Dressing UP

Today’s the day I’ve been waiting for to share something very exciting with you!  My friend wrote a book. And it is a goodie!

This post is a shamelessly enthusiastic plug*  for it. It’s an e-book and it’s packed FULL of stuff you thought you already knew, but then realise you had no idea about. See, she’s that girl who knows her stuff when it comes to organising your wardrobe and your personal style at the same time. And she has put it together in a big bundle of colourful info and useful printables, just for girls like us!

I’m telling you about it because when you find a good thing, woman-code demands it is only right to share it with your friends.
This may just be exactly what you need to inject some calm into your New Year.
I know it has already changed mine.

I was lucky enough to get a sneak peek of this before it went on sale. It got me from the morning ‘what do I wear?’ sigh …to a wardrobe high!   If you need some clever ideas on how to make your clothes work for you, this book may well become your new best friend (it even ‘reads’ like your good friend, the one who is practical but savvy, kind and smart).  If you need to know how to sort your wardrobe or even discover what your style is, in the first place, then it’s for you, too!

For years, my ‘style’ was all about dressing down. Trying to make myself invisible with various combinations of black or, on a daring day, neutrals.  I’d cover it all with a voluminous scarf and hope that no-one noticed me. Have you ever dressed like this?  Back then, my sense of self and fashion had been significantly de-railed by Pandysautonomia; six years of struggling to deal with nasty symptoms and the search for answers and treatment. I spent a lot of time in my pyjamas, or if I was going out, in jeans and t-shirts. I dressed up only occasionally.

Maybe you’re also unwell, or a busy mum (also challenging!) or uninspired. I can’t be the only one who has ever surveyed their wardrobe and lost the will to make an effort.  Over time I forgot how much I used to love fashion.  Forgot that colour makes me happy.

Since going into remission and discovering modelling, I’ve been converted into dressing UP; maybe it is all that trying on of things I would never necessarily pick up in a shop. It broke me out of my old habits. It makes me feel good now, to dress up. Better about myself. More put together. Stronger, more confident. To say that my wardrobe is fit to busting with the most ridiculous array of items now is an understatement because when I got well, I hit the shops running.

But could I find all this loveliness when I needed it? No. My wardrobe itself is sooo small, that’s an issue for sure, but there was no organisation or system going on in there. It was a scary place where all my fashion dreams went to die. I hated trying to come up with outfits I was happy with.

That’s why, when I heard that Monique would be sharing her wardrobe expertise via an e-book, I eagerly waved my hand and asked if I could preview it!  If you haven’t come across her before (she’s the boss lady who convinced me to do that swimsuit shoot), you can check out her style on her instagram feed or her blog. She’s got skills and she is a genuinely lovely person! You’ll like her, I promise.

 

But back to the issue at hand. You see my problem is,

I don’t like people seeing my bedroom.

Even my closest friends. It’s the bottom of my priority list in our home …and looks it, mostly because I can shut the door on it. The shortage of decent clothing storage has meant piles of things overflow from our tiny wardrobe into various stacks and baskets that litter the floor. The ironing table is permanently up, and serves as another place to ‘store’ things.  Argh! It’s a big mess.

I realise I have basically let you all see it, now I have described it!

I’ve dreamed about getting Monique over in her stylist capacity to do a ‘wardrobe edit’ but I can’t bear her seeing the way things are in here! The shame!

Well, Monique doesn’t want any of us to miss out on fashion freedom because of silly reasons like that! So she wrote her book for all of us. People who want to feel in control of their style, their wardrobe and their mornings but might feel embarrassed about their ‘before’ state. Her e-book is a kind, reassuring friendly voice full of practical and fascinating insight. You will thank yourself for getting into it.  I learned so much! I started clearing out that overwhelming fashion wilderness and I’m excited again about dressing up.  So many options I forgot were mine! Are you keen to fall in love with forgotten favourites again, too?

If you’d like to buy Monique’s e-book, there is an early bird special running for this week, where you can buy it for $20. That’s only like five coffees …or three smoothies. And it is worth every cent!  It has already saved me from buying more clothes.  The hubster is ecstatic!!

After the first week it will cost $24 (and is still totally worth it) but get in on the advance price and then you’ll have spare cash to buy me a thank you coffee later (!) Better make it takeaway so we can drink it while we take a tour through the wardrobe in my bedroom. Because now, you can come on in!

click here to check it out!

 

*full disclosure: if you make that (excellent) decision to click through from my blog and buy Monique’s e-book, I will receive an affiliate commission on the sale. I like to know these things when I am reading posts on other people’s blogs, so I’m telling you in case you do too.

