Handbag envy

I desperately want my sister's handbag. I want it to be mine. I want to own it. To treasure, to carry and to possibly even live in. Ever since I laid eyes on it last weekend I've been imagining just how good it would feel to own that bag. Not simply because it's beautiful but because it is beautifully and immaculately organised.

Whereas my handbag* is an overflowing receptacle of misplaced receipts, lipsticks, nappies, tissues, wipes, toys, bibs and tummies, my sister's is like a Kikki-K shop. An oasis of calm, perfectly-ordered life. Where everything is compartmentalised and chic. Where objects live in designated spaces, where clutter is non-existent, where whatever you need is always at your fingertips, where organisation prevails. Basically, the polar opposite of my own.

My envy reached fever pitch on Saturday as I was scrambling through the catastrophe which is my current handbag. I couldn't for the life of me find anything I needed, when I needed it. My wallet, which I swear, thirty seconds earlier was on top, was now buried somewhere beneath nappies, a packet of wipes, sultanas, a cardigan and a soft book. Then the sultanas, that just a minute earlier were blocking my wallet, were nowhere to be found. And then as a result of the banana I had to give in lieu of the missing sultanas, I needed the wipes. And of course the wipes were then buried somewhere between my sanity and a thousand plastic spoons.

Forty-five minutes into this game and it took all my resolve not to melt down then and there, tip the entire bag upside down and sit amid the contents and cry. My sister's bag would never cause this much trouble, I thought to myself. At this point, the psychologists and enlightened readers among you might be thinking 'Isn't that a slight overreaction?' They would be spot on. It was.

But you see I wasn't just upset because my handbag was making a straightforward trip to the shops hellish. Somehow in the last few weeks the disastrous state of my handbag had come to reflect the level of disorganisation in my life. Or vice versa. Whichever order in which it happened, the upshot is, I've had no order.

And, as my handbag so stubbornly showed, there is only so much chaos one can endure before it's time to tidy up. Frankly, it's the same message my saucepan cupboards have been trying torturously - in vain - to teach me for many years. There are only so many times that you can shove the pots and pans in, whack the door closed and hope for the best, before retrieving any particular pan becomes totally unfeasible and simply opening the door poses a significant health and safety risk.

So. I acquiesced. I spent Sunday rectifying the key offending messes – my desk, my wardrobe, the saucepan cupboard, the Tupperware drawer and, of course, my handbag. Two days in and it's making the simple things all that more simple. If the order doesn't last I might revert to the tried and true method of my childhood and just steal my sister's bag while she's not looking.

*When I say 'handbag' I refer to the collection of handbags I have in rotation at any given time. This collection builds as I move from bag to bag, slowly transforming them from perfectly functional, to completely catastrophic.

Great expectations

Sometimes I expect adult behaviour from my daughter. I don't wake up and expect her to engage in a long and considered discussion, quietly watch the ABC news on television, entertain a group of friends or clear up after the evening meal. I'm not entirely deluded. But, occasionally, I find myself anticipating a level of composure that frankly I've got at least a decade – possibly two - before she is likely to achieve.

These expectations are subconscious. They inevitably arise when we've been in the car too long, she's waiting in her highchair too long, she's been in the supermarket trolley too long. You know? When she is grumpy and irritated and acts accordingly. And then I get grumpy and irritated too. I wish she would be more patient and realise order will soon be restored. I mean, does she think I like sitting in traffic or waiting at Woolworths, anymore than she does?

At the time, I don't really verbalise these thoughts. Not even inside my head. I just become a bit agitated and mentally will her threshold to stretch a bit further. It's only when I later reflect that I realise it's my threshold that needs to stretch a bit further. Because, unlike her, I'm an adult. Technically* I'm not entitled to behave childishly, but for Miss I childish conduct is totally and utterly her domain. And will be for quite some time.

She is within her rights to tire easily, become frustrated quickly, flip between ecstatically happy and hysterically sad within minutes, voice her every discomfort, have no concept of time and certainly have no appreciation for her mother's patience. And more. Most of which sounds pretty self-explanatory. And yet it seems to slip my mind in the crucial moments when I need to remember it most.

When I do manage to remind myself that she is a small child and adjust my expectations accordingly, we're both far better off. If I remind myself before we arrive at a café, that unless she is asleep, I cannot reasonably expect her to sit quietly and enjoy a hot beverage without throwing cutlery, knocking glasses, racing for the door and emptying sugar bowls, I'm nonplussed when it occurs. Likewise, if I expect a meltdown at the cash register, when it inevitably transpires I'm less irritated than I am prepared. And so on. Having realistic expectations really seems to be the surest way to enjoy my tornedo toddler.

