But I don't want to

So I’ve just endured a pretty average weekend. On the surface it probably didn't look too bad. No one was sick, there were no major disasters, no hellishly long nights. We even went out for dinner on Saturday night which is usually enough to make me pretty happy. Not this time.

Even thinking the things I am about to write I’m really conscious that there are other people doing it tougher than I am. That other people are dealing with actual problems. Like illness and grief and abusive partners. Thankfully I am not burdened by any of those things at the moment but even being thankful for that doesn’t insulate me from feeling like I’m doing it tough. And that’s one of the strange things about life; whether it’s justified or not, when you feel something, you feel it. And right now I feel like I’m not coping.

Except, cruelly, ‘not coping’ is not an available option. The only option on the only menu available to me is ‘keep going’. So I am putting one foot in front of the other and I’m going through the motions but it’s taking every bit of energy I have. At every turn my inner voice is on repeat; ‘But I don’t want to.’

What I am feeling right now is exactly what I feared I might back when Mr G started his new job. For five months I have held it together and staved this off. I have coped and while it hasn’t always been easy, it certainly hasn’t always been hard. Right now, though, it’s hard. And so I will share with you my sob story.

(Please resist the urge to point out that others have better sob stories; I know they do. But here I can share mine no matter how trivial they are. And, to be perfectly honest, this one didn’t even feel particularly trivial.)  

It was my birthday on Friday and I knew well in advance that Mr G would be on call. His colleague was attending a not-negotiable course but he managed to get Saturday night covered so we could go out for dinner. When it comes to on call I have learned to keep my expectations low. I know that hoping the phone won’t ring or hoping that Mr G will get out at a reasonable hour is the most likely way to ensure those things don’t happen. So I try not to think about. But on Friday, it seems, I had let some hope in. Not that he would necessarily be around for feeding and bathing and bedding the girls, but that he’d be home at a decent hour, in time for us to have a glass of wine and cook dinner together. He’d actually talked all week about me going out to get a massage at 7pm so he could make a birthday cake and cook dinner. I let hope in.

It meant that at 5.30pm when he rang to say he had to wait around for an emergency case and was unlikely to get out before 8.30pm, the weight of my hope crushed me. I think it was more than the hope from that day. It was the cumulative effect of all the hope I have suppressed for five months. The truth is, every night and every weekend, I secretly hope I will have my friend around. I might have become adept at mostly hiding that hope even from myself, but on Friday I could hide no more. I lost it.

I was feeding the girls their dinner and I couldn’t stop crying. I am no stranger to crying; I find it quite therapeutic but it doesn’t usually happen in front of the girls. Miss I immediately asked “Mummy what wrong with you?” The best I could do was return a line I’ve heard from her many times. “I miss Daddy and want him to come home.” She replied with a line I’ve used many times. “But Daddy say he will be really, really late tonight.”

He was and even though he arrived bearing gifts; Thai, wine and the most thoughtful present* I’ve ever received, the floodgates had opened. Once you realise you aren’t coping – or that you don’t want to cope anymore – it’s hard to unrealise that. Particularly when it then pours with rain and your husband has to work all weekend**. Happy days!!!! Not.

The good news is I’m flying to my parents’ home tomorrow where I will be doing a stellar impression of an adolescent with two much younger siblings until the weekend. On the weekend I will resume my existence as an adult and we’ll reunite with Mr G for a week together in Yamba. Not a minute too soon.    

 

* Mr G published the first two years of this blog into a beautiful book complete with the funniest foreword ever written by Joyce. If I obtain her permission I may even publish it here.

**With the exception of Saturday night when we went out for dinner. It was probably the worst meal we’ve ever had out in nine years. It really wasn’t our weekend.    

What frogs eat

I have learned many things since becoming a parent. I have learned how to feed, swaddle and burp a newborn. I have learned that self-settling is a vital skill to impart upon an infant no matter how painstaking it is for the parents. I have learned that if there are plans in the afternoon, a child will invariably sleep longer than usual. I have learned that just as reliably the same children will cut their naps short if the diary is empty. I have learned how to collapse multiple models of prams with one hand and how to assemble, and disassemble, a travel cot in under a minute. I’ve also come to learn just how much I don’t know. Actually it’s something of a recurring lesson at the moment as I attempt to answer Miss I’s endless stream of questions.

Some, of course, are easy to answer.

“What I having my dinner Mummy?” Ravioli. (At least that’s the answer often enough.) 

“Why you stop driving Mummy?” Because it’s a red light and cars have to stop at red lights.

“Why?” Because that’s the rule.

“Why rules?” Well the rules keep everyone safe. (Best not get bogged down in detail?)

“Why you driving now Mummy?” Because it’s a green light and cars have to drive at green lights.

“Why?” Rules.  

“Why rules?” Are you getting bored now???

Then there are questions which I’m quite comfortable not knowing the answer to.