Bad Words: a parenting strategy

I often think it’s funny that I write about parenting, because I am not a stellar parent. I make mistakes and my kids will tell you I am often inconsistent, sometimes unfair, I can err on the side of controlling (which is usually my response to anxiety) and there have probably been many times when they have wished they had a different mother, even if only for a day!

But there is one aspect of parenting that I think I got right; something happened this morning that reminded me of it… and it made me smile.

We live next door to a kindergarten. My son was a kindy kid there and I have always loved that I could watch him play through my kitchen window. Now that he is a big Year 5 kid, I still sometimes remember his little self as I see all those little kids during their playtime. They’re adorable. And sometimes, they are challenging little so-and-so’s… just like him.

Today, there is a spirited little girl next door. She charged out into the playground that borders our house and began her reign of terror among her playmates, running through the sandpit, kicking all the buckets, making merry mayhem.

“SHUTUP!” she bellowed at the first person who spoke to her. Immediately, a teacher approached, crouched down and said gently
“We don’t say that word here.”

I could see her sizing up her teacher as if to say, ‘good for you. But we is not me‘.  At her full tiny height that little girl retorted, right into her teacher’s face,
“SHUT!
UUUUP!”  
The teacher sighed and said more firmly, “that’s a bad word. We don’t use it here.”

Five more times the girl yelled the word, every time anyone said anything to her. Eventually the teacher said, tight-lipped and in a that’s the end of that, tone,
“You. cannot. use. that. word. at. our. kindy.”
The girl gulped. Turned and ran off to the corner of the playground, where she encountered another little person.

“THUCK!” she screamed in his face, and grinned. He registered that whatever that word was, it was pretty impressive. He gathered in all his breath and tried it out for himself,
“thUCK! thuck!  THUCK THUCK THUCK!”

My phone rang, so I left my window and answered it.  I don’t know how the ‘bad word episode’ finished. But I can imagine her poor Mum will get a call tonight.  Toddlers, just beginning to acquire language, love trying out new words. They love the sound of them, the power of them. And when some words are used by adults with total conviction, they notice them immediately. They hear them on the TV, in their kitchen, when their parents are fighting, or from older friends and siblings. You cannot avoid little kids hearing swear words, it will happen.  And it is natural for them to want to try those potent suckers out.

Once, when my girl was a sweet little pigtailed toddler, one of her favourite toys broke. She took it to her Daddy, the fixer-upper and he asked,
“What is wrong with it?”
she replied confidently,
“-it’s fucked”.
We were floored. Ashamed, horrified.

When I had regained some composure I sat down with her and told her that she hadn’t done anything wrong, but I needed to tell her that there are some words that are only for grown ups. That word “fucked” is a word she can only choose to use when she’s as big as Mummy and Daddy, but until then, she could say “stuffed” or “munted” or simply “broken”.  She wanted to know why she could only choose that word when she is bigger and I told her that when she was bigger and her brain knew more stuff, she would know when it was okay to say that word. It’s a tricky word, because sometimes, when you say it, people get very upset.  I didn’t call it a “bad word” because I honestly believe there are no such things as bad words, just different words for expressing different things. The definition of the word may be negative, but the word itself is not.  In our house, we call swear words grown-up words.

Of course, every kid is different, so our approach with the little man was appropriate for him, but the message was the same. He was older, and when we had the discussion about those words with him, he wanted to know all the words that we considered to be grown up words. We told him. And very occasionally, in the car, I let them both have a go at saying one or two of those words. They say them at least ten times, they laugh them, they shout them, they whisper them. I explain what their chosen word means, which is usually accompanied with shock. And then, we agree that they won’t use that word in public until they are grown ups, and then, only if it is the best choice.  Let’s face it, sometimes it will be.

I’ll never forget the universal power of the expression “fuck off”. I used it when I was a young woman being harassed by a stranger in Germany. I said it to him with anger, with all the intimidation I could muster. I don’t even know if he spoke English, but he fucked off!  A win for choice language.

Being reasonable with the kids about swear words has taken away the mystique. Explaining why it’s not okay to use them, and letting them try them out in a controlled environment worked a treat for us. Occasionally, there are things that need further explaining, like why it’s offensive to use the name of a religion’s God as a term for exasperation. But so far, so good. It’s a parenting win I’m happy to lay claim to… (so far, here come the teenage years so we’ll see how that goes, haha)!

I just thought I would write about it in case there are any of you with little ones who are about to launch into word experimentation. It might work for you, too.
But right now, I’m going to walk around my house and quietly list all the things in my life that are thucked, all the things that are not, and feel grateful that I get to mother these funny creatures.  I hope when the mother of the little girl next door gets that phone call tonight about her daughter’s playground vernacular, she is able to put it all into perspective. I like a kid with a bit of chutzpah.  You can teach a kid many things, but you can’t teach a kid to have spirit. I predict a future in communications for that one, she’ll go far.