I suppose it's one of the big lessons – and small tragedies – I'm learning about parenthood. Maturity and patience are two of my greatest allies. If I want to maintain my sanity and have any hope of instilling these qualities in my daughter, I need to live them. Which means there's not a whole lot of room for impulsive conduct on my part anymore. Which, frankly, gets a little tiring. The good thing is she goes to bed at 7pm after which I can be as impulsive and immature as I like. The bad thing is there is another member of our household who also expects rational behaviour from me. Being an adult really is a full time job.

*Technicalities have always bothered me.

R U OK?

Just a few days ago a much loved young man took his own life, leaving in his wake a shattered family, heartbroken friends and a devastated community. The anguish now endured by everyone who knew and loved my cousin, especially his parents and sisters, is agonising. And yet, tragically, the only comparable torment is probably what he himself suffered. It is inexplicably sad. The darkest of clouds with no silver lining.

It is a wretched reminder that mental health is the most precious blessing any of us can count. Without it, nothing else matters. Without the anchor of mental health to guide us through trouble, each one of us is vulnerable to languish in the depths of depression. In a place more lonely and isolated than anywhere on earth. In the grips of depression, judgement is compromised.

My understanding is that the decision to end your own life cannot be viewed through the prism of rational thought. It is not an emotional choice or a logical decision. It is the resolution when someone feels there is no resolution. Because they can't see beyond their torture. In that moment, for them, an alternative is impossible to imagine. And yet to everyone else, the only impossible, unimaginable scenario is the very one they carry out.

For anyone with uncompromised mental health, there are so many options. But for those who suffer, there are none. At least none they can see. One of the infinite cruelties of suicide is that it marks the end of one tragedy with the beginning of another. And neither really ever ends. And so there is sadness and grief and despair and pain. There is anger and frustration and fury. There is disbelief and sorrow and many many tears. There is no peace.

As I mourn for my cousin, and his family, I remember him. As a larrikin, as my little brother's hero, as my funny, likeable and much-loved cousin. Most of my memories transpired on the property where he grew up. Where we would spend many school holidays, learning precisely how unprepared and incompetent us 'city' dwelling cousins were for life on the land.

We played countless games of Round-The-World in their garden, entertained ourselves with motorbikes, horses, fences and other farming implements we were not really equipped to handle. We made him take part in our silly pretend games of hotels inside the house. I remember how he let my little brother, young enough to display unadulterated admiration, shadow his every move, all day long. I remember how he made us all laugh always. I remember him as the cousin we all loved.

The last few times I saw him, we had all grown up and real life had stumbled upon us. I can't fathom that it's now no longer upon him. I wish more than anything I have ever wished that we could turn the clock back a few days and erase all of this. But we can't. Instead we will miss and mourn a man who was loved. Whose life was too short.

Tomorrow is R U Ok? Day. It is a suicide prevention initiative that started last year and the idea is to ask someone you love, if they're ok. To give them an opportunity to open up, to start a conversation that might change their life. If you know anyone that you suspect is struggling, please ask if they're ok. And if they say they are ok, and you suspect they're not, just keep talking. And don't just do it tomorrow. Ask every time you suspect someone isn't doing ok. Because these conversations don't need to be difficult to start. And they could start the end of real difficulty.

And most importantly, if you're not feeling ok yourself, please tell someone. Call a friend and tell them you're not ok. That sentence will likely be incredibly hard to utter but if you reach out you will discover there is a queue of people a mile long who will do whatever you need them to, to help you through. No one will want you not to be ok.

Polygamy: not such a bad idea after all?

Last week I caught a little glimpse of a different existence. For a single day I saw how life might have looked through the eyes of a married man in the fifties or sixties. Even without any of Mad Men's glamour it looked pretty jolly dazzling.

There was something rather pleasant about arriving home from work to a spouse who had spent the day cooking, cleaning, doing the groceries and caring for Miss I. All I needed was a whiskey poured, a cigarette lit and I was right there in the midst of sixties-style paradise. Well, except for the fact I don't drink whiskey or smoke. But perhaps I'd take them both up if at the end of a working day that was all that was left to do.

Truthfully it made me see some merit in the old-fashioned domestic arrangements. Unenlightened as it sounds, it made me want a wife. Of sorts. Not because I want to shackle any gender with a disproportionate share of familial responsibilities or deprive any individual of economic independence. But because as far as logistics go, the stereotypical wife strikes me as unbelievably useful. There's a lot to be done in the running of a household, even in a small apartment. It really does warrant fulltime attention.

This dawned on me a few months ago when I became engrossed in Downton Abbey, a television series set in a large English estate in 1912. It opened my eyes to a world far beyond the reality of anyone I've ever met. They have staff to do everything. To wash, iron and prepare wardrobes. To dress and groom. To clean, polish and dust. To plan meals, stock cupboards and arrange dinner parties. There are cleaners, footmen, drivers, assistant footmen, a butler, a seamstress.