“Where the postman live?” I’m not sure exactly where his home is but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want us to know. (Although, come to think of it, he quite clearly knows where we live. Again best to avoid details?)

“Where my teacher Anna live?” Same as above.

“Why Daddy a boy Mummy? He just is.

“What you having dinner Mummy?” Whatever our butler prepares.

“Who our butler?” A happy figment of Mummy’s imagination.

“What magination Mummy?” (Schoolgirl error. I walked right into that.) Would you like ravioli for dinner?    

The questions that trouble me though are the ones I think I ought reasonably know the answers to.

“Why the sky blue?” Errr, something to do with light and reflection.

“What frogs eat?” Errrr, lillipads?? (I’m really not sure).

 

“Where the butterflies sleep?” In the trees. (At least I think so??)

“What’s that?” Your shadow.

"What a shadow?" Errr, light and reflection again. Would you like ravioli for dinner?

“Why Lulu crying Mummy? Hmmm...

“Why the trees no leaves?” Well it’s winter and some trees lose their leaves during winter.

“Why?” Well, you see, when it gets cold...would you like a cupcake?

The problem, as I currently see it, is that her questions, and eventually Miss L’s, are only going to get harder. I'm not going to know the answers and ravioli might not always distract them effectively. (Though I imagine cupcakes always will.) I will be able to easily guide them through reading and basic maths. I will be able to talk them through government policy on childcare, explain why their father is a feminist, why I think sport matters and why keeping windows open does not let the heat in. I might never be able to explain why I wasn’t invited to the Royal wedding but I will be able to describe the wedding in fantastic detail. Should they accept it I have plenty of knowledge to impart; from my parenting philosophies to dealing with the dishwasher to massive generalisations on the basis of gender. So there’s a bit I think I can add. But. Notwithstanding my profound wisdom sound knowledge base I fear there is much more that I cannot explain than I can.

My grasp on the intricacies of the animal kingdom is tenuous. At best. I’m not particularly well informed about basic biology or weather patterns. I don’t know how planes fly or cars drive or how electricity works. I know nothing about plumbing or drains or town planning. I can’t build or renovate or even paint. There’s heaps of stuff I just don’t know. So I’m curious; how will our girls overcome the limits of my knowledge?

Of course there are other people who can teach them. Their dad, Mr G, for example is particularly practical and well versed in subjects I am not. Between us we cover some ground but Mr G isn’t always here. So when the questions come through about the Boer war or why towns were settled at the base of hills or why the tv isn’t working, chances are they’ll be stuck with me. And I won’t know the answer. And if it's the tv question Mr G won't know either.

School, of course, will help but that’s at least two years away. I can only imagine how many questions I will field before then and, knowing Miss I, I’m doubtful “Why don’t you wait til you get to school?” will cut it. It’s another reason I think children need as much exposure to a village of people (preferably with differing areas of expertise) as possible. Broaden the net and just hope that when the tricky questions come they’re posed to the right person. On that note does anyone want to volunteer to be a friend on the phone? Just nominate a category of knowledge and I’ll keep you on file. By all means put me on your own file. I'm available for questions on: royalty, childcare and rocky road. 

The fraud of Facebook

I love Facebook. I love that it keeps me updated with family and friends and I love that it lets family and friends stay updated with me. It might not replace real-life interactions but I love that it makes small connections possible when lengthy catch-ups aren’t. I can’t easily fly to America or Hong Kong or England but I can easily ‘like’ a picture or comment on a status and let a friend know they’re in my thoughts if not my diary. And vice versa. That might sound anti-social but it’s also life and that’s the reason I’d say Facebook enhances mine; it facilitates friendships when distance or time might otherwise not. While I have no hesitation in saying that I enjoy it I also recognise it as a fraud.

I’ve thought this many times but a few weekends ago it hit me once again. We had just celebrated Miss I’s third birthday. It was the happiest birthday party imaginable. The sun shined and Miss I was beside herself to spend a few hours at the park with a handful of her lovely little friends with unlimited access to chocolate crackles, cupcakes and a Peppa Pig birthday cake. (And, as requested, Balloons, bubbles and ballet shoes.) That night a friend sent through a photo she’d taken of our little family during the cake-cutting. The four of us are smiling away and there is real joy in our eyes. I posted it on Facebook as a memento of the day and then a day or so later, the fraud, hit me.     

The lovely smiley family picture itself isn’t contrived and doesn’t, on its own, tell a lie. It captured a moment of joy as it happened. It wasn’t airbrushed and it wasn’t even posed. The fraud though is that it only tells part of the story; the happiest part. I’ll tell you what it didn’t capture.

It didn’t show that we’d been up all night with Miss L. That we were in the midst of a bitter week-long battle to wean her off her night-time feeds. And, off the back of seven months of broken sleep, a week-long battle, hosted in the wee hours of the night or morning or whatever you call it, is shattering. It is not remotely enjoyable. It is a breeding ground for irrational marital disputes. (Come to think of it any dispute, marital or otherwise, that occurs between the hours of 11pm and 5am is probably not steeped in reason is it?)

