Christmas morning birthday thought stream

6 times this day has greeted me without your presence
6 times the sorrow has refused to be absent
In the midst of making a joyful Christmas celebration for your children
It's hard to prepare or take time for grief
The pain has less sharpness now
But its reality defies forgetting you

Family and friends who seldom remembered when you were living
Have no need to remember so far into death
But my heart knows.
I know and weep silent early morning tears

Happy Christmas
Merry Birthday my love.

Lack of grief empathy.

Since I'm quite sure I no longer have readers, I feel quite safe in saying that I am going to scream at the next person who tells me they feel life is hardly worth living now that their 90+ year old parent has died. Their 90+ year old parent who has been ill for some time.

A woman told me on the weekend that you don't become an adult until you are an orphan.

Well, I'm no orphan but I sure as hell feel like an adult.

All three women I know in this category have husbands, adult children, good incomes, lavish houses and a complete lack of sympathy from me. Though I do try and say the right things before I excuse myself from the conversation.

Googling the past

I just took a google street view of where I grew up. It's kind of odd I hadn't thought of doing this before - I guess I didn't expect that google had sent a car to such an out of the way little place. But they had.

Now I haven't even visited that patch of the world for 17 years. Yet I have no problems closing my eyes and picturing the whole 11 mile journey along the road to town, where I went to school. I could probably close my eyes and picture the whole 26 mile journey the bus took along narrow dirt roads to get me to and from school, but that would take tooooooo long. (It took an hour and a half each way.)

There on my computer screen was the road I walked to the double bridges to catch the school bus. Of course it's half the width I remember it. There was the creek I'd swim in. The bend where the platypus lived. The hills I galloped my horse on. The bush I rode to, then nestled in, being soothed by nature. The memories flooded in. An echidna curled into a spikey ball, my horse smelling it, puzzled. My dog being run over as it traversed the road that intersected our farm. The hill I enjoyed the view of distant mountains from. The oppressive humid heat of summer. The dam that froze over in winter. The snakes killed on the walk home from school. Memories jostled for room at every swing of the google camera.

The house.My gut knotted at the sight and I hovered only momentarily, returning to panning across farming acres. I've always escaped the house, and the ugliness that had a life in there, by taking to the paddocks and the bushland. I'd actually forgotten I did that. It was an unexpected memory and not a welcome one. At first I was sorry I'd dragged it to the surface. A day or two has passed now, and I'm ok with it. I long ago accepted that my parents were not ideal, and also that having them as parents has made me compassionate to others in a way I would not otherwise be.

Still. I hope my children don't feel that if they google our house 30 years from now.

Not Pollyanna Day.

I know that happiness is a decision.

Today I want to decide on the side of unhappy.

I want to talk to someone who will listen to my gripes and petty grumbles. But there is no-one.

I feel totally misunderstood in my work environment. I am just not on the same wavelength and I'm sick of sucking it up. I have to accept it's me not them, but I don't want to be them. I wish I was sweet natured and let their little power plays and incompetencies just pass me by. But I am not and I'm sick of trying to be.

I want a weekend off. A night off even.

Blergh.

I think I'll drop Davey off to Youth Group and eat chocolate for dinner.

It's them not me.

You know what I hate?

I hate that whenever I mention things I did with my late husband they look at me as if I've used unsavoury language while talking about a politically incorrect topic. The politically incorrect topic being my life.

They can talk about things their husband did 10 years ago, 10 months ago, 10 weeks ago, 10 minutes ago. Apparently that's quite acceptable.

Me using the one option available to me is not.

Apparently I'm supposed to wipe all memory of my husband. I guess my children were immaculately conceived.

I've adjusted to being a widow. It's the world around me that has an issue with it.

Happy camper

Davey's back from camp and hasn't stopped talking about it. He had a great time. He even discovered he liked healthy food thanks to Nathan the hippy who was Davey's group outdoor adventure guide.

He also learned that getting in and getting jobs done was very satisfying. The cynic in me knows he's still a 15 year old who gets distracted, but it's a beginning of the knowledge groove in his brain.