The twenty or so employees ensure every tiny domestic cog is perfectly oiled so the family can get on with the important and apparently busy business of being incredibly rich. Which funnily enough takes up quite a bit of time.

Obviously none of us has a household that grand* but what needs to be done in a day hasn't changed all that much. We might not sit down for three-course meals or after-dinner tipples in the drawing room and we might not need staff to polish the non-existent silverware. But the big ticket tasks are the same.

We still get dressed, buy food, go to work, feed our families, clean the house, wash clothes, iron, bathe children, cook meals, clean up after meals, shop, pay bills, book appointments, drive to appointments, arrange social engagements, attend social engagements. Spending a good part of the day working outside the home compounds this. And then we wake up and do it all again. The difference is, rather than having a (valued, respected, well-paid and well-oiled) team to help, we do it alone. It made me think perhaps we've downsized too far. And upsized our expectations for what can be done in 24 hours, exponentially.

So I wish Mr G and I had a wife. Or could afford a housekeeper. Obviously the latter's completely out of the budget, so I'm wondering whether we need to recruit an additional member to our marriage. A hardworking individual with a penchant for housekeeping, grocery shopping, pantry-stocking, meal preparation and household administration. I think we could both get used to arriving home to domestic order and goodness knows how much we would value their contribution. Any takers?

*If by chance you do have a household as grand as Downton Abbey can I please come and visit? It'll just be me, my husband and our loud and adorable daughter. (And possibly an incredibly efficient, kind and productive person we're hoping to recruit to our marriage. It could be an excellent training opportunity.)

Shifting what?

I wrote this a while ago and it ran on Mamamia yesterday so I thought I'd give it a whirl here.

Through high school my version of success was embarrassingly simple. I had a vague image picked out from any number of bad movies of a girl returning to her home town for Christmas or some family reunion, dressed in a suit. It was that simple. Success was wearing a well-cut suit. I extrapolated out from there and figured jobs requiring suits required good marks at school and getting into university. From there I figured a suited job would await and success would be a wrap. A suited job did await but success was not alongside.

I can't recall whether I was in a doctor's waiting room or the non-descript reception of a legal office but either is possible. Whichever waiting room it was, that was the place where I finally twigged that my suited job did not feel anything like success. I felt ripped off.

For so long I had chased one version of success – oblivious to any other adaptations - which came to equate my personal worth with external acknowledgements like being awarded a good mark or landing a job at a reputable law firm or wearing a suit to work. It helped through university but out in the wide world I could suddenly see its failings.

I realised that outside the confines of school there was no teacher and no one was awarding me marks. I was on my own. In that moment the expression shifting paradigms finally made sense. I realised success was however I chose to define it. And it was far more complex than my girl-in-a-well-cut-suit version. That version suddenly felt terribly misguided and naive.

As terrifying as this discovery was, it also felt exhilarating to wrest myself from the imaginary grip of report cards. I was momentarily cross at my school and at the movies for failing to broaden my definition of success from achievement - academic or suit-wearing - but I let it go as I had more pressing matters at hand. For example, what the hell kind of life did I want??? As opposed to what kind of life did I think I'd get good marks for.

As a solicitor I spent every many waking minutes wondering exactly what it was that made me feel so uncomfortable in my job. I worked with some exceptionally difficult characters who certainly contributed but I also worked with some exceptionally wonderful people who evened things out. Eventually – in that same waiting room - I realised I was miserable because I was living a life that didn't fit me. I felt like I was having an affair. Like I was betraying my work colleagues because in my head and heart I wanted a different life. In the office I looked around and as much as I tried I couldn't see lives I wanted to emulate.

This was difficult to reconcile. These were people who the high school version of myself would have nominated as being highly successful. Occupying prestigious positions, undertaking major roles, leading big teams of driven lawyers, earning large sums of money, many of whom I really really liked … but I looked and looked and looked and I couldn't drum up a modicum of envy. I didn't want their lives. That's not demeaning. I battled myself on that point for months but eventually I accepted it was my version of success versus another's. Not like for like. Success is in the eye of the beholder.

I wish in that moment – when it truly sunk in that the world (or at least my definition of success) was my oyster – I resigned and grabbed my other dreams with open arms. I didn't. Fortunately a whack of illness eventually conspired in my favour. It enforced a break and then prompted my resignation. That break gave me some blank space to properly re-think my take on success. And it looked nothing like a girl in a suit.

The short of the long of it was realising internal factors like my personal enjoyment, health, fulfilment and sanity are far better indictors of my success than the external acknowledgements I so used to love.

So. That's how I got my head around success. I feel like I made these realisations quite late in the piece and I wonder how and when other people determine their versions of success, which I appreciate are moving targets. How does success look and feel to you?