 

Mother of God

My mother in law Mary has just passed away, you might have read about that here recently.  She slipped away late in the quiet of night.  I like to think of her last exhale as a sigh; no more struggle. I like to imagine her now, free to move. Happy, laughing and feeling at ease.

The last time we saw her she was having a good day. My husband cracked a joke and her face broke into a sudden grin; she laughed and we saw a glimpse again of the Mary, Mum and Nanna that we know. I like to think about that moment and I am grateful she got to share a laugh with her son. She loved him so much.

In the beginning, I used to think of her irreverently, as
‘Mary: Mother of God’
…because, like many doting mums, the sun rose and shone in the eyes of her boy. As if he himself were God! I thought wryly.  It seemed that he could do no wrong, and when we visited, her whole world would shift to revolve around him completely. I remember we were talking about him one day, soon after he and I had got back together again after a breakup; I stated what I thought was the obvious, “-yes, but even he is not perfect you know, Mary”. She looked at me and her mouth dropped open, just for a second, and I realised that in her eyes, he just was.

mary-mother-of-god-iconOf course, I wasn’t a mother myself then, and now that I am, I understand her better. In her eyes, her son was perfect. She loved him completely and unconditionally.  That kind of love is the special reserve of mothers. He is a lucky guy to have been so loved, so adored. I’m sure it is part of why his self esteem is so robust. She has always been his unwavering cheer squad, his bringer of supper and endless cups of tea.

Sometimes, believing that your kids are perfect makes it hard to love their partners. Mary and I didn’t think the same way, and there were times that I thought we would never breach the awkward misunderstandings between us. It seemed impossible for her to know that we were actually allies in the same quest; to love the man she raised and the man I chose. Maybe I just wasn’t the sort of girl she understood, but I always felt the love I gave him was not the love she thought he needed.  I agonised over it for years, wondering how I could do better or convince her that my intentions were pure.

I suppose it is common in mother-in-law/ daughter-in-law relationships. Many of my friends would say I am not alone. I persevered with the relationship because I knew that family was more important than those feelings. That there would be a time when she might need me.   As she got sicker and the Parkinson’s Dementia took hold, she often spoke to me about Rachel, her son’s wife. Because in those conversations, to her, I was someone else entirely. During those times, I enjoyed a friendship with Mary that I hadn’t experienced before. It was quite good for both of us.  I’m grateful for all those times when we were able to see each other through fresh eyes, and find something in each other to love.

The visit before last, in a rare moment of lucidity, she told me she just wanted her boys to be happy. My mother heart understood that so completely. Her eyes seemed to implore me to take up the torch, to make sure of it. I held her hands and told her I would do everything I could, but I knew even as I said it, that neither she, nor I could do enough to ensure her sons’ happiness. And that is the pain of love. To want to make everything perfect, to smooth the way, to lower the barrier, to ease the burden. We wish to do this for the ones we love even though we know that  we cannot control the hardships of life. They are not ours to command.

I held him in my arms after we heard that she had passed. He’s a big guy, my hubster. I held that big man and listened to the boy within, as the realisation began to wash over him. I held him and I thought about how far happiness was in that moment, and I offered him instead, comfort. Empathy. I listened and I helped him pack his suitcase. I made him a coffee for the midnight drive home.  I wished I could take away the shock, the loss, the thoughts of what might have been.  I know from my own loss, that those things are the price we pay for having had the love of a great mother. I could no longer take them from him than take the sun from the sky.

I think of Mary and imagine her soaring high above us, her eagle eyes watching out for her boys like she always has.

I know I am failing her still, failing to make him happy in the ways she wanted for him. I cannot be the sort of wife she wished me to be. I will not subject myself to the sort of life many women of her generation chose. I just cannot believe in my heart of hearts that the pathway to marital happiness lies that way. At least, it certainly doesn’t for the hubster and I.  When I am subservient to him, it simply breeds resentment. It’s not our recipe for success.

Still, these days I feel softly towards her for her expectations. In my head, I ask her to forgive me for not meeting them, because I simply can’t.  I ask her to look again at him, to notice. He loves an imperfect woman, lives an imperfect life.  And, he is already happy, in all the ways that count the most.

Rest now; mother Mary.  Rest safe in the knowledge that in any way I can, I carry your love forward into the future. I cannot mother him as you did, those times for him are treasured and past. But your boy, he’s safe in my arms,
I promise.

