old mother of 2. Lover of 1.
No longer can I masquerade as brunette. I was a blond child, almost Aryan, which eventually settled into a dirty, mousey, brown.
I started to colour my hair at about 15, home jobs done by friends, everything from platinum blonde, to blue, to my personal worst favourite, the brown with blonde streaks.
That's where you placed a tight rubber cap over your head & used some sort of crochet hook to pull strands of hair through small holes & paint them a different colour. It really hurt.
For many years now I've enjoyed the hair salon. I love the ones that offer you coffee or tea, who massage your head thoroughly and - of course - have a wide range of magazines for my perusal.
Tomorrow  I enter such a place, to begin again.
My hair is grey. I can't think of any better way to state such a humbling truth. My regrowth speaks only truth. I am no longer producing pigment in my hair follicles. I dare not check my pubes.
So I am becoming a silver fox. Something of a Targaeryn I hope. Not too white, a sort of silver, not grey. My eyebrows are dark, ready for the change.
It feels like a rite of passage I'm experiencing about 20 years too early. That excites me, more than disappoints, because it means I'm maturing. I'm like the silver back of my tribe, on my head.
My brothers are both grey of hair. Dad was too. Good people. Handsome.
I'm ready to do this. No more colours. Just the silver fox. Foxy lady. From here on in. There is no going back from this. Is there?