This is one of those times when I know the school fees are good value :)

Responsibility breather

I took Davey to school this morning, even though it's Sunday. And I took him at 6.30am when it was nippy around his bare shins as he wore the required shorts.

Davey's off to camp in the cold hinterland with his school year for the next 4 days. I'm sure he'll have a great time. His wry comment was that he was sure he'd think it had been fun once he'd returned and could laugh about events with his friends. He seemed fairly convinced it wasn't going to feel like fun while he was actually experiencing it!

As it's a bush adventure style camp with canoeing, abseiling, hiking, mountain biking, oh and tent pitching and lack of showering facilities thrown in for good measure, what's not for a 15 year old to love?

Meantime, back at the homestead, I feel an immediate lessening of responsibility. I don't have to be mindful of him and his activities, organise my schedule around him, organise our food to consider his likes, organise his school lunch. I'm amazed at the difference it makes!

But I'll love it when he's home again too.

I have joy. But fun?

Thanks for the love - a little makes a lot of difference!

I sat in beautiful sunshine on the soccer sidelines this morning, all snuggled up in a scarf and warm jacket, and contemplated things.

One of them being just how many people piss me off. And hankering after an easy life. I'm just worn down by keeping up ya know? I think it's because of that, when people want me to explain my reason for every damn thing I do or don't do, I feel so exasperated.

I have a few good friends who don't need explanations. They know I have thought-out reasons for most things. I'm like that. It's the people who don't really know me who want explanations I don't want to give. Like the people I work with. I don't dislike them as people, though I don't enjoy working with them, and they're just not on my wave length. They have different life values and motivations, so even if I do explain my reasons to them, they don't understand. One day I'm going to ask them if they feel I don't approve of stuff they do, and I know the answer will be no, because I go out of my way to offer support for they choices they make, for they are their choices. I wish they'd offer me the same consideration.

The parents of my son's soccer team are in the same category, so I choose to sit separately so their sideline conversations don't annoy me. (He's playing for a different club this year, and I'm really missing the parents from his old team.) That way at least I enjoy being outdoors with nothing more to do than watch.

That's something I really dislike about the way offices are organised. I can't sit separately and just get on with stuff. In my old job I really enjoyed the people I worked with. Sigh. I wish I had other options. This IS the option if have chosen and it remains the best option for me and my teenagers, and I know it won't be like this forever, but there are days... There are days I hanker after a different life. An easier life. A less responsible life.

Not closed for business after all

Ok, so I haven't blogged in 3 months and then I turn up again. I often ponder closing the blog, but I just can't make myself do it. I have things to say! I have things I want to get off my chest.

It's not just time that prevents me doing so, it's having to explain circumstances so they make sense to the reader. However, as there are no readers, I've realised I'm free to simply write away. Not long posts, as I don't have time for that. Just little snippets about my teenagers, about my job, about life.

These are the days.

I pottered in my kitchen preparing dinner and cooking lunchbox goodies, thankful that it's Wednesday. On Wednesday's I don't have to take Davey to any lessons, groups, sports, and I love it. (Zinni goes to the gym, but hurrah! she has a licence so drives herself.)

I was about to turn the kitchen tv on so I could watch the local news while I cooked, when Zinni settled in to her desk. The desk I bought for her, and placed on the other side of the kitchen counter because she loves to have someone near as she studies. Zinni's in her last year of school and is taking her study seriously. I have a stand offish approach to school work. I might ask my children (well, these days, just Davey) if they have homework, then I leave it up to them. If they don't do it they wear the consequences at school and on their their teacher's mark sheets. Now that Zinni is focused and self disciplined, I know that my strategy has worked for at least 50% of my children! Anyway, back to the kitchen and wanting to watch the local news. I looked at Zinni and realised I didn't want to break her concentration. Zinni would not object to me putting the news on, but she would be distracted by it. So, I reminded myself that I could check the news on line later. The study time couldn't be replaced, the news could be, and this was an easy contribution to make to Zinni's study effort.

I was content with my thoughts, when Davey walked through the kitchen to the next room where the piano is (the rooms are separated by a large archway and the piano is visible from the kitchen). As he began playing my spirits lifted. Davey plays beautifully. He doesn't play in public, that's not his thing. He plays for sheer joy. Not just mine either, his as well!