It was a hellish week. Friday effectively started at 4.30am which was bad enough without an unpleasant encounter with our otherwise kind neighbour who at 7am expressed her, quite legitimate, disapproval with Miss L and myself. I was so far from loving life in that moment it wasn’t funny. Throw in trying to organise a party, waiting for job news, a hectic week at work for Mr G, a small insurance issue and the rest… So for a variety of, mostly sleep-deprived, reasons we’d had a pretty tense old week.

But if you only saw that smiley happy birthday picture, and had escaped the misfortune of actually talking to me that day, you might not know that. You might look at that photo and think family life looks pretty terrific. Which is fine because, as that photo shows, there are lots of times when family life is pretty terrific. But it’s only part of the picture. The good bit. 

And that is Facebook to a tee: just the good bits of the picture. Which is fine when it’s taken that way; when you realise the happy smiley photos are the happy smiley moments. The fraud begins if you start to think it is the whole picture. That the absence of photos of couples bickering or babies crying through the night or a frustrated mother stuck at home with a temperamental toddler or a person battling with a bullying boss or feeling sick or just going through the motions, is because those things aren’t happening. They’re happening. They’re just not on Facebook.

There is never a time when I think the discrepancy between real life and Facebook is more obvious than when someone has a baby. If you had never met someone with a baby and just peered through albums of new mothers and fathers with their tiny babies on Facebook it’s entirely possible you’d get yours home and think there’d been a huge mistake. Crying??? They don’t cry on Facebook! They just lie there, swaddled, looking completely serene and blissful. Un-showered??? But those mums on Facebook always look completely serene and blissful and showered!!! Bored??? No-one told me that lying on the floor doing tummy time would occasionally make me so bored I’m batty. Fighting??? What on earth would we argue about? We’ve got a beautiful baby!! Isn’t that all we ever need???

The point is not that anyone sets out to be misleading. It’s just that the irritating and tricky parts of life don’t photograph particularly well. The result is Facebook is life airbrushed. It’s the happiest moments captured in the most flattering photos devoid of drudgery. Over at FB I’m as guilty of that as anyone else but here, in words, I can shatter that illusion. Not that you'd be under any such illusion if you read this but the truth is my life is sometimes boring and tricky. How could I take a picture of that??

What are your thoughts on the book of face?  

A new agenda

This blog is obviously quite personal. I do, when factors conspire in my favour, write about things that are much bigger and more interesting than my little life. On occasion I have written about topics including equality, shameful conduct in the Catholic Church and the importance of feminism. But, most of the time, regular readers will attest, I write about my little life. Sometimes in great detail and sometimes from afar. It always depends on what strikes me when the time to write presents itself and then again when the time to publish, and fiddle about with the backend of a blog, arises. (Those two things rarely happen in the same sitting.)

I don’t ever think too much about what I should or shouldn’t write about. The only definite limitations on allowable subject matter are Mr G’s single stipulation, that I do not identify him by name, and not wanting this to be a forum to offend or embarrass anyone. Other than myself obviously. But, week to week, I guess I do make little subconscious judgement calls about what I share and what I don’t. To be honest there’s not a huge amount I don’t share. If you were to read this blog regularly you would have a pretty accurate understanding of what’s happening in this particular part of the world at any given time. Albeit with a two week time lag (and devoid of any highly offensive thoughts that may have crossed my mind in the given period).

But this week there is no such lag. I have some news, and whilst on the one hand I can’t shake the sense that it might be completely self-absorbed to share it, on the other hand I can’t really not. Because aside from anything else there’s quite a bit I need to workshop with you and it’s going to have some repercussions here. I have got a new job!!! In a bit over a month I will become the acting editor of a fantastic website that I hope you will start frequenting soon, if you don’t already.

None of my excitement about this new job stems from not loving my old job. Au contraire. The day I finished work before having Miss L I thought, and later wrote, how lucky I was to be leaving a job I enjoyed so much. To me the fact I felt sad to be bidding my role and my workmates a temporary farewell spoke volumes about my affection for that job. Having experienced both career dissonance and a period of brutal unemployment (save for a few soul destroying temporary roles) I sincerely appreciate the incredible fortune in having a job that provides enjoyment and fulfilment. (In addition to the other more obvious benefits of steady employment: regular income and, every working parent’s favourite pleasure, the opportunity to drink a coffee uninterrupted.) It is a lottery that I was lucky to win.

I realise I’m possibly tempting fate by giving something else a go but nothing ventured nothing gained. At least I hope so!! It is a little bit scary but also a big bit exciting. It means, once I start, I will be writing less about my little life here but I’ll be writing more about the bigger stuff over there. In the meantime I am getting myself closely acquainted with the finer details of the childcare shortage. I REALLY should have spoken to Mr Abbott when I had the chance!!