I don’t think there is a more fitting song than this one for this post, it was written by Paul McCartney, about his own mother Mary who died when he was 14. This one is a cover by Vazquez Sound, I just loved that it was sung by a child, because nothing renders you closer to your inner child than the passing of your mum.  So this is for my man, and for me too.

A Stitch in Time

Some years ago, I had a rather significant operation. I called it the ‘hitch and stitch’. An internal lady parts renovation. One part of that renovation called for my uterus to be stitched up via my pelvic ligaments to my spine. It was a great thing to do, for good reasons, and it worked. But the stitch on the left side seemed to be the cause of debilitating pain through my pelvis and down my left leg and ankle. I’ve been managing it since then; pain, pain meds, the endless juggle of when I can take them and have the relief I so need.

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Waiting for surgery.

When you are taking really strong meds, there are some things that just aren’t right to do, like drive your kids around, or work. You can’t rock up to a teaching or a modelling job with a floaty head because you’ve just taken your oxynorm. So on the days I worked, I just had to deal with the pain. There have been many tears shed or short words delivered to my nearest and dearest when I am back home after a day of smiling through pain.

Pain sucks.

I’ve learnt to adjust things as I go. Thinking all the time “can I take my pills yet? When will they kick in if I take them now? What else do I need my brain for today?” and then, the pill is swallowed and the other-worldly, floaty absence begins. Sometimes, when it kicks in, I cry with relief.

I am still aware of the pain when I take my pills, but I no longer care about it. Unfortunately, I no longer care about most things when I am in that state and finding words is a challenge. I might drift off mid-sentence, or repeat the same thing multiple times.  Writing for this blog doesn’t work when I am under the influence of my pills, or doing the freelance work I used to enjoy so much. So I’ve written less.

Managing pain meds makes me anxious, because I don’t want to give myself an addiction problem. I also hate my kids seeing me like that, tuned out. I often don’t take my meds when perhaps I should for that reason. But what can you do? Life goes on. Mother work doesn’t seem to be outsource-able. Pain just exists and we survive it. Centuries of women have dealt with women’s issues and got through. And if we can’t, we fall in a heap for a while… and if we’re lucky, the troops rally.

I have felt so fortunate to be in remission from Pandysautonomia that I have felt I cannot legitimately complain. I mean, my life, even with pain is so much better than before. So mostly, I have just shut up about it. People don’t generally want to know anyway.

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…suffering isn’t usually something it is socially acceptable to ‘selfie’

The day before yesterday was an important day for me.  I had a surgery to attempt to fix the problem with that stitch. My uro-gynae surgeon is Tim Dawson, one of the worlds finest medical people. He’s so kind. Previously he had done a hysteroscopy and identified the inflammation, and the location, of the rogue stitch so he knew exactly what to do. We are fairly certain this is the culprit. And here it is.

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This little stitch caused me a lot of grief!

My arch enemy, the cause of my pain, the author of all that suffering. It’s so small! But so are the nerves it harassed. Aggravated nerves can pack a wallop of pain when they’ve been bothered for a long time. When the nurse handed that stitch to me in a specimen bottle, I examined it closely: my Evil Nemesis. I thought about how much I hated it, that small but powerful stitch. I felt like you might feel if a scary spider that bit you is trapped in a jar. Like a victor.

Now, we wait. We wait for the bruising and dissolvable stitches from the operation to repair. We wait for the other procedure he did (an intra-uterine ablation) to heal. We wait for a good number of weeks on strong pain relief to see if my brain can cease firing on the same old pain pathways. And then, we’ll know if it worked. I feel hopeful.  I’ve been working with the Pain Team from ADHB and they have been so outstandingly helpful. They made sure that this time, there would be no re-admission to hospital from pain flare. I’m so lucky to have access to that team, they really know their stuff.

Wouldn’t it be great if removing this stitch in time, saves nine!

Here’s to all you ladies, who like me, never seem to have an easy time of the lady-parts-shebang. To all the girls suffering with difficult periods, menopausal madnesses, fertility frustrations and women’s woes. Here’s to you, to us.  We often don’t discuss these things because it is awkward, or embarrassing, or deeply personal. But if you are out there hiding in plain sight, suffering because of your lady business, I send you solidarity. Hang in there sisters!  The other side of menopause shines like a beacon of joy just over the horizon!  Let us sally forth!

And especially, here’s to the ladies who stood by me, offered to help and made me feel okay, to Pru and Tamra, to Flo my ever-wonderful bestie, to Mo and Toni, Noodle, Bunny, Bee, Nettie and Trissy.
Sisters in biology and sisters in soul. I am lucky to have you on my side.

Just look at what we can do even WITH the difficulties of our ‘downstairses’.  Women are incredible!