So there I was cooking away, Zinni was plying her mind to her books, Davey his fingers to the piano keys, and life felt all right. I wasn't foregoing or sacrificing anything. I was living; and living surrounded by love and beauty.

These, these are the days my friends.

Great Good Friday.

I had great plans to do not very much apart from baking hot cross buns today. However after church this morning we made a little detour to deliver painkillers to a friend who'd injured his back and had no strong painkillers in his house and everything's closed on Good Friday so he was in a predicament. (Yes, you're meant to read that in one breath. I know you'll have to rush the last part because you'll be running out of breath, but that's how I want it read OK?) Anyway, back to the strong painkillers which I had and my friend needed. We delivered them and somehow stayed to help his wife pack their house up for the next 8 hours - moving house is a terrible time for him to do his back in!

Anyway, it's now 10pm and I'm about to pop those hot cross buns in the oven. A little later than expected, but I've had a great Good Friday. Helping someone else move is so much easier than moving yourself! It was enjoyable even.

New interest in dancing.

My soon to be 15 year old son attended his first school social tonight.

He asked this afternoon if it would be OK if he went. Of course I said yes.

He's always looked at me as though I were a mad woman when I've previously asked if he'd like to attend.

When I picked him up he told me he'd had the BEST time.

And yes, I did restrain myself. I didn't ask what her name is.

:0

I think language should be a barrier to love. Logically speaking.

I continue to have random thoughts I want to put voice to, and so, I continue to return to this blog. Just in case someone may remember to check it and read it.

Today's thought was along the lines of wondering how two people who don't speak the same language can fall in love. A local girl with very little Spanish recently married a South American man with very little English. When they first met Laura spoke no Spanish and Juan spoke no English.

So, how did they move beyond what I assume (and possible incorrectly!) was their initial sexual fling? How do you come to want to spend the rest of your life with someone you can't discuss books, news items, politics, religious views or whose turn it is to mow the lawn with?

I can't imagine how it's done.

Oh, how things turn.

From being really angry at my daughter a few hours ago, I'm feeling really, really proud of her right now.

Zinni and Davey attend our church youth group every Friday night. Before youth group a group of them meet for dinner at Subway. 2 years ago the Subway group was only 5 or 6 teenagers. Last year it grew to 8 or 9. This year it has suddenly exploded to around 15. There's really only my 2 teenagers left of the original group, as the others have recently moved off to start uni life. The new, larger group is made up of mostly 14 year olds. Silly 14 year olds. Silly 14 year olds who attend a Christian school, think they're morally superior and are witty when they mouth of at tough kids who are occasionally hanging around Subway too.

Davey had warned a couple of boys that it's not smart to mouth off at tough kids who have nothing to lose. Davey, my gentle boy who has spent 7 of his 9 school years at a State school, knows about tough kids and generally has no problem with them.

The Christian school kids thought they knew better and mouthed off again tonight. The tough boys put their chests and chins out and were looking to start a fight by chesting up to the mouthy but weak boys. Zinni, who chose to join the group at Subway for only the second time this year, calmly walked up to the toughest boy, put her hand on his chest (where she could feel his heart beating at a gazillion miles an hour) and quietly said "You don't want to do this." He allowed her to turn him around and guide him away from the group while telling him not to listen to the silly boys and telling the silly boys to stop talking NOW.

Somehow it worked. The tough boys did what the nice girl asked them to, the silly boys also did what the nice girl asked them to do, and all ended well.

And Davey? Well Davey is bursting with pride at his sister. The same sister who he commented this morning makes him really mad. He was impressed with how calm she was, how nicely she spoke to the tough boys, how commanding she was in gently maneuvering the toughest boy away. Davey (and a couple of the other boys) have said that all the boys were hopeless, and none of them knew quite what to do, so Zinni's being hailed as a hero!

And hooray for kids with State school smarts!

Anger makes me return to blogging.

I've just yelled at my daughter.

I'd like to storm off to my bedroom and slam the door.

Instead I'm sitting here working out how to apologise to her.

I'm sick of being the grown up. Really sick of it.