I read the words of a wise woman today and it took me a moment to absorb them.
She spoke of the limitations she felt in herself as a mother as she stretched between working, studying and parenting, with the latter taking a sharp decline in attention.
Then I had a small panic because that’s kind of what I’m planning on for the next twelve months at least and for once I would like to finish something because I ALWAYS approach things in the most full on capacity possible* and only occasionally do I come through with the goods so if there’s any kind of cosmic force out there beyond Dan Harmons wit I beg of you to give me even half of this wise woman’s dedication and composure and intelligence and let me know shits gonna turn out all right.

*case in point: I’ve only ever crocheted. Of course I started out with a blanket that’s still a pile of squares in my craft box. Last week I took up knitting and the obvious choice is to pick a cardigan which also happens to be an accomplished knitters pattern and I’m no less than entirely absorbed with finishing it before we go back to Far North Queensland. Though I’m at the halfway point and I’ve been thinking for a couple of days perhaps I should have bought that jumper pattern instead, all the while acknowledging the voice of authority that tells me to see things through. (Yes that’s a cardigan. For a toddler. In the tropics. In wet season.)

The irony is I can see the lunacy of the situation but I’m not less obsessed.
And this example is not a far stretch from the way the rest of my life goes, which is a real concern because I’d like to actually achieve things at some stage.



Monday(ne)/Remember The Time?

For (what felt like) years, leaf would only sleep on me or when she was transferred painstakingly, in minuscule increments, on a perfectly even plane, to another equally as cushioned surface as mamas boobies and residual jelly belly.
I tried EVERYTHING you can think of, and nothing helped shift her out from under the undiluted heavy cloud of dependence.

But one day while we were strolling – I on my leaden weary hooves, leaf reclined and slumped to the side of the pram, chin lifted to reveal those delicious neck rolls and the faintest of snores – I had a realisation.

I could literally not remember the last time I had seen her asleep.

I couldn’t stop, obviously, lest I wake the she-devil with sixth sense sonar sensitivity, but I couldn’t keep from staring. Every few steps I slowed down as much as was permissible, and snuck a peek.

That night was the first night I realised we were kind of out of that new born faze. I don’t even remember how old she was, surely more than six months.
But I do remember how much I missed her.

That was the first night I acknowledged that there would come a last time that I’d see her asleep.

That there’d be a time when I would put her down and never pick her up again.

That she wouldn’t always need me.

I still feel that way, despite the large number of days that I wish the kid would cut me some slack.
It’s really a very lonesome thought, and comes closely coupled with the knowledge that our conscious love is probably a long way from being equally reciprocal, if it ever is to be.

Because of this, I miss her even when she’s staring me in the eye and asking me to fix her sore knee by kissing her finger better.
Because of this, I check on her each night before I sleep.
Because of this, sometimes I can’t sleep because I want to be awake in case she cries out.
Because of this, I’m reluctant to give her a brother or sister.
Because of this, I struggle to leave her with anyone.
Because of this, I haven’t pursued my education, employment, or fitness with any respectable gusto.
Because of this, I pick her up and breathe deeply of her while she sleeps and sing to her, or whisper stories, or just tell her I love her over and over again.

She ruins me, but she also completes me, and I think that’s the mark of a great and enduring love story.

And I ALWAYS want to remember that.



Gear grinding

>I want to cancel my credit card
>spend twenty minutes on hold for the privilege
>redirected to appropriate department because CONSPIRACY there is no menu option to cancel
>finally prove my identity
>computer “calculates” payout fee THERE IS NONE I PAID IT OFF WEEKS AGO
>fill the time with “satisfaction” questionnaire aka “where else you gon’ get you money bitch” interrogation
>computer coincidentally concludes its strenuous calculations at exact same moment as interrogation questionnaire ends
>teeth clench, patience ends, polite bambi shrouded by sleep deprived bitchface
>still listen anyway because not exactly sure how to disregard strangers feelings and know that she’s just doing her job and this very occurrence had been anticipated anyway
>try to interrupt once when girl takes a breath
>last vestiges of polite bambi force termination of call lest the big banks conspire further to steal all the money’s as a radical response to lone rude phone conversation and full credit card

>>try not to go online shopping



I haaaaate when people are condescending, or patronising. Or tossers.

Early 20’s retail girl: I’m not your babe, love, darl, sweetie, gorge or hun. IM NOBODYS THOSE THINGS but I’m especially not yours.

Aspiring bloggers: framing every piece like you’re Carrie and New York is holding its collective breath is such a snore I could just die. “I’m here to tell you,” that your prose lacks depth and originality.

Parents of children older than leaf: I get it. You are winning the eternal race of time and therefore your experience is far more valid and well informed. Rub my face in it yo, lets solidify my derision.

Real estate agent: I am aware that the owner of the house we rent will be unwilling to pay for our broadband. I am aware you take great, lengthy, and superior pleasure in informing me. I am also aware that the words that came out of my mouth were not “when will they start paying my bills?” But rather, “are you able to find out when the telephone outlet was last active.”

Bambi: you’re far too conceited for your own good, and your previously harmless self destructive behaviour that is a product of a lack of mental stimulation is turning outward in an unnecessarily aggressive fashion. Get over